by Cary Fagan
But when she turned around, there they were, fighting one another to get through the door. Noreen, first, ran toward her.
She turned and sprinted away, down the fake street that ran down the mall, her hoodie flapping. The few shoppers inside stopped to stare at her. Behind her she could hear the clomping sound of three pairs of shoes and their breathless urging one another on.
She kept going, running past the stores toward the food court, and as she maneuvered between the tables, her hoodie got caught on the back of a chair. When she yanked it, the card in the pocket flew out and landed on the table.
She wanted to take a step back to get it, but now she heard Noreen shout, “Get her!” So she jumped forward and powered toward the exit at the end of the food court. She shoved the door open with her shoulder, even as she wrestled her skateboard from her backpack. The board hit the ground and a second later she was rolling into the parking lot. From around the corner came a blue Subaru so she did a quick kick-turn and went the other way, crossing the lot and hopping onto the sidewalk.
And then she got a lucky break because the return bus was just pulling up to the stop. She picked up her skateboard, climbed the stairs, and deposited her ticket. And as the bus drove on, she looked through the window at the three girls standing in the parking lot, catching their breath and watching her pull away.
She thought of holding up her hand and making a rude gesture, but her parents had brought her up to know better.
19
Pow Pow
Tractors?
Did I have to say tractors?
I couldn’t have said fireworks or chimpanzees or Arctic exploration? What in the world made me say tractors? I couldn’t imagine a subject that I felt less passionate about. I didn’t know a single thing about them.
I was thinking this while staring at the waffle on my plate. It was Saturday morning, and the tradition was for Dad to get out the deluxe Belgian Waffle maker, mix a bowl of batter, and fill the kitchen with the sweet smell and sizzle. During the first couple of months after Jackson ran away, the tradition was forgotten, but then Dad started it up again.
As I looked down at the perfectly made waffle, softer in the middle and crisper at the edges, about to reach for the maple syrup, a hand came down and grabbed the waffle right off my plate.
“Hey! You thief!”
Heather looked down at me as she took a big bite of the waffle. She was wearing the red-and-white striped uniform of Pow Pow Popcorn.
“Mmm,” she said, her mouth full.
“Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from,” Dad said, pouring more batter onto the grill.
Heather leaned over again, picked up my milk, and swigged half of it down.
“Don’t want to be late for work,” she said. “Oh, by the way, Hartley, I keep meaning to tell you. There is another person in high school with those initials. And it’s a girl.”
“Seriously? Who is she? What’s her name?”
“Sorry, got to go!”
She put the rest of the waffle in her mouth and ran out the door.
“Look at me!” said George. “I’m just like Heather.”
He began stuffing his waffle into his mouth. I pushed back my chair and sprang up to follow. But by the time I got outside Heather was already on her bike. She waved at me as she glided down the driveway.
I went back inside. “Here’s your waffle replacement,” Dad said.
But I had lost my appetite. Heather would never tell me. I just sat there dejectedly, but when I looked up again, I saw Mom staring at me.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You have a crush on another girl.”
“Mom!”
“Just asking.”
I hate the word crush. But in case you’re wondering, fine, I did like a girl last year. Her name was Emma Suskind and she had long brown hair, a slight lisp, and played the flute. On the very last day of school, I finally got my courage up to ask if she wanted to go to a movie or for ice cream or something. But as I came up, I heard her tell a friend that she was moving with her family to Iceland.
So now you know.
Even though I wasn’t hungry, I doused the waffle in maple syrup and began to chew a piece. An idea came to me.
“You know what would be a nice family outing this morning?”
“What?” said Dad.
“The mall. The one where Heather works. We can say hi to her.”
“Funny, Hartley,” said Mom. “You of all people wanting to go to the mall. The boy who hates to shop.”
“No, I mean it. I need new undershirts.”
“You don’t even wear undershirts,” Dad said.
“That’s because I don’t have any.”
“I could get that baby present for my cousin,” Mom said.
“I want to ride Dumpy!” cried George.
George meant the mechanical baby elephant in front of the hardware store. It wasn’t really called Dumpy. That was just George’s name for it.
“Why not?” said Dad, taking off his apron. “Let’s all go to the mall.”
Heather didn’t work in the big mall that had the famous chain stores in it. She worked at the Whirton Discount Mall just off the old highway. It had stores like Factory Reject Fashion, Books by the Pound, and Ethel’s Affordable Pets. When I was little, Jackson convinced me that at Ethel’s you could buy a lizard with one eye, a guinea pig that barked, or a goldfish that swam upside down.
We drove to the mall and because it was early, and because most people went to the other mall, we got a parking space right by the door. Mom headed to the Good Deal Gift Gallery for her baby present while George dragged Dad off to ride Dumpy. I told them I wanted to wander a bit on my own.
I went straight to the food court at the far end. There was 3-4-1 Sushi, Cheapo Burger, and Pow Pow Popcorn. Heather was behind the counter, wearing a paper hat and scooping popcorn into paper bags. I knew that she hated when we came to see her at work, so I was a little nervous to go up to the counter. I could even feel my stomach start to hurt. But I made myself go.
