A Boy Called Duct Tape (3 page)

“What idea?”

“Just be at the trailer. I’ll tell you then.”

“Tell me now,” Pia argued.

“Just be at home, okay?” Sometimes Pia could wear me down.

The school bus rounded a curve and came into sight, a plum of purple fumes sputtering from the rusty exhaust. The bus was just in time because the rain was pouring in big, cold drops.

“And don’t tell anyone about your coin,” I cautioned.

“You think I’m stupid or something?” Pia asked, using her backpack as an umbrella.

“No, you just like to talk a lot.”

Pia made a smug face. “All women like to talk a lot.”

Pia and I met at home that afternoon. It was the last day of school and we had been let out early. We quickly changed into swimming suits.

My idea for finding more gold coins in James Creek was simple. All we needed were a couple of inner tubes—there were several hibernating under our mobile home—and two drinking glasses. We grabbed them and set off on the 15-minute bike ride to Harper’s Hole. The weedy trail began at the edge of our trailer park and twined its way through the forest to James Creek.

My plan was simple: float down the river on the inner tubes, the drinking glasses partially submerged in the water. By looking through the drinking glasses, we could see images on the river bottom. I was sure there were more coins in James Creek.

By that afternoon the morning rainstorm had moved north, and the skies were dotted with puffy white clouds. Pia and I splashed through the mud puddles as we sped down the path on our dirt bikes. When we reached Harper’s Hole we laid our bikes against the cottonwood tree and hiked upstream for a half-mile or so, the inflatable tubes in one hand, drinking glasses in the other.

“Do you really think we’ll find more coins?” Pia asked, the inner tube dragging through the shallow water behind her.

“It’s worth a try.”

“The next one we find will be yours, Pablo. Then we’ll both have one.”

It took about an hour to float back to Harper’s Hole. We recovered several items from the river bottom, including a mayonnaise jar, a ballpoint pen, a brass button, a Lincoln penny, and two beer bottles.

But no gold coins.

As I lay in bed that night, my mind spewing clues to the mystery of where to find more gold coins, it suddenly came to me why I had found the $20 gold piece at the bottom of Harper’s Hole.

I sat up in bed with a wide smile.

It made perfect sense.

I stood with Mom and Pia beneath the metal awning outside Lyda’s Café, a Jamesville restaurant known as much for the storytelling of its owner, Lyda Loudermilk, as for its catfish dinners. The café was located on the south side of the Jamesville Square and also served as a Greyhound Bus terminal. Although it was a little after eight o’clock in the evening and the sun had slipped below the horizon, the heat and humidity of the day hung over Jamesville like a sticky web. Summer had definitely arrived.

“Bus is late,” I noted, glancing up at the big clock on the courthouse steeple across the street. I’m sure Mom could hear the cheerfulness in my voice.

“Buses are always late,” Mom said, fanning herself with a thin paperback book. Mom loved to read when she had the time, and she always had one in her purse.

“Maybe it’s not coming,” I said. The idea of spending the first two weeks of school vacation with my cousin from St. Louis was not a happy thought.

“It’ll be here, Pablo,” Mom insisted.

When the St. Louis Express finally emerged five minutes later from behind the county courthouse on the far side of the square, Pia gave a squeal. “There’s Kiki’s bus!”

I shuffled my feet and mumbled “Oh, great” under my breath.

“Pablo, remember that Kiki is your
primo
, your cousin,” Mom said, stowing the paperback in her purse. “Please try and be nice.”

The bus circled the square and stopped in front of the café. In a few seconds the door swished open and a girl with short brown hair and a backpack draped over one arm bounced down the bus steps. She paused on the sidewalk to get her bearings.

I glanced at her for an instant. She was totally gorgeous in her fancy flare jeans and a T-shirt that read
Global Warming Is the Real Deal.
I guessed she was about 16 or 17. She was wearing sandals.

My gaze shifted away from the girl to the next passenger filing off the bus—a chunky cowboy in a rhinestone-studded shirt, an old guitar slung over his shoulder. He was chewing on a toothpick and listening to his iPod.

Trailing the cowboy was an old Latino man with a pencil-thin mustache who carried his belongings in a beat-up suitcase. Next came a middle-aged woman in a beehive hairdo who stumbled on the bottom step but caught herself with a gasp on the open door.

