Mike shrugs. “Everyone is friends with Mr. Bell.”
“Then my hypothesis is true.”
“That’s not what I mean, Cooper.” Mike sighs.
“Then you can be my unlikely friend.”
Mike turns away. Opens the door. The bell tinkles overhead. “Cooper, I can’t talk to you right now.” Mike points at a sign taped to the glass.
NO LOITERING
Mike is being mean. The national anthem of Tezorene plays in Cooper’s head. O Tezorene, where no one’s mean . . . Mike should visit Tezorene. “I should have warned you,” Cooper says.
Mike stops. Shakes his head again. He turns around with exasperation in his hands, in his face, all over his body. “About what?”
“About The Grinner.” Mike makes a funny face. “Your friend,” Cooper says.
Mike is still confused.
“About Todd,” Cooper says.
Now Mike makes a face like something smells bad. “Friend, right.” Mike goes into the back room of the bait shop. “How would you have known?”
Cooper follows. “I just knew, so it’s all my fault.”
“That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Mike says. He pulls a big blue plastic garbage bag from a box. Snaps it open in the air. “If anyone should have known, I should have known. We’d been best friends since kindergarten.” Mike fills the bag with wrappers and boxes and broken things. “He was stealing from people we know. People who were friends. He even stole from me and my dad.”
My dad and me, Cooper thinks as fast as he can, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I just couldn’t see it.” Mike ties off another big blue bag of garbage. Hoists it to his shoulder.
Cooper wishes he had a best friend since kindergarten. A friend no matter what. A friend like Mike. “It is a very unfortunate situation,” Cooper says.
“I don’t know what happened. Maybe I could have helped him.”
“It’s not your fault,” Cooper says. “Some things are just the way they are and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Mike snorts through his nose. A disappointed kind of snort. “My dad always says things get worse before they get better. But it’s hard. It’s like liking a girl who doesn’t like you back.” Cooper follows Mike through the bait shop. He holds the door open for Mike and his bag of garbage. The bell tinkles over their heads. “You can’t see it but everyone else can. It feels terrible when you finally figure it out.” Mike looks down at Cooper. “Be glad you don’t know about these things yet.”
“You mean a girl like Caddie?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean . . . No. She’s nice.” Mike walks faster and faster toward the dumpster. “Let’s not talk about her. You should go.”
“People are illusions,” Cooper says.
Mike sets down the bag of garbage. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He picks up a big cardboard box next to the dumpster. Pulls open the flaps, rips its seams, and flattens the box under his arms.
“Illusions are erroneous perceptions of reality,” Cooper says. “They aren’t what you think they are.”
Mike nods his head and sails the cardboard box into the dumpster. Swallows. Makes his lips look angry. “You’re a pretty smart kid.”
“Some people believe I am a mutant.”
Mike snorts again. This time it is a happy, laughing kind of snort. He picks up the blue bag of garbage. “Nah, Cooper,” he says, swinging the bag to his left, “you’re just over here”—he swings the bag to his right—“when most people are over here. It’s not like you’re from a different planet or anything.” He swings the bag in a full circle and heaves it into the dumpster.
“Meep,” Cooper says.
Mike laughs. “On second thought, maybe you are.”
“I made you laugh,” Cooper says. “Does that mean we are friends again?” Cooper runs and climbs up on the raft. “Ahoy,” he calls to Mike. “Bring her to the wind!” he shouts into a pretend gale.
Mike shakes his head. Throws his hands in the air. “What sails does she have?” Mike shouts back.
“No, Mike. You’re supposed to say, ‘What sails she carrying?’”
Mike walks closer to the raft. “Sorry. I haven’t read Tom Sawyer in a long time.”
“Get up here, Mike.” Cooper cups his hand to his brow. Points to the moccasin shop across the street. “Land ho!”
Mike laughs again and pulls himself up on the raft. “‘What sails she carrying?’”
Cooper looks to the sky. “‘Course, tops’ls and flying jib, sir.’”
“Aye-aye,” Mike says. “I take it you’re done with the book.”
“No, I ain’t,” Cooper says. “I reckon I’m a slow reader.”
