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Simon Says

By Brenda C. Poulos

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Chapter One

The door clicked shut, followed by the familiar screech of the screen door.
Marcus pulled the sheer olive-green curtain back, watching as Mama slipped behind the wheel of the 1962 Impala. He waved in response to the grin she cast over her shoulder.
She backed the car into the street, wiggled her fingers at him and sped away.
Mama worked the night shift—even on Fridays.
Marcus let the curtain fall back in place and turned off the hallway light. He crossed the floor to the kitchen, removing a chair from its place at the table. He dragged it toward his bedroom, its legs following the deep grooves that his nightly ritual had worn into the wood over the years. He placed it in front of the narrow window, sat down and crossed his forearms on the sill.
He reached for Baxter, his miniature gray Schnauzer, and hauled him onto his lap. Lowering his chin to rest on top of his hands, he scanned the street to the left and then the right. The boys would be coming out soon. They always played ball after supper. First, Rex and his brother, Bill, would show up. Then, Abel, followed by Archie, and finally Simon. They’d meet at the bend in the street, just as Forrest turned into Cornell, directly in front of his house.
This had always been a good vantage point for Marcus, enabling him to see in both directions…and close enough, too, to detect the smug expressions on the boys’ faces when they got a good hit, or the defeat in their eyes when a strike was called. But no matter how well the other boys played, the hour of baseball after supper each weekday night would end the same way. Simon would declare himself the victor and that was that.
Marcus knew that Simon really wasn’t the winner every time. But instead of protesting, the other boys would just shrug their shoulders and walk back home.
Maybe they were afraid of Simon. Marcus knew he sure was.
He and Mama had lived in Tempe, Arizona for ten years now. Mama had been so proud when she had saved enough for the down payment, signed the papers, and dropped the shiny new key into his hand. “We’re moving into our own place, Marcus. You’ll have your own bedroom and, I hope, some children your own age to play with.”
He hadn’t needed a room of his own. He’d been happy enough, having slept on Granny’s fold-out sofa with Mama for the first seven years of his life. What had been the big deal about them having their own home? He liked the way things were before—playing checkers with Gramps, romping in the back yard with their Golden Retriever, Bo, and eating Granny’s home cooking.
Now, at seventeen, Marcus could barely remember what his grandparents had looked like. Not long after he and Mama moved, Gramps had died from a bad case of pneumonia. Granny died later that spring. Uncle Dwayne had inherited their house, Mama the Impala, and Baxter had been left to Marcus.
He turned his attention back outside as first one boy, then another, met under the street light. Rex and Abel paired up, tossing the ball back and forth into each other’s gloved hands. Bill and Archie did the same. Where was Simon?
Marcus looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. He sighed. Seven-fifteen. Nothing exciting was going to happen tonight. Not without Simon. Opening his arms wide, he stretched and headed for the refrigerator to retrieve a leftover piece of Mama’s apple pie.
It was then that a shiny red car drove past, drawing his attention back toward the window. As it pulled into the driveway next door, the boys cast aside their gloves and crowded around. Simon emerged, all smiles, amid cheers from his buddies. The next few minutes were spent with Simon showing the vehicle off. Then, after a nod from his father, all of the boys packed into the car and it took off down the road.
What about the game?

***

“Things are changing, Marcus. The guys are dating now. That will take up more and more of their evenings from now on. I suppose it’s only natural.”
Marcus heard the words his mother said the following morning, but he didn’t understand why things had to change just because everyone was getting older.
Marcus gripped his mother’s arm. “But, Mama, baseball is better than girls.”
She patted his hand with her soapy one. “They’ll still play now and then. You’ll see.”
“But, Mama—”
“How about you dry the lunch dishes for me, huh?” Mama held up a soapy plate, dunked it into the rinse water, and thrust it toward Marcus.
As he dried the dish and placed it in the cupboard, he heard the faint but familiar calliope music from the ice cream truck. Turning toward his mother, he smiled; then raised his eyebrows. “Can I?”
Mama wiped her hands on her apron. “We have ice cream in the freezer. I’m afraid you’ve gotten too old for—”
“Please, Mama.” Marcus had already taken the money jar from its place on the counter and was holding it out toward her.
She bit her lip. “All right.” She opened the jar, dropping her tip money onto the palm of his hand.
He scurried down the steps and ran to the end of the street, Mama following along behind, as had been her custom over the years. “Be careful not to run the smaller children over,” she called.
He loved getting ice cream from Mr. Jerry, the ice cream man, although it had not always been a pleasant experience for him. Simon had begun taunting Marcus just a few days after they moved into the neighborhood, on Marcus’s very first visit to the truck.

