by David Lubar
My shoulder ached. I flexed it. It wasn’t broken, but I had a feeling I’d have one monster of a bruise.
I heard a scream. Then I heard the front door open.
I walked into the hall and checked out the carpet. It was looking pretty crunchy, with all those bits of litter strewn across it.
Mom appeared at the other end of the hallway. She looked pretty pale. I had a feeling I did, too. We stared at each other for a moment.
“You’re cleaning this up,” she said.
“I know.”
“And you’re scooping the litter every day.”
“I know.”
“Every single day.”
I nodded. She walked away.
I went to get the broom.
Right after I started to sweep up the laundry room floor, Boots jumped into the clean litter box. She did her business, kicked some litter over the clump, and walked off.
I grabbed the scooper. From now on, I was going to make sure the litter box wasn’t just cleaned every day—I was going to clean it as soon as it got dirty. Every single time.
The doorbell rang. I went to see who it was.
“Soccer?” Treena asked.
“Okay.” I headed out. But I promised myself I’d take care of the litter as soon as I got home. For sure.
MOVING STAIRS
They were heading toward Florida to visit the grandparents. The afternoon of the second day, Dale’s parents pulled off the highway to look for lunch.
“Nice town,” Dale’s mom said as they drove into Lamford.
“Look at that,” Dale’s dad said, pointing across the town square. “Big store.”
Dale looked. It was the tallest building in town, as far as he could see. On the front, above four large glass double doors, were the words: HUFFDIBLE’S. Below that, in smaller letters, it read: MEETING ALL YOUR NEEDS SINCE 1932.
“Let’s go there,” Dale’s mom said. “I forgot to pack enough shirts.”
Dale’s dad sighed, but didn’t argue. He parked the car across the street, popped some coins in the meter, and led the family toward Huffdible’s. Dale sighed, too. He hated shopping with his parents. And he knew this wouldn’t be a quick trip. His mom would take forever picking out shirts, and then she’d remember she needed something else. Meanwhile, his dad would get all involved with a display of tools, or shoes, or something else just as uninteresting.
He followed his parents inside. The store was just like any other large store he’d ever been in. There was an escalator in the center, with a directory over it. Women’s shirts were on the second floor. Dale didn’t care about that. But he saw something that caught his attention. SIXTH FLOOR: TOYS, GAMES, AND MODELS.
That was worth a look. “Hey, Dad,” he said as they reached the second floor, “want to go check out the models? Maybe they have some cool rocket ships. Or a Corvette…”
His dad started to nod. Dale could see the word sure forming on his lips. But in mid nod, his dad’s head turned to the right. Dale sighed again as he watched his dad’s eyes lock on to something.
“Gosh—they have those new wallets—the ones with the extra section for credit cards. I have to check that out.”
“But…” Dale watched him go. Now he had a choice. He could stay with his mom. Or he could tag along after his dad.
Or he could break free.
“I’m going up to the sixth floor. I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes,” he told his mom. But he told it to her as quietly as he could. “Okay?” he said, louder.
She was distracted enough by the task of figuring out the final price of a blouse that was on the 5 percent off rack but with an additional 8 percent discount and a buy-two get-one-at-half-price special offer, that she nodded and said, “Sure.”
Dale headed up the escalator. The floors weren’t numbered. But he counted four flights, then stepped off. “Weird,” he said, looking around. All he saw was luggage. But there were more floors above him. Must have miscounted, he thought. He went higher. Several floors later, he saw the unmistakable colors and shapes of a toy section.
He walked past the infant toys, and the play sets. The fun stuff was beyond that. He checked out the slot car sets and RC planes. Then he looked for the models. They had a couple of nice kits. I have to bring Dad up here, he thought. There was a good chance he could talk his father into buying him the Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Kit, or maybe even the Millennium Falcon. That would make the visit to his grandparents even more fun.
Dale walked back to the escalator and headed down. “I guess I need to go down six floors,” he said. He wasn’t worried. He’d just look for the women’s shirts.
