by Carl Deuker
"Thanks," I said after she'd counted out twelve dollars and given me a receipt.
Stupid, I thought as I stepped out. The first chance I got, I'd open a checking account. Next month, I'd write a check and drop the fee in the box, like regular people did. I had to be careful. Very careful. I had to make sure nothing I did looked suspicious.
CHAPTER SIX
I was a criminal, involved in a smuggling ring, but the amazing thing was how quickly it became routine. My heart didn't pound anymore when I reached the maple tree. I took my time when I stretched so I could look carefully in the rocks. Most days there was nothing. But every three or four days, there'd be a package.
I was pretty sure I had the basics of the operation figured out. Boats come into Puget Sound all the time. If a boat is from Canada or China or some other foreign country, the captain has to call a customs agent and somebody from immigration. Maybe the boat gets checked thoroughly and maybe it doesn't. But getting drugs off the boat before any possible inspection would be the smart thing to do, just in case. It would be easy to slip someone to shore at night, store the drugs in the rocks, and then have that person return to the boat.
The smugglers probably used the same boat over and over—most likely some sort of charter boat that was familiar enough to Coast Guard patrols that they left it alone. The captain could do the smuggling without the owner of the boat even knowing about it. Or some crewman could be doing it without the captain knowing—though that would be less likely. In middle school, the D.A.R.E. cop told us that on the street an ounce of marijuana could sell for as much as a hundred bucks. The packages I was carrying weighed between five and ten pounds, which would translate into over ten thousand dollars. At two shipments a week, the total value would be more than a million dollars a year. If cocaine were ever in those packages, the street value would be even more. No wonder they could pay me two hundred bucks a week.
I wasn't sure how the fat guy figured in. Maybe he was a big player in the deal—the guy who got the drugs to the street. Maybe he was a small fry who'd fallen into some easy money. Sometimes I wanted to find out what happened to the packages after I stuck them in the locker, but then I'd remember what the fat man had said about knowing too much, and I let it drop.
The Monday before Thanksgiving vacation, the counselors set up Career Day in the commons area. People from the University of Washington and Seattle University and Shoreline College and a bunch of other schools stood behind tables and passed out brochures.
I didn't even bother to look at the college brochures—what point was there? When I finished eating lunch, I walked across the commons to the back door. That's where I spotted Melissa toe-to-toe with Ms. Dugan, the vice principal. The two of them were standing in front of a table manned by an armed forces recruiter with a grim smile on his face. I hadn't noticed either the table or the guy, that's how deep in the corner they were.
I stopped about ten feet from Melissa. She had on her Stanford sweatshirt and jeans. Her face was bright red, and so was Dugan's. They were talking in low voices, but anybody could see they were both angry.
While they were arguing, some kid I didn't know pushed past Melissa and approached the recruiter's table. Melissa spun around. "Don't believe a word he says," she yelled so loudly that everyone in the commons turned to stare at her. Melissa paused and then pointed at the recruiter. "He'll get you killed if you let him!"
"That's enough of that!" Dugan broke in angrily. "More than enough. If you don't leave here right now, Melissa Watts, I am going to call security and have you removed."
Melissa glowered at Dugan.
"Did you hear me? Either you leave or security comes and makes you leave."
"I have a constitutional right to say whatever I want."
"You are on school property, Melissa, and you do not have the right to disrupt educational activities."
"Oh, so signing up to get killed is an educational activity!"
I pushed my way up to Melissa. "Let's get out of here, Melissa," I said. "Fifth period is about to begin, anyway." Melissa looked at me and then at Dugan. "It's not worth it," I whispered.
She turned back to Dugan. "I'm leaving," she said. "But not because of you. I'm leaving because I want to leave."
"I don't care why you leave," Dugan said. "Just leave."
Melissa shook free of me, turned her back, and strode out of the commons. Ms. Dugan followed a few seconds later. I started to walk away when the recruiter called out, "Hey, you." I turned back. He shoved a brochure into my hand. "Do me a favor. Stick this in your pocket and look at it over sometime."
