Some Kind of Magic

by Adrian Fogelin

  Cody opened a comic and let out a yelp. “B-ben!” He stabbed at something on the first page.

  “Wha-what?” I walked over. “What’re you stuttering about?”

  His chewed-down fingernail took another jab at something written in blue ink. “You see what that says, Ben?”

  I saw—and a tingle walked up my spine.

  Written inside the cover was a name I knew real well.

  Cody

  Cody didn’t want to be Nowhere anymore. He didn’t get why his missing uncle’s name was on the comic, and it scared him.

  “Can we go now?”

  Ben said, “Later,” then called him a baby when he said he wanted to go right now.

  Cass took one last look at the cut-out dress on the back of the chair, then stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “I’ll walk Cody home and feed him—as long as you get there by one, Ben.” She had to watch her little sister in the afternoon while her big sister went to beauty class.

  “What do you feel like for lunch?” she asked Cody as they tromped through the woods.

  With the hat swinging at his side, he stared up into the trees. “Something…creamy.”

  They looked in his refrigerator and the pantry. The creamiest thing they could find was a jar of peanut butter. She made him a sandwich and carried it to the table.

  Cody pulled out a chair. “Why do you think Uncle Paul’s name was in that comic?”

  “Bet your uncle knew the people who owned the garage.” While he chewed, she told him what she remembered about his uncle from when he’d lived with his family. “He was real skinny, with long hair. My father called him ‘the dirty hippie.’”

  “My dad has a ponytail,” Cody reminded Cass.

  Cass made a face, like her father didn’t like Dad’s ponytail either, but then she added, “Your father has a regular job. Your uncle just hung around.” While Cody ate his sandwich, she told him about how his uncle gave them piggyback rides, and how he used to shoot hoops in the street and plunk on an old guitar. “Most of the time Uncle Paul was fun, but sometimes, not so much. Sometimes he wouldn’t even get out of bed.”

  “Not for all day?” Staying in bed all day sounded boring to Cody.

  But Cass nodded. “Yes, for all day.”

  At 12:57 she said, “Gotta go,” even though Ben wasn’t there yet. “Just stay out of trouble till he gets here.” Cody could tell she was mad at Ben.

  He was lying on the couch when the door slammed and Ben fell into the living room, panting.

  Cody lifted his head and looked at his brother over the hat on his chest. “Hi.” He put his head down again and folded his hands.

  Ben collapsed onto the couch, breathing hard. “You look like…you’re ready for…your own funeral.”

  “Just staying out of trouble. I promised Cass. You weren’t here and she had to get home so Lou Anne wouldn’t kill her.”

  Ben stared at the ceiling. “That means Cass is going to kill me.”

  “You are pretty late.”

  “I lost track of the time. After you left I found some cool stuff, even an old ladder, so I climbed up on the roof.”

  Cody propped up on his elbows. “Find anything more of Uncle Paul’s?”

  Ben shook his head. “Nope.”

  “How do you think his comics got in that sleeping bag, huh?”

  Ben said pretty much the same as Cass. “He must’ve known the people who lived in the house.”

  Cody sat all the way up. “The house that burned down!”

  “Yeah, but the two aren’t connected. Kids have friends. Kids trade comic books. Houses burn down.” Ben shoved his legs out straight. “End of story.”

  Cody looked down at the hat. End of story? He didn’t even know the beginning. “Cass made me a creamy peanut butter sandwich. I’ll fix you one.”

  “Don’t want a sandwich.” Ben rested his neck on the sofa back and stared at the ceiling.

  “No sandwich, coming up.” Cody got the jar of peanut butter and stuck a spoon in it. He held the jar out for Ben, then pulled it back to his chest. “But you have to eat at the table.” Mom’s rule.

  “Nah. It’s not like peanut butter drips.” Ben snagged the jar and dug out a spoonful. “Maybe I am kind of hungry.” He stuffed the spoon in his mouth.

  When Cody parked cross-legged on the couch and turned toward his brother, Ben lifted his eyebrows.

