by David Fulk
“How come I never heard about that?”
“Probably because you’re an idiot.”
As quietly as possible, Martin started down the steps. But he stopped when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Audrey Blanchard walking along the building wall toward the gate.
Donald spotted her too. “Hey, Tippi Tomato! Think fast!”
When Audrey turned to look, he reared back and fired the tennis ball. It just missed her head, ricocheting off the wall behind her and bouncing back to Donald, who led his pals in a round of big laughs.
Audrey stood up straight and threw the boys a withering glare. “Very funny.”
“Hey, Tippi! Your head’s on fire!” Donald hollered, and unleashed another fastball.
Audrey ducked out of the way. “Cut it out, you cretin!” she snapped. She tried to run, but Tyler and Nate, both cackling like chimpanzees, split up and blocked her escape in either direction. Now Donald started peppering her with a barrage of throws. She managed to dodge it each time, but the ball kept bouncing back to him.
“Faster! Think faster!” he squawked as she danced awkwardly, fumbling her books to the ground.
Martin stood frozen at the bottom of the steps, watching. He felt sorry for Audrey, having been in her shoes many times. But he also knew if he tried to do anything about it, the game would turn on him. He took a step away—but stopped when one of Donald’s pitches glanced off Audrey’s foot, and the ball bounced away and rolled right up to him.
“Throw me the ball, Tinker,” Donald said, not smiling.
Martin looked down at the ball at his feet, then slowly stooped and picked it up.
“Tinker, he said throw him the ball!” Tyler snapped.
Martin didn’t move. Somehow the command to throw wasn’t making it from his brain to his hand.
His hesitation gave Audrey just enough time to scoop up her books and dart out the gate. Caught off guard, the guys could only watch her scurry away.
Donald turned to Martin with a glower, and for what was only a few seconds but seemed like about a minute and a half, they stared at each other. Martin felt his stomach twist into a pretzel. Then—knowing exactly what would come next—he made a break for it. Unfortunately, his backpack full of books was weighing him down, and the others were faster runners anyway, and they headed him off before he could make it to the gate.
“Someplace you gotta be, Tinks?” Nate said with a grin as the three boys surrounded him.
“I could have sworn I said throw the ball,” Donald said.
“I heard you say it,” Tyler offered.
“Me too,” Nate added helpfully.
“So how come Tinker still has it?” said Donald. “He’ll have to be punished. Hmmmm…what should we do?”
As the boys thought it over, dramatically exaggerating their thinking poses, Martin tried to map out an escape. If he ducked down low and darted between Nate and Tyler, he might be able to make it out the gate and into the bus driver’s view before they could catch up to him. But just as he was about to give it a shot, the bus let out a belch of black exhaust and rolled off down the street.
Before Martin could even start on a plan B, Donald’s face lit up. “Oh! Y’know what we haven’t done in a long time, Tinker Bell? We haven’t had a good wrestle.”
Nate and Tyler gurgled and chuckled with anticipation. Now Martin knew his only hope was negotiation. “Look, Grimes. If I wrestle with you, what happens? You just beat me up like always, and it doesn’t prove anything new. Or else somebody catches us, or I get hurt, and then you get in trouble. Or maybe, by some really weird fluke of nature, I beat you up, and you have to live with the shame for the rest of your life. So what’s the point?”
Donald gaped emptily at Martin, as though somebody had just tried to explain Einstein’s theory of general relativity to him. “Gee, Marty,” he said, his face a picture of sincerity. “I never thought of it like that. Maybe you’re right.” The smirks on Tyler’s and Nate’s faces faded a bit; even they didn’t seem quite sure what was going on in Donald’s bristly noggin. But Donald put a quick end to that as a big, goofy grin broke out on his face. “OR NOT!”
