Maverick Mania

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Well,” Dad said, “it did look unfair. But there might be a lot you don’t know about the situation. I think it’s wrong to judge. For all you know, Caleb lied to you about why he was grounded. And it looked to me like Caleb had disobeyed by going to the soccer game. He wore old sweats to hide his uniform and rode to the field on his bike instead of getting a lift. You know his dad always drives him to games.”

  “But legally, can’t Caleb do something?” I mushed my food, trying to make it into smaller pieces that I could hide under a piece of bread. I hoped the phone would ring and Leontine would answer it. That would give me a chance to dump my dinner back into the casserole dish. “How can they stop him from playing soccer?”

  “He’s not eighteen,” Dad said. “I believe the law would still consider him a minor and under his parents’ care.”

  “I know there’s something mysterious about all of this,” Mom said.

  “Do you like the casserole?” Leontine asked me.

  “It’s an interesting flavor,” I said. Interesting is a good nonspecific word. The casserole was horrible, in an interesting way. “Is that a new streak of green in your hair?”

  All it takes to distract Leontine is to get her talking about her hair or her clothes.

  “Oh, yes,” Leontine said. “Me and my friends had nothing to do today, so we—”

  “My friends and I,” Dad corrected her. “What you do is take away ‘my friends’ and see whether ‘I’ or ‘me’ works by itself. You wouldn’t say, ‘Me had nothing to do today.’ You would say, ‘I had nothing to do today.’ Then add your friends to the sentence, and it comes out, ‘My friends and I had—’”

  “Listen,” Mom said from her end of the table, “I really did find out something that makes this a mystery.”

  She says that a lot. Last month, she was convinced that one of our neighbors—old Mr. Cardston—was a Nazi war criminal. The embarrassing part was when he caught her stealing his garbage to look for letters from other Nazi war criminals.

  Dad rubbed his bald head with both hands. He tells us he does it because the stubble itches where he’s shaved his scalp. But Leontine and I have noticed he only does it when he doesn’t want Mom to see him smirk at another one of her crazy ideas.

  “Yes, dear?” Dad asked mildly.

  “On my way to work today,” Mom said, “I drove past the Rigginses’ house. I took down their license plate numbers and got some of my police friends to check them out. I spent the rest of the day asking questions and learning everything I could.”

  Dad began to rub his scalp harder. “Yes, dear,” he said again.

  Mom was so excited about her detective work, she didn’t notice his lack of enthusiasm.

  “First of all,” she said, “the Rigginses moved here about thirteen years ago when Caleb was only three.”

  Dad whistled. “Lock them up.”

  Mom frowned at him. He smiled sweetly, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “You were saying...,” he said.

  “The thing is, there is a weird gap in their credit record. It’s like they stopped living for the year before they moved to Lake Havasu City. How do you explain that? Then, when they resurfaced, they had a lot more money.”

  “Must be part of the Mafia,” Dad said. “I bet he used to own half the mob in New York. He moved here to get away from them and lives under an assumed name.”

  Mom looked at him with a thoughtful expression.

  “I was just joking,” Dad said quickly. “Maybe he inherited a fortune. Or won a lottery. There could be any of a dozen explanations.”

  “Uh-huh...I’d like you to do me a favor. You have keys to the school, right?”

  Dad nodded. He looked like he had heartburn, but I knew he hadn’t touched any of the casserole. So it must have been from Mom’s need to find a mystery in everything.

  “Check the school files,” Mom told him. “Caleb is a year ahead of Teague—”

  “Matt,” I said. “Please, it’s Matt.” I live in dread of the day she’ll call me Teague in front of my friends.

  “Caleb is a year ahead of Matt in school,” Mom told Dad. “Surely there’s something in the grade school records about Caleb.”

  Dad finally sighed. “I’m not sure it’s right to do that. It’s not public information and—”

  “There’s one thing I didn’t tell you,” Mom said. Her voice became quiet. “There’s a police file on Charlie Riggins. And it makes me really sad.”

  We waited.

  “Twice the police were called to his house for a domestic disturbance.”

  “What!” Dad said.

  “His wife never pressed charges, but he hit her,” Mom answered. “And a man who will hit his wife might also hit his son.”

  chapter seven

  The next day, Sunday, was a tournament break day. Every team had played three of its seven games. With one win, one loss and one tie, it looked like our Thurber Mavericks would need to win at least three out of the next four games to place in the top two and make the finals of the tournament.

  As usual, my family went to church. As usual, I was the only one dressed normally. And, as usual, I excused myself to go to the bathroom as soon as we got to the church. I hoped that Mom and Dad and Leontine would go ahead and find a place to sit without me. But, as usual, they waited for me to return.

  So, as usual, I took a deep breath and walked in with them—a sister with more colors in her hair than her clothes, a father with a shaved head and an earring, and a mother who made sure to stop and greet everyone as we walked up the aisle.

  Once we were seated and I knew that nobody was staring at us, I relaxed and started thinking church stuff. I’ve learned from Dad that there is a big difference between faith and religion. Faith, he told me, is a matter of the heart, of getting close to God. I like remembering that. While some of the people sitting in the pews might be real jerks away from church, it doesn’t mean that what I learn in church is as phony as they are.