“Hi, sis,” I said.
“What are you doing here? Scram.”
A woman came up behind me. She had a shopping bag in each hand. “Are you going to order?” she asked me.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” I said. “Excuse me, Miss, can you tell me what flavors you have?”
Heather glared at me. “We have cheezy-wheezy, candy crunch-crunch, pickle-wickle, and voom-voom vinegar.”
“And what sizes do you have?”
“We have big, extra-big, jumbo, extra-jumbo, and giant.”
“Do you have a small?”
“No, our smallest is a big.”
“Your smallest is a big?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How big is big?”
“Not that big. More like a medium.”
“Your big is a medium?”
“I really don’t have time for this,” huffed the woman behind me. She turned and marched over to Cheapo Burger.
“See that?” Heather growled. “You just made me lose a customer.”
“I’ll go away as soon as you tell me who the other person with the initials G. O. is.”
“So you can stalk her?”
“That isn’t funny. Can’t you just tell me? Please?”
“All right, if it means you’ll get out of here. Her name is Gretchen Oyster. She’s fifteen and in the year below me. But Jennifer knows her from the student magazine. She’s one of those artsy types, always hanging around the art room, member of the writing club. I think she was adopted from China when she was a baby. That is every last thing I know about her.”
“Okay. Thanks, Heather.”
“Actually, one more thing. She lives at 146 Almond Avenue. Do you want a bag of popcorn? It’s on the hous
e.”
“Sure! I’ll have voom-voom vinegar. Wait, that might be too sour. I’ll have candy crunch-crunch. Unless it’s the kind that gets stuck in your teeth—”
“Forget it,” Heather said, turning back to the popcorn maker.
I didn’t care about not getting any Pow Pow popcorn. Because now I knew who g.o. was.
Gretchen Oyster.
I walked away from the counter and sat at one of the food-court tables. The table was bolted to the floor. The chairs were bolted to the floor too. Just in case I wanted to steal one, I guess.
But I tried not to think about Gretchen Oyster. I tried to think about my final project and how I was going to get it done. I didn’t have any information on tractors. Ms. Gorham didn’t like us to use only the Internet, which meant that I was going to have to find information somewhere else. I could only hope that the less-than-impressive Whirton Public Library had something.
Only I wasn’t at the library. I was at the mall.
My parents had said they would meet me here, but so far there was no sign of them. I knew that Heather would hate it if I watched her making popcorn, so I made sure to look in another direction. I gazed at one storefront after another and then at the tables around me, each one bolted to the floor. At home, George was always bumping into the kitchen table or just pushing it for no reason. Maybe we ought to bolt ours down too.
I noticed something on the table to the left of me.
Wouldn’t it be cool if I found a card at the discount mall? How likely was that? Probably the odds were a million to one. Or worse.
It was the right size and shape of a card. But it was blank. Unless of course it was upside down.
Probably it was one of those little signs that stores stick onto a display: Rock Bottom Price! or Last One!
It wouldn’t hurt to look, I supposed. I got up and took a step toward it.
It still looked like a possible card.
I shot over and picked it up, turning it over quickly. Yes! I couldn’t believe my luck. I had the name of Gretchen Oyster and I had another card.
Reading the card, I realized something.
I realized that Gretchen Oyster was sad. She wasn’t sad in the way I felt some of the time, or the way my parents felt most of the time, even if they tried to hide it. She was sad in her own way.
And I had another thought. I didn’t need to feel the exact same thing as Gretchen Oyster to like her cards.
“Hey there, Hartley.”
I looked up and saw Mom, Dad, and George coming toward me. I put my hand over the card and slid it off the table.
“We’re going to say hi to Heather,” Mom said. “Maybe she’ll give us some free popcorn.”
“Don’t count on it,” I replied.
20
Cat Paintings
We drove home and I discovered the not very surprising fact that my parents didn’t know anything about tractors. George, however, did offer this nugget:
“They’re strong like me!”
Then he lowered his head, made the sound of an engine, and began shoving his hands against me.
I asked Dad to drop me off at the Whirton Public Library on the way home. The mobile home looked the same as always, except that now there was a sign handwritten in the window that said We Do Not Need Any More Fishing Magazines.
As soon as I walked in a voice called out, “Is that you, Ricky Stackhouse?”
“No, Mrs. Scheer. It’s me again, Hartley Staples.”
Mrs. Scheer peered through the doorway of her office at me. “Are you sure you’re not Ricky Stackhouse?”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Scheer.”
“All right, then. But if you see Ricky Stackhouse give me a holler. Or if you see Mr. Scheer.”
“Your husband?”
“If you see Mr. Scheer come up the steps, you just bar the way. Do you hear me? You bar the way!”
“What did Mr. Scheer do?”
“Only bend over the corner of a page, that’s all.”
“To mark his place?”
