Connor giggled and barked. “He should have little hair nets for his armpits.”
“Whatchy’all doin’ in here?” we heard from behind us. I whirled around to find Josephine standing behind me, her arms crossed. Josephine had already introduced herself to me on the day we moved to Stagecoach Pass. She had come to Arizona from Texas when she was only a teenager and had been working at the park since forever. She was currently serving, hostessing, and doing all kinds of jobs for the steakhouse. Seemed to me like she ran the place. She was probably eighty years old, but she could still carry one of the giant trays that held a dozen bowls of cowboy beans.
I thought quickly. “We, uh, Mom just, uh, told me to grab a couple of steaks for dinner.”
Josephine gazed at me with that strange look she had given me the first time I met her. Sometimes when I was in the steakhouse, I’d catch her staring at me from across the restaurant. I was used to people staring at me, but this was different somehow.
“Well, she was just here.” Josephine scratched at her cropped red hair—obviously dyed. No eighty-year-old had hair that color. “Why didn’t she just take a couple then?”
I shrugged. “She forgot.”
“All right. Grab them and then stay out of the way. Dinner’s startin’.” She plowed through the swinging doors that led to the dining room like she was on a serious mission.
Connor opened the giant commercial fridge and grabbed two thin cuts of steak. Then we rummaged through counter drawers until we found some kitchen twine and a pair of scissors. We made our way upstairs to the apartment. I was relieved to find it empty—Mom must have gone off to deal with another job or crisis. It seemed the work never ended here.
It was sloppy and haphazard, but Connor managed to dig a hole in each of the steaks, tie the twine through them and then tie them around my T-shirt sleeves, going through the arm and neck holes. I loosely draped a cardigan over my shoulders, and we made our way downstairs and out to the street to watch the gunfight, where a small crowd was already forming.
“Don’t be so nervous,” I told Connor as his ticcing increased.
“It’s just that there are a lot of people around,” he said.
Yeah, there were like four people standing by us.
We had to wait only a minute before the cowboys came out and started yelling at each other. I tapped my foot while they went through their daily spiel. Finally the moment came when the blue-shirt cowboy, who also happened to be a server at the steakhouse, raised his gun and pointed it at the cowhide-chaps cowboy, who also worked in the souvenir shop, and shouted, “When I’m done with you, there won’t be anything left to snore!”
I made sure I was standing behind cowhide-chaps cowboy. Blue-shirt cowboy always missed cowhide-chaps cowboy with that first shot, but today he wouldn’t miss completely. Tee hee.
At the moment blue-shirt cowboy fired, I cried out in pain and shrugged the cardigan dramatically off my shoulders. Connor snickered beside me with his hand over his mouth.
A couple of kids standing nearby screamed in terror, and their parents looked alarmed for about one second—all the time it took to assess the situation. Come on, it was clearly two steaks clumsily tied to my T-shirt and not two shot-up arms.
The cowboys stopped mid-fight and stared at me—probably not sure what to make of my steak-arms—as the little kids cried and clung to their parents’ legs, afraid their arms were next. The fight was all messed up now, and people started dispersing into the rest of the park. The cowboys glared at me.
Connor draped the cardigan back over my shoulders as I smiled sheepishly at them. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to mess up your show.”
The next morning, the cowboys went and complained to Dad about my shenanigans. He and Mom and I sat at the little kitchen table over bowls of cereal after they busted me. “The goal, Aven,” Dad said, “is to bring visitors into the park.” He gestured dramatically toward himself. “Not scare them out of the park.” He threw his hands back out.
I nodded in understanding. “Won’t happen again.”
He gave a satisfied nod and pushed his bowl away. He stood up and kissed the top of my head. “Have a good day at school, Sheebs.”
After Dad left, Mom looked at me and pursed her lips. She took a bite of cereal and chewed. “It was a pretty good one.”
“Yeah, it was,” I said, and we finished breakfast together, communicating only through overly stern looks and repressed giggles.
Connor and I had been spending a lot of time together, so my parents asked me to invite him over for dinner after school.
At lunchtime, I made my way to the bathroom as usual and washed my feet. I stared at the stall. I just couldn’t do it that day. I felt too happy, and I was excited to see Connor and invite him over. I didn’t need another bathroom-stall lunch ruining my good mood.
So I headed to the library to find Connor, once more taking the longer, quieter route around the office. I nearly tripped over that kid again as I rounded the corner. “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said. Next time I would definitely remember to jump over him.
“That’s okay,” he said softly, never raising his head. I walked away, but stopped a moment to look back at him. He stared down at his sandwich and grapes lying next to him. I wondered why he would be eating out here on the hot sidewalk by himself. He looked about as forlorn and pitiful as I must have looked cowering in the bathroom stall to eat my lunch.
How could I just walk past him again, as though he were invisible? As though he were some speed bump in my way? I went back and stood over him. He looked up at me, his hoagie sandwich midway to his mouth. Sweat trickled down his brown cheeks.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked.
