* * *
Peter stared at the ceiling in bed. Images of people tumbled in his mind. He thought of CJ, Uncle Herb, his parents, Josh, Mr. James and Mr. Terry, and Mr. Kassel and that awful offspring of his. He thought of the changes that were coming, that loomed and approached slowly like thunderclouds. Uncle Herb was going back to his life, Josh was leaving his house, and school would start in less than two weeks.
He wondered if he’d ever stop drawing orange dots on his calendar, when his dad would stop traveling so much. He remembered a day, back in the old house, when his dad walked in and shook the rain from his jacket, looking happy, like he used to, not exhausted, angry, or preoccupied. He’d hug or kiss Peter and CJ on the head and give their mother a playful hug or a kiss on the lips. It was that feeling that Peter missed most. Nothing big, no trip to Disney World or anything like that, just the typical day where everyone is home, and that’s the exact place where everyone wants to be.
Peter shifted his body to look out the open window. Josh’s Christmas lights shone through the August night. He hoped to fall asleep before the sun rose.
Part II
Day 65
It might have been because an eight-foot gate surrounded the entire development, but within Willow Creek Landing there were more natural boundaries than fencing, such as the neat rows of miniature poplar trees (with each tree planted equal distance apart) distinguishing property lines. The design gave the community a simulated, zoo-like quality.
Peter biked out of his driveway and rode down Ranch Road, pounding down on the pedals for speed. Out of habit, he glanced behind looking for CJ, temporarily forgetting that he left the house early and alone. If CJ was back to herself, she’d be disappointed. She loved biking into town, but Peter knew it would be too hard to do his research with one eye on CJ the whole time.
He cut right at the pavilion and headed to the front gates, smelling fried eggs and bacon coming from the general store inside the pavilion. He made a wide turn around the guard house, alertly spotting the raven’s beak of Brutus’s tattoo sticking out of the booth and steered his bike a safe distance past.
The peacefulness of the early morning ended abruptly at the gates of Willow Creek—morning rush hour on Slocin Road. Peter cautiously took the turn onto the shoulder and made a mad dash for Trent Lane, the side street that started the maze of back roads into town. Cars whizzed by, filling his shirt and shorts with bursts of air. Peter tightened his grip on the handlebars. He pedaled fast and measured, his eyes focused on the road ahead, and made sure he had control of the bike at all times. He knew what one accidental swerve meant—he would be road pizza.
He cut sharply onto the side road, and his breathing resumed a normal pattern. These back roads were considered the “T” section of town: an older development with high ranches and colonials, and residents who probably despised the Willow Creek Landing community. What used to be woods behind their development were now McMansions and McRanches and a gated, private golf course.
He turned left on Twilight Drive, and then a quick ride to Terrence Street. This isn’t such a bad trip once you made it past Slocin, Peter thought. Maybe he’d meet some boys from school who lived around here. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never make a friend in Willow Creek as long as Chipper had a stranglehold on the entire population under age fifteen.
Peter hit Main Street and slowed in front of the plate glass window of Handley’s Drug Store, looking to make one pit stop before the library. He scanned the aisles for any sign of Chipper and his cronies. When he was sure the area was secure, he hopped off his bike and entered.
On the bottom shelf of the magazine rack, below the glossy publications of monster trucks and chiseled men and women, Mr. Handley kept a small collection of comic books. Peter wondered why he’d never thought of this before. He fingered the titles until he found the one he was looking for. Admiring his luck, he jogged to the counter with comic book in hand.
Mr. Handley greeted him with a friendly smile. “Do you have anything to pick up, Peter?”
Peter slid the comic book across the countertop. “Not today, Mr. Handley. Just this.” Mr. Handley studied the cover after ringing up the comic book. He held a finger to his forehead. “Let me guess here. This is not for you,” he said, pausing for effect, “but for the fair-haired child who follows you around like a puppy.”
Peter nodded, slightly embarrassed.
