by Greg Howard
The peanut shells lead us in the direction of safety, and the farther away from the clearing we get, the easier it is to run. I don’t know if that was Mordecai Mathews back there or one of his hobgoblin buddies, but I don’t slow down to find out. I keep one hand firmly on the flashlight and the other on Tucker’s collar so he’s not tempted to run back and attack the hobgoblin. Tucker can hold his own with any human or animal person, but this is something else entirely. Something dark. Something evil. Something that eats little boys named Peetie Munn and steals sleeping mothers right out of their living room.
I just run.
18
THE F-WORD
We made it back. Tucker goes straight over to the creek bank and starts lapping up water while I plop down onto the log pew, hanging my head between my legs to catch my breath. The early-morning twilight bathes our campsite in an eerie haze. Gary, Carl, and Dylan are just waking up and I don’t think they even realize that I’ve been gone. When I look up, the three of them are standing in front of me—all wrinkled faces, cocked heads, and squinty eyes full of sleep and questions.
Through my panting, I tell them about Tucker running off in the middle of the night. About the boiled peanut shells. And the clearing. And hearing my name and the glowing blue lights. And about leaving Grandpa’s Swiss Army knife in the rotted-out tree stump as a tribute for the Whispers. I don’t realize how fast I’m talking and how crazy my story probably sounds until I stop to take a deep breath.
They don’t believe me.
I know because they all stare at me like I’m some kind of wack-job who needs a straitjacket.
A straitjacket isn’t something you wear because you’re cold. It’s something they put on you to hold your arms down when you’re sick in the head, raving like a lunatic, and foaming at the mouth.
As in, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and thankfully there isn’t any foam there, so I don’t need a straitjacket just yet.
I decide it’s best to end my story there, leaving out the second sighting of the hobgoblin. If I didn’t, they might never have agreed to go back to the clearing with me to investigate.
When the sun wakes up completely, and after a quick breakfast of Vienna sausages, Funyuns, and warm Mountain Dew, we cross the creek at the same place I did a few hours earlier. We follow the path I marked with the empty shells of Mr. Killen’s World Famous Boiled Peanuts. Dylan leads the way, his shotgun resting on his shoulder like he was born with it there. I follow behind him, staring at his V-shaped back, his wide shoulders, and the way his jeans hang low on his narrow hips. Silently, I ask God to forgive me for staring at Dylan like that. That’s what the preacher at the North Creek Church of God says we should do when we have unclean thoughts. It’s confusing because the thoughts caused by my other condition never feel unclean in my heart, but my brain knows better. My brain has learned more about the world from church and school than my heart has. I guess it makes sense that brains are smarter than hearts. Because of them being . . . well, brains.
Gary and Carl are behind me, arguing as usual. Carl is still rattled by the first Mordecai Mathews sighting last night and wants to go home. I wish he would.
Tucker pulls up the rear. He’s slow and panting a lot this morning. He wouldn’t eat the kibble I packed for him until I stood over him and made him eat it. I could tell by the way he looked up at me between bites that he only finished it because he didn’t want to disobey me. But that’s the only way I can get him to eat these days. Maybe Tucker just dreads going back into the land of Mordecai Mathews this morning. That I understand. But I feel pretty safe walking behind Dylan, his shoulders, and his shotgun.
I don’t know how long we walk, but my feet hurt and my lungs feel like they’re full of rocks instead of air. You’d think Gary would be dying with the extra weight he carries around, but he’s always had a lot of energy for a jumbo-size kid.
Even with all the noise of our feet plowing through crunchy leaves and brittle branches, the name rings in my ears like that eyeball-rattling fire alarm at school. I think Carl says it. Kenny. As in Kenny from Kentucky. My face heats from the inside out, but I don’t dare look back at him. I just keep my mouth shut, my eyes forward, and listen.
“Mama said Aunt Sadie is coming to visit next month and Kenny’s coming with her,” Carl says.
“Dang it!” Gary says. “I hate that dude.”
“He’s nice to me,” Carl says.