After Arnold's class ended, Melissa walked to the locker bay with me. "It makes me mad they allow those guys on campus," she said, still fixated on her lunchtime face-off with Dugan. "It's just wrong."
"Come on, Melissa. There are worse things than joining the army."
"Yeah?" she said. "Name one."
"Going to jail," I said.
She laughed mockingly. "As if that's an option."
I'd reached my locker. She watched as I spun the dial on my lock. "I appreciate what you did, Chance. That's the second time you've been there for me."
"I didn't do anything."
"Yes, you did. I don't need anything bad on my record, not if I'm going to get into Stanford. And being hauled off by security is definitely bad."
"They wouldn't have hauled you off."
"Dugan would have loved to call security. She's never liked me."
I slammed my locker shut and turned. "I've got to go, Melissa." I started toward the exit.
"Wait—can I ask you something, Chance?"
I turned back. "Ask whatever you want."
"What are you looking for in those rocks?"
It was the last thing I was expecting her to say. I could feel the blood start to pound in my temples. "What are you talking about?" I said, trying to keep my face from going red.
"The rocks below the railroad tracks. When you run, you stop and look around."
"Are you spying on me?"
"No," she said.
"How do you know what I do or don't do, then?" I said.
"Chance, I do my homework in our solarium, which looks out over the beach. I've seen you a couple of times now, poking around in the rocks. That's all. If I'd known you were going to get all paranoid, I wouldn't have mentioned it. I was just curious."
"I'm not paranoid, Melissa. I just don't like being spied on."
She stared at me for a long moment. "Forget I mentioned it," she said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I'd been an idiot to snarl at Melissa like that. All I'd done was make her more suspicious. If the fat guy knew someone was watching me, he'd get rid of me. I couldn't have that, not when things had fallen into place. Creager wouldn't take me back at Ray's.
When I reached the maple tree that day, I looked up at the homes along the bluff. Back in middle school, someone had pointed out Melissa's house to me from the road, but I couldn't pick it out from the beach. Was she in her solarium—whatever that was—right now? Was she watching me?
There was nothing hidden in the rocks that day, so I turned and headed back. When I reached Pier B, I spotted a huge water rat cleaning itself on the rocks. The rat looked at me, and then went right back to cleaning itself. That rat gave me an idea.
Tuesday before school I tracked down Melissa. "I'm sorry about yesterday," I said.
"Forget it," she said, her voice icy.
"It's a rat's nest," I said.
"What?"
"In the rocks. There's a bunch of paper and wrappers all in a mound. I think a momma rat and her babies live in there. Sometimes I can see little pink eyes looking back at me."
Her eyes brightened. "That's cool. Why didn't you just say so?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought you'd think it was stupid."
"Well, I don't. I think it's nice."
For a moment we both stood there. "See you around," I said at last, and started off.
"Chance, wait a second," she said. I stopped. "What?"
"That's the kind of thing you could write about."
"What?"
"For the newspaper. You could write about stuff that goes on along Golden Gardens and on the beach. The rats, or something else if you want." She paused. "The newspaper staff still meets at the Blue Note Café at eight o'clock every other Friday. Our next meeting is this Friday. Why don't you come?"
I started to say no automatically, but then I stopped myself. For the first time in my life, I had money in my pocket. Not a lot, but enough so that I could buy a mocha and a piece of cake and not worry about it. I liked Melissa, and she liked me. She was just asking me to meet her at a café. How could going to the Blue Note hurt?
"OK," I said.
She smiled. "OK."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first few years we lived on the boat, my dad would heat up some sort of turkey loaf and deli mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. Some years, he even bought a pumpkin pie. He was trying, but all he did was to make me feel mom's absence even more.
Now we basically treat Thanksgiving and Christmas and birthdays as if they are any other day of the week. Since there's no buildup, there's no letdown. Thanksgiving came and went.
