The Awesome, Almost 100% True Adventures of Matt & Craz

by Alan Silberberg

  Craz looked at his older brother. Hank was sixteen years old but seemed like an old man. He was the annoying kind of kid who always did the right thing. When he was failing a subject, he hired his own tutor. When he broke a window with a baseball, he fixed it himself. He was responsible, which explained why he had this lousy job at the Shack, a job most kids would hate and do only because they had to. But Hank loved the work and came home after every shift boasting about what a great opportunity the cruddy job was.

  “Don’t worry, Hank,” Craz began. “We’ve got the cash, so be a good man and just buzz off.”

  Hank put his hands on his hips and stared down at his younger brother. He put on his disapproving “Dad voice” and said, “You better not be doing anything I wouldn’t do. You hear me, Larry?”

  Craz laughed. “When did you stop being a kid? Here.” Craz stuffed the wad of dollar bills into the pocket of Hank’s stained apron. “Go buy yourself something nice. Now scram!”

  Hank looked at the crumpled bills, shook his head, and walked back toward the kitchen.

  “Listen, Craz,” Matt said, “maybe you want to go easy on that cash.”

  “I don’t see why,” Craz said as he started to fold a dollar bill into a small paper airplane. “If we run out, all you have to do is draw more.”

  Craz flashed a goofy grin at Matt and then sailed the dollar airplane off across the diner. It landed right in front of Marci Baer, a pretty girl in eighth grade, who shrieked at the sudden sight of a free dollar.

  “We don’t know that’s how it works,” cautioned Matt. “Not for sure.”

  Craz leaned across the skyline of food on the table. “Then, let’s find out. You’ve got the pen, right?”

  Matt slowly smiled. Sure, why not try it again? If it worked, great. And if it didn’t? There was no harm in testing the idea. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see if it’s because of the pen.”

  Matt pulled the pen from his pocket and cleared the french-fry plate and ice cream soda glass off his place mat. He smoothed the paper down as if he was petting a soft cat. “What should I draw?”

  Craz knew instantly. “A forty-foot tall school-crushing robot-a-saurus!”

  “Craz. I’m serious.”

  “And you think I’m kidding?”

  At that instant Hank came over to the table. He was practically hyperventilating, and his eyeballs were bulging out of his pinched face. “Do you realize you gave me eighteen dollars? Larry, eighteen dollars? Something is wrong here. Why do you have all this money to just toss around?”

  “Don’t you have dishes to wash?” Craz fumed. “I told you, Hank. It’s. None. Of. Your. Business.”

  Hank shook his head. “You worry me, Larry. I’m going to have to tell Mother and Father.”

  The ding from the kitchen window meant someone’s order was ready, and Hank shook his head one more time and then rushed over to load up his tray.

  As soon as Hank was gone, Craz knew what Matt should draw. “Make my brother into a geezer.”

  “What?”

  “A geezer. An old man. You heard him. ‘Tell Mother and Father.’ Who says stuff like that? My brother acts like he’s a hundred—let’s make him that way.”

  Matt glanced across the diner and watched Hank precariously carry a tray of burgers over to a booth of kids. Matt studied his posture and then summed up his face—small hook of a nose, eyes too close together, curly scrub-brush hair, and ears that looked like folded potato chips.

  “Sure. Why not? ‘Old Man Hank.’ Here goes nothing.” Matt wasn’t sure what was going to happen as he clenched the pen between his fingers. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should even try, and then he took a deep breath and started to draw on the food-stained place mat.

  15

  BEE CAREFUL

  “IS THAT IT?” CRAZ ASKED.

  “I guess so,” said Matt as he turned the sketch around for Craz to see. “I mean, it’s not my best work, but I think it looks like Hank if he was, like, fifty years older.”

  The guys looked across the room and watched six­teen-year-old Hank lug a heavy tub of dirty dishes through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.

  “What happens next?” Craz asked.

