Death by Eggplant

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  Still . . .

  Mrs. Menendez made a “hmmmm” sound. I immediately wanted to defend myself. The tear had happened while I was trying to rescue Cleo from Biker Bob at the supermarket. If I hadn’t acted responsibly then, Cleo would have been history. Well, not history, but certainly dumplings.

  I couldn’t get the words out. What if Mrs. M. asked how Cleo had fallen into the guy’s evil clutches in the first place? I would have to confess that I had stuck Cleo on the baking shelf to temporarily get rid of her. It seemed so obvious now: I had hidden her, not behind the toilet bowl cleaner, but in the most vulnerable place in the entire store, with all the other sacks of flour for sale. Maybe subconsciously I had wanted someone to buy her. I shook my head in confusion. When was my next appointment with Dr. Zimmerman?

  “This is a tear, Mr. Hooks,” Mrs. M. said.

  “Yes, it is. But it’s very little. And all kids get bumps and scrapes, no? They try to walk and . . . and they fall down.”

  “This is a baby, Mr. Hooks. Your baby. Not a kid.”

  “Should I put a Band-Aid on it? I’d already thought of that, but then my second thought was maybe it would heal faster if I let the air at it.”

  A snort came from Dekker’s direction. Mrs. M. didn’t turn. She stood looking down at me, hands folded behind her back.

  “But if you think a Band-Aid is better,” I babbled, “I’ll bring Cleo down to the nurse during lunch and get one. Unless you think she needs stitches.”

  “Are you being sarcastic, Mr. Hooks?”

  “No, Mrs. M.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she answered.

  “So?” I asked. “Band-Aid? Air?”

  “Stitches?” asked Dekker. “Brain surgery?”

  Without answering either of us, Mrs. Menendez walked to her desk, picked up the tape dispenser, and brought it back.

  “This will be sufficient, Mr. Hooks.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I carefully taped the tear and returned the dispenser.

  “Awwww, I hope Auntie Bertha kissed the boo-boo first to make it better.” Dekker puckered his lips and made sucking sounds. “Boo-boos don’t get better without kissy-poos, though I hear Lemon Lace Wedding Cake helps.”

  “I’d like to tape your mouth, Dekker.”

  I gulped. Had I actually said that? Out loud? In front of Mrs. M? In front of Dekker?

  “Yeah, you and what army?”

  Yep, I had said it.

  “Mr. Hooks, your outburst astonishes me,” Mrs. M. said, without the teeniest look of astonishment on her face. “Gentlemen, if you like, the two of you may continue your conversation this afternoon in detention.” The smallest smile touched her lips. “I’m proctor all week.”

  Nick sullenly turned away.

  The bell rang and kids dashed off to Mr. Neil’s first-period English class. But Mrs. M. lifted one finger, signaling for me and Cleo to stay behind.

  She studied the two of us, then said, “This assignment is not turning out quite as expected.”

  Maybe not for her, I thought. From the very beginning, I had expected to be squashed down to a grease spot. No surprise there.

  “How is your mother, Mr. Hooks?”

  “My mother?” I had been dreading the question ever since we all met outside church yesterday. “My mother is fine.”

  “Is she? She seems a bit . . . overly involved in your project.”

  “Well, she’s like that,” I said. “Involved. But that’s what mothers do, right? Get involved? Good mothers, I mean?”

  “You don’t think she’s stretching the definition?”

  “Of being a good mother?”

  “Of being involved,” Mrs. M. corrected me.

  Heat flashed up my neck.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “It’s not like she does my homework for me or anything. It’s just that Cleo appealed to her, maybe because I was an only child, am an only—”

  “Cleo?” Mrs. M. sat up a bit straighter, if that was possible. “I thought that’s what I heard yesterday. Your mother named your sack of flour, and the name she chose was ‘Cleo’? Short for ‘Cleopatra,’ I presume?”

  “It’s not a sack of flour, Mrs. Menendez. It’s my baby. You’ve told me that many times,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, I have.”

  But she looked doubtful. Mrs. M. in doubt? It would be easier to discover the world was flat after all.

