To Catch a Mermaid

by Suzanne Selfors

  Could they be so lucky? Maybe that box of bow-tie pasta currently gathering dust in the pantry would find its way into a saucepan that night.

  But Halvor pulled a ten-dollar bill out of the cookie jar and shoved it into Boom’s hand. “After school, stop at the market and buy some fish.”

  That’s right. Send the errand boy, as usual. Mertyle had two perfectly good spot-covered legs, but she never had to go to the market to buy fish, or go to the drugstore to buy Halvor’s hemorrhoid cream.

  “Why can’t I get something else?” Boom asked. “How about hamburger?”

  “Hamburger will make you constipated. Get fish. Fresh fish. Get it right off the boat if you can. I don’t want fish that’s been sitting around on the dock. And I don’t want anything too expensive, because we’re running out of money. If your father doesn’t start painting again, we’re going to have to sell this house, for sure.”

  “We can’t sell the house,” Mertyle cried, dropping the magnifying glass onto her pile of crumbs. “How will Mother find us if we move?”

  Silence fell over the kitchen. Even the coffee percolator stalled.

  Halvor put his wide, speckled hand over Mertyle’s spotted hand and gently squeezed. Poor Mertyle. When would she be able to face the truth?

  The kitchen clock read 7:40. School started at eight. Boom asked to be excused, then ran upstairs to dress. He didn’t want to be late for school. The last time he was late, Principal Prunewallop took away his lunch recess privileges, and that couldn’t happen today because the tournament was scheduled for lunch recess.

  Back downstairs, Boom put on his thin jacket. It provided little protection from the winter winds, but he owned nothing better. “Bring home Mertyle’s homework so she’ll get smart and her brain will stop farting,” Halvor told him, handing over a sack lunch that smelled fishy, as it always did. Boom stuffed the lunch into his backpack, eager to be on his way. “Don’t forget fresh fish,” Halvor yelled after him.

  “Okay, okay,” Boom called back. But under his breath he made a wish that there would be no fish at the dock so he could bring home something else.

  Chapter Three:

  Winger

  Boom stepped off the sagging front porch and hurried across the big dirt circle. Fog hovered above the trees. The cold March air stung his nostrils. He kicked the walkway gate with his foot. It swung open, hanging from a single rusty hinge. He kicked it again. Then he stomped a dande-lion seed ball with his secondhand sneaker. No one else had dandelion seed balls in their yard in March. Even though it was winter and most plants slept beneath the cold ground, dandelions grew between the cracks in the paved walk way that led from Boom’s house to the street. In fact, dandelions suffocated the lawn, filled the forgotten window boxes, and had even taken root in the mailbox.

  The yellow weeds had appeared right after the twister. Boom figured the seeds had been kidnapped by the swirling wind and deposited in their yard — come from some distant land where dandelions grew all year long. All the hacking and pulling in the world couldn’t get rid of those stubborn transplants. It was bad enough having the smallest house on Fairweather Island, worse still to have one plagued by unsightly dandelions. Mertyle picked the ones that grew within arm’s reach of the front door and put them in empty marmalade jars. Close inspection almost always revealed dandelion seeds in Boom’s hair.

  The only place the dandelions did not grow was in the big dirt circle.

  Boom kicked the gate shut. It snapped free of the hinge and crashed onto the walkway. He shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t really matter since the entire place was falling apart. Paint peeled off the house, gutters dangled dangerously, and duct tape held three windows in place. No longer did cherry red geraniums line the walkway, or bluejays chatter around overflowing bird feeders. No longer did polka-dot skirts or lacy underpants hang from the clothesline. When people passed by the periwinkle blue house at the end of Prosperity Street, they often stopped to gawk and shake their heads.

  “That’s the house where Mrs. Broom, a very nice person indeed, was sucked away by a tornado,” they’d say.

  “How terribly sad.”

  “Go away,” Boom would yell from his bedroom window. He hated people staring. He wanted to kick people who stared.

