The reason my mind keeps about-facing my body is because I’m Nostradamus. I’m serious. I can see into the future. And standing directly in front of me is a heart-shattering earthquake that’s gonna register a 9.9 on the Rectum Scale. Wynona doesn’t know me. She said it herself. She’s only seen me in Kibbles-n-Bits. Once she gets a glimpse of the whole enchilada, she’ll lose her appetite. I’m like an eclipse. Not safe to stare directly into.
None of it matters anyway. It’s all fairy-tale tomfoolery. Wynona got all hot and bothered on account of I pounded Pitbull, or she I-Spied a few things we have in common, or her father thinks I’m a thinker, or some other nonsense, but none of it’s more than a thirty-second sound bite that suckered her into the Newfangled Dude Store for a new wave Cricket doll. But that purchase will get stuffed to the back of the closet once she gets bored playing in Cricket’s Dysfunctional Dreamhouse.
Things look pretty normal at school. The Prison van drops us curbside, so we have to cross the crowded courtyard to get to the entrance. The Little Ones huddle tight around me, a gang of homeless midget Crips.
A whirligig spins inside my head as I wonder who will be confrontation number one. Pitbull and his buddies? LaChance? Foxy Moxie? Doc Merewether? Wynona? I stuff my hand in my pocket to make sure the knife’s still there, which of course it is, but that doesn’t stop me from checking every five seconds.
Okay, here we go. I have my answer. Stress factor number one is barreling straight at me with a grizzly bear glare. He’s alone, which means either he wants to make up, or he has a weapon. Hmm, which could it be? Shit. The Little Ones.
I start shoving them toward the doors. “Go on, get to class.” They don’t move until they see Pitbull, then they scram.
Crowds of kids have spotted Pitbull heading for me and are pointing, nudging, and whispering.
The Little Ones clump together near the front door of the Lower School.
“Inside. Now!” I yell, but they don’t move.
Pitbull’s coming strong. I can see the cuts and bruises on his face from here. If he has a gun, I’m screwed.
Then a funny thing happens. A gooey warmth flushes me. Similar to my post-whup-ass fuzzies. Every particle of stress and fear dissolves. Pitbull’s gonna solve my problems for me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and savor my final breaths.
This won’t be a bad way to go. I’ll die a hero. Clint Eastwood–style. I hope Wynona’s watching. It’ll be a full-blown Romeo and Juliet murder-in-the-courtyard love scene. If she kneels beside me while I’m dying, I’m gonna say it. My final three words. Sweet.
I glance back at the Little Ones. They look terrified. Oh, if they only knew my happy truth.
Pitbull’s ten feet away now. His hands are in his pockets. Where’s the gun? Why hasn’t he drawn? He’s closer, closer, closer. Jesus, he’s massive.
Five, four, three, two, one. He slams into me with his shoulder. Hard. So hard it knocks me to the ground.
And then . . . he’s gone.
What the fuck?
The Little Ones sprint to my side.
“You okay, Crick?”
“How come you let him shove ya?”
“How come ya just stood there?”
“Are you gonna go after him?”
“Are you gonna pound his face again?”
My warm fuzzies evaporate, leaving my insides dry and brittle.
I yell louder than I should. “How many friggin’ times do I gotta tell you idiots I don’t fight unless it’s self-defense? He fucking bumped into me. Big deal.”
Before I walk away, I glimpse their twisted faces. But we gave you a standing ovation in the dining room and you didn’t yell at us then.
At the high school entrance, I turn. They haven’t moved. I yell to them. “Go on, guys. The bell’s gonna ring.”
They head inside. That’s when I see her. She’s been there all along. Watching. Waiting. Thinking. Probably rehearsing her escape speech. I can’t tell which Wynona it is. The pissed-off one or the kissing one.
My legs calcify as she approaches.
“You really care about them, huh?”
The inside of my head is Niagara Failing, so I crank down hard on the shut-off valve. “I’m a bad example.”
