Slugfest, p.1
Slugfest, page 1
Dedication
For Stats and the Rosebuds,
Shop talk, friendship, and procrastination since 2020.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. Arnie Yashenko
2. Cleo Marchand
3. Arnie Yashenko
4. Arabella Hopp
5. Arnie Yashenko
6. Kaden Cooperman
7. Arnie Yashenko
8. Cleo Marchand
9. Arnie Yashenko
10. Jesse Darrowick
11. Sarah Fidelio
12. Arnie Yashenko
13. Cleo Marchand
14. Arabella Hopp
15. Arnie Yashenko
16. Arabella Hopp
17. Arnie Yashenko
18. Cleo Marchand
19. Jesse Darrowick
20. Arnie Yashenko
21. Arabella Hopp
22. Hammond Eberhart
23. Arabella Hopp
24. Cleo Marchand
25. Arnie Yashenko
26. Jesse Darrowick
27. Arabella Hopp
28. Arnie Yashenko
29. Cleo Marchand
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Arnie Yashenko
Too bad Yash only has four letters. Having your name spelled out by a squad of cheerleaders feels pretty great—and it’s over practically before it starts.
Mom and Dad should have named me Maximiliano or Demetrius.
I crouch over the plate, dig my cleats into the dirt, and point my bat at the sky. I have the most aggressive stance of anybody on the Comets—bat high, crowding the plate, daring the pitcher to brush me back.
Even though I’m in middle school, I’ve been playing on the high school’s JV teams since November. The only JV team I’m not on is football, since there is a rule against eighth graders competing at the high school level for that sport. Bummer.
That’s why I love hearing that Y-A-S-H from the cheerleaders. They’re high school girls—so to them, I’m just a kid.
At least, that’s what they thought till they saw me play.
I let the first pitch sizzle by, right over the plate. Strike one.
I back up just a little and lower my bat a couple of inches. It gives the pitcher the false sense that he’s got me scared. The second pitch is off the plate. Like I’m clueless enough to swing at a bad one.
And the third—that’s my pitch. I swing through the ball, not at it. When the bat makes contact, it jars me all the way to the shoulders. That’s when I know.
I don’t even have to watch the ball soar past the outfield and over the fence. I can tell by the roar of the crowd: it’s a walk-off home run. I trot around the bases at a leisurely pace, enjoying the moment. The cheerleaders are going bananas. Middle school kid? What middle school kid? I’m the guy who won the whole game!
My teammates are gathered around home plate to spray me with their water bottles—team tradition. They definitely don’t consider me just a kid. The home runs help. I hit a lot of them. I was also second leading scorer on the basketball team. And when I’m finally eligible for JV football in the fall, I’ll be a touchdown machine for sure. I’m great at all sports, but football’s my number one.
I play it cool though. You have to act like you’ve been there before and you expect to be there again. That’s when I notice Principal Carmichael—he’s the only person in the bleachers who isn’t celebrating. Typical. His face is grim, and he’s looking straight at me.
To be honest, it makes me a little nervous. Carmichael’s my principal—the middle school one. Which means he’s probably here to see me. But why?
I break away from the team and head over to Carmichael, whose droopy face looks even sadder as I approach. He’s probably depressed because the middle school Comets are riding a seven-game losing streak. With me playing JV, those guys have lost their best player. But it’s not my fault! He’s the one who went along with it when the JV coaches wanted to claim me for their teams. He’s the one who scheduled me in ninth-period PE all year so I could ride the minibus to the high school in time for practice.
“See that, Dr. C?” I venture. “Another walk-off dinger.”
It’s like he’s not even listening. “Come with me, Arnold. I have to speak with you.”
I hate being called Arnold. Arnie is better, but only my mother uses that. To the rest of the world—even most teachers—I’m Yash.
The principal leads me into the field house, and we go straight to Coach Basil’s office.
I keep talking. “I wish I could play for the middle school too, but most of the games conflict . . .”
He seats himself at the coach’s desk, leaving me standing, like I’m in trouble or something. I know I’m not, but that’s how it feels.
“It’s just better for me to play JV,” I forge on. “It’s more my skill level. . . .” I let my voice trail off because I sound like I’m really full of myself. Nobody likes the guy who toots his own horn—even when he’s got a lot to toot about.
“That’s the problem.” The principal raises a hand to signal I should stop talking. “We always scheduled your gym classes at the end of the day so that you wouldn’t miss any academics when you went off to practice with the junior varsity.”
“Right. Who cares if I do PE with my own grade or over here at the high school?”
The principal looks stricken. “It turns out that the state does. Eighth-grade PE is now a required credit in order to graduate from middle school. And you’ve missed too many classes to qualify for it.”
“But,” I argue, “it’s only because I’ve been doing different PE that’s a million times better.”
“I agree with you,” Carmichael tells me honestly. “The problem is that the education department has changed the rules. If you don’t have this credit, you have not completed the eighth grade.”
“You mean—” I’m horrified. “I flunk?”
