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

by Alan Silberberg

  “Next stop,” he said, staring at the cartoon, “Treasure Island.”

  27

  AN ISLAND VACATION

  FINALLY HOME AFTER A LONG SCHOOL DAY, Mrs. Bentz opened another can of cat food and dumped the smelly mess into the big bowl on the kitchen floor. “Okay, sweeties,” she called. “Supper!”

  Five cats of different shapes and sizes instantly swarmed her feet and started feasting on the gross-smelling pile of tuna Treat-Ums. Not counting her cats, Mrs. Bentz lived alone in a stucco apartment near the Laundromat. It was a neat one-bedroom home that she decorated with a collection of tiny ceramic statues of rosy-cheeked cherubs and a series of paintings all depicting summer, her favorite time of year. She loved her apartment, which was a tidy, immaculate space that made her feel calm after her long, thankless days teaching unruly adolescents.

  After feeding her cats, Mrs. Bentz emerged into the living room looking like a psychedelic sausage in her Day-Glo spandex exercise clothes and thick terry-cloth headband. She turned on the TV, slid her favorite aerobics DVD into the player, and as the upbeat music began to fill the room, she started her workout while her five cats purred from their perches on the couch.

  On the TV the perky instructor stepped from side to side, swinging her arms in wide circles. Mrs. Bentz followed along, looking far less graceful but ready for the burn. “Momma’s gonna get in shape!” she shouted to the cats on the couch. “Just you watch!”

  CRAZ ARRIVED AT COPY-COPY AND LEFT HIS bike outside while he went into the store with the new cartoon. He walked to the self-serve machine and was surprised to see an out of order sign there.

  “What happened to the copier?” he asked Mr. Hupt, who, as usual, was bent over the larger machine in the back of the shop, banging on it with a wrench.

  Mr. Hupt dropped the wrench and wiped his hands on his pants. He turned around. It was Boyd T. Boone. “Just a little paper jam,” he said with the familiar twinkle in his eye. “Or a toner problem. Can I level with you? Don’t know, don’t care.”

  Craz was starting to get used to these sudden appearances by the cartoonist. The guy was weird. That was for sure. But Craz was still glad to see him again. “I just need to make a quick copy. Got some unfinished teacher business to deal with, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Boyd T. Boone said with a broad wink. “Hand it over and we’ll take care of it back here.”

  THE SWEAT WAS POURING OFF MRS. BENTZ AS she copied the dance moves on the DVD. “Gotta move it to lose it,” she cried out as her heart beat like a sledgehammer in her chest. “Feel the burn, kitties!”

  She was so used to feeling slightly light-headed and dizzy while she hit the hardest part of the workout that she hardly noticed the moment when her cozy living room disappeared and was replaced by lush, tropical island foliage.

  “Hold on,” she said, suddenly aware of a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing her sweaty head. She pressed her hand to her heart. “Am I having a stroke?”

  The aerobics music was gone, replaced by the distant crash of waves and the sudden squawk of an unseen parrot shouting, “Pieces of eight, Capt’n. Pieces of eight!”

  Completely confused, Mrs. Bentz took a few tentative steps toward the noise. Peering through some palm fronds, she saw a white sandy beach and five men who either were dressed for Halloween or were actual pirates.

  Pirates!

  She stared again and saw that the men had cutlasses and hooped earrings—and then she gasped. The one shouting orders leaned on a wooden crutch and had only one leg! Could it really be Long John Silver? In the flesh!

  Mrs. Bentz strained to see the name of the massive boat anchored in the harbor.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, overwhelmed as the letters came into focus. “Hispaniola!”

  Mrs. Bentz felt like she’d died and gone to heaven.

  28

  CARTOONIST CRAZ

  CRAZ HAD NO IDEA IF THE MAGIC HAD WORKED, but he couldn’t help smiling at the thought that his teacher was shipwrecked far, far away.

  “So give me a coming attraction. Do I get a substitute teacher tomorrow?” he asked Boyd T. Boone, who was holding up the Treasure Island cartoon and the copied image like fresh fruit he’d just picked from a tree.