Most of the passengers filed into the café. A few others drifted off into the evening shadows. I didn’t see anyone resembling my cousin and a feeling of elation swept over me. Hah! My cousin had missed her bus! Even better, she had decided not to come after all!

Hallelujah! Let the summer games begin!

“Aunt Anna?”

The question had been asked by the girl in sandals—the gorgeous one.

“Kiki?” Mom asked, taking a tentative step toward the girl.

“Yes, I’m Kiki,” the girl said in a raspy voice, the corners of her mouth framing a perfect smile.

“My heavens,” Mom exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you.” With outstretched arms, Mom strode over to where Kiki stood at the curb. “But I do recognize that husky voice.”

My 13-year-old cousin set her backpack on the sidewalk, and she and Mom embraced.

“You’re all grown up,” Mom said, holding Kiki at arm’s length and surveying her five-foot six-inch frame. “I’ll swear. You’re as tall as Pablo.”

“Sorry my bus was late.”

I could see that Pia was working out something in her head. She looked up at me, her face crinkled with confusion. “That’s Kiki?” she asked in a small voice. “What happened to her braces?”

I’ll have to admit I was confused too. Bewildered, actually. My cousin from St. Louis had changed big-time over the past two years. It was more than not having braces. Much more.

Kiki came over to where Pia and I stood beneath the café awning. She gave each of us a big hug.

“Welcome to Jamesville, the cultural capital of Missouri,” I said, a jumpy twitch in my voice, a shaky smile growing on my face. I’m not sure why I was so nervous. I tried to hold the smile, but it slid right off my face.

“Night, kids,” Mom said, shuffling down the hallway toward her bedroom.

“Night, Mom,” Pia and I replied.

“Good night, Aunt Anna,” Kiki called out.

“Be sure and turn out all the lights before going to bed, Pablo,” Mom said.

Kiki had changed into walking shorts and a yellow tank top. She was the best-looking girl I’d ever seen.
Hot
was the word. And she wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as I’d remembered.

The three of us were seated on the living room floor around Kiki’s Smart Phone.

Kiki had gone to the Google Earth site and found a satellite photo of Jamesville. She zoomed in on our mobile home park. The detail was precise, and our trailer was clearly visible.

“That is way too cool!” I blurted.

“Awesome!” Pia seconded.

“Is this your mobile home?” Kiki asked, touching an image on the screen.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said.

“What are those, uh, those round black things on the roof?” Kiki leaned in for a closer look.

“Yeah, well, those are car tires,” I said, my face red with embarrassment.

“I hate to ask, but why are car tires on your roof?”

“So the roof won’t blow away,” Pia explained. “You know … when it’s really windy.”

“Classy, huh?” I said.

Welcome to Hicksville,
primo
.

“Actually, it’s a good idea,” Kiki replied. “Whatever works.”

When Kiki asked about the shiny trophy sitting on the television, I told her I’d won it at a dirt bike event in Joplin.

“Pablo can do a 360 double tailwhip on his dirt bike!” Pia sang. “It’s awesome!”

“What the heck is that?” Kiki asked, a smile arching the edges of her mouth.

“It’s just a crazy spinning trick,” I said, drawing a picture of the maneuver in the air with my finger.

I had waited all evening to tell Kiki the good news, and I looked at my sister and said, “Get the coin, Pia.”

Pia scampered into her bedroom. She reappeared in a few seconds with the gold coin. She thrust her open palm before Kiki. The coin glittered in the living room light.

“Pablo found this in the river,” Pia said, puffing out her chest a little. “He gave it to me.”

Kiki took the coin and inspected the front and back, and then looked at me. “You
found
this?”

“Yep. At the bottom of James Creek.”

“Is it real?” Kiki asked, her eyes fixed on the coin.

“I sure hope so,” I said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s real,” Pia said, nodding.

I frowned at my sister. “How would you know if it’s real or not?”

“It looks real, that’s why.”

I just sighed. I wasn’t going there.

“Pia, maybe you should have it appraised,” Kiki suggested. “I’m not so sure it’s … I’d have it appraised.”

“Appraised? What’s that?” Pia asked.

“A coin dealer examines it and tells you what it’s worth,” Kiki said.

