The Little Ones deliver their dishes to the kitchen and follow me to the story room.
I get excused from cleanup on account of I’m an extra-fabulous fabulist. (It means phantasmagorical fable fabricator, Billy Shakemyspear.) Yeah, I’m a regular Brothers Dimm.
The storytime room used to be an open-air guard tower, but the charitable contractors who renovated the Prison decided it should be fancified for the homeless lads, so they removed the machine-gun turrets, added a roof, and wrapped the sides with floor-to-ceiling windows. The nuns plunked down a few stubby bookshelves, tossed in a couple of tons of previously-drooled-on pillows and previously-farted-on beanbag chairs, and voilà, the Poor Boys Fifty-Book Readatorium in the Clouds was born. It’s actually a pretty cool place. I sneak up here when there’s a thick fog on the bay, and it’s eerie, like you’re in a spaceship.
The best part is that to get here you have to pass through an ancient steel door with a menacing Do Not Enter sign bolted to it. Creeping in through that dungeon doorway gives my stories goosebumps they’d never have down in the game room.
Storytime’s popular with the Little Ones, so I always get a good crowd, like twenty or twenty-five. I do a separate storytime for the littler Little Ones on Sundays.
I motion to Charlie Brittlebones to close the door.
“Settle down, munchkins. And move in closer. I don’t want no outside ears eavesdropping on my testes-frying tribulations.”
Grins flash, whispers hiss, and scraggly-haired heads rubberneck. The Little Ones are used to my worditatious confabulations. Half the time they don’t get the crooked configurations, but they giggle anyway on account of the words sound silly.
“Can it, animals. I have some news.” I raise my arms like a modern-day Moses hushing the multitude.
Eyes bulge into perfect silence.
“It is time you heard the truth about this place we call home, this Orphan Island.” I say “Orphan Island” all deep and creepy to tingle the peach fuzz on their berry sacks into a bedwetting frenzy. I dim the lights and extricate a purple velvet bag from my knapsack. Necks crane to piddle a gander. They figure I’m gonna yank out an invisibility potion or dead bat or rattlesnake. Little Dudes are so goofy. I empty the contents onto the rickety, low-tide-smelling coffee table built from an old wooden lobster pot and a scratchy square of Plexiglas and step back so they can see.
The Little Ones gawk at the oddly shaped seashells.
“Any of you chowdaheads know the reality of how this palace sprouted from perdition to fruition?”
Freckle-faced Justin Bellamy raises a curled hand to his chin like he’s imitating a retarded meerkat.
I nod.
“Mr. Cherpin, Sister Sarah said Jesus changed the prison into our house the same way he changed five loaves of bread and two fishes into enough food to feed five thousand people.”
I imitate the gymnasium buzzer. “Ahhhnnnttt. And you believe that cow plop, Justin FellOnMe?” The Little Ones giggle. “No, Jesus had nothing to do with busting this prison into a playpen. He was too busy remodeling souls to be bothered with earthly renovation projects. But it was someone just as mystical and mythical.”
I pause to make sure they’re all paying attention.
“Now, before I commiserate this secret tale, I need every one of you snot-nosed ankle-biters to promise you won’t breathe a single word of it to a single soul outside this room. You got that?”
Heads bob.
“I need to hear it, jellysticks.”
Promises puke at my feet like the last gasp of froth at the end of a dead wave.
I punch my fist into my palm. “You rugrats know the punishment for breaking a promise.”
Mouths stretch and eyes stare.
“All right then.”
I pace in front of the black glass and glance around the room all CIAish. “Now, some of you are gonna think this story is a bunch of Harry Potter hogwash, but it ain’t. If you numbskulls spent the kinda time I do in the library instead of mining green gems out of your nose caves, you’d appreciate the geomorphic science behind it.”
I sit on the edge of the coffee table, corral the shells into the bag, and pass it to Sherman Tewksbury with a finger twirl. He removes a shell and passes it to the next kid.
“This is the story of the founder of Orphan Island—Apollo Zipper.”