  “Oops,” Cody said. “Forgot.” Mom didn’t like sneakers on the couch either.

  Ben shrugged. “Mom’s not here. It’s okay with me if you go rogue.”

  Still, Cody hung his legs over the side. “Cass told me about Uncle Paul, how he used to ride kids around on his back.”

  Ben laughed. “Cass was way too tall for piggyback. Her feet practically dragged! Uncle Paul was fun.”

  “Cass said not always. She said sometimes he just stayed in bed. Was he real tired?”

  Ben dug out another spoonful of peanut butter. “Yeah. Tired of Dad yelling at him.”

  “Dad yelled at his own brother?”

  “Sure did.”

  Cody couldn’t believe it. He leaned toward Ben. “What else do you remember?”

  “Not much.”

  “Come on, Ben. Tell me!”

  Ben stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “I do remember he called you ‘Squirt Gun.’”

  “Why?”

  “You were just learning to use the toilet. Get it?”

  Cody felt his face get hot. “Was Uncle Paul like Dad?”

  Ben snorted. “No.”

  “How were they different?”

  Ben put his feet up on the coffee table—Dad had a rule about that, but Ben smacked his heels down, thump, thump. “Pretty much every way.”

  “Name seven.” Cody got so close he could smell peanut butter on his brother’s breath when Ben blew out a sigh. “Okay, okay! Just tell me one.”

  “All right. One. Dad’s a rule-follower, like you. Uncle Paul isn’t.”

  “I’m not that big a rule-follower.” Cody slid down on his butt bone and tried to smack his feet up on the coffee table too. “Like right now? I’m not following the rules. It’s just that my legs are too short!” He swung them against the couch until he looked down and saw he was leaving a mark. “How else were they different?” He hoped Ben would forget he was only going to name one difference.

  “Uncle Paul smoked. Clean-living Dad never did. Uncle Paul was trying to quit, but that didn’t get any sympathy from Dad. Rain or cold, Dad made him smoke outside.” Ben spooned up a giant glob, but he didn’t put it in his mouth. “Sometimes he’d climb into one of the project cars, sit in the driver’s seat like he was going somewhere. I’d sit in there with him.”

  “And breathe secondhand smoke!”

  Ben cut his eyes Cody’s way. “Yup, it was crazy-dangerous. Probably took years off my life.”

  “About how many?” Cody whispered.

  “I don’t know…could be…any minute now…” He grabbed his throat, rolled his eyes back, and fell against the couch, gagging.

  “Be-en!” Cody whapped his brother’s arm.

  “Sissy slap!”

  “I was being nice. I can slap harder!” He inched a little closer, thought about slapping harder, but didn’t. “What else do you remember?”

  “Nothing much. One day, I went to school and when I got home—poof—he was gone.”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “Don’t get all excited. I didn’t mean poof, like magic.”

  “Of course not, but I know about when Uncle Paul left,” Cody whispered, leaning in. “Dad told me.”

  “Really?” Now Ben leaned toward him. “What’d he say?”

  “This?” Cody held the hat out to his brother. “Uncle Paul bought it for a job interview. Dad set the whole thing up. Uncle Paul got the job too, but he only went a couple days. Then he just…quit.”

  “So?” Ben shrugged. “Dad decided what was good for his brother and pushed to make it happen, then
blew up when Uncle Paul didn’t go along? Big deal. He gave the job a try and he didn’t like it.”

  “You don’t understand. Dad got him a job. A real job. For money! And Uncle Paul quit. And then? After he quit? He just disappeared!”

  Cody watched the corner of his brother’s mouth twist down. “I wonder,” he said. “Did he ‘disappear’ or did Dad kick him out?”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that!”

  “I bet he did.” He flicked the postcard in the hatband with one finger. “I’m surprised he even sent a postcard after Dad kicked him out.”

  The Space Needle was facing Ben, but Cody could see the squirrelly handwriting on the back, especially the message on the corner. He thought about Ben sitting in the passenger seat while Uncle Paul smoked. “You said he called me Squirt Gun. What’d he call you? Shotgun?”