In a flash, Martin found himself in his least favorite position: stooped over, his head locked in the crook of Donald’s arm, being pulled in a tight circle as Donald’s knuckles rubbed across his scalp like a buzz saw. Tyler and Nate hooted and chortled, and for good measure threw in a few whacks to Martin’s butt every time Donald turned him their way. Martin’s face turned a deep crimson, and he was gritting his teeth so hard that it felt like a few of them might crack. The guys weren’t really hurting him all that much, at least not physically, but the thought of being at the mercy of these boneheads made him want to scream. He couldn’t allow that to happen, though—they would only think they’d won.
Then again, maybe Martin would get lucky today. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a sheriff’s squad car pulling up just outside the gate. Tyler and Nate backed away from the wrestlers, pretending they had nothing to do with the proceedings, as the sheriff, a guy with a long nose and the beginnings of a potbelly, stepped out of the car and called over.
“Let’s go, Donnie boy.”
“Okay, Dad. Just a second,” Donald called back, and he yanked Martin up straight and brushed him off, as though he’d just helped him up from a fall.
The sheriff was trying not to smile. “Okay, buddy. Give the little guy a break, eh?”
Yes, that was the sad truth of it: Sheriff Frank Grimes was the father of Martin’s tormentor-in-chief.
Donald gave Martin one last “friendly” slap on the back before sauntering off to catch his ride home. As he strutted out the gate and headed for the car, his dad grinned. “You little devil,” he said, giving Donald’s spiky hair a ruffle. “What are you doing, eh?” He shook his head, chuckling, and the two of them got into the squad car.
As the car headed off down the street, Donald leaned out the window to throw one last smirk and wave at Martin. If only I could spit venom like a Mangshan pit viper, Martin thought, I could wipe that smile off his face for good.
Tyler and Nate wandered off, and Martin grimly picked up his books and returned them to his backpack. He finished dusting himself off, then looked himself over; at least there weren’t any rips or scrapes or bruises to have to explain at home.
He tried his best to take these episodes in stride, though the unfairness of it all really made his blood boil. Why couldn’t his dad be a policeman who let him do whatever he wanted?
As he zipped up the pack, he caught a glimpse of something across the way: there, standing on the other side of the fence, was Audrey Blanchard, watching him with a vaguely sympathetic expression. But Martin wasn’t in the mood for sympathy just now. Knowing she had seen the whole thing only added to his humiliation. He flung the backpack over his shoulder and marched out the gate and down the street, trying to get as far away as possible.
Martin went for a long hike in the woods, and, as always, it really helped settle his nerves. Nothing like the warm sun, the soft sounds of nature, and the thrill of small discoveries to sweeten a sour mood. He spent some time on the shore of Winoka Lake—which was not much more than a big pond, really—sitting on his favorite smooth rock, just staring out over the gently rippling water and pondering the mysteries of the world. It was his number-one favorite place to be.
By the time he got back home to his lab, he was feeling reenergized and ready to get to work on his ancient discoveries. The fossils were interesting enough, but it was still that frozen oval thing that really fascinated him. He was surprised it was taking so long to thaw out, a whole day after he’d found it. He spent a good hour chipping off the ice and grit and hardened clay, one small chunk at a time, being extra careful not to scratch the perfectly smooth surface.
Certainly rocks with such a perfect shape didn’t occur in nature. Or did they? Maybe it had been in a stream bed at one time, and the flowing water molded it into an oval. Actually, it lo
oked more like a big petrified egg than a rock, but the only bird he knew of that laid eggs that size was an ostrich, and as far as he knew there were no ostriches in Wisconsin. Maybe there had been, thousands of years ago. Who knew? A trip to the library was definitely in order.
Once the object was quite a bit cleaner, Martin carefully lifted it up and placed it on a shelf next to his workbench, where he could stare at it and ponder it to his heart’s content. To keep it from rolling off, he slid a few small stones from his collection underneath it, anchoring it in place. Then he unclipped a gooseneck lamp from the bench and attached it to the shelf, positioning it right over the stone. That way, he figured, not only would he be highlighting the showpiece of his rock collection (he liked his displays to have a dramatic flair, even though he was the only one who really ever saw them), but the heat from the lamp would also help melt off any leftover bits of ice.
