"That guy is definitely bad news," Spider says.
I nod. "So why do we keep buying from him?"
"Because he's got great stuff like this!" Spider tears the wrapper from his pop. "You can't find it at any store. Have you tried his Bunker Buster cone?"
"Not yet."
"Get one next time," Spider says. "You'll never forget it - trust me on that."
I remove the wrapper and bite into the barrel-shaped pop. A tart, almost unpleasant taste stings my mouth. Then the sweet goo shoots out and mixes with the tartness. The combined flavor is incredible.
"How is it?" Spider asks.
"Like cold strawberry jam mixed with battery acid," I say.
"I knew you'd like it," Spider says.
Then he turns philosophical.
"You know, Ryan, there are lots of strange people in Bridgestock," he says. "Maybe that's why Mr. Johnson can operate here without attracting too much attention."
"You've got that right," I say. "I can't imagine a guy like that running an ice cream truck back home."
I think again of my beautiful street in the suburbs - the wide pavement and friendly neighbors, the graceful trees, the pleasant ice cream lady who makes the rounds in her truck ...
"Billy Conner is always asking about this town," Spider says. "I wonder why."
"Maybe he wants to move out here," I say.
"Fat chance of that!"
We are both outsiders. Spider's dad works for my stepdad, Bob Warwick, and our families both moved here in January, in time for winter term at wonderful Bridgestock Middle School. There are some really mean kids there - such as "Dirty" Larry Nolan, my stepsister's latest boyfriend. Most of the other kids are merely peculiar and stand offish. I haven't made any friends, except for Spider.
Everybody is so grungy in Bridgestock. I've never seen so many people with dirty, stringy hair and rumpled clothes. You see them shuffling around the 'downtown' kicking stray dogs or throwing stones at squirrels.
"This whole town seems to be stuck in some crazy time warp," Spider says. "Like a car stalled out at a trash dump."
"That's a good way to put it," I said.
Of course, all this will soon change, according to Bob. Once his 'Melody Acres' housing development gets built, people will flock here bringing prosperity with them. Then the state will hurry up and bash a new freeway into town. And we'll be rich, too.
Sure.
The ice cream tune drifts away. A new and frightening sound comes from the opposite direction.
"What's that?" Spider says.
I move to the curb and look up the street. A battered old pickup truck is barreling toward us going way beyond the speed limit. It runs the stop sign at the corner.
The driver's screaming head sticks out the window: "...aaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
The shriek grows louder as the pickup approaches. I jump back onto the grass in the nick of time. The truck zips past.
I glimpse the driver - a scruffy older man, bald except for a fringe of gray hair blowing crazily in the wind. His eyes and mouth gape wide open in an expression of absolute terror.
As he disappears down the street, the scream trails off: "AAAAHHHHHaaaahhhh ...."
"Who is that lunatic?" I say.
"I think it's Mr. Thromp," Spider says.
"Mr. Thromp?" I say. "Like, is he related to our English teacher?"
"Yeah, he's her husband," Spider says. "He works with my Dad."
"Wow!"
Spider gives his pop a thoughtful lick. "Poor guy, no wonder he's screaming his head off with a wife like her."
Mom appears at our front door, she looks kind of worried. "What's all that noise, Ryan?" she asks.
"Nothing, Mom," I say, "just some nutcase driving by."
"Yeah, but he's gone," Spider says.
"Come in now," Mom says, "dinner will be ready soon. Would you like to eat with us, Mark?"
Spider nudges me with his elbow. "Ask her about jujitsu, Ryan."
"Not now," I say.
Spider raises his voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Warwick, but I've got plans already."
The words Mrs. Warwick grate my nerves like fingernails on a chalk board. I turn to Spider,
"See you at school tomorrow," I say. "Good luck with your class."
"Right!"
Spider rides off on his bike, one arm jabbing the air with a martial arts punch. I head toward the house and an evening with my Happy Blended Family.
3: The H. B. F.
The front door bursts open just as I am starting up the porch steps. Larry Nolan rushes outside and nearly knocks me over.
"Hey, watch out!" he says. "What are you doing creeping around?"
"I live here," I say.
"Oh, yeah." Larry smirks. "Too bad, ain't it?"
