by Carl Hiaasen
“You look sick. You should go home early,” Garrett advised.
“I feel fine,” Roy said, which wasn’t true. He still had a headache from the thumping Dana had given him on the bus ride.
“Dude, listen to me,” Garrett said. “I don’t care how you think you feel. You’re sick. Really sick, okay? You need to call your mom and go home.”
“What have you heard?”
“He’ll be waiting after seventh period.”
“So let him wait,” Roy said.
Garrett tugged Roy into one of the toilet stalls and locked it from the inside.
“This is so lame,” said Roy.
Garrett touched a finger to his lips. “I know a guy in Dana’s P.E. class,” he whispered excitedly. “He says Dana’s gonna snatch you before you get on the bus home.”
“And do what?”
“Duh!”
“Right here at school? How?” Roy asked.
“Bro, I wouldn’t hang around to find out. Hey, you never told me you busted him in the chops, too.”
“That wasn’t me. Sorry.” Roy unlocked the toilet stall and gently nudged his friend out.
“So what are you going to do?” Garrett called over the top of the door.
“Take a pee.”
“No. I’m talking about you-know-who.”
“I’ll think of something.”
But what? Even if Roy managed to elude Dana Matherson this afternoon, the drama would start all over again Monday. Dana would resume the stalking, and Roy would have to dream up another escape plan. And that’s how it would be every single day until school let out in June.
Roy had other options, none particularly appealing. If he reported Dana to Miss Hennepin, she’d do nothing more than summon him to her office for a stern lecture, which Dana would laugh off. Who could take seriously a vice-principal with one gnarly hair sprouting out of her lip?
If Roy told his parents about the Dana situation, they might be alarmed enough to withdraw him from Trace Middle. Then he would end up getting bused to some private school, where he’d be forced to wear the same dorky uniform every day and (according to Garrett) learn Latin.
A third alternative was for Roy to try apologizing to Dana again, this time oozing remorse and sincerity. Not only would that be groveling, it probably wouldn’t achieve the desired effect; Dana would still hassle him without mercy.
His final option was to stand and fight. Roy was a practical boy; he knew the odds were overwhelmingly against him. He had quickness and brains on his side, but Dana was big enough to crush him like a grape.
Roy remembered the time he and his father had a talk about fighting. “It’s important to stand up for what’s right,” Mr. Eberhardt had said, “but sometimes there’s a fine line between courage and stupidity.”
Roy suspected that fighting Dana Matherson fell into the second category.
While he disliked the prospect of getting beaten to a pulp, what worried him even more was the effect it would have on his mother. He was very conscious of being an only child, and he knew his mom would be devastated if something bad happened to him.
Roy had almost had a little sister, though he wasn’t supposed to know about it. His mother carried the baby for five months, and then one night she got terribly sick and an ambulance rushed her to the hospital. When she came home a few days later, the baby wasn’t there anymore and nobody really explained why. Roy was only four years old at the time, and his parents were so upset that he was afraid to ask questions. A few years later, an older cousin told him what a miscarriage was, and confided that Roy’s mother had lost a baby girl.
Ever since then, he’d tried not to give his parents extra reasons to worry about him. Whether on horseback, bike, or snowboard, he refrained from doing some of the wild, daredevil stunts that boys his age usually tried—not because he feared for his safety, but because he felt it was his solemn duty as an only child.
Yet there he was this morning, on the school bus, insulting the same pea-brained thug who already held a mortal grudge against him. Sometimes Roy didn’t understand what came over him. Sometimes he was too proud for his own good.
The last class of the day was American history. After the bell, Roy waited for the other students to file out ahead of him. Then, cautiously, he peeked into the hall: No sign of Dana Matherson.
“Roy, is something wrong?”
It was Mr. Ryan, the history teacher, standing behind him.
“No, everything’s fine,” Roy said breezily, stepping out of the classroom. Mr. Ryan closed the door behind them.
“You going home, too?” Roy asked.
“I wish. I’ve got to grade papers.”
