Hoot

  When Roy’s mother picked him up after class on Thursday, she said she had some good news. “Your suspension from the school bus has been lifted!”

  Roy wasn’t exactly ready to turn cartwheels. “Why? What happened?”

  “I guess Miss Hennepin reconsidered the situation.”

  “How come? Did you call her or something?”

  “Actually, I’ve spoken to her a number of times,” his mother acknowledged. “It was a fairness issue, honey. It wasn’t right that you got suspended while nothing happened to the boy who started the fight.”

  “It wasn’t a fight, Mom.”

  “Regardless. It looks like Miss Hennepin came around to our point of view. Starting tomorrow morning, you’re back on the bus.”

  Yippee, thought Roy. Thanks a bunch, Mom.

  He suspected she had another motive for pestering the vice-principal—she was eager to resume her early-morning yoga sessions at the community college, which she couldn’t attend as long as she was driving Roy to Trace Middle.

  He didn’t want to be selfish, though. He couldn’t depend on his parents forever. Maybe the other kids on the bus wouldn’t make too big a deal out of his return.

  “What’s the matter, honey? I thought you’d be glad to get back on your regular routine.”

  “I am, Mom.”

  Tomorrow is as good a day as any, Roy thought. Might as well get it over with.

  Leroy Branitt, the bald man who called himself Curly, was under too much pressure. His eyelids twitched from lack of sleep, and all day long he perspired like an Arkansas hog.

  Supervising a construction job was a large responsibility, and every morning brought new obstacles and headaches. Thanks to the mystery intruders, the pancake-house project already was two weeks behind schedule. Delays cost money, and the big shots at the Mother Paula’s corporation weren’t happy.

  Curly expected to be fired if anything else went wrong. He’d been told as much by a top-level executive of Mother Paula’s. The man’s job title was Vice-President for Corporate Relations, and his name was Chuck Muckle, which Curly thought would be more suitable for a circus clown.

  Chuck Muckle wasn’t a very jolly fellow, though, especially after seeing the newspaper article about the police car being spray-painted on Mother Paula’s property. Among Chuck Muckle’s responsibilities was to keep Mother Paula’s valuable brand name out of the media, unless the company was opening a new franchise or introducing a new menu item (such as its sensational Key lime flapjacks).

  In all his years of supervising construction, Curly had never gotten a phone call like the one he received from Chuck Muckle after the newspaper story appeared. He’d never before been chewed out for fifteen minutes nonstop by a company vice-president.

  “Hey, it ain’t my fault,” Curly had finally interjected. “I ain’t the one fell asleep on the job. It was the cop!”

  Chuck Muckle instructed him to quit whining and take it like a man. “You’re the foreman, aren’t you, Mr. Branitt?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Well, you’re going to be an unemployed foreman if anything like this happens again. Mother Paula’s is a publicly traded company with a global reputation to protect. This is not the sort of attention that’s beneficial to our image. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Curly had said, though he hadn’t. Serious pancake eaters wouldn’t care what happened to the police car, or even about the gators in the portable potties. By the time the restaurant opened, all that weird stuff would be forgotten.

  However, Chuck Muckle had been in no mood for a reasonable discussion. “Listen closely, Mr. Branitt. This nonsense is going to stop. As soon as we hang up, you’re going to go out and rent the biggest, most bloodthirsty attack dogs you can find. Rottweilers are the best, but Dobermans’ll do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is the site even cleared yet?”

  “It’s rainin’,” Curly had said. “It’s supposed to keep on rainin’ all week.” He figured Chuck Muckle would find a way to blame him for the weather, too.

  “Unbelievable,” the vice-president grumbled. “No more delays, you hear me? No more.”

  The plan was to get the site cleared before bringing in the VIPs and the media for the official gala groundbreaking ceremony. The highlight was going to be aspecial appearance by the woman who portrayed Mother Paula in the advertisements and TV spots.

