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

by Alan Silberberg

  The two boys just stared into their computers for a moment. Matt bit his thumbnail. Craz shook his head.

  “For the record,” Craz began, “I found out tonight. My dad got some promotion thing. We leave in two days. It’s crazy. I mean, Shanghai, China? Who moves to China?”

  Craz slumped over onto his desk out of sight of the webcam, so Matt had to deal with talking to the iguana, who was parked on top of Craz’s head.

  “Two days?” Matt drummed his fingers on his desk. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to feel. “What about your brothers and sisters? What do they think?”

  Craz slowly rose up into the picture on Matt’s computer. There was something odd about the look on his face.

  “About that,” Craz began. He took a deep breath and then looked right into the webcam. “I think I’m an only child.”

  “What? No, you’re not. I mean, you always wished you were an only child, but . . .” Matt leaned forward so that his face was now huge on Craz’s computer. “Craz, what did you do?” And then it hit him. “No. What did you draw?”

  Craz reached off camera and then sheepishly held up the cartoon he’d made.

  Matt studied it for a second. “That’s you taking a shower. So?”

  “So . . . the pen screwed it up. All I wanted was time to think in the shower. I should’ve just drawn a giant hot water tank!”

  “The pen didn’t screw it up, Craz. You did.” Matt instantly got what happened. “Typical. You didn’t think it through. You just gave yourself more shower time. Of course that could mean less kids in the family.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Craz snapped. “Obviously it’s not what I planned, Matt. You think I like all these changes around here? My mom is like a gourmet chef now. . . . Okay. That change I can handle.”

  Matt remembered too many terrible meals at Craz’s house. “I just wish you’d think things through. Look at the mess you’ve made.”

  “Fine. It’s all my fault. Are you happy?”

  Matt didn’t say anything. He wasn’t happy. In fact, he was still pretty mad.

  “Look, I get what I did.” Craz said. “Just because I like to space out under a nice hot stream of pulsating water, now I have to learn to eat with chopsticks!” Craz grabbed the webcam from his computer and held it right up to his face. “I can’t deal with chopsticks, Matt. You’ve got to fix this. Tonight!”

  “I’ve got to fix it? I didn’t get you into this mess.”

  Craz let out a sigh. “Please, Matt. I goofed up, okay? I don’t know what to do.”

  “Fine.” Matt pulled the pen from his pocket. His first thought was that he should use it to fix his own family. But he’d already tried that. And nothing had really changed.

  “I’ll redraw you with all your sibs and make sure your dad’s job still bites. And your mom is back to being a kitchen disaster.”

  “Right. All that stuff,” Craz said. He paused. “But can you keep the big-screen TV? And Virgil?”

  Matt slowly nodded. He took the cap off the pen. “Chopsticks, no. Big-screen TV and iguana, yes.”

  Matt grabbed a sheet of paper and thought for a second about the cartoon he needed to draw to make sure Craz didn’t have to move halfway around the world. He chewed on the pen cap for a second and then shook his hand the way he always did to get the juices flowing before he started to draw.

  He put the sharp tip of the pen onto the paper and made the first line. But instead of that exciting moment when the black ink flowed onto the paper, nothing happened. No ink came out.

  “Uh-oh,” Matt said.

  “What do you mean ‘uh-oh’?” Craz asked. “ ‘Uh-oh’ doesn’t sound good.”

  Matt tried the pen again, but again nothing came out. He quickly unscrewed the shaft from the pen and frowned when he saw that the plastic container inside was empty. “I think we used up all the ink at school.”

  “So fill it back up,” Craz said. “No biggie, right?”

  Matt grabbed the fancy ink bottle with the cork stopper that had come with the cartooning kit. He opened it and peered into the dark well. He gasped. “Uh, I think it’s a big problem,” Matt said as he tipped the little bottle upside down. He stared into the webcam. His face was pale. “There’s no more ink. I can’t make a new cartoon.”