I liked Kiki’s idea. An appraisal would prove A GUIDE TO U.S. COINS right or wrong. The Perez family could put $6,250 to good use.

“Pablo has a …” Pia looked at me and wrinkled her nose. “What’s it called?”

“A theory.”

“Yeah,” Pia said. “A
theory
about where the coin came from.”

“Let’s hear it,” Kiki said, sitting on the floor with her elbows on her knees, her eyes glimmering with quiet excitement.

“Well,” I began, “there’s an underground spring that feeds into James Creek. I think the spring starts somewhere deep inside Bear Mountain.”

“Bear Mountain is the tallest mountain in the state,” Pia said. “It’s like 10,000 feet high.”

I gave a solemn shake of my head. “Not quite. Maybe 2,000.”

“Well, it
looks
10,000 feet high.”

I turned back to Kiki and said, “Anyway, I think the coin got washed out of the mountain and into the river by the spring.”

“Is that where you found the coin?” Kiki asked, giving the coin another quick look, and rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

“Yes,” I said. “I found it at the exact spot where the spring feeds into a place called Harper’s Hole.” I paused, and then added, “I’ll bet there are more coins inside that mountain.”

“And I’ll bet this coin is worth some money …
if
it’s real, that is,” Kiki said, giving it a final inspection, and then handing it back to Pia.

I still wasn’t willing to share what I’d learned about the value of the coin. There would be a right time to tell, but I knew it wasn’t now.

“There’s a pawn shop next door to the place where your bus arrived,” I said. “It’s called the Blood Brothers Trading Store. I was in there last week looking for used handlebar grips for Pia’s dirt bike. They sell antique coins. Maybe they could tell us what the coin’s worth.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Kiki said with a big yawn.

I wondered if Kiki was bored. This was Hicksville, after all. She must have been reading my mind because she said, “Not bored, Pablo, just sleepy.”

I smiled and nodded. “Long day.”

“Uh-huh, so I guess I’d better turn in,” Kiki said. “But first I want to ask you a question, Pablo.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you find my body interesting?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at it all night.”

Pia snickered.

“Heck, no!” I said. “I mean—well, uh. I didn’t know I was staring. It’s just that your, er, your body has changed so much. The last time I saw you, uh, well … I didn’t know I was staring.” I was out of breath.

Pia’s snicker evolved into a high-pitched giggle.

“You
were
staring,” Kiki said, grinning.

My cheeks were burning. “If I was, you know, staring, it’s because the last time I saw you—uh. It’s just that you’ve changed so much.” I tried to swallow, but my throat was as dry as chalk. “Sorry,” I said.

Pia fell over backward, rolling on the floor with laughter.

“That’s okay, Pablo,” Kiki said. “All boys stare. I think it must be genetic or something. Girls don’t admit it, but they’re flattered when boys stare.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

I glared at my sister, who was still giggling wildly. I started to give her an older-brother scolding, but my mind had slipped into another gear. The same crazy thought kept bouncing around inside my brain. If the $20 gold piece
did
wash out of Bear Mountain and into Harper’s Hole, how did it get into Bear Mountain in the first place?

I didn’t have an answer.

The kitchen clock read 5:45 a.m. the next morning when I peeked out from beneath the sheet for the umpteenth time. I’d spent a long, uncomfortable night on the sofa. I didn’t think morning would ever arrive.

I waited to hear someone stirring from their bed, but our mobile home was quiet. The only sound rustling the early-day silence was the distant hum of tractor-trailer tires spinning down Highway 60, a mile north of our trailer park.

A damp coolness had replaced the sticky heat of the night before, and I got up and slipped into my jeans and T-shirt, and then crawled back under the sheet.

At 6:30 my mother’s alarm went off, and in a few minutes I glimpsed her shuffling down the hall to the bathroom. Ten minutes later she was dressed and ready for another day of work as a poultry trimmer at the Dickinson Processing Plant.

Mom trimmed chicken parts—legs, thighs, wings, and breasts—from 7:30 in the morning until 5:30 in the evening, six days a week. It was hard work, and Mom had developed arthritis in her right hand during the three years she’d worked there. The pay was minimum wage.

“Morning, Pablo,” Mom said in a worn-out voice. She walked into the kitchen and set a pan of water on the stove for her morning cup of tea. She gave me a faint smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine, Mom,” I said, studying her face.