  “Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” the cartoonist said as he handed the drawings back. “That’s the way the cookies crumble.” Boyd T. Boone then poked the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “Speaking of cookies, how about you draw me a nice bag of chocolate-pecan-chips?”

  Craz laughed. “Actually, Matt’s the cartoonist. I’m just the idea guy.”

  “Just the idea guy!” Boyd T. Boone stood up straight and placed his hands on his wide hips. “Don’t sell yourself short, bucko. Cartoons without ideas are just lines,” he said. “Besides, everyone is a cartoonist. Some just make better doodles than others.” Boyd T. Boone leaned across the counter. “Don’t tell me there isn’t anything you’d want to draw right here, right now?”

  “There’s plenty I want, but trust me. I can’t draw.”

  “Everyone can draw,” Boyd T. Boone said. “With a little help.”

  Craz shook his head. “Not me. Even my stick people look messed up.”

  “Yeah. Drawing people can be tough,” the cartoonist said. “But there are plenty of other things to draw. If you want to, that is.”

  Craz thought for a second, then looked out the door at his sad hand-me-down bike leaning against the parking meter. Besides all the rust, the brakes were shot and the tires were totally bare of tread. “I guess it would be nice to have a cool new bike. All I’ve ever had were used pieces of junk,” he said, and sighed. “But I wouldn’t have a clue how to draw one. Seriously.”

  “Hmm. I bet that’s just years of nasty art teachers filling your head with nonsense.” Boyd T. Boone flashed his toothy smile. “All you need to draw something is the idea of it . . . and you’ve got that base covered, right?”

  Craz thought about Matt. He would definitely not be happy if Craz used the pen to draw something wild and potentially troublesome like a pocket-size time machine or a popcorn-popping robot that did your homework. Too many things could go wrong. But a new bike was pretty safe. It was just a simple object that he could really use.

  Craz took a deep breath. “Why not? What do I have to lose?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Boyd T. Boone shouted.

  Craz reached into his pocket and pulled out the pen. Sure, he’d signed his name with it before, but holding it now felt really different. For the first time he was about to use it to draw something, and that made all the difference.

  “Um, where do I start?” he asked the cartoonist.

  “You start by closing your eyes and picturing what you want in your mind. And I mean really see it,” Boyd T. Boone said.

  Craz closed his eyes and tried to imagine the bike that he’d want.

  “Oh, and while you’re at it . . . ,” Boyd T. Boone added. “Could you picture those cookies, too?”

  MATT WAS DOING SOME MATH HOMEWORK WHEN the doorbell rang. He yelled twice for Ricky to answer it, but after the third ring he finally gave up and went to see who was being such a pain.

  “Hello, Matt,” Craz said, leaning casually against the door frame with his arms behind his back. “Wuzzup?”

  Matt stared at his best friend. Craz was never very good at keeping secrets, and Matt could always tell if Craz was hiding something by the way he blinked too much. And right now his eyelids were a blur.

  “What did you do?” Matt asked suspiciously.

  “What did I do? I copied the Treasure Island cartoon,” Craz answered. “Oh, and I got an iguana.”

  Craz pulled his hands out from his
back and revealed a bright green foot-long lizard, who looked up at Matt and then tried to chew a button on his shirt sleeve. “His name is Virgil.”

  “Craz,” Matt began, his anger slowly boiling. “Since when do you have an iguana?”

  “And a new bike!” Craz stepped aside so Matt could see the bicycle that he’d created—a sleek, silver fifteen-speed beauty with a dark leather seat, fat lime-green tires, and an iPod built into the handlebars.

  “Pretty rockin’, isn’t it?”

  Matt wasn’t so sure. “But how did this happen? I didn’t draw a bike, and I definitely didn’t draw that thing!” Matt pointed at the iguana, who had climbed up Craz’s arm and draped himself across Craz’s head like some sort of living hat.

  “Hey, you’re not the only cartoonist, you know,” Craz fumed. “I can draw too.”

  Matt walked down the steps to look closer at Craz’s new bike. “I’m not saying you can’t draw, Craz. I was just wondering how you drew all of this. We only have one pen.”