  “Hey, I’m just as clueless as you. Maybe—”

  CRASH! Plates and glasses smashed to the floor, and a second later Mr. Nuss, the owner and short-order cook of the diner, screamed, “Hank!”

  A table of older kids was already hooting and clapping at the mishap.

  “It worked!” Craz shouted. “The pen made Hank an old dude who can’t carry stuff!”

  Matt stared at the pen. This was all too strange. “I can’t believe it. All I did was draw.”

  “All you did was awesome!” Craz said. “Unbelievably awesome!”

  Matt lifted up the cartoon of Hank as an old man, and then raised his ice cream soda glass. “To the pen!”

  “To the pen,” said Craz as he clinked sodas with Matt and then took a huge sip of his drink. He burped, then started laughing. “We did it. My older brother is really old!”

  The guys stared at the kitchen door in anticipation of geezer Hank’s appearance. Would he be leaning on the cane that Matt had drawn? How about his teeth? Would he be all gums like in the cartoon?

  “I hope he has creepy spots on him like my grand­father,” added Craz. “Did you give him any of those?”

  Matt looked at the drawing. “Not yet.” He took out the pen and quickly added a few ugly blemishes to his cartoon of the crooked old guy. “That should do it!”

  “Hank,” screeched Mr. Nuss from behind the kitchen doors. “Look at you. This is terrible!”

  The swinging door opened, and a visibly upset Mr. Nuss rushed out into the diner. “I just can’t believe this,” he said.

  A second later the kitchen door opened again. Both Matt and Craz leaned forward, excited to see the results of the pen’s magic. From their booth they watched as a hunched-over form slowly backed his way out of the kitchen. He seemed ancient from the way he hobbled slowly backward into the diner.

  “Finally my brother’s gonna look the way he acts!” Craz said, clearly excited.

  “All because of this,” Matt said, the pen clutched tightly in his fist.

  Unfortunately, their excitement instantly fizzled when the bent-over figure straightened up and turned around. There stood an upset but otherwise normal-looking Hank, his apron covered in a mess of dirty dish slop from the splattering of the broken dishes.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Nuss,” Hank muttered. “I must’ve slipped on some french fry grease. I’ll pay for the broken dishes. I insist you take it out of my paycheck.”

  “No,” Craz said, slamming his hand onto the table. “The dork is supposed to be old.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Matt as he inspected the pen as if he’d see some flaw there. “It worked with the locker and the money. Why not Hank?”

  They watched as Hank grabbed a mop from behind the diner counter and dutifully disappeared back into the kitchen.

  So much for magic.

  THE BOYS PAID THE BILL AND LEFT A BIG TIP. Why not? Maybe they hadn’t figured out exactly how Matt’s cartoon had turned into a real stash of cash, but feeling like big spenders cheered them up.

  When they stepped outside, the afternoon sun felt warm on their backs. And with a backpack full of money, Craz and Matt couldn’t be happier.

  “Five bucks says I can hit the stop sign with a rock.” Craz picked up a small stone and bounced it in his hand. “Did I say five? Let’s make it ten.”

  “Craz, you’re a terrible shot,” said Matt. “But I can’t resist the bet, even if you’ll be paying me with our money.”

  Craz narrowed
his gaze and used his thumb to line up the stop sign on the corner. “Piece of cake,” he said as he pulled his arm back and whipped the rock with everything he had.

  They waited for the sound of the rock hitting the metal sign, but it never came.

  “Pay up,” Matt said as he grabbed at the backpack. “On second thought, keep your money. Then spend it on me!”

  Craz almost cracked a smile, but he stopped as he looked past Matt’s shoulder, where a bunch of bees were starting to form an angry swarm. “Guess my aim really is lousy. I think I hit a beehive.”

  Matt froze. “Beehive?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry. They’ll probably go away.”

  Matt heard the buzzing now, and it was getting louder. “Craz, aren’t you forgetting something?” Matt didn’t even dare blink, and his fists were clenched in tight balls. “Bees? Plus me . . . equals dead kid.”