Laughter erupts.
I jump to my feet. “You think making fun of a dude’s name is cool?”
Scary silence. The little nuggets catch on to their faux pas lickety-split.
“You think a dude ain’t got enough to deal with in life without you little scabs picking at his given name? That’s better.”
I settle back down and tell the Little Ones a goofy story I made up about this sixteen-year-old British kid who took a trip to Paris with his parents but never made it on account of his ferry was sunk by a rogue wave in the English Channel during the crossing.
“You’re probably wondering what this sad aquatic tragedy has to do with our silly little lives here on Orphan Island. Well, I’ll explain what it has to do with us, and I’ll edify you on how I know all these historical gee-whizzes.”
I fraudulate a tale about hearing Apollo’s story from an old-timer I met at the Naskeag Public Library a few years back who told me his name was Zachary Zipper and claimed to be Apollo’s great-great-great-great-grandson.
A little hand way in the back of the room goes up.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
Gregory Bullivant’s pudgy towhead floats above the sea of hair. He’s a brainy little sixth grade butterball who helps me tutor some of the other Little Ones.
“Yo, Bull.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Cherpin, but how could Zachary Zipper be a direct descendant of Apollo Zipper if Apollo died in the ferry accident?”
Faces scrunch, eyes squint, noses crinkle, and asses are diligently scratched.
I rattle my fist in the air like I’m clanging a front porch dinner bell. “Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Well, I’m glad every pumpkin head in here ain’t mashed summer squash. How could this old dude be Apollo Zipper’s great-great-whatever-grandkid if Apollo died when he was only sixteen?”
Archie Dalper raises his hand. “Maybe his kids were orphans like us.”
I glare at Archie. “Archibald, if I had a stun gun, I’d zippity-zap your minuscule testicles.” The Little Ones giggle. “How can a dead kid adopt kids?”
“Oh yeah, right.”
Another sky-hunkering hand. “Maybe he had kids before he got on the ferry.”
“Well, slightly less retarded, but remember, this dude was only sixteen, and he didn’t have a permanent squeeze he was canoodling back home.”
Hands wave and mouths bullhorn.
“Maybe he had clone babies, like in a test tube.”
“Maybe he had brothers and sisters who had babies, so they was kinda like his kids.”
“Maybe God sent him kids like the Virgin Mary.”
“Maybe he didn’t die.”
I jump up and scan the ragged heads. “Who said that?”
“Me, Mr. Cherpin.”
“Who’s me, nub-ass? Stand up.”
Aaron Weidlemeyer slowly stands.
“What’d you say, Wienerschnitzel?”
Schnitzel is scared schnitzel-less, so he freezes.
“Come on, Wienerschnitzel, what’d you say?”
“I said, maybe he didn’t die, sir.”
“Wasn’t you paying attention, Schnitzelgruben? I said he was never seen again after the ferry tanked.”
“I know, sir, but you didn’t say he died. Maybe he banged his head and got amnesty or something and didn’t remember who he was, and some French people took care of him and raised him, like wolves do.”
“Well, well, well, Whineyschnitzel. You ain’t half as stupid as you look, you little frankfurter. Your story’s only half right, but it’s a hell of a lot righter than the mental macaroni these Chef Boyardees been dishing up.”
Aaron smiles big and wide, then sits.
“Ladies and ladies, Aaron is correctamoondo. Apollo Zipper did not drown on that fateful day. His ship sank, but he did not drown.”
The room fills with hushed oooooohhhh s.
The door swings open and Mother Mary Makemyday enters. You woulda thought she was wielding a .44 Magnum the way the Little Dudes jump into a single-file line.
I cross my arms over my chest and rumple an intimidating stare. “Excuse me, Mother Superior, but I’m not done with my story.” I’m thinking Mother Posterior but don’t say it.
“You’re done for tonight, Cricket.”
She snaps her fingers and the room empties.
“I was just getting warmed up.”
“Cricket, you were born warmed up.”
