Lucky Seven

by Matt Christopher

  “Why don’t you fall into a volcano?” snapped Chick sourly.

  The Lola was on the upper level of the track. Jack whizzed it around the sweeper, the steep, wide bank at the right side of the track, stopped it in front of himself, picked it up, fiddled with the brushes a second, then rose from his chair and headed for the counter. Oh-oh, thought Chick. That sneak. Pretending somethings wrong with his car when all he wants to do is squeal on me. And what am I doing? Nothing but watching.

  Seconds later Jack returned and continued racing his Lola. Mort didn’t come. Maybe Jack hadn’t squealed, after all. Maybe he was as honest as he always pretended to be.

  Then a hand rested on Chick’s shoulder. A strong, heavy hand. Chick looked around and there stood Mort Yates, all six-foot-one of him, staring down as if he had caught Chick robbing the First National Bank.

  “Out, Chick.”

  “Why? What did I do? I haven’t done anything.”

  “I want to make sure you don’t,” said Mort curtly. “Come on.”

  The people opened up a hole and Chick ambled through, ashamed and hurt. Mort opened the door and Chick walked out, hands stuck stiffly into his pockets.

  I haven’t done a thing! he thought bitterly. Not a thing!

  “Hey, Chick!” yelled Butch Slade. “Wait for me! I’ll be out as soon as I finish!”

  Chick trembled and got as close to crying as he had in a long time. He suddenly felt empty and alone.

  Louse! That’s what Mort Yates was. A big, dumb louse who just loved to show how tough he was.

  After a while Jack Harmon and Ken Jason came out of the building, carrying metal boxes which held their slot cars and accessories.

  “You squealer!” snarled Chick. “You snitched on me!”

  Jack’s mouth curved. “I did not snitch,” he said.

  “Liar!” Chick sailed into him, fists doubled up. Just as he was about to land a blow Jack lifted his metal box. It stopped Chick’s blow and sent a sharp pain up his arm that jarred him all the way down to his heels.

  “I told you I didn’t snitch on you!” shouted Jack angrily. “You’re making it up!”

  “Coward!” yelled Chick, rubbing his aching bruised fist.

  “Hey, you kids! Stop that fighting!” a loud, authoritative voice rang out from up the street.

  Heavy feet pounded on the sidewalk and a moment later Police Officer Tom Duffy was beside them. “All right now, Chick. Just control yourself and tell me what it’s all about.”

  Chick. It was always Chick.

  2

  Chick explained to Officer Duffy what it was all about. Jack didn’t speak up until Chick had finished his explanation.

  “That isn’t so, Mr. Duffy. I didn’t nerf his car on purpose. Ken can tell you that, too.”

  “Keep me out of it,” said Ken.

  “Okay, okay,” said Tom Duffy. “You two guys go on your way. I want to talk with Chick alone.”

  Jack and Ken left and Tom Duffy looked at Chick. “Chick, whether you’re right or not -”

  “But I am right!”

  “Look, I’ve known Jack since he was a little boy, Chick. I’ve never known him to tell a lie that would get a person in trouble.”

  “But this time was diff—”

  “Now, just a minute. Let me finish. Just suppose Jack did do on purpose what you said he’s done. Did you have to fly into him after what happened to you last Friday night? You’re just piling up demerits till you’ll have a reputation that’ll stretch from here to San Francisco. And you won’t have to wonder what friends you’ll have either. You won’t have any. You’ll be as lonesome as a polecat.” Tom Duffy paused and smiled. “And that’s really lonesome. You want to be like that?”

  Chick tried to keep from smiling back, but he couldn’t. “No, I guess not, Mr. Duffy,” he said quietly.

  “Well, then?”

  Chick shrugged. “I’ll try not to pop off the next time.”

  Tom Duffy laughed and ruffled Chick’s hair. “That a boy, Chick. By the way, how are your daddy and mom?”

  “Oh, fine, I guess.”

  The door of Mort’s Pit Stop opened and Butch Slade came out. “Hi, Mr. Duffy,” he greeted.

