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On your walk home from school, you see some kids playing basketball in the empty lot next to the church. You stand at the fence and watch. You know them, but they aren’t your good friends or anything. They’re mostly in the grade ahead of you, except for Riley. She’s in your class.
“Hey, you want to play? We could use one more person,” Joey shouts at you.
You slip through the gap in the chain-link, take off your backpack and set it next to the fence, and get right into the game. When you pass the ball to Riley, she makes a basket from far away. “That was a three-pointer!” Riley declares, running to grab the ball.
“No way,” Joey says, laughing. “Come on, give me the ball.”
Though you’re not the best basketball player, you do okay. There are six of you, three on each side, which is enough people for a pretty exciting game. Riley claps you on the back every time your team scores. You notice your shoe’s untied, but you keep playing. You don’t want to miss a play or make everyone else wait for you to fix it.
Caught up in the game, you forget about your shoe. But then, running for the ball, you trip on the dangling lace and stumble. The blue sky, the other kids, and the ground all tilt sideways, and you’re falling. You put out an arm to catch yourself, but your hand slides hard against the rough asphalt as your knee slams against the ground, jarring your whole body. As the pain hits, you shout, tears springing to your eyes.
Riley runs over, her hand outstretched. “Come on, get up. Why are you crying?”
You blink rapidly at her and the hot tears travel down your cheeks. She’s right; there’s no reason to cry. You sit back and raise your hand to your face to wipe the tears away, and you see bits of broken-off pavement ground deep into your palm. You gasp. With your uninjured hand, you brush off the debris, revealing jagged and bloody scrapes. It stings, badly. Blood trickles between your fingers, and at the sight, you feel dizzy and a little sick to your stomach. You can’t control your face anymore; you know you shouldn’t cry, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it now.
You hear Joey’s voice from next to Riley. “Wah-wah-wah. You’re such a baby. I don’t know why we let you play. Go home, if you’re gonna cry.” When you look up, all the kids are laughing, even Riley.
You’re crying even harder now, but you manage to scramble to your feet and get away.
You run up the stairs, dive right into your bed, and pull all of the blankets over your head. You can’t breathe like that, though, and you squirm out before too long. You know you’re too old for Lisa, your plush elephant, but you don’t care right now. She’s the only plushie you still keep on your bed, because she’s your favorite to hug. You hold her tight and she hugs you back with her four legs, and with her trunk, too.
You should’ve just ignored those kids when they asked you to play. Or you should’ve bent over and fixed your shoelace. You’re not a baby. You know how to tie your shoes. You sob into Lisa’s soft fur.
You hear the front door open and your dad sings out your name. “Where’s your backpack?”
Oh no! You forgot your backpack at the basketball court. Your math homework! You cry out in pure misery.
“Hey, what happened? I’ll be right there, don’t move a muscle!”
Dad always says not to run on the stairs, but he’s breaking his own rule, because you can hear his feet pounding very fast right now. When he makes it to your bedroom, he’s panting a little. You stare at him as he moves to the bed. He places a hand on your back, and the warmth of his touch feels good. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”
“I. There were. My shoelace. And then I. And everyone laughed. My homework.” You’re crying again, and you’re not making any sense.
“Too much to explain, huh?” You nod, relieved. “Can I move Lisa and give you a hug?” You nod again and he gently pulls Lisa away, then props her against the headboard. He climbs up onto the bed and folds his legs up criss-cross applesauce, and you launch yourself at him. He catches you in his arms, holds you close, and smooths your hair. He’s so broad and strong, like a sturdy wall, and nothing could ever knock him over. He’s still wearing his shirt and tie from work; the fabric is silky against your cheek. He smells just right, just like himself.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and he never stops moving his hand on your hair. You don’t feel like crying now. You’re safe in his embrace. You squeeze him around the middle, just once, and not too tight—he doesn’t like it when you squeeze too tight, he says it tickles, and he doesn’t like to be tickled. After the squeeze, you relax against him again.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
You think maybe you can, now, and you sit back and look at him. He’s smiling warmly at you, and there are little crinkles around his eyes. You put your hands on your knees. “Oh hey, what happened here?” He points at your uninjured hand; it’s all dirty and bloody. Your heart races as you reach for Lisa. There are spots of blood in her gray fur. No! You didn’t mean to do that. You swallow against fresh tears as you show your dad.
“Oh, that’s alright. I know just how to get that out. Vinegar will work, and Lisa’s had baths in the washing machine before. It’s no big deal. She’ll be good as new.”
Your dad knows how to do everything. You want to be just like him, not clumsy, not always making mistakes. “I was playing basketball, and I fell and hurt my hand and my knee. I cried and everyone laughed. I ran home, and I left my backpack there. I had math homework and I can’t do it now.”
