“Money in the bank,” Izzy says.
“That’s the bank’s money.”
Izzy shakes her head. “The bank gives Mom money.”
“That’s her money that the bank is borrowing,” Dakota says.
I shake my head at Dakota. “Don’t get all technical on Izzy,” I whisper.
Cupcake waits patiently for us to kick a pinecone, then dashes after it, jerking the leash.
“The bank keeps Mom’s money in a safe place. When we get home, we’ll get the Monopoly game money out,” I tell Izzy.
“Money!” Izzy skips after Cupcake.
“What if we did experiments in the park?” Dakota suggests. “We could pass a hat for money. We could do the watermelon explosion.”
“Too loud and messy. Somebody will call the police.”
“How about the Mentos explosion?”
“Everybody knows that one. Nobody would pay to see it.” I breathe in the smell of someone’s barbeque. “Besides, we’d have to buy the Diet Coke and the Mentos.”
“Mom will buy them,” Dakota says.
“Not after last time.” A few weeks ago, Dakota did the Mentos and Diet Coke experiment, which makes a reliable explosion. The Diet Coke made a huge mess. It got all over Torpse’s windows. When Torpse saw it, I wished as hard as I could for the invisibility superpower.
We tried to clean the windows, but we couldn’t reach them. Mom had to buy a ladder. She docked Dakota’s allowance to cover the cost. I don’t have any allowance coming either, because I took an advance to buy new tennis balls, which are already used up. So no new tennis balls and no allowance for the rest of the year.
“Children! Children!” Mr. Torpse is standing on his tiny porch. He’s aiming his cane at us and squinting behind his glasses.
“Mr. Torpse, Mr. Torpse!” Izzy hops up and down. “Hi, Mr. Torpse!”
Mr. Torpse frowns at her. “Hello.”
“He said hi. I go hug him?” But before we have time to answer, Izzy runs up to Mr. Torpse’s porch and gives him a big hug.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mr. Torpse tries to right his glasses.
“Thank you, Mr. Torpse! Thank you! Thank you!” Izzy waves as she runs back to us.
“For what?” he calls.
“Hugs!” Izzy says.
“But the police!” He thumps his cane on the rolled-up yoga mat leaning against the railing. “What did they say?”
“The police good, Mr. Torpse!” Izzy shouts.
“But, but…,” he sputters.
“The firemen are good too. Do you like the firemen, Mr. Torpse?” Izzy asks.
“There was a fire?” Mr. Torpse cries.
“No. No. She just said she likes firemen,” I tell him.
Mr. Torpse scowls at me.
“How did he know about the police?” I whisper to Dakota.
“Somebody must have told him,” Dakota hisses.
Mr. Torpse takes off his slipper. I think he’s going to slap it against the porch rail like he does when he gets mad. But he just stands there. “You children!” he shouts.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Tell your mother I want to speak with her. Tell her to find her lease. I’ll be down tomorrow morning at eight.”
Does he have to shout so loud all the neighbors hear? It’s scary when your landlord gets mad at you. Landlord trouble is worse than flunking a test, because landlords don’t give retakes.
“I’ll tell her,” I say.
Dakota skips up next to me. “What’s a lease?”
“It’s a paper you sign when you rent an apartment.”
“I don’t get it,” Dakota says. “Why would you sign a paper to live in your home?”
“Because we don’t own it. Torpse does.”
“Yeah, but it’s our home, not his.” Dakota says.
“Actually, it’s not,” I say.
“Torpse has his home and we have ours.”
“Nope. He owns both of them.”
“That’s not fair,” Dakota says.
I shrug.
“Our home.” Izzy waits by the door, smiling at us. “Mommy said.”
The next morning, when we open the door, a bag of kitty litter is sitting outside in a plastic box with a note attached.
Dakota grins.
We get the kitty-litter box set up and put it on the patio with Cupcake. We need to teach her to use it, but there’s no time right now.
I pull on my hoodie and grab Izzy’s hand, and the three of us take off. The weather is starting to turn. A light mist is falling. It sits like a roof on my hair.
We pass Mr. Torpse in weird black stretchy pants heading down our stairs to talk to Mom. “Uh-oh,” Dakota says as she hops on the landing with her polka-dot backpack.
“Hi, Mr. Torpse.” Izzy waves. Then she runs up to him and hands him something. When she gets back, I ask her: “What did you give him?”
“Money,” Izzy says.
“Monopoly money?”
She nods.
“What do you think Torpse will say?” Dakota asks me.
“He’ll probably tell Mom not to let you blow things up.”
Dakota groans. “How am I supposed to cure cancer if I can’t practice?”
“Cure cancer? By exploding watermelons?”
“It’s a start, Liam. Think about it. If I cure cancer, we’ll never have to worry about money again. But I’ll need help.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why,” I say sarcastically.
“We have money,” Izzy says.
The bus stop is at the top of the hill. There are three girls up there already. When Izzy sees them, she pulls free and runs the rest of the way up. The three girls all hug her. They’re younger than she is, but she doesn’t care. For Izzy, friendship is contagious.
