by Brian Bakos
“I’d best be going,” Mr. Badpenny said. “I can see that you have experienced some upset. People sometimes react that way – until they get to know me better.”
I jerked my head in an attempted nod.
“I’ll stop by again soon and we can have another chat,” Mr. Badpenny said. “And remember, Tommy, I am always at your service. Just call me.”
Then he was gone. I bolted for home.
5: The Nazi Fighter Plane
I felt awful Wednesday morning. My whole body ached, as if the football team had used me for a tackling dummy. The shock of meeting Mr. Badpenny had really done me in.
Mom said I could stay home from school. I watched TV and read, hoping to push Badpenny out of my thoughts, but the tornado scene kept replaying in my mind, bringing back all its terror.
Yet, Badpenny hadn’t tried to hurt me, had he? He’d even said that he was at my service. Just what would he have done to those kids if I’d let him? Nothing too drastic, surely.
Then again, why should I care?
My head spun with wild thoughts. If only I could talk to somebody – but who, Mom? She’d think I’d gone nuts.
Dad? He was down in Mexico working on yet another “business opportunity.” Sure, I could try to call him, but what could I say? And if he believed my story he’d probably insist that I get Badpenny to help him with his business schemes.
Both my parents are from Guatemala, they came to the U.S. before I was born. Dad was pursuing some other fabulous business opportunity then, and, after the deal went sour, they decided to stay. Dad is of mostly Spanish descent and claims to have famous ancestors. Well, I love him and all, but he always was a big talker.
I decided to work on the airplane model I got for my birthday last year. I’m usually not much for models. This one was rated “beginner level,” though, so I figured I could build it without too much trouble.
The airplane was something special, I quickly realized – an ME-262 German jet fighter from World War 2. All my cares seemed to disappear the moment I started work. Why had I waited so long to build this wonderful thing?
The swept-winged fighter had a mottled cammo pattern imprinted on the plastic. The fuselage was flat along the bottom and rounded on top, and the front came to a blunt point like a shark. Deadly cannons lurked behind slots in its nose.
By 2:30 I was finished. The plane really looked cool on my shelf. I lay down to take a nap, but my eyes kept returning to the shelf. I imagined myself flying that lethal jet, firing the cannons, blasting anything in my way.
Quentin stopped by after school.
“You don’t look so hot, Tommy,” he said.
“Thanks, Quentin, I was just thinking that I was feeling better.”
“Oh, yeah. Good,” Quentin said.
He socked a fist into his baseball glove and chomped his bubble gum as if he was a big-league player with a mouthful of chewing tobacco. He was outfitted in his Jaguar uniform, spiked shoes dangling around his neck.
“Do you feel up to practicing with us?” he asked.
“Not today, Quentin.”
He nodded, socked his glove again.
“Hey.” He pointed to my model plane. “I like that!”
The ME-262 crouched on its landing gear like some vicious predator cat.
“I just finished it,” I said. “It took a lot of work.”
I conveniently forgot to mention that the model was just an easy, snap-together job.
Quentin moved to the shelf. “The swastika is on wrong, Tommy.”
“Oh?”
“Here, on the tail,” Quentin said. “The swastika is supposed to be rotated to the right, but you’ve got it sitting flat.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” I said.
I didn’t disagree. I knew from experience that he’d be right. We stood at the shelf together, examining the model’s deadly lines – Quentin all dressed up like a champion athlete, me in my old race car pajamas too small for me. My mind came around to Badpenny.
“Do you remember that two-headed penny?” I said.
Quentin socked his glove. “Two headed penny?”
“Yeah, at the Belcho Burger last Saturday.”
Quentin frowned, trying to recall. “Oh yeah, what about it?”
“Well ...” I paused, uncertain.
Quentin kept studying the model plane, not much interested in two-headed pennies.
“You said that people could use it to cheat at coin tosses,” I said. “Do you think somebody could use it to cheat at other things, too?”
