"Who are you kids? What are you doing here? Haven't you made enough mischief yet? What else do you want from me, blood?"
I stepped forward. "That's a lot of questions, Mrs. McBroom."
She wagged an arthritic finger at me. "I know you! You're that Mercer boy, aren't you? The one who caused all that trouble!" She turned to Cheryl. "And you! You're that Gannett girl—you're just as bad as him."
"We understand you've been having some problems with your garden," Cheryl said.
I pointed to my hat. Denim, with the letters TSC in bright orange across the face. "We're the Tree and Shrub Crew," I told her. "No garden goes unplanted. That's our motto."
Moose SanGiorgio rolled up with a wheelbarrow overloaded with winter-clipped rosebushes. "Hi, Old Lady. Where do you want these?"
"Leave my garden alone," she said. "I don't want any Tree and Shrub Crew!"
"Tough luck," shouted Brett Whatley from across the yard, "because you've got us, whether you like it or not." Brett's offer of perpetual servitude had apparently extended beyond just Alec. He didn't just turn over a new leaf, he flipped that sucker and pinned it for the count. Although he no longer dared to claim any leadership position, his take- my-help-and-love-it attitude helped to define us now.
There were more than twenty kids working away in Mrs. McBroom's garden. Many were members of the new Shadow Club—but the club's original members were there, too. Darren, Abbie, O. P., all of them. The new members showed up to redeem their guilt, and the originals showed up because I asked them. Of course the originals had complained.
"Why do we have to do it?" Jason had said. "We didn't do anything bad this time."
So I told them they didn't have to come, but I'd like it if they did. I guess I must still carry some clout, because they all showed up.
As for the rosebushes, they came from our own yards, along with other flowering shrubs that would bloom a full spectrum of color, come spring. If any of our parents were annoyed by it, once they knew where the plants were going, they kept their complaints and their questions to themselves.
Mrs. McBroom paced on her porch with a combination of disbelief and horror as she watched us replant her garden, threatening every five minutes to call the police, until finally she gave up and came out to direct us, telling us exactly where she wanted each plant to go.
Solerno's stayed closed for two weeks. According to Old Man Solerno, he would never set foot in the place again. His days as a restauranteur had come to an end. Naturally, when the place came back to life the next Sunday afternoon, Solerno was furious. Tipped off by an anonymous phone call, he arrived at his restaurant to find about two dozen kids making an absolute mess in his kitchen.
Like Mrs. McBroom, he threatened to call the police on us. Like Mrs. McBroom, he never actually dialed. Under protest, he sat down at one of his own tables, and we served him about fifteen different dishes—our parents' favoriteItalian recipes, which we had practiced cooking at home. "What's-a this all about?" Solerno asked, almost afraid to try the food.
"We're The Solerno Committee," I told him, pointing to the initials on my hat. "Your food stinks, so we thought we'd change your menu and convince you to open up again. After all, this town wouldn't be the same without Solerno's."
He called me a lousy rotten punk and crossed his arms as plate after plate was set before him. Finally the aroma of fresh garlic and basil weakened him, and he tried one dish. We must have done a good job, because he moved on from the first plate to the second to the third, sampling them all. Some of them he tried three and four times. Finally he separated them into two categories. He pointed to the ones to his left. "I add-a these to my menu, eh?" Then he pointed to the ones to his right. "These other ones, they make-a me puke."
He tasted the ones he liked once more. "Need-a more salt," he said.
The next Wednesday morning, five of the pudgier members of the Shadow Club went knocking on Garson Underwood's door just as he was about to leave for his morning jog. According to their report, here's how it went:
"We're here to go jogging with you," they told him.
He laughed, thinking it was some sort of joke, but when they didn't leave, he began to wonder what was going on.
"We want to get into shape," one of them said. "And since we knew you jog every day, we thought we could jog with you. Because, as you can see from our hats we're Tired of Sitting on the Couch."
From what I heard, he was distrustful of the whole thing—what with vandals in town destroying his car—but he must have sensed some sincerity in the kids, because he took them with him on his morning jog. At last report, he still jogs with them every morning, and has taken to wearing his own TSC hat, because he, too, is Tired of Sitting on the Couch.
Pretty soon word began to get out that some creepy bunch of juvenile philanthropists were making the rounds in town, striking when least expected. It was sort of good-deed terrorism, dumped on unsuspecting victims whether they wanted it or not. I figured if the Shadow Club was only capable of acts of aggression, why couldn't those acts be aggressively good? No one seemed to make the connection that these were the same kids who had caused the trouble a couple of weeks before. I guess it's true that once people see you in one light, it's hard for them to see you in another. This time it worked to our advantage.