“That’s right. Too lazy to get a bookmark or a leaf or a piece of toilet paper. Bent the corner right over. One of our best books on ghosts. Now he’s banned for a month. We play no favorites here.”
Being a librarian was starting to sound like being a police officer. I started to look on the shelves. There was no section on agriculture or machines, but there was a shelf called Things That Make Loud Noises and, sure enough, there was the book I was looking for.
Your Friend, the Tractor.
I took it off the shelf and saw that the cover was held on by clear tape curling at the edges. It smelled like an old pair of rubber boots, which isn’t actually too bad. It had been published in 1962 and the first photograph was of a farmer with a brush cut and wearing overalls as he stood beside his tractor.
When I got home, I put the new card into the metal box. I planned to read the entire tractor book by the end of the weekend, but on Sunday Mom and Dad insisted that we all go to the town square to see the Whirton Outdoor Art Show. Local artists had their art on display and stood there hoping that somebody would buy something. To prevent death by boredom, I made a survey of the most popular subjects painted by Whirton artists.
Cat sleeping on a chair
Cat awake on a chair
Clown holding a flower
Clown eating a flower
Cat wearing a clown’s hat
Then we had to go for a picnic, and then a walk, and when we finally got home, Mom asked me to cut the grass. That left only about half an hour before dinner. I went up to my room and sat at my desk.
The book, Your Friend, the Tractor, lay before me.
I pushed it aside and took out the metal box. Then I laid out the cards that I had, all seven of them. I read the words on each one.
If only I had number 3. It was like missing a piece of a puzzle you just spent three hours making, only worse.
“Dinner!” called Dad. The cards went back into the metal box. I hadn’t spent even five minutes on my final project.
21
The Curveball
On Monday morning the presentations began. I expected Ms. Gorham to arrive in a top hat and spangles, like the ringleader of a circus. I imagined her saying, “And now ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment…”
Okay, so she didn’t arrive in a top hat. And she didn’t say those words. But she might as well have, the way she whipped everyone up with excitement. “This is it,” she said, standing in front of her desk. “It’s the day we’ve all been waiting for. Your final projects. The last work you need to do before graduating middle school. Is this a big deal?”
“Yes it is!” everyone shouted.
“Are we excited?”
“Yes we are!”
“All right, then. Let’s get started.”
Max Purcell went first. He had to because he was getting overheated in his homemade space suit. It sort of looked like the one worn by Neil Armstrong to walk on the moon—that is, if Neil Armstrong had worn a white painter’s outfit and had an old suitcase strapped to his back and a hockey helmet on his head. The helmet had gold wrapping paper taped on the inside of the visor. Unable to see, Max kept crashing into things.
After him came Simon Asch on the history of baseball. He showed us a black-and-white film of Babe Ruth. He told us about Hank Greenberg and Jackie Robinson. He demonstrated a curveball, throwing it across the room to Marianne Warner who had brought her catcher’s mitt. But Simon threw wide and the ball smacked the back wall and bounced into Delmore Hass’s nose.
Delmore went to see the nurse.
Lauren Engerer displayed an enormous banner that showed every dog breed in the world. Who knew that a Japanese Chin was cousin to a King Charles Spaniel? She added some excellent barking and yipp
ing imitations that were sure to get her bonus marks.
The next day, the presentations continued. Terrance Borne gave a talk on the history of 1960s folk music and played a song that he made up called “How Fragile the Peach.” It was about the planet Earth being like a peach and how we had to be careful not to bruise it. Ms. Gorham called it “deep.”
Celia Horngold informed us that pencil erasers could be made out of real or synthetic rubber. Ms. Gorham asked her which was better. “I don’t know,” Celia said and started to cry.
On Wednesday Zack Mirani—well, I don’t know what Zack Mirani did his presentation on because I put my fingers in my ears.
Samuel Swenton told us about the horror of poison gas in World War I. Then he lit a stink bomb before Ms. Gorham could stop him.
As always, I picked up George after school. When we got home, I was surprised to see Heather lying on the front lawn and looking up at the sky.
“Hmm,” said George, looking down at her. “Should I lie down outside or watch television? Outside or television? I know. Television!”
He ran inside. But I stayed out. I watched Heather for a while, and since she didn’t tell me to buzz off, I got down on the grass beside her and lay down too. I could feel the blades tickling my neck. In the sky I saw an enormous, football-shaped balloon.
“Is that a UFO?” I asked.
“It’s a dirigible,” Heather said.
“A what?”
I expected her to call me stupid but she didn’t. “An airship. It’s filled with helium. There’s a cabin underneath for the pilot and passengers. There are these giant fans that move it in one direction or another.”
“How do you know that?”
“Jackson told me once.”
“He knows a lot about airplanes and stuff like that.”
Heather sighed. “He’s not coming back, you realize.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Everybody is just waiting for him to come home. But he’s not going to. Why would he? If he liked living with us, he wouldn’t have left in the first place. He probably never even thinks about us.”