  “I’ll finish the project by myself,” I promised.

  “In any case,” she said, “there are only four more days left.”

  Suddenly I caught a glimpse of Dekker at the hallway door. The creep had stayed behind and had heard the whole thing. Now he was wearing an I’m-going-to-getyou grin.

  “No, five more days, counting today,” I sighed.

  I managed to avoid real contact with Dekker all morning. But I figured my lunch options were going to be ketchup or no ketchup on his knuckles. When the bell rang at the end of Mrs. Menendez’s Spanish class, he turned, pointed at me, then pointed toward the windows that overlooked the schoolyard. “You, out,” the gesture said. He stood up and swaggered out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Indra hopped over two rows of seats and grabbed Cleo.

  “C’mon,” she said. She tossed Cleo in the air, then caught her. “Let’s go before he gets you.”

  “You’re helping me escape?” I asked, grabbing my knapsack.

  “Let’s just call it a field trip.”

  She waited till Mrs. Menendez left, and then peeked out the door.

  “Coast is clear,” she said, waving. “All the teachers have gone to lunch by now. And Nicky must be outside already.”

  “You know, maybe I should just get this over with.” I looked up and down the hallway but saw no one. “If he doesn’t get to pound on me today, he’s going to be twice as mad tomorrow.”

  “Get this over with?” she repeated. “What are you going to do?” She thrust out her chin. “Say, ‘Hey, Nicky, punch me right here’? Are you crazy? What kind of a plan is that?”

  “It’s the kind of plan you have when you have no plan. If not now, it’ll be later. You know Dekker. He’s responsible for so many bloody noses he attracts vampires.”

  Indra didn’t answer. She just took my hand and dragged me from the class. That was nice—I mean, holding her hand, not being dragged, though I was afraid my palm was sweaty, seeing as I was about to have my head unscrewed. But Indra didn’t say “Ewww” and wipe her hand or anything. She was pretty cool that way.

  I heard something behind us.

  I jerked Indra to a stop.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “What do you think? Maybe the monitors on their way to the schoolyard?” I suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  Sure. If this were a monster movie, I would be the guy who always gets killed in the first five minutes.

  We started walking again, this time on tiptoe.

  Suddenly footsteps hammered behind us. Indra started to run, yanking me along with her. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dekker racing toward us.

  “I got you now, Bertha!”

  We skidded around a corner. Indra pointed to a door at the far end of the next, very long hallway.

  “There!”

  The door would lead us out onto the yard, which is what I had been trying to avoid in the first place. But I guess being pounded into dirt would be softer than being pounded into linoleum. I ran.

  From behind I heard Dekker’s voice, much too close.

  “You’ll never make it, Bertha!”

  I was ready to let go of Indra’s hand and to tell her to go ahead without me. Then I saw Cleo squeezed so tightly by Indra’s fingers her mouth had been squished into an O. Plainly a call for help.

  Okay. I would do it for Cleo.

  With a blast of speed that would have shocked the gym teacher, I passed Indra, pulled her sharply to h
elp her catch up, then exploded through the door. We had just collapsed (or at least I had collapsed) on the empty picnic table bench a few yards away, when we heard the door crash open behind us. A growling Dekker shot into the yard.

  “Hel-looooo!” Indra suddenly began to wave. It reminded me of my mother helloing and waving yesterday in front of church, something I had been trying to forget.

  “Sorry!” Indra called, still waving.

  Had that last sprint cut off the oxygen to her brain?

  “Sorry,” she repeated loudly. “Won’t run in the halls again.”

  I turned and looked. There stood four teachers, lined up along the wall as if being marched off to the principal’s office, except the principal was among them.

  “This is where they sneak out to smoke,” Indra whispered. It was only then I saw the curls of gray streaming up from each one’s hand. “I figured if you had to go out, there was no safer place.”

  Dekker saw the row of teachers. Even though they were slinking around the corner like the guilty culprits they were, he admitted temporary defeat. “Okay for now, but you can’t hide forever, Bertha.”

  “I don’t have to,” I answered. “Just till Friday.”

