Pay Attention, Carter Jones

by Gary D. Schmidt

  My mother got in front and the four of us squeezed in the back, and we drove to school in the Butler’s car, which was big and long and purple—​like an eggplant. It had white-rimmed tires. It had running boards. On the front it had a chrome statue of someone who looked like she would be pretty cold in a stiff wind. It had pale yellow seats made of soft leather. And it also had, according to the Butler, “a properly placed steering mechanism”—​even though it sure looked wrong to me.

  So that’s what we drove in to school instead of the Jeep.

  When we dropped Annie off at the fifth-grade door, the Butler got out of the car, came around in the Australian tropical thunderstorm with his satellite-disk umbrella, opened the passenger door, and said, “Miss Anne, make good decisions and remember who you are.”

  “I will,” she said.

  My mother watched her run into the building. “I could have sworn I put her hair in two braids,” she said.

  “She preferred the one,” said the Butler.

  When we dropped Charlie off, the Butler opened the door and said, “Miss Charlotte, make good decisions and remember who you are,” and Charlie held up her foot to show the Butler she was wearing her new bright yellow socks.

  My mother told her to cut it out and get inside before she got soaked.

  When we dropped Emily off, the Butler opened the door and said, “Miss Emily, make good decisions and remember who you are,” and Emily asked if the Butler was going to pick us up in his purple car after school.

  “No,” I said.

  My mother said, “Watch for the Jeep.”

  Then we drove to the middle school building, and while the Butler got out of the car, I got out too—​before he could open my door. But he stood at the curb with his satellite-disk umbrella in the Australian tropical thunderstorm—​the rain was splashing off the running boards—​and he took off his bowler and said, “Make good decisions and remember who you are, young Master Jones.” He put his bowler back on.

  “You think I’m going to forget who I am?” I said.

  “You are entering middle school now,” he said. “I think it quite likely.” Then he opened his door, folded his umbrella, and got inside again.

  He drove off with my mother in the seat beside him. For a moment, I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  I checked my front pocket for the green marble.

  Then Billy Colt came up behind me, and he said, “Who was that?”

  “Our butler,” I said.

  “You have a butler?”

  The marble was there. “So?” I said.

  We watched the purple car pull in front of a bus and drive away in the rain.

  “His car looks like an eggplant,” said Billy Colt.

  “Yup.”

  “And he looks like a missionary.”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Or a serial killer.”

  “That too.”

  Then we went inside to start our first day of sixth grade.

  · 3 ·

  The Boundary

  The perimeter of the field is generally lined in white chalk, setting the limits of play within this boundary.

  Okay, so a lot of the first day of sixth grade was pretty much what I expected. All the halls had new bulletin board displays that said WELCOME BACK, MINUTEMEN! and once we all got into our homerooms the loudspeaker came on and Vice Principal DelBanco welcomed everyone to school like it was the best thing in the whole world and wasn’t everyone glad to be back at Longfellow Middle School and let’s all give a big Longfellow Middle School welcome to all the new sixth graders because remember, seventh and eighth graders, you were once new sixth graders too! Then Principal Swieteck came on and she said she hoped we all would have a wonderful year and that she was eager to see all of us in our new classes—​but she hoped she wouldn’t see any of us in her office this year. (That was supposed to be a principal joke.)

  Classes weren’t as bad as I thought they were going to be. I got Mr. Barkus for Math Skills, and he showed us how he could memorize everyone’s name, nickname, and street address after hearing them only once. I got Mrs. Harknet for homeroom, and she looked like she’d be okay—​mostly because she had filled her classroom with more paperbacks than are in most libraries. The gym had that new gym smell and it was all ready for that first squeak across the glowing floor, even though Coach Krosoczka was patrolling the edges, making sure no sixth grader was stepping onto his floor wearing anything but sneakers. In the cafeteria, the lunch ladies had loaded strawberry milk into the coolers, which I’d never had before, but it seemed like a pretty good idea. In the science hall, Mrs. Wrubell had arranged glass beakers next to Bunsen burners so that her classroom looked like Frankenstein’s lab and she told us we could try anything as long as we checked with her to make sure it wouldn’t explode. Mr. Solaski told us we were now done with elementary school and he took education seriously and so should we—​so he started right in teaching about the Boston Tea Party like he wasn’t going to spend a minute not talking about American history. And I had Mrs. Harknet for Language Arts too, and she handed out textbooks that got printed, like, yesterday so the pages were still stuck together, but they looked all right even though they had poetry between the good parts.

  So, pretty much what I expected—​like shedding summer all day.

  But there was one thing I hadn’t expected.

  Stupid Billy Colt told everyone about the Butler.

  Everyone in the sixth grade.

  All day long it was, “You have a butler? Really?”

  And, “They still make butlers?”

  And, “Is your butler going to carry your books to school?”

  And, “Does your butler open your door for you and, like, bow all the time?”

  And, “So does your butler tuck you in at night?”

  That last one was from stupid Billy Colt, who almost got a face full of fist until I remembered who I was and made a good decision.

