I hope I’m downwind.
“Son,” replied his father, “you’re barefoot.”
Edgar looked down and said, “Yeah! I know! That’s how they do it nowadays. Strengthens the arches.”
“Ah,” mumbled his father, scratching his head. Taking a pensive, sideways sip from his big coffee mug, he eyed Edgar, then, after another moment’s consideration, he flashed a big, goofy smile.
“I’ll come see you run then!” he exclaimed. “That is, if you make the team.”
“Don’t worry, Dad! I’ll make the team,” assured Edgar, shooting him an extra wide smile.
His plan was working! His dad was totally buying it.
But then, somewhere inside, something ugly turned over: a pang of dull guilt mixed with shame for playing his father in such a way. The man trusted Edgar—fully and completely—and now Edgar had gotten his hopes up. Which was cruel.
“So,” said Edgar, suddenly wanting to change the subject. “What’s in the boxes?”
“These?” said his father, a sly grin emerging on his face. “Oh, these are just a bunch of sticks of dynamite!” He yanked one of the boxes from the jeep and turned to the shed, then kicked open the old, wooden door.
“Wow. Explosives? Really??” asked Edgar, following him in.
“Yeah. Turns out I get to keep a few of these boxes at the house because of my job at the Department of Transportation since we live on this side of the pass. It’s so I can get through an avalanche if there’s ever a big emergency.”
Edgar couldn’t even imagine it—avalanches! Snow! A real winter was coming! He’d only seen an inch of snow in his whole entire life down in Alabama.
At least this was one thing cool about Mount Lanier.
“It’s against the rules for me to have dynamite at the house,” continued his father, “but hey, they let me have a few boxes anyway, since I’m so cool.”
“You’re ridiculous,” laughed Edgar, shaking his head.
“Hey,” asked his father, “wanna give me a hand?” Edgar nodded and happily followed him out, so thankful he had survived sneaking out without getting busted. He grabbed a box from the Jeep and turned to the shed.
Turns out, dynamite was heavy.
“Whoa,” said Edgar. “It feels like a box of bricks.”
“Just put them over here,” said his father, “on this side of the shed, so we can put the blasting caps on the other side. It’s probably best to keep them both separate. I mean, it’s probably overkill, but I do want to be safe you know?”
“Should I be nervous about dropping it?” asked Edgar, nodding at the box.
“Nah. Without the blasting caps they’re totally harmless. No more dangerous than a box of wet hotdogs—and only half the cholesterol.”
Edgar stiffened as his father brushed by the pole rack, hoping his father wouldn’t notice that the Abu Garcia was glaringly absent.
Once they were finished unloading the boxes, Mr. Dewitt slapped Edgar on the back and beamed at him with pride. “Cross country tryouts, huh? Well, I’m really proud.” Fully awake now, his father’s face was aglow in admiration.
It didn’t make Edgar feel good one bit, even though he smiled back. Actually, it made him feel particularly terrible, like a complete and total jackass.
“Thanks, Dad,” chirped Edgar, closing the shed door behind him.
Once his dad had left for work, Edgar waited until he rounded the bend and then bolted to the woods for his fish and Abu Garcia. He snatched them up and darted across the yard, heading for the shed while trying to stay behind the line of shrubs and underbrush in case his mother looked out the window and saw him carrying a bunch of stuff this early in the morning.
Back in the shed, he yanked open the deep freezer in which his dad kept smoked sausage and black-eyed peas. After he checked the fish for freshness—its gills still red with blood—he wrapped it in some newspaper and stuffed it in the freezer.
Looking at the fish, now secretly hidden from everyone but him, he marveled at its size. It’s gotta be twenty pounds, easy, he thought.
It was beautiful, somewhat prehistoric-looking, and had fins on top and bottom with two rows of pointy, razor-sharp teeth. Its underbelly tender and pudgy, promised to yield a good portion of hopefully edible meat.
What if it’s poisonous? Edgar thought. But he didn’t have time to worry.
He would need to get back into the house and deal with his soon-to-be-awake mother.
Edgar washed his hands thoroughly three times in the faucet outside, which made him think of Flounder. Edgar couldn’t afford to smell like fish this morning. Mrs. Dewitt had the nose of a bloodhound and the suspicion of a DEA cop.
When he could no longer detect the smell of the sea on his hands, he ripped off his shirt and ran extra loudly into the house, stomping his bare feet and making sure to be extra calamitous on the hardwood floor. He found his mother in the kitchen, in the middle of pouring a steaming cup of coffee. At the sight of him, she clutched her hand to her heart and gasped.
“Edgar!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Who, me?” Edgar wheezed. “Just training for cross country tryouts, Mom.”
This time the lie came more easily—the trying not to wake them, the tiptoeing out, the bare feet strengthening the arches—all of it.
This isn’t so bad. Lying is easier than I thought.
__________
At dinner that night, Edgar was so sleepy his eyes began to close right there at the table. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours now—the longest amount he’d ever been without sleep. His parents seemed to notice it, too.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked his mother.
“Oh, just a lot of homework, that’s all,” he said, yawning.