"When is it going to stop?" Cheryl asked.
"I hope it doesn't," I told her.
There were still a hundred things left to do. Solerno's and Broom Hilda's garden were just drops in the bucket, but that was all right. Hatred and violence, I knew, could be habit forming—but so could acts of kindness—and just because the Shadow Club had its origins in small-town terrorism didn't mean it couldn't redefine itself. It took vision. It took vigilance, as Mr. Greene had said—never turning a blind eye, always being aware of the danger. Vigilance not just for today, but tomorrow, and every day after that. A long-term goal.
Me, I've always been a goal-oriented person, the finish line always in my sights. True, I had always been a sprinter, but perhaps it was time to become a distance runner. If I could pace myself, I knew I could pace all of them—all of us—who wore the hat. It wasn't exactly a Boy Scout hat, if you know what I mean—there was still quite a lot of Shaditude in the things we did—and that seemed to satisfy even the angriest outsiders who had gravitated to the group. But we couldn't reach everyone. And I knew that those were the ones to be careful of.
That's why I mailed the package.
I had wrapped the package, and it sat on my desk for days before I decided to actually mail it.
"What's that?" Tyson asked, stepping into my room. "A letter bomb?"
"Thermonuclear," I told him, handing it to him.
"Amazing how small those things are getting." He looked it over, then tossed the small package back to me. "Do me a favor, don't detonate it tonight. I'm taking Maria Nixbok to the Gazilliaplex."
"Fine, I promise not to smash your atoms before she does." And then I laughed. "Maria Nixbok Dates Tyson McGaw—isn't that one of the biblical signs of the end of the world?"
"Ha-ha," he said. "You just can't stand that I'm not a freak anymore."
"You were never a freak," I told him with deep sincerity. "Just a loser." I thought he might curse me out, but instead he just smiled, and I smiled back. "Have a good time, Tyson," I told him, and added, "Don't kiss her with popcorn in your mouth. That grosses girls out."
He laughed. "Can I write that down? My first bit of brotherly advice."
Brotherly. Now, there was a thermonuclear word.
"So . . . I guess my parents talked to you about it," I said cautiously. "They told me they would."
Tyson looked away. "They mentioned it. They said it's up to me."
"So, what do you think?"
Tyson shrugged, for a brief moment looking like the scared kid I once rescued from his own flames. "I'm not sure yet. I mean, my initials would be the same, right? But calling myself Tyson Mercer would be weird. Still, I wouldn't mind it, y'kno
w? Being your brother?" He thought about it a moment more, then brightened. "Tell you what. When I decide, you'll be the first to know."
"Fair enough."
After he left, I returned my attention to the small package that still had no address. If it was a letter bomb, it wasn't much of one, but it wasn't a large-scale type of thing. It was more like a surgical strike. Carefully I wrote the address in block letters. Then I took a run down to the post office, getting there just before it closed.
There have been a lot of changes in my life over the past year—awful things I've seen and done, mistakes I've made. A person can grow from mistakes, or a person can deny them completely, letting their anger build up inside them until it blows. That's why I sent my little letter bomb.
And so, tomorrow or the next day, Jodi Lattimer will receive a package. It will have no return address, no hint of who sent it, but she'll know all the same. Because she will open it to find—wrapped in tissue paper—a shiny seashell, about the size of her fist. I don't know what she'll hear when she holds it up to her ear, but maybe, just maybe she'll hear the echoes of the world around her and finally feel the depth of the pain she helped to cause.
But if, in the end, all she can hear is the sea . . . then vigilance will have to be enough.
Neal Shusterman began his writing career shortly after graduation from college. In the years since, he has made his mark as a successful novelist. His books have been honored with awards from the International Reading Association, the American Library Association, and many states. His novels span many genres, from suspense thrillers to science fiction to true crime to social satire. In all his work he combines true-to-life characters with sensitive and riveting issues and binds it all together with a unique sense of humor. As a screenwriter, Mr. Shusterman writes original scripts as well as adaptations of his novels for film and TV. His other talents range from film directing to writing music and stage plays. He lives in southern California with his four children. You can visit the author on his Web site at www.storyman.com
Neal Shusterman, The Shadow Club Rising
(Series: Shadow Club # 2)
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