  Her name was Kimberly Lou Dixon, a runner-up in the Miss America contest in either 1987 or 1988. Afterward she became an actress, though Curly couldn’t recall seeing her anywhere except in the pancake-house commercials. They dressed her up in a calico apron, a gray wig, and granny glasses to make her look like an old lady.

  “Let me explain why you’ll be out of a job if this project gets stalled again,” Chuck Muckle said to Curly. “Miss Dixon’s window of availability is extremely limited. She’s due to start filming a major motion picture in a couple of weeks.”

  “No kiddin’. What’s it called?” Curly and his wife were avid movie fans.

  “Mutant Invaders from Jupiter Seven,” said Chuck Muckle. “The problem is this, Mr. Branitt: If the groundbreaking gets postponed, Miss Kimberly Lou Dixon won’t be able to attend. She’ll be on her way to Las Cruces, New Mexico, preparing for her role as Queen of the Mutant Grasshoppers.”

  Wow, thought Curly. She’s playing the queen!

  “Without Miss Dixon’s presence, we will no longer have a blockbuster event, publicity-wise. She’s the company icon, Mr. Branitt. She’s our Aunt Jemima, our Betty Crocker, our—”

  “Tony the Tiger?” said Curly.

  “I’m glad you understand what’s at stake here.”

  “I sure do, Mr. Muckle.”

  “Excellent. If everything goes smoothly, you and I will never need to speak to each other again. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Yes, sir,” Curly agreed.

  The first order of business was erecting a chain-link fence around the construction site. Finding somebody to work in the rain wasn’t easy, but Curly eventually hooked up with an outfit in Bonita Springs. Now the fence was finished, and it was only a matter of waiting for the guard-dog trainer to arrive.

  Curly was somewhat nervous. He wasn’t really a dog person. In fact, he and his wife had never owned a pet, unless you counted the stray cat that occasionally slept under the back porch. The cat didn’t even have a name, which was fine with Curly. He had enough to worry about with the humans in his life.

  At half-past four, a red truck with a camper top drove up to the trailer. Curly pulled a yellow poncho over his glistening head and stepped out into the endless drizzle.

  The trainer was a beefy, mustached man who introduced himself as Kalo. He spoke with a foreign accent, the same accent that the German soldiers always had in World War II movies. Curly could hear the dogs barking ferociously in the camper bed, heaving themselves against the truck’s tailgate.

  Kalo said, “You go home now, yah?”

  Curly glanced at his wristwatch and nodded.

  “I lock up za fence. I come back tomorrow early, to get za dogs.”

  “Fine by me,” Curly said.

  “Somezing happens, you call right vay. No touch za dogs,” Kalo warned. “No talk to zem. No feed zem. Important, yah?”

  “Oh yah.” Curly was more than happy to steer clear of the brutes. He backed his pickup off the lot and got out to close the gate.

  Kalo waved amiably; then he turned the attack dogs loose. They were extremely large, all Rottweilers. They took off loping along the fence, crashing through the puddles. When they got to the gate, all four of them leapt upright against the fence, snarling and snapping at Curly on the other side.

  Kalo ran up, shouting commands in German. Instantly the Rottweilers ceased barking and dropped to sitting positions, their black ears pricking up intently.

  “Maybe best you go now,” Kalo said to Curly.

  “They got names?”

  “Oh yah. That vun dere is Max.
That vun, Klaus. That vun, Karl. And that big vun is Pookie Face.”

  “Pookie Face?” Curly said.

  “Iss my precious baby. I brought him all za way from Munich.”

  “They’ll be okay in the rain?”

  Kalo grinned. “They be okay even in hurricane. You go home now, don’t vorry. Za dogs, zey take care of your problem.”

  As he walked back to his truck, Curly saw that the Rottweilers were watching every move he made. They were panting lightly, and their muzzles were flecked with foamy spittle.

  Curly figured he finally might get a decent night’s sleep. The vandals didn’t stand a chance against five hundred–odd pounds of badass dog flesh.

  They’d have to be insane to jump the fence, Curly thought. Totally out of their minds.

  The next morning, Roy’s mother offered to drop him at the bus on her way to yoga class. Roy said no thanks. The rain had finally let up, and he felt like walking.

