Mom gets me an emergency appointment with the psychiatrist.

He asks if I’ve been taking my meds, and I show him the nearly empty pill bottles and nod.

“Norbert,” he says.

I hate the sound of my name in his mouth, but I know to shut up about it.

“I’m concerned about your behavior. Some of the things you’ve been saying.”

I nod but say nothing, even though I want to talk a million miles a minute and it feels like holding back a roaring ocean.

“I’d like to talk about your father. Is that okay?”

I nod again, even though it most definitely is not okay.

“You understand that he’s gone. Right?”

I know exactly where he is. “Yes,” I say. “I know he’s gone.”

“And that he’s not coming back.”

I nod, hoping a fake tear will squeeze out, but it doesn’t. This doctor might have a whole bunch of framed degrees on the wall, but he doesn’t know everything. For example, he doesn’t know that my dad is somewhere getting better. He’s thinking the same stupid thing everyone else is. But they’re wrong. They’re all wrong.

“Have you had any unusual stress?” he asks. “Maybe at school or with friends?”

I think of Vasquez and the team. I think of Tim and Dare. “Nope,” I say, hoping my voice sounds cool, calm. “No unusual stress.”

“Okay,” he says. “You actually seem pretty good to me. Reasonable. Calm. We’ll order another blood test,” the doctor says to Mom. “And we’ll go from there.”

Mom clutches the form to get the blood test like her life depends on it.

And I’m so happy to escape from that office.

It looks like I’ll have to take my mood stabilizer for a while. That’s the one the blood test will measure. But no one will know if I don’t take the other medicine—the antipsychotic. That’s the one that slows me down the most anyway. That’s the one that keeps me from doing my very best on the court.

BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING!

The following Monday, after school, I sit with Mom at the table and fill her in on what’s been going on while she stuffs padded mailers with Bubbie’s DVDs. “I got a B on a test and an A on my Language Arts project and finished all my math homework in school and volunteered to help the counselor put up a bulletin board about bullying and I’m hungry and—”

“Norbert,” Mom says way too slowly. “You feeling okay? You seem a little amped up. You were terrific at the doctor’s office, but—”

“I’m great,” I say, which is the truth. I couldn’t be better. My head’s exploding with ideas, like a million lightbulbs going off with bright flashes. And I’ve been able to accomplish so much without wasting time on stupid stuff, like sleep. “I made five free throws in a row during practice and a bunch of layups and the guys were patting me on the back and I can’t wait for the next game and I’m going to be totally awesome.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Mom says, stirring her coffee in annoying lazy circles. “Sweetheart, you understand how important it is to take both of your medicines every single day. Right?”

Mom looks at me like her eyes are lie detectors or something, but I won’t be the fly in her web. I won’t fall into her trap. My team needs me. I have to be like this—alive! “Of course I understand,” I say, forcing myself to slow my speech, even though it’s like holding back a freight train. “Super important,” I say in a measured tone. “I totally get it.” But it’s not as important as being a great b-ball player for my team so we can win the state championship. “Don’t worry, Mom.” I feel like my eyes are open too wide, my heart beating too fast, my mind whirring like race cars barely able to stay on the track. “No need to worry. I’ve got it all under control.” And I pat the back of her hand to make her feel better.

“Me?” Mom says. “Do I look worried?”

I look at the crease on her forehead. “Yes, you do.”

She laughs and comes over to pull me into a tight hug, but it feels like she’s trapping me. Suffocating me. I can’t wait to break free and get outside to practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice, practice.

I feel Mom’s eyes follow me as I walk outside. I’ll have to be careful because she’s really paying attention now. I’ll keep taking my mood stabilizer, but I won’t go back on those antipsychotics. The doctor and Mom think they’re good for me, but they’re not. I do much better without them. I’ll just have to keep myself in check.

Once out back near the pool, I throw the ball against the wall over a thousand times. Maybe two thousand. I can’t actually keep count because a lot of other thoughts are zipping around in my brain, like maybe I’ll get a basketball scholarship and end up in the NBA with all kinds of product endorsements and how proud Dad would be. I love the thoughts that are zooming around and wish I could hang on to them longer, but Bubbie comes out. “You have to give it a rest, bubela. It’s great that you’re practicing so much, but that’s it for tonight.”

