Pay Attention, Carter Jones

by Gary D. Schmidt

  We passed the row of hostas.

  “And you will be mindful of the black walnut tree at the end of the drive?”

  I was mindful of the black walnut tree at the end of the drive.

  “Engage the brake, please,” said the Butler.

  I did.

  “Well done. Shall we do it properly and take the Bentley once round the block?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Back out into the road, please. Wait to turn. Wait. Wait. Now, young Master Jones. Nicely done. Straighten the wheel. And there you have it. Prepare to change gear, and then press down lightly upon the accelerator.”

  And I did have it. And I did prepare to change gear. And I did change. And okay, so the Eggplant stalled. But I started it again, and I pressed down lightly on the accelerator, and the Eggplant rolled forward. And I turned the corner and we drove past the Ketchums’ azaleas and the Briggses’ rhododendrons and the Rockcastles’ holly hedge and the Koertges’ petunias and Billy Colt’s house—​you can’t believe how much I wanted Billy Colt to be outside to see me, but he wasn’t—​and around the next corner, the Eggplant thrumming and purring beneath me and sometimes the Butler’s hand on mine to help with the steering but mostly not.

  And when we got home, the girls and my mother were all standing on the front stoop with Ned, still watching like in Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers—​even Ned.

  We stopped in the driveway since my mother had closed the garage door. I put the Eggplant into neutral. I turned off the ignition. I took out the keys and handed them to the Butler. We got out. Emily and Charlie and even Annie clapped. My mother smiled this weird smile, like I had just grown up or something. Talk about rites! Even Ned was pretty excited—​and you already know what happens when Ned gets excited.

  “Well done, young Master Carter. Very well done, indeed.”

  “It is such a cool car.”

  “Your grandfather would have agreed, though his diction might have differed. When it was clear he would no longer have need of it, he himself arranged to have it shipped across the ocean for you—​one of the last tasks he was able to complete.”

  “Wait—​for me?”

  “The Bentley is yours, young Master Carter. I have its use only until you come of age.”

  “When’s that?”

  “On the day you celebrate your eighteenth birthday.”

  “That’s like a million years from now.”

  “Actually, it is nothing like a million years from now. It is a short six years from now. And in the meantime, there is enough to occupy you that hardly requires a Bentley—​as, for example, Ned’s deposit—​or, even more pressing, the elimination of the use of like as an adverb from your vocabulary.”

  I took care of Ned’s deposit, and after that, I took Ned for a walk around the block, and he calmed down after he pooped by Billy Colt’s driveway.

  But I didn’t calm down. Not for a whole long while.

  I drove the Eggplant!

  I drove the Eggplant!

  I really, like, drove the Eggplant!

  I mean, I really drove the Eggplant!

  Which I would own once I came of age.

  And when I got back to the house, I said to the Butler, “Thanks, Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick. Are you sure it isn’t sixteen?”

  The Butler smiled a little and said, “Quite sure, young Master Carter. Now, as you are here, Miss Anne is struggling with setting the timing on her metronome. Perhaps some brotherly assistance would be apt.”

  So I gave her some brotherly assistance. Just this once.

  * * *

  That night, after hamburgers and french fries—​and I ate my french fries with a fork just to show how mannered I was, and I didn’t even say anything about how Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick ate his french fries with vinegar instead of ketchup like any civilized person is supposed to do—​my mother asked the Butler where he was staying.

  “Thank you, madam,” he said. “I have taken rooms let by Mr. Krebs, just a few blocks from—”

  “Carson Krebs’s father?” I said.

  “I believe so, yes. Perhaps you know the boy?”

  “Not really.”

  “A young lad who has had to grow up rather quickly,” said the Butler.

  My mother nodded. “Are the rooms . . .” My mother hesitated, and I know what she wanted to ask. My father had a study downstairs, with a pullout couch and a bathroom down the hall. She looked like she was wondering what I was wondering: Wouldn’t it be easier if Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick just moved in?

  “The arrangement suits everyone well,” the Butler said.

  And the moment passed. I have to say, it sort of surprised me that I suddenly felt disappointed.

  But you know what moment didn’t pass?

  You know what moment I couldn’t stop thinking about?

  I drove the Eggplant!

  I drove the Eggplant!

  I really, like, drove the Eggplant!

  · 7 ·

  A True WIcket

  A true wicket is a flat pitch where the cricket ball bounces in a very predictable way—​the opposite of a sticky wicket.

  After he left that night, we wondered if the Butler would come on Saturday too—​even though, my mother said, he must want some time off. But on Saturday morning, when I got up for Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers, the Butler was already in the kitchen, humming.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Beethoven.”

  “Elgar,” said the Butler. “Beethoven is too German for mornings.”

  I went to the pantry to get breakfast.

  I looked through all the boxes of cereal.

  No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.

  I looked again.

  No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.

  How can you watch Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers with no Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars?

  I pulled out most of the cereal on the cereal shelf to make sure—​even the cereal that is so healthy that no one ever eats it.

  No Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.

  “They’re not there,” called the Butler. I went back into the kitchen, where he was dicing onions and red peppers.