  Boom stepped onto the sidewalk and proceeded to kick things all the way up Prosperity Street — rocks, a Styrofoam coffee cup, even a growling dog who bit at his shoelaces. Kicking was the only thing Boom had going for him. He wasn’t a genius, he wasn’t graced with dashing good looks or a magnetic personality. But Boomerang Winslow Broom had been born with a better-than-average right kicking foot, slightly larger than his left foot and slightly thicker. A thing of beauty.

  He paid no attention to the scenery on either side of the street, for it was the same old street he had walked along his entire life. And because he had never lived in a smog-filled city or a featureless development, he did not fully appreciate the picturesque quality of the stone houses that he passed, each painted in soft colors like sea-foam green, glazed apricot, and banana cream yellow — like candy chips on cupcakes. Most of the houses on Fairweather Island were made of stone because it stood up to the winter winds and the salty spray.

  “Hey, Boom.” His best friend, Winger, ran from his house and joined Boom on the sidewalk. Winger’s full name was Victor Emmanuel Wingingham, so obviously he preferred Winger.

  He handed Boom a Pop-Tart — blueberry with blue frosting. He always brought goodies for Boom because he had eaten at Boom’s house many times since Halvor’s arrival, so he knew what his friend was forced to consume. Boom shoved half the pastry into his mouth. He kicked an apple that must have fallen from someone’s grocery bag, because all the apple trees were bare. He tried to savor the sweet blueberry filling — tried to let it linger on his tongue, but hunger overcame him. Who would have thought a simple rectangle of pastry and jam could taste so good?

  “Are you ready?” Winger asked.

  “Oh yeah, I’m ready,” Boom proclaimed, spraying crumbs. The final game in the Kick the Ball Against the Wall Tournament was only a few hours away. Boom loved the game, but so did his archenemy, Hurley Mump. Hurley was last year’s school champion, only because Boom had come down with chicken pox during the final week of games. Not fake Mertyle-drawn pox but the real thing that made his skin feel like flea food. But this would be Boom’s championship year. So what if he didn’t have professional kicking shoes like Hurley had, the kind those famous athletes wore? So what if he felt hungry most days, picking at a piece of smoked fish for lunch while Hurley chowed down on thick-cut turkey and cream-filled cupcakes? So what if everything in the universe seemed to always work against him? He had practiced all year and he had the best kicking foot in school. Today, 12:05, right after lunch. Boom vs. Hurley. Today was Boom’s day!

  “I bet seven dollars,” Winger said. “You’re gonna win for sure.” Winger never played Kick the Ball Against the Wall. He wasn’t allowed to because he wore glasses and had fake front teeth. But he kept score. He could keep score while opening ketchup packets and while picking all the shredded lettuce off a cafeteria hamburger. He could keep numbers in his head for days, without forgetting them. “No one can beat you.”

  “You got that right.” They started up the sidewalk. Boom continued to kick the apple as they went.

  “So, what’s wrong with Mertyle this morning?” Winger always asked a lot of questions about Mertyle. Boom suspected that his best friend had a crush on his sister.

  “She has spots,” he told Winger. “She’s nuts.”

  “What kind of spots? Like pimples? Pimples are dis-gusting.”

  “Sunflower spots,” Boom said, but he didn’t want to talk about Mertyle. He wanted to focus on the tournament. He needed to warm up his foot. He kicked the apple again, so hard that it flew over a picket fence.

  Crash! The sound of breaking glass pierced the chilly air — a sound Boom had heard far too often.

  “Hey!” a man shouted. />
  Boom and Winger didn’t even look at each other. They took off at full speed, rounding the next corner like racehorses with blinders on. Boom’s mind raced even faster than his legs. He couldn’t get in trouble again. Not again. Last week his soccer ball had dislodged a gutter, and yesterday his football had bonked the mail-lady on the head.

  “Hey!”

  Don’t look back, he told himself. Just keep running.

  But Winger wasn’t fast enough, and when Boom did look back, Winger was in the clutches of Mr. Jorgenson, Fairweather’s retired chief of police.