“You’re a good big brother, Peter. All my brothers ever gave me were bruises.” Mr. Handley handed the comic over to Peter and winked at him.
He’d worn his knapsack for this purpose, so he wouldn’t ruin the comic book by handling it too much. Usually he’d leave the knapsack home because it was like wearing another layer in this heat. Deep down he hoped to find something interesting enough to print at the library, making the knapsack necessary, but he didn’t want to raise his hopes up too high.
The morning sun hung in the sky as Peter carefully placed the comic into his knapsack. He mounted his bike and pedaled past the hardware store, art gallery, and Starbucks, where customers sat outside, hidden from the sun by umbrellas and sipped their iced coffees and cappuccinos.
The library was on the outskirts of Main Street, separated from the string of stores by a small park. Across from the library was the Sleepy Beagle Pub, the favorite restaurant of Peter’s father, an old tavern poorly lit with dark, wood booths where the backs are so high that you can only hear the murmurs of the diners behind you. Peter liked the waffle fries there.
He turned into the library’s parking lot and pulled into the bike rack. His shirt was pasted to his back with sweat. The automatic doors to the library opened and a burst of cold air enveloped Peter. He shivered from the extreme and sudden change in temperature.
The main floor was more packed than Peter ever saw it, especially so early in the morning, with people floating down the long passageways of books. Peter wondered how much the air conditioner had to do with the crowd using this public place as an oasis.
He made his way downstairs to the computer room and sat in one of the open cubby holes. He turned the computer on and waited for it to load, his eyes darting around the room for familiar faces. If Peter had a phone, he could have done his research in the privacy of his own home, but his parents said they would buy him one next year (they said that the last two years). And with his computer broken (another thing his Dad said he would take care of “this weekend”), Peter’s computer access was restricted when he couldn’t borrow one of his parents’ laptops. But Peter wouldn’t want them to see what he was about to Google anyway.
He clicked the keyboard a couple times, entered his name and library card ID, and found himself on the library homepage. He went to Google, and before typing in anything else, he looked around the room one more time. He typed Josh Keeme. Peter tapped enter and on the screen appeared:
We did not find results for: “Josh Keeme.” Try the suggestions below or type a new query above.
Peter frowned. He knew there was a strong possibility that the search would turn up nothing.
Peter leaned back in his chair and scratched his face, deep in thought. The librarian looked over from her desk across the room, but Peter avoided her eyes. You can’t ask for help when you’re being a snoop.
He typed in Joshua Keeme and hit the enter button.
The search found two results.
Peter straightened himself and moved his face closer to the screen. The first was from a small newspaper, the Hagerstown Gazette. The headline read: “University Student Arrested for Punching Police Horse.” In the description blurb, Peter saw the name Joshua Keeme in bold. He clicked on the headline to go to the website.
It was a dated newspaper police blotter, more than a year old. Peter scanned the sentences. Hagerstown seemed like a relatively safe place, the first two crimes were a noise ordinance violation and vandalism, someone who spray-painted Food stinks! next to the sign of a downtown café. Halfway down the page, Peter saw the p
olice horse story.
At the Hagerstown Music Festival, Hagerstown University student Joshua Keeme, age twenty, who authorities said punched a police horse, pleaded no contest to disorderly conduct Wednesday and was fined $250 and ordered to perform twenty hours of community service. Police say that Keeme, a second-year chemistry major, seemed agitated and aggressive before punching the horse outside of the festival’s entrance, where police were helping with crowd control. Keeme denied that he punched the horse, saying he put his hand out and the animal’s head ran into it. Witnesses stated that Keeme was agitated and acting strangely, stating that the horse had spoken to him.
Oh no, Peter thought. He read the story over and over, wishing there were more details. He estimated the age was right. What were the chances this wasn’t Josh? How many Joshua Keeme’s in their twenties can there be? Peter figured he could find out easily enough by asking Josh some questions, like where he went to college.
