by John Lekich
When I asked where Mr. Wingate was, Charlotte told me that he was back from his usual early morning jog, getting ready for another day at the store. When he came downstairs, dressed for work, he looked at his son, busy with his blocks. He crouched down and looked at him very intently. “Oscar!” he said. “What does a sheep say?”
Oscar looked up from his blocks, and Mr. Wingate repeated the question. Since Oscar had made a sheep noise exactly sixty-seven times last night, I was fully expecting the kid to go “Baa-h.” But all he did was look at his dad, puzzled. As if he’d just been asked to repair the dishwasher.
Mr. Wingate pulled out a little tape recorder and spoke into it. “Note to self,” he said. “Work on the sheep sound with Oscar.” He put the tape recorder back in his pocket, looked at Theodora poking at a hardening batch of scrambled eggs and said, “I’ll just have orange juice, honey. I’m running a little late.”
I was trying to figure out a way to just have orange juice without hurting Theodora’s feelings, when Mr. Wingate said, “You know what all great men have in common, Henry? They are early risers.”
“I’m not exactly what you’d call a morning person,” I said, rubbing my raccoon-like eyes. “I guess I’m just not destined for greatness.”
“Why would you say that about yourself, son?” asked Mr. Wingate. “You’re admitting defeat before the day even starts.”
“Harrison, he was making a joke,” said Mrs. Wingate.
“I fail to see the humor, Theodora,” he replied. “A family should run like a well-oiled machine. Everybody has to do their part to make sure things go smoothly.”
“That’s not fair, Dad,” said Charlotte. “Oscar probably kept Henry up all night long.” Turning to me, she added, “He gets to wreck our well-oiled machine all the time.”
Mr. Wingate looked at the dark circles under my eyes. “Is that true, Henry?” he inquired. “Did Oscar disturb your sleep?”
“I guess I’m just not used to sharing a room yet,” I said. Oscar knocked down a tower of blocks with a sudden crash that made me jump in my chair.
I suppose Harrison Wingate took a little pity on me, because he said, “Don’t worry, young man. We’ll have that guest room done before school starts.”
“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Wingate. “The Nutley brothers phoned to cancel again.”
“Again?” said Mr. Wingate, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Nutley Construction is doing the remodeling,” Charlotte explained. Oscar knocked down another pile of blocks.
“I’m beginning to think it would have been easier just to do the job ourselves,” said Theodora.
“You know I can’t spare the time from the store,” replied Mr. Wingate.
“Maybe we should get somebody else,” said Charlotte. “I saw one of the Nutleys buying supplies from Biggie’s.”
Mr. Wingate looked crushed. “You didn’t go in there, did you, Charlotte?”
“Never!” said Charlotte, who explained that she had been looking through the window. “I’d rather die than go inside the Bargin Barn!”
Mr. Wingate gazed at his only daughter with open pride. “I guess we’ll just have to find somebody else to do the renovations,” he said.
“Harrison,” said Mrs. Wingate. “There’s nobody else left.”
Mr. Wingate considered this gravely. “I’ll talk to the Nutleys,” he said. Then he pulled out his tape recorder. “Note to self. Talk to a Nutley today.” He looked at me and said, “Henry, I’ve scheduled a private conference with you in the living room this afternoon at three thirty sharp.”
While I thought it was unfair to let the living room double as a conference room when not even a single nap was allowed, all I said was, “Yes, sir, Mr. Wingate.”
After Mr. Wingate left for work, Charlotte showed me the new bedroom and bathroom that the Nutley brothers were supposed to be working on. The room looked like a bomb had just exploded in it. “This will never be ready in time for the school year,” I said to Charlotte. “In fact, I doubt it will be ready for my graduation.”
“That was a joke, wasn’t it?” asked Charlotte. “I often don’t understand what makes other people laugh. One of my goals for entering grade eight is to comprehend more jokes.”
But I was more concerned about the state of the spare room than Charlotte’s humor problem. “Why is it taking so long to get the renovation done?” I asked.