He chuckles humorlessly. “Nothing as drastic as that. But the fact is, you can’t start high school in the fall unless your record includes eighth-grade PE.”
“That means I flunk!”
“Of course it doesn’t. There’s plenty of time for you to earn that credit—in summer school.”
“Summer school?” I practically howl. “You want me to go to summer school? For gym?”
“I don’t want that, Arnold,” the principal tries to explain. “It’s the state. They’re giving me zero flexibility here.”
“But couldn’t you—like—lie? You know, sauce me a free credit? I did way more gym with JV than I ever could have in one middle school class.”
He shoots me a look that would scorch metal. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just suggest that. Our summer school offers a program called Physical Education Equivalency, or P-E-E—”
“Pee?” I echo.
“P-E-E,” he corrects me pointedly. “It’s for students who, for whatever reason, need to fill in a missing piece of their physical education curriculum.”
“You mean”—I can barely form the words—“Slugfest?”
Carmichael’s expression is blank. “I beg your pardon?”
“Like—you know—I mean—” Okay, I’m babbling. When you’re a top athlete, you can’t talk about how you’re great and everybody else has two left feet. But you know the kind of person who has to retake gym in the summer—the kind who was too uncoordinated to pass it in the fall, winter, and spring! The kind who can’t bounce a ball without knocking themselves unconscious! Who would trip over a chalk line on a football field if they ever went near one! Who think sports are for dolts and cave people and that anybody with a brain would rather spend their time playing chess and solving equations!
There’s a name around here for the people who end up in that class—slugs! That’s why they call it Slugfest!
I can’t be a slug! I’m Yash! That means something in this town. But how can I tell that to the principal without sounding like a stuck-up jerk?
And suddenly, I have the answer. “Dr. Carmichael, I can’t do summer school. Everybody knows I’m going to quarterback the JV Comets this fall. I have to be at their summer workouts.”
The principal seems exhausted now. “I’m sorry, Arnold. It’s out of my hands. I’ll talk to Coach Basil and explain that you’re going to be in summer school.”
“No, no, no!” I wail. “If I miss the workouts, I won’t qualify for the big seven-on-seven flag football tournament in August!”
He frowns. “Football tournament?”
“It’s the ultimate showcase for eighth graders to break onto the high school scene. It was supposed to be my launch party!”
Carmichael’s skin is practically gray. “We owe you an apology, Arnold. We thought we’d created a perfect schedule to accommodate your special talents. We were wrong.”
“If you’re the one who’s wrong, how come I’m the one who has to go to summer school?” I can feel my eyes prickling and I’m trying really hard not to cry.
“I understand how disappointing this must be.” He folds his arms in front of him, like the subject is closed.
My mind is spinning. There has to be a way out of this! The mayor is a JV basketball fan—his son is on the team. A benchwarmer, sure, but maybe his dad can put in a good word for me. Or my great-grandfather—he won a bronze star in World War II. You can’t make a hero’s great-grandson be a slug. Or my mom—she was second runner-up for Miss Clarington as a
The worst part is I can’t even blame Carmichael. He’s only pushing me around because the state is pushing him around.
That’s when it starts to sink in: This is a law. Nothing is going to change this. Not being good at basketball or baseball or even football.
Slugfest, here I come.
2
Cleo Marchand
My parents are fans of this old-people band called the Beach Boys. They sang about summer and surfing and fun in the sun. The music is actually pretty good. If you go by the Beach Boys, summer is the greatest thing in any kid’s life, the whipped cream on the ice cream sundae of the universe.
Know how I’m spending my summer? Sitting in a hot classroom in a building with no air-conditioning. I have to go to summer school.
I didn’t fail—not technically. If you look at my report card, it’s all incompletes. I broke my foot skiing on spring break. It was supposed to be no big deal. Guess what? It was a big deal. I needed surgery, and after that, it got infected. Then a second surgery so the doctors could fix what went wrong in the first one. You get the picture. There are so many nails and screws in my foot that I have to carry a special card to explain to the T.S.A. guys why I keep setting off their metal detector at the airport.
I was in and out of the hospital for six weeks, and by the time I was able to get back to school, I’d missed more than three months. That’s too many absences to graduate. Worse, I don’t just have to make up a class or two. I have to make up everything—English, math, science, social studies. Believe it or not, I even have to take gym in summer school. Real talk: I didn’t know that was even a thing! Physical Education Equivalency, they call it. PEE. I know. Eyeroll.
There’s a bus to summer school, but only one, and it stops every sixty feet to pick up some other poor kid. It takes forever. I ride my bike, not just because I hate the bus but because it’s the only athletic thing I do anymore.
After my accident, I gave up sports for good. No more soccer. No more volleyball. No more lacrosse. I used to love sports, and I was good at them. Nothing is worth what I’ve been through these past few months though. Correction: What I’m still going through. This lost summer is 100 percent courtesy of my skiing accident. I’m officially hanging up my skis and skates and sneakers and cleats. Well, I’ll wear sneakers. But it’ll be because I want to, not because they’re part of a team uniform.