Dakota rattles on. I tune back in.
“My club is going to help me.”
“Your what?”
“Remember? Mom told me to start a club.”
Dakota doesn’t have “mates,” as my mom calls them. The only time Dakota ever has kids over that aren’t my friends or Izzy’s friends, Mom has invited them. Friends your mom makes for you are not the same as real friends.
I look around, hoping to see Dodge, but I don’t expect to. Most of the time Crash drives him.
Dakota has a dreamy look. “Everybody is going to want to join. Who doesn’t want to be a rich nerd with a finish-up?”
“A finish-up? What’s that?”
Dakota juts her chin out. “A finish-up, Liam. You know…a company that makes a lot of money.”
“Oh, you mean a start-up?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Dakota nods, unzipping her backpack and pulling out seven pink wristbands made from torn-up pink tutus. “Every kid who gets ninety-seven point five or better on our science test will receive one of these.”
“Ninety-seven point five?”
“They can miss one,” she explains.
“Generous of you.”
“Mrs. Johnson makes mistakes.”
“Oh, so they’re allowed to miss one if it’s your teacher’s fault?” I ask as the bus rumbles around the corner. “When are you planning on giving those out?”
She picks her backpack up. “At recess. That’s when the Glitter Nerds meet.”
“Glitter Nerds…Is that what you’re going to call them? You’re not inviting any boys, are you? Because boys don’t like glitter.”
“Mom said boys can wear glitter if they want to.”
“Mom is an expert on this?”
Dakota nods. “We’re going to meet at the big library table.”
“Nobody goes to the library at recess.”
“Nerds do.” Dakota gets in line in front of me.
The bus
stops with a hissing phooof and the door flaps open. I keep an eye on Izzy, who is holding hands with the little girls. They get on first.
“Those are one hundred percent nerds. What you need are partial nerds.”
Dakota frowns at me. “I’m not a partial.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s better if nobody but us goes to the library.” She bangs her backpack—bump, bump, bump—onto the bus. “Then it won’t be hard to get a table.”
* * *
Once we get to school, Dakota and I walk Izzy to her class. At home, Izzy’s size doesn’t seem unusual. She’s only seven. But when she’s with the other second graders, I see how small she is.
As soon as we drop Izzy off, I start ignoring Dakota. Nobody in fifth grade talks to anyone in third grade, for obvious reasons. But there are a couple of guys on my tennis team who, through no fault of their own, are in Dakota’s class. I can’t believe there are third graders good enough for our team, but there are. I’d rather my sister didn’t ask them to wear a pink-tutu wristband, because guys on your team are important. Being on a team isn’t a superpower, but it’s close.
Later, at recess, I can’t keep myself from swinging past the library on my way to the Ga-ga pit. Ga-ga is like dodgeball, only better. Everybody plays it around here.
Through the window, I spot Dakota at a table with her pile of pink wristbands.
A couple of fifth-grade girls walk by wearing wolf ears. They don’t go in.
A girl is in the back of the library, reading. She doesn’t look up. And then another girl walks by, the little sister of a guy I know.
Great. She’ll probably tell her brother she saw me standing by myself outside the library.
Two guys walk in. Dakota waves at them. They run in the other direction. Dakota slinks down in her chair.
I can’t watch. If I’m standing here, people will remember this is my sister. I head for the Ga-ga pit, where I get nailed. Immediately. Dakota’s messing with my mojo.
I wait for my turn to get back in. I’m almost up when it occurs to me that it might be better to exercise damage control. I head back to the library and peek in the window. Dakota’s still there, only now there’s a pink wristband in front of each empty chair and she is under the table.
“Liam?” Dodge calls from the fifth-grade garden. I motion for him to come over. He looks in the library window and then shakes his head. “We can’t let that go on,” he mumbles. We push through the library door.
“Dakota, what are you doing down there?” I ask.
“No one came,” Dakota says in a squashed-down voice.
“Did you show the video before class?” I ask.
She nods.
“That’s strange,” Dodge says. “I told some kids about the exploding watermelon. Everyone liked it.”
Dakota’s eyes glow. “You told fifth graders?”
Dodge nods. “I bet the third graders didn’t really understand. It’s more of a fifth-grade thing.”
Dakota’s face lights up like a phosphorescent fish.
“Me and Liam want to join,” Dodge says.
Dakota frowns. “Liam doesn’t want to.”
Dodge kneels down. “He told me he did, but he was afraid to tell you. Right, Liam?”
I chomp the inside of my cheek but I nod yes.
Dakota’s blue eyes shine. She gets out from under the table and ties a pink band around Dodge’s wrist and one around mine.
“Let’s go play Ga-ga,” Dodge says.
I look at Dakota. I can’t exactly let her stand here looking pathetic for the rest of recess. “You too,” I mumble.
“They don’t let third graders in the Ga-ga pit,” Dakota says.
“They will if you’re with us,” I say.
A little gasp comes out of Dakota. She scoops up the wristbands and trots after us.
In science, I’m quietly doing my worksheet when Mr. Gupta calls my name. Mr. Gupta teaches science to fourth and fifth grade. He also teaches PE, and he’s my tennis coach.