“Sure, anything’s possible.” Another sock on the baseball glove.
That’s Quentin, the deep thinker. Then again, what was he supposed to say? What was I supposed to say?
How about: “What do you think about some two-faced guy spinning up out of a sewer and offering to beat up some kids for me? Of course, only I can see him.”
Quentin would think a lot more was whacked than just the decal on my model plane.
Besides, I was tired of depending on him so much. Quentin who got me on the Jaguars, who backed me up in confrontations with tough kids, who helped me with homework. Maybe it was time I settled something myself for once.
“Well, gotta go,” Quentin said. “See you at school tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
I watched him bound down the stairs. He dashed through the living room so quickly that the Guatemalan flag attached to the wall fluttered in his breeze.
Mom insisted on keeping that faded old flag posted in our living room, in honor of the country that had rescued her family. Definitely not wise to say that the blue and white banner didn’t look cool hanging there.
Mom is half Jewish. Her family had fled Europe to escape the Nazis. Not many countries were willing to take in Jewish refuges back then, but Guatemala did. So, this is not the house to say anything that isn’t pro Guatemala.
Quentin exchanged a few words with Mom, then left. Mom liked Quentin. I liked him, too. I just didn’t like myself very much right now, to tell the absolute truth.
I was involved with something I couldn’t understand or control. How could I possibly get rid of Mr. Badpenny?
I already knew the answer to that. I’d have to palm him off on somebody else like the girl at the Belcho Burger had. But how could I possibly do that to anybody?
I walked back into my room. The model airplane seemed to dominate the place, perched on the shelf like a bird of prey.
“Maybe it isn’t time to get rid of Badpenny yet,” a dark voice within me said.
Suddenly I was very tired. I flopped down on my bed.
Before dropping off to sleep, I gave my book shelf a final glance. Yes, that fighter plane looked pretty impressive, but there was still extra room on the shelf – enough for the Player of the Week trophy.
6: Playground Rendezvous
It was the usual routine at school Thursday. Conversations centered around vacation plans, who was going where and doing what. People were traveling long distances – camping, sightseeing, one lucky stiff was actually going to Europe.
Must be nice to have some big trip to look forward to. Anyplace had to be better than here with the endless baseball schedule looming ahead.
What was Guatemala like, I wondered.
I’d never been there, even though, technically, I might be a citizen. Dad was largely responsible for my lack of knowledge about my home country.
“We’re Americans now,” he’d proclaimed long ago. “Everything else is over.”
That meant an “English only” policy for me at home. The last time I’d heard any Spanish was a couple of years ago when Uncle Arturo visited us from Guatemala City. The adults talked Spanish while my cousins and I kind of stared at each other, since they didn’t speak any English.
Mom loves Guatemala, but she really considers herself to be European. Mine is the only house around where you can hear German and Spanish accents in the same conversation.
Aft
er school, I wandered off alone into the gorgeous May weather. It was the type of day when the whole world seemed full of exciting possibilities. Pink and white blossoms exploded everywhere, filling the air with sweetness.
I came to a little playground and sat on a steel mesh bench coated with blue rubber. It felt warm and comforting. The park was empty, as the usual crowd of moms and little kids hadn’t arrived yet, or else they’d just left.
My thoughts turned toward Mr. Badpenny.
“I’ll stop by and we can have another chat,” he’d said, “just call me.”
This was as good a place as any to chat. Not that I’d ever actually summon Mr. Badpenny, of course. But at least I wasn’t afraid of him any more. Okay, I was still afraid – but not out of control scared like before.
It’s kind of like getting your appendix out. Even though you’re scared, you know that it has to be done, so you just sort of accept the situation.
So ... how could I call him, anyway?
I wasn’t fully recovered from my illness yet, and I felt pretty tired. I closed my eyes and dozed off halfway, enjoying the sun’s warmth on my skin.
Then Badpenny suddenly appeared, and the air turned chill.
