Funny Business

  This was not good.

  As soon as I got home from school, I got out the class directory and dialed Ernest’s number.

  “Ernest!” I said. “You want to come over to my house for dinner tonight?”

  “I’d love to and stuff, but I can’t,” he said. “I’m going to Fresh Mex.”

  “Fresh Mex?” I asked. “You mean Chevys?”

  “Yeah,” said Ernest.

  The restaurant was called Chevys. Their slogan was Fresh Mex. Who called Chevys Fresh Mex?

  Ernest.

  “Who are you going to Chevys with?” I asked. “Your mom?”

  “Yeah,” said Ernest. “And Jean-Pierre.”

  My grip tightened around the receiver. Jean-Pierre? Jean-Pierre never even talked to Ernest. And now they were having Fresh Mex together?

  “Ernest,” I said. “Did you tell anyone else about the sweepstakes?”

  Silence. Then: “Yes.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Ernest!” I said. “I told you not to—Never mind. That’s fine.” I changed up my tone. “Hey. I just realized. This is crazy: My mom and I are going to Chevys tonight, too!”

  There was a pause, and then Ernest said, “I thought you were having dinner at home?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You just invited me to your house for dinner.”

  “I invited you to come over to my house so we could drive over to Chevys for dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Ernest. “Cool! Maybe we’ll see you there!”

  “I think you will,” I said. “What time are you going?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Us, too,” I said. “See you there, Ernest.”

  “Bye, Dean.”

  I hung up the phone.

  “Mom!” I shouted up the stairs. “Can we please go to Chevys for dinner tonight?”

  By the time I convinced my mom and we got to Chevys, Ernest and his mom and Jean-Pierre were already seated at a table. They were laughing and eating chips and they didn’t see us come in.

  “Two for dinner?” asked the hostess, whose name tag identified her as “Jennie O’Brien, Fiesta Animal.”

  “Four,” I said, before my mom could answer.

  She seated us at a large red booth in the corner. Immediately I got up and went over to Ernest’s table.

  “A night mare!” Ernest was saying as I approached.

  Jean-Pierre laughed. “That’s good, man. That’s good.” He held up his hand for a high five.

  “Hey, guys!” I said.

  “Hey, Dean!” said Ernest. Jean-Pierre just glared at me.

  Ernest introduced me to his mom. “I’ve never talked to so many of Ernest’s school friends as I have today!” she said, delighted.

  “Great. That’s great,” I said. “Hey—I’m here with my mom. We should combine tables.”

  “The more the merrier, right?” said Ernest’s mom.

  “Right!” said Ernest.

  “I kind of like this table,” said Jean-Pierre quietly.

  Ernest ignored him. “Dinner with two good friends!”

  “We’re at that booth over there,” I said. “It doesn’t really have room for five, but maybe we can pull up a chair for you, Jean-Pierre.”

  We headed toward our table, where my mom was sitting with a confused expression. I let Ernest and his mother get a few feet ahead and grabbed Jean-Pierre by the arm.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I said.

  Jean-Pierre quickly took my fingers off his arm. “Shut up, man. I know what you’re doing.”

  “There’s no way you’re swimming in that chocolate pool.”

  “Wrong.”

  “You’re not even Ernest’s friend.”

  “Wrong again,” said Jean-Pierre. “I’m Ernest’s best friend. He just told me five minutes ago.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “He used those words? ‘Best friend’?”

  Jean-Pierre smirked. “Yep. Well, he said ‘best of friends.’”

  I breathed out through my nostrils. Ernest.

  Ernest turned around. “Come on, guys,” he said. “What are you lollygagging around for, you sacks of potatoes?”

  “Sacks of potatoes,” I said, laughing. “That’s a good one, Ernest.”

  Jean-Pierre mouthed something to me that I pretended not to understand.

  Ernest and I were sitting next to each other in a booth while our moms talked. Jean-Pierre had left for the bathroom a few minutes earlier, which was fine with me.

