Nickel Bay Nick

by Dean Pitchford

  My scalp burns with embarrassment. Mr. Wells lets his words hang in the air long enough to make me squirm, before he says, “And that’s when you were caught on tape?”

  “Jaxon and Ivy hid their faces, but stupid me! They got me on surveillance camera,” I grumble. “After that, the guards at every entrance to the mall were given my picture and told to stop me on sight. I haven’t been back since.”

  “And that is why,” Mr. Wells says, “we’re going to have you go in disguise. Or, I should say, disguises.”

  “You mean, like, a few?”

  “At least a few,” he says. “But we’ll deal with your wardrobe tomorrow. Today we’re going to perform a complete inspection of the Four Corners Mall.”

  “How?” I moan. “I told you I can’t walk in the place.”

  “Which is why we’re taking a virtual tour,” he says, holding up a DVD.

  “What’s that?”

  “While you were mapping out Bay Front, planning your route for the Green Mission, Dr. Sakata and I visited Four Corners with this in my lap.” He opens a thick hardcover book to reveal a space in the middle where pages have been cut away to create a nesting place for a small digital camera. In front of the lens, a peephole has been punched through the book cover. “From the parking garages to the food court, from the day care center to the tanning salon, we covered the mall.” He inserts the DVD into his computer and punches a button. “Let’s visit Four Corners, shall we?”

  For the next few hours we watch the chronicle of Mr. Wells’s journey. Nothing’s changed much since I was last there, so I’m able to call out store names as the camera travels down the arcades. “Here comes the Gap . . . and Brookstone is next . . . and now Jamba Juice.” As we make our way around all five floors of the mall, Mr. Wells points out escalators, elevators, emergency exits and all the doors marked “Employees Only.” “Every step of your journey,” he advises, “always know your nearest escape route.”

  After lunch, Dr. Sakata puts me through another humiliating three-hour lesson. Mr. Wells watches quietly as my frustration builds, until Dr. Sakata snatches my wrist for about the hundredth time, and I shout, “I can’t do this stupid put-pocketing stuff! Maybe we oughta just scrap the whole White Mission!”

  Mr. Wells wheels over, puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Sam, there’s no reason you can’t be a terrific put-pocket,” he says. “You’re the right height, you’ve got quick hands, and as you proved last night on the Green Mission, you can move like a panther.”

  I drop my head. “Then how come I suck?”

  “Because you lack confidence.”

  I look up. “Confidence?”

  “Dr. Sakata and I both notice that whenever you move in close to your mark, you hesitate. And that hesitation will ruin you.” He releases his grip on my shoulder. “Once you can act with confidence, you’ll be fine.”

  “So I’ve got three days to learn confidence,” I mumble.

  “You don’t need to learn confidence,” he corrects me. “Anybody who can sneak a Nickel Bay Buck into an idling police car is not lacking in confidence. Now you’ve got to apply it.”

  At the end of the afternoon, Mr. Wells hands me a copy of the Four Corners Mall map. “Take this home and study it. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss where you’ll enter the mall on Sunday, the route you’ll take, and how to get you out of there undetected.”

  I wag a finger at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Mr. Wells.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “First you sent me to Colodner’s Drugstore for the Red Mission. Then, for the Green Mission, you dropped me off in front of that old graffiti I painted, and now you’re sending me back to Four Corners Mall.” I smack the map against my open palm. “You want me to feel guilty by making me return to places where I’ve gotten into trouble. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “What choice do I have, Sam?” Mr. Wells leans forward. “I can’t think of a single shopping area, street or neighborhood of Nickel Bay where you haven’t caused trouble, done damage or wreaked havoc. Can you?”

  My mouth hangs open until I snap it shut.

  “Didn’t think so,” he says, and rolls away.

  • • •

  When I slip through the hole in the fence behind our garage, I panic at the sound of a lawnmower revving right behind me. Whipping around, I find Jaxon sitting on our stoop, doing one of his impressions.

  I laugh nervously. “Good one!” I say, not wanting to let on how he startled me.