As Martin stepped back to admire his sharp new display, into the barn walked his dad. This came as a big surprise to Martin, since (1) he was home very early, and (2) he hardly ever came out to the barn. Martin knew something was up, and it wouldn’t be good.
“Hey, sport,” Mr. Tinker said cheerily.
“Hi.” Martin felt like he’d been caught stealing a cookie or something. He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “You’re home early.”
“What do you mean? Six-thirty.”
Martin checked his watch. It was actually almost seven. He’d completely lost track of the time.
He stood there, scratching his wrist, as his dad checked out his array of collected stuff.
“Sheez. What are you gonna do, open a museum out here or something?”
Martin forced a faint splutter, and just an instant later noticed a football in his dad’s left hand. Yes, this was going to be trouble.
“Hey! Recognize this?” His dad held up the ball Mr. Fairfield had given them, grinning as though he were offering Martin a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “Let’s try ’er out, eh?”
This let’s-learn-a-sport thing was something his dad brought up every few months, usually with some new twist, but it never ended well.
Martin wore a vaguely lost expression. “No offense, Dad, but…I really don’t think football is my forte.”
“Your what?”
“You know. My strong point.”
“How do you know if it’s your forte if you never apply yourself to it? These things don’t come easy, you know. You have to work at ’em.”
Martin couldn’t bring himself to say the obvious, which was that no amount of work was going to help. He was a natural klutz at every sport he’d ever tried, from bowling to thumb wrestling.
“The way I see it,” his dad said, “you’ve got the best football genes of any kid in town, because you got ’em from yours truly. All you need to do is dig that natural talent out and polish it up a little bit.”
“I think maybe I got Mom’s football genes.”
“Don’t you believe it. Hey, football is not only a fun sport, but it’s also a great character builder. And let me tell you something, kiddo. The football players get all the girls.”
Martin’s face was blank—he couldn’t see the appeal in that at all. Mr. Tinker got the message and took a few steps back. “All right, here we go. Maybe I’ve been pushing you a little too far, too fast. We just need to start from the beginning, get the mechanics down. I’ll coach you. Ready?”
“Shouldn’t we go outside?”
“Nah, plenty of room. C’mon.”
Martin reluctantly stepped away from his workbench, preparing for the worst.
“Okay, first thing. What you want to do is catch it with your hands, out in front of you. Like this. Not with your chest. Out. Okay? Here we go.”
He made the softest of throws, and Martin—seeing only a cruise missile heading toward his face—instinctively turned his head away and threw his hands up in a panic. The ball thumped off his forearm and dropped to the floor.
“No, no, keep your eye on it,” his dad said. “It’s just a piece of rubber, it’s not going to bite you.”
Martin picked up the football and got ready to throw it back. But he felt like his pose was making him look more like a windup monkey than a quarterback.
“No, you’re pushing it from your ear, like a girl. You want to bring it back, like this. Back. I told you that before, remember? Turn your body.”
Martin’s contortions made him feel even sillier. His dad stepped over and helpfully moved a few body parts around—a foot here, a knee there, an elbow someplace else altogether. When Martin almost looked like he might be able to deliver a real pass, Mr. Tinker returned to his spot and put up a nice target with his hands. “Okay. Let ’er fly.”
Concentrating hard, Martin pursed his lips, took two little hitches, and whipped his arm forward with conviction. But the ball, apparently in no mood to be propelled through the air, simply slipped from his hand and plopped at his feet. Trying to minimize the embarrassment, he gave it a quick kick and it wobbled across the floor.
Looking like he’d just eaten a piece of bad cheese, his dad picked up the ornery pigskin. “All right, once more.”
“Dad—”
“No, you’ve got to believe you can do it. It’s all mental. Now remember, soft hands. Eye on the ball. Guide it in. Got it?” He tossed another powder-puff pass.
