I Am Fartacus

by Mark Maciejewski

  He forces the sprout down. “Sorry, Aunt Zofia. The little plastic things on the drawstring are called aglets.”

  There’s more silence. My dad is probably trying to comprehend why someone would know this piece of information. Then he shakes his head at the “youth of today” and says, “Why are you lighting anything on fire at school?”

  I’m prepared for this. “Well, it was a perfectly good drawstring—except for the missing aglet—and Archer and I didn’t want our parents to have to spend money on a new set, so we took the initiative.”

  Jarek laughs but disguises it as a cough.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this right away?” My mom looks at me over the top of her glasses.

  This is going better than I could’ve hoped. There’s an old Polish saying about this: “The man is the head of the household, but the woman is the neck.” Dad won’t tear me up if Mom doesn’t let him, and it looks like she’s buying it.

  I have to tread lightly for the next part. I put on my best weary-child-laborer look. “Dad never really gave me the chance to explain. We went straight from school to the shop, and then I was on the Pile all weekend.”

  My mom shoots my dad the look that we all know means they will be discussing his lack of patience after I’m in bed.

  Dad wisely avoids eye contact with her. Instead he turns to me and says, “You should hang around with people who are a better influence.”

  “Let’s just be happy nobody got hurt.” Mom puts the subject to rest.

  I push a slice of kielbasa around my plate with my fork like it’s a little hockey puck, while my parents and cousin chow down. I can’t stop wondering what the Arch might be up to. Did he burn the uniforms just so he would have an excuse to take away money from the clubs? Framing me would be the cherry on top, but I can’t see the point of going through all that just to mess with a few unpopular kids who prefer chess and drama to running in circles around the football field.

  After dinner Jarek and I clean up the kitchen.

  “Your dad’s been talking to my dad.” A vision of me sweating away in a potato field flashes in my head. It’s not what I want to hear.

  “What are they talking about?” I try not to sound concerned.

  Jarek stops drying a plate. “You know what they’re talking about, Mr. Potato Head.” He grabs a raw potato off the counter and pretends like he’s picking it off a branch.

  “Potatoes grow underground,” I correct him.

  “Don’t remind me. I’ve spent years forgetting all about these nasty things. Listen, I left there with thirty dollars in my pocket for a reason.”

  “Because you always wanted to work in a movie theater for less money than most kids get for an allowance?”

  He shakes his head. “Make jokes, but it’s still better than digging these out of the ground all day. Did you know that my father has a tractor that will do the work automatically, but he loves to make kids pick them by hand anyway?”

  I nod. I know this because he’s told me about two thousand times. “Whatever you are doing that’s got your dad talking to my dad, my advice is to knock it off. They think you are soft because you aren’t being raised in the old country. All they need is a good excuse to send you over for a little toughening up.” He tosses the perfectly good spud in the trash can across the room. It hits the bottom with a thump, and he throws his arms in the air and yells, “Goooooooaaalll!”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Maciek, I’m older than you. I’ve learned a lot in those extra eleven years, and I know one thing for sure. You don’t want to choose to become a potato farmer. Trust me, you just don’t.”

  Later Jarek helps me with my homework in between discussing which new movies are coming to the Clairemont and speculating about the plot of League of Honor. I tell myself not to get too fired up for it, since given the way things are going, I will probably be in a different part of world when it comes out.

  “Do movies open the same day in Europe as they do here?” I ask.

  “Just got the first X-Men movie three years ago.” He doesn’t even blink as he crushes my hopes.

  My dad knocks once, then opens the door to my room. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. Can you work for me at the shop?” he asks Jarek.

  “Sorry, I’m getting a shipment of popcorn tomorrow,” Jarek says.

  My dad grumbles. I can tell he doesn’t completely buy the excuse, but it doesn’t faze him. “Maciek, please come to the shop after school.”

  I start to protest, but Jarek mouths the word “potato” at me behind Dad’s back, so I just nod instead.