“Not from where I’m standing.” She stares into my eyes, and the two sides of her melt together like a grilled cheese sandwich. “I guess my dad was right about you. You are a thinker.”
Jesus, she’s pretty. I hope every asshole in the courtyard is staring at us. I feel guilty for letting her think I’m something I’m not. “I’m nothing, Wynona.”
Her gaze tears me apart. Why can’t I see what she sees?
“I don’t think you’re nothing,” she says softly.
In the hallway, the bell rings for class. Wynona slides her hand around my waist. I feel lifted. Like my feet aren’t touching the ground.
At the end of English class, Moxie Lord saunters to my desk in a sky-blue dress swimming with tropical fish. She looks like an aquarium. I’m surprised she’s not wearing tortoiseshell sandals. This lady is one singed-crust banana nut pie.
I’m still here because before class Foxy slipped me a note asking me to stay after, which means either she’s gonna tear me a new one about my Dear Life Reasons or we’re gonna play a nice game of Statutory Hide the Salami. I hope there’s a lock on the door. Or maybe we’ll go back to her place. She probably lives in a 1960s Volks- wagen van. She’ll be thrilled to know I have a freshly rolled herb wand in my wallet.
She swings a chair around and cowboy straddles it, which is frightening on account of she’s wearing a dress. She leans in and our shoulders touch. Her breath tickles my forearm. She smells like pineapples. A tingle scrubwiggles my nutsack.
I pretend to look at the papers she’s dropped on the desk as I stare down the front of her dress. Her bra is papaya green, and she has wrinkly folds between her boobs like Shar-Pei puppy skin. Wrinkles and freckles. Eebyjeebyville.
She yanks my hood down. “Explain yourself.”
At first I think she’s bagged me for ogling her suck sacks, but then I realize she’s talking about my Dear Life Reasons. “What?”
“Where has the author of Reasons One and Two been residing for the past three years?”
“What are you talking about? I wrote those.”
“I know you wrote them.”
“So what’s the beef?”
“The beef is, why have you been feeding me frozen cowpie since freshman year when you’re obviously capable of grilling up filet mignon?”
She’s not looking at my papers. She’s looking at me, right at my face. But I can tell she’s not looking at my scar. I can always tell when someone’s staring at it. Like I have dead skin sensors or something.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
I tilt my head and look at her. She’s got her granny glasses perched on the tip of her nose like a pigeon on a ledge. She’s not as easy to stare at as Wynona, but easier than usual on account of her saying “bullshit” like a regular person instead of being a tight-ass teacher. It dawns on me that she’s giving me a compliment.
Foxy Moxie pinches the bridge of her nose and speaks with her eyes closed. “I watched an interesting documentary Saturday night on bird migration. Did you happen to catch it?”
“No, I missed it. Hopefully you recorded it.”
She harrumphs a laugh and opens her eyes. “Scientists have discovered traces of a mineral called magnetite in the brains of migratory birds. Near the upper beak. It’s an iron oxide that is apparently extremely magnetic. The deposits give birds the power to sense the earth’s magnetic field, and they can navigate by it during migration. Birds can actually sync themselves with the earth’s magnetic field to find their way for thousands of miles even when they’re young and making the trip for the first time.”
“Cool.” It actually does sound cool.
“Yes, my sentiments exactly.” She looks in my eyes
with an expression like she’s about to tell me I’m her adopted alien son or something. “Cricket, if a creative writing mineral exists on earth, you have a large deposit of it in your young brain.”
A warm stickiness slithers from my ears to my hips. I thought my writing would piss her off. Or at least offend her, since she’s an adult. Instead, she’s giving me a big slippy-slap on the back for being a dickhead with words. Damn-o-damn, where the hell’s that upside-down cake factory when you need it? I think I’ll go there after school and apply for a job in the assumption-flipping department.
She leans in. “Writing the way you do can’t be taught. It’s spontaneous, original, and honest. It doesn’t just flow—it overflows. And you let it follow its own course. You’re a natural, kid.”
