Catch Me

Chapter 4

“MOMMY, I’M HOME!” The boy burst through the front door of the apartment, tossing his Red Sox backpack to the left, while kicking his snowy boots to the right. Navy blue snow coat he dropped dead ahead, then amused himself by leaping over it in his stocking feet. He landed with a satisfying thump, then flipped his hat into the air. He didn’t wait to see where it landed, but bolted to the kitchen for a snack.

“Jesse,” his mother chided him from down the hall. “Not so much noise. I’m on the phone.”

Jesse didn’t answer back; he knew his mother didn’t expect him to. His entrance, her response, was as much a part of his after-school ritual as say, grabbing Twinkies for a snack.

Jesse’s mother worked on the phone. Sales stuff. Lucky she had the job, she’d told him many times. Lucky she could work from home, so he didn’t have to do the dreaded after-school program, where they fed you, like, granola bars and not even the good chewy kind, but the hard crunchy kind no self-respecting kid liked, but parents bought ’cause they were cheaper by the box.

In the kitchen, Jesse climbed onto the countertop, opened the top cabinet, and grabbed a blue plastic cup. Cup down, he leapt from the countertop onto the floor-another satisfying thump. This time, the floor thumped back.

Mrs. Flowers, the gazillion-year-old lady who lived beneath them. She didn’t like it when Jesse bounced around. “Sounds like you’re raising an elephant!” she’d complained to his mother many times. His mother would then laugh uncomfortably. “Boys will be boys,” she’d say, while shooting Jesse a look that meant he’d better straighten up his act, or else.

Jesse sighed, tried to use his quiet feet as he padded to the fridge and tugged hard on the door. This was the deal: He could eat Twinkies, but only if he drank a glass of milk.

Good deal. Jesse poured himself a glass of milk, then sucked the cream filling out of his Twinkies.

First after-school ritual completed, he went into the family room. He wasn’t allowed TV or video games after school. TV rots the brain, his mother always said, and Jesse would need his one day if he wanted to have a better life. Plus, TV and video games made noise, which wasn’t good for his mother’s job.

So, another deal. He was allowed on the computer, which sat on the kitchen table in the corner of the family room. The table sat four, but since there was only him and his mom, that left two open spots. The computer occupied one. He was supposed to put his homework and school papers in the second spot. After dinner, his mother would review his school papers, then it was homework time. He’d do his, his mother would do hers.

She was in school, too. Nursing. One more year to go, then she could have a better job, she told him. One with more money and benefits, and maybe they could move to a better apartment in a building with a playground, where boys could run around and be boys, without ancient Mrs. Flowers pounding her ceiling with a broom handle.

Jesse took a seat. Booted up the laptop. It was old, a gift from his mother’s last boyfriend, who’d been okay. He’d liked the Red Sox, would play catch in the park, and had bought Jesse his first stuffed bear (holding a ball and bat), which he’d registered on the AthleteAnimalz site. Homerun Bear, his bear was called, and Jesse liked that. He wanted to be a baseball player, too, some day. Be just like Big Papi.

That boyfriend had lasted a whole year. Then apparently, he’d met someone else and Jesse’s mother had cried and Jesse had stopped liking Mitchell, had started hating him instead. One night Jesse had even taken scissors to Homerun Bear and done his best to destroy him. In the morning, however, he’d felt bad. It wasn’t really the bear’s fault, after all. And Jesse didn’t have that many toys, given the “bad economy” as his mother always said.

Jesse had used silver duct tape to fix Homerun Bear as best he could. Attaching each limb, then the bat, then the ball, then the ears. He thought it made his bear look pretty cool. Zombie Bear, he called him now. A homerun hitter, raised from the dead.

Zombie Bear was currently sitting next to the laptop, waiting for their latest after-school adventures. Under Zombie Bear’s steady gaze, Jesse finally got the old computer booted up and launched the AthleteAnimalz website.

Jesse was only allowed to go to three websites on the computer. His mother had checked out each one before giving her approval. He was not allowed to deviate from the list, and once, when he’d accidentally typed in the wrong Internet address, she’d known and asked him about it the next morning. Jesse had heard a TV commercial talk about spyware. He figured his mother had some.

Jesse liked AthleteAnimalz. He liked the games, especially baseball. Course, in the world of AthleteAnimalz, it was never Jesse online, it was Homerun aka Zombie Bear. So Jesse would log in and magically become his bear. As Homerun Bear, he could then move around the site-make friends, join games, compete to collect the most points.

Jesse wanted a million points. But he was only seven, and some of the games confused him. So far, he had 121 points. Not bad, he thought. When he hit 150, he’d get a trophy. He wanted that trophy. So lately, every day after school, he logged onto AthleteAnimalz.com and played baseball. He got to join a team with other AthleteAnimalz, including some pink poodle with a soccer ball that was the best homerun hitter Jesse had ever seen. He wasn’t sure a pink poodle should be the best one at baseball, but there you had it. The world of AthleteAnimalz.

Today, he found a baseball game already in play. Each team had enough members, but you could “sit on the bench” and wait for a team to draft you. Generally, you were picked based on points. Animals with lots of points got drafted quickly. Animals with fewer points, the “rookies,” had to wait longer.

Jesse checked out both teams. Their rosters revealed a long list of monkeys, dogs, cats, bunnies, two snakes, and one hippo, with a wide range of points. Not too bad then; he’d get drafted sooner versus later, he thought. And if his team won, they’d all score ten bonus points, plus one point for every fifteen minutes they spent online. In two hours, Jesse would get that much closer to his 150-point trophy.