“That’s because you’re a little kid. Everyone’s nice to little kids.”
“You’re not,” Carl shoots back.
Gary doesn’t respond to that and I can barely breathe. Kenny from Kentucky is coming. Next month.
“He’s not staying in my room again,” Gary says to Carl, but loud enough so all creation can hear him. “He can sleep in your room or on the couch.”
I can’t believe they’re talking about Kenny from Kentucky, and in front of Dylan.
“Who’s Kenny?” Dylan asks.
I glance up and see that he’s looking over his shoulder at me. Why would Dylan ask me who Kenny is? I’m not the one talking about him. I shrug and act like I’ve never heard the name before. Finally Gary chimes in.
“He’s our aunt Sadie’s new stepson,” Gary says. “She moved to Kentucky when she married Kenny’s dad. He’s Mexican.”
“You got a problem with Mexicans?” Dylan asks. I act like I’m invisible. I want no part of this conversation. None.
“I don’t give a crap that he’s Mexican, but that kid can be a real pain sometimes,” Gary says. “Acts like he’s better than all of us put together. His dad’s rich or something, and Kenny dresses all fancy.”
Dylan chuckles as he kicks some brush out of our path. For some reason it feels like he’s laughing at me as much as Kenny from Kentucky. “Fancy how?”
Gary says, “You know, always telling you which stores his clothes came from and how expensive they were. He’s a real priss pot that way.”
Priss pot? That way? Heat floods my cheeks.
Gary adds, “And he acts like we’re a bunch of dumb country hicks.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t like his visits here any more than you do,” Dylan says.
“Oh, he hates coming to our house,” Gary says, because he will not shut up about Kenny for some reason. “Likes to remind us how much smaller our house is compared to his. Dude’s just flat-out rude. We’re the same age, so our parents think we should be like instant best friends or something. Last time they came to visit, Kenny spent more time with Riley than he did with us, and that was just fine by me. He liked your daddy’s work shed, didn’t he, dawg?”
A wave of nausea hits me hard and fast. My ears feel like they are on fire. My heart’s beating so hard it’s about to have a heart attack.
I turn around, glare at Gary, and fail to keep my voice down to normal strolling through the woods with friends levels. “Why don’t you just shut your big mouth, fatso?”
I holler it, actually, and my voice echoes through the trees. Everyone stops walking—even Tucker, who cocks his head and gives me his what the heck, dude? look. Gary stares at me with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. I’m as shocked as he looks. I’ve never told him to shut up before, and I’ve never called Gary the F-word. I’ve never even so much as told him he might need to eat more salads and less Funyuns. I lower my gaze and turn forward again.
Dylan stands there looking at me with both eyebrows raised up to Jesus. “You okay? Your face is all red.”
“I’m fine!” I don’t really say it as much as I bark it and my face heats up even more. How dare I speak to the King of the Redneck Superheroes in that tone?
I look at my feet, and the leaves, and the dirt, and anything other than Dylan’s eyes, bruised jaw, and swollen lip.
When I glance up, he’s still staring at me. I feel like a real butthole for yelling at him. I wonder if th
is is how Danny feels all the time. Or how Frank feels when he can’t solve a case. I try to stuff my shame and anger down deep inside me, but it refuses to go away quietly. I have the uncontrollable need to blame this all on Gary.
“He just keeps running his fat mouth so much, he’s probably scaring the Whispers away.” There I go again with the F-word. What the heck is wrong with me? It’s like the devil has taken over my soul. Maybe he has.
I look back at Gary. I can hardly bear to meet his gaze. When I finally do, I see it’s glassy and his cheeks are red as fire. He looks at me a long time, the hurt in his eyes clear as a bell.
“There’s no such thing as the Whispers,” Gary says with a hard edge in his voice, drilling a hole in me with his eyes and his words. He’s trying to hurt me back and I deserve it. But he’s gone too far. The Whispers are my only hope of finding Mama. Gary knows that. To say they’re not real is like saying I’ll never find her.