“So early in the year?”
“Yeah, Ma. Like you said, it’s a good school.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Your father and I need to go out of town this weekend. Think you can handle staying by yourself until Sunday?”
“Sure,” he said. “Where y’all going?”
“To Bon Secour,” murmured his father.
“But, why?” said Edgar, instantly awake, his fork clanging as he dropped it. The sound cast even more of a somber mood upon the room than before.
“Edgar,” she explained softly, “we have to finish selling the old house. What would you like us to do? Not sell it?” She dropped her fork and rubbed her temples. “If you need something you can knock on Mrs. Irving’s door down the road,” she mumbled. “She seems to be a nice lady.”
“OK,” said Edgar. “Whatever.”
He slumped in his chair and the two of them stared at each other for a long time.
“What’s with your attitude, Edgar? You’ve been real . . . testy lately.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe because they’re gonna make you cry again, Mom, just like they always do! Everyone treats you like crap over there.”
“Watch your mouth, Edgar.” She glared at him as she stood to clear the table.
They were traveling back home to Bon Secour—a city in shambles, the city he loved, and somehow hated even more. The townsfolk there were angry with his father; they blamed him for the oil spill that had decimated their economy. But truthfully, nobody cared more for Bon Secour than his dad had—or his mom for that matter. They’d given everything to the little town they called “home.” But still, at the end of the day, no one cared. The loss of money and resources had made them monsters.
“You can eat leftovers on Friday night,” murmured his mother. “On Saturday you can order a pizza,” she continued. “I’ll leave you some money.”
“Fine,” Edgar nodded, but he’d save the pizza money.
There was fresh fish to be eaten.
Ten
&n
bsp; The week went by without a hitch. Edgar had resisted the urge several times to sneak out and opted instead to rest up for the weekend, knowing that when his parents left for Bon Secour, he’d have all the time in the world to work on his new hobby: skydiving.
He’d also been perfecting the art of steering clear of Chris Weedy and his goons for the most part—keeping his head down, staying out of conversations, not lingering in the hallway and not engaging him in Van Rossum’s class. It had all gone fairly smoothly, that was, until Friday at lunchtime, when Flounder was suddenly pegged in the face with an apple, hard.
Edgar sat across from him at the table, his jaw wide open, stunned by the violent impact. “Jesus!” cried Flounder, wincing in pain. The hard fruit had come whizzing across the lunch room, smashing Flounder’s temple like a fist, and Edgar, staring in disbelief, turned to see the jocks across the way—led in riotous laughter by Chris Weedy—and watched with an ensuing rage as they cackled like loons at what had been done.
“I was aiming at you, redneck,” Weedy mouthed to Edgar, burning with hatred.
“Jeez, man, are you OK?” said Edgar, turning to face Flounder.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” he muttered, wiping the pulp and juice from his reddening cheek.
A welt had begun to raise on Flounder’s temple. Silently raging, Edgar looked down at the tabletop and began to crush a stray Cheeto with his thumb, imagining it as Weedy’s face. There’s nothing we can do about the psychopath, Edgar reasoned. If they told on him, Weedy’s pack of meatheads would get them on the way home from school. And if they tried to fight him, well, same outcome.
When there was nothing left of the Cheeto but a fine orange powder, Edgar blew the dust from the tabletop and looked up.
“Look, man,” he said. “There’s just nothing we can do right now.”
“I know,” said Flounder. He nodded his hanging head. His sleek, black curls fell over his dark eyes.
With the insults and laughter dying down, lunch returned to normal.
“What’re you doing tomorrow?” said Edgar, trying to change the subject. Flounder’s red welt was growing insanely large.
“Nothing,” Flounder shrugged. “I mean, working. But other than that, nothing.” He lifted a hand and brushed the last bit of apple pulp from his shirt, then massaged the gnarly, red knot on his head forehead. Rage pulsed through Edgar’s chest, but for both their sakes, he tried to swallow it down.
“OK then,” said Edgar. “Fake a stomachache tomorrow and be at my house at nine o’clock. I need to show you something.”
Out of the blue, like an angel materializing from heaven, Shay Sinclair appeared and stood over their table, her face contorted into an angry scowl.
Huffing, she shot a glare at the mystified Chris Weedy and seethed.
“Have any room for me?” she asked angrily, slapping her lunch bag down on the table. Without receiving a response from Edgar and Flounder, she sat down.
Flounder winked at Edgar and smiled. Edgar motioned for him to scoot down and give her more room.
“No more lunches with stupid people,” she hissed, unpacking her lunch by slamming each item down on the table. Edgar and Flounder watched her in absolute awe.
“That’s OK, Shay,” Weedy yelled across the room, extra loud so that everyone could hear. Edgar turned and noticed an empty seat at the end of his table where Shay had been sitting, and it dawned on him that she’d left his table and her group of friends to join his and Flounder’s table, in defense of Flounder.
She’s on our side. Edgar could have asked for her hand in marriage right then and there.