He looked around for a second like he thought I must have been talking to the brick wall or the lamppost nearby. When he looked back at me, he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”
I dropped my school bag on the ground, eased the strap off from around my neck, and sat down. He watched as I carefully opened my bag with my toes and pulled out my lunch. I spread a napkin out in front of me, then lifted out my Cheetos, apple slices, granola bar, and peanut butter and jelly sandwich and arranged them on the napkin. “What’s your name?” I asked as I opened the bag of Cheetos with my toes.
Instead of giving me his name, he said, “That’s cool. How do you do that?”
“Lots of practice. I’m Aven.”
He continued to watch with intense interest as I took out a Cheeto and popped it into my mouth. “Zion,” he said.
“Like the Bible?”
“No, like The Matrix.”
“Oh,” I said, munching on my Cheeto. “What’s that?”
His mouth dropped open. “Seriously? It’s one of my parents’ favorite movies. They love sci-fi stuff. They said I looked like Morpheus when I came out, all bald and mysterious.” He frowned. “I’m not allowed to watch it, though, because it’s rated R.”
“Oh, I won’t be able to either. Bummer. This Morpheus guy sounds interesting.”
Zion rolled his eyes. “My parents are nuts. They also named my brother Lando, after Lando Calrissian—if you know who that is.”
“Are you kidding? I am definitely allowed to watch Star Wars.”
Zion smiled. “My parents would be impressed.”
I handed (footed, actually) him a Cheeto. He took it from me without flinching. “Can I ask you something, Zion?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, chewing on his Cheeto.
“Why do you eat out here on the sidewalk by yourself?”
He slowly lifted a juice box to his lips and took a long swig. “It’s quiet out here.”
I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that the only reason?”
He stared at the ground but didn’t answer me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been eating lunch in the bathroom.”
He looked up at me in surprise. “I don’t want the other kids to watch me eat. Everyone likes to watch a fat guy
eat. They want to see how much food he can stuff into his mouth.”
“But you’re not that fat,” I said, then cringed at my own words. I had meant it to sound nice, but it didn’t sound so nice coming out.
“It’s okay. I know I am.”
“Well, I think you look great,” I said.
Zion handed me a grape. I took it from him with my foot and popped it into my mouth. “So why have you been eating in the bathroom?” he asked.
I swallowed my grape. “I don’t want the other kids to watch me eat either.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll think I’m gross.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
“How do you know that?” Zion said.
“I just do. Once when I went to this children’s museum with my parents, I sat down to play with Play-Doh at a table. Of course, I had to play with my feet, and everyone at the table stared at me.”
“It is interesting to see.”
“Then this one kid cried out, ‘Gross! She’s putting her feet in the Play-Doh.’”
“Kids are dumb,” Zion said.
“Then his mom looked at my mom and said this: ‘Would you mind not letting your daughter put her feet in the Play-Doh?’”
“Jerk,” Zion muttered. “What did your mom say?”
I smiled. “She said she would make sure I used my butt cheeks instead.”
Zion laughed a big, full belly laugh. “Oh, that’s classic.”
I ate another Cheeto. “Before that, I had never realized people thought feet were gross. Anyway, that was right before starting kindergarten. You know what the first day of kindergarten is like for a five-year-old with no arms?”
Zion grinned. “Maybe even more difficult than for a chubby five-year-old.”
“Maybe. The kids asked me so many weird questions.” I mimicked little kid voices. “‘Did someone chop your arms off? How do you finger paint with no fingers? How do you use scissors with no hands? How will you play Duck, Duck, Goose? Are your armpits ticklish? How do you wipe peanut butter off your face?’”
Actually, what the kids really asked was, “How do you wipe poop off your butt?” but I wasn’t about to tell Zion that. And no, I’m still not telling you how either, so just stop wondering.
“It was exhausting,” I said.
“I bet. They asked me stuff like, ‘Did you eat a skyscraper?’ and ‘Do you weigh more than my dad?’”
I scowled. No wonder Zion was so insecure about his weight. “I’m sorry. School really sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. So can you do everything everyone else can do with your feet?”
“Mostly. I mean, things are always harder. Like the Hokey Pokey. When the song says ‘Put your right hand in,’ I kind of just stand there like a mannequin. And I have nightmares about flag football. Try running and grabbing someone’s flag with your foot at the same time—slightly difficult.”
“Yeah, I can definitely see how that would be hard.”
“The only sport I can really play well is soccer.”
“Are you going to try out for the soccer team in the spring?”
“I, uh, I don’t know,” I said. “I played soccer back home in Kansas. But, you know, I had a lot of friends and had always gone to the same school. I hardly know anyone here.”
“You know me,” Zion said.
I smiled and handed Zion another Cheeto. “Would you mind if I ate lunch out here with you again sometime?”
He beamed. “Okay.”
Zion and I ate the rest of our lunch together that day, hidden away on the far side of the office where no one could watch us.
I finally got to ask Connor over as we sat on the bus together that day after school. Turns out we were on the same bus route. Mom had been driving me to and from school, but I didn’t see why she needed to keep doing that when the bus would drop me off only a block from Stagecoach Pass. I knew how busy she was with stuff at the park, and I didn’t want her to have to stop everything in the middle of the day to pick me up anymore.
“Is your mom working tonight?” I asked him.