“Good afternoon, Tommy,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
I opened my eyes to see Badpenny standing beside the bench, blocking the spring day. Maybe “standing” isn’t the right word. He seemed to float there, leaning over me. A jolt of panic stabbed my gut.
Okay, I’m scared, I’m scared!
“Is this not a good time for you?” Badpenny asked. “I did hear you calling, after all.”
He had his ugly face turned my way, but his voice was smooth and mellow, a slick used car salesman voice. I forced myself to be calm, the jackhammer in my chest slowed.
“No,” I said. “I-I mean ... yes. It’s as good a time as any ... I mean.”
Mr. Badpenny chuckled and straightened to his full height, which was tremendous – like an NBA player wearing a top hat. Two little kids entered the opposite side of the park and started tossing around a big inflated ball that looked like a globe of the Earth. Their real-world presence steadied me a bit.
I looked up at Badpenny. Yeah, maybe I had called him. At least I’d been thinking about it.
“Who are you,” I said, “and where do you come from?”
He spread his hands and shrugged. “My name is Mr. Penny, as I said, and I come from a residence of the same name.”
“I know all that,” I said. “But who are you, really?”
“Such a question!” Mr. Badpenny said. “Can you tell me who you really are? Isn’t that what’s important?”
“Why ... I’m Tommy Velasco, and I’m from here,” I said.
Mr. Badpenny raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
“I go to South Middle School. I build model airplanes and play baseball. I – ”
“Agh!” Mr. Badpenny waved his hand. “Mere details.”
He extended a long, crooked finger right at my heart.
“Who are you in there, Tommy? That’s what counts.”
The question rocked me to my core. I couldn’t say a word. Fortunately, some racket from the other side of the park distracted me.
The two little boys had lost their ball in a crabapple tree. The thing was wedged in the branches and wouldn’t budge despite their efforts to shake it down. The younger boy started crying.
Mr. Badpenny pulled a large watch from his pocket.
“This is a rather tedious conversation, don’t you think?” he said. “Perhaps I should be going.”
“No, please don’t go yet,” I said.
He looked up from the watch. “Well, then?”
I licked my lips. They were as bone dry as the tongue I scraped over them.
“Mr. Penny,” I said. “You told me that I could call you whenever I wanted help, right?”
“Yes, you have that privilege, Tommy.”
“So,” I pointed toward the boys, “how about getting their ball out of that tree for me?”
An expression of total boredom passed over Mr. Badpenny’s face. He glanced at his watch again.
“Or other things,” I said, “like carrying packages for elderly ladies – you know, helping people.”
“Oh come now, Tommy. You could take such actions yourself if you really wanted to. They require no assistance from me.”
“That’s true, but ...”
“My capabilities lie elsewhere, don’t you know?” he said. “Would you ask a car mechanic to cut your hair, or a carpenter to put up a brick wall?”
“Well ... no.”
Then something happened which made very clear what kind of help I could expect from Mr. Badpenny.
“Hey, Velasco!” an insulting voice called. “Having fun talking to yourself?”
I turned to see the Karate kids – Greg Rolando and Bob Stewart. Those jerks. My face turned about hundred degrees hotter with anger.
“Don’t get upset,” Bob said, “You wouldn’t want to go into your gold fish impersonation again!”
They stopped walking and began opening and closing their mouths, bug-eyed, mocking my terror from the other day. Then Greg socked Bob in the arm, and they went into their Karate routine again, bounding across the park throwing kicks at each other.
“Oh, my,” said Mr. Badpenny, “those young fellows are most tiresome.”
“Yeah.”
An acid, puke-like fluid boiled up in my throat, nearly choking me.
“Perhaps it’s time they were taught a lesson?” Mr. Badpenny said.
“Yes,” I said. “Do that!”
In an instant, Mr. Badpenny whooshed across the park. Bob had just thrown out a half-baked side kick. Mr. Badpenny grabbed the leg in mid air and flung it hard, right into Greg’s gut!