  “What aren’t there?”

  “Uncivilized Sugar Stars.”

  “Just because they don’t have Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars in Buckingham Palace doesn’t mean they’re uncivilized,” I said.

  “Yes, it does,” said the Butler, and he scraped the onions and red peppers into a bowl of whisked eggs.

  Okay, this was really getting to be a pain in the glutes.

  Driving the Eggplant was great. But that didn’t make up for the Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars. I mean, Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars didn’t seem like a whole lot to ask for after a week of sixth grade.

  Probably the Butler hadn’t even tried Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars.

  Probably he’d never even heard of Ace Robotroid Sugar Stars before.

  “So what am I supposed to eat for breakfast?”

  “A tray is poised for your arrival in the dining room,” he said.

  I went into the dining room. A glass of orange juice. An egg sitting in a little cup with a little knitted cap on—​to keep it warm, I guess. Two pieces of toast standing in a rack. A dollop of orange marmalade—​I hate orange marmalade—​in a white bowl. Salt and pepper shakers. A quartered pear. And a cup of tea with milk and sugar, the saucer on top to keep it warm too.

  “This is going to be hard to eat in front of Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers,” I called into the kitchen.

  “Imagine the relief you must feel, knowing you need not eat your breakfast in front of Ace Robotroid and the Robotroid Rangers, but may eat it in the dining room, like a—”

  “I know, I know: like a civilized person.”

  “Indeed.”

  This was really, really getting to be a pain in the glutes.

  I sat down in the dining room. No one else was up yet, but I sat down in the dining room. By myself. In the dining room. Where we never e
at. The dining room.

  You know how weird it is to sit in a dining room when you’re the only one there?

  I took the knitted cap off the egg.

  “How am I supposed to eat this egg?” I hollered.

  “One places the knife against the shell, parallel with the lip of the cup. Apply pressure gradually and the shell will open up. Then—”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I placed the knife against the shell, parallel with the lip of the cup. I applied pressure gradually.

  The shell did not open up.

  I applied more pressure gradually.

  The shell did not open up.

  More pressure gradually.

  And more.

  Not gradually.

  Until the knife ripped through the stupid egg and the top half slopped over the white bowl of orange marmalade and plopped onto the floor.

  I am not making this up.

  Onto the floor.

  Fortunately, Ned was by the table to lap up the egg.

  “All perfectly well in there, young Master Carter?”

  “Perfectly,” I said.

  I ate the bottom half of the egg and tried not to mind the pieces of eggshell. I ate the toast without the marmalade. I drank the tea, which had plenty of milk and sugar in it. When I was done, I picked up the eggshells Ned had left on the floor and scratched behind his ears to thank him for taking care of the plopped egg.

  Then he threw up.

  “You’ll need to take Ned for his walk soon,” the Butler called.

  “So would it have killed you to wait?” I said—​but just to Ned.

  * * *

  I took Ned for his walk anyway. The second time around the block, Billy Colt was waiting for us. He pointed at Ned.

  “Does he always poop next to my driveway?”

  “Always,” I said. “I trained him to do it.”

  “Don’t you have a butler to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Pick it up or something?”

  “Only on the occasion of an emergency—​and this isn’t.”

  “Maybe not to you,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Billy Colt tilted his head. “Is he throwing up, too?”

  “Did you see the Butler’s car drive by yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? Like, around four o’clock?”

  “No. How come?”

  “No reason,” I said—​and I was sort of surprised at how disappointed I was.

  Not as much as I was about not getting an email back, though.

  · 8 ·

  A rabbIt

  A rabbit is a batsman who may be new to the game—or simply not very skilled—and so seems to be fearful as he faces the bowler.

  By the time I got back home, the kitchen was smelling of apples, and my mother and Emily and Charlie and Annie were standing around the kitchen table eating little apple tarts for breakfast, and then Billy Colt and I were eating little apple tarts too—​I’d told him he could come home to eat breakfast with us if I didn’t have to pick up the you-know-what. We were all drinking big glasses of milk—​“Is this one percent?” said Billy Colt. “Certainly not,” Emily said—​and when we were all done and we’d gathered up the dishes, the Butler said, “Right. Give me a moment and we’ll be off.”

  Billy Colt looked at me. “Off where?”

  I shrugged.

  The Butler tossed me the Eggplant’s keys and said, “Would you mind warming up the Bentley, young Master Carter?”

  Billy Colt looked at me again.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And young Master William, if you would be so good as to carry in the long case and the rather cumbersome bag you’ll find on the back seat, I’d be so grateful.”

  We went out to the Eggplant and I started her thrumming, then went back inside. Billy brought in the case and the rather cumbersome bag and said, “You ever drive it?” and I said, “All the time,” and he said, “Where?” and I said, “Around,” and he said he wished he had a butler too, and then the Butler came out of the bathroom.

  He wasn’t in his suit anymore.

  He was all in white: white shoes, white long pants, white collared shirt, white sweater over the white collared shirt, a white hat. He took the rather cumbersome bag from Billy Colt, opened it, and took out two huge marshmallowy pads.