“Nobody wants to sit with the daughter of a criminal, anyway.” A few nearby girls placed hands over their mouths trying not to laugh. What’s he talking about? Is her father a criminal? They sure did have a big house.
Shay closed her eyes and placed two balled fists on the table, squeezing them until her knuckles went white. Edgar and Flounder watched intently, and after a moment she finally composed herself, defiantly lifted a sandwich to her mouth, and took a large, angry bite.
“If anybody’s a criminal,” she proclaimed, “it’s that guy.” She chewed angrily and toasted him with a salute of her sandwich.
“You don’t say,” muttered Edgar.
“Oh, he’s a psychopath!” she continued, popping the cap on her Diet Coke. “He blows up stuff. Did you know that? Makes bombs out of chlorine and brake fluid. He salts yards, breaks windows, starts fires—just a regular vandal of the grandest proportions. The police can’t seem to catch him in the act, and here at school, everybody’s so afraid of him that they don’t ever tell, like right now, with Flounder.” She leaned over and looked at Flounder’s welt. “Oh my God—Flounder!” she said. “Are you OK?” He nodded at her, and her face became red with rage. “That’s it,” she hissed. “I’m telling on the jackass!” She rose from the table but the two boys reached desperately for her and urged her to sit.
“Please,” Edgar said. “If you want to help us, just let us work it out. You’ll just make matters worse if you tell on Weedy.”
She gazed at Edgar, face still contorted with disgust. Then she sat back down and stuffed the rest of her sandwich into her crumpled paper bag. “Why are people so afraid of him?” she asked. “I’ll never know. He’s nothing! My big brother would rip him apart.”
“Yeah?” said Edgar. “But could your brother beat up the whole JV football team? Because that’s what it would take.” She stared at him and considered this for a moment.
“All I’m saying is,” she said, sighing in resignation, “one day, Chris Weedy’s gonna get himself and the whole JV football team—which is a basketful of total idiots—placed right into Juvi. Mark my words.”
“Juvi?” inquired Flounder.
“You know, juvenile detention,” Edgar explained. “It’s like a prison for kids, which, yeah, she’s right. Just the sort of place Chris Weedy belongs.”
“You know,” Shay said, deep in thought, her voice now lowered to a whisper, “if you ever saw him vandalize something, you’d understand just how freaking nuts he is. Like, the stuff he damages or destroys, he always takes a picture of what he vandalizes with his cell phone, like he’s collecting a trophy or something. It’s psychotic. No matter how many dogs are barking, no matter how many front porch lights are coming on, he always sticks around to get his picture, like he’s addicted to terrorizing Mount Lanier. It’s like he needs something to remember it by.”
“Huh,” said Edgar, “I guess it sounds like somebody we know has actually been there when he took one of those pictures.”
She hung her head and nodded. “Yeah,” she admitted, “I was there one night. I was with him, once.” Her voice went soft with the grave admission that seemed to pain her. “It was a mistake, I admit it, but I went out with him and his friends without knowing what we were getting into. They just invited me out and I was bored, so I went. I mean, I wasn’t with him—it was just a big group and all my friends were going, so I thought, OK, maybe we’re just going to a movie or something, or maybe we end up playing spin the bottle or something down by the football fields.”
Edgar gulped at the notion of her playing spin the bottle. Picturing her kissing someone other than him pissed him off more than it should have.
“But after they got me from my house, he led us all down to the suburbs and before anyone knew it, there he was, lighting a car tire on fire. Everybody freaked and scattered laughing and squealing and, I mean, I ran too—even though I hadn’t done anything wrong because I didn’t want to be the one who got caught.” She placed a hand over Flounder’s hand and added, “I didn’t want to be the only one to go to Juvi, you know?”
Flounder stared at her with wide, fascinated eyes, entranced by her as she twirled the Diet Coke cap around her fingers.
“There he was,” she said, lost in the recollection. “Chris
Weedy, the last of us, unwilling to run away, wearing this evil little grin on his face while the rest of us scattered like cockroaches. We dove into the bushes and hid behind trash cans, some of us sprinting up the mountainside—whatever we could do to keep out of sight from oncoming cars or cops. But not Weedy. He just stood there with this demented look on his face, cell phone in hand, taking picture after picture of the burning tire as if he didn’t even care—as if nothing in the world could pull him away. His friends called out to him. They told him to run, but like I said, he never even seemed to care.”
“So no Juvi for Christopher,” muttered Flounder, visibly disappointed.
“Nah,” said Shay. “Not that it would matter for a guy like him. Apparently for Chris, Juvi would be no worse than home. Rumor has it his mom was a heavy alcoholic, and his dad is never around.”
“Was?” asked Edgar.
“Yeah,” Shay nodded. “His mother supposedly drank herself to death a few years back. And his dad works a lot.”
“Whoa,” said Edgar. “That kind of explains a little.”
__________
That afternoon, with Edgar’s parents safely en route to Bon Secour, Edgar finally retrieved the fish from the shed that had been thawing behind the lawnmower since he’d left for school that morning. Now, in the warmth of the fall afternoon, he took his electric knife and sat down on the deck.
The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt Page 7