Roy didn’t know Mr. Ryan very well, but he walked with him all the way to the faculty lounge. Roy made small talk and tried to act casual while constantly checking behind him, to see if Dana was lurking.
Mr. Ryan had played football in college and since then he hadn’t gotten any smaller, so Roy felt fairly safe. It was almost as good as walking with his dad.
“You taking the bus home?” Mr. Ryan asked.
“Sure,” Roy said.
“But isn’t the pickup on the other side of school?”
“Oh, I’m just getting some exercise.”
When they reached the door of the faculty lounge, Mr. Ryan said, “Don’t forget the quiz on Monday.”
“Right. War of 1812,” said Roy. “I’m ready.”
“Yeah? Who won the Battle of Lake Erie?”
“Commodore Perry.”
“Which one, Matthew or Oliver?”
Roy took a guess. “Matthew?”
Mr. Ryan winked. “Study a little more,” he said, “but have a good weekend.”
Then Roy was alone in the hall. It was amazing how rapidly schools emptied after the final bell, as if someone pulled the plug under a giant whirlpool. Roy listened closely for footsteps—sneaking footsteps—but heard only the tick-tick-tick of the clock mounted above the door to the science lab.
Roy observed that he had exactly four minutes to reach the bus pickup zone. He wasn’t worried, though, because he’d already mapped a shortcut through the gym. His plan was to be among the very last to board his bus. That way he could grab one of the empty seats up front and jump off quickly at his stop. Dana and his cronies customarily occupied the back rows and seldom bothered the kids sitting up near the driver.
Not that Mr. Kesey would ever notice, Roy thought.
He jogged to the end of the hallway and turned right, heading for the double doors that marked the back entrance of the gymnasium. He almost made it, too.
“Let’s be crystal-clear about this, Mr. Branitt. You didn’t report it to the police?”
“No, sir,” Curly said emphatically into the telephone.
“So there shouldn’t be any paperwork, correct? No possible way for this latest travesty to end up in the press.”
“Not that I can figure, Mr. Muckle.”
For Curly it had been another long, discouraging day. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, but after that it was all downhill. The construction site remained uncleared, the earthmoving equipment sitting idle.
Curly had stalled as long as possible before phoning Mother Paula’s corporate headquarters.
“Is this your idea of a sick joke?” Chuck Muckle had snarled.
“It ain’t no joke.”
“Tell me again, Mr. Branitt. Every miserable detail.”
So Curly had repeated everything, beginning from when he’d arrived at the site early that morning. The first sign of trouble had been Kalo waving a tattered red umbrella and chasing his four attack dogs along the inside perimeter of the fence. He was shrieking hysterically in German.
Not wishing to be mauled by the dogs (or gored by the umbrella), Curly had remained outside the gate, watching in puzzlement. A Coconut Cove police cruiser had pulled up to investigate—Officer Delinko, the same cop who’d dozed off while “guarding” the construction site. It was because of
him that the spray-painting fiasco had made the newspaper and gotten Curly into hot water with the Mother Paula’s company.
“I was on my way to the station when I saw the commotion,” Officer Delinko had said, raising his voice over the barking of the Rottweilers. “What’s wrong with those dogs?”
“Nuthin’,” Curly had told him. “It’s just a training exercise.”
The cop had bought it and driven away, much to Curly’s relief. Once the Rottweilers were secured on leashes, Kalo had hustled them into the camper truck and locked the tailgate. Furiously he’d turned toward Curly and jabbed the umbrella in midair. “You! You try und kill my dogs!”
The foreman had raised his palms. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
Kalo had thrown open the gate and stomped up to Curly, who was wondering if he should pick up a rock for self-defense. Kalo was drenched with sweat, the veins in his neck bulging.
“Snakes!” He had spit out the word.
“What snakes?”
“Yah! You know vhat snakes! Za place iss crawling wis zem. Poison vuns!” Here Kalo had wiggled one of his pinky fingers. “Poison snakes wis shiny tails.”