“So if you thought I was in jail, what are you doing here?” Mike jumps to the pavement.
“I came to make a purchase.”
“To buy this proud seafaring ship?” Mike kicks one of the tanks. It bellows like a whale.
“No, sir,” Cooper says. “She’s a fine vessel indeed, but I can’t afford her. Besides, she doesn’t have a mast.” He puts his hands on his hips. “And I am not a seagoing lad. I am here to buy a vest like Jack’s.” Cooper points to the empty window. “But it’s gone.”
“Then bring her round to port,” Mike says. “And come with me.”
Cooper jumps down from the raft. The bell tinkles over their heads as they enter the bait shop. “We sold that one, but I think we have one left. And it’s on sale.”
Cooper follows Mike up to the counter. The shelves look like the shelves in the empty refrigerator at the cabin. “Your store is going hungry,” Cooper says.
“It always looks like this at the end of the season,” Mike says.
The bell tinkles again. A customer wants a fishing hat. “Just a minute, Cooper.” Mike rings up the sale. The cash register chirps and slams. And then Mike climbs a ladder. Opens a cupboard and takes out a fluffy plastic bag. “Shoot, it’s an extra-large. But it’s the last one.”
“That’s okay,” Cooper says. “I’m growing like a weed. How much do I owe you?”
“Forty-seven fifty-six,” Mike says. He rings up the sale. The cash register chirps and slams.
Cooper hands him three of his five twenties. “Keep the change.”
Mike shakes his head. “Can’t do that, Cooper. It wouldn’t be right.”
“But that way you could take Caddie on a date.”
“Like she’d go out with me.”
“I think she likes you,” Cooper says.
Mike shakes his head again. His cheeks turn as red as a fishing bobber. He hands Cooper a ten-dollar bill, two ones, and change. Cooper puts the coins in the little black dish by the cash register. He turns Alexander Hamilton’s face right side up. George Washington’s too. Matches the corners of the ten-dollar bill and the ones to the corners of his two twenties. He feels Mike’s eyes on his hands. Feels Mike pretend he isn’t watching. “You are a good friend, Mike,” Cooper says.
Mike smiles. “With a vest like that, you’ll have to let me take you fishing.”
Cooper shakes his head. “We’re going home in five days.”
“Oh,” Mike says. “Maybe next year.”
Cooper knows he will never go fishing. Never go in the water. Never, ever again. “Maybe you can take Caddie,” Cooper says.
“Cooper,” Mike says, just the way Caddie says his name. With a very long “ooo.”
“What? She’s a nice girl.”
“I know she is,” Mike says. “Can you say goodbye to her for me?”
“I reckon I’d be happy to.” But suddenly Cooper has another idea. His knees begin to shake like a malt maker. Mind your own business. Mind your own business. Mind your own business. “Just a minute,” he says. “I don’t want to forget something.” Cooper takes out his notebook and his pencil and writes this down:
It’s hard to mind your own business when you know you can make a difference.
He reads the sentence over again. Knows he is being
sneaky. Knows he must convince Mike his idea is the truth. “Now I remember,” Cooper says. “It says right here. I’m supposed to invite you to our party.”
“Really?” Mike says. “You’re really having a party?” Mike tries to read Cooper’s sentence. Cooper closes the notebook just in time.
A party is a good idea. A very good idea. A party is something Cooper hasn’t done all summer. That’s what he will tell his mother he wants to do. It is the happiest thought he can think of.
Cooper nods. “We’re having a going-away party.”
“For yourselves?” Mike says.
Cooper nods. “An ice cream party. You can be my guest.”
“When is it?”
Cooper opens his notebook again. Pretends to find the date among his words. “The day after tomorrow. At seven o’clock sharp. Can you come?”
Mike looks at the leaping fish clock on the wall.
Cooper looks at the leaping fish clock. The time is four forty-seven. He is late. He hurries for the door.
“I think I can,” Mike says.
“Then I reckon I better finish The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” The bell tinkles. “Goodbye, Mike,” he says. He hugs his package. Runs across the road. Spots Caddie in her new dangly earrings. Meets his mother coming out of the grocery store.