  “If it isn’t Alexander Sam-ilton!” he cries. “What’re you doin’ out in that alley, buddy?”

  “I’m, uh . . . just getting some air,” I splutter, and before I can slip Mr. Wells’s map under my jacket, he snatches it from my hand.

  “Whaddya got?” He reads the cover. “Four Corners Mall? Are you checkin’ out the after-Christmas sales?”

  “Who’s got the money for that?” I laugh as I pluck the map from his hands. “So. What’re you doin’ here?”

  “I hate Christmas vacation!” he shouts, throwing his head back. “It’s practically two weeks already, and I’ve been stuck with my boring family, doing holiday crap the whole time.”

  “But you’re always going to the country club, aren’t you?”

  “Ack!” he gags. “I’m sick of my dad’s country club! And all his stuck-up friends. And when my folks are home, all they do is throw cocktail parties, and after the guests leave, they fight.” He punches the snow off a neighbor’s hedge. “I finally got away, but now Pincushion says she isn’t free tonight—”

  I interrupt him to say, “Ivy doesn’t like it when you call her that.”

  “It’s only a joke!” He laughs. “Jeez! Everybody’s getting so sensitive.” He playfully tousles my hair. “So, I figured I’d hang with my man, Sam-I-Am. Whaddya say?”

  Eyeing the mall map, I remember that I have a full evening of studying ahead of me.

  “Uh . . . I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Jaxon demands.

  “Because my dad’s dragging me to dinner with his girlfriend and her two brats,” I lie.

  “What is wrong with you lately?” he asks. “You and Ivy. You’re no fun anymore. Hey!” Jaxon pokes me on the shoulder. “How ’bout we go to that bridge over the interstate? We can throw snowballs down at cars and watch them swerve.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You are such a coward!” he scoffs.

  That word hits me hard. Being called a coward right after being told by Mr. Wells that I lack confidence, I have to wonder whether what they’re saying is true. Am I really spineless and weak? For a fleeting moment, I consider giving in and joining Jaxon for whatever trouble he wants to get into. But then I remember what Ivy said. Promise you’ll stand up for yourself.

  I raise my chin. “I still think I’m gonna pass.”

  Jaxon’s top lip curls. “Okay. Fine. But you’d better think about what’s gonna happen when you return to school next week, Sammy-boy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just sayin’, you don’t want to lose me and Ivy as friends.”

  “You’re going off to high school next year anyway,” I remind him.

  “So?”

  I take a deep breath before I answer quietly, “So maybe it’s time I made some new friends.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jaxon sneers. He squints off into the distance, and from the way his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching, I can tell he’s mad. Finally he spits in the snow and snorts, “Frankenstein,” before he turns and stomps away.

  I always wondered who invented that name for me.

  Now I know.

  THE BUCKS IN THE BOX

  January 4

  Forget about the day I got my heart transplant or the day Mom left. Forget about the Christmas Day when all this started.
The tenth day of Christmas—Friday, January 4—is the worst day . . . OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!!!!!

  And it’s all my fault.

  • • •

  As usual I wake up, eat breakfast, take my seven-thirty pill and say bye to Dad as he heads out to work. Through the kitchen window, I can see the gray sky getting cloudier by the minute. After I shower and dress, I review the notes I made the night before on the Four Corners Mall map, and an hour later, as I’m on my way down the alley to Mr. Wells’s, my phone plays Dad’s ring tone.

  “What?” I answer. “I’m kinda in a hurry.”

  But all I can hear is Dad shouting, “Sam! Sam!” and the sound of other voices yelling in the background. As I pass under a bunch of power lines, Dad’s call gets dropped, but I keep walking, hitting redial over and over again. The line is busy, busy, busy, and by then I’m at Mr. Wells’s gate. If I’d only stopped to hear what Dad was calling about, I wouldn’t be so surprised by what happens at Mr. Wells’s back door.

  The first indication something is wrong is that Dr. Sakata won’t look me in the face. Even Hoko’s head is drooping as he walks beside me into Mr. Wells’s kitchen.