“Yeah, she won’t be back until early tomorrow morning.”
“Then you’re coming over to my house-theme-park-apartment-thingy for dinner. My parents want to meet you. I mean, I know you already met my dad briefly, but they want to meet you, like, officially, especially after,” I leaned in and whispered, “Steakgate.”
Connor looked torn. “I can come over until dinner, but then I have to go home.”
I sat back up straight. “Why? If your mom’s working all night, why can’t you just stay?”
He shrugged and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Well, maybe I can stay. We’ll see.”
“I guess,” I said. Connor never ate lunch, he wouldn’t eat ice cream with me, and now he didn’t want to have dinner at my house. I was beginning to wonder if he was starving himself. I decided to change the subject. “So I was thinking about what you said the other day—about how maybe someone, you know, offed the Cavanaughs.” I whispered the word offed in case anyone was listening to our conversation.
Connor blinked at me. “Yeah?”
I nodded. “Yeah. And I was thinking we should maybe start considering the possibility that there is a murderer at Stagecoach Pass.” Again, I whispered the word murderer. You can never be too careful when discussing such things.
“Who?” Connor whispered.
“Could be anyone. There’s this guy at the goldmine—we call him Mean Bob because he’s so mean. Maybe he did it. Or maybe the guy who interviewed my parents—Gary the accountant. Maybe he did it.”
“Why?”
“To take over the park.”
“But why would he want to take over the park?”
“Money.” I nodded. “It’s always about money.”
“How much money do you think the park makes?” Connor asked.
I actually thought the park made negative money. “Okay, maybe not money,” I said. I narrowed my eyes at Connor. “Revenge.”
“Revenge for what?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But I’m going to solve this great mystery all on my own,” I announced. “If you would like to assist me, you shall do so, sir.”
“Okay,” Connor said, not quite with the enthusiasm or the British accent I had been going for. In my mind, great detectives always had British accents.
“We should go back to the storage shed,” I said.
“But there’s nothing in there except papers you can barely read and old props and junk.”
“Yeah, but maybe there’s something hidden there. Why else would it have all those signs?”
Connor nodded. “That’s true.”
I tapped my feet on the bus floor. “I’ve never had an exciting mystery to solve. Well, except for the time I woke up one morning with every inch of my hair, body, and bed covered in chocolate.”
“Why?” Connor asked.
“A Hershey’s Kiss fell out of my backpack into my bed. As I rolled around on it all night, that’s what it did. Can you believe it? One Hershey’s Kiss!”
Connor didn’t seem that impressed with my Hershey’s Kiss story. “Maybe you should ask Madame Myrtle about it,” he said. “Shouldn’t a psychic know about all that kind of stuff? Can’t they, like, talk to dead people and stuff?”
“She just reads palms,” I said. “Obviously that’s not very helpful to me.”
Connor smiled. “You shan’t worry!” He raised a finger in the air. “We shall solve this highly mysterious mystery ourselves.”
I was glad he used a terrible British accent that time.
My parents weren’t in the apartment when Connor and I got there. “You want a snack?” I asked him as we entered the tiny kitchen.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m not really hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry when you didn’t even eat lunch?”
“I’m just not.”
“Fine.” I ope
ned a lower cabinet with my foot and took out a bag of pretzels. “You want a soda?” I asked.
“No.”
I sighed and hoped he didn’t die of dehydration—it was still in the nineties outside.
We made our way to the small living room, where Connor spotted my guitar in the corner. “Is that your guitar?”
“Yep,” I said, opening the TV cabinet with my foot.
“Will you play for me? I can’t wait to see you play it with your feet.”
“Maybe another day. I’m kind of out of practice right now.” That wasn’t exactly true. I felt shy about it, like I needed to prepare before I performed for him—if I ever would perform for him. I still hadn’t made up my mind.
“Promise?” Connor said.
“I’ll play for you sometime. Just not right now.”
Connor turned his attention to the row of video games in the cabinet. “You have some good ones in here,” he said, thumbing through them.
“My dad likes to play. They’re mostly his games.”
“Your dad’s cool,” Connor said, clearly impressed by my dad’s immaturity. He pulled out an ultraviolent war game. “Let’s play this.”
I shook my head. “Not allowed. For Dad only.”
Connor frowned, put the game back in the cabinet, and pulled out another game I wasn’t allowed to play. “I’m not allowed to play any game with a disclaimer on the cover,” I said. I walked to the cabinet and pulled out a racing game. “Let’s play this one.”
“I guess.” Connor let out a dramatic sigh, clearly disappointed we wouldn’t get to battle each other to our bloody virtual deaths.
“I’m better at games when I can mostly use the joy stick,” I said as Connor slipped the disc into the console.
“That’s good because you’ll need every advantage to beat me.”
We played for a couple of hours. I don’t think Connor expected me to be such a good player. Yeah, he did beat me a lot, but I gave him a good fight and even won a couple of races myself. I think I played worse than normal because Connor ticced a lot while he played, and it distracted me. I guess the tics probably made it harder for him to play, as well. I thought about him at home playing video games all night by himself, ticcing badly. Maybe it wasn’t good for him to spend all his free time doing that.
Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus Page 6