  47

  WHERE’S BOYD?

  MATT AND CRAZ SET TO WORK IMMEDIATELY, searching their computers to try to find the cartooning website that had first introduced them to Boyd T. Boone and his amazing kit. They had to find more ink, or Craz would be gone. It was as simple as that. Not that Matt wasn’t ready to ship Craz out of town himself, but—well, it just didn’t seem right that it was happening like this.

  But no matter what search words they tried—and they tried every word combination they could think of—neither could find the Draw Better Now web page anywhere on the Internet.

  As the sleepless night wore on, Matt attempted to make the magic work by filling the pen with some regular drawing ink that he had lying around, which did nothing but clog the pen and stain the carpet. Craz even forced Matt to re-create the mess that Craz had made on Matt’s keyboard, to see if spilled pizza-pocket sauce might somehow have helped them stumble onto the website.

  “No luck, Craz,” Matt said, too tired to even care that his keyboard was now totally sloppy. “It’s almost like that website never existed.”

  Craz was totally freaking out. It was four o’clock in the morning. A moving company that his dad’s business hired was going to show up at his house in three hours and start packing everything they owned into boxes that would follow them the next day to China. For a second he imagined that with five kids in the family the movers would sure use up a ton of boxes. But then he remembered it was just him—and suddenly he really missed his sisters and brothers. He wished he could have a fight with Pete or get an earful of Hank’s dumb advice or plop down in Becca’s room and let little Meagan bounce around the bed on top of him while he told them both his problems. But of course his problems were the reason that he didn’t have any brothers or sisters anymore. It was probably the reason he didn’t have a best friend anymore too.

  “MATT! WAKE UP!” CRAZ SHOUTED THROUGH the computer.

  Matt opened his eyes and sat back up so that his groggy face was looking out from Craz’s computer screen. “What is it? Did you find the website?”

  Craz shook his head. “No, but I’ve got a new idea, and it’s going to take both of us to make it work!”

  THE PLAN WAS SIMPLE. AS SOON AS THE SUN came up, the boys were going to split up and search all the places around town where they’d had encounters with Boyd T. Boone. And once they found the cartoonist, he’d definitely hook them up with more ink, and then everything would be okay.

  Matt still had to go to school, so that was his territory. And since Craz had already been given the day off to help pack, he’d skip out of the house and bike around town, checking out all the other places the weird cartoonist had been spotted.

  Sure it was a long shot, but they were running out of options . . . and time.

  Matt didn’t even bother going to sleep. He waited until a decent hour and then went to school early and immediately checked out the cafeteria, where Craz had seen Boyd T. Boone wearing a hairnet and running the cash register. Unfortunately, the only people he could find there were the usual assortment of lunch ladies, who were busy preparing mysterious vats of supposedly edible options for that day’s lunch. No plump bald man with a bushy mustache.

  Defeated, Matt sat through two classes before working up the courage to do the unthinkable—going to Principal Droon’s office. No kid in the history of Kilgore Junior High took it on her- or himself to go see the principal w
ithout first being summoned there for some sort of discipline issue. But Matt was on a mission, so he combed back his hair, made sure his shirt was tucked in, and then walked into the school office unannounced.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Mrs. Tisch, the bone-thin school secretary, asked from behind the long counter in the outer office. She sounded mad even though Matt hadn’t said anything yet.

  “I’d like to see the principal, please,” Matt said. “It’s an emergency.”

  “Emergency! Do I need to dial 911?” Mrs. Tisch had the look of someone who really wanted to make the call.

  “Uh, no. It’s not that kind of emergency,” Matt said. “But it’s important. Really important.”

  Disappointed, Mrs. Tisch let out a loud sigh and then motioned for Matt to come around the counter. She led the way to the closed office door behind her. “Make it fast,” she said. “Principal Droon is a very busy man.”