He saw men’s pants and dinnerware. But no women’s shirts. He kept going. “No problem,” he said, speaking out loud. “I’ll just go to the first floor, and then go back up one.”
After going down several more levels, he stepped off. Children’s clothing. That’s all he saw. I’ll just ask someone.
He looked around. There weren’t any other people in sight—not in the aisles, and not at the registers. He headed back up. He figured if he could find the toys again, he could count his way down more carefully.
He got off when he saw shelves of board games. But this was a different floor from the one with the toys.
He looked at the escalator. Up or down?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It doesn’t matter at all.”
He was right.
MATTERS OF FAX
I almost managed to get out of the house before Dad snagged me. The guys were waiting for me at the field. When it comes to escaping Dad, almost isn’t anywhere near good enough. I had my glove in one hand and was turning the doorknob with the other, when Dad walked up behind me. “Hold on, Charles. I need some help.”
“But the guys are waiting,” I said.
“This won’t take long. I have a ton of work, and I’ll never get it done without some assistance.”
He headed toward his office. I wanted to argue, but it was no use. Dad has his own business. He works at home. Once in a while, he snags me to help. If I try to argue, he’ll just tell me a long story about how he worked every day after school in Grandpa’s hardware store when he was a kid. It’s usually quicker to just do what he wants.
“Fax these,” he said, handing me a stack of papers.
“Then can I go out?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“You know, most people use e-mail these days,” I said. “Faxing is almost prehistoric. Can’t you just scan these and send a JPEG?”
“I’ve upgraded my technology,” Dad said. “This fax is the latest model.”
I took the papers and went over to the table at the back of Dad’s office. There was a fax machine plugged into the outlet by the wall. But it wasn’t the old one. I guess Dad really had upgraded his equipment, leaping all the way from prehistoric to ancient.
“Hey, Dad. I don’t know how to use this one.” Maybe he’d let me go if he realized it would take longer for him to teach me how to do it than to do it himself. It was worth a shot.
“They’re all pretty much the same,” he said. “Stop complaining and get to work. You know, when I was your age…”
I tuned him out and entered the phone number that was written on the cover page. Then I put the papers in the machine and hit the SEND button. After the fax dialed out, the papers started to feed through the machine, one sheet at a time. I noticed they weren’t straight. I reached out to fix them. That’s when my sleeve got caught.
“Hey!” I yanked at it, but the machine wouldn’t let go. I yanked harder. It pulled me down. I stabbed at random buttons, hoping one of them would stop the machine.
“Help! It’s eating me!” I shouted.
“Very funny,” Dad muttered. He didn’t even turn around to look.
“I mean it,” I said. “I’m being swallowed.”
“Ha-ha. That reminds me of the time my dad—your grandfather—let me use the key-making machine all by myself for the fi
rst time.…”
He still didn’t look. My wrist was getting pulled into the machine. I reached out with my other hand for the plug. But I lost my balance and fell forward. My whole arm went into the fax. I expected it to hurt. But it just sort of tingled.
The machine pulled the rest of me in. I felt like I was swimming through ginger ale. I stopped struggling to get free. It was no use.
I went all the way through the machine, and came out the bottom. I ended up on the floor, surrounded by the pages Dad had given me.
The machine beeped. I looked at the display. It read, FIFTEEN PAGES SENT. ONE OBJECT SENT.
One object? I tried to stand, but I was dizzy. I felt like I’d been spun around real fast about fifty times. I waited a moment, until I was sure I wouldn’t topple over, then got to my feet.
One object. I couldn’t get that thought out of my mind. I looked at the first page. The fax had been sent to Sebold Engineering Corp. I knew the place. I’d gone there with Dad a couple times when he dropped stuff off. It was on the other side of Broad Street, not far from here. I figured I’d better get over there and see what sort of object came out of their fax machine.
“Am I finished?” I asked Dad.
“You’re done. Thanks. Go play.”