“We’re just going along with this to make you feel better,” he says.
Dylan, Carl, and Tucker are watching us. I’m so mad I can’t even respond.
“Nobody believes you,” Gary says. “Not even Dylan.”
That knocks the air right out my lungs. My eyes sting with unexpected tears, but I fight to hold them back. I feel Dylan looming behind me, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call Gary a big fat liar or tell him to shut up. And without Tucker by my side, I feel completely alone.
Gary turns abruptly and heads back in the direction we came. “Come on, Carl. We’re going home.”
Carl follows him without a second look at me. Tucker sits there staring up at me and panting, waiting for my next move. I can’t bring myself to look at Dylan and have him confirm what Gary just said. A moment longer than forever passes before he says anything.
“We should probably go back with them so they don’t get lost,” Dylan finally says behind me. “I’ve got to head out pretty soon anyway.”
I finally turn to meet his eyes, but they give nothing away. They don’t deny what Gary said, but they don’t confirm it either. He just looks at me with his swollen lip, bruised jaw, and seven nose freckles. Then he moves past me and follows Gary and Carl. And I guess that’s my answer. Nobody believes me. Especially not the King of the Redneck Superheroes.
Tucker takes a couple of steps and for a second I think he’s going to leave me too. But he just goes over to a tree and throws up his breakfast in three violent heaves.
He looks like I feel.
19
KENNY FROM KENTUCKY
I don’t follow them. I stand there watching them disappear into the thick cover of the woods. They don’t look back either. It’s like they don’t even care if I’m following them or not. As least Tucker hasn’t abandoned me. When he’s done throwing up, he sits there staring at me, probably wondering what the plan is now. But heck if I know. Who does he think I am? Detective Chase Cooper or something?
I can’t even think straight. I’m so mad at Gary, and at the same time, I feel terrible for calling him the F-word the way I did. Twice! But Gary really hit a nerve with all that Kenny talk.
Mama says hitting a nerve is not a medical term like it sounds. Well, I guess it could be. Like if the world’s worst doctor is operating on you and cuts right into a nerve by mistake. Like if Frank left the police force and became a doctor, he’d probably do something like that. But it’s also when someone says something that makes you real mad because it’s at least part of the way true and a little embarrassing.
As in, What Gary said about Kenny from Kentucky really hit a nerve because it was all the way true and a lot embarrassing.
Kenny did like my daddy’s work shed, but not because he was interested in all the tools Daddy keeps in there. He liked it because it was private, especially during the day when Daddy was at work. I don’t think Daddy liked Kenny very much. That boy’s got a little sugar in his tank, he said once, and I don’t think he was talking about the watermelon bubble gum Kenny chewed all the time.
I guess Gary was right about Kenny being a real priss pot too, but that didn’t bother me about him. I thought he was funny and interesting—so different from Gary, Carl, and the other kids at school. I liked the way he looked, too. The color of his light brown skin. The way his thick, dark hair sat politely in frozen waves on his head. The way his clothes were always spotless and neatly pressed. The way his big round eyes seemed to gobble up everything in sight, including me. And the way his lips were so red, almost like he put lipstick on them, but I don’t think he did. It was probably from all the watermelon bubble gum, which also made him smell delicious—like a big human lollipop that I wanted to lick real bad.
The week Kenny came to visit Gary’s family last summer, he acted like he’d rather spend time with me than his new country stepcousins. That made me feel good. It was nice, having someone new to play with for a change—someone who knew different stuff than what they teach us in Buckingham schools. Someone who knew words in a whole other language. Someone who talked about more than just Rebecca Johnson’s butt and boobs. Someone who wasn’t a known squirrel murderer. And someone who wasn’t afraid to admit how handsome Detective Chase Cooper on CID: Chicago was. That guy’s so good-looking, sometimes I dream about him and then I have to change my sheets for reasons other than my condition.