I love the rhythm of the ball hitting the wall, then hitting my hands, faster and faster. I know with each throw, I’m getting better and that will show on the court. When did it get so dark?

“Norbert, did you hear me?” Bubbie asks. “You have to stop now. Our neighbor called to complain about the noise.”

I want to listen to Bubbie, but it feels so good to keep going.

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing. Boing.

Besides, how much noise can one lousy basketball make? I hate this fancy neighborhood. Where I used to live, a neighbor wouldn’t complain about something dumb like that. They’d be glad kids were practicing basketball instead of breaking into cars.

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boi—

Bubbie snatches the basketball from my hands. “Stop!”

I storm inside and take a long shower, hoping it’ll relax me. But the spray feels like needles pricking my skin and does nothing to slow my racing thoughts.

In bed, I’m wild awake, thinking and planning and wishing I were still out back throwing the basketball. At least it’s a way to use up some of this endless energy. Inside the house, I feel boxed in. Maybe I can do pushups or deep knee bends, like Bubbie does. Or I can practice jumps. Or…

Suddenly, I don’t have the energy to do any of those things. I lie still, my brain barely containing the thoughts ricocheting around inside my skull.

Finally, I summon the strength to roll onto my stomach and I’m painfully aware of only one thing: the muscles in my arms are screaming in agony.

Maybe I overdid it.

To Whom?

At lunch, Amy has a drama club meeting, so it’s just me and Dare at the table.

She taps me on the hand with the edge of her apple Pop-Tart and tilts her head toward the Neanderthals’ table.

“Yeah?” I ask, not wanting to look for fear of flying fruit hitting me in the face.

Dare nods and whispers. “Look at Dunkin.”

I turn and look. “He’s talking,” I say. “So what?”

Dare leans forward and says with impeccable grammar, “To whom?”

I look again, paying more attention to what I’m seeing, and realize Dunkin is talking to someone over his left shoulder.

Only there’s no one standing over his left shoulder.

“Weird,” Dare says. “Right?”

I look again. “Who do you think he’s talking to?”

Dare shrugs and takes a huge bite of Pop-Tart.

The guy next to Dunkin shoves him and says something, and then Dunkin faces forward and stops talking to the no one over his left shoulder.

Strange.

Jerk!

Dare, Amy and I have nothing to do after school, so we get dinner from the vending machine and hang around to watch the basketball game.

I kind of want to make sure Dunkin is okay, since he was acting weird at lunch.

He’s not.

Right after halftime, he commits an unpardonable sin. He makes a basket for the other team. He must have gotten confused and shot at the same basket he used before the break.

His teammates scream at him. Some throw their hands onto their heads, like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.

People in the stands yell mean things, like “Loser!” Some laugh. Some boo. Even the adults. Especially the adults.

One man near us screams, “Get him off the court!” The guy looks exactly like an older version of Vasquez, which makes me shudder. Must be his dad. “Coach!” he screams. “Get him off the court! He’ll cost us the game.”

Coach pulls Dunkin and reams him out on the sidelines. It’s painful to watch Dunkin bob from foot to foot as Coach screams at him. And if that’s not bad enough, people are still calling out from the stands, ganging up on him. I know how rotten that feels when everyone is against you. Why can’t people leave him alone? It was an accident, a mistake.

“It’s no big deal!” I scream, surprising myself. “Leave him alone!”

People in the stands turn and look at me.

Dare and Amy look at me.

Even Coach looks up.

I slink down low, wishing for the ten billionth time that my hair were long enough to hide my face.

At least Coach stops yelling at Dunkin. And when Dunkin glances up, I give him a quick thumbs-up, so he knows at least one person is on his side.

He smiles for the briefest second, and I feel like maybe I’ve paid Dunkin back for the time he saved me from the Neanderthals at Halloween.