  Chapter Four:

  The Principal’s Office

  Principal Prunewallop’s office smelled like bad breath, which she had a constant case of. At Christmas time, all the teachers gave her boxes of peppermint candy, but Principal Prunewallop did not like peppermint. The next year they tried spearmint, but it turned out she was allergic to it. Then came wintermint and listermint, but she never ate them. Instead, she handed out the little green candies to her unlucky visitors.

  Winger nervously unwrapped his listermint and popped it into his mouth. Boom stuffed his into his jacket pocket, where he had stuffed thirteen other mints from recent visits to the principal’s office.

  “Well, Mr. Broom and Mr. Wingingham. Your teacher tells me that you were both one hour late to class this morning.” The principal’s hair was pulled back so tightly that veins pounded at her temples. “Which one of you is going to tell me why you were late?”

  Boom and Winger looked at each other without turning their heads. Winger bit down on his mint, then blurted, “Cat stuck in a tree.”

  Boom cringed. They had used that excuse last week. Winger never thought clearly when he got nervous. “My sister’s sick again,” Boom said. “She needed spot remover.”

  Principal Prunewallop drummed her long fingernails on her desk. “I am well aware of your sister’s condition.” She whispered the word “condition,” and Boom felt his face go red. Seemed he wasn’t the only one who thought that Mertyle was a lunatic. “In fact, I shall send the truant officer to your home next week to investigate.” That would not be good.

  The principal opened a rather thick file with Boom’s name on the outside. Boom fidgeted and tapped his shoes together. His big toe stuck out a hole. Luckily, it was not his kicking foot. He shifted his bottom, which had gone numb. He hated this office, with its bad smell and uncomfortable chairs.

  “This has been a difficult year for you, Mr. Broom,” Principal Prunewallop stated, peering over the top of the file. She had pity in her voice, and Boom clenched his jaw. He wanted to kick people who pitied him. “Your rambunctious nature continues to interfere with your studies. And you, Mr. Wingingham, you should choose your friends more wisely.”

  It wasn’t Boom’s fault that Mr. Jorgenson, the retired chief of police, had lectured them for forty minutes. With his flabby chin and bulging eyes he had said, “Boys need discipline. That’s what I always say. In my day, boys didn’t run around in the street causing trouble. They had jobs from dawn until dusk. If they were bad seeds, then they were locked in cellars until they were eighteen, then shipped off to fight in wars. In my day, if a boy broke a window he went directly to jail.” When exactly was “my day”? The middle ages? Mr. Jorgenson was nuts too.

  Principal Prunewallop suddenly looked up from the file. “Did you hear that?” she asked. The only thing Boom had heard was Winger gagging on his mint. The principal turned to her office window, which overlooked the playground. She pressed her eye to a telescope that stood on a tripod. “Aha!” she exclaimed. “Just as I thought. I distinctly heard the sound of a bursting bubble.” She stood and opened the window. Big orange underwear glowed through her stretchy white pants. She had the biggest butt Boom had ever seen.

  With the principal’s attention diverted, Winger spat out the horrid pieces of listermint into his hand. They glistened with saliva. Boom tipped back in his chair while Winger looked around for a place to dispose of the pieces. Boom knew they had to figure out a way to get out of this situation. Tardiness meant only one thing, and he couldn’t miss lunch recess.

  “Principal Prunewallop,” Boom began, “the only thing I have to do after school today is buy some fish, and then I could come back and make up the time.”

  She ignored him. “Young lady in the green sweater,” she called through a megaphone. “Yes, I’m speaking to you. Gum chewing is not allowed on the playground. Stop that right this minute. Don’t you dare try to hide that gum beneath the monkey bars. You will report to my office immediately.”

  The principal whipped around so quickly that Winger dropped his mint pieces onto the rug, and Boom almost fell backward in his chair. “Now,” she said, returning to her own chair, “back to the unfortunate business of your tardiness. That hour will be made up. You will both come to my office directly after lunch, today.”

  Today? After lunch? 12:05? She had to be kidding!

  “But . . . ,” Boom objected, with the intent of explaining that this was supposed to be his day. Boom’s day.