  Billy and I stared at the pads, sort of stunned.

  “Young Master Carter,” he said, “if you own a white collared shirt, this would be a good time to put it on.”

  I went upstairs. I did have a white collared shirt, you know, because that’s what you wear to funerals. And I’d been to one, like I said.

  “And if you would fetch your bat,” the Butler called after me.

  When I came back downstairs, the Butler and Billy were outside. The Butler had put down the marshmallowy pads and he was rummaging around in the long case. He pulled out two white sweaters and two white hats.

  “We will have to make do with these, though they may be a bit on the large side. Don them, please.”

  What could we do? We donned them, and by the time we were finished putting on white sweaters and white hats, Annie and Charlie and Emily—​who were on the stoop—​had almost collapsed, giggling.

  “You should wear those all the time,” said Charlie.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  The sweaters were a little too long and the hats were too big, but maybe they were supposed to look like that. Anyway, the Butler didn’t seem to notice.

  “Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick, what are you supposed to be?” said Annie.

  The Butler rummaged around in the long case again and took out two huge gloves—​white, again—​and he handed them to Billy. “Try these on,” he said. Then he looked back at Annie. “Miss Anne, I am not supposed to be anything. I am a cricketer.”

  “A cricketer?”

  “Of some skill.”

  Annie pointed to Billy Colt and me—​Billy still trying to adjust the gloves that came halfway up to his elbows.

  “And what are they supposed to be?”

  The Butler pointed at Billy Colt. “To begin, the batsman.” He pointed to me. “The fielder.” He pointed to himself. “The bowler.”

  I started to sweat, and not just because of the white sweater.

  “If we’re playing cricket, where are we supposed to go?” I said.

  “Your school field seems the reasonable option,” said the Butler.

  I looked at the white sweater and the white hat Billy Colt was wearing. He looked at the white sweater and the white hat I was wearing. We looked at the marshmallowy pads. The gloves. The white hats again.

  “No, we’re not going to school,” I said.

  “Indeed we are,” said the Butler.

  “I have to go home for lunch now,” said Billy Colt.

  “Not at all,” said the Butler, “though we will need to stop to inform your parents of your whereabouts.”

  “I’m going to be sick,” said Billy Colt.

  “You are not a dachshund,” said the Butler. He picked up the long case and looked up at the sky. “After all, I think we shall walk. Young Master Carter, if you will turn off the car.”

  “We’re not going to drive there?”

  “It is a very short walk, and the day is lovely and warm.”

  I looked at the white sweater and the white hat Billy Colt was wearing. He looked at the white sweater and the white hat I was wearing. We looked at the marshmallowy pads. The gloves. The white hats again.

  “Someone might see us,” I said.

  Billy Colt nodded.

  “And if you were doing something shameful, you would be properly embarrassed. However, since cricket is a game internationally played and internationally broadcast—​as opposed to the insular, provincial, and misnamed football games played in this country—​you must feel you are embarking upon a great global tradition.”

  “Yup, that’s exactly how I feel,”
I said.

  “Excellent,” said the Butler, “remembering that mockery is—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “What does provincial mean?” said Billy.

  “American,” said the Butler. He started on ahead of us.

  “Just hope there’s no one at school,” I whispered to Billy Colt.

  But of course there was. You knew there would be.

  · 9 ·

  The Crease

  The crease is the playing area into which the batsman steps when he is about to protect his wicket.

  I told you I’ve been to Australia, right? And how it rained Australian tropical thunderstorms almost every day—​which my father said wasn’t all that unusual. The last time he’d been to Australia, he said, it had rained every day.

  I went with my father the summer before fifth grade because we had some ancestors who were sent to the penal colonies in Australia in seventeen something something and my father wanted to track them down for the family’s history. Plus we’d get to see places he’d seen just after college.

  That’s the reason he gave when he told me we were going.

  I don’t think that was the real reason.

  I think the reason was that my mother told him he should spend some time with me because of how it was after my brother Currier . . . you know. I think she told him he had to do it and she didn’t care if he had to call in some favors from the army. I think she told him that she didn’t give a flying leap about duty and crap like that—​his son needed him.

  Our house has thin walls.

  Anyway, I think that’s the reason we went to Australia.

  But it didn’t matter why we went. I mean, Australia! I put the green marble in my pocket and we went to the airport in a taxi and we flew for a bazillion hours to Los Angeles and then another bazillion bazillion hours to Australia and in the middle of the night we watched movies I don’t think my mom would have let me watch if she had been there.

  We landed in Sydney and got in a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side like the Eggplant and drove out of the city on the wrong side of the road and came to the Blue Mountains, which didn’t look blue at all. It was already tropical thunderstorming. But my father didn’t care. He wanted to hike before we looked up ancestors, so we shouldered backpacks—​his was a lot heavier than mine—​and we climbed down to the valley floor. Small waterfalls all around us. Trees getting thicker and thicker. High rocks and long red layers of sandstone. The smell of wet earth and water and big leaves and damp moss and old bark and huge white flowers I’d never seen before.