  “It’s nice to spend time with another adult for once,” Ernest’s mom was saying.

  “Yes,” said my mom. “Sometimes I feel like my only company is grade-schoolers.”

  They laughed. I didn’t. Ernest did, but he laughed whenever someone else laughed.

  “You know,” said Ernest’s mom, “I had no idea those two were such good friends.”

  “Neither did—”

  “Sure we are,” I interrupted. “Ernest and I go way back. We were art buddies back in kindergarten, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Ernest. Then he started chuckling. “Hey, how much money does a bronco have?”

  I tried to smile. “How much?”

  Before he could answer, Jean-Pierre returned with a little paper bag in his right hand. He tossed it over to Ernest, who missed the catch. The brown sachet flopped onto his lap.

  “Here you go, man,” he said. “I got you some fresh tortillas from that machine over there.”

  Ernest pulled out a tortilla. “They’re still warm and stuff! Thanks, Jean-Pierre!”

  “Don’t get too excited,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. Those are free, you know.”

  “So?” said Jean-Pierre. He gave me a threatening look.

  I shrugged but didn’t say anything. I had never been in a fight, and I sure wasn’t going to start with Jean-Pierre.

  Ernest, mouth full, looked at his mom. “Can I ask them?” he said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  I held my breath. Them? Did Ernest have two tickets to the Nesquik factory?

  “Do you guys want to come over for a sleepover?”

  Jean-Pierre made a face like he was in pain. “Can’t,” he said. “I have a basketball tournament this weekend.” I had never seen him sad when talking about basketball before.

  “I can!” I said quickly. “Right, Mom?”

  “Sure,” she said. And then added, looking at Ernest’s mother, “I’m not going to turn down a night off.” She and Ernest’s mom and Ernest all laughed.

  “I can’t wait for tonight,” Ernest said. “It’ll be the two amigos!”

  “The two best amigos,” I said.

  Jean-Pierre looked morose.

  Just then, five Chevys employees came over and formed a half circle around our table. Jennie O’Brien, Fiesta Animal, put a sombrero on Ernest’s head.

  “What’s going on?” Ernest said.

  “I told them it’s your birthday,” I whispered to him. “Just play along—I always do it to my friends here.”

  They clapped their hands and sang.

  Happy, happy birthday

  From the Chevys crew!

  We wish it was our birthday

  So we could party, too!

  Everyone in the restaurant applauded for Ernest.

  I caught Jean-Pierre’s eye and, while nobody else was looking, made a spiral with my index finger like the waterslide in the commercial. He knew what I meant.

  The sleepover at Ernest’s house was a disaster.

  “…and then they put the sombrero on my head and stuff, and they sang this song and stuff, but it was a weird song and not the normal birthday song—”

  “I know, Ernest. I was there.”

  “Do you want anything to drink?” Ernest’s mom asked me. We were sitting in the kitchen.

  “Sure,” I said. “Do you have any soda?”

  “Gross!” Ernest said. “
Soda gives you cavities.”

  “How about milk?” I said.

  “Ernest is lactose intolerant,” said Ernest’s mom.

  Ernest nodded like that was something to be proud of. “In the mornings I put orange juice in my cereal. That’s what we’ll have for breakfast tomorrow.”

  Terrific.

  “I’ll just have some water.”

  “What do you want to do?” Ernest asked when we finished our waters.

  “Let’s watch some TV,” I said, since that didn’t involve talking to Ernest.

  “I can’t.” Ernest pointed to a poster board filled with boxes on the wall.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Duh, it’s my TV Log. Duh,” said Ernest. “I can watch two hours of TV a week. Whenever I watch TV, I mark it on the log. I already used up my time this week.”

  “Maybe your mom will let you watch some as a treat because I’m here.”

  “No,” called Ernest’s mom from the next room.

  “Don’t worry,” Ernest said. “I still have two hours of Nintendo time!”

  That was something.