Peter clicked back to the search page and clicked on the second result. This too was a paper from Hagerstown, but from the design of it, crazy scripted headlines, lots of colors and sketch drawings, it looked like something created in a bedroom. Peter didn’t have to look hard to find Josh’s name. The front-page title read “Horseplay at Hagerfest!” The article read as if the writer was standing next to you in conversation.
I’m sure we’re all in consensus that the Unabombers absolutely rocked out the Hagerstown Music Festival last weekend, but for those of you who thought the rap-metal band was the main attraction during the weekend long festival—not so fast. That title goes to our very own perpetual senior Joshua Keeme, who found himself locked up in the Hagerstown one-cell jailhouse on Sunday night after punching a police horse. You read it right, Hagers and Haggards, punching a police horse. Rumor has it he was a little out of his mind that night. Uh, yeah. Anyway, now we know what the chemistry major is making in the lab all those long hours. We just want to know how we can get our hands on some.
This account was not as fact-based as the newspaper, but Peter read it a second time anyway. He decided against printing anything. He could always come back and look it up again. He stood and tossed his backpack onto his shoulder, looking around the library. He was in no rush to leave the air-conditioned environment. It was close to ten o’clock now, probably ten degrees hotter outside than when he entered the building.
Even though he was excited about giving CJ the comic book, there was something freeing to being alone. So he walked up and down the aisles, scanning the book titles. Right at the time he was thinking that he should do this more often, a voice hissed from between two shelves of books.
“Fish out of water.”
A set of eyes peered over a row of books from the adjoining aisle. Peter felt a sharp pinch in his chest. Chipper reached through the opening and grabbed a hold of the front of Peter’s shirt.
“Howdy, Nemo. Come here. I missed you.”
Peter’s body slammed against the wall of books as Chipper tried to pull him through the narrow opening of the bookshelf. Peter heard stifled laughing and knew Chipper’s goons were there too, giggling from the other side. Peter felt more hands on him, clawing and pulling.
“Stop,” Peter said in a muted voice, his mouth pressed against the spine of a book.
Books started falling to the floor, and Peter felt the whole unit start to sway. A hand slapped at the back of his head and his cheek several times. Peter felt his feet leave the ground, and he knew he was in trouble, the only comfort coming from the notion if the entire bookcase fell, it would crash down on Chipper’s skull.
“Peter, there you are, I’ve been looking all over you,” a voice called from down the aisle.
Peter landed on his feet and stumbled, pulling his shirt down over his stomach. Mr. Terry was standing at the end of the aisle, a pile of books in one arm. He waved Peter over with his free hand.
Thankfully, Chipper couldn’t get a full view of Peter’s face, filled with surprise and relief. Peter combed his hair in place with his fingers and wiped dust from his cheek. Mr. Terry put his arm on his shoulder. Peter glanced over into the next aisle as they started to walk away together. Chipper and his goons huddled in a triangle trying to look innocent while concealing their laughter.
Mr. Terry stopped. “Hey, boys. There’s a mess of books in the next aisle. We’re in a rush, so can you do us a favor and pick them up? Thanks.”
They started walking again, but not before Peter saw a look of rage cross Chipper’s face.
On line to check out the books, Mr. Terry tilted his head down toward Peter and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “You okay?”
Peter nodded, embarrassed that his neighbor had to witness one of his poundings. Mr. Terry had a musky smell to him, not bad just strong. It was like a combination of sweat and cinnamon.
“You need a lift home?”
“No, I have my bike.”
“I could throw it in the trunk. No problem.”
“No, I’m okay. Thanks, Mr. Terry,” Peter said, trying to convey that he appreciated more than the ride offer.
Mr. Terry appraised Peter then smiled. “You better go then. I’ll hold them off if I have to.”
Peter took off, thinking that was the best adult advice he’d received in a while.
The ride home from the library wasn’t quite as much fun for Peter as the ride there. He knew that Chipper wouldn’t be happy that his sadistic acts kept getting interrupted. Chipper liked seeing things through to completion—must be the Boy Scout in him. Figuring Chipper would take Main Street right to Slocin, Peter took the back roads again, turning around every so often anyway, expecting to see Chipper and the goons on his tail. He missed colliding with a parked car on Tremont Street by inches. It felt like a foxhunt to Peter. Unfortunately, he was the fox.