  She held up her hand to silence him. “I know all about the Kick the Ball Against the Wall Tournament, Mr. Broom. I am afraid that your irresponsible behavior has cost you a forfeiture. At twelve-oh-five, you and Mr. Wingingham will come to my office to work on your math skills. I look forward to instructing you.”

  “But —”

  “No buts!”

  Boom had no idea why principal was spelled with “pal.” She instantly moved up his archenemy list to position number one. Forget her. He’d go to the tournament anyway. Even if it meant a hundred extra hours in her office, it would be worth it.

  “And don’t try to sneak out of this, Mr. Broom. I will be watching.” She tapped a fingernail on the telescope.

  Boom’s special day broke into pieces, like a spit-covered mint.

  On their way back to class, Boom and Winger passed the girl in the green sweater. She was taking very small steps toward Principal Prunewallop’s office and sniffling. Boom clearly remembered his first walk toward that menacing door, where a sign read: AUTHORITY PREVAILS. “Don’t worry,” he said, trying to offer some comfort. “She doesn’t spank.” Which was the only nice thing he could say about the principal. The little girl managed a weak smile.

  Winger started to sniffle too. “What are you crying for?” Boom asked irritably. “I’m the one who has to forfeit the game.”

  Winger took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I don’t actually have the seven dollars I bet Hurley. He’s gonna beat the daylights out of me.”

  Yes, Hurley would beat the daylights out of Winger. That was the kind of thing Hurley Mump would do. And he would call Winger names like “weenie,” and “four-eyed freak.” Boom knew the humiliation all too well.

  He reached into his pocket and found the ten-dollar bill that was meant to buy the Brooms’ evening meal. He handed Winger the money. “Just be sure to get me the change.”

  Once again, the universe had conspired against Boom Broom.

  Chapter Five:

  The Reject Seafood Bucket

  Boom kicked things all the way to the fish market.

  Principal Prunewallop had made them divide decimals to obtain rounded quotients for the entire hour. Dividing decimals into rounded quotients was like eating cake for Winger, but Boom didn’t even know what a stupid rounded quotient was. The principal had added an extra twenty minutes when she had caught him copying from Winger’s page.

  Hurley had told everyone that Boom had chickened out of the competition. Most of the students were too afraid of Hurley not to believe him. Hurley had proclaimed himself KBAW Champion of Fairweather Elementary. There wouldn’t be another tournament for Boom, since he’d be at the middle school next year. It was his last chance to be school champion.

  The only answer, Boom decided, was to schedule a rematch. He’d demand one, right after the flag salute at next Monday’s assembly. He’d demand it in front of everyone, and Hurley would have to agree o
r he’d look like a chicken.

  Boom adjusted his backpack straps. Mr. Foo had included two thick textbooks in Mertyle’s huge pile of homework, and Boom had to carry the heavy load all the way to the fish market because Mertyle was a spoiled brat who stayed in bed all day and watched game shows. He kicked a huge rock that did not budge. “Ouch!” he cried. He kicked it again.

  The wind picked up, but that wasn’t unusual for Fairweather Island weather. A breeze could almost always be felt, no matter what time of year. Boom approached the quiet harbor. In summertime, the ferryboat would be depositing hordes of tourists, eager to fish the island’s bountiful waters. The few inns that lined the shore would be blinking their NO VACANCY signs, and the pharmacy would be making a killer profit on seasick pills.

  But it was March, and delivery vans and Fairweather residents were the ferry’s only customers. Most of the fishing boats slept in their sheds. Only a few fishermen braved the winter sea, which could sparkle with sunshine one day and rumble with anger the next.

  Boom walked past the empty stalls at the seafood market and down the dock to where a single boat was tied up. A couple of beefy men were unloading fish.

  “Is that fresh fish?” Boom asked, remembering Halvor’s instructions.

  “Right out of the ocean,” the man wearing a captain’s hat replied. He scooped a fish from the boat’s hold and tossed it to the other man, who then loaded it into a big cart.

  “How much can I buy for three dollars?” Boom took out three one-dollar bills — all that remained after Winger had paid his bet.