“No offense, but you’re nutty as a fruitcake.” Curly never once had seen a snake on the Mother Paula’s site, and he would have remembered if he had. Snakes gave him the willies.
“Nuts, you say?” Kalo had seized him under one arm and led him to the portable trailer that served as Curly’s office. There, coiled comfortably on the second step, was a thick mottled specimen that Curly recognized as a cottonmouth water moccasin, common in southern Florida.
Kalo was right: It was seriously poisonous. And its tail was sparkly.
Curly had found himself backing up. “I think you’re gettin’ carried away,” he’d said to Kalo.
“Yah? You zink?”
The dog trainer then had hauled him toward the fence to point out another moccasin, then another, and still another—nine in all. Curly had been flabbergasted.
“Vhat you zink now? Zink Kalo iss nutsy fruitbar?”
“I can’t explain it,” Curly had admitted shakily. “Maybe all this rain brought ’em outta the swamp.”
“Yah, shore.”
“Listen, I—”
“No, you lissen. Each of dogs iss vorth three thousand U.S. dollars. Zat iss twelve thousand bucks barking here in za truck. Vhat happens, dog gets bit by snake? Dog dies, yah?”
“I didn’t know about no snakes, I swear—”
“Iss miracle za dogs zey all okay. Pookie Face, za snake came after him zis close!” Kalo had indicated a distance of about a yard. “I take umbrella und push him away.”
It was just about then that Kalo had accidentally stepped in an owl burrow and twisted his ankle. Rejecting Curly’s offer of assistance, the dog trainer had hopped on one leg back to the camper truck.
“I go now. Don’t effer call me again,” he had fumed.
“Look, I said I was sorry. How much do I owe you?”
“Two bills I send. Vun for za dogs, vun for my leg.”
“Aw, come on.”
“Okay, maybe not. Maybe I talk to lawyer instead.” Kalo’s pale eyes had been gleaming. “Maybe I cannot any longer train dogs, my leg hurt so much. Maybe I go on, vhat you say, disability!”
“For Pete’s sake.”
“Mother Paula iss very big company. Has lots of money, yah?”
After Kalo had roared away, Curly carefully made his way to the trailer. The cottonmouth was no longer sunning on the steps, but Curly didn’t take any chances. He set up a stepladder and hoisted himself through a window.
Fortunately, he’d saved the phone number of the reptile wrangler who had successfully removed the alligators from the toilets. The guy was tied up on an iguana call, but his secretary promised he’d come to the construction site as soon as possible.
Curly had holed up in the trailer for almost three hours, until the reptile wrangler pulled up to the gate. Armed only with a pillowcase and a modified five-iron, the guy had methodically scoured the pancake-house property in search of sparkle-tailed water moccasins.
Incredibly, he’d found none.
“That ain’t possible!” Curly had exclaimed. “They were all over the place this mornin’.”
The reptile wrangler had shrugged. “Snakes can be unpredictable. Who knows where they went.”
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
“You sure they were moccasins? I never saw one with a shiny tail.”
“Thanks for all your help,” Curly had said snidely, and slammed the trailer door.
Now it was he who was on the receiving end of peevish sarcasm. “Maybe you can train the snakes to guard the property,” Chuck Muckle was saying, “since the dogs didn’t work out.”
“It ain’t so funny.”
“You got that right, Mr. Branitt. It’s not funny at all.”
“Them cottonmouths can kill a person,” Curly said.
“Really. Can they kill a bulldozer, too?”
“Well ... probably not.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Curly sighed. “Yes, sir. First thing Monday morning.”
“Music to my ears,” Chuck Muckle said.
The janitorial closet smelled pungently of bleach and cleaning solvents. Inside, it was almost as black as night.
Dana Matherson had reached out and snagged Roy as he ran toward the gym, pulling him into the closet and slamming the door. Nimbly, Roy had squirted out of Dana’s moist grasp, and now he huddled on the cluttered floor while Dana stumbled around, punching blindly.
Scooting on the seat of his pants, Roy made his way toward a paper-thin stripe of light that he assumed was shining through a crack beneath the door. From somewhere above came a bang and then a pained yelp—apparently Dana had delivered a ferocious upper cut to an aluminum bucket.