  We have a good preacher who uses stories to help us understand the message, and most Sundays I pay close attention. Today, though, my mind kept wandering, no matter how hard I tried to listen. I kept thinking about Caleb. Not because I was worried about our soccer team. (All right, not mainly because of soccer.) But because I kept seeing him, in my mind, getting dragged away by his father.

  It didn’t seem right or fair. What could kids do if their parents weren’t good parents? Mine might dress and act strange, but at least they always treated me with love.

  The more I thought about it, the more I worried about Caleb.

  As church ended, I decided I would head up to Caleb’s house...without a plan.

  As it turned out, I could have used one.

  chapter eight

  I was sweating hard by the time I made it up McCulloch Boulevard to the turn for the Rigginses’ house. Without Steve and his mom’s minivan, I had to rely on leg power and my mountain bike. At the corner, I stopped to take a drink from my water bottle.

  Below me, in the valley, I saw the glint of Lake Havasu and its beautiful blue against the desert reds and browns. I thought of how nice it would be at the lake’s beach. And I nearly turned around.

  What kept me from heading to the lake, though, was thinking of how miserable Caleb might be. What if his father did hit him? If the situation were reversed, I reminded myself, I’d want someone to try to help me.

  I gulped some more water, trying to talk myself out of going up to the house. Then into it. Then out of it again.

  I told myself I would just ring the doorbell. If Caleb answered, I would ask him how he was doing. If his mom or dad answered, I would pretend I didn’t know anything about Caleb’s trouble. I would invite him to join me for a bike ride. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best I could come up with.

  When all my water was gone, I had no more excuses to stand there. I hopped on my bike and pushed ahead.

  What I found was the last thing I
had expected. I’d worried and worried about what I would do if Mr. or Mrs. Riggins answered the door. But when I got close to his house, the Blazer was gone. So was the Volvo. And the pontoon boat.

  The shutters on the windows were closed completely. It looked like the Riggins family had gone on vacation.

  Except for the dogs.

  As I rode up to the driveway, I changed to a lower gear. The sound of my bicycle must have alerted them. They trotted around the side of the house, curious about the noise. When they saw me and my bicycle, they barked and dashed forward.

  Without much of a head start, I knew I was in trouble.

  To spin my bike around, I braked my rear wheel hard and cranked my front wheel, sliding my right foot on the pavement to keep my balance. Even before I had turned completely, the dogs were halfway down the driveway.

  I stood on my pedals and started to push with all my strength.

  And my stupid bicycle chain snapped.

  It was so sudden, I fell forward, nearly banging my chin against my handlebars.

  What stopped me, however, was my lower body. It connected with the crossbar of the bicycle. In that split second, I wished as hard as I could that I rode a girl’s bike.

  I toppled over and my bicycle landed on top of me.

  I could not have been more helpless—tangled up in a mountain bike, in total agony, with two snarling dogs closing in on me fast.

  chapter nine

  At the end of the driveway, the dogs stopped short. Almost as if someone had yanked them from behind by their collars.

  Their fierce barking turned to whines. They paced back and forth across the end of the driveway, just like lions in a cage—with invisible bars.

  I didn’t understand.

  All they had to do was come a few feet off the property, and they could rip me apart. What was stopping them? Were they so well trained that they wouldn’t go past the end of the driveway, no matter how tempting their prey?

  I groaned as I pushed the bike off me. I felt so bad that I nearly wished the dogs had managed to bite me. Kind of like wanting to whack your thumb with a hammer to take your mind off a toothache.

  The dogs whined louder as I backed away. Drool hung from the sides of their mouths as they panted.

  “Too bad, guys,” I told them. “You’ll have to find someone else to eat. Like maybe Little Red Riding Hood.”

  I steadied my bicycle. The good news was that going home was all downhill. I wouldn’t have to walk the bicycle home. I took a few deep breaths and finally felt like I might live.

  I began to push my bike away from Caleb’s house.

  The dogs followed me along the edge of the property as far as they could.

  “Good riddance,” I told them, looking back and sticking my tongue out at them.

  That’s when I noticed it. Tucked beneath the collar of the bigger dog was a folded piece of paper. The ends stuck out of each side of the collar.

  A note?

  I studied both dogs, wondering again what kept them on the Riggins property. But I wondered even more about the piece of paper.

  If it was a note, it had to be from someone the dogs trusted. I doubted either dog would let a stranger get close enough to touch its collar. So it had to be from someone in the Riggins family. Surely not Mr. Riggins, as he would have no reason to leave a note behind.

  Caleb?

  The more I thought about it, the more I felt sure he had left a message for someone who might come to the house looking for him.

  But why? He hadn’t been kidnapped or anything. Parents don’t kidnap their own kids.

  Or do they? And if they did, why?

  I wished the dogs could talk. Much as I wanted to read the folded piece of paper, I wasn’t stupid enough to reach over and tempt those long yellow fangs.

