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

by Alan Silberberg

  And then it hit him.

  His sisters didn’t have a bedroom. The house was quiet and clean. His mother had painted her fingernails!

  Craz ran to the bathroom. No mountain of dirty towels. No assortment of shampoos scattered along the bathtub wall. And there were only three toothbrushes in the plastic cup on the sink.

  He rummaged through his backpack to grab the cartoon he’d made. All he’d wanted was to be able to take a long, hot shower. If he didn’t have sisters or brothers, then he could shower for as long as he wanted. Had he accidentally used the pen to make himself an only child?

  He raced to his own bedroom, which was no less of a surprise. Instead of his brothers’ bunk beds and the tiny single bed that he slept on, one big double-size bed took up most of the room. That would be his bed. All his! He looked around the room.

  The closet had only his clothes.

  The bookshelf held only his books.

  And the incredibly slow computer that Hank had rebuilt with used parts and a really old CPU had been replaced with a snazzy fast PC that had a monitor twice the size of his old one. And this computer was his and his alone!

  He felt bad about his siblings, but come on. . . . Look at all this great stuff!

  He turned on the new sound system and cranked his music. At least his playlists were still the same. He danced around his room, abandoning all thoughts of the huge family that he’d had to share everything with. More people obviously meant less stuff. Now the house was filled with cool new things, and Craz liked it, even if it meant eating something called risotto.

  As the music blared, he held Virgil to his chest and fell backward onto his huge bed, feeling for the first time ever that his family was finally perfect.

  30

  FAMILY DINNER

  CASA CUBANA HAD THE BEST GRILLED CHICKEN on the planet. Large pieces of garlic stuck out from under crispy brown skin, and each plate came with a pile of rice, black beans, and soft, yummy plantains. The restaurant wasn’t fancy. The place was located in a strip mall stuffed between a party supply store and a barbershop. From the outside it looked like just another dump. But inside it came alive with a variety of different-size tables—all with mismatched chairs, multicolored lightbulbs draped over the bar, and bouncy Cuban music playing in the background.

  “I’ve missed this place,” Matt said as he drained his second root beer. He especially liked the old glass soda bottles. “We haven’t eaten here in, like, forever.”

  “What are you talking about?” Matt’s mom asked while she popped a piece of garlic-soaked bread into her mouth. “We come here every week.”

  “That’s right. It’s Monday night, so that means the Worfles go to Casa Cubana.” Matt’s dad sat across the table, holding hands with his mom. “Nothing better than family traditions, right?”

  Of course. Matt had forgotten that, thanks to his cartoon, his father had never moved out. So to Matt, being all together again felt new, but to the rest of his family, nothing had changed . . . except that his parents were actually getting along great.

  “So, Ricky. I’ve been thinking. How about you and I head down to McMaster’s this weekend. Pick you out a nice six-stringer? Maybe even an amp.”

  Ricky dropped his fork. “A guitar? You mean it?”

  Matt was just as shocked. He hadn’t drawn this part, and he definitely hadn’t drawn his mother’s reaction.

  “David, I thought we’d agreed that Ricky needed to do a little better in school first.” Her voice stayed calm, but she looked pretty mad. “It’s a decision we should make together.”

  Mr. Worfle laughed. “What’s the big deal? Let the kid have a little fun while he’s working on his grades. Nothing wrong with fun, right?”

  “I’m with Dad. Fun is good,” Ricky said, smiling for the first time all night. “You’re the best, Dad.”

  “And, Matt, I think a trip to Easel & Brush might be a good idea too. What do you say? Colored pencils? Some fancy paper? Whatever you want!”

  The waiter placed a new bottle of root beer in front of Matt, who poured out a frothy glassful while he searched his mother’s face for her reaction. She was staring at her dinner, and Matt could tell something was bothering her.

  “Well?” his dad asked. “What do you think, sport? New art stuff?”