  “Hi, Butch. How’d you do?”

  “Came in third in a Wildcat race. Of course, there were only four of us racing.”

  Tom Duffy chuckled, said goodbye with a salute and a final remember-what-I-said look at Chick, and walked away.

  “What did he have to say?” asked Butch.

  “Plenty,” replied Chick.

  They walked along silently for a while, Chick trying to scratch Tom Duffy’s words out of his mind but with no success. No matter what Tom Duffy or anybody said, Jack Harmon was to blame for all the trouble he’d been getting into. And fistfighting with Jack wasn’t settling matters one bit. It just made them worse.

  There was only one place their feud could be settled, and that was on a slot car racing track.

  But how could he race without a car?

  “I’d like to build a car, but where could I race it, Butch? Think Ken will let me race it on his track?”

  “Ask him,” said Butch.

  They walked to Ken’s house and Chick knocked on the door. “Ken here, Mrs. Jason?” he asked as Ken’s mother opened the door.

  “Hello, Chick. Yes, just a second. Ken! Someone to see you!”

  In a moment Ken appeared.

  “Hi, guys.”

  “Hi. Ken, if I build a scratch kit racer would you let me run it on your track? Mort won’t let me set foot in his place any more.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ken. “I’ll have to ask my father.”

  Chick stared at him. “What?”

  “Well, it belongs to both of us.”

  “Oh—well, forget it, Ken. Maybe I can’t buy a scratch kit, anyway.”

  “If you do, then come back, Chick. I’m sure my dad won’t mind. Really.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Ken. See ya.”

  A father owning a model car racing track with his son was all right, Chick supposed. But did the son have to ask him if it were all right for some other kid to race a car on it?

  Well—if you invited a kid who didn’t care. A kid who messed around and popped off at other people. In that case, yes. You had to go along with his father then.

  That evening, after supper, Chick mustered all the nerve he could and asked his father for six dollars and forty-nine cents, the cost of a cheap slot car kit at Mort’s Pit Stop(providing Mort would let him buy it—and why shouldn’t he?).

  Dad’s answer was no surprise.

  “Can’t right now, Chick. It’s the end of the month. Bill paying time.”

  Just what Chick had thought. It was the same every time, whether it was at the end of the month, the middle, or the beginning. He just had no chance.

  He picked up Whitey, the fluffy white cat, put him on his lap and stroked him. One thing about cats: they never had problems.

  3

  At school Monday, Chick Grover got the surprise of his life. He had told Butch his dad wasn’t able to give him any money to purchase a slot car kit, and the word got around to Jack Harmon.

  “I have a car you can buy for two-fifty,” offered Jack. “I’ve had it for a long time, but it’s a good one. It’s worth all of that price.”

  “I haven’t got two-fifty. I haven’t got a dime.”

  “You can pay me when you get it,” said Jack.

  Chick stared at him. “What kind of car is it?”

  “A Ferrari. The paint’s chipped off some and she’s banged up a little, but that won’t stop her from running. It’s old, so you have to be careful with it, that’s all.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Chick, “when I get the money.”

  Chick had a speed test in math and flunked it. Math bugged him. Mom and Dad used to help him with it, but neither one could make heads or tails out of it now. Mr. Cullen, the math teacher, said it was easy as falling off a log and Chick would realize th
at if he’d concentrate instead of spending most of his time drawing pictures of racing cars.

  After school Chick asked the neighbors if he could cut their lawns, pick their weeds, carry out their garbage, anything. But no one had a thing for him to do. Their husbands or sons did those jobs.

  Dad was his only answer. That night Chick talked to him again. “Dad, I could buy a slot car for two-fifty. Jack Harmon will sell it to me. I’ve looked all over for a job to raise the money but I can’t find one. I’ll do anything you want me to, Dad, honest, if you’ll—”

  “Well, well, well!” exclaimed Dad, and looked at his wife. “Mary, did you hear what I heard, or are my ears deceiving me?”

  “They’re not deceiving you,” she said. “I heard every word.”