Kenny used to talk about how one day he was going to marry Detective Chase Cooper. Just talked about it right out in front of all creation, like he didn’t even care if God heard him. I didn’t know it was possible for a guy to marry another guy. Maybe that kind of thing’s only allowed in Kentucky. But Kenny knew about lots of stuff like that. So I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did when Kenny kissed me in Daddy’s shed.
I remember it was raining.
* * *
I like the way the rain sounds hitting the tin roof of Daddy’s work shed. Like a thousand firecrackers have been set off up there. Sometimes I like to just lie on the floor of the shed during a rainstorm listening to it. But today I’m not lying down. Today I’m with Gary’s new stepcousin, Kenny from Kentucky. And the hard rain has cloaked us in a storm of dangerous-feeling privacy, like we’re the only two people left in the world.
Kenny stands real close to me—like a lot closer than Gary has ever stood to me, and not just because of his belly. Kenny keeps staring into my eyes like he’s trying to figure something out about me. I guess he finally does, because all of a sudden he spits out his gum—right onto the floor—and puts his whole mouth on mine, all in about two seconds flat.
My other condition goes into hyperdrive and I freeze. I don’t know what to do, so I just close my eyes and stand there with my lips sealed together real tight. But Kenny isn’t having it. He forces his tongue inside my mouth and just goes to town in there like he’s cleaning a kitchen or something.
I’ve never kissed anyone with my tongue before. Just the idea of it always sounded gross when Danny would tell me about him doing it with girls. But it’s really not gross at all with Kenny. It’s a little wet and sloppy, but his lips are real soft and he smells and tastes like watermelon. He puts his hands on my arms, which are glued to my sides. I don’t touch him back because that would make me complicit.
Complicit is when somebody is doing something wrong or illegal and you help them do it, which makes you just as guilty.
As in, I’m not about to be complicit in this Kenny from Kentucky kissing me thing, no siree bob.
But I don’t try to stop it either. If they put me on the witness stand and make me swear on the Bible, I’ll have to admit that I like it. A lot. Up until the moment I open my eyes and find Mama standing in the doorway, soaking wet with a look of shock or disgust twisting her face. I can’t tell which exactly. Probably both.
* * *
Days felt like weeks after that, but they eventually passed. Kenny went back to Kentucky, I went back to school, and Mama s
tarted acting different around me. She didn’t say anything about what happened in the shed and I prayed every night that she never would. I thought I’d die if she did. I repented for the kiss. I guess God forgave me, but that didn’t even matter if Mama treated me differently from then on.
I blame Kenny, of course. He’s probably kissed lots of boys before, because he seemed to really know what he was doing. It was like when Detective Chase Cooper kisses District Attorney Amanda Ramirez in the janitor’s closet at the police station on CID: Chicago every time they get a chance. That is until the Windy City Slasher murdered her at the end of season three.
I only ever tried to kiss boys a couple of times when I was really young and didn’t know any better. I was just doing what felt natural. Like the time I tried to kiss Sister Grimes’s spawn of Satan son, Gene, behind the coat cubby at Buckingham Elementary.
After that day in Daddy’s work shed with Kenny from Kentucky, Mama grew more and more distant. We spent less time together, especially when she took that temp job at Upton Regional Medical Center. It wasn’t very steady work. She’d be there three or four hours every day for a week and then not get called to go in again until two or three weeks later. When she did work, she was always tired when she got home and went right to bed. Daddy didn’t like that she had to take the job at the hospital at all, but he told us it was only temporary, until things got better. I think he’d been having trouble finding construction jobs, because he was at home a lot more.
Every now and then Mama would have to work the overnight shift, so Danny and I would stay over at Grandma’s house because Daddy didn’t come home until morning. I’d hoped he wasn’t out drinking and carousing with loose women while Mama was working so hard to keep our family afloat. Grandma and Grandpa slipped me more fives and tens than usual back then. I tried to give the money to Mama so she wouldn’t have to work the temp job at the hospital anymore. She wouldn’t take it even though she and Daddy worried over a stack of bills a mile high on the kitchen table and whispered about them so Danny and I wouldn’t hear.