Dare, Amy and I decide to leave before the game is over. I can’t wait to get across the gym floor and out of there. Just before I get to the doors, I see Dunkin. He’s seated on the sidelines, muttering to himself. That can’t be good. I wish there was something I could do to help him, to tell him it will be okay, that it’s only a game and not worth the stress.

With my hand on the door, I look back at the bleachers. The cheerleaders are standing by, waiting for an opportunity to shake their pom-poms. The guy who must be Vasquez’s dad is laser focused on the game.

I shake my head, open the door and breathe in the air of the empty hallway.

As the three of us walk toward the exit, I think of Dunkin. I’ll bet he wishes he could walk out with us, away from the pressures of the game, away from the obnoxious people in the stands.

“Next game’s Friday,” Dare says as we walk down the hall. “An away game.”

“Oh well,” Amy says, because we don’t go to away games.

“I hope that guy—Vasquez’s dad, I guess—doesn’t go to the game,” I say. “He’s a loudmouth jerk.”

“Jerk,” Dare agrees, shaking her head.

“Jerk,” Amy says.

“Jerk,” I mumble, but I can’t stop thinking about Dunkin, about how strange it is that he’s been, well, sort of talking to himself lately. What’s going on with him?

And we walk out of school into the cool night air.

AN IMPORTANT NIGHT

During the day of our away game, I feel like tonight something important is going to happen. I keep thinking about Dad and feel like it’s going to be a hugely meaningful evening. I’m just not sure why.

In school, I can barely sit still. It feels like forever before the game will get here. When the last bell finally rings, I explode from the classroom and meet the guys outside the bus.

“This is going to be amazing!” Vasquez says.

I’m hopping from foot to foot. “Amazing,” I say, because it is. “Amazing!”

“What are you doing?” Vasquez asks me. “Do you have to take a piss or something?”

I stop hopping from foot to foot, but inside my head, I’m hopping, leaping, sprinting!

“You’d better not do anything to screw this game up,” Vasquez says, and hits me in the chest with the back of his hand.

“No way,” I say. “No way.” He has no idea how amazing I’m going to be tonight, but I’ll show him.

Some of the other guys give me the stink eye because I scored a basket for the other team in the last game, but I don’t care because this is a whole new game. And I’m a whole new me. I feel like Superman, Batman and Spider-Man combined into one incredible person.

“Are we ready for this?” Vasquez asks the guys.

“Ready!” I scream way too loudly.

The guys look at me like I’m crazy, but I know I’m not. I’m terrific!

“Chill out, Dorfman,” Vasquez says.

“Sorry. Just excited.”

He pats me on the back. “Save it for the game.”

The game. I can’t wait to get to the game.

I’m Not Moving

I’m scared to death, but I know it’s my last chance to save Bob. Nothing else has worked. My words have failed. It’s time for action.

A date for Bob’s removal was added to the sign—today’s date!

So I climb high up into his branches with supplies—a backpack containing four water bottles and an empty one (just in case), two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a package of iced blueberry Pop-Tarts, a jacket if it gets chilly, a flashlight and a copy of The Lorax to give me strength and remind me why I’m doing this.

My stomach is so nervous. It feels exactly like it did that summer day I put on Mom’s red lily of the valley dress and went out front when Dad was unloading groceries from the car.

Like that day, I know what I’m doing now is hard, but important.

That’s why I’m sitting in Bob’s sturdy branches—terrified, determined—and skipping school, something I’ve never done.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I wish I weren’t here all alone, but I know one thing: like Julia Butterfly Hill, who stayed in a redwood tree for two years to save it, I’m not moving.

I probably should have brought more food. And water.

For some reason, knowing I can’t go to the bathroom makes me have to go, but I’ll have to hold it. I open The Lorax and start reading, but it’s hard to concentrate. I wonder when they’re going to come with the equipment to cut Bob down and what’s going to happen when they see me sitting here. Will they even see me?

I’m in the tree for hours. My butt, back and legs are stiff and sore. The sturdy branches are really hard and uncomfortable, and every ten minutes or so, I have to flick off a fire ant that crawls too close.