  He turned back to Chick. “Okay, son. I’ll let you have two-fifty on condition you get down to brass tacks on your math and bring home a better-looking report card. I know you can do better. You’re not a dumbbell. Especially in math. Who did you say you’re buying the car from?”

  “Jack Harmon.”

  “Isn’t he the kid you’re always scrapping with?”

  Chick shrugged. “Yes. But if I don’t buy the car from him I won’t have one. I—I guess you don’t really understand how much I miss having one. Only a kid would understand that.”

  His father took two one-dollar bills and a fifty-cent piece out of his wallet, placed it in front of Chick, then took Chick’s hand.

  “I was a young boy, too, son. I remember once I wanted something very bad. A bike. A two-wheeler. A crummy-looking two-wheeler that needed a paint job, a new tire, and repair work on the chain. The kid was asking five dollars for it. I didn’t have that kind of money. My father was dead. My mother was the only one working, trying to raise five kids. That was why I ... I—“ He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t get the five dollars. I didn’t get the bike. I never had a bike in my life, Chick.”

  The next day Chick gave Jack Harmon the two-fifty for the old, beat-up Farrari, then asked Ken Jason again if he could race on his track.

  “Sure, you can, Chick.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask your father?”

  “I asked him the first time you asked me.” Ken laughed. “He said it was okay.”

  “Oh.” Chick smiled. “Okay. I’ll come over.”

  Butch Slade was there when Chick arrived at Ken’s after supper on Wednesday. The track was in the basement. It was the sharpest home track Chick had ever seen. It was triple-laned and laid out on a four by eight-foot ply-board. There were two long straightaways, overhead ramps, a sharp S-curve at one end and a U-curve at the other.

  There were also trees, a grandstand and a pit stop where three ½4-inch scale model cars were being “handled” by track “mechanics.” For a long time Chick just stood, thrilled by the sight that looked so real. I’d give anything for a track like this, he thought. Anything.

  But he knew he’d never have a track like this. Never. Not while he was still a kid.

  “Go ahead,” said Ken. “Try out your new bomb.”

  “New bomb?” Chick laughed. “It’s older’n a monkey’s uncle.”

  He placed the Ferrari on the track, picked up the controller, and Ken turned on the power. The controller was the kind you pushed down with your thumb. The farther down you pushed it, the more power went to the motor, and faster went the car.

  Chick thumbed the controller. The Ferrari jerked ahead, roared up the far left ramp and spun out on the sharp curve.

  Butch put the flag back into the slot, straightened the car and Chick thumbed the controller again. The car crawled around the S-curve and Chick full-throttled it down the opposite straightaway. Too late he realized the car was speeding too fast. It left the track, spun over the white fence and crashed to the hard, cement floor.

  “Track!” yelled Butch, laughing.

  Chick stared at the Ferrari. It was a shambles. Its front axle, with wheels intact, had come off the frame and was rolling toward the far wall. The flag was broken off.

  But the worst sight of all was the motor. It was hanging outside of the overturned car, its two wires, a green and a red, still clinging to the broken flag.

  “That lousy Jack Harmon!” cried Chick, choking back tears. “He lied to me! He lied to me again!”

  4

  Chick Grover lit into Jack Harmon the following day in the corridor of the school.

  “You sold me a lemon!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the full length of the corridor. “A lousy piece of junk!”

  Jack stuck by his guns. “I told you that the car was old and you had to be careful with it.” he said. “It’s not my fault your head’s as fat as a balloon.”

  Chick’s ears turned as red as a stoplight. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to build a car and beat the pants off you! I’m going to beat you so bad you’ll wish you took up tiddlywinks, Mr. Jack Wise-Guy Harmon!”

  “Well, well, well! What’s this all about?” a dry, husky voice broke in.

  Mr. Webber, the principal, was coming up the hall, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. He was only four inches taller than Chick, but he had the shoulders, chest and neck of the college football guard he had been once upon a time.

  “What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?” he said, stepping between Chick and Jack and looking from one boy to the other.

  “Nothing,” said Chick, and started to walk away.

  Mr. Webber grabbed his arm. “I’ve asked a question, Chick. What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?”