  She knocked on the door and then opened it before waiting for a response. The secretary pushed Matt into the room, where he stood staring at the startled face of his dreaded principal, who had his shirtsleeves rolled up and was jumping around the tidy office with a Wii controller in his hand.

  “Uh, I thought I said no interruptions,” Principal Droon said as he quickly turned off the TV, where his kung fu game had been playing.

  “Emergency,” Mrs. Tisch said flatly while she backed out of the room and closed the door.

  Principal Droon tried to look serious, but even he knew it was way too late for that. He crossed his arms and sat on the corner of his desk, but to Matt he was more sweaty than threatening. “What’s this about, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Worfle. Matt Worfle, sir.” Matt relaxed a little as he pushed on. “I’m looking for a teacher—a substitute, actually. For Mrs. Bentz. Yesterday. Big guy? Bushy mustache? Boyd T. Boone?”

  The principal nodded like he totally knew who Matt was talking about, but then he said, “I think you’re a little mixed up. Mrs. Bentz’s sub was Nancy Fitzsimmons. I called her in myself. Retired teacher. Must be over seventy now but was a real firecracker in her day. What’s this about anyway?”

  Matt was stunned. He was positive that Boyd T. Boone had been the substitute but realized this was probably just another way that the mysterious cartoonist had disappeared without a trace.

  “It’s just that I, uh, really enjoyed the class,” Matt lied. “I wanted to send her a thank-you letter for the, um, educational enrichment.”

  Principal Droon smiled. “It’s refreshing to meet a student who appreciates a good thing when he sees one.”

  Matt just stared back with the growing sick feeling that there was nothing more he could do.

  48

  THE SEARCH CONTINUES

  WITH FOUR MOVERS BUSY WRAPPING THINGS in wads of paper and putting them in carefully labeled overseas boxes and a mother who was on the phone making plans with a foreign real estate agent, Craz easily slipped out of the house unnoticed. He sped into town on his rocket-powered bike, hoping beyond hope that Boyd T. Boone would be at one of the three places he needed to look.

  His first stop was Copy-Copy, where Mr. Hupt was busy trying to fix a paper jam in the big color copier that had, as usual, just broken down in the middle of a job. Craz stood at the counter and, because he couldn’t see Mr. Hupt behind the large machine, thought it was possible that the man would stand up and—TA-DA! It would be Boyd T. Boone.

  “Just a second,” the voice called out as a hammer repeatedly clanked against something metallic.

  Waiting was never something Craz was good at, but right now it was actually painful for him. His foot kicked at the worn-out tiles on the floor, and he picked at a hangnail, feeling like he was going to explode. “Excuse me, but this will only take a second.”

  He instantly stopped fidgeting as the man slowly rose from behind the copy machine, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

  “Now, what can I do for you today?”

  Craz’s hopeful smile dropped. It was just Mr. Hupt, who had no idea who this Boyd T. Boone character was and looked at Craz like he was crazy when he tried to explain that he’d actually talked to the man right there behind the counter.

  Strike one, Craz thought as he got back onto his bike and then rocketed off to Easel & Brush to check out the art store’s delivery guy.

  Rushing down the street with the booster blaring, he couldn’t help but feel sad that he really might have to leave the town where he had spent his whole life. And why? Because he liked long showers.

  “Matt’s right. I am an idiot,” he said as he safely flew through the intersection and into the Easel & Brush parking lot.

  First he checked with the store manager and made sure that there was only one delivery person and that was Frankie, the cranky guy who had dropped the drawing table off at Matt’s house the day that Boyd T. Boone had appeared in the van. That was the good news.

  The bad news: Frankie had no clue who Boyd T. Boone was and swore that he was the only one who ever drove the van. In fact, he was the only one who had a set of keys.

  Strike two.

  Craz slumped back onto his bike and didn’t even engage the rocket, choosing instead to pedal across town toward his last chance to find Boyd T. Boone—the restaurant where Matt had eaten with his family, Casa Cubana.