  The next morning Moby and I meet at the corner a few blocks from school, where we usually meet. We wait for Shelby to join us instead of making her chase us down like usual. She has her arms in her sweater like a normal person for once, so she looks only forty years old instead of sixty. Moby is quieter than usual even before Shelby shows up, but he doesn’t try to disappear, which I take as a positive sign. We all agree the first thing we need to do is talk to the other members of the student government and figure out how the Arch got them to shut down the drama club so quickly. There’s no point approaching Troy Gilder, since he’s basically the Arch’s puppet. That leaves Sam Hardwick and Sherman Mills.

  “I’ll talk to Sam,” Shelby offers. “Since she’s a girl too.”

  I’m about to crush the joke she’s just served up for me, but Moby beats me to it. “As far as we know,” he says.

  I almost give myself whiplash turning to look at my friend. Did Moby just make a joke in front of another person?

  Moby and I decide to talk to Sherman together, since he’s the treasurer. He’s the one who actually moves the money around, so he’ll know where the club money is going. We catch up with Sizzler before the first bell. We need his help to corner Sherman long enough to talk.

  At lunchtime Moby and I wait behind the Dumpsters for Sizzler to show up with Sherman. I’m relieved our guest arrives under his own power. The Arch dragged me to the meeting in the locker room against my will, so it feels like a method to avoid. When Sherman sees Moby and me, his eyes go wide.

  “Wait, you’re . . .” Sherman looks at Sizzler and then at Moby and me. “You’re on the track team! What are you doing with these two losers?”

  “We got us a cadre now.” Sizzler folds his arms over his chest. “And Archer isn’t who you think he is.”

  Sherman narrows his eyes. “Really? Cuz I think he’s the fastest kid in school now and Coach Farkas knows it. I think you want these two to help you take him down so you can have your spot back.”

  “Fair enough, but that don’t mean he isn’t up to some bad stuff,” Sizzler says.

  “Sizzler’s with us now,” I tell Sherman. After all, we called the meeting, not him.

  I can practically hear the gears turning in Sherman’s head as he does the math on his chances of escape. He runs a hand through his middle school version of a comb-over and says, “I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

  “Why not?” I say. “Maybe I voted for you.”

  “Because I’m in student government, and an honor student, and you tried to burn down the school.”

  Sizzler shakes his head.

  I wave my hand, letting him know I’ve got this. “Is that what the Arch told you so you’d vote to shift the club money to buy new uniforms?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Sherman shoots back. “You started the fire. Why should the track team suffer?”

  It does make sense in a weird way. It probably wasn’t a difficult sell for the Arch. He called the student government together and got them to vote on how to spend the money before word got around that I didn’t start the fire.

  I step close to Sherman. “So how do we undo this?”

  He laughs. “Only the president can call a vote. Maybe you should pay more attention to how these things work and less attention to being such a spaz all the time. What do you care about the clubs, anyway? Are you the defender of
the weak and nerdy or something?”

  He’s trying to get me to lose my cool, but I’m not going to. “So what happens next? How does the clubs’ money end up as new uniforms?”

  “No idea. I’ve only been the treasurer for, like, five days,” he says.

  Sizzler folds his arms over his barrel chest. “We can wait.”

  A bead of sweat appears on Sherman’s temple. “Archer’s dad got us a discount on some new uniforms, so he’s handling all the details after I get him the money.”

  “The money that’s supposed to go to the clubs,” Sizzler adds.

  “That”—Sherman’s eyes narrow—“is up to the student government.”

  It’s all a little too simple. A week or two ago I would’ve thought it was a pretty big coincidence that the Arch was already lining up a deal on new uniforms, but with what I’ve learned about him lately, I have to assume he’s somehow planned all of this. “When does he get the money?”

  “He’s bringing the receipt for the uniforms to our meeting Monday. As soon as I have it, I can give him a check.”