  “I sold him a slot car and it got damaged when he raced it last night,” explained Jack. “He blames me for it.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” snapped Chick. “It was a piece of junk.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” snapped Mr. Webber.

  “I told him I’m going to build a car and beat his pants off,” said Chick, noticing that a crowd had gathered around them.

  “You could’ve made that suggestion somewhere else, not in this school hall,” replied the principal sharply. “Now go to your classes and don’t ever use this corridor, or any place else in this school, for your silly arguments again.”

  That evening, after Chick did his homework, he examined the damaged Ferrari. The best thing to do, he decided, was to buy a new chassis kit and build the Ferrari from scratch. There was nothing wrong with the body. It only needed a paint job.

  But where would he get the money to purchase a new kit? He wouldn’t dare ask Dad for another cent. Not after what had happened. And a kit would cost from five dollars up. He might as well forget the whole thing.

  He went and sat in the living room, his legs sprawled out and his fingers interlaced across his chest. There wasn’t a thing he felt like doing. He didn’t feel like reading. He didn’t feel like playing football. He almost wished that he had more homework to do, but that was going too far.

  After a minute he realized that he didn’t feel like doing anything except model car racing.

  Dad came in and lightly kicked one of his sprawled legs. “Hey, what’s with you? Your face is as long as these legs of yours.”

  Chick shrugged.

  “Is it a secret?” his father asked. He crossed the room and sat on the davenport.

  “My car’s busted.”

  “The one you’d just bought from Jack Harmon?”

  Chick nodded.

  “Can it be fixed?”

  Chick shrugged.

  “Well, can it or can’t it?”

  Chick pulled himself up in the chair and crossed his left leg over his right. “I suppose it can. But it’ll take an awful lot of work. Soldering and stuff.”

  “Let’s see the car, Chick.”

  “You mean what’s left of it,” said Chick gloomily. He got the car and held it out to his father. What was Dad thinking? That he might put old Humpty Dumpty together again?

  Dad placed the front axle on the brass strips wher
e old marks showed it had once been soldered. “We can file this old solder off and resolder the axle,” he suggested. “Know how the motor fits into the chassis?”

  Chick fitted it in the center of the drop arm. “It goes there,” he said. “The metal clip holds it in place. Just have to mesh the gears. But the guide’s shot, Dad. I’ve got to have a new one.”

  “Does Mort Yates sell ‘em?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. A tiny piece like a guide can’t cost too much.” Dad took a coin out of his pocket. “Here. Go buy one and we’ll put this baby together again.”

  Chick’s eyes brightened like headlights. “You—you mean you’re going to help me, Dad?” he asked hopefully.

  “Well, I’ll do what you can’t do yourself. Okay?”

  “Why, sure!” Chick swung his arms around Dad’s neck, gave him a squeeze that half-choked him, then scrambled to the front door.

  “Meowrrrrr!” shrieked Whitey as Chick stepped on the tip of his long white tail.

  “Out of my way, Whitey!” Chick shouted as he yanked the door open and flew across the porch and down the steps.

  Dad’s going to help me! he thought. He can do the soldering, I’ll do the rest. And I’ll paint the body, put new decals on it, and put a driver inside and a dashboard and I’ll enter it in a Concours d’Elégance!

  He had plenty of paint and decals. And he had a model car driver that had been collecting dust in a drawer for months, just waiting for an opportunity to climb into a cockpit and drive a car. Oh, man! It had turned out to be a pretty good day after all!

  5

  “Mort—I mean, Mr. Yates—are you going to hold a Concours Saturday?”

  Mort nodded. “Saturday afternoon. Then a few Crash-and Burn races. Why? Got a car you’d like to enter?”

  Chick smiled and nodded. He still felt nervous talking with the man who only a few days ago had thrown him out of the place. “Well, I’m fixing up a Ferrari. If I get it finished in time, I’d like to. That is, if ... if I could.”

  Mort leaned on the counter, his face hardly six inches away from Chick’s. “Okay, Chick. You could. But no fights. Promise?”