***

He had run ahead of Mama, just as he had today, smiling and holding up the shiny quarter for all the world to see. “Thank you, Mama.” His voice trailed off as he reached the growing line of neighborhood children in front of the brightly painted vehicle.
Just as Mr. Jerry placed the strawberry cone in his hand, someone pushed from behind. Marcus fell against the red and white truck, the cone crumbling in his fingers and ice cream plopping onto the sidewalk. He stood in front of the small sliding window, staring at the mess, saliva drooling down his chin.
Mama walked forward, pulled a handkerchief from her waistband and wiped the pink concoction off his hand. Dropping to her knees, she sopped up the melting treat from the sidewalk.
As snickers drifted from the rear of the line, Mama gritted her teeth, then grabbed Marcus’s hand, leading him past Simon The Bully (as he came to be known), across the lawn and up the porch steps of their small bungalow.
Marcus leaned his back against the door, and hung his head, hot tears trickling down his cheeks. When he heard the familiar clink against the mouth of the special treat jar, he swiped at his eyes. He blinked as Mama’s fingers retrieved the last quarter. She held his hand and half-dragged him down the street, falling in at the end of the line. “Just look straight ahead, son,” she whispered.
“Hey, Lickenbooger, what happened to your cone?” Simon sneered.
“I—I”
Mama jerked his hand. “Marcus!”
Marcus put his fingers to his lips, turning the key to an imaginary lock.
Mama’s eyes beaded on Simon’s mischievous grin. “I don’t want to have to report your poor behavior to your mama.”
Simon glared at her; then turned at last to face forward. He hissed over his shoulder. “What a little baby you are. Can’t take a joke? Always need your mama to rescue you from bad boys like me?”

***

Marcus looked forward to the start of the second semester. New classes always held the hope of making a new friend. Both he and Mama had included that request in their prayers every morning at breakfast for as long as he could remember.
The day had gotten off to a bad start. His third period special P.E. class had been paired with the regular class for football. Although Marcus was awkward—both physically and socially—he was of average intelligence and not technically a special kid. He understood why he’d always been lumped in with them, though. It was because of his physical abnormalities—upturned nose, somewhat small head and eyes.
He’d recently compared his class photo with earlier ones in Mama’s picture album. Was it his imagination, or was he almost handsome? His face had filled out a bit and the scar from his cleft lip was no longer discolored, leaving an almost translucent—albeit jagged and slightly raised—scar. But long ago he’d been labeled in the “system” and Mama said there was nothing that could be done to change it.
The coach, Ryan Nichols, had been his P.E. teacher last year, too. He never laughed at or belittled any of the guys, regular or special. Whether they were uncoordinated or star athletes, he treated them all the same.
Marcus turned in the direction of laughter down the hall. He couldn’t face Simon and the others in the small locker room. He tossed his clothes inside number thirty-eight and snapped the padlock shut. He hung the lanyard with the key over his neck, letting it drop inside his shirt, and headed for the door.
Once on the field, he nodded at Robbie. So far, he was the only other special kid he’d seen out there. He hoped they’d end up on the same team. It would be great to have someone to talk to.
It had been his fourth year of school before he’d spoken a word to anyone, being self-conscious about his difficulty pronouncing r’s and l’s. However, his speech had slowly improved and now he only had trouble when he was nervous or upset. I don’t get it. The special students understand me just fine. Why do the “regular” ones still tease me?
Coach Nichols jogged onto the field, blowing his whistle and motioning for everyone to join him at third base. “All right, men, everyone move in close. I’ll be assessing your skill levels this week. We’ll start with a short game. Simon and Freddie, you’ll be captains.” He took a quarter from his pocket and threw it high into the air. When he caught it, he flipped it onto the back of his hand and covered it with his other one. “Call it, Freddie.”
“Heads.”
The boys crowded around the coach as he uncovered the coin. “Tails. Simon, you choose first.”
Everyone yelled for Simon to choose him. He took his time, and so did Freddie, emphasizing the fact that they had been singled out as leaders, puffing out their chests as they strutted in front of the class.
After a lengthy back and forth, the teams were formed, with only Robbie and Marcus remaining on the bench.
“Come on, boys, choose your last man,” the coach ordered.
Simon scowled. “I’m done.”
Coach Nichols squinted his eyes. “Choose, now, or I’ll choose for you.”
Marcus lowered his head, looking down at the scuffed rubber toes of his tennis shoes, broken shoestrings barely reaching far enough to knot together. They had been his school shoes last year. Now, they’d become his P.E. shoes. His heart pounded as he waited.
“Lickenbooger.”
His head snapped up. Had that been Simon’s voice, choosing him? His eyes met Simon’s. With a big grin on his face, he hustled over to his team, amid their laughter. He didn’t care what Simon had called him. He had been picked. “Gee, thanks, Simon.”
Simon stepped forward. He lowered his voice, talking out of the side of his mouth as he often did. “Don’t think you’re here by choice. Robbie’s leg is in a cast. I’d be an idiot to choose him.”

 

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