  It helped that Vice Principal DelBanco was standing right there.

  But when school was finally over and I was about to leave—​and it was still raining an Australian tropical thunderstorm—​I looked out the sixth-grade door and saw a whole crowd of sixth graders standing where the kids who get picked up stand, looking at something big and purple. Even kids who take the bus were standing there. So I walked over to the elementary building’s fifth-grade door and I got Annie and we went around to the fourth-grade door and got Charlie and then we went to the second-grade door and found Emily and we stood there like giants around the second graders until the Butler came to pick us up.

  My mother was in the front seat again.

  We all squeezed in the back.

  “How was your first day?” she said.

  “I thought you were going to pick us up in the Jeep,” I said.

  “It’s still in the shop,” she said.

  “I hope it won’t be in the shop tomorrow.”

  “Young Master Jones . . .”

  “Carter. My name is Carter. That’s Carter.”

  “So you did remember. Most gratifying. Young Master Jones, what you mean to say to your mother is ‘And how was your day?’”

  “What I mean to say is—”

  “Because your mother has had a very long one, punctuated with unfortunate mechanical news of all stripes—​if you’ll pardon my interruption of your interruption.”

  “The Jeep?” I said.

  “The Jeep is on its last legs,” said my mother.

  “Are you sure?”

  The Butler looked over at me. “The mechanic’s colloquial description of the situation was this: ‘Lady, you can stick a fork in this one and call it done.’”

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  “Carter,” my mother said, “let’s just get home.”

  “Is the Jeep dead?” said Emily, in that voice that tells you she’s about to cry.

  “Don’t be a baby,” I said.

  “I’m not a baby,”
she said.

  “Carter,” said my mother—​with That Look.

  So we drove home in the Eggplant, with the windshield wipers thumping back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—​the only sound in the stupid purple car.

  * * *

  When we got back home, Ned was waiting for us—​and he got pretty excited again and started bouncing around on his short legs and barking his high “Where have you been?” bark until he threw up. I figured this was a good time to take my backpack upstairs, but the Butler didn’t think so.

  “Young Master Jones,” he said, and pointed.

  “Aren’t you supposed to do stuff like that?” I said.

  “On the occasion of emergency. Had I been hired as your scullery maid—​apparently with regularity. But I am not your scullery maid.” He handed me a roll of paper towels and a plastic bag.

  “Usually my mother—”

  “Neither is your mother a scullery maid,” said the Butler.

  “So I am?”

  “For such a time as this,” said the Butler.

  I took the roll of paper towels and the plastic bag.

  I knelt down.

  It was disgusting.

  When I was finished, the Butler handed me Ned’s leash.

  “It’s raining,” I said.

  The Butler went to the mudroom, brought back his satellite-disk umbrella, and handed it to me.

  “I usually don’t take Ned for walks right after school,” I said. “I sort of like to crash.”

  “A habit confirmed by Ned’s protruding belly. Isn’t it fortunate that habits may be changed with discipline?”

  “Mom,” I said.

  “Only around the block,” she said.

  “Around the block?” I said. “I’ll be sopping wet when I get back.”

  Annie started to laugh.

  “By which time Miss Anne will be well into her piano practice,” said the Butler.

  “I’m not taking piano lessons anymore,” she said.

  “A loss that you and I shall amend.”

  Annie no longer laughing.

  “This isn’t fair,” I said.

  “An irrelevancy,” said the Butler.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the claim of fairness is the consistent if unsympathetic whine of one who lives in a republic. A monarchist such as myself recognizes the virtue of simply getting to the thing that must be done. So, to it, young Master Jones.”

  I took Ned out.

  The Australian tropical thunderstorm—​which had thundered and stormed on and off all day—​waited until we got out the door to start coming down sideways again. I didn’t even try to use the satellite-disk umbrella. I figured that Ned would want to go back inside right away, so we’d only be out for like, a minute—​but he didn’t want to go back inside. He loved it. He ran through puddles up to his belly and let his ears blow straight behind him and kept his eyes mostly closed and his nose pointed up, and he watered the azaleas in front of the Ketchums’ house and the rhododendrons in front of the Briggses’ house and the holly hedge in front of the Rockcastles’ house and the petunias in front of the Koertges’ house, and then he pooped next to Billy Colt’s driveway—​which I figured stupid Billy Colt deserved for blabbing about the Butler—​and then he went again in the day lilies on the other side of Billy Colt’s driveway, and then we headed back since we were both starting to shiver and Ned couldn’t have had anything left anyway after all he’d done.

  And when we got home, the kitchen was warm as anything. There was a rag rug on the floor for Ned and a fluffy towel waiting for me and the Butler told me to go upstairs and put on dry clothes and then come right down. So I did, and when I came back into the kitchen there were hot chocolate chip cookies and a mug of something steaming.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “Tea with milk and sugar,” said the Butler.

  “I don’t drink tea,” I said.

  “All civilized people drink tea, young Master Jones.”

  “Then I guess I’m not civilized.”