  I touch my fingertips together and glance at Moby. Without my meaning to, a grin spreads across my lips as I remember the Colonel’s words from the day before: “Follow the money.” Maybe the old guy isn’t losing it after all.

  We let Sherman go with the promise that we will be talking again soon, and he scurries past Sizzler like he’s sneaking around a chained pit bull.

  Moby asks, “So, what’s the plan?”

  “We do what you’re always supposed to do in cases like this.” I pause to let him fill in the blank. Moby just shrugs. I don’t think he listens to the Colonel as closely as I do. “We follow the money.”

  I report for duty at the shop after school, the whole time cursing my cousin and wondering how difficult it can possibly be to receive a shipment of popcorn. For the next couple of hours I press shirts, put them on hangers, bag them, and arrange them on the carousel in alphabetical order. Without my dad here, the mood in the shop is a lot less slave labor–ish. My mom actually asks me how it’s going every once in a while and even compliments my work occasionally.

  Before I know it, she’s turning off the lights and flipping the sign in the front window from OPEN to CLOSED. As she counts out the day’s deposits, I empty all the trash cans into one big bag and head to the back door.

  I pull open the door and my heart starts racing. A huge, dark shape fills the doorway, and it has a hand raised above its head, ready to swing at me. Instinctively I jump back and toss the bag of garbage at the would-be robber.

  “Chub!” says a familiar voice.

  I relax out of my standing armadillo pose. “Sizzler?”

  Sizzler kicks garbage off his sneakers and dusts off his pants. “What the heck did you do that for?”

  “I thought you were trying to rob me,” I say before I realize how lame it sounds.

  “Supposably there’s a pretty big market for stolen garbage. Looks like I hit the jackpot.” He laughs.

  “Very funny. And it’s ‘suppos-ed-ly.’ ”

  He looks at me like I just sprouted a second head, and then he shakes his.

  If I’m gone too long, my mom will come looking for me, and I don’t feel like having any more discussions about another new friend and what kind of influence he is. “I assume you didn’t come over here to make jokes?”

  “So, I went to that spot behind the Dumpsters after practice to avoid Archer until my mom came to pick me up.”

  “And?”

  “I heard someone whispering, sounded like they were on a phone call.”

  He has my attention.

  “They were against the wall, by the parking lot. I stuck my head in the space between the Dumpsters to hear. It was the Arch.”

  My scalp tingles. Secret phone calls are always good. “What did he say?”

  “Well, since I only heard his side of the call, it didn’t make a lot of sense, but he sounded desperate. He kept saying he needed to get a fake ID.”

  Fake ID? I’ve seen enough movies to know that kids need fake IDs to do things they aren’t supposed to do. Why in the world would Archer need one?

  “Did you hear anything else?” I say.

  He’s about to answer when my mom hollers from the front, “Rodzynek?”

  Sizzler’s forehead wrinkles. “Is that Polish? What’s it mean?”

  Polish parents call their kids rodzynek for some reason. It means “raisin,” but there’s no way I’m telling him that.

  “Coming,” I call back, ignoring his question.

  Sizzler shakes his head. “Did I do good?”

  “No, Sizzler. You did not do good,” I say, shaking my head at him.

  He looks stung.

  “You did well.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I skip to the front of the store, practically shaking with excitement at the possibility of figuring out Archer’s secret and paying him back for years of humiliation once and for all.

  When I’m not working at the shop as a form of punishment, my mom lets me pick something out of the lost and found as pay. Once, after working all day on a Saturday, I got an old wool trench coat that almost brushed the ground when I put it on. I wore it when I was Voldemort for Halloween last year. My dad showed me how to clean it up and make it look and smell almost brand-new. I think it might be a women’s coat, but nobody at school has noticed that yet, so it’s cool. The coat is the best thing I’ve ever gotten from the lost and found, but there are a few other items in there I’m hoping nobody will claim. It’s the only cool thing about working at the shop.