  Ben turned away.

  “Was it Shotgun?” Cody asked.

  Jemmie

  Ben had taken off for home when I yelled up to the roof that it was after one and that Cass had to get home. I’d head home soon too, but for now it was just me and Big in the Nowhere garage.

  Me, Big, and “Clair de Lune”—his assigned piece for the week. He played it over and over, until he was wearing it, and me, out. “You sound ready for your lesson.”

  “Yup.” Still staring at the keys, he smiled. “Real ready.”

  I was never “real ready” for my lesson, even when I could play every note. When I played for Mr. Butler, even I could tell something was missing. “Feel the music,” he’d say. “Slow down and feel it!” I could slow down, but all I felt was the urge to play that draggy old music faster.

  Listening to Big, I got what Mr. Butler meant. Big played “Clair de Lune” different each time. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but always “with feeling.”

  After a while, the tune began to wander.

  “What’s the matter, you forget how it goes?”

  “Nah. I just got tired of going there.” His head sank lower and his bangs hung over his face as the notes crescendoed—that means they got louder—with feeling.

  Without a piano, Big was like Nowhere before we broke in. No way in, and who knew what junk might be inside?

  With the piano, it was like he’d opened the door, just a little. I could stick my head inside, shine a flashlight in—not that he’d notice me looking around.

  When Big played, he wasn’t showing off for me, or anyone. He was playing for himself like no one else was in the room.

  I grabbed a musty old book off a shelf and flopped into the flowery armchair again. I opened the cover of the book and sneezed. “Clair de Lune” had shifted into something like a storm on the ocean—all low notes. He’d stop, then play the storm again.

  I wondered, could I even get his attention? I waved—he should be able to see me from the side without even turning his head. I waved again but the music had taken him somewhere else. Fine. I’d let the words in the open book take me somewhere else too.

  England.

  That’s where the story was set.

  I read a page and a half and yawned. England sure was boring.

  I looked up at Big, pouring the music out, and jittered the leg that hung over the side of the chair. I looked some more, trying to see Big as, you know, a guy. He’s sort of chunky, like he still has his baby fat, and he’s the kind of white that turns pink in the sun, or if he gets embarrassed.

  I scratched my itchy knee. Big kept pouring out his stormy melody. This place was hot and the Nowhere piano was out of tune. It was time to go.

  I hung the open book on the arm of the chair and walked over to the piano.

  Duh, duh, duh… I hit the first three notes of “Heart and Soul.” He joined in with the chords, not missing a beat.

  Finger still on the key, I parked my butt and shoved him with my hip so he’d give up a few inches of bench.

  When I reached the end of the melody, I started over. Duh, duh, duh… By then our four hands were flying. His two were as white as Wonder Bread and chubby—but fast! Wish he had the same touch with a basketball.

  Back when we first started playing this tune together, I was better than him—but he’d left me behind. Now he could play things I’d never learn. I was a pro at “Heart and Soul,” though, so I went on and on with the stupid duh-duh-duh melody.

  As his notes danced around mine, I glanced at him. At the piano, Big looked different—serious, and almost good-looking. Almost.

  I picked up the pace, playing faster. Big gave me a look like You gotta do better than that, and suddenly he was playing really, really fast—so I played really, really fast too.

  This kind of piano playing I got. We were in a “Heart and Soul” race and I wasn’t about to let him beat me.

  I could feel the sweat on my forehead, but I went even faster. He pushed back, making me speed up until I went, duh, duh, duh on the wrong key. I threw my hands in the air. “I give up!”

  He looked surprised. “So, I win?”

  “What do you mean, win? Playing the piano isn’t a sport!”

  “The way you play, it is.”

  “Yeah, kind of.” I dragged a finger down the white keys.

  His hands dropped into his lap. “Good. Because it’s the only I’ve got.”

  “Yeah, you are the ‘Heart and Soul’ king.” My face got even hotter. “I mean, the ‘Heart and Soul’ piano king.”

  “Right.”

  I jumped up from the bench. “Race ya back to the neighborhood.”