  “Sorry, kid,” said Juan Carlos, the waiter who Matt said had mysteriously become Boyd T. Boone. “I’m the only me I know. Sounds like your friend is loco.”

  Craz ducked as a second waiter brought a large tray of garlic chicken platters out from the kitchen. “My friend isn’t crazy. This guy, he just kind of pops up.”

  Juan Carlos waved at two new customers and pointed to a small corner table. He turned back to Craz. “I wish I could help you, my amigo. Sorry.”

  Normally Craz would grab an order to go and sit outside on the curb enjoying the tasty lunch. But today wasn’t normal.

  He had to accept the facts: The pen was still out of ink and he was out of ideas.

  Strike three.

  49

  GOOD-BYE

  THE NEXT DAY A HUGE MOVING VAN WAS PARKED in front of Craz’s house. The wide double doors at the back were open, and the sweaty movers struggled to get an antique bureau up the metal ramp and safely inside. Packed boxes were stacked in different-size piles on the lawn, and several more movers made trip after trip into the house, trying to get everything out and loaded up.

  Craz sat on the front steps watching as his life was carried past him. He kept a hand on the one box he was most nervous about losing—his comic books.

  “Our flight’s at two, which means we have to be out of here no later than ten,” Mr. Crazinski said as he made room for one of the movers to edge past him with another sealed box. “Is this exciting or what?”

  “No, Dad,” Craz said, staring down at his sneakers. “This is just awful.”

  Mr. Crazinski bent down, being careful not to crease his shiny pants. “Look, Larry, I know it seems like a big deal. You’re moving away from everything you know. But trust me, you’ll get over there and we’ll start a new life and you’ll forget all about this place. I promise.”

  “But I don’t want to forget about this place. I want to stay here.” Craz stood up and looked into his father’s face, searching for the other father he knew. The one who liked his crappy job and his huge family and his life on this street inside this house. “You know what, Dad?” Craz said. “I liked you a whole lot better before.” He shook his head and went back inside.

  “Before?” his father asked. “Before what?”

  MATT’S MOTHER TOLD HIM TO GO TO SCHOOL late. “I don’t know what’s up with you and Craz, but you have to say good-bye. It’s the right th
ing to do.”

  “I guess,” Matt muttered as he slowly got dressed to face the inevitable.

  Matt grabbed his coat from behind the kitchen door and then left his house and followed the same route that he’d taken hundreds—no, thousands—of times. He walked down the sidewalk past the mailbox where Craz had once accidentally lost his favorite hat when he’d tried to mail it to himself. Across the street Matt passed Old Lady Hampshire’s place and smiled, remembering how she’d always pay them with warm cookies when they shoveled her walkway in the winter. There was the curb that he’d crashed his bike into, breaking an arm. Craz had been the one to go get help. The memories were in every sidewalk crack and street sign, and Matt wondered how he’d ever be able to walk around the neighborhood without feeling heavy inside.

  He got to Craz’s house just as the last boxes were being loaded from the house into the van. Craz stood in the driveway looking as miserable as Matt felt.

  “You made it,” Craz said. “I wasn’t sure.”

  “I wasn’t so sure either.”

  They stood quiet for a second, both looking down at the asphalt. They’d been friends for almost ten years. How could being angry at each other for just a few days wipe all of that away?

  “Look,” Matt said, searching for the words. “I know I said some mean things . . .”

  “Yeah, you did.” Craz paused. “But . . . you weren’t off base.” He finally looked at Matt. “Who forgets his best friend’s kryptonite? Bees. What was I thinking?”

  Matt nodded. “And what you did? It was pretty awesome. Seeing the whole football team attack the aliens. Totally out there. I have to give you that.”

  Craz grinned. “I guess ‘out there’ is kind of what I do best. That’s what gets me into trouble, though. I think I might be a little nuts.”