Her words overflow me. Caretaker used to say I was a natural when I first started working out with him in the boathouse. When he taught me the basics of boxing. He was the first person in my life to ever tell me I was a natural at something. The first and last. Until today. Eight years later. Jesus, eight years.
I can’t think of anything to say on account of I don’t have much experience in the compliments department. Maybe I should stab her in the face with a tree branch and run away. I rub my fingers over some boobies a perverted predecessor carved into the desk. I can’t get my eyes to move, so I don’t know if she’s looking at me. I’m scared to see her expression. What if it’s cream-corny? What if she’s expecting a thank-you or a hug? What if it’s smug like she thinks she just saved my friggin’ life or something?
She rolls the papers up and raps them on the desk. “What are you doing after you graduate?”
I picture myself in a Bar Harbor alley in a knit cap and sunglasses, slipping a bag of powder to a teenage crackhead. “I don’t know.”
“Have you applied to college?”
“Naaah.”
“Why not?”
“What, are you kidding me?”
She scrunches her face. “Naaah.”
Hmm. Slightly humorous. “Why the hell would I go to college? There ain’t nothing I’m good at except cracking numbskull skulls.”
“Apparently, you didn’t comprehend the metaphorical depths of my bird migration analogy?”
“What the hell am I gonna do with fruity writing? Whip up dead granny cards for Hallmark?”
Mademoiselle Lord leans back and pops me an open-mouthed glare like I just shit on her sandals. “Are you joking, Cricket? You read novels, don’t you? You watch movies. Who do you think makes up all those fabulous tales? The story fairy? Haven’t you ever thought about creating a story all on your own? Completely original. Completely from scratch.” Foxy has a wicked gleam in her eyes.
I’m tempted to tell her about my Prison tower storytime, but I don’t. “No, I’ve never thought about it.”
Moxie doesn’t bite. “Oh, please. Give me at least some credit. I’m not nearly as stupid as I look.”
Books and movies. Apollo Zipper would be famous. Apolloblanca. Gone with the Zipper. Apollo of Arabia. The Zipper Mutiny. Apollo-Hur. Rebel Without a Zipper.
“If you don’t go to college, what are you going to do with your life?”
Slightly less humorous. Do you not recall the ominous message in my Dear Life, You Suck letter, Lordy Lordikins? “What life?”
“Oh, right, I forgot. You’re planning a retreat via the escape pod when no one’s looking. Leave the rest of us here to go down with the ship.”
I’m not sure if I should be offended or amused. I flash Moxie one of my best pre-fight glares.
She’s not intimidated. “Why would you want to jump ship now? The ride’s just about to start getting fun.”
“Oh, really? How’s that?”
“You’re graduating high school. You’re getting away from all of us pain-in-the-ass teachers who’ve been ordering you around and making you write stupid letters. You’ll be an adult. You’ll be able to do whatever you want. You’ll be free.”
I have to admit, her comments gush some sticky juices outta me like a machete slicing a ripe watermelon. I never thought about it that way. I’ve only thought about how the freedom’s gonna freak me out when I get kicked out of the Prison. I’ve never thought about how the freedom’s gonna free me. Of course, I can’t let her know her words have tickled me a mischievous fancy.
“Yeah, right, free.” I serve it up with an extra dollop of sarcasm.
“Why haven’t you applied to college?”
“Why would I?”
She jabs me with her own pre-fight glare. Not bad.
“I wouldn’t get in, and even if I did, I couldn’t pay for it.”
“I’ve seen your transcripts. You could get in. And most kids can’t afford college but they figure out a way. The question is, how can you afford not to?”
I lift my head and gaze around the room.
“What are you looking for, Cricket?”
“The poster you just read that platitude off of. It must be here somewhere.”
I feel her smile. “That one’s been hanging in my head for a very long time. Anyway, you pay for college the same way everyone does. Beg, borrow, and steal. It’s the way of the world.”
“You don’t understand my world.”
“I understand it more today than I did last week.”