  “No chance—not for you, not for Cleo. Isn’t that what your mommy named her? Right before she asked about your brand-new recipe for Lemon Lace Wedding Cake? Whose was it again? Oh, that’s right—Dolly Madison’s. Dolly,” he snorted.

  I pressed the hidden chef’s hat to my heart but couldn’t defend myself.

  “Didja hear that, Indra?” Dekker said into my silence. “Your wussy friend here just got a brand-new name—Baking Bertha.”

  “B-baking?” I said, not looking at Indra. “What do you mean ‘Baking’?”

  “I mean you’re mommy’s little cook. Do you wear her apron, too?”

  “Nicky!” Indra scolded.

  “You saw my mother,” I said, clutching my knapsack. “She’s a taco short of a combination plate.”

  “So what?”

  “So, are you going to believe anything she says?” I asked, my face oven hot. “Cook? Even I think that’s wussy.”

  At my double betrayal, it seemed that the sun dimmed and the earth shook. There before me, on one side, appeared the ghosts of famous chefs Jean Avice, Anton Careme, and George Auguste Escoffier. They shook their moldering French fists at me. On the other side stood the ghosts of their mothers, who rubbed their bony forefingers together. Shame on me! My denial tasted like ashes, like a mouthful of burnt toast.

  And for what?

  “Ha! Nothing’s too wussy for you, Bertha,” Dekker said, edging close. “Baking Bertha. I bet you’ve got cake plans for your little flour sack once the project’s done. Give ’em up and say good-bye to Cleo now, Baking Bertha. It might be the last time you see her.”

  “You big bully,” Indra said, stepping between us.

  “Ooooh, I’m crushed,” Dekker snapped, but a flash of something in his face said that maybe he was.

  “Yeah, you’re a bully, Nicky,” Indra repeated, crossing her arms. Again a strange look flickered in his eyes, but she kept going. “After all this time, I’ve finally said it.”

  It was funny. I had always thought hurting Dekker could only be done with a return pounding. I never thought he could be affected by so simple a thing as a name. Maybe the name had to come from Indra to hurt.

  Or maybe not.

  “Yeah, you big bully,” I echoed, giving my best attempt at a sneer. Stepping around Indra, Dekker snarled and made a fist.

  “Bully, jerk, fat head.” I frantically searched for the right word.

  He tightened his fist.

  “Jerk, slimeball, snot-face, turd.”

  He drew back his fist.

  “Shrimp!” I blurted out. “Shorty!”

  He threw the punch but it veered wildly and I was able to duck it. I, Bertie Hooks, had ducked a Dekker punch!

  “Peanut! Ankle-biter!”

  Embarrassment turned Dekker’s face into a red-spotted mess. I felt myself puff up. Had it always been this easy?

  He took a menacing step forward, but with a gulp, I stood firm and added, “Go away before somebody steps on you by mistake, you midget.” I reached out and gave him a shove. He turned and, with hunched shoulders, walked back inside.

  Indra punched me in the arm.

  “That was so mean!” she said.

  “What?” I couldn’t believe her. “Like calling me ‘Aunt Bertha’ for years is nice? ‘Good ol’ Aunt Bertha,’” I said in a fair imitation of Dekker. “Now Baking Bertha. Or did you think I should just be used to it by now? Well, I’m not, Indra. I hate it!” I grabbed Cleo out of her hand. “And stop trying to save me all the time. I don’t need your help!”

  Indra followed Dekker inside.

  Great. In a single morning, I had betrayed my mother, denied I liked to cook, managed to make my mortal enemy hate me even more, and probably just guaranteed I would never hold a girl’s hand ever again.

  I was going to fail eighth grade for sure now. Everyone hated me. My life was ruined. And it was only Monday.

  DAY SEVEN, AFTERNOON

  Late Tuesday afternoon, the intercom buzzed. Mrs. Menendez picked up the receiver and listened. “Yes, we’re ready.” She faced the class.