Somehow Roy located the doorknob in the darkness. He flung open the door and lunged for freedom. Only his head made it into the hallway before Dana caught him. Roy’s fingertips squeaked across the linoleum as he was pulled backward, and again the door closed on his shouts for help.
As Dana yanked him off the floor, Roy desperately groped for something with which to defend himself. His right hand found what felt like a wooden broom handle.
“I gotcha now, cowgirl,” Dana whispered hoarsely.
He locked Roy in a fierce bear hug that emptied the air from Roy’s lungs like an accordion. His arms were pinned to his sides and his legs dangled as limply as a rag doll’s.
“Now, aren’t you thorry you methed with me?” Dana gloated.
As Roy grew dizzy, the broom handle dropped from his fingers, and his ears filled with the sound of crashing waves. Dana’s clench was smothering, but Roy found he could still move his lower legs. With all his unsapped strength he started thrashing both feet.
For a moment, nothing happened—then Roy felt himself falling. He landed faceup, so that his backpack absorbed the impact. It was still too dark to see, but Roy surmised from Dana’s whimpering gasps that he’d been kicked in a very sensitive part of his body.
Roy knew he had to move swiftly. He tried to roll over, but he was weak and breathless from Dana’s brutish hug. He lay there helplessly, like a turtle that had been flipped on its back.
When he heard Dana bellow, Roy closed his eyes and girded himself for the worst. Dana fell heavily upon him, clamping his meaty paws around Roy’s throat.
This is it, Roy thought. The dumb goon is really going to kill me. Roy felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
Sorry, Mom. Maybe you and Dad can try again....
Suddenly the door of the utility closet flew open, and the weight on Roy’s chest seemed to vaporize. He opened his eyes just as Dana Matherson was being lifted away, arms flailing, a stunned expression on his pug face.
Roy remained on the floor, catching his breath and trying to sort out what had just happened. Maybe Mr. Ryan had overheard the sounds of the struggle; he was plenty str
ong enough to hoist Dana like a bale of alfalfa.
Eventually Roy flopped over and got to his feet. He fumbled for the light switch and re-armed himself with the broom handle, just in case. When he poked his head out of the closet, he saw that the hallway was deserted.
Roy dropped the broom handle and streaked for the nearest exit. He almost made it, too.
TEN
“I missed my bus,” Roy muttered.
“Big deal. I’m missing soccer practice,” said Beatrice.
“What about Dana?”
“He’ll live.”
It wasn’t Mr. Ryan who’d saved Roy from a whupping in the closet; it was Beatrice Leep. She had left Dana Matherson stripped down to his underpants and trussed to the flagpole in front of the administration building at Trace Middle School. There, Beatrice had “borrowed” a bicycle, forcefully installed Roy on the handlebars, and was now churning at a manic pace toward an unknown destination.
Roy wondered if this was a kidnapping, in the legal sense of the term. Surely there must be a law against one kid snatching another kid from school property.
“Where are we going?” He expected Beatrice to ignore the question, as she had twice before.
But this time she answered: “Your house.”
“What?”
“Just be quiet, okay? I’m in no mood, cowgirl.”
Roy could tell by her tone of voice that she was upset.
“I need a favor,” she told him. “Right away.”
“Sure. Anything you want.”
What else could he say? He was hanging on for dear life as Beatrice zigged across busy intersections and zagged through lines of traffic. She was a skilled bicyclist, but Roy was nervous nonetheless.
“Bandages, tape. Goop to stop infections,” Beatrice was saying. “Your mom got any of that stuff?”
“Of course.” Roy’s mother kept enough medical supplies to run a mini–emergency room.
“Good deal. Now all we need is a cover story.”
“What’s going on? Why can’t you get bandages at your house?”
“Because it’s none of your business.” Beatrice set her jaw and pedaled faster. Roy got a queasy feeling that something bad must have happened to Beatrice’s stepbrother, the running boy.