“My father is meticulous,” explained Charlotte. “None of the local tradesmen can tolerate his exacting standards. Especially the Nutleys.”
I groaned, and she suggested giving me a tour of Wingate’s Department Store to cheer me up.
“Won’t your dad be there?” I asked reluctantly.
“He has meetings all over town for most of the day,” said Charlotte. “Entrepreneurially speaking, we’re in crisis mode right now.”
“All because of the new Biggie’s?”
“They’re taking away a lot of our customers,” she said. “We just can’t compete with their prices.” Charlotte’s face began to turn pink with aggravation. “Do you know that there’s actually no such person as Biggie?” she asked.
I thought of the huge sign on every Biggie’s Bargin Barn: a cartoon figure of Biggie himself, a chubby guy in overalls and a straw hat who snipped away at high prices with a special hedge clipper that looked like a giant pair of garden shears. “They just want you to think that there’s some obliging bumpkin cutting prices all day long,” continued Charlotte. “Isn’t that the most dishonest thing you ever heard in your entire life?”
“I’m not the best guy to ask about honesty,” I replied.
“Oh,” she said, not unkindly. “For a minute, I totally forgot you’re a crook.” She began looking me up and down like she was considering returning me to the houseguest store for a full refund. Mrs. Wingate walked into the room just as Charlotte said, “Hmmm…”
“No, Charlotte!” said Theodora.
“Mother, whatever do you mean?” asked Charlotte.
“I mean I’ve seen that look before,” said Mrs. Wingate. “Henry is not your pet. He’s a human being.”
“But, Mother,” protested Charlotte. “Look at those dreadful clothes. He has a footprint on his shirt.”
“That was Oscar’s fault,” I said.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Don’t use Oscar’s behavior as an excuse,” she said. “I’ve never seen anybody in such desperate need of a total makeover.”
“Charlotte, you’re getting all wound up again,” said Mrs. Wingate evenly. “This is just like the time we bought you that rabbit for Easter…”
“Coco has nothing to do with this,” Charlotte replied. “Besides, I’m being perfectly reasonable.”
“Coco?” I asked. “Who’s Coco?”
“Coco Chanel, my rabbit,” said Charlotte, who was talking very rapidly. “She ran away. But this is different, Mother.” She looked over at Theodora and begged. “Please, can I dress him?”
“Dress me?” I asked, horrified.
“She means pick out some new clothes for you,” explained Mrs. Wingate. “The government supplies you with a clothing allowance, and Wingate’s would be happy to provide you with your clothes at cost.”
“That means we’re not making a profit on it,” said Charlotte.
“I know what it means,” I said. “And I can pick out my own clothes.”
“Of course you can, Henry,” said Mrs. Wingate. “I was going to suggest you go down there this afternoon—”
“But he has no idea how to dress responsibly,” said Charlotte, whose cheeks were getting flushed. “He looks just like the sort of person you might see through the window of Biggie’s, hovering over a bin of discount sweatpants.” And then, just for good measure, she added, “Henry, if you buy anything at Biggie’s, I’ll never speak to you again!”
“Promise?” I said, quite sarcastically. “Because, in that case, I will purchase a pair of Biggie’s sweatpants immediately.”<
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Charlotte was getting on my nerves. Still, almost right away, I regretted being cranky. Mostly because I could tell by Charlotte’s expression that her feelings were hurt. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I don’t like the idea of taking handouts. From your store or the government.”
“You’d rather steal things than accept help?” asked Charlotte. I don’t think she said it to be malicious. It was more like she was puzzled and a little curious.
Even so, Mrs. Wingate said, “Charlotte, you apologize this minute.”
The next thing I said surprised even me. “She doesn’t have to apologize. She’s right. I’d rather steal something than take charity any day.”
Mrs. Wingate just looked me straight in the eye through her oversized glasses and asked, “So how’s that working out for you, Henry?”