  “Please, put your math books away,” she said. She waited till the rustling and chair-scraping quieted. “Only three days remain till the end of the marking period this Friday,” she continued. “Make-up homework from a few of you is still due, as well as some special projects.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked back and forth between Dekker and me. “Other than that, our academic work for the year is finished. So over the coming days, I’ve arranged for a few guest speakers during my classes with you. Some parents have very generously interrupted their busy day to talk to you about their careers.” She gestured toward the door as it started to open. “Please welcome our first guest, Mr. Peter Hooks.”

  Dad? My dad was giving up work to talk about work? He hadn’t said a word to me this morning on his way out the door. Maybe he had wanted to surprise me.

  It was weird seeing him in class. It took me a few moments, then it hit me. I didn’t feel weird, my father looked weird. He looked strange, unbalanced, not like my father at all. If I passed him on the street, I might not recognize him. Why?

  “Mr. Hooks is, of course, Bertram Hooks’s father,” Mrs. M. said.

  My father frowned when he saw Cleo on my desk. What was he thinking—that he had seen her face somewhere before, or that his newborn must be a genius to already be in eighth grade? He would be signing Cleo up for actuarial science, too.

  Waving a hello to the class, he saw the second flour sack slumped on its side on Dekker’s desk. My father did a double-take like from a Saturday morning cartoon. I could almost see the thought balloon over his head: “Cleo has a twin?”

  “It’s a class project, Dad,” I tried to explain.

  “And yours is named Cleo,” Dekker cooed. “Soon to be Dolly.”

  “Shut up, Shorty,” I answered.

  Mrs. Menendez held up a warning finger to both of us. My father took that as his signal to start.

  “Hi. I’m Peter Hooks, as you heard, Bert Hooks’s father, and I would like to talk to you about insurance. Most people think that insurance is boring, but it isn’t, not at all. In most ways, it’s all about protecting people and property, but on some levels, it’s actually an exciting life-or-death gamble!”

  My father’s face glowed with enthusiasm, while mine glowed with embarrassment. I sank a little lower in my chair.

  “Now my job is to figure out exactly what the chances are that any given accident, no matter how strange, might actually happen,” he continued. “It may look like I’m only playing with numbers. But I’m really speculating about life; making up stories, even. It’s a little like being a fiction writer and a little like being a detective, a detective of future events. Of course, I do have to translate all these strange tales into num
bers, probabilities. So by the time I’m finished with the stories, rock star Head Cracker—”

  The class gasped at the name and leaned forward eagerly.

  “—becomes a statistic of .02379 percent in certain instances and 94.9 percent in others, depending on a whole set of variables, like whether he took his meds that day or whether the hotel maid gave Head Cracker ten pillows instead of his mandatory eleven pillows when she made up the room.”

  I heard murmurs of “Wow” and “How cool is that?” For my father?

  “What’s more, if you think about it,” he said, “I also contribute to either the decline of Western civilization or to the promotion of the arts, depending on your view of Head Cracker’s music, since without his being insured to the gills, he wouldn’t be allowed to play.”

  Beep-beep! At the sound, my father began to pat himself.

  “And I, uh . . . can’t even begin to tell you . . . um . . . about the consequences of a misplaced decimal,” he said distractedly, patting first his shirt pockets, then his pant pockets.

  Beep-beep!

  His phone! My father was looking for his cell phone! No wonder I thought he had looked lopsided. I rarely saw that side of his head. When he checked in at the school office, he must have noticed the sign that read “No cell phones, no pagers, no beepers,” thought it meant him, and turned his cell over to the secretary for safekeeping.

  Now he wanted to answer the call of a digital watch.

  As the guilty student fumbled to turn off the alarm, Mrs. Menendez glared. No beeps of any kind were allowed in class.

  “Dad!” I waved my hand in the air to get his attention.

  “Yes, son?”

  “You can stop looking for your phone. That was a watch beeping.”

  “Oh,” he said. He folded his hands in front of him. “Thank you. I guess I’m done, anyway. Questions anyone?”

  Two dozen hands shot up, no doubt desperate to know more about Head Cracker. One voice jumped in without waiting.

  “So, Mr. Hooks, your job is to pay up when freak accidents happen?” Dekker asked, his smile sneering and suspicious.

  “Well, to help determine the chances that a payout will be neces—”