Crash (14 page)

A little while later we had our first track meet, against Donner. In the hundred meters Webb was out fast again, and again I passed him halfway. Me first, him second.

I didn’t even wait till the meet was over. I didn’t take a shower. I got dressed and ran all the way to Mike’s house.
His mother let me in. She said he was in his room. I went up.

I didn’t knock. I barged in. He looked up from his 18-inch TV.

“Where is it?” I said.

“Where’s what?” he said, like I was a looney.

It wasn’t out in the open. I looked under his bed. “Hey, man!” he squawked. Only junk under the bed. I went to the closet, checked the shelf, checked the floor. There it was, in a computer paper box. I took out the box. I lifted the turtle and turned it over. There was the name Thomas carved into the bottom shell.

“You didn’t even have food for it,” I said.

“It was a joke,” he said. “I woulda gave it back.”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” I said.

He stepped in front of the doorway. “How come all of a sudden you’re nosing up to Webb?”

“Move,” I said.

He stayed put. “He feeding you oatburgers or something?”

I didn’t answer.

He thumped me on the chest. “Huh?” Thumped me again, harder. “Huh?”

I stood still as a rock. I knew what he was doing. He wanted me to thump him back, like I always did. Locker-room buddy bulls.

He thumped me again. “Huh?”

I thumped him back, only it wasn’t what he expected. The heel of my hand hit him square in the chest and sent him butt-first down the hallway floor. He ended up against the bathroom
door with his Christmas sneakers pointing at the ceiling.

He forward-rolled to his feet, fists up, nose flaring. But he didn’t come any closer.

For a long time we just glared at each other. Then his fists went down, his shoulders drooped, his voice whined: “What’s the
matter
with you?”

“Figure it out,” I said. I went downstairs and out of the house.

I took the box with the turtle to Webb’s. I left it on the back steps. I knocked on the door and ran.

My father went to mow the grass, but the spark plug was gone from the mower.

A
PRIL
16

Scooter came home today!

A
PRIL
18

It’s Penn Relays week. They go from Tuesday to Saturday. Middle schools run on Friday.

The coach ended practice early today. He took us to a classroom and showed us movies of Penn Relays of the past.

The coach says the Penn Relays are the oldest, biggest, and best relay track meet in the world. Over fifteen thousand people compete. That’s bigger than the Olympics and more than the population of Springfield. There are races for four-year-olds, eighty-year-olds, and people in wheelchairs.

I’ll tell you, I was surprised. I thought only pro football and baseball games get crowds like that. For our meet with Donner last week, there were two people in the stands. (You guessed it: Webb’s parents.)

The Relays are held in a big double-decker stadium called Franklin Field. As the runners tear around the track, the sound from the stand goes with them, a kind of low, windy sound at first—“oouuuuuuu”—that gets louder and louder like a hurricane
coming—“oouuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU”—until the runners bust off the last turn and head for the tape. Then the whole joint goes bonkers. Along the first row they’re groping at the runners and practically hanging from the rail by their feet. In the upper deck they spill over and dance on top of the scoreboard. It’s like a hundred touchdowns scoring at once.

And that’s just one race. As soon as the last runner crosses the finish line, they start another. And another. All day long. By the time the film was over, I could see why Henry Wilhide Webb III wanted to come back.

The coach turned on the lights, but instead of dismissing us he started to talk.

“Boys, we have our own little Penn Relays tradition here at Springfield. I don’t especially care whether we win or not. I’ve been taking teams to the Penn Relays for sixteen years now, and we’ve never won the suburban middle school race, not once—and I intend to continue that perfect record.”

Everybody laughed.

“To me, running in the Relays is a reward. It’s my way of saying thank you to those who have stayed with the program and put up with me for three years.”

More laughing.

“In other words, the eighth-grade sprinters automatically make the team. Now, we need four sprinters for the four-by-one-hundred-meter relay team. We’ve got three eighth graders: Huber, Noles, and Caruso. That means there’s one spot open.
On Wednesday, sixth and seventh graders will race off to see who gets that spot.”