“What have you got there?” she asks.
Cooper waits to answer. Waits until they catch up to Caddie at the van. “I have an idea. I know one last thing to do before we go home. Something we haven’t done all summer.”
“What?” Caddie asks.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Yeah, but what’s the surprise?”
“I’m not telling.” Cooper gets in the back seat. Feels the smile on his face like a hundred leaping fish.
His mother turns around. “Cooper, sometimes you have to tell what the surprise is so people can be prepared.”
“Then it won’t be a surprise,” he says.
Caddie stops at the stop sign at the end of town. Looks at him in the rearview mirror. “But your surprises are different from other people’s surprises,” she says.
Another idea pops up like a tickle in Cooper’s brain. “Then I have some news.”
“It better be good news,” Caddie says.
“I’m having an ice cream party. The day after tomorrow at seven o’clock in the evening. We will need to buy supplies.”
His mother looks at Caddie. Caddie rolls her eyes. “Oh, boy,” Caddie says. “A party with the three of us. That’ll be exciting.”
Now Cooper has another idea. “Mr. Bell will be my guest of honor.” He has a secret too. A secret he cannot tell about a secret guest named Mike. A secret surprise for Caddie.
“Mr. Bell is a very sick man,” his mother says.
“I have to try,” Cooper says.
He watches out the window. Watches for the yard with the big black bell. “Turn here,” he says.
Caddie and his mother wait for him in the idling car, parked by the old garage. The gravel crunches beneath Cooper’s feet the rest of the way to Mr. Bell’s house. He puts his finger in the loops of the fancy B on Mr. Bell’s door. Pushes the doorbell one, two, three times. Mary Ann opens the door with a frown on her face.
“Is Mr. Bell home?”
Mary Ann looks over her shoulder. Whispers, “He’s sleeping right now.”
Cooper whispers too. “Please tell Mr. Bell he is cordially invited to my ice cream party the day after tomorrow at seven o’clock sharp. Tell him he may bring you as his special guest.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Bell isn’t feeling very well. I’m afraid . . .”
Afraid.
Cooper is afraid too.
Cooper is afraid Mary Ann will say no. Afraid Mr. Bell will be too sick to come. He feels That Boy standing next to him. He wants to stomp his leg. But he must outsmart That Boy. He puts his finger in the loops of the fancy B one at a time. He talks fast. Faster than his fingers can move. “Mr. Bell isn’t afraid of anything. And ice cream is his favorite food. Please tell Mr. Bell I look forward to seeing him.” Mary Ann nods, but the frown is still on her face. “Watch for the red mailbox. The one that says ‘Mills.’ ”
Cooper gasps for air.
Mary Ann does not smile. “I’ll do my best,” she says.
Cooper does not smile. He is too busy thinking. Thinking about that word, afraid. He walks toward the car thinking. He steps on the path of pine needles and sand, one foot at a time. Thinking. He steps on a dry oak leaf. And another. Thinking. Thinking about pepperoni pizza. Thinking about The Grinner. Thinking about the dead ivy and the sharp tip of its green wire. Thinking about The Father. And fishing.
He thinks about tying flies.
Pictures the grandfather, reaching and reaching.
His memories are as clear as the big window in Mr. Bell’s house.
His memories are like the pictures on Mr. Bell’s wall.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
He stops walking. Looks to the sky. But he cannot stop thinking.
He thinks of the eagle soaring across the lake. There is no picture of the eagle on Mr. Bell’s wall. Not yet. He walks backward. Thinking about all the things that have happened behind him. He turns as if he can see everything in Mr. Bell’s memory window. Turns again, thinking. Walks forward.
He thinks about that word, forward.
Thinks about all the things that haven’t happened yet.
There is tonight. There is tomorrow. There is the day after tomorrow at seven o’clock sharp.
He feels the tremble start in his toes and follow his nerve endings all the way up to his brain. Backward. And forward. It takes only a second.
He cannot remember the last time he looked forward.
Change
“Look at that tree,” Cooper’s mother says. “It’s already turning.” She spreads her beach towel on the sand next to Caddie’s. “I can’t believe it. The leaves are already changing color.”