  A fresh breeze was blowing in off the bay, and the tangy salt air tasted good. Seagulls circled overhead, while two ospreys piped at each other in a nest on top of a concrete utility pole. On the ground at the base of the pole were bleached fragments of mullet skeletons that had been picked clean and discarded by the birds.

  Roy paused to study the fish bones. Then he stepped back and peered up at the ospreys, whose heads were barely visible over the scraggle of the nest. He could tell that one was larger than the other; a mother, probably, teaching her fledgling how to hunt.

  In Montana, ospreys lived in the cottonwoods all along the big rivers, where they dived on trout and whitefish. Roy had been pleasantly surprised to find that Florida had ospreys, too. It was remarkable that the same species of bird was able to thrive in two places so far apart, and so completely different.

  If they can do it, Roy thought, maybe I can, too.

  He hung around watching the nest for so long that he almost missed the school bus. He had to jog the last block to get there before it pulled away, and he was the last to board.

  The other kids grew strangely quiet as Roy made his way down the aisle. When he sat down, the girl in the window seat quickly stood up and moved to another row.

  Roy got a bad feeling, but he didn’t want to turn around to see if he was right. He hunkered down and pretended to read his comic book.

  He heard kids whispering in the seat behind him, followed by a hasty gathering of books and backpacks. In a flash they were gone, and Roy sensed a larger presence, skulking.

  “Hi, Dana,” he said, twisting slowly in his seat.

  “Hey, cowgirl.”

  After a week, Dana Matherson’s nose was still slightly purple and puffy, though it definitely wasn’t protruding from the center of his forehead, as Garrett had claimed.

  The only thing startling about Dana’s appearance was a fat, scabrous upper lip that hadn’t been that way when Roy dropped off the letter at Dana’s front door. Roy wondered if Dana’s mother had popped him in the kisser.

  The new injury endowed the big oaf with a disconcerting lisp. “You and me got thome bithneth to thettle, Eberhardt.”

  “What ‘business’?” Roy said. “I gave you an apology. That makes us even.”

  Dana clamped a moist, ham-sized hand over Roy’s face. “We’re a long way from even, you and me.”

  Roy couldn’t speak because his mouth was covered, not that he had much to say. He glared out from between Dana’s pudgy fingers, which reeked of cigarettes.

  “You’re gonna be thorry you ever methed with me,” Dana growled. “I’m gonna be your wortht nightmare.”

  The school bus rolled to a sudden halt. Dana quickly let go of Roy’s face and folded his hands primly, in case the driver was looking in the mirror. Three kids from Roy’s grade got on the bus and, upon spotting Dana, wisely scrambled for seats up front.

  As soon as the bus started moving, Dana again grabbed for Roy, who calmly slapped his arm away. Dana rocked back, staring at him in disbelief.

  “Didn’t you even read the letter?” Roy asked. “Everything will be cool as long as you leave me alone.”

  “Did you jutht hit me? Did you hit my arm?”

  “So sue me,” Roy said.

  Dana’s eyes widened. “What did you thay?”

  “I thay you need to get your hearing checked, partner, along with your I.Q.”

  Roy wasn’t sure what possessed him to wise off to such a violent kid. He didn’t particularly enjoy getting roughed up, but the alternative was to cower and beg, which he couldn’t lower himself to do.

  Every time the Eberhardts moved from one town to another, Roy encountered a whole new set of bullies and goons. He considered himself an expert on the breed. If he stood his ground, they usually backed down or looked for someone else to hassle. Insulting them, however, could be risky.

  Roy noticed a couple of Dana’s meathead pals, watching the scene from the back of the bus. That meant Dana would feel obligated to demonstrate what a tough hombre he was.

  “Hit me,” said Roy.

  “What?”

  “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

  “You’re a nut cathe, Eberhardt.”

  “And you’re as dumb as a bucket of mud, Matherson.”

  That one did the trick. Dana lunged across the seat and whacked Roy on the side of the head.

  After straightening himself, Roy said, “There. Feel better now?”