Determined to make the catch, Martin stepped forward and made a gallant grab for it. This time he did manage to get his hands on the ball—but in trying to get a grip on it, somehow he ended up launching it over his shoulder and straight onto his workbench, where it knocked over a bug display, scattered some tools, bounced straight up against the shelf, and banged directly on Martin’s prize oval whatever-it-was. The thing tottered, came loose from its makeshift moorings—and rolled straight off the edge, heading for the floor.
Martin let out a gasp and instinctively leaped over—and made a perfect diving catch just before it hit the ground.
“Now, that’s a catch!” his dad barked. “Why in the blazes can’t you do that with a football?”
Martin wanted to answer, but all he could come up with was a strained smile and a shrug.
Mr. Tinker rubbed his brow as though stricken with a splitting headache. “We’ll pick this up later. Maybe in the fall, eh? I’ll take you to a Packers game or something. Go on in and get cleaned up for dinner.”
As his dad marched out of the barn, Martin picked up a rag and gently wiped a few droplets of water—former ice chips—from the object’s smooth surface; then he carefully returned it to its proper place on the shelf and centered it under the lamp. Any thoughts of football had already vanished from his head.
—
When class was over the next day, Martin managed to avoid Donald Grimes and headed straight for the public library. He’d been preoccupied with fossils and eggs and ostriches all day, and he was eager to do a bit of Internet searching and check out a few books.
His mom was on duty behind the desk, and she gave him a big smile as he walked in.
“Hi, squash blossom. How was school?”
“Fine. Mom, would you mind not calling me that?”
“Really?”
“It’s kind of mooshy.”
He could tell from her crinkled brow that this was a big disappointment to her. She had always called him mooshy names, but really. In public?
“Okay,” she said, lips oddly twisted. Then she took a more businesslike tone. “Looking for something in particular today, sir?”
“Maybe a book about rocks. Or fossils. Geology stuff.”
“Righto. That would be in section—”
“I know.” Of course. He had checked out geology books before. “See ya.”
As he headed off, she called after him, “Will you be needing a ride home, sir?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
Martin spent some time in the computer room, trawling the Net for whatever bits and pieces he could find about the many different kinds of fossil
s and how they form. But the sheer volume of information was a bit overwhelming, and it got kind of hard for him to sort out the good science from the bad. He always preferred to get his science info from books, anyway—it was generally more reliable, and he really liked having a solid thing in his hands that he could carry with him and delve into like a treasure chest of ideas.
So he headed into the stacks, made his way to the geology section, and started examining the book spines, looking for a title that might promise a few answers to the Mystery of the Oval Thing. Gravel Pits of the Midwest? Not likely. Diamond Cutting and Valuation? Nope, not that either. Ah: A Book of Fossils. Could be good.
The book was wedged in tight, and when Martin pulled on it…kabloof! The whole row of books tumbled off the shelf and scattered on the floor. “Great,” he mumbled as he stooped down to pick them up. What really gave him a start, though, was what he saw through the gap on the shelf when he stood back up: the face of Audrey Blanchard, close up and in living color, her bright blue eyes staring at him through a sea of freckles, pencil tucked firmly behind her ear.
“It works better if you take ’em out one at a time,” she said matter-of-factly.
In no mood for lame jokes, or for small talk with a stranger—well, an almost-stranger—Martin quickly picked up the rest of the books and slid them back onto the shelf. Audrey watched him coolly through the narrowing gap until he finally put the last book in place, blocking her completely. He didn’t mean to be rude or anything; he was just caught off guard by her guest appearance. Besides, he was in the middle of something important.
Keeping the fossil book and a couple of others, he headed for the checkout desk.
—
Martin spent the rest of the afternoon in his lab, leafing through the library books and studying his fossils with a magnifying glass. He became more and more convinced that the hairy-looking thing was a big ancient spider, and he sifted carefully through the books in hopes of finding something to confirm his hunch. But the books turned out to be not much help; two of them had almost no pictures, and the other one was mainly about volcanoes and earthquakes. Those topics were certainly worthwhile, but they weren’t likely to shed much light on the subjects of fossils and oddly shaped stones.