  Craz reached into his backpack and pulled out the pen. “You left this in the library. I almost chucked it into the trash.” He handed the pen back to Matt. “And just so you know, Boyd. T. Boone says drawing is natural, like yawning or going to the bathroom. Anyone can do it, and so that’s what I did. Well, actually, he helped me draw what I wanted by showing me what to do. But I held the pen!”

  “Wait. You saw him again?”

  “Yup. One minute I was talking to him at Copy-Copy, and the next minute old Mr. Hupt was giving me my change. Of course, I’d already made my copies, as you can plainly see.”

  Craz lifted Virgil from his head and shoved the iguana into Matt’s face. “Cute, isn’t he?”

  Matt felt the scratchy lick from the iguana’s tiny tongue and was thankful Craz hadn’t wanted a pet horse. He then took a closer look at the bike. Craz had obviously gone all out with his drawing. Spring suspension. Shiny chrome gears. A fancy basket for carrying stuff. “Craz, what is this?” Matt asked, pointing to the strange thing added to the back of the bike that looked like a huge hair dryer.

  “That, my friend, is a booster engine,” Craz said proudly. “I was toying with retractable wings but went with the rocket instead. Way easier to draw. Nice touch, huh?”

  “No. Not a nice touch,” Matt snapped back. “What happened to keeping things below the radar? A new pet is one thing. I get it. But couldn’t you just draw a normal bike instead of a souped-up rocket-powered one?”

  “But it can achieve speeds of up to sixty miles per hour!” Craz held Virgil out by his side and zoomed him in a sweeping circle like an airplane. He sighed. “Fine. I got carried away. But I never knew drawing stuff was so fun. You just picture something, crank out a doodle, and then, ZAP, it’s real.”

  “Real trouble,” Matt said. “Let’s put your bike in my garage before someone gets a close look at it and starts asking questions.” Matt grabbed the bike and began wheeling it to the driveway.

  Craz ran to catch up. “When did you get to be such a dud?”

  “I’m not a dud,” Matt said defensively. “I’m just a cautious guy.”

  Craz grabbed the bike from Matt. “Aren’t you tired of being that guy?”

  Matt had to admit that he hated always being afraid. Just once he wished he was more like Craz and could be the one who would grab the bike and feel the wind rush past him as he wildly zoomed around his quiet neighborhood, outracing the crazed dogs who loved to chase anything that moved.

  “Tell you what,” said Craz. “Let me be the ‘cautious guy’ so you don’t have to be.” He balanced Virgil on his shoulder and handed the bike helmet to Matt. Then he dramatically wrung his hands together, acting like he was nervous. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try out my new bike, Matt. Don’t do it! Something terrible might happen.”

  Matt had to laugh. “That’s what I sound like?” he said. “Oh, man. I am a dud.” Matt took a deep breath, then cautiously put the helmet on and swung his leg over the middle post so he was straddling Craz’s bike. He could do this. Going for a ride would be fun. “But for the record, I don’t whine like that.”

  Craz smiled as he turned on the iPod and cranked the music. The tiny speakers embedded in the handlebars blasted tunes back into Matt’s face.

  “Nice touch with the speakers,” Matt said over the music.

  “Thanks,” said Craz. “FYI, the brakes are perfectly adjusted, so no sudden stops or you might flip over the handlebars, okay?”

  “Right,” said Matt as he pumped the brakes to feel how tight they were. “No sudden stops.”

  “And when you’re ready for the booster, just flip this switch.” Craz showed Matt a red toggle switch that was located above the water bottle. “Then hang on. You’re going to freak out at how fast you’ll go! Your face muscles are going to actually hurt!”

  Matt felt his heart pumping. He couldn’t believe he was actually going through with something so wild. He tried to imagine how the rocket-powered ride was going to feel. The speed. The freedom. The wind in his face. It was exciting. It was dangerous.

  His stomach dropped.

  It was dangerous, which meant that instead of the wind in his hair, he pictured the scars across his face, the ambulance ride to the hospital, the metal pins that would have to be inserted into his legs.

