Iterations and other stories (collection)

Matt was the only one left now, and Cartwright, the other captain, didn’t even bother to call out his name. Cartwright’s rolled eyes said it all: he wasn’t picking Matt Sinclair—he just happened to be the last guy left.

Matt blew out a heavy sigh. It was cold enough that he could see his breath form a frosty cloud.

Science class. The class Matt excelled in.

“And the process by which plants convert sunlight into food is called… ?” Mr. Pope looked out at the students, sitting in pairs behind black-topped lab desks.

Matt raised his hand.

“Yes, Matthew?”

“Photosynthesis,” he said.

“That’s right, Matthew. Very good. Now, although they both undergo photosynthesis, there are two very different types of trees. There are evergreens and the other kind, the kind that loses its leaves each fall. And that kind is called… ?”

Matt’s hand shot into the air again.

“Anybody besides Matthew know?” asked Mr. Pope.

Blank faces all around. Matt smiled to himself. Why don’t we arrange all the students in here, putting them in order by how intelligent they are? Take the smartest person first—which, well, gee, that would be Matt, of course—then the next smartest, then the one after that, right down to—oh, say, down to Johnson over there. Johnson was always an early pick in gym class, but if we made selections here in science class, he’d be the one left until the end every time.

“All right,” said Mr. Pope, “since no one else seems to know, Matthew, why don’t you enlighten your classmates?”

“Deciduous,” Matt said, proudly.

“Browner,” whispered the girl behind him. And “Brainiac” said Eddy Bergstrom, siting at the next desk.

It wasn’t fair, thought Matt. They cheer when someone makes a goal. Why can’t they cheer when someone gets an answer right?

This time, things would be different. This time, Mr. Donner had selected Paul Chandler, Matt’s best friend, to be one of the team captains.

Matt felt himself relaxing. For once in his life, he wouldn’t be last.

Paul called out his first pick. Esaki—a good choice. Esaki wasn’t the strongest guy in the class, but he was one of the most agile.

The other captain, Oxnard, made his initial selection: Ehrlich. An obvious pick; Ehrlich towered half a head above everyone else.

Paul again: “Gimme Spalding.”

Well, that made sense. Spalding was the biggest bully in school. Paul had to pick him early on, lest he risk being beaten up on the way home.

Oxnard’s turn: “I’ll take Modigliani.”

Paul: “Ng.”

Paul was playing it cool; that was good. It wouldn’t do to take Matt too early—everyone would know that Paul was choosing him just because they were best friends.

“Let me have… Vanier,” Oxnard said.

Paul made a show of surveying the remaining students. “Papadatos,” he said.

Matt’s heart was beginning to sink. Paul couldn’t humiliate him the way the others had. Surely he would pick him in the next round.

“Herzberg.”

“Peelaktoak.”

Or the round after that…

“Becquerel”

“Johnson.”

Or…

“Van Beek.”

“Dowling.”

But no—

No, it was going to be the same as always.

Paul—his friend—had left him for last, just as everyone else always did.

Matt felt his stomach churning.

At lunch, Paul sat down opposite Matt in the cafeteria. “Hey, Matt,” he said.

Matt focussed all his attention on his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat, cut in half diagonally.

“Earth to Matt!” said Paul. “Helll-ooo!”

Matt looked up. He kept his voice low; he didn’t want the others sitting nearby to hear. “Why didn’t you pick me in gym class?”

“I did pick you,” protested Paul.

“Yeah. Last.”

Paul seemed to consider this, as if realizing for the first time that Matt might have taken his actions as a betrayal. “Hey, Matt-o, I’m sorry, man. But it was probably my only time getting to be a captain all year, you know? And I wanted a good team.”

A miracle occurred.

Matt was picked—not for a team, not by one of his classmates. No, no—this was better. Much better. Matt had been picked by Mr. Donner to be one of the team captains. The game today was football; Matt didn’t know much about it, except that some of the other boys had snickered when he’d once referred to a gain of ten meters, instead of ten yards. In theory, they would be playing touch football, but in reality—

In reality, he still had scabs on his knees from the last time they’d played this game, when Spalding had tackled Matt, driving him to the ground, his skin shredding on a broken piece of glass hidden in the grass.

And once, last year, Matt had actually managed to tag the runner going by him, the guy clutching the football. Matt had touched him—he was sure he had. A good, clean connection between his hand and the other guy’s shoulder. But the other player had continued on, ignoring the touch—denying it, denying Matt, as if to be touched by him would be an unbearable humiliation. The guy had run on, into the endzone, doing the exaggerated victory dance he’d seen professional players do on TV. His teammates had demanded that Matt explain why he hadn’t tagged the guy. He protested that he had, of course, but no one had believed him.