A loud thump, like a watermelon being slugged with a baseball bat, shot across the park. Greg flew back and collapsed by a tree. He lay there, balled up in agony.
“I’m sorry man!” Bob said. “I don’t know what happened.”
He bent over Greg.
“Are you all right?”
Mr. Badpenny took one of Greg’s hands and grabbed Bob’s ankle with it.
“Hey!” Bob cried.
Using Greg’s captured hand, Badpenny flung Bob against the tree trunk. Bob smacked his head and fell sprawling.
Then Badpenny was gone. The beautiful springtime returned – but not for Bob and Greg, of course. I walked over and squatted beside the fallen heroes.
“You guys are great!” I said. “Maybe you can teach me to do that some time.”
Greg looked up with pain and fear in his eyes, gasping for air.
“Love the fish out of water routine, too,” I said. “Have a nice day.”
On my way out I came to the crabapple tree. With a mighty leap I knocked the ball out of the branches. It fell in a shower of pink blossoms.
7: Frightening News
Bad news at school Friday morning. Bob Stewart was in the hospital, the talk went, victim of a “martial arts accident.” People were saying all kinds of stuff – Bob was okay, he was totally messed up, he was something in between. I looked for Quentin. If anyone had an accurate account, it would be him.
“How badly hurt is Bob Stewart?” I demanded the instant I found Quentin at his locker.
“Hey, calm down, Tommy.” Quentin said. “What’s wrong?”
“Just tell me what you know about Bob Stewart. Okay?”
“Okay!”
Quentin studied my face a of couple seconds, his own face looked surprised and a bit worried.
“Bob’s got a concussion,” he finally said. “The doctors thought he might have fractured his neck, but it’s only sprained.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“So I’ve heard,” Quentin said. “He’ll be out the rest of the school year, though.”
I was relieved, but the news also chilled me deep down, as if somebody had pumped my vei
ns full of ice water. A heavy lump of ice thudded into my stomach and churned around.
“What’s the matter, Tommy?” Quentin said. “You’re not worried about that jerk, are you?”
Things weren’t supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be like in the movies where guys beat each other up and then walked away barely injured.
“Do you know where Greg Rolando’s locker is?” I said.
“Yeah, over by the science labs,” Quentin said. “Why do you want to see him?”
I walked off, leaving Quentin baffled. The hall was jammed with kids rifling through their lockers and rushing to class, but I felt utterly alone. I just wandered like a zombie, looking for Greg. I had to say something to him – anything.
At last I found him at his locker. He was just reaching to get something from the top shelf.
“Look, Greg,” I said. “I want – ”
He spun around and gaped at me. His eyes widened, and his mouth clenched into a thin, crumpled line. He backed against the locker door.
I’d heard the expression “turn white as a sheet” but had thought nothing of it. That’s just how Greg looked, though. He trembled so much that the metal locker vibrated against him.
I backed up and let the passing crowd sweep me away.
Part Two: Crunch Time
8: Spelling Showdown
Greg’s face haunted me all morning. Sure, I’d enjoyed seeing him yesterday lying on the ground with the wise attitude wiped away. But this was something terrible.
And what if Bob had broken his neck, what if he could never walk again?
After lunch, I shuffled into English class still unable to push Greg’s horrified expression out of my mind. I sat down at my desk and stared out the windows.
“All right, class,” Miss Greene said, “anyone who wants to participate in the spelling contest, please come to the front.”
The spelling contest! I’d forgotten all about it. Should I just sit it out, stay at my desk feeling rotten and guilty?
No, I’d worked too hard and had an excellent chance of winning. Greg Rolando blew out of my mind like a puff of smoke.
Nine of us moved to the front – me, Quentin, two other guys and five girls. As I reached Miss Greene’s desk, I saw a large parchment certificate.
“AWARD OF MERIT,” it read, “Presented to the Winner of the Spring Spelling Contest.”
A blank line in the middle waited for the Champion’s name. I could almost see my own name jumping out in big, fancy letters.