I watch people enter and leave the library. I look at the clouds and occasionally see a bird fly past. I wonder what Dare is doing now. Probably hanging out with Amy. They’ve become inseparable lately, always trying to outdo each other by telling the worst jokes.

Yesterday when the three of us were at the vending machine, Dare said, “Knock, knock.”

Amy smiled. “Who’s there?”

“Two.”

“Two who?”

“To whom!” Dare said, and cracked up.

Amy laughed once.

“Classic grammar nerd joke,” I said.

They both looked at me, and I felt like I was intruding on their private moment or something, which is totally dumb. It was just a knock-knock joke.

While I shift my weight, trying to get more comfortable, I wonder what Dunkin’s doing. I hope he’s stopped talking to himself. If he keeps that up, everyone’s going to make fun of him, especially the Neanderthals, even if he is on the team.

I shift again. It’s impossible to get comfortable up here, but I’m not coming down until the city promises to leave Bob alone.

I wonder how Julia Butterfly Hill felt when she lived in her redwood. She was probably scared. Not only did she have to worry about loggers, she had to deal with all kinds of weather and wind because she was really high up. She stayed up there through two years’ worth of nighttimes. How terrifying. She must have really loved that tree.

I pat Bob and read The Lorax to him. If someone saw me, they’d probably think I was talking to myself. And they’d also think I’m crazy, because I am sitting in a tree when I’m supposed to be in school. “Don’t worry,” I tell Bob, putting the book in my backpack and grabbing a Pop-Tart. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I won’t let them hurt you.”

I’ve just taken my first delicious bite of the blueberry Pop-Tart when a big orange truck pulls up.

I shove the Pop-Tart into my backpack and inhale deeply. “This is it,” I tell Bob. “Hang on. Okay?”

He doesn’t answer, not even a slight rustling of his leaves. The only sound I hear is the wild thrumming of my heartbeat. But I know somewhere deep in his roots, Bob senses what’s going on and is probably panicked.

Three guys, all wearing orange hard hats, get out of the truck.

One of the guys is on the phone. The other two are getting things from the back of the truck. I shouldn’t be surprised they don’t notice me. Apparently, people even forget to look up into the tree they’re planning to cut down.

I wonder if I should say something to let them know I’m here.

The guy on the phone finally looks up.

“Oh shit,” he says into the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

He puts the phone away and squints up at me. “You gotta get outta that tree, kid. We’re cutting it down.”

“No, you’re not,” I say in a small but determined voice.

“What?” He cups a hand around his ear.

“You are not cutting this tree down.” I almost say Bob but catch myself, because I don’t want the guy to think I’m a weirdo.

He removes his hard hat and runs his hand through his hair, which reminds me so much of Dad. Dad. He’ll probably kill me for doing this.

“Oh, come on!” the guy says. “Are you serious? Shouldn’t you be in school? Is it a day off or something?”

The other two guys stand beside him. All three look up at me.

I’m really glad I climbed higher than I usually do. I wouldn’t want them reaching up and grabbing for my foot or something. “I’m not moving!” I yell down, glad my voice isn’t trembling, even though I am.

“Terrific,” the first guy says, and the three of them go over to the truck to talk. Even though I strain, I can’t hear what they’re saying.

One of the guys comes back. “You’d better come down now. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt.” I wonder if I should stop talking to them. Did Julia Butterfly Hill stop talking to the people who wanted her out of the tree?

“You have to come down,” the guy says in a serious voice.

He seems like a nice guy. I’m sorry to do this to him, to ruin his workday, but saving Bob is more important than that. “I can’t come down.”

“Why not?” he asks. “Do you need help to get down?”

“I can’t,” I say, gritting my teeth, “because I’m not letting you cut down my tree!”

The guy reels back. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t own this tree. The city does.” He waves his hand dismissively and stalks away.

That’s when I decide to stop talking to them.

The guy who was on the phone at first comes over again. “Well, you have about five minutes to climb down before the police get here.”

I hunker down, even though my back and legs are so sore.

Not moving.