When you look up at him, he’s frowning and nodding. He’s taking you seriously. “I see. Okay. We need a plan, don’t we?”
“Yeah.”
He presses his fingertips together and taps his lips, the way he always does when he’s thinking hard. “Well, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll get you patched up. Then, we’ll drive over to see if your backpack’s still there. And then, I have a surprise. I was thinking about it anyway, to tell you the truth.” He gives you a quick half-grin and a wink, then goes back to looking solemn. “Are you ready for the first step of the plan?”
You agree and follow him to the bathroom. You both wash your hands. You’ve grown two inches since your birthday, but you’re still small enough to perch on the counter next to the sink. He gets out all the supplies from the medicine cabinet. “This will sting, but only for a few seconds. Then it’ll feel much better. Put your hand over the sink. Yeah, right there.” With care, he cleans the cuts and scrapes, then covers your palm with a bandage and wraps it all up in gauze. “There you go. Did you say you hurt your knee too?”
“Yeah.” You lift up the leg of your jeans to show him, and he squeezes out a little arnica gel, then rubs it into the skin.
“That’ll help with the bruising. Anywhere else?”
You shake your head. He lifts you up by the hips and sets you down on the floor. “Alright! Step one is complete, so good job to both of us. Now give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you in the car.”
You head downstairs and push open the front door of your house, but there’s a little resistance. You shove harder. Your backpack! It’s leaning against the door. You bring it inside.
“Dad!” you shout. “My backpack’s here.” You unzip it. “All my stuff’s inside. My math book, and my pencils, and my notebook.”
Dad comes down the stairs, not running this time. “I guess we need a change of plans, huh? The best plans are flexible. Okay. You do your homework while I make us some dinner. And after we eat, we’ll have our surprise.”
You sit at the kitchen table and open up your math book, fishing a pencil out of your case. It’s a good thing you’re left-handed and you don’t have to worry about the bandage. You go to get a sheet of paper from your notebook, but it’s already open. In careful block letters, the page says, “Sorry I laughed. See you at school. Riley.”
“Look, Dad. Riley wrote me a note.”
He reads it, then shrugs. “Well, there you go. What do you think? Do you forgive her?”
You chew your lip, trying to decide. “I don’t know.” You really didn’t like being laughed at.
“Yeah. It’s up to you. But I’m glad she apologized and brought you your stuff.”
“Me too. Maybe I do forgive her.” The apology doesn’t heal the hurt, but it helps a little.
Your math homework is easier than you thought it would be, and you’re finished before Dad’s done making dinner. You stand and get out the stuff to set the table.
“You’re a good kid,” Dad says. “But why don’t you set up the TV trays for us instead?”
Dad always says it’s important to talk at dinnertime and keep each other updated on your lives. Eating in front of the TV is something you only do if one of you has had an especially bad day.
“Did something happen at work?”
Dad laughs in surprise. “No! You fell, remember? You’re silly.”
You laugh too. It’s hard to believe you’re laughing about the incident already, when your hand’s still so sore. But you’re pretty sure your dad is magic.
After dinner, you get into the car. You know what the surprise is going to be, but that’s fine. You like knowing what to expect.
As Dad drives out of town, you put your hand outside the window to finger-surf the air of the cool spring evening. But instead, the breeze teases through your gauze, loosening it. You pull your hand back inside and fiddle with the bandage, but you can’t get it fastened quite the way your dad had it.
Dad smiles, shaking his head. “We’ll change the bandage when we get back home.” Soon, you’ve arrived at the Dairy Queen. “I want a small vanilla cone with a chocolate dip. I was thinking about it all day at work. What about you?”
“Peanut butter sundae with whipped cream.”
Dad bows his head gravely at you. “Excellent choice, your majesty,” he says, in a fancy voice, and you giggle.
You eat your treat, savoring the texture of the whipped cream. “Next time I’ll just get a container of whipped cream.”
“You always say that, but then you get the same thing again,” Dad reminds you. “Are you feeling better now?”
You think it over. You won’t play basketball with those kids anymore, but you don’t really have to see them at school, since they’re not in your grade. And you already decided to forgive Riley. Your hand and your knee aren’t hurting too much at all now. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem, kiddo. You’d do the same for me.”
“Yeah, but you’d never trip over your own shoelaces,” you say.
“Never say never. I can be pretty clumsy sometimes. Didn’t I ever tell you about the time I walked right into a pole and broke my glasses?”
“You don’t wear glasses!”
“That’s right, I don’t, and now you know the reason why. I’ve worn contact lenses ever since.”
“I didn’t know that,” you say, amazed.
Dad winks at you, and you both finish your ice cream. It’s a very good end to a bad day.