Jake and Lily (14 page)

W
hat do you do while you’re waiting for your life to happen?

Do like everybody else, you could say—hang out with your best friend.

I can’t. My best friend is my twin brother. Jake. The thing with best-friend-hanging is, it goes both ways. And I’m not Jake’s best friend anymore.

So find another one, you could say.

Easier said than done, I say. Sure, I have friends. But mostly they’re in-school friends. I’ve always spent most of my out-of-school time with Jake. I never had to go looking for some buddy-pal to sleep over with. I already slept over with my best friend. Every night. And now, after the Anna Matuzak Disaster, I’m practically afraid to
look
at another girl.

So that leaves Poppy. And I can only see him at night now, because he went and made them love him so much at the rec center that they made his job full-time.

So what do I do all day? Can you spell B-O-RI-N-G?

I watch TV. I wish
The Gray Shadow
was on ten times a day.

I throw darts.

I practice burping.

I look for my missing Pennsylvania Railroad hat.

I walk along the creek and pick up cool stones that Jake would like. Then I remember Poppy’s words:
Forget it.
I throw the stones into the water.

I ride my bike, looking for crimes. My Crimestoppers manual says it’s not a good idea to try to make a citizen’s arrest, but there’s no law against it. So I take along the handcuffs, just in case I come across a crime in progress. No luck so far.

I go to Poppy’s, but I stay out of the kitchen. I’m afraid to look at the table. I’m afraid the cantaloupe won’t be there.

M
y brain is squeezing me in the middle.

The Bright Side says,
Stop blaming yourself. Day after day all you did was hang around while Bump did the talking and the mocking. You didn’t paint the shack. You didn’t rip off the plank. You didn’t demolish the place. You didn’t even come up with the name Soop. It was all Bump. All you did was step up and take the heat for him. You’re not a rat. You’re a hero.

The Dark Side says,
Don’t kid yourself. You’re a rat. Sure, Bump carried the ball. But you were on the team. You were there the whole time, grinning and nodding and going along with the program, like Bump’s little dog. Did you ever raise a finger to stop it?
Did you ever once give the goober a break? You want proof that you’re guilty? You
feel
guilty. Deep down you know it. You know the guilt isn’t just Bump’s. It’s yours too. That’s why you confessed.

I
figured maybe I’m riding my bike too much looking for crimes. I figured it might be easier for my life to find me if I stayed put. So this morning I never left the porch. I rocked on the rocking chair.

I saw everything. The old lady across the street sweeping her driveway. Cars going by. People walking. Cats. Squirrels.

Nothing exciting. Nothing that would let me know that my new life showed up.

No crimes. Well, not officially. There was one thing that I personally would call a crime if I was a judge. It was a girl and a little kid. Her brother, I guess. The girl was pulling the kid along in a red wagon. The little kid was yelling, “Take me now!” The girl was yelling, “No!”

“Take me now!”

“No!”

That’s how they went past my house:

“Now!”

“No!”

The girl looked my age. She wore a blue-and-yellow baseball cap. I didn’t know her. Every time the runt said “Now!” he thumped the wagon with his feet. I felt like putting the cuffs on his feet. I could still hear them a block away:

“Now!”

“No!”

That was the big event of my fascinating day.

I
don’t get it. People treat me like normal. Nobody calls me names. Nobody spits on me. My mother kisses me every night when I go to bed. Don’t they know I’m The Big Disappointment?

I
t happened again today: the girl, the runt, the wagon.

“Take me now!”

“No!”

“Now!”

“No!”

Thump. Thump.

I yelled from the rocking chair, “Shut up!”

The wagon stopped. They both turned to me, fish-eyed. Then the runt jutted out his chin and thumped the wagon. “
You
shut up!”

I didn’t have any new lines, so I stuck with, “
You
shut up!”

That’s how it was going—

“
You
shut up!”

“
You
shut up!”

—when I noticed the girl was marching onto my porch. I got ready in case she tried to slug me. But all she did was stick out her hand. “Thank you,” she said with a big smile.

“What for?” I said.

“For telling the brat to shut up.”

I shook her hand. “My pleasure.”

“Do you always butt in like that?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “It just sorta came out.”

“Sydney Dodds,” she said. “Two
y
’s.” She stuck out her hand again.

I gave her another shake. “Lily Wambold. Two
l
’s.”

“I don’t know you,” she said. “I live over on Clem Drive.”

“I live here,” I said.

She put on a mock-shock face. “Really?”

We laughed.

“So what are you doing all the way over here?” I said.

She cranked a thumb over her shoulder. “Babysitting. My summer curse. My parents both work.”

“Mine too,” I said. “So where does he want you to take him?”

She groaned. “McDonald’s. Every day. All day long.”

“He’s a Big Mac freak?”

“No, he hates hamburgers. He just likes the playground.”

I pictured the nearest McDonald’s with one of those plastic playgrounds. “That’s a couple miles away,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Too far to pull a wagon.”

“Will you repeat that louder, please. Devon, listen.”

I called, “Too far to pull a wagon.”

Devon thumped. “I wanna go!”

“Just ignore him,” said Sydney.

“Tune him out.”

“Exactly.”

“Cool hat,” I said. She wore the brim low over her eyes, like I do. It said CSX in yellow letters. “That a baseball team?”

“It’s a railroad.”

“Really?”

“My dad drives a freight train.”

Boinnng!

I tried not to act too excited. “Cool,” I said. “My brother and I were born on a train. On the California Zephyr. In the Moffat Tunnel.”

“Double cool,” she said. “Where’s that?”

“Colorado. It’s over six miles long.”

“Wow. Long enough to be born.” She stared at me. “You said you
and
your brother? So you’re, like,
twins
?”

“Yep,” I said.

“
Triple
cool.”

That’s what I used to think
, I thought. “At least I never had to pull him around in a wagon,” I said.

As we were laughing, Devon came stomping up the porch steps. He punched his sister in the leg. “I want attention!”

He was so funny with his little fist and pouty puss, we laughed even harder. So he came over and punched me. So I grabbed him and dumped him on his back and gave him the Torture of Big Girl Kisses. I stopped just short of agonizing death, and a minute later he was sitting on my lap, pulling my mouth into funny faces.

Sydney sat in the other rocker. We rocked and talked.

I got Devon my old Legos. That kept him busy on the porch floor.

I made lunch for the three of