  “Sure. Sounds great to me, Dad!” Matt clinked glasses with his father.

  “I know you’re still eating, but make sure to save room for dessert,” the waiter said. “We have flan tonight. And you know how fast it disappears.”

  “Count me in,” Mr. Worfle said as he patted his stomach. “How about you, Mindy?”

  Still a little mad, Matt’s mom finally smiled. She couldn’t resist the dessert. “Save one for me, Juan Carlos. I can’t come here and not have the flan.”

  Ricky had already put his headphones back on, so they just went ahead and ordered him one. “What about you, Matt? Dessert?”

  “Are you kidding?” Matt looked up at the waiter, and his mouth fell open. “Dessert . . .”

  “Yes. Warm flan. Just for you.” The waiter was grinning like an idiot. An idiot who was Boyd T. Boone.

  “Yeah, sure . . . ,” Matt said, still staring at the waiter. “Whatever this guy says goes.”

  “Muy bien,” Boyd T. Boone replied with a flash of his grin. “Flan for the happy family.”

  CRAZ TENTATIVELY POKED HIS FORK INTO THE mound of risotto on his plate. “You say I actually eat this stuff? It looks like rice. Rice looks like maggots. I hate rice.”

  “You love rice,” Mr. Crazinski corrected him from across the dining room table. “And since when do you hate your mother’s risotto? You usually inhale it.”

  So this is what happens when you change your family, Craz thought. Your taste buds just kind of go along for the ride.

  Craz lifted a forkful to his mouth and let the fluffy risotto sit on his tongue. He chewed. The texture was kind of mushy, but his father was right—he did like it. He started shoveling the stuff in.

  “So tell us, Larry. What did you learn in school today?” His mother put her hands together and rested her chin on the tips of her fingers. She stared at him with a smile, waiting for him to speak.

  Craz looked up and saw both his parents watching him, waiting for him to answer. He could hear the faint ticking of his father’s watch and wished someone else would pick up the conversation slack or start arguing about something stupid, but he realized he was the only other one there. It was all up to him.

  “Today, huh?” he stalled, running the school day through his brain. “Um, let’s see. Oh, right. There was a pep rally. That was a total waste of time.”

  Craz assumed he was done and took a bite of the spinach mini-quiche on his plate. Not bad, he thought. Maybe this version of his mom was on to something.

  His father cleared his throat. His smile had faded into a tight-lipped scowl. “But what did you learn today, Son? That’s why you go to school. To learn.”

  Normally Craz would skip over this kind of question by kicking any of his siblings under the table. The fight that would erupt would take over and simply derail any and all topics. He looked at his dad’s face again. He meant business.

  “Okay.” Craz racked his brain for some sort of fun factoid. “Did you know that kids my age are full of hormones? And there’s this gland thing . . . the, uh, sea biscuit gland—”

  “Sebaceous gland,” corrected his father.

  “Right, the sebaceous gland, which churns out all this oil, which can build up and make zits.”

  He stopped, hoping he was done with the talking thing, but his parents just stared at him, wanting more.

  “What else did you learn today?” Craz’s father asked a
s he dabbed at the corner of his mouth and then patiently folded his napkin.

  “And don’t leave out a single thing.” His mother clicked her perfect fingernails together like bright red candies.

  Craz was not used to dinner being so much work. All he wanted to do was eat. But it was obvious that his parents really did want to know about his day. And when was the last time his mom and dad had given him this kind of undivided attention?

  “Hold on,” Craz said, and then he jammed his mouth with risotto and a big bite of quiche. He chewed the mixture quickly, swallowed, and then told his parents every detail about his school day . . . except the part about Mrs. Bentz and the cartoon that had hopefully given her an unexpected island vacation.

  That detail was better off kept a secret.

  31

  SNORE-FEST

  CINDY OCKABLOOM HAD RUN FOR STUDENT council because she thought it would be fun to meet new kids. That was the good part of junior high school, getting exposed to brand-new sets of people who had the potential to make your life either better or worse.