  Ernest and I went into the TV room, and he pulled an old video game console out of a cabinet.

  “I’m heck of excited about our playdate,” Ernest said while he attached the system’s wires to the back of the TV.

  “Ernest,” I said. “I don’t think kids our age call them playdates anymore.”

  “Right,” said Ernest, thinking. “Just dates.”

  “No, playdates is fine.”

  Ernest turned the TV on and passed me a controller. The title screen was for some fighting game I’d never heard of before. The graphics were terrible.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever used both controllers at once,” Ernest said.

  For a second, I felt bad for him.

  “Winner gets the good controller,” said Ernest.

  “What do you mean?” I said. A few seconds later I figured it out. A button on my controller was stuck down and all my character could do was punch the air over and over again.

  Ernest started giggling. His character started throwing fireballs at mine. I couldn’t dodge them. I lost in about ten seconds.

  “I just whupped you,” Ernest said. “It’s fun to play with two people!”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Super fun.”

  I spent the next hour getting beaten by Ernest at a terrible video game. When Ernest’s mom said, “Bedtime!” I almost collapsed with relief. I’d never been so excited to go to sleep at eight thirty p.m.

  I stood in Ernest’s room. Ernest tossed an old blanket and pillow onto the floor.

  The floor was solid wood and covered in dust and toys.

  “Am I sleeping on the floor?” I asked.

  “Where do you want to sleep?” Ernest asked. “A tree?” He started chuckling.

  “It’s just I thought you had an extra bed.”

  “For who? Dracula?” He started laughing again, even harder this time.

  “Then why did you tell me I didn’t need to bring a sleeping bag?”

  “We’re not camping!” said Ernest, collapsing in hysterics onto his bed.

  I got down on the floor. Ernest turned out his light.

  The room was cold and the floor was hard. I didn’t know whether to get under the blanket or stay on top of it.

  “Do you have any more blankets?” I asked.

  “This is a house, not a blanket factory!” Ernest squealed.

  I rolled over and tried to find a comfortable position. There wasn’t one.

  “Want to hear a scary story?” Ernest asked.

  “Sure.”

  “One time there was this driver who picked up this hitchhiker, and the hitchhiker was this girl and she was wearing a prom dress and stuff….”

  The girl is a ghost, I thought.

  “…and then they were like talking and stuff, and she was all sad and stuff, and the guy didn’t know why…”

  Because she’s a ghost.

  “…and then like when she got to the address. Oh, wait, so first when she originally got in the car, she gave the guy like this address and stuff, and then when they got there, she vanished and stuff….”

  Ghost.

  “…and then the guy knocked on the door and stuff, and this old lady answered, and the guy was like, ‘Do you know this girl Donna?’ Oh yeah, because originally the guy asked the girl her name, the hitchhiker girl, and her name was Donna, and so the guy was like, ‘Do you know this Donna?’ And then the woman was like, ‘Donna died on prom night and stuff, and so now Donna is like a ghost.’”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Yeah, so he gave a ride home to a ghost.”

  “Right.”

  That night, when not lying awake with back cramps, I dreamed of Nesquik waterslides.

  On Monday morning I was feeling pretty good about my chances of going to the Nesquik factory. I’d heard that Jake Harms had gone over to Ernest’s for a sleepover on Saturday night but couldn’t take it. At seven thirty he’d faked sick and called his mom.

  At morning recess everyone had crowded around Ernest, but he chose to play two square with me.

  We sat together at lunch and he told me jokes.

  Ernest and I were pretty much the best of friends.

  And then, before PE, things took a bad turn.

  When I opened the door to the locker room, I saw Ernest in a corner, pushed up against the wall by Hendrick Samuels. A bunch of boys were crowded around them. Hendrick had a grip on Ernest’s gym shirt—a bit of golden cloth was twisted up in his fist.

  Hendrick Samuels was two years older than we were, but everyone in our grade knew him because he liked to push smaller kids around. I was usually pretty good at avoiding him.