My mom is a big fan of me making this change. Dad—not so much. “Athletics have always been such a major part of your life. It’s going to leave a hole.”
Mom is unconcerned. “There must be something kids can do at a school that doesn’t involve running around a field or a gym, risking their bones. Remember in fifth grade when you were in that play? You had such a good time!”
How could I forget? The elementary school did Willy Wonka. My character, Veruca Salt, was a spoiled brat, and I really leaned into it, overacting my head off. It was a blast. So when I found out that summer school has a drama program, I signed up for that too. Why not? Just because this is a lemon summer doesn’t mean I can’t try to make lemonade.
And, hey—my foot seems pretty strong on the bike, although I can’t escape the sense that it’s somehow fragile. Like one pedal too many could start a chain reaction and my whole leg will fall apart like a Jenga tower.
Still, I have to admit I’m enjoying the bike ride after months of crutches and walking boots and being flat on my butt. The breeze blowing through my hair is a pretty rare treat these days. I even find myself humming the Beach Boys—“We’ve been having fun all summer long . . .” I get pretty into it—until I pull up in front of Clarington Middle School.
The parade of faces filing into the building is something straight out of The Walking Dead. There are no zombies, but the prospect of an entire summer of school while other kids are sleeping in and lazing and swimming and going on trips turns you into the closest thing to it. Suddenly, I blame the Beach Boys for reminding me how miserable I should be. Maybe that was okay back in the sixties, but people today are smart enough to know when they’re being jerked around.
I stash my bike in the rack and join the unhappy procession inside. The creepiest part is that nobody’s talking. You can hear the shuffling of feet like we’re a parade of prisoners in leg irons. In regular school, kids are chatty. There’s usually an assistant principal skulking in the front hall, handing out detentions for being too loud. Not here. Not today.
Hanging in the atrium is a giant banner that declares “WELCOME TO SUMMER SCHOOL!” It’s decorated in bright colors, with pictures of suns and flowers and butterflies. If resentful stares could start fires, that thing would be a three-alarm blaze.
Principal Carmichael is directing traffic in the atrium. “Clarington students, use your regular lockers. Everyone else, report to the office and you’ll have a locker assigned to you.”
As I trudge along the hall, I nearly trip over a lone figure lying on the floor in front of his open locker, using his backpack as a pillow. My bad foot boots him in the leg, and he comes out of a deep sleep and rolls over.
To my surprise, it’s Arnie Yashenko, the last person I ever expected to see in summer school. Not because he’s a genius—believe me, he’s not. But Yash is kind of like Superman when it comes to sports around here—quarterback, basketball star, home run king. Basically, the entire Clarington School District would have to shut down if there was no Yash. The students worship him. The teachers treat him like he’s doing all of us a gigantic favor just by showing up. I can’t imagine who around here has enough authority to tell Yash he has to go to summer school. God, probably. Or maybe the president—but only if he has both houses of Congress behind him.
Yash gazes up at me through bleary eyes and spits out a little fuzz that somehow found his mouth. “Let a guy sleep, will you?”
“Well, I would,” I say sarcastically, “but you’re blocking the way to my locker.”
For just a second, he looks so blank that I wonder if he even remembers he’s in a school. Then he scrambles out of my way. I open my locker and start unloading my backpack into it.
By the fifth textbook, he’s bug-eyed. “What, are you opening up a bookstore?”
I feel my cheeks reddening. “I missed three months of school. I have a lot of credits to make up.”
“Stinks to be you,” he says with real emotion.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snap.
“I only have to make up one class, and that’s bad enough,” he informs me.
Hefting my math book—first period—I shut my locker and spin the dial. “Which one?”
“PE.”
I glare at him. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But don’t stick your nose into my business.”
“Honest,” he insists. “It’s true.”
“You flunked PE?”
“I didn’t flunk it,” he defends himself. “I didn’t do it. I spent my gym classes at the high school, working out with JV.”
That doesn’t seem fair. “Didn’t you explain that to Dr. Carmichael?”
“It isn’t Carmichael’s fault,” he explains dejectedly. “There are new rules at the state. You can’t graduate without eighth-grade PE.”
“Stinks to be you,” I blurt, and really mean it.
“I know.” He nods in resigned agreement. “The worst part is I’m stuck here all day, even though I’m only in one class. My parents both commute, so they’re not around to give me a ride. And we live way over on the far side of town. So it’s the bus or nothing.”
My own parents weren’t surprised that I landed in summer school after all the time I missed. They even tried to sell it as a lucky break—à la Isn’t it great there’s a summer program so kids like you don’t end up losing a whole year? But there’s no way the Yashenkos took the news well. They probably worship their son even more than everybody else around here.
“What about your folks?” I probe. “Didn’t they complain?”
He nods miserably. “Oh yeah—complain, yell, freak out, tear their hair, pound the table, threaten to sue. I never realized there are so many people you can sue. Did you know you can sue a whole town?”
“And?”