He let it sink in. I could feel the eyes. I knew what everybody was thinking. I knew what I was thinking:
The spot is mine.

He clapped his hands. “Okay, go home.”

I stayed in my seat. Half of me wanted to look at Webb, the other half was afraid. When I finally did look, he was gone.

Scooter lives downstairs now. The den is up in his old bedroom. His sea chest was waiting for him. My father got it out of storage.

He uses a walker. It’s a four-legged thing that he pushes ahead, steps into, pushes ahead, steps into, like that. It takes him five minutes to cross the living room, but nobody’s complaining.

He gets tired a lot. Abby and I are still allowed to climb on the bed with him, but we have to do it early and we can’t stay too long.

We did it for the first time last night. For some reason, I sort of thought that once the three of us were back in the bed boat, everything would be the same again, but it wasn’t. Scooter still only says, “A-bye, a-bye.”

I’m trying to get back the old safe-in-the-bed-boat feeling. I can’t quite make it. Before, it was like Scooter was captain and we were the mates. Now it’s turned around. We’re the captains. You don’t feel so safe being captain.

A
PRIL
19

Big surprise when I got home from school today. My mother was there.

“You sick?” I said.

“No,” she said, “just home.”

“You got fired?”

She chuckled. “I quit. Actually, I half quit. I’ll still do it part-time, but only on my schedule. The mall can get along without me.”

“Why?” I said.

She shrugged. “Well, with Scooter home now—” She squeezed my shoulder, stared into my eyes. “Now really, would you rather have my money or my time?”

“Your money.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

“What about Mrs. Linfont?”

“She
did
get fired.”

“Good.”

“So I’ll be making dinner tonight.”

“Not good.”

She laughed.

The dinner wasn’t bad, for my mother anyway. She’s got possibilities.

There were four of us: me, Abby, Mom, and Scooter.

“Maybe you can do your painting again now,” said Abby. “I don’t like that one you did of me as a baby. I want you to paint me like I am now.” She posed. “Gorgeous.”

My mother made a frame of her fingers and peered through. “We’ll see.”

“Is Daddy quitting his job, too?” Her face showed what she wanted the answer to be.

“No,” said my mom, “not unless you want to live in a hut.”

Abby piped, “Yeah!”

My mother wagged her head. “I keep saying things I shouldn’t. Well, there’s one thing you’ll be glad about. I really will be buying some of your clothes at Second Time Around from now on.”

Abby clapped. “Goody!”

My mother turned to me. “Oh, no,” I said.

She looked half sad. “You can live without thirty-dollar shirts. We’re all going to have to give up something. I’m selling my car.”

“I ain’t wearing no used underwear,” I told her.

“No used underwear,” she said. “Just some things. And look on the bright side. Now you won’t have to waste so much time comparing price tags with your friends.”

Abby laughed.

I stuck my face in my food. I felt like punching a wall. Scooter was silent the whole time, turning his head to each person who talked, his smile tilting, his whole body tilting in his chair.

“No sneakers,” I said. I thought of my money in my dresser drawer. I almost had enough saved for a new pair I saw, better than Mike’s. “You can’t make me spend my own money at a thrift shop.”

She patted my hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She came into my room when I went to bed.

“You’re not gonna tuck me in like some baby every night now, are you?”

She laughed. “No, just tonight.”

As she was heading out, I said, “Just one thing.”

She stopped. She was like a shadow against the hallway light. “What’s that?”

“If you buy me stuff from the thrift shop?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell me.”

I can’t get to sleep. I keep thinking about the race-off tomorrow. I know there’s no way I can lose, but I still feel nervous. I want to be on the bed boat.

Ever since Webb came dorking and whistling up the street that first day, he never saw me without saying hi. Until today. Not at school. Not on the track.