  “How’s it going?” I ask brightly, trying to cut through the cloud of gloom that’s hanging over the room, but Mr. Wells simply shakes his head.

  “What’s wrong?” I look from face to face, trying to figure out what I’m missing here. Mr. Wells taps the TV remote in his lap, and the countertop screen flickers on. What I see makes all the blood in my body rush to my feet, and I have to grab hold of a kitchen counter to keep from collapsing.

  The picture onscreen cuts from a shot of the Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery to a shot of my father, smiling like I haven’t seen him smile in years. Behind him, customers of the bakery are cheering and clapping as Dad waves a Nickel Bay Ben into the camera.

  • • •

  Okay. You want the truth?

  At sunset on Wednesday, as I walked across town to start the Green Mission in Bay Front, you remember how I passed the Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery and peeked in to see Dad waiting on that little old lady? It was after closing time, but he was still in the store, chatting and laughing, doing whatever he could to sell another cupcake and keep his business alive. That’s when I noticed—in a corner of the front window—a cardboard sign that had never been there before.

  It read FOR SALE.

  My breath caught in my throat, and in that moment I knew why Dad had spent New Year’s Day at the kitchen table, looking over last year’s receipts with bloodshot eyes and holding his head in his hands. Dad was going to close the cupcakery.

  My father never told me things were this serious, but then he never really tells me the bad stuff. As much as we fight with each other, he still gets up every morning and bakes all day without ever complaining. Then he comes home every evening to make sure I eat my dinner, take my seven-thirty pill and brush my teeth before bed.

  Watching him through the store window, for the first time in my life I found myself thinking, My dad is a good person. In that moment, I wished with all my might that I could do something to help him out.

  And then I realized I could.

  The inside pocket of my jacket was bulging with fifteen Nickel Bay Bens. Who was going to miss one?

  I’ll admit, what I did next, I’m not proud of. While Dad was still in the front of the shop, I sneaked in the back door, folded a hundred-dollar bill and slid it into the side flap of a pastry box. I froze in place with that box in my trembling hands, thinking, What’re you doing? This isn’t part of the Green Mission! I considered taking back the money and racing out. Nobody would ever need to know I had been there. But there’s a For Sale sign in the window! my brain was screaming.

  Suddenly I heard the front door close and lock. I knew that in the next moment, Dad would come wandering back into the kitchen, and I panicked. I hurriedly set the box back in a stack, slipped out into the alley and ran the rest of the way to Bay Front with my heart kicking like a frightened rabbit’s back legs.

  • • •

  When I finish talking, Mr. Wells sighs. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But, Mr. Wells, ever since Nickel Bay Nick returned, you’ve got me running all over town, giving piles of money away to strangers. Total strangers! Whether they need the money or not!” I look him in the eye. “And then there’s my own dad, who’s got a For Sale sign in his front window. I saw a chance to help, so I took it. Tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing.”

  Mr. Wells smiles sadly and turns to gaze at the flickering images of Dad on TV. “It appears you’ve made your father very happy. And with all this publicity, you may have even saved his business.” He rubs his face and suddenly looks ten years older. “But you had an assignment, Sam, and you failed to execute it.”

  I throw up both hands in surrender. “It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t,” he mutters.

  “I promise that, for the White Mission, I will do exactly as you say, no matter what.”

  “There won’t be a White Mission.”

  I blink. “Whaddya mean?”

  “I mean we’re done here. We have come to the end of Operation Christmas Rescue.”

  I gag. “You . . . you can’t be serious! What about Four Corners Mall?”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “But everybody’s expecting it!”

  “Then won’t they be disappointed.”

  “Mr. Wells, please!” I beg. “I slipped up, okay? But it was just one time. It was one Ben. One single bill.”

  “One single hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Okay, so I owe you a hundred dollars!”

  “It’s not about the money!” Mr. Wells’s fist hits the kitchen table so hard that Hoko yelps. “I trusted you, Sam. I trusted you, and you betrayed me.”