  Now it was Craz’s turn to freeze up. “Right. The allergy thing. Totally brain-burped it. Sorry.”

  Matt slowly reached into his shirt and pulled out a white penlike thing that was attached to a string hanging around his neck. “You know what to do if I get stung, right? You didn’t forget about that?”

  Craz knew about the EpiPen, which held a shot of medicine that would counteract the effects of an allergic bee sting. Matt had nearly died once when they were six. Craz still remembered the way Matt’s face had swelled up and how he’d suddenly had a hard time breathing. It was really scary. After that Matt’s mom had made Matt promise to always carry the EpiPen with him, and she’d drilled Craz so that he’d know how to use it too.

  Just in case.

  Sudden movements would draw the bees’ attention, so Matt turned his head in slow motion. He saw them, all right. About two dozen bees swarming a pile of garbage, which thankfully had grabbed their attention.

  Craz knew what to do. “Run?”

  Matt nodded. “Run!”

  16

  SHOPPING SPREE

  “PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE EATEN SO MANY fries,” Craz wheezed once they’d rounded the corner and felt safe from the bees. “Or milk shakes.”

  “I hate being so allergic,” Matt said between gasps of air. “Totally bites.”

  “You mean stings,” Craz said with a smile.

  Matt didn’t laugh. “Craz, how can you forget I’m deathly allergic to bees? I still remember the first time you cut your elbow at day care. Mrs. Stillman gave you a Bugs Bunny Band-Aid.”

  “That was a great Band-Aid,” Craz said, not even aware that he was rubbing his elbow. “Look, I’m sorry I forgot about the bee thing. My brain is just so full that sometimes the important stuff gets pushed into the back.”

  Matt shook his head. “Whatever.” He tucked the EpiPen back inside his shirt.

  “Come on. Let me make it up to you,” Craz said. “I know the perfect antidote to being chased by bees.”

  Craz led the way to Sweet-Treats for a twenty-dollar party of candy including, but not limited to, sour cherry bubble-gum balls, red licorice twists, chocolate-covered nut clusters, two pounds of jelly beans, and a bag of gummi bears big enough to make a crater-size cavity!

  Craz paid with a random handful of bills grabbed from inside his backpack. The woman behind the counter eyed the boys at first, but Matt told her the money was from their paper route, which seemed to ease any suspicions she had over why two kids had so many loose dollar bills.

  Next stop was Denholms, a small store on Highland Avenue that sold men’s and boys’ clothes.

  “Underwear?” Matt asked, staring at his friend. “We can get anything, and that’s what you buy?”

  Craz was standing in line to pay. “My mother refuses to buy me boxers, and I really think it’s time to say sayonara to my Spider-Man briefs.”

  “No argument from me,” Matt said. “No wonder you always change in your gym locker.”

  “Bingo,” said Craz, happily clutching two packages of plaid boxer shorts. “Remember this day, Matt. Today I am a man.”

  Between the candy, underwear, and food feast at the Shack, they had made a decent dent in the cash bag, and so both decided to use what was left to buy Matt something he’d always wanted—a real drawing table.

  Easel & Brush was the town’s only art supply store. Located at the end of downtown, the brightly lit shop stocked everything from clumps of modeling clay to blank white canvases. High shelves lined three aisles crammed full of painting supplies, pens and pencils, inks, gum erasers, and different-size drawing pads.

  Matt loved the smell of Easel & Brush. There was always a faint odor of artist paint in the air mixed with the scent of fresh sheets of paper. When he was little, his dad used to bring him to the store on his Saturday morning errands. Matt remembered getting lost looking at the exotic supplies, most of which he’d never seen before. He’d spent hours inspecting the soft tips of the various brushes and walking among the watercolor sets, rows of colored pencils, and tubes of different kinds and colors of paint. Just being in the store always brought back a happy feeling of a time when his family was whole and when a gift of a little plastic pencil sharpener would make him smile for weeks.