Shit. Maybe I dripped out more personal ickies in my Reasons than I should have. I never thought we’d be talking about them. I just thought she’d scratch me an F and call it a day. “I ain’t got the dough to mail in an application, let alone buy books and pay for room and board and all that other crap. There’s no way.”
“There’s always a way. But forget money for a moment. Would you like to go to college if you could?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Damn, this tripping Janis Joplin wannabe is good. I slip her a sideways glance. Her expression’s serious, but her eyes are giggly. I can tell this ain’t no typical shooting-the-breeze bullshit conversation. She’s after something. Something about me. Something for me.
Foxy Moxie stands and slides her chair under a desk. “Think about it. If you decide it’s something you want to explore, see me after school on Monday. I’ll give you some suggestions on schools with good writing programs. Then we can connect with Miss Regan about financial aid and scholarships. She’s a wiz at all that. She can probably finagle a way for you to attend college and get paid to do it. But don’t wait too long. Last thing you want to do is miss the scholarship deadlines and be stuck in this frosty hellhole for another year.” She winks and walks away.
Huh, how do you like that? She hates this place too.
CHAPTER 19
I’m under the big oak tree near the tennis courts at one o’clock, as requested. I ain’t skipping out of school. It’s a half day. Skipping after being back only two days would not be good. Not that I wouldn’t have done it for a date with Wynona. That’s what this is. A date. At least that’s what she called it this morning when she asked me. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I don’t care. Ain’t that a smooth sailing tack in the udder rudder? I don’t care one rat’s nut what we do. Just to be with her is enough. Holy fruit-swizzled pirouettes, Batgirl. I sound like a friggin’ Portuguese love sonnet.
I see her coming. The way she’s glowing and grinning, I’m expecting an avalanche of words to tumble out when she gets to me, but she just says hi. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the main road. I glance over my shoulder to see if any of the kids in the courtyard are watching, and they are, so I’m psyched. Their faces aren’t scrunched and tilted like usual. More open-mouthed and gawky. Sweeeet.
We walk for a while without talking. She’s squeezing my hand like she’s afraid I’ll bolt if she lets go. Like I’m a stray dog she’s rescued. Our palms are sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I feel fruity holding her hand in the middle of town, and I’m praying no one like Grubs or one of the guys from Duckies drives by. I
’d never hear the end of it. Even though I’m feeling like a Tinker Bell balloon floating down Main Street in the Thanksgiving Day parade, I don’t let go. It’s worth the risk. She’s worth the risk. Her fingers feel like the end of an electrical wire wrapped in soft cloth. The current’s zapping my hand, energizing my arm, and singeing my chest. There’s a hazardous sensation coursing through my veins too, on account of I know any second a bolt of reality might electrify my ass. Truth is, I like the feeling.
I don’t realize where we’re going until she yanks my arm a sharp left toward her driveway. Oh, shit. I hope we ain’t doing another eat-’n’-greet with Sergeant Superdad and Madame Step-Snob.
“I already ate lunch,” I grumble.
“Cool, me too.”
At the top of the driveway, we turn onto a gravel path that curves around the house, which is a relief because I like being alone with her. Maybe she’s taking me somewhere for a secret smooch session. The sound of gravel crunching under our sneakers makes me realize we haven’t spoken during the entire walk. Just a few hints and glints between our sweaty palms.
The trail slopes downhill toward a big barn that’s tilting so much it looks like it’s about to tip over. A small corral built from wooden pallets is attached to the barn. There’s a watering trough and one of them crossbeam things that’s used in old Western movies to tie up horses. I’m just waiting for John Wayne to waddle out. Where’d you find this peckerwood?
When we get to the barn, the smell of horseshit slams me hard in the face. And I thought scrubbing seagull shit off the boathouse roof was bad. Pterodactyls couldn’t shitzkrieg turds this huge.
Wynona unlatches a bungee cord lock and slides the giant door open. “Wait here,” she says, stepping inside. A few minutes later, she walks out leading two horses.
I cross my arms over my chest and glare.