  “A claim you share with Vikings, Huns, assorted barbarian hordes, and marauders of all stripes. I have taken the liberty of adding more sugar than one might normally expect.”

  I sipped at it. I sipped again. It was pretty good.

  “It stinks,” I said.

  The Butler sighed. “There is no need to announce repeatedly how very American you are.”

  “You know, I think I might know something about this, since I can remember who I am, but tell me if I’m wrong,” I said. “We are in America, right? I mean, I’m supposed to be American, right?”

  The Butler sighed again. “I think, young Master Jones, we will need to come to an understanding.”

  You bet, I thought.

  · 4 ·

  Turn Blind

  When the batsmen ground their bats at the end of their run and change direction, the batsman facing the side of the field to which the ball has been struck must judge the likelihood of their making another successful run. When he turns in the opposite direction, or turns blind—​a dangerous tendency—​he cannot see the state of the play, and so takes the risk of being run out. To turn blind is a risky endeavor.

  I decided to revolt. I mean, wiping up dog vomit, nearly drowning in an Australian tropical thunderstorm, drinking tea with milk and sugar—​and it doesn’t matter that I finished it, okay?—​and I haven’t even told you about the forty-five minutes of Mr. Barkus’s word problems I had to do after Annie finished her stupid Chopin studies, forty-five minutes that were supposed to be thirty minutes but the Butler decided I needed to show my work on all the problems. And I’m not even going to talk about how he made me rewrite my one-paragraph description of “One Place I Went This Summer” for Mrs. Harknet four times—​four times!—​and how I had to check Emily’s addition with her, even though no one ever checked my addition in second grade, and how I had to walk Ned around the block again before supper, and how I had to carry all my wet clothes to the washer and learn how to wash them myself, and how after all that I had to dry the dishes while the Butler scrubbed, and how before he left he made me promise to walk Ned one more time and put my clothes in the dryer and fold them. “Underwear as well, young Master Jones.”

  I mean, folding your stupid underwear?

  How much can one person take?

  So I decided to revolt.

  But a revolt doesn’t have to be obvious. I mean, it can start with a small thing. Something a British tyrant hardly even notices. But you open up a crack.

  It’s how we won the American Revolution, and remember: that all started with a little bit of tea.

  So the next morning, when the Butler showed up on the stoop at 7:15, I opened the door, all smiles.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  The Butler nodded. “Good morning, young Master Jones.”

  He stepped inside.

  “My mom is upstairs with the girls,” I said.

  “Then I will see to lunches and to tea.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. And when he was finished, there were four bags on the kitchen table, all neatly labeled: “Master Jones,” “Miss Anne,” “Miss Charlotte,” “Miss Emily.” And there were four mugs of tea with milk and sugar—​which Annie and Charlie and Emily chugged when they came downstairs.

  “Do you want yours?” Emily said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Can I have it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Can I give it to Ned?”

  “Just leave it, Emily.”

  She stuck her tongue out.

  I stuck my tongue out too.

  My mother came down just before we had to leave. “Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure, madam.”

  “You don’t need to call me ‘madam.’”

  He looked at her.

  “It’s going to be ‘madam,’ isn’t it?” she said.

  “It is, madam.”

  �
�And what should I call you?” I said.

  My mother and the Butler looked at me.

  “Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick,” said my mother.

  “Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick?” I said.

  “Yes, young Master Jones. Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick. And now, if the ladies would come along . . .”

  “Bowles-Fitzpatrick?”

  The Butler stopped and gave a long sigh. “You are such a very young nation, aren’t you? And with so little sense of the persistence of history.”

  “Bowles-Fitzpatrick?” I said again.

  Another sigh. “Bowles-Fitzpatricks fell in the Wars of the Roses long before you were a nation, and at least one fought with Nelson at the Battle of the Nile. Their latest martyrs include one who died in the trenches of Flanders during the First World War and one who died in a destroyer, accompanying the American merchant fleet during the Second. We are, as you might perceive, an aggressive lot, accustomed to battle. Be wary, young Master Jones. Now, ladies . . .”

  We all bundled out to the Eggplant with umbrellas over us—​the Butler had bought four new ones, all black—​carrying our backpacks and our lunches.

  And okay, maybe he was accustomed to battle and stuff. But I could be too. My father is a captain in the United States Army, after all.

  So I left my lunch behind on the kitchen table. And the tea with milk and sugar too.

  A revolt starts with a small thing.

  The Butler—​Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick—​never noticed my lunch was missing the whole time we were driving to school. He didn’t notice it was missing when I got out of the car—​“Make good decisions and remember who you are.” He didn’t even notice when I waved and headed inside.

  Later, when Mrs. Harknet asked where my lunch was, I told her I’d forgotten it but Billy Colt would split with me since he owed me for yesterday.

  “I don’t owe you for yesterday,” said Billy Colt.

  “You owe me for yesterday,” I said.

  “Is this about your butler?” he said.

  “Do you want me to tell him you said he was a serial killer?”

  “I didn’t say he was a serial killer. I said he looked like a serial killer.”