Small Favors

Kickball is a game like baseball, except you play it with you feet. Any kid knows that. Oobi stood on the sidelines waiting his turn, wondering whether he would be able to run to the drinking fountain before his turn came up or not. His mouth seemed dry and parched, like a mad scientist had drained the fluids out of his system, and a hard wind would blow him away like sand on a sidewalk. He felt like the cartoon characters where the sun was shinning down hard on him and the vultures were circling above him waiting for him to drop.

Missy Alexander pushed Oobi forward, “Hey come on Oobi, are you going to take your turn or are you going to stare at the sun all day?”

“Shut up Missy,” Oobi returned. “I was concentrating that’s all.”

Oobi stepped forward waiting for his mortal enemy Justin Pearlman to roll the ball. Justin glared at Oobi making the fiercest stare a boy could make without his features freezing. He jutted his lower jaw out as if he looked like a mad dog, and then rolled the ball with a grunt. The ball spun and skipped along the black asphalt gaining speed as it approached Oobi’s feet. Could he kick it, or would he scuff his foot on the ground and foul out?

In the back of his mind Oobi’s throat was begging for some water, and the front of his mind he wanted to kick a homerun. The two parts of his brain were banging together like two rocks causing sparks to fly. At that moment of confusion, his foot kicked the ball.

Oobi could never figure out if the reason he kicked the ball so far was because he was distracted, or that he didn’t try to kick the ball as hard as he normally did, but the ball flew over Justin Pearlman’s head like a bottle rocket whistling towards the clouds. Oobi watched for a moment as he could hear the kids behind him screaming, “Run. Run Oobi run!” And then all was quiet, like a movie without sound, and Oobi trotted around the bases in measured time until he touched home plate.

The kids clamored around him as he touched home, and they cheered and slapped him on the back saying it was such a tremendous kick, they never seen anybody kick the ball as far as that before. On and on the noise went, until the lunch bell rang for the kids to come into class.

The kids still hung around Oobi as they marched towards the classroom, still talking in glee about his tremendous kick. How far it went! How tremendous it was! How high it went! The congratulations were deafening. All Oobi wanted to do was to get a drink out of the drinking fountain. His mouth was so parched he could feel dried salt on his mouth. He smacked his lips as he veered away from his adoring crowd and over to the cold water dispensing fountain.

He could see it like a mirage; it hovered over the asphalt like a silver beacon. “Come to me,” the drinking fountain called. “Come to me.”

Oobi ran faster and faster seeing a line build up in front of the cooler. More kids were getting in line and he knew he only had a few minutes before they had to go to class. He could see eight kids, now nine. “Hurry,” he thought. “Ten would be the cut off and then he wouldn’t be able to get a drink.”

“Ah,” said Oobi. “Now I’ll be able to get a drink.” He looked at the kid in front of him, a droopy little first grader. The boy was so pale and out of sorts, he could see that he needed some water. Would the kid take too much time? He’s right on the cut right now, nine you’d be assured to get a drink, but ten. Well, ten was pushing it. He looked ahead at the other kids. A couple girls, they don’t drink that much even though they’re careful about getting their clothes wet. And beyond? A couple big fifth graders stood ahead of them looking like thirsty horses and ahead of them some of the kids that he played kickball with.

“Well all we can do is hope,” he thought. Oobi counted in his head. If it got above one hundred, he surely wouldn’t get any water. He got to fifty and there were still three kids ahead of him. “Come on guys!” Oobi pleaded. The other kids behind him ran off to class. Oobi looked around himself and could see no other kids on the playground except the ones at the drinking fountain.

The girls giggled, as one was saying something into another one’s ear while she was drinking. The other girl, one with a pink and white dress on muttered out of the side of her mouth as she was drinking. Her friend giggled fiercely, and now she had to catch her breath so she could drink. “Come on!” Oobi pleaded again. “Stop hogging the fountain!”

The little pale kid started to sag, as if the sun and the heat had finally got to him and he was starting to sink. He leaned against Oobi as if Oobi were a fence. “Hold on little friend.” He held the boy up. The boy moved forward to get a sip, and Oobi realized he’d have to prop the kid up so he could get a drink. The two girls stopped and turned to Oobi then stuck their tongues out at him. “Oobi you’re a goober!” They both sang together then sprinted off to their classroom.

The little kid drank endlessly. He drank and drank as if there was nothing in his body. Oobi could feel his light body get heavier and heavier as the seconds of sipping wore on. “Come on buddy.” Oobi pleaded. “I need to get some here too. Don’t drink the rivers dry.” Finally the kid stopped. He slid down the drinking fountain and looked back at Oobi. “Thanks Oobi,” the kid smiled. “I was really thirsty, I guess I forgot to put on my sun block. Saw you kick that homerun on the far court. That’s the biggest kick I’ve ever seen.”

“Well thanks kid.”

“My name’s Seymour,” the little guy said, and then he stuck out his hand in friendship.

“ What’s a first grader even talking to a fourth grader,” Oobi thought. But he stuck out his hand even though he shouldn’t, and the kid shook it back with a feather like shake. Oobi could barely feel the weight of the kid’s hand. “Well nice to meet you Seymour, but I’ve got to get a drink.” And as Oobi moved forward he bumped into a body. “Hey,” said Oobi, “it’s my turn.” Oobi looked up and saw Justin Pearlman.

Justin blocked the way of the fountain, and stood in front of Oobi like it was an old fashioned show down. Duel in the sun, fistfights at the drinking fountain. Oobi knew that Justin was furious with his homerun kick. He had forgot completely about it. He just wanted a drink. He didn’t care about Justin, or how much Justin hated him. Or how Justin had to go to the principal’s office over the bicycle incident. “Look Justin, just let me get a drink.” Oobi pleaded.

“No,” said Justin. “No one else is getting a drink. I’m going to stand here until the final bell rings and then we’ll all have to go to class.”

“That’s not fair,” little Seymour squeaked up. The two boys had looked over and seen Seymour for the first time. Neither Justin nor Oobi had paid any attention to the little first grader. “Get out of here,” Justin growled, “before I mash your little white body into the ground.”

“You won’t,” said Seymour defiantly. “If you even get close to me I’ll scream so loud the police and the fire department will come here and arrest you at the same time.” Seymour bared his teeth at Justin. “If you touch me, my father who’s an attorney will have you and your family arrested. You’ll wind up in juvenile court, where you’ll have to finish school at, and then my father will sue your family for damages.”

All this came out of a little guy’s mouth. Oobi and Justin stared down at little Seymour, the pale white little first grader. Seymour stood defiantly in front of Justin. Then he did the impossible, little Seymour kicked Justin in the ankle and ran off. But before he ran, he yelled, “Take a drink Oobi!” Then little Seymour ran around the corner with Justin in hot pursuit.

Oobi didn’t know whether to follow Seymour in protection, or finally take a sip of the cool, cool water that was burbling out of the fountain. His head dropped over the spigot and he could feel the water cool his throat and his mouth. “Ah,” thought Oobi, “before the bell rang.” Just then he heard a high-pitched scream, the kind that makes glass break. Oobi knew it was Seymour and he smiled. He had a hunch Justin was in trouble.

The bell rang, and Oobi was trotting to his classroom, when he almost ran into Principal Mr. McTiernan. Mr. McTiernan had Justin Pearlman by the scruff of his neck. Skipping along on the other side was little Seymour. “Hiya Oobi,” Seymour waved.