Cooper studies the birch tree. Its yellow leaves flutter like the flames of a burning candle. “It’s because of the drought,” he says. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. I should have watered it.”
“Cooper,” Caddie says. “Birch trees are dying out all over Minnesota. There’s nothing you can do about it. Besides, you’re not in charge of the trees. You . . .” She points a knitting needle at the new enormous sandcastle. His magnum opus. “You have enough to do as the leader of Tezorene.”
Today the sands of Tezorene rise to Cooper’s waist. Taller than Caddie as she sits knitting in the sun. Knitting the world’s longest scarf with their mother’s leftover yarn. He stands on the dry reeds. Fills the red bucket with cool water at the edge of the lake. “I am not the leader of Tezorene. I am the mastermind. There is a difference.”
His mother wraps her arms around her knees and stares across the calm lake. “I can’t believe we’ll be closing up the cabin in just a few days. School will start and the next thing you know, it’ll be winter.”
“Don’t remind me,” Caddie says.
“Don’t remind me,” Cooper says. He has not thought about school. Has not thought about teachers and classmates. About the stares and whispers. He does not look forward to school. Don’t think about school. Don’t think about school. Don’t think about school. Think a happy thought. Hurry. Think a happy thought before That Boy has a chance to show up and ruin everything. Tezorene is a happy thought. Cooper hums the national anthem of Tezorene, O, Tezorene, where no one’s mean, as loud as he can. Over and over again.
“Cooper,” Caddie says, “you’re driving me crazy with that stupid song.”
Cooper fills his red bucket with water.
Earthlings have traveled far and united with the Tezornauts. They have brought with them many tanks of Aitch-Two-Oh and many vats of chocolate because Tezorene is hot and nothing tastes better than melted chocolate. Soldiers can live for a long time on chocolate and Aitch-Two-Oh. Cooper has read this in a book.
Th
e Earthlings and the Tezornauts will fight ozone-eating larvae of the oxydiptera. Tezorene has an infestation of the dreadful insect. A gift of trickery from a devious and hostile planet. Together the warriors will spray the air with boiling water until every last fluttering wing is downed.
It is okay because it is pretend.
Gnats cloud Cooper’s face. He waves them away. Spits in the sand. Gets another bucket of precious water for Tezorene.
“How about hot dogs for lunch?” their mother says. She lies on her beach towel, on her back. Her crossed arms cover her face.
“Meep-meep,” Cooper says with Tezornaut joy.
“Cooper,” Caddie says. “Not this again.”
His mother rolls onto her stomach. “And then I think we better go shopping for your party, Cooper. Get that ice cream underway. What kind do you want to make?”
“Chocolate,” he says because he knows the Tezornauts might use up all the imported cocoa beans and there won’t be any chocolate left for the humans if they do not hurry.
“I invited Dad,” their mother says. “I thought he might like to be here for the last few days.” She scoops a handful of sand as if it is gold dust and lets it sift through the air. “He was happy to hear the party was your idea, Coop.”
“Meep,” Cooper says in a really low tone.
“Cooper,” Caddie says. “I’m warning you.”
He has been warned. He must defend himself. He must pour the bucket of water on Caddie. He knows she will scream and run and chase him. He needs to prove himself as a heroic warrior to the Tezornauts. He can’t help it. He dribbles the water on her toes.
“Cooper!” she says. But she does not look up. She is busy knitting her magnum opus. He pours every last drop of the aitch-two-oh on her legs. “Cooper,” she says, knitting furiously.
“Caddie,” he says, “look!”
This time Caddie does look up. Looks up to see Cooper holding the bucket, the empty bucket—holding it as if it is heavy and full of water. “Hee-yah!” he says and heaves a bucketful of pretend water at her face. A single drop lands on her ankle, but she cowers and screams. “Cooper!”
He laughs and runs.
His mother laughs too. Cooper stops running and watches her. She has not laughed in a very long time. He says, “Hee-yah,” again and she laughs more and more.
The Notations of Cooper Cameron Page 16