I headed out. When I got right down the street from the Sebold building, I saw the front door open. Then I watched myself wander out. I ran up to me and took a good look. It was me, all right. But not as sharp as I looked in the real world. It was sort of like a slightly fuzzy version of myself.
“Hi,” my other me said. He smiled at me like I was his best friend.
“Hi.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to be nice to him, because he was me. I certainly didn’t want to be mean to myself. But I wasn’t sure I wanted another me around.
Then I realized it might work out okay. I could get my other me to go to school in my place. I’m pretty sure my teachers wouldn’t notice a bit of fuzziness. And I’d always have someone to play two-player video games with me. My folks don’t let me go online, so local co-op is my only choice if I want to play with someone. I owned two controllers, even though most of my friends were usually too busy playing online to come over.
“Let’s go home,” I said. There was no way I could hide this from my parents. I figured I’d break it to Dad first. He was less likely to freak out than Mom. “Do you like Gears of War?”
“Sure. Just as much as you do.”
Of course he did. He liked what I liked. This would be better than having a best friend. This would be someone who totally understood me. He’d know what I was thinking, and what I wanted. “Wait here,” I told me when we got to the yard.
I wanted to warn Dad first, and get him ready for what he was about to see.
He was on the phone in the office. “I’m sorry. He did it by mistake,” he said. “It’s a new machine.” Then he hung up.
“Uh, Dad…,” I said as the phone rang again.
He looked up at me. “I’ve been getting calls ever since you left. You must have hit the broadcast button.”
“Broadcast?” I remembered punching all those buttons when I was getting sucked in. “What does it do?”
“It sends a fax to everyone.”
I got the same feeling in my stomach that I got in school when I realized I’d forgotten to do my homework. “What do you mean, everyone?”
“Everyone,” he said. “Every person in my contact list. The people who’ve called already are babbling some kind of nonsense about having you show up with the fax. I don’t understand what that part is about.”
“You will…,” I said as I glanced out the side window. I could see me coming toward the house. Lots of me. They—I mean, we—were all coming here. I guess I was going to need to get a lot more controllers.
CASTING MAGIC
I love opening day. It’s the only time all year when I don’t mind getting up early. You can’t start fishing until 7 A.M., but if you want a good spot, you have to get out to the stream by 5. So I was awake by four, and had met up with my friends Mikey, Brian, Xavier, and Drew in front of the middle school at 4:30. The school’s on the way to McLean’s Creek, so it was a good spot for us to meet.
“It’s freezing,” Mikey said.
He’s always complaining. But he was right—it was cold. I didn’t mind. The crisp air made the sky awesome. The stars looked like tiny white lasers aiming at us.
“Anyone want to make a bet on who limits out first?” Brian asked.
“Why bother?” Xavier said. “You know I’ll win.”
That was probably true. We were all pretty good, but Xavier was the best. He had a lot more patience than I did. Most of the time, I’d cast into a spot once or twice, and then move on. But Xavier would work a spot for as long as it took. I’d seen him spend twenty minutes fishing a small riffle that the rest of us had passed by, and end up with a nice catch.
“Yeah, Xavier has all the luck,” Mikey said.
“Not this year,” Brian said. “So, who wants to bet?”
“Bet what?” I asked.
“The three losers do all the winner’s yard work for a month,” Brian said.
“I’m in,” I said. It was worth a shot. We each had to mow our own lawn. Xavier’s mom had a huge garden, so there wasn’t a lot of grass to mow. My yard was pretty big, with lots of trees to mow around, so if I won, it would be great. Not that I had much hope.
“Me, too,” Mikey said. His yard was as big as mine, but it didn’t have any trees, so it was pretty easy to mow.
“What about you?” Brian asked Xavier. “Are you in or are you scared?”
Sometimes we played cards. Right now, Brian reminded me of a kid who was holding a handful of aces and trying not to act too excited. I had no idea what his secret was, but we’d find out soon enough. His yard was small, but it had a steep slope in the back that was a killer to mow.