  “To even the score?” he asked as I put a hand on the door. “One to one?”

  I stopped. “What are you talking about?”

  “One for the music man, one for she-who-runs-with-wolves.”

  “Only if I win the race.”

  “When,” he said. “When you win. Me beating you in a footrace would be like you beating me at ‘Heart and Soul.’ It’s not going to happen.”

  “Who says I could never beat you at ‘Heart and Soul’?” I stood with my feet wide apart. “I’ll be back for a rematch—and maybe I’ll win next time. At least I’ll try. You give up before you even start.”

  “Yeah, well.” He lowered the lid over the keys, the same old Big who would rather drop a basketball than take a shot. “It saves time.”

  “You want to really save time? Run!” I turned and dashed out the door, knowing what would happen next. Big would dawdle along after me, like I’d never challenged him to a race. Sometime next week we’d sight him back in the neighborhood.

  I heard the thud of footsteps behind me and glanced over my shoulder. Big was running! “Ow!” he moaned. I didn’t look back again. Whatever the “Ow!” was about would be an excuse to give up. Now that he was injured, it would take him two weeks to limp home.

  The “Ow!” was followed by more thudding, then an “Ouch!” I slowed down a little. Why totally embarrass him? At least he was trying.

  A hand touched my arm.

  “Could you pick it up a little?” he panted.

  Justin

  Can’t breathe. Can’t think. My heart’s about to blow. I’m dying. Seriously. Dying.

  Why did I tell her to pick it up?

  She glares at me over her shoulder, and then she does, she picks it up.

  And then I do too.

  I never run except PE laps, where I almost always come in dead last—but now I’m flooring it! Bet Jemmie’s surprised. But not as surprised as me.

  She’s ahead, but I charge through a bunch of stickers like it’s a shortcut, trying to catch up.

  Great. Now I’m bleeding. I haven’t actually looked because I’d have to slow down, but I must be, because the skin on my arms and legs burns like fire-ant bites and I feel trickling. Unless it’s sweat. Why do I always have to sweat in front of Jemmie?

  Maybe I should stop running and watch her disappear between the trees.

  Maybe I should just die and get it over with.

  Maybe there’s a hole in the middle of my chest—it sure feels like
it. Pretty soon my heart’s going to fall out. Jemmie will probably laugh.

  The weirdest part is not the fact that I’m dying—it’s the fact that I’m keeping up.

  “Pick it up or get out of the way,” I wheeze. Am I nuts?

  Her head whips around. She looks back at me over her shoulder—and her dark eyes with the little yellow flecks in them get wide like she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing. “Don’t worry. I’ll get out of your way! No more Mr. Nice Girl!”

  I should’ve known she was holding back—it’s just that I’d never seen her do it before. Mr. Nice Girl is not Jemmie’s style.

  She takes off, running flat out—and I do too. We roll over the fence at about the same time. She steps into the road just a little ahead of me. We stop, both of us gasping. “You…win.”

  “Just barely,” she admits. “You…really ran.”

  I groan. “But why?” I drop to my knees in the middle of the road and slump to the asphalt, then roll onto my back and fling my arms and legs out. “That was painful…horrible. My lungs…are inside out.” I look over at her. “You do this for fun?”

  “You play piano for fun.” She sits down on the curb.

  I suck the air in, but there isn’t enough oxygen in it. It’s like diet air. “I am never…ever…moving from this spot.”

  “Don’t you have a piano lesson today?”

  “Not till three.” When I glance over again, she’s got the heels of her sneakers up against the curb and her skinny arms around her knees, watching a sweatball who can’t catch his breath.

  I am lying in the middle of the street like a roadkill possum, but staggering to my feet would be too embarrassing and probably not possible at this time. I close my eyes.

  “Don’t you go falling asleep!” she scolds.

  How do I get out of this one? Not sure, so I shrug my shoulders like I’m settling in. “Actually? This is pretty comfortable. You should try it.”

  “No way.” I hear the tap of a sneaker. “You think I’m crazy?”