  He got off the bike. “I can’t,” was all he said as he handed the helmet back to Craz and walked, defeated, to his house.

  “What happened?” yelled Craz.

  Matt sighed. “I’m just not you,” he said before letting the screen door slam shut behind him.

  Craz stood on the front steps staring at the closed door. Matt was obviously feeling bad, which was why Craz decided not to tell his friend about the other cartoon that he had drawn and copied.

  Craz took the folded-up paper from his back pocket and looked at it again and smiled. It wasn’t a great piece of art, but it didn’t have to be. It just had to give him what he’d always wanted.

  “See that?” he said to Virgil, who sat comfortably in the bike’s front basket. “I’m not just the idea guy.” And then he put the drawing back into his pocket, jumped onto his bike, and rocketed away down the street, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

  29

  CRAZ’S NEW LIFE

  WALKING INTO HIS HOUSE, CRAZ INSTANTLY knew something was different. First, instead of the usual obstacle course of mud-covered sneakers and carelessly kicked-off shoes waiting to trip him in the hallway, there was just one set of ladies’ rain boots carefully placed on the floor and a pair of men’s running shoes lined up, neat and tidy, by the door. He kicked his sneakers off and watched them land haphazardly on the tiles, not caring that they looked so messy next to the other two pairs.

  “I’m home,” he hollered as he tossed his hooded sweatshirt onto the stairway banister—and then did a double take because the wooden railing was completely clear of the mishmash mess of jackets and sweaters that were usually draped there.

  And it was quiet. Really quiet.

  He was careful to keep Virgil hidden inside his jacket as he walked through the dining room, which was also strangely clutter-free. He stepped into the kitchen, where his mother should have been frantically throwing together some sort of disgusting dinner that would feed all seven Crazinskis.

  “Hi, honey. How was your day?” Craz’s mother sat at the clean kitchen table, where she calmly sipped mint tea while reading some sort of fashion magazine.

  “My day was . . . interesting,” Craz responded, surprised to see that his mother wasn’t running around the kitchen. He’d also never seen her read any magazines except waiting in line with an overflowing shopping cart at the supermarket. And that was so she cou
ld wipe her wrists on the free perfume sample pages.

  Craz caught a whiff of something cooking. It was a smell he didn’t know because it actually smelled good. “What’s for supper? Did you order takeout?”

  His mother put the magazine down and smiled. She usually looked like she’d slapped on her makeup and combed her hair with a fork. But now her hair was brushed and stylish, and she looked actually pretty. His mom? Pretty? How weird.

  “Dinner tonight is your favorites,” she said. “Risotto with mushrooms. Spinach mini-quiche. And for dessert, flourless chocolate cake.”

  Craz had no idea what risotto was, and besides the chocolate cake, which actually sounded edible, the rest of the menu didn’t sound anything like the usual pot of spaghetti and bowl of tossed salad. Fancy food had never been on the menu before. Not in his house.

  “No offense, Mom, but when did you learn to cook?”

  His mother looked up and laughed. “Larry, you kidder, you.” She waved her hand at him, a gesture that showed off her painted nails, which was another thing that stuck out like a pimple on a cheerleader.

  “Uh, I’m going to be in my room,” Craz said, backing out of the kitchen while keeping an eye on his mother. Maybe it was just some big act she was putting on. Or maybe she had been watching one of those dumb makeover shows on TV, and that’s why the food was so bizarre and the house felt so clean.

  Upstairs he walked past his sisters’ bedroom, and then froze in his tracks. He backed up and stared into the room, which was no longer crowded with the two single beds, a large wooden dollhouse, a messy paper-covered desk, and a closet overflowing with clothes.

  “Sweet,” Craz said, standing in front of a fifty-five-inch flat-screen TV that took up most of one wall. He hadn’t known his parents were going to turn Meagan and Becca’s room into an entertainment center. He showed the room to his iguana. “Look, Virgil! My sisters don’t have a room anymore,” Craz said while he stretched out on the long, soft couch that sat opposite the TV. He quickly flipped through the channels until he found a cool-looking volcano documentary. With a TV that big the bright red lava was practically flowing onto his lap. “I can get used to this!”