  But as I stood there in the doorway, Ernest looked over at me and we made eye contact. He was helpless. Hendrick looked like a mountain lion that had cornered its prey. He was the size of four or five Ernests put together.

  I just wanted to go to my locker and get changed.

  But I remembered the waterslide. I pictured myself swirling down the tube and splashing into that pool of chocolate milk. And then I walked over and tapped Hendrick Samuels on the shoulder.

  “Come on, Hendrick,” I said. “Why are you picking on Ernest? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

  It wasn’t a very good line, but I was using most of my brain to keep my knees from buckling.

  Hendrick squinted at me. “He started it. I was getting a drink of water, and this little dork ran up and threw a pair of underwear at me.”

  I looked over at Ernest, shocked. “You did?”

  Ernest giggled and shrugged. “They were clean,” he said.

  Ernest.

  If you go around throwing your underwear at Hendrick Samuels, clean or not, you deserved whatever you got.

  But the factory.

  I stepped between Hendrick and Ernest.

  “If you want to mess with Ernest,” I said, “you’ve got to go through me.”

  Hendrick looked surprised. And amused.

  I heard Ernest say behind me, “Thanks, Dean. You’re a good friend.”

  I turned over my shoulder. “You can pay me back by letting me go first on the waterslide.”

  Ernest hesitated and then said, “Dean? I want to tell you something.”

  I knew what he’d say: that we were the best of friends.

  Ernest whispered in my ear, “There is no sweepstakes. I made that up.”

  The locker room was quiet, like an empty church. My hands, which had been balled up in fists in front of me, relaxed and dropped to my sides. Oh no. No. My brain pivoted hard. Of course.

  Of course Ernest had made it up. If there was a sweepstakes, I would have heard about it, even if my mom wouldn’t buy me Nesquik. They would have put that on the commercial.

  And Ernest was lactose intolerant. He didn’t even drink chocolate milk.

  Behind me, I barely heard Ernest say
, “I don’t even think that factory even exists in real life.”

  I kept looking straight ahead but I wasn’t really seeing. My eyes stung. He was right. Ernest was right. Of course the factory didn’t exist. He had known but so many of us had been fooled. How had I missed the truth? It was stupid. You couldn’t swim in chocolate milk. That was disgusting. Who would want to drink milk people had swum in? And what if some of the kids hadn’t taken showers? And then wouldn’t you smell like milk all day? I had fooled myself because I wanted that factory to exist. But now, in a boy’s locker room that smelled of chlorine and sweat and the older boys’ cologne, the truth hit me hard, right in the gut.

  And then Hendrick Samuels did.

  WILL

  BY ADAM REX

  Between peeling off his nightclothes and pulling on his school uniform Will examined himself from heel to hair-line. Standing in front of the long mirror with a second, smaller mirror in his hand, he checked every inch of his body for marks, moles, growth, shrinkage, changes in color…and made ticks and notes on a long list in his notebook.

  If you had read this list you may have found it strange.

  Next he pinched himself, held his finger in the flame of a lit match, counted how many jumping jacks he could do in a minute, and timed how long he could hold his breath. When he heard the sound of his older brother moving down the hall Will leaned out the bedroom door and stared at him, squinchy-eyed, until his brother told him to stop.

  (This was on the list, too, though you might not have recognized just which item until Will checked it off with a flick of his pencil.)

  If you’d been watching through the window you may have thought, at times, that Will was no longer doing anything at all. Just standing there, but with a particularly serious and single-minded look on his face. But each bit of nothing would seem like something when it ended with Will checking another item off his list.

  Now he was glaring at a paper clip. What was he trying to do? Was it working? The check mark wouldn’t tell you as much as the look on his face or the shake of his head.

  Will returned the list with its ticks and checks to his desk drawer, then marked the passing of another day on his wall calendar with a bright red NO. The calendar was nothing but numbers and nos.