  Suddenly I feel sicker and sadder and worse than I’ve ever felt. Even worse than when I found out about Mom’s new family. To keep from crying, I bite the inside of my cheek until I can taste the blood in my mouth, and I lower myself into a chair.

  “You know, for seven years, I acted alone.” Mr. Wells’s voice trembles as he speaks. “For seven years, I shared my secret with no one but Dr. Sakata, and in all that time, Nickel Bay Nick touched thousands of lives. And you—despite your record of arrests and your tough-guy ‘I don’t give a crap’ exterior—I thought that you might be honored to share in that legacy. Somehow I thought you could keep our secret. But now . . .” He shakes his head sadly. “Now it’s time to put an end to Nickel Bay Nick.”

  “What?” I cry. “Why?”

  “The legend of Nickel Bay Nick has survived because it has always been a mystery. Once the mystery’s gone, there’s no more magic.”

  “Who’s gonna ruin the mystery?” I ask, frantic. “Not me. I will never, ever breathe a word of this to another living soul.”

  “You say that now,” he grunts, and then wheels toward the kitchen door. I can’t let him leave.

  “I won’t! I won’t tell anyone ever!” I can feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “I promise!”

  He stops and looks over a shoulder. “You promise?”

  “I swear, Mr. Wells.” I’m blubbering now. “I swear.”

  He watches me cry, and just as I’m sure that I’m getting to him, he asks, “How can I ever believe you again?”

  • • •

  Thick snowflakes whip through the air as I race across Mr. Wells’s backyard. I’m practically hiccupping, I’m crying so hard. Over and over I punch the code into the back gate keypad—oh-one-oh-five—but my vision is blurred by tears. Finally I get it right, push through the gate, and dash down the alley, slipping and sliding. I collide with a van that’s creeping down the alley with its headlights off. Bouncing off the hood, I stagger to stay upright and keep running while a million thoughts whi
z through my brain.

  The White Mission is canceled.

  Operation Christmas Rescue is over.

  Nickel Bay Nick will never strike again.

  Back in front of our apartment, I slump to the curb. Folding my arms across my knees, I lay my head down and sob.

  If only there were somebody I could talk to, I think. But who is there to tell? Not Dad. Not Jaxon or Ivy. I can’t call Mom. And Mrs. Atkinson down at Family Services hates me.

  No. I am totally . . . completely . . . hopelessly alone in the world. When my shaking subsides, I’m struck by the silence all around me. With my forehead resting on my wrist, the gentle tick tick tick of my watch comforts me and slows down my brain enough that I can start to make a plan.

  I’ve done a lot of damage, I realize, that I have to undo before Mr. Wells will ever trust me again. Where do I start?

  I understand now that the money I slipped into Dad’s cupcake box wasn’t mine to give away. I stole a hundred dollars from Mr. Wells, but what if I return the money? Won’t he see how sorry I am for what I did? And then can’t things be like they were before?

  But I don’t have a hundred dollars, and I don’t know anybody I can borrow it from. I could probably steal it, but that’s the kind of behavior that got me into this mess in the first place. It’s at that moment that the ticking of the Rolex finally penetrates my thick skull, and I realize where that hundred dollars is going to come from.

  • • •

  “Mr. Wells, please let me in!” After my repeated ringing of the back doorbell fails to bring Dr. Sakata, I resort to pounding on the glass. “Mr. Wells, can’t we at least talk?” What I hear when I stop pounding, though, is very strange.

  I hear nothing.

  No snarling from Hoko. No footsteps across the wooden floors. From the other end of the house, I can vaguely make out the sound of the garage door closing.

  Racing out the backyard and stumbling through the slush in the alley, I sprint out onto Sherwood Avenue, where I veer right. Up ahead I spot Mr. Wells’s SUV waiting at the stop sign on Pegasus Lane, ready to turn into traffic. As the car inches forward, I dash into the crosswalk, waving my arms and yelling, “Wait! Wait!” Dr. Sakata slams on the brakes. Fumbling to unstrap the Rolex, I slide around to the passenger side and tap on Mr. Wells’s darkly tinted window.