Xavier nodded. “Sure. I’m in.”
We got on our bikes and headed for the creek. There were already a lot of people along the banks, but we managed to grab one of our favorite stretches, right in casting distance of some nice rocky riffles and a deep pool we called the “mine hole.” I’d pulled a nine-inch brook trout out of there last fall.
By the time we got close to seven, there were people almost elbow to elbow all along both banks. The funny thing is, it wouldn’t be like this tomorrow. People made a big deal out of opening day. I guess I did, too. But half of them wouldn’t even fish again this year. I fish all year long. So does Xavier.
I got my tackle ready. Normally, I liked using spinners and spoons. Especially this small one that looked like a minnow. It was called a Phoebe. But in this tight a crowd, I figured it was better to start out with live bait. I could cast that out and let it drift, or add a bit of split shot to the line and let it sit.
Xavier, to my right, was using a tiny clear float and a dry fly. “Trying something new,” he said.
I glanced over at Brian, on my left, as he unscrewed the lid on a small jar like the ones that hold salmon eggs. The label looked like it was hand printed with a black fine-tipped marker. It read: MAGIC BAIT. CATCH A FISH ON EVERY CAST.
“Are you kidding?” I asked.
Brian grinned. “I found it on the Internet. It’s guaranteed. It cost me two weeks’ allowance, but it will be worth it when you guys mow my lawn all month. Did you know we’re moving across town? The new place has a gigantic lawn on a real steep hill.”
Before I could answer, I saw a flurry of motion around me and heard a dozen plops and splashes. Then I checked my watch. It was 6:59. Some people just couldn’t wait. Once one person started fishing, most people joined in. I waited until 7:00. So did Xavier. I think it’s important to follow the rules.
At 7:00, I flipped my worm toward the mine hole with an underhand cast. Xavier tossed his float toward the riffles and let it drift. Five seconds later, I saw the float go under as a trout hit the fly. At the same time, I saw Brian set his hook.
&nb
sp; “Got one,” Brian said.
He and Xavier each landed their first fish.
“Too small,” Xavier said. You could only keep fish that were at least six inches long. Xavier gently removed the hook. That was easy, since he’d flattened the barb.
Brian’s fish was a keeper. He didn’t bother to measure it, but I could tell it was at least eight inches.
I felt a tap on my line. I pulled back to set the hook, but missed the fish. I reeled in my line to check my bait. Yeah, the worm was gone. As I baited my hook, I glanced to both sides. Drew was releasing an undersize fish. Mikey hadn’t caught anything yet.
“Got another!” Brian said.
He played his second fish in. That took a while, since it was a big one.
“Wow, that’s got to be over a foot,” I said.
“Yeah, and that’s two for me,” Brian put the fish in his creel bag. Then he lifted up the jar of bait and gave it a kiss. “I wonder what I should do while you guys are mowing my lawn? Maybe I’ll go fishing. Or maybe I’ll sit on my porch, drink lemonade, and read comic books while you sweat.”
He baited his hook with another glob of his magic goop, tossed out his line, and caught another fish. At least this one was undersized.
But, the way things were going, it looked like he was right. We’d be mowing his lawn—his new, gigantic lawn. And it looked like the label on the bait spoke the truth—he was catching a fish on every cast. Not every trout was a keeper, and not every fish was a trout. He caught a couple bluegills and a perch after the trout. But he was definitely getting way ahead of us in the race to limit out.
By the time I caught my first keeper—a nice nine-inch palomino—Brian had three trout in his creel. Xavier had two. Drew had one, and Mikey was still getting skunked and complaining about what a terrible spot we’d chosen.
I tried to concentrate on my own fishing, but I realized people along the bank had started to notice the action happening next to me. Fishermen are like that. No matter what we’re doing, we always check out anything that’s caught by anyone else. We want to see what’s in the water. And to tell the truth, we want to see if their fish is smaller. Fishing gets a lot more competitive than it should. But I guess that’s true about a lot of things.