  My mother smiles at me, holding out the box that serves as our lost and found.

  “Decide what you want for pay, Maciek.”

  I flip open the box and scan the familiar contents for anything new. Something wedged flat against the side of the box catches my eye, and I pry it loose. It’s a playing card, a king with a red heart in the corner.

  “What is that?” She looks over the top of her glasses.

  I show her the card and she scowls like it offends her. “Why do you want that?”

  The card shows a king with a blank expression, oblivious to the fact that he’s sporting the worst neck beard ever, not to mention that he looks like he’s stabbing himself in the head with his own sword. I grin and slide the card into my pocket.

  “There’s a nice beanbag in there,” she says, like she works at a used beanbag lot and needs to sell me one.

  “I want the card,” I assure her.

  She shakes her head, unable to understand where she went wrong raising a child who’d rather have a worthless playing card than a perfectly good denim pouch filled with dry legumes.

  Work is over and I need to get the cadre together to decide what to do with the info from the phone call Sizzler overheard. But first I have to talk to the one guy who’ll know why someone would need a fake ID. Hopefully, he’ll have an idea about what our next move should be. I have to get to Moby’s house to see the Colonel.

  I make a big show of stretching and rubbing my neck like my dad does when he gets home after a hard day at the shop. My mother gets the appropriate look of concern. “What’s wrong, rodzynek?”

  “I’m just so worn out from working today. I forgot, me and Moby have a project for school we need to work on.” I try to look as pitiful as possible.

  Parents may know how to use guilt, but kids know how to use sympathy.

  She considers it for a second, checks her watch, then says, “I’ll drive you.”

  My mom waits in the driveway for the Dicks to let me in. It takes longer than usual for someone to answer the door, which means the Colonel himself must be coming. When the lock turns from the other side, I wave at my mom.

  The Colonel yanks the door open and scans the neighborhood. After a moment he looks down and notices me.

  “Chub.” He nods.

  “Colonel.”

  He’s wearing socks with little suspenders around his calves holding the
m up, boxer shorts, and a T-shirt that says, I’M ROOTING FOR THE JAPANESE.

  He scans the street one more time. “What are you waiting for, draft papers? Get in here.”

  “Where’s Moby?”

  He taps an imaginary watch on his wrist. “It’s seventeen twenty. Where do you think he is?”

  If you know Moby, you know that five to five thirty is one of his regular bathroom times and you better just get used to it.

  “I forgot. I can wait. By the way, nice shirt,” I say. “But didn’t we fight Japan in World War Two?”

  He gives me a weird look. “You bet your sweet—you bet we did. Why?”

  I point at his shirt.

  His chins form a turtleneck of skin as he looks down. “Oh, this is for Whale Wars. They took their whupping like men in WW Two. No point holding a grudge once you beat an enemy.”

  What’s he talking about? That ruins the whole point of kicking someone’s butt in the first place.

  “Got Whale Wars paused in the other room.” The Colonel jerks his thumb toward the TV room.

  “Mind if I watch it with you?”

  “You aren’t gonna cry, are you?”

  I straighten up. “Not unless the dirty hippies win, sir.”

  “All right,” he says, turning and heading off toward the theater room. “Might be a bit of a wait, anyway. I’ve been sneaking Moby cheese when his parents aren’t looking. This could take a while.”

  Later, as the closing credits of the show come on-screen, Moby appears. He’s a little winded, but no more so than usual.

  “Hey, Chub.” He wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “What’s up?”

  I can’t hide my smile. “We need to talk.”

  When I’m done telling him about my conversation with Sizzler, he looks at me blankly.

  “What do you think it means?”

  The Colonel mutes the TV and shifts around in his chair. “Fake ID, huh?”

  I nod. This is precisely what I hoped would happen. If anyone knows why someone would want a fake ID, it’s the Colonel.

  “Who is this kid?” the Colonel asks Moby.