  For Matt and Craz those results had been pretty terrible, mostly because they had come up against snarky jerks like Skip Turkle and Diesel McKenzie. Cindy, on the other hand, was doing just fine, and after winning over all sorts of kids she’d never known before, she was easily elected the school’s new treasurer.

  The elections had been a week ago, and today was the day the new student council got to address the whole school in what promised to be the most boring assembly ever. The four elected council members—Marcia Liddle, president; Gary Needleman, vice president; Tommy Pierpont, secretary; and Cindy Ockabloom, treasurer—were seated in a neat row on the stage in front of the purple velvet curtain emblazoned with a large Kilgore Killer Bee.

  Principal Droon was banging on the microphone, trying to get the auditorium to quiet down. “Please, let’s keep the chatter to a minimum. I know you’re all excited to meet your Kilgore student council.”

  Paulie Frick snored loudly, and his jock friends all laughed.

  Principal Droon gave Paulie the evil eyeball and then continued. “And just a reminder that our fall parent-teacher meetings are tonight. Six p.m. sharp, people. I expect to see you all on your best behaviors. Your parents, too!”

  “Ugh, I hate when my parents and teachers mix,” Matt said, sinking lower into his seat. “It’s like two opposite worlds colliding and I’m in the middle of the explosion.”

  “I dunno. I have a good feeling about tonight.” Craz grinned, imagining that his new family situation was going to make this parent-teacher meeting great. “I actually can’t wait.”

  Principal Droon took his seat on the metal folding chair next to the flag, which gave Marcia Liddle the chance to finally address the student body.

  This shouldn’t be too painful, Matt thought, happy to have the perfect excuse to stare at Cindy, who looked incredible, as always. He took out the new pen and did a few little doodles of her to pass the time.

  “Thank you for your confidence, Kilgore Junior High!” Marcia, a pencil-thin girl whose hair resembled a poorly made black scrub brush, yelled into the microphone at the lectern. She pounded her fist. “Changes are afoot, fellow students. The cafeteria has promised me that they will rename American chop suey ‘macaroni and meat sauce’ so as not to offend any of our socially sensitive students.” She waited for the roar of approval that never came, and then pushed on. “Remember your new student council is leading the way!”

  Marcia motioned to Tommy, Gary, and Cindy, who waved to the audience while Principal Droon clapped wildly, looking like a sappy seal.

  “Hey, I’m sorry if I made you mad yesterday,” Craz said quietly to Matt. “And just so you know, I left the rocket bike at home. And I’ve got Virgil hidden in my room.” He didn’t mention his new econo-size family. That detail he kept to himself.

  Matt sighed. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just a wimp.”

  “Come on, that booster engine was a wacko idea. Totally nuts!”

  “Maybe.” Matt looked at his friend. “But I could’ve at least tried riding the bike. Even a little.”

  Onstage Marcia continued reading from her note cards, proposing that the janitors start using pine-scented toilet bowl cleaner and put goat’s milk hand soap in all the bathrooms.

  “You want to know the truth?” said Craz. “I didn’t even use the bike’s booster.”

  “Really?” asked Matt.

  Craz couldn’t help but grin. “Are you kidding? I raced that baby all the way home! It was sick.” He paused. “But seriously? You totally did the right thing. That bike would’ve killed you.”

  Matt looked down at the scuffed-up floor. “Thanks. I think.”

  Craz could tell that Matt was upset. “Look, Matt, you didn’t go for it. I totally admire that. You actually know what works for you and what doesn’t. Me? There’s no pause button. I say yes to stuff before even knowing what it is I agree to do.” Craz waited for Matt to look back up at him. “I know you wish you were different. . . . Well, me too. Really.”

  Matt finally spoke. “You can be a total goof sometimes.”

  “No doubt,” Craz said, then smiled. “At least I’m good at something.”