I didn’t answer right away. First, I thought about how my professional habits had put me on the road that ended in Oscar’s snores, Charlotte’s bossiness and private meetings in the non-nap room with Mr. Wingate. “Not so good, lately,” I admitted.
“Thank you for being so honest,” said Theodora.
“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte.
If you are thinking, Boy, that Henry Holloway is turning over a whole new leaf, you would be wrong. In fact, I had already decided that I would liberate myself from Snowflake Falls and the Wingates at the first reasonable opportunity.
Of course, it is always best to be extra cautious when the government has its eye on you. Leon had said he might turn up unannounced “at any time” to check on me. Also, with colder weather approaching, I could not simply return to my former tree house lifestyle. Before taking off, I needed money and a solid plan of action. I had to make sure that nobody would pick up my trail after I was gone.
I figured that maybe the best way to approach the Wingate situation was the same way I approached any strange domicile that I was thinking of burglarizing. Second-rate burglars are perfectly content to find the most convenient way into the place they intend to rob, but the true professional always looks for the most convenient way out before he even thinks about going inside.
I mention this because living with the Wingates was beginning to make me feel a bit like a second-rate burglar. It was as if I had found my way into an unfamiliar house without knowing the safest exit strategy. The only way to determine the best escape route from my immediate predicament was to find out more about the Wingates themselves.
And so, when I said it would be okay for Charlotte to help pick out my new clothes, it was because I wanted to get to know her a little better, if only to find something I could use to my advantage. Something that would help me leave Snowflake Falls behind as soon as possible.
If you think this is a terrible thing to do, you will be happy to know that I was well and truly punished for it. Shopping with Charlotte gave me the worst headache of my entire life. We got to Wingate’s, and she made me try on a whole rack of clothes, all the while saying things like, “Notice how this sweater matches your eyes?”
In between wardrobe advice, she began to talk about a dog in the neighborhood named Popcorn. “Popcorn is this little terrier who looks like he should be on the front of a Christmas card,” she said. “But he hates strangers. He’ll just keep harassing you no matter how fast you pedal.”
“Pedal? What are you talking about?”
“I promised I’d let my father explain,” said Charlotte. Then she went off to get more shirts.
The one thing I had going for me was that the store was practically deserted. The only person I met was a weird skinny guy who came up to me when Charlotte ran off to see if she could find a pink polo shirt in my size. He was about my age, with a mop of muddy brown hair that stuck out all over the place. His long wrists hung from the sleeves of a cheap red windbreaker that had race-car patches sewn all over it. And his pants were short enough to reveal a pair of sagging, mismatched socks.
“Do I look paler than average?” he asked. “Because I’ve just donated blood at the blood bank. When the nurse hooks me up, I like to imagine I’m in a war movie, donating rare blood to my best buddy because he’s been all critically wounded.” He shot me a big grin before adding, “Man, there’s so much you can do with a sidekick that you can only pretend to do on your own.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you.” He leaned closer. “You’re the guy who steals, right?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
He stuck out his hand for me to shake so that his long wrist pushed out from his sleeve even farther. “I’m George Dial,” he said. “My friends call me Speed.”
“Speed Dial?” I said, thinking maybe I heard wrong.
“Cool, huh?” he replied. “It’s a nickname I gave to myself. Of course, I don’t own an actual vehicle yet. But I am saving up for driving lessons.”
“Look, George…” I said, trying to slow down the conversation.
But George Dial did not slow down. “Did you know that Snowflake Falls doesn’t even have an actual waterfall?” he asked. “It got its name because of a record-breaking snowfall that took place way back in the olden days. I only mention this because there is many a newcomer who asks, ‘Where the heck are the Falls?’”
Then he went on about how cool it would be to go over the Falls in a barrel. If we had a Falls, which we definitely did not. “Nothing exciting ever happens here,” he said. “Except for the Monster Truck Extravaganza, of course.”