A box opened on the screen. A hippo with a batter’s helmet wanted to know if Jesse would join his team. Staring at the computer screen, Jesse’s eyes widened. Helmet Hippo had like a gazillion points. Like, the grandmaster of AthleteAnimalz. Jesse had played with him a couple of times before. Helmet Hippo knew all the moves. Helmet Hippo never lost.

Jesse couldn’t believe his luck.

He quickly accepted the invitation, and on screen, a little icon of his bear appeared on the baseball field. His team was currently fielding. Homerun Bear appeared in center field. Jesse could “catch” the ball by clicking on the mouse once, and throw it by using the directional arrows to aim, then click again. Catching wasn’t so bad, but throwing was more challenging for him-he had a hard time lining up his throw using the arrows. But for Helmet Hippo, he would do his best.

For Helmet Hippo, Jesse was determined to be a winner.

SOMETIME AFTER FOUR, Jesse’s mother got off the phone. She wandered into the room, but he barely noticed. Pink Poodle had appeared and immediately been drafted by the rival team. She’d already hit two home runs, and now, in the final inning, Jesse’s team was behind, six to seven, and coming up to bat. By virtue of points, Helmet Hippo was their team leader. He was urging them to be strong. They could do this!

Jesse’s mother paused behind him. “AthleteAnimalz?” she asked.

Jesse nodded absently, eyes glued to the screen. Almost his turn to hit. He was nervous. Didn’t want to let his team down.

His mother nodded at the approved website and made her way toward the kitchen. “Dinner in fifteen, Jesse.”

He nodded again, barely registering. His turn. One out, Helmet Hippo on second base. Right hit, and Jesse could drive in the tying run. Better hit, and Jesse and Helmet Hippo would both score, taking the lead.

To hit, Jesse had to watch the ball coming at him and time the click of the mouse. Except sometimes the ball would speed up, sometimes slow down, and sometimes drift wide-a walk. Just like in real baseball, judgment and timing were everything.

First pitch, Jesse clicked too soon. Strike.

Second pitch. Ball drifted wide, but Jesse had already clicked. A swing and a miss, strike two.

A dialogue box opened above Helmet Hippo’s head. Players couldn’t type in anything they wanted-the website didn’t allow that. Security controls, his mother had said approvingly. Instead, you could select from stock expressions-a lot of sporting stuff, basic conversational stuff. The website was also patrolled for bullying. Jesse knew, because his mother had told him that. He didn’t see how the players could bully one another, given that the stock phrases were all Go Team Go kind of stuff, but maybe there were ways around the phrases. Things the other, more experienced kids knew how to do. Jesse didn’t care; he was still learning how to write, so he liked being able to select a whole phrase for his bear to say with a click of the computer mouse.

“Eye on the ball,” Helmet Hippo said now. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Jesse took a deep breath. He would do this. For his team. For Helmet Hippo.

Ball came, a tiny black dot traveling down the computer screen, first slow, then fast, fast, fast…

Jesse clicked his mouse. On the screen, his bear swung a bat, the sound of thwacking came through the speakers, and suddenly, the tiny black dot was moving again, flying away from Jesse’s bear, over Helmet Hippo into the green of the outfield, but still going, going…

The word “GONE” lit up across Jesse’s screen. Virtual confetti rained down, triumphant music blared. Home run. Jesse had done it. Home run!

The graphic explosion cleared, and now Jesse could watch his bear and Helmet Hippo run the bases. Scoring once, scoring twice, as Jesse’s team took the lead, eight to seven.

“Jesse, five more minutes,” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Okay!”

Jesse remained glued to the screen. His left hand now clutched Zombie Bear. All his teammates were talking, conversation bubbles appearing everywhere as they congratulated him on his game-winning hit.

But Jesse had eyes for only one teammate: Helmet Hippo.

“Way to go! You are a champion!”

Jesse was still smiling, beaming really, when a new icon lit up on the bottom panel of his screen. The mailbox. His bear had just received mail.

Jesse obediently clicked. Generally mail came from the site itself. Notification of bonus points, presents for Zombie Bear on his birthday, or announcements of weekly specials on the site-play this game, earn this many bonus points!

But the message wasn’t from the website administrator. It was from Helmet Hippo. They could send mail to each other. Jesse hadn’t known that, but now he did.

“Homerun Bear,” the message began (only Jesse called his bear Zombie Bear, after the scissors incident). “Congratulations on your winning hit. I knew you could do it! Want to play again? Tomorrow, 3:30, I’ll be here. I always wear my Red Sox hat for good luck. You?”

There was a button for reply.

Jesse hit reply, watched a fresh window open up. Helmet Hippo’s name automatically appeared, but the rest of the message was blank. No phrases to pick from. He’d have to do it. Type it in all by himself. But he could use the first message to cheat a little, look at those words for spelling.

Jesse’s mother was banging around in the kitchen.

Jesse stuck his tongue between his teeth and began to laboriously type. “Yes. I’ll be here. I like the Red Sox, too.”

LATER, AFTER DINNER, after homework, after bath and bedtime stories, Jesse curled up beneath his Star Wars sheets and clutched Zombie Bear. He thought again of his homerun hit. He thought again of Helmet Hippo.

And he felt warm all over. Like someone special.

Tomorrow, 3:30. Jesse couldn’t wait.