  The bell rang finally, putting an end to the assembly. Marcia tried to get the students to join in on a song she’d written, but kids fled their seats, glad to be getting the blood circulating in their numb butts.

  “TALK ABOUT DEATH-DEFYING,” DIESEL MCKENZIE SAID as he filed out of the auditorium. “I think I dozed off back there. Twice!”

  “I don’t get it,” said Skip Turkle as he pushed past the clog of smaller kids in his way. “Why would anyone actually want to be on student council?”

  “Aliens,” Diesel said. “Like they’re from another planet.”

  “Another planet. Good one.” Skip snorted. He stopped in the middle of the hallway and grabbed Diesel’s short shoulder. “Hey, what time you got?”

  Diesel checked his watch. “One o’clock. Why?”

  The wheels were spinning in Skip’s head. He had an idea. “Tuesday’s Lantern doesn’t get printed for another hour. You up for making a last-minute editorial cartoon?”

  Diesel grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

  32

  CRASH COURSE

  CRAZ HAD TO MAKE A PIT STOP BEFORE THE next period, so he took off for the nearest bathroom, which gave Matt a good excuse to casually hang around the water fountain that just happened to be next to Cindy’s locker. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually be able to speak to her, but the thought of possibly getting a whiff of her shampoo made him feel that the risk was worth taking.

  He was drinking a nice, long sip of water when he heard Cindy’s voice.

  “I thought Marcia did an amazing job up there,” she was saying. “Though, I think her idea to create retina-scan ID checkpoints is a bit over the top.”

  Matt looked up and saw Cindy walking straight toward him with her friend Geena. He tried to swallow the water in his mouth, but it all went down the wrong way and he choked and started coughing in loud, wheezing gasps.

  “Oof! Ergh! Ack!”

  Bent over and hacking, Matt backed away from the water fountain just as Diesel and Skip rounded the corner on their way to the stairway. They were in a rush to get to the Lantern office and so didn’t notice Matt stumble into their path, and he was too busy trying to get oxygen into his lungs to see the terrible twosome barreling his way.

  “Look out!” yelled Cindy just as Skip and Diesel rammed into Matt, sending three sets of books and papers into the air.

  Matt and Diesel ended up on the floor as the snowstorm of paper came down on top of them. Skip, thanks to his low center of gravity, remained upri
ght just fine.

  “You idiot!” yelled Diesel. “Walk much?”

  Matt was just about to say something when a miracle happened. Cindy Ockabloom put out her perfect hand and reached down to help Matt up. “I saw the whole thing. They crashed into you, Matt.”

  Matt was dazed. He reached for Cindy’s hand, but all he could think was, Cindy Ockabloom said my name!

  He let her help him to his feet. “Thanks,” he said out loud while tiny voices in his head were shouting, You did it! You talked to her!

  Matt let Cindy’s shampoo smell surround him. Strawberry. He had never been happier.

  “Hey, Worfle,” Diesel piped up from the floor. “You think you can help sort through this mess you made? I’ve got places to be.”

  “And things to do,” added Skip, who, unwilling to bend down, was using his sneaker to round up stray objects that might be his.

  Matt looked at Cindy. She was smiling. He smiled back. “I better, you know . . . do this.”

  “Good idea,” Cindy said. “It was nice seeing you.”

  “It was?” Matt knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said something stupid like that. But it was too late. Cindy was already back at her locker. The moment, all twenty-eight seconds, had come and gone.

  Matt got down on his knees and reached for his green three-ring notebook, while Diesel was working, ferretlike, to make little piles of his own stuff.

  “This is my math book . . . my binder . . . my science report.” Diesel moved quickly, shuffling through the jumble of objects. He grabbed a thick book, flipped through its pages, and then slid it across the floor to Matt like a hockey puck. “That’s definitely your copy of Treasure Island, Worfle. Mine is full of useful notes.”