The guy’s eyes lit up, and he began to talk lovingly about something called the Devil’s Dumpster. He described it as “the world’s most totally awesome dump truck.” He told me that his gramma’s “long-distance boyfriend” was none other than Lloyd “Digger” Finster, who not only owned the Devil’s Dumpster but also toured with it all over North America with the Monster Truck Extravaganza.
“Lloyd parks the Devil’s Dumpster in my gramma’s garage when he visits,” said George. “But he never lets me get near the keys because he thinks I would try to drive it.” George Dial looked at me gravely and added, “Which I totally would.”
Then he did an impression of the Monster Truck Extravaganza announcer. Making his voice go superdeep, he proclaimed, “And now here’s Lloyd ‘Digger’ Finster driving the Devil’s Dumpster! So powerful that it could dig a tunnel to the pit of hell!”
After that, he got a tattered magazine clipping about the Devil’s Dumpster out of his wallet. It was a huge fire-engine-red truck on gigantic tires with a massive dirt shoveler on the front. There was a trail of bright yellow flame painted on both sides. Lloyd Finster was standing beside the truck wearing a red jacket with yellow flames shooting up the sleeves. “I don’t show this to everyone,” George said, “but I can tell you’re the kind of guy who likes all major forms of transport. Not that I’m psychic or anything,” he continued, “but I can see you’re staring at my racing patches. Pretty cool, huh? My gramma sewed them on.”
George paused briefly for breath before launching into a long speech about how he couldn’t decide whether to be a motorcycle daredevil, a stunt pilot for the movies or a rodeo clown who races dirt bikes on the side. “I guess you could say I feel the need for speed!” He broke into an even bigger grin, like I was supposed to know what he was talking about. But I guess he figured out that I didn’t.
“Haven’t you seen that totally cool movie about the jet pilots?” he asked. “It’s about these two guys who are like best friends forever, but in a very cool way. They watch each other’s backs and are totally loyal no matter what. That’s the way Speed Dial rolls. That’s my personal code. You know what I’m saying? I have the DVD at home and we could—”
I could tell he was going to go on for a while, so I interrupted him. “George,” I said, a little too loudly. “How do you know I steal?”
George seemed very happy that all I wanted to do was change the subject. “News travels very fast around here,” he said. “And you’re the hottest thing to happen in town sinc
e our neighbor’s basement flooded and nearly drowned their cat.” Suddenly he switched gears. “Hey, man,” he asked, “has Charlotte told you all that junk about finding her soul mate while butchering his hair?”
When I didn’t answer, George plunged ahead. “What a talker!” he exclaimed. “Trust me, after a while everything the Headache Queen says burrows into your brain like a giant power drill.”
“The Headache Queen?”
“Charlotte, man,” said George. “I’m the one who came up with the nickname, and it stuck. Just you wait. I’m gonna come up with exactly the right nickname for you.”
I could feel my own headache getting worse. And Charlotte wasn’t even around. “Why would you want to do that?” I asked.
“Because it’s what friends do for each other,” he replied.
Even though it was starting to hurt my head to speak, I said, “George…”
“Call me Speed, man. All my friends do.”
I told him there was no way I could do that. “Why not?” he asked.
“Because I’m not your friend.”
“That’s cool,” said George, like it wasn’t really cool at all. “I just wanted to save you from hanging out with the Headache Queen.”
“Look, George, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just don’t see us being like jet-pilot-type sidekicks or anything.”
George started to tug on the sleeves of his jacket, as if he could make them longer. “Save it, man,” he said. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
But before George could go his way, Charlotte came up to me with a fresh batch of pink shirts. “There’s one here that’s the exact same color as my bike helmet,” she said excitedly. Then she noticed George. “Are you going to buy anything?” she asked.
“Hey, I’m a browser,” said George. “Browsers have rights.”
I asked Charlotte if she had an Aspirin, and George made one last desperate attempt at everlasting friendship.
“You should go to Biggie’s for aspirin,” he said. “You can buy like a hundred tablets for less than a pack of gum!”