I grab my knapsack and head for the door.
“Cricket.”
I stop.
“Tomorrow morning. My office. Ten A.M. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I believe there is.”
“Same old story, same old song and dance.”
“You can reserve the ambiguous song references for the musically oblivious, Cricket. I was rocking out to Aerosmith before you were born.”
Mother Mary Metallica rocking out. A creepy consideration. Her shoes are big and square like Frankenstein’s. Tough to dance in.
“You’ve been suspended from school again. This time for a week.”
“Right is right.”
“I assume you’re speaking to the suspension.”
“No.”
“Fighting isn’t the answer, Crick.”
“Maybe not in your world.”
“We live in the same world.”
I turn and glare at Mother Mary to see if she’s gonna keep a straight face after that lie. Her face is granite. “We ain’t even in neighboring galaxies.” I turn to leave.
“Oh, and by the way . . .”
I stop.
“Storytime for the big kids is now twice a week.”
I spin around. “Are you shittin’ me?”
She jabs a finger at me. “Twice a week. No exceptions.”
“What?! I couldn’t rattle tales to these midget twits twice a week if I wanted to.”
“I don’t care if you want to or don’t want to. Storytime is twice a week from now on, so you’ll just have to do whatever the hell it is you do in that Tasmanian devil mind of yours to come up with more stories. Discussion closed.”
“Request to reopen.”
“Request denied.”
“What the hell?”
Mother Mary pinches the bridge of her nose and sucks in a few deep breaths. “I was listening at the door, Cricket. The good Lord has blessed you with an imaginative mind and an energetic spirit. It’s high time you put them to better use.”
“This is bull . . .”
“Pardon? Something to add?”
“Bull . . . oney.”
“Look at it this way, Crick. You have a whole week off from school to get a head start on lots of interesting adventures. You can work on them in between the mountain of extra chores I’ll be assigning you tomorrow.”
I glare at Mother Mary knowing it’s a wasted glare. She knows me too well. I turn.
“Good night, Cricket. Sleep well.”
“Yeah, right.”
CHAPTER 12
On the way to my room, I peer into the chapel to see if any of the nuns are begging God’s forgiveness for pushing us meek little orphans around. You know, on account of us inheriting the earth and all that. I’ve been waiting on my deed for seventeen years, but nothing yet.
The chapel’s empty. They musta all got their pardons already. I tiptoe inside. There’s a candle burning on the altar. A hundred years ago, this was the men’s shower room. Caretaker told me. That’s probably why the air feels so thick and steamy. He says converting a prison bathhouse into a Christian chapel is one of God’s all-time best practical jokes. I’m not sure what he means, but I’m guessing it has something to do with bathing and baptism or the dirty getting clean, or something like that. Whatever it is, I know Caretaker doesn’t mean any disrespect because he believes in God and loves Him a wicked lot and would never do anything to offend Him on purpose. Unlike me.
I slide into the back pew. I don’t like being too close to God’s workbench on account of a stray thorn might catch me in the eye. I always feel shifty and slippery in here, like some dirty old man trying to sneak a peek at a little girl taking a tinkle.
Like I said before, I don’t believe in God. Well, I don’t believe in God the way the nuns and priests want me to. I don’t believe some white-haired old dude is sitting in a Barcalounger on a cloud, doling out good and bad and happy and sad with an almighty Xbox controller. That’s just stupid.
I’ve read most of the Bible. Talk about nutseefuckingkookoo. God punishing people for being good. God loving some people more than others. God asking fathers to kill their kids as proof of their faith. God giving kings special powers so they can slaughter entire nations. God not jumping in when His own kid gets murdered. That’s some crazy shit. If that’s the God they want me to believe in, no thank you. Ship me off to Hell right now so I can toss back a cold one with the zillion other people God never tortured with His infinite kindness. If you ask me, the existence of the Bible is the strongest argument against the existence of God.