  The back of the store opened into a wide space filled with the larger objects that didn’t fit on shelves. Here were the fancy swivel chairs that raised and lowered at the touch of a lever, large artist easels that stood taller than a kid, empty frames just waiting to be filled with finished art, and of course, an assortment of drawing tables. For years Matt had longingly walked around the tables, imagining what it would be like to sit behind one like a real cartoonist, but he’d always known that the steep prices were way out of his league.

  Today was different.

  “Forty-eight dollars,” said Craz. “That’s all the cash we’ve got left.”

  Matt eyed the drawing table price tags. “That easily rules out the Prestige-Elite.” Matt stood by the nicest table in the store. “This puppy goes for three hundred forty dollars.” Still hopeful, Matt walked among the half dozen other tables. “These others are pretty pricey too.”

  “Sorry, dude. I really wanted to see you behind one of these bad boys.” Craz was spinning around on an expensive chair that cost as much as two drawing tables combined. He gnawed on a twist of red licorice. “Hey, what about that one?” Craz was pointing into a dark corner of the room.

  Though most of the tables boasted extra features like spacious drawers and extra shelves for inks and paper, Matt now saw the simple white table with the adjustable legs so you could make the drawing surface slant at whatever angle was most comfortable. This table was a bit smaller than the other ones and was covered in a layer of dust, suggesting it might be an older, less popular model. Matt lifted the price tag, and his face lit up.

  “Fifty-two bucks,” he read. “That’s a heck of a lot closer to what we’ve got.”

  “Yeah, but we’re still four bills shy. You think they’ll take a bag of jelly beans as a trade-in?”

  “Worth a shot,” Matt said as he dragged the table into the center of the room and then carried it to the cash register in the front of the store.

  Delores Tuttle was the cashier and also the manager. She looked over the drawing table while thoughtfully chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Tell you what, seeing how it’s one of last year’s tables, I’ll let it go for forty-five dollars. What do you say?”

  Matt was about to seal the deal, but Craz spoke up fast. “We’ll give you forty. Even.”

  Delores didn’t bat an eye. “Fine. Forty it is. Free delivery, too.”

  “Great,” said Matt. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to get it home.”

  Delores looked at her watch. “Well, my driver is about to make the last deliveries of the d
ay. If you boys want, you can ride along and get dropped off with the table.”

  “Sweet,” said Craz. “Here, have a gum ball.”

  THE BOYS STOOD IN THE EASEL & BRUSH PARKING lot waiting for the delivery van to come around from behind the store.

  It was only four thirty, and the setting sun was a reminder that the days were getting shorter and that winter wasn’t too far away. The leaves still clung to a few trees here and there. Fall would be over soon enough.

  “The good news is, I finally have a real drawing table,” Matt said, his mouth full of gummi bears.

  “Right,” said Craz. “And I guess the bad news is, we still have no idea how the cartoon you drew became real.”

  “I’d like to believe it had something to do with the cartooning kit,” said Matt. “But come on, Craz. A magic pen?”

  Craz stopped tearing a bright yellow maple leaf into tiny shreds. “Okay, so it obviously isn’t some simple thing with the pen,” Craz said. “But you did make it happen, Matt. It had to be you.”

  The Easel & Brush delivery van pulled around the building and stopped in front of the boys.

  “It would be cool if the magic was because of me,” Matt said as he opened the passenger-side door. “But you saw what happened with Hank. Nothing.”

  The boys climbed in next to the heavyset driver who was squeezed behind the wheel. He turned to the boys, flashed a toothy grin, and said, “You know what I say? Sometimes nothing is something.”

  The boys looked closer at the delivery driver.

  It was Boyd T. Boone.

  17

  OLD MAN HANK

  “BOYD T. BOONE! IT WAS YOU!” CRAZ SAID, bouncing up and down on the front seat of the delivery van.

  “You betcha!” The cartoonist smiled at the boys. “Everyone buckled?” He glanced at the side mirror, then zoomed haphazardly into the traffic.

  A stunned Matt turned to Craz. “Wait a second. You’ve seen him before?”