  The dogs and I stared at one another for a few more minutes. I finally walked my bike to the end of the street, got on and began to coast down McCulloch Boulevard toward home.

  Warm wind filled my face. The view of the valley below filled my eyes. And questions filled my mind.

  Somehow, I needed to see that note.

  chapter ten

  That night, Steve picked me up just after eight o’clock in his mom’s minivan. I had until eleven o’clock to return. Mom and Dad have rules they expect me to follow, and I’ve discovered life is much easier when I respect them because my parents return that respect and trust me.

  Steve took us up to McCulloch Boulevard. The smell of hamburgers filled the van from the paper bag beside Steve. And it took me less than ten seconds of squirming to find out I had sat on a Barbie doll. That’s the disadvantage of family vehicles.

  “You’re sure the burgers won’t kill them?” I asked, digging the doll out from under me.

  “Dad and I did the math,” he answered. “For what the dogs weigh, and with the strength of the capsules we’re using, Dad said they would be fine. There are only four in each burger.”

  Steve’s dad is a doctor. He had only given us approval for this after listening carefully to our plan...and after deciding we weren’t breaking any laws. Steve’s dad had seen Caleb get hauled out of the soccer game too, and he was as worried as we were.

  “Good,” I said.

  Neither of us said much more as we drove up McCulloch. We’d already gone through everything that afternoon when I called Steve with this plan.

  We stopped a couple of blocks away from the street where the Rigginses lived. We didn’t want anyone to see the van.

  “Ready?” Steve asked me.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?”

  “Like, is anyone ever ready for a dentist appointment?”

  “Good point,” he said.

  We got out of the van. He carried the hamburger bag. I carried a pair of gloves and a heavy jacket.

  We walked down the street. Here, in the upper part of the city, we were far away from the London Bridge and all the little shops along the boardwalk near it where tourists go. Lake Havasu City has a lot of older retired people, and we’ve always joked that everyone but the tourists goes to sleep right after dinner.

  It could be true. No cars passed us. Many of the houses were dark except for porch lights.

  Even though I was nervous, I couldn’t help thinking my usual thoughts about desert nights. It’s the stars, actually. In the desert, especially out in the hills away from the city lights, the big stars seem to poke bright holes in the sky and the little stars look like white dust blown in all directions. When I start to think about where the stars came from, I start to think about God.

  What messes with my mind is knowing that it’s impossible for something to come from nothing. I mean, little rocks don’t just appear from thin air. They come from bigger rocks. Bigger rocks come from boulders. And boulders come from mountains. And mountains come from the earth. If you go back far enough, the earth must have come from the same stuff that made the stars.

  But if you go even further back, where did the stuff to make the earth and the planets and the billions and billions of stars come from?

  It couldn’t have come from nothing.

  And it couldn’t just simply exist. Go as far back as you want in time, and you still have to have a starting point for the stuff that made the planets and the stars.

  So when I look at the stars, I think there has to be a God that created the first something. And I wonder about what He intended for us to do with our planet and whether we’re listening hard enough to His plan.

  “Hey,” Steve said. “Looking for UFOs?”

  I had been staring at the sky as we walked.

  “Something like that,” I said, hiding a smile. There were times to talk serious and times not to. This was a time not to.

  We had a job ahead of us. A dangerous job.

  The first part was easy. The Riggins house was by itself at the end of the street. It was dark and quiet. The Blazer and the Volvo and the pontoon boat were still gone. The windows were still shuttered. There
was nobody to bother us as we whistled for the dogs from the sidewalk.

  As before, they came bolting around the corner of the house, a pair of dark wolflike shadows.

  “You sure they’ll stop?” Steve asked.

  “They did twice before,” I said. “Like there’s a glass wall at the end of the driveway.”

  Still, I was nervous. I didn’t breathe until the dogs stopped just short of us. They kept growling as they eyed us. It sounded like the rumbling of a volcano.

  Steve pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket. He flicked it on and pointed it at the dogs. The beam of light showed that the folded paper was still under the collar of the bigger dog.

  “Just like I told you,” I said. “And I don’t think the dog put it there.”

  “And you figure it’s worth all this?”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked him in return, pretending I hadn’t thought about police, or the Rigginses coming home, or...

  Steve waved the hamburger bag. It got the dogs’ attention.

  “Good doggies,” Steve said as he reached into the bag. “Good, hungry doggies.”

  He tossed them each a hamburger. The burgers only lasted one or two seconds. Which was about how long Steve and I would last if they decided to leave the property and come after us.

  “You said four in each burger,” I said to Steve. “Right?”

  Looking at how big the dogs were, I hoped Steve and his dad had calculated correctly.

  “Four sleeping pills per dog,” he said. “Trust me, they’re about to take a nice little trip to la-la land.”

  chapter eleven

  It took about twenty minutes for the dogs to take their nice little trip to la-la land. If I hadn’t been so worried about Mr. Riggins driving up at any second, I would have found it funny.

  First, the dogs stopped pacing at the end of the driveway. Then, slowly, the dogs sat. Then they rolled sideways to stretch out. Their growls became snuffling.