He jogs away, laughing. Some little kid has left a toy wagon on the sidewalk next door. Larry kicks it aside, still laughing. The wagon bounces off a parked car leaving a nice dent. That is some funny joke, all right. Then again, the dent might be an improvement on the rusty old car.
Larry takes off fast and turns the corner just as the neighbor comes to his door. The guy sees the wagon crashed against his car, then he gives me a dirty look. I smile back.
I hope that he doesn't suspect me. I mean, I don't exactly look like a juvenile delinquent. Do I? My time here hasn't warped me that much, has it? In any case, this is not the time for socializing. I bound up the porch steps.
Good old Larry. Not only do I have to put up with that jerk in my English class, but now he's hanging around my house, too. Inside the house lurks my Happy Blended Family - the H. B. F. Pronounce that "he-beef," as in a lot of bull.
Bob Warwick sits at the dining room table with a stack of business type papers before him. Smoke curls from his cigarette, and one hand combs through his thinning black hair. His neck tie runs over his spreading gut like a blue creek passing through a bulging field of snow. All this smoke does wonders for my asthma - thanks Bob.
Mom places a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. I suddenly want to vomit.
"Can you put away your papers now, Honey?" she says.
Bob grunts something and shuffles the papers into his briefcase.
Mom and Bob have been married seven months. My real dad is in Arizona with his new wife. For a while, I thought I might be moving out there, but I didn't hit it off with my step-mom when I visited them. Besides, there are too many cactuses on people's lawns out there.
Dad didn't seem too upset by this. After all, he'd "grown apart" from Mom and our family, and he needed "space to make a fresh start." Those were his exact words; I overheard them myself.
Bob maneuvers his midsection around the table and walks off toward the bathroom. He might not be the sharpest looking guy, but at least he dresses well - part of his effort to bring civilization to Bridgestock. Bob's daughter, Katie Warwick, tromps down from her room upstairs.
You can't mistake her booming steps, and you'd assume that some huge person would appear. Katie isn't real big, but she's solidly built - like those tough girls you see beating each other up on the TV fight shows. She can hit hard, too, she claims, and has offered to show me.
"Dinner's almost ready, Katie," Mom says. "Please set the table."
"Sure, Mom!" Katie answers in her sweetest voice. "I'll be right there."
'Katie War Witch' is my nickname for her. In her diary, which I've secretly read, she calls herself 'Leopard Girl.' For example:
"Leopard Girl finds Bridgestock to be rather dull. My dork step-brother is especially boring."
and
"Leopard Girl has found a new boyfriend, he should be amusing for a while."
She notices me sitting on the couch, and her phony smile fades.
"How are you, dweeb?" she whispers, exaggerating her lip movements so I can't misunderstand.
Katie wasn't part of the original deal. She was thrown out of the house a few months ago when her mom tied up with a new boyfriend. Guess th
e new guy didn't like Katie very much. She's a high school sophomore, so at least I don't have to see her at school.
We all sit down for dinner. A good meal, as Mom had enough time to cook from scratch. She stayed in Bridgestock to work at Bob's office today rather than make the long commute to her law firm's office in the suburbs. I bite into a delicious breaded drumstick.
"Please pass the corn, Ryan," Mom says.
I move the bowl her way. She's so pretty and young looking, a real class act. What could she possibly see in a guy like Bob Warwick?
Bob says very little. He always seems to be mad about something, as if a big belch of anger is ready to come blasting out of him any second. He never says angry things to me, though - he even tries to be 'friendly' sometimes. I like it better when he says nothing.
How did so many ugly things elbow their way into my life? Not long ago, Mom and I were living in a beautiful house in the suburbs. I went to a great school and had tons of friends. Things had settled down from Dad walking out, and I sure didn't miss the constant arguments he and Mom were having.
Then Bob Warwick showed up with his big real estate schemes and hired Mom's firm to do his legal work.
And now this!
There must be a way out, I just need to find it. There has to be some mathematical formula I can apply to the H. B. F. so that Mom and me can be subtracted from it. Math is one of my strong points, or it used to be before I moved here and got my brain numbed.
If Mom is too far gone and can't leave, then there has to be a way for me, at least, to get out.
And far away from here.
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