Why’s he calling me? We don’t usually talk about tennis in class. Maybe my project. I’m putting together a genealogy chart with the heights of all my family members.
Now I have to walk by everyone to where Mr. Gupta is perched on top of the squeaky Styrofoam Earth. Mr. Gupta always has a display in the front of the classroom. Last month it was a tornado with tiny plastic houses and cows and cars stuck to it. Now it’s models of the planets.
Mr. Gupta is never embarrassed by stuff like this. I don’t know why. Still, he’s my favorite teacher.
Everybody watches me go to the front of the class. Are they jealous I get one-on-one Gupta time?
“Have a seat, Liam.” He points to Saturn but I don’t want to sit on a planet that has rings like it’s wearing a skirt. I choose Jupiter. Nobody makes fun of a guy who sits on Jupiter.
“Liam, could you explain to me please about your sister?” Mr. Gupta asks.
Uh-oh. “My sister, sir?” I mumble.
“Yes, your sister Dakota Rose. Yesterday we were playing junior basketball, a good game with the half-size hoops. Your sister was under the bleachers. She would not come out. She said before she can play, she must know why the rubber in the basketball is not on the Periodic Table of the Elements.”
My cheeks get hot. I look around to see if anyone heard. Moses is searching in his desk for something. Dodge is chewing on his pencil. Everyone else is working.
Mr. Gupta leans over, his turban tipping forward. “Is she messing with me?”
“No, sir.” I shake my head.
“She really wants to know?”
I nod.
“All right, then. I will explain to her. And, Liam, what does she do to make the other children run away?”
My voice drops below a whisper. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“I see.” He lifts his glasses onto his forehead and rubs his eyes. “And you, Liam, how are you doing on your family chart?”
“Oh—on my mom’s side…I don’t know much about the Aussies,” I say.
He nods. “It is just an indication, Liam. We do not know for sure. And remember there are tennis players who are not tall. Bobby Riggs was five feet seven.”
“Who is he?”
“Before your time. Will you be at practice?”
“Yes, sir.”
When I’m back in my seat, Dodge leans over. “What did Gupta want?”
I wouldn’t mind telling him, but not with everyone listening. I shrug. Dodge nods.
A kid with two-tone hair leans across the aisle and grabs my wristband. “What’s this?”
I beckon with my finger. “Dodge and I were jumped,” I whisper in his ear.
The kid looks over at Dodge. Dodge nods.
“By who?”
“Strange girls.”
“Really?” Two-tone hair squints. He leans over to tell Moses.
Like I was saying, Moses is cool. The way he walks. The way he talks. The apps he has. The music. The videos he’s seen before everyone else.
Moses cocks his head at me. “Can’t you take it off now?”
“You got to keep it on or they’ll do it again,” I explain.
“Dude? A pink bracelet?” Moses asks.
“You got a sister, man?” I ask.
Moses sticks three fingers in the air. “I got three.”
“They ever bug you?”
“Does a dog take a whiz on three legs?” Moses asks.
I turn red. Does he know about Cupcake? He can’t, can he? I shake my wristband in his face. “Keeps them from bugging me.”
Moses smiles. “I’ll wear pink bracelets, pink tights, and a tiara if it’ll keep my sisters away.”
I laugh. He laughs. We rap knuckles, Moses and
I.
I thought guys didn’t do that anymore. But if Moses does it, it’s done.
* * *
I don’t see Moses again until after-school tennis-team practice.
This is our first practice this year, but already I can tell how different it will be from last year. There are a lot more guys and one more girl, for one thing. There are two third graders on the team, and four fifth graders; everyone else is in middle school. Middle school!
Mr. Gupta starts off with the geometry of tennis: how to work the angles when you play. Then he tells us how important it is not to miss any practices, and he gets a big basket of balls and begins drilling us.
We take turns hitting approach shots, volleys, and smash overheads. Dodge and I have had practice with these shots because Crash is a good teacher.
I watch everyone hit to figure out who the best player is. It’s clearly Moses. He’s even better than the middle school kids!
I wish we could keep on doing drills forever, that’s how fun it is. I will never in a million years miss a practice, and I can’t imagine why anyone else would either.
Dodge and I hit together, which we are used to doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Moses hitting with a guy named Will. I want to stand and watch. That’s how good Moses is. Boy, will it be fun to play against him.
Practice is over way too soon. “Nice job today, Liam,” Mr. Gupta says when I’m picking up balls.
He probably said “nice job” to lots of people. Moses probably got a “great job.”
I’m just walking out when Moses catches up with me.
“Hey, Liam, can I get your cell number?”
“Sure.” I rattle it off to him, like it’s no big thing.
He enters my number into his phone. Then he gives me his number, but Dakota’s got the cell, so I just remember it.
I say it in my head over and over again the whole way home.
On Wednesday when we get home, the carpet-cleaning machine is parked by the door. Mom is cleaning up after Cupcake again. Cupcake winds around our legs. She sticks her nose in my face and slops her licks everywhere.
One-Third Nerd Page 3
