Page 59 of Love Me Not
Focusing on the apples, I stayed quiet.
“You aren’t good at accepting compliments, are you?”
“I haven’t had a lot of practice.”
Trey leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Then we’ll have to practice that, too.”
An hour in, the crowd finally started to dwindle. I had no idea so many kids lived on Mount Washington, and I was reminded yet again why I preferred to teach adult-adjacent students. The little ones were rowdy, loud, and unpredictable.
One pint-sized pirate threw the fishing rod at me when he failed to snag an apple on the first try. Then a video game character I couldn’t name in a million years ran up at full speed only to slam his palms on the water and soak far more than my shoes. And who could forget the little girl in the ice-blue dress and long blonde braid who skipped the fishing pole entirely to snatch an apple with her bare hand and take a bite before we could stop her.
A handful were upset that we only had stuffed animals to offer and not candy, which they’d clearly already had more than enough of, and then there were the sweet ones who made the splashing and the tantrums worth an evening on my feet. One in particular made my night.
First, he was wearing his own baseball uniform, which was two sizes too big but so in the spirit of wearing what you want that I considered adopting him on the spot. Though his mom would have fought me for him, and she’d have won, of course.
As soon as he saw Trey, the boy yelled “You’re Coach Collins!” as if my booth mate didn’t know his own name. Apparently, Joshua—per the name on the back of his jersey—had a cousin on the Carnegie football team, and the little fan had been to every game of the season. He’d even gotten a high five from Trey after one crucial win, and by his reaction, you’d think he met a real live superhero in the flesh.
Joshua paid little attention to me, but that was understandable. I wasn’t the celebrity that Trey was. The child was five years old, profoundly enjoying kindergarten—his words amazingly enough—and he had aspirations of being the next Derek Jeter.
I assumed that was a baseball player.
His T-ball team took the championship in the spring, and he was looking forward to moving up to Little League next year. His mother reminded him that they hadn’t decided yet if he would move up or not. The boy was on the small side so I could see her concern.
“Coach, tell her I need to move up.”
How was the big guy going to play this one?
“Sorry, buddy,” Trey said. “Moms overrule coaches. What she says goes.”
“Aw, man.”
“Do you want to take a shot at the game?” I asked, holding out a fishing pole. “Catch an apple and you get to pick a prize off the table.”
Joshua looked up. “Can I, Mom?”
“If you want to,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “We have six tickets left.”
He took one and handed it to Trey. “One game, please.”
If my nephews were this polite, I’d steal them more often.
The caldron was nearly as tall as he was, making seeing the apples more difficult. After a minute of watching him struggle, I could tell that Trey was itching to help. If they did this again next year, I’d remind Miles to supply stools for the smaller children.
“Do you mind if I lift him up?” Trey asked the mom.
“I’d appreciate it, thanks.”
Sweeping the boy up, he tilted and swept him around as if he was the fishing pole. “Slide it right under that one. That’s it. Almost there.” The apple rolled into the hammock and Trey lifted Joshua, who held the pole out with the apple still in place.
“I did it. Look, Mom, I got the apple all by myself.”
No one corrected the claim as Trey lowered him back to his feet. “Come around and pick the one you want,” he said, showing the boy to the table.
After a thorough perusal of every animal on the table, he said, “That one,” pointing to a rainbow-colored hippo that no other child had given a second look.
“He’s all yours,” I said, handing over the prize.
“You want me to add him to the rest?” his mom said, pulling a tote bag off her shoulder.