  “Damn right I do!” Dana exclaimed.

  “Good.” Roy turned around and opened his comic book.

  Dana smacked him again. Roy toppled sideways on the seat. Dana laughed cruelly and shouted something to his buddies.

  Roy sat up right away. His head really hurt but he didn’t want anyone to know. Nonchalantly he picked his comic book off the floor and placed it on his lap.

  This time Dana hit him with the other hand, equally fat and damp. As Roy went down, he let out an involuntary cry, which was drowned by the loud, gaseous hissing of bus brakes.

  For one hopeful moment, Roy thought the driver had seen what was happening and was pulling off the road to intervene. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case—the driver was as oblivious to Dana’s bad behavior as ever. The school bus had merely arrived at the next stop.

  While another line of kids boarded, Dana composed himself as if he were a model citizen. Roy looked down, fixing his eyes on the comic book. He knew the assault would resume as soon as the bus got rolling, and he braced grimly for Dana’s next blow.

  But it never came.

  For blocks and blocks Roy sat as rigid as a fence post, waiting to be knocked down once more. Finally his curiosity got the best of him and he peeked over his left shoulder.

  Roy could hardly believe it. Dana was slumped sourly against the window. The dumb goon’s fun had been spoiled by one of the kids from the last bus stop, who had been brave enough to sit right next to him.

  “What are you staring at?” the newcomer snapped at Roy.

  Despite his pounding headache, Roy had to smile.

  “Hi, Beatrice,” he said.

  NINE

  School was nerve-wracking. Every time Roy entered one of his classrooms, the other kids stopped what they were doing and stared. It was as if they were surprised to see he was still alive, with all limbs intact.

  After leaving algebra class, Roy heard a stupendous phony farting noise behind him in the hallway—Garrett. He took Roy by the shirtsleeve and led him into a bathroom.

  “You look sick. You should go home early,” Garrett advised.

  “I feel fine,” Roy said, which wasn’t true. He still had a headache from the thumping Dana had given him on the bus ride.

  “Dude, listen to me,” Garrett said. “I don’t care how you think you feel. You’re sick. Really sick, okay? You need to call your mom and go home.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “He’ll be waiting after seventh period.”

  “So let him wait,” Roy said.

  Garrett tugged Roy into one of t
he toilet stalls and locked it from the inside.

  “This is so lame,” said Roy.

  Garrett touched a finger to his lips. “I know a guy in Dana’s P.E. class,” he whispered excitedly. “He says Dana’s gonna snatch you before you get on the bus home.”

  “And do what?”

  “Duh!”

  “Right here at school? How?” Roy asked.

  “Bro, I wouldn’t hang around to find out. Hey, you never told me you busted him in the chops, too.”

  “That wasn’t me. Sorry.” Roy unlocked the toilet stall and gently nudged his friend out.

  “So what are you going to do?” Garrett called over the top of the door.

  “Take a pee.”

  “No. I’m talking about you-know-who.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  But what? Even if Roy managed to elude Dana Matherson this afternoon, the drama would start all over again Monday. Dana would resume the stalking, and Roy would have to dream up another escape plan. And that’s how it would be every single day until school let out in June.

  Roy had other options, none particularly appealing. If he reported Dana to Miss Hennepin, she’d do nothing more than summon him to her office for a stern lecture, which Dana would laugh off. Who could take seriously a vice-principal with one gnarly hair sprouting out of her lip?

  If Roy told his parents about the Dana situation, they might be alarmed enough to withdraw him from Trace Middle. Then he would end up getting bused to some private school, where he’d be forced to wear the same dorky uniform every day and (according to Garrett) learn Latin.

  A third alternative was for Roy to try apologizing to Dana again, this time oozing remorse and sincerity. Not only would that be groveling, it probably wouldn’t achieve the desired effect; Dana would still hassle him without mercy.

  His final option was to stand and fight. Roy was a practical boy; he knew the odds were overwhelmingly against him. He had quickness and brains on his side, but Dana was big enough to crush him like a grape.