I believe in something. I’m just not sure what. I think the way life started, that Big Bang thing, is a clue. Like maybe God’s the explosion, and we’re the particles, and the purpose of it all is to get back together. Hey, I know I ain’t no Plato or anything, but it makes more sense than believing some old fart is standing beside a pearly gate in a velvet bathrobe with a Naughty and Nice clipboard like Santa Claus.
I hear a sniffle up near the altar, so I stand to see who it is. If I’m wrong and God’s been eavesdropping, I could be in deep shit. I peek over the back of the second pew and see a curly brown mop nestled in two tiny hands. It’s Charlie Brittlebones.
I slide into the pew next to him and kneel. The kneeler creaks, and Charlie jumps. His eyes are red, and his cheeks are wet.
“Sorry, Charlie. Didn’t mean to disturb you. Just wanted to send up a few prayers before bedtime.”
Charlie cracks a smile under the tears. “Yeah, sure. I ain’t never seen you pray, Cricket. Even when the nuns are watching.”
I was eight the last time I prayed. It was in my mom’s bathroom. I begged God to bring my baby brother, Eli, back to life. God ignored me and I never prayed again.
“Yeah, I ain’t big on prayer, Charlie.”
“How come? Don’t you believe in God?”
I look at Charlie’s big brown eyes bulging out of his pale, skinny face. “I don’t know, Charlie. God kinda confuses me.”
He wipes his face with his sleeve. “Me, too.”
“What are you praying for?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t wanna say. You’ll goof on me.”
“No, I won’t. I promise.”
Charlie glances at the crucifix behind the altar, then at the floor. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
He speaks without looking up. “I pray that some long-lost relative, like an aunt from Australia or something, will find out about my parents dying and take me to live with her in her ten-bedroom mansion.”
My head gets hot and fuzzy.
“Stupid, huh?” Charlie mumbles.
“No. That’s a good prayer.”
“It’s stupid ’cause it’ll never happen.”
“You never know. Stranger stuff has happened.”
Charlie rubs his eyes. “You can say that again.”
I get off my knees and sit in the pew. I pat Charlie on the back.
His lips tighten, and he grips the seatback like he’s gonna rip it out of the floor. “You know what else I pray for?”
“What?”
r /> He faces me. “To be like you. To not be scared of bullies.”
I think about the snake party in my gut this afternoon right before the Pitbull fight. “I’ll let you in on a secret if you promise not to tell anyone.”
He nods. “I promise.”
“I get plenty scared before fights.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I ain’t lying. My gut knots up, and my arms and legs go all wobbly and numb.”
Charlie pushes himself off the kneeler and climbs onto the bench. “The same thing happens to me when I get shoved around.”
I scan his spindly neck, scrawny arms, and cardboard chest. “You want me to teach you how to fight, Charlie?”
He looks away. “Nah. I don’t want to be a fighter. I just wanna stop being scared.”
“I don’t see how you can be one without the other.”
“Huh?”
“Not being scared and not being a fighter. Fear and fighting are intertwined. If you don’t know how to fight, you’ll be afraid to fight. If you’re afraid to fight, you’ll get pushed around all the time. If you get pushed around all the time, you’ll always be afraid.”
Charlie slumps his shoulders. “Guess I’ll always be afraid.”
“Unless you learn how to fight.”
Charlie extends his arms toward me. “Look at me. Penelope Lintmeyer can whup me.”
I smile and extend my arms toward Charlie. “Look at me. You ever figure these string bean arms could pummel Pitbull Pitswaller?”
Charlie picks up a Bible off the seat and smoothes the cover like he’s dusting it. “I just figure there’s gotta be another way.”
“Another way what?”
“Another way to be brave without fighting.”
“Well, let me know when you find it.”
Charlie opens the Bible and rubs a random page with his fingertips. “Jesus got picked on all the time, and he never fought. And he wasn’t a coward.”
“Yeah, but Jesus . . .” I run out of words. I don’t have an answer for that one.
Charlie closes the Bible and slides it into the rack on the seatback. “Maybe I’m asking for too much, and that’s why God doesn’t give me nothing.”