The morning after Thanksgiving, my dad gave me a hundred and thirty dollars. "To help with the moorage fee," he said. "I've had a few jobs lately. Mainly helping guys get their boats ready for winter."
I was about to tell him I didn't need it, but I stopped myself in time. "Thanks," I said. "This will help a lot."
That evening, after he'd taken off for wherever it was he was going, I grabbed a jacket and walked the length of the marina to the long stairway leading up to Thirty-second Avenue and the Blue Note Café. It's about one hundred steps, straight up, so I was breathing hard when I finally reached the top.
I caught my breath, then crossed the street and entered the café. Melissa, her brown, shoulder-length hair pulled into a short ponytail, was sitting at a table in the back. She waved and I walked back to meet her. "You know Thomas Dowell and Annie Comstock, don't you?"
"Sure," I said, though I hadn't spoken ten words to either of them the whole time I'd been at Lincoln. "Good to see you."
Thomas and Annie had already bought their food, so I was able to go to the front counter with Melissa. "A large mocha and a scone," she said to the girl taking orders.
"I'll have the same," I said.
We stood side by side as the girl put our order together. "I'm really glad you came," Melissa said. "I didn't think you would."
"I wasn't sure I would, either."
"I know most people think the newspaper is nerdy and all that, but it really isn't."
Before I had to answer, the order came up. "I'll pay," I said, taking out my wallet.
"You pay for yours and I'll pay for mine," Melissa said.
"No," I said. "You bought at Little Coney. I'm paying this time."
We carried our food back to the table. While we'd been gone, Natasha Martin had joined the others. "I can only stay for a little while," she said. "My cousin from North Carolina is visiting. He got accepted into Harvard last week. Fifteen-fifty on the SAT. My parents want me to talk to him. As if talking about the SAT can help me score higher. I'll be lucky to get into Central Washington."
"You'll get into a good school," Melissa said. "You know you will."
For the next half hour, they talked about colleges. One place was great for pre-law while another had a fantastic biology program. Some other place had a sister school in Istanbul and another one had a junior-year program in Paris. Most of the schools they mentioned I'd never heard of. Occasionally Melissa would look over at me and smile.
I'd always thought that if I had a few bucks in my pocket, I'd be even with kids like Melissa and Thomas and Annie and Natasha. Now I had money, probably more money than anyone else at the table, but it didn't even things up at all. They were still them, and I was still me.
"Maybe we should talk about the newspaper," Melissa said at last. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"
Thomas groaned. "Couldn't we just skip it?"
Melissa shook her head. "Chance came because he's interested in joining the staff."
"That's OK," I muttered. "Talk about whatever you want to talk about."
Thomas smiled. "See, Melissa. He doesn't care."
"Well, I do," Melissa said. "And I'm the editor. So let's get to the meeting."
Melissa told them about the rats living in the rocks. She looked to Thomas. "Maybe you could take some pictures and Chance could write it up?"
I panicked, but Thomas saved me. "I don't want to get into cutesy-bunny-and-kitten crap. That sort of stuff is for the Wednesday shopper." He looked at me. "No offense, Chance."
Melissa sighed. "All right. Anybody else have any ideas for Chance? Something to do with the waterfront?"
"How about if he writes about the seals in the harbor?" Annie said. "The ones that are eating all the salmon and ruining the salmon runs."
"That's old news," Melissa said. "The Times has had about fifty articles about that."
"He could write about the threat of terrorism," Natasha said.
"What threat of terrorism?" Melissa asked.
"My dad has a friend who works for the FBI. He says they're really worried about the ports. There are zillions of boats floating around on the Sound and nobody keeps track of them. Terrorists could sail in and blow up whatever they wanted."
Melissa looked at me. "Is that true?"
"I wouldn't say nobody keeps track," I said. "There's the Coast Guard and the port police, and there's customs and there's immigration. Homeland Security must be down there too, but I don't think I've ever seen them."
"But they don't check all the boats, do they?" Natasha insisted.
"No," I said. "How could they?"
Thomas snorted in disgust. "I can see the headline now: Terrorists at Shilshole! A Lincoln Light Exclusive."
"What's so ridiculous about it?" Natasha snapped. "It's not impossible that terrorists could come through Shilshole."
"And if they do, reporters from the Lincoln Light will be there to catch them!" Thomas said. He turned to Melissa. "I bet Stanford will admit you if you win a Pulitzer."
"Very funny, Thomas," Melissa said, and then she turned to me. "It isn't a bad idea, Chance. It really isn't. You don't have to find real terrorists or anything like that. All you have to do is write about how easy it would be for terrorists to get into the marina. It's worth thinking about."
"OK, he can think about it," Thomas said, interrupting. "And while he's thinking about it, I'll write the end-of-season wrap-up for soccer, volleyball, and football. But you've got to get the newspaper out before Christmas break, Melissa, or it will all be dumb. You know that, don't you?"
"I know it," Melissa said. "And it will come out before Christmas. I guarantee it."
Natasha looked at her watch. "Oh my God," she said. "I was supposed to be home thirty minutes ago."
I saw my chance. "I've got to go, too."
"Get down there and check the docks, Chance," Thomas said. "Some terrorist might be sailing in tonight with a nuclear bomb. You wouldn't want to miss that."
"You're not funny, Thomas," Melissa said. She stood and turned to me. "I'll go out with you."
Outside, the night air was cold. She walked across the street with me to the top of the stairway. "Don't pay any attention to Thomas," she said. "That's just how he is. You will write something, won't you?"
I shrugged. "About what?"
"You could write about the salmon runs. It is important, even if it's not new. I won't be able to get a newspaper out by Christmas if I don't get some stories soon."
CHAPTER NINE
It was too early to go to sleep, and I didn't feel like reading or watching television or listening to the radio. I ended up cleaning useless stuff out of my school backpack and from my storage nooks. That's how I came across the army brochure the recruiter had given m
e on Career Day.
I threw it right into the trash with a bunch of other papers, but then I reached in and pulled it back out. Melissa, Thomas, Annie, Natasha—all of them were moving on with their lives. They were heading to college; the world was getting larger for them. Where was I going? What was I going to do?
I flipped through the glossy pages. It was pure marketing. I knew from my dad that the army was nothing like the brochure pretended. Nothing like it at all. And I was no big patriot either. Still, it wasn't the Tiny Dancer. It wasn't smuggling and it wasn't Ray's restaurant and it wasn't a hundred other crummy jobs I could see myself doing. At the end, there'd be money for college, though I didn't know what I'd study at college if I ever got there.
The next morning I went to the pay phone by the marina building and made the call. The man at the other end was businesslike. The first thing he did was ask my name.
"My name," I said, stumbling for words.
"Yes, your name."
"My name is Todd Jones."
"And how old are you, Todd?"
"I'll be eighteen in August," I said.
"Are you enrolled in high school?"
"This is my last year."
"Will you graduate?"
"I guess," I said. "I'm passing everything. I'm not any great student, though."
"That's all right. We'd like you to graduate before you enlist, though it's not required. How about if we schedule an appointment? I can show you your various options, get a feel for the programs that might interest you."
My mouth went dry. "What I really want to know is how long would it take? I mean, from the time I signed the papers until I got in."
"Not long. Ten days if you're in a big hurry and you're not fussy about your program. Longer if there's a particular program you want or if you want to do a few things before you enlist."
"As fast as ten days?" I said.
"As fast as ten days." He paused. "It's a great opportunity. You'll get a chance to grow up, a chance to learn something about yourself and the world. And when your enlistment is finished, you'll be eligible for up to fifty thousand dollars for your college education. But really, it would be better if you came in so that I could show you the various enlistment options and go over the benefits that come with each. Do you want to schedule an appointment?"