By the time Peter reached the gates of Willow Creek Landing, the back of his neck felt like someone had held a match to it. Brutus was now standing outside the booth, and Peter had the feeling that he’d been watching him bike up since he’d turned off Slocin. He hugged the curb farthest from the booth and put a little extra push behind each pedal, but then Brutus stepped into the middle of the street and held his hand out for Peter to stop.
Peter’s flight instinct told him to hop the curb and make a dash for it, but just as he did every time with Chipper, Peter froze and surrendered. He almost fell off the bike trying to stop it so quickly.
“I live here. 50 Ranch Street. My name is Peter Grady.” He would have offered his social security number if he knew it by heart.
Peter was amazed at the size of the hand in front of him. It could have easily palmed his entire face. He couldn’t think of any reason why Brutus would stop him. It’s not like he didn’t know Peter lived in the Creek, he’d passed him several times with and without his parents. A car pulled in behind Peter, and he was thankful for the company.
Brutus turned his head and waved Peter through. Peter didn’t waste any time, making sure to thank him first for . . . Peter didn’t know what for. Maybe those dark sunglasses are also prescription glasses and Brutus needed his eyes re-evaluated. Peter didn’t care, as long as he was leaving. He looked back once quickly and saw that Brutus had stopped the unfamiliar car and was looking at the license plate.
Brutus went back to the booth and grabbed his clipboard with the visitor sign-in sheet attached. He slowly walked around to the driver’s side and waited silently for the visitor to get the hint and roll down the window. Brutus didn’t talk through glass.
As he waited, he glanced down Ranch Street. The boy on the bike was already out of sight. Brutus was glad. The Boy Scout boys had come in minutes earlier and were looking for this boy. Brutus didn’t speak often but always listened. He could tell it wasn’t for a birthday party. The boys had parked their bikes outside the general store entrance, and Brutus had held the kid on the bike until he was sure the others had entered the pavilion.
Brutus had done his good deed for the month.
The Giant Pine
The giant pine tree in Peter’s front yard, a symbol and reminder of the predevelopment days, lifted majestically into the sky. It dwarfed the landscaper-planted trees that decorated the community like ornaments.
It was also Peter’s favorite place to read.
But now he stood at the trunk, shuffling his feet, and casting glances at the nearest limb, six feet above the ground. Whenever he climbed the tree, the effort was enormous, involving a running leap and a fierce grip. Pulling his weight up was another story entirely. Success rarely came before three tries.
“How did you make it to the first limb?” he wanted to know.
CJ stared out at the golf course. She sat on one of the fatter limbs, midway up the tree, and higher than the limb where Peter commonly stopped, any higher tested his comfort level too much. CJ was a good ten feet in the air with her knees curled up into her chest.
“Lasso,” she whispered. “I threw one end over and climbed up with my legs.”
Peter was impressed. “Can I come up with you?”
“No.”
Peter nodded. He sat on one of the large protruding roots and scooped a handful of rocks. He tossed one rock at a time.
“I’m not going to camp, Peter.”
“You might like it, CJ. Mom thinks you will.”
“I won’t.”
Peter picked up another handful of rocks and shielded his eyes as he looked up at his sister. “I have something for you.”
CJ wanted to act indifferent and she fought to avert her eyes from Peter as he dug through his backpack.
Peter held the comic book to the sky. “It’s a Wonder Woman comic book. I got it at Handley’s.”
CJ examined the cover from the safety of her limb.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Peter said. “It’s yours if you promise to try camp tomorrow without giving Mom a hard time.” He didn’t want CJ trying their mother’s patience again.
CJ broke off a small branch. She dropped it and watched the plummet. “I want to stay here,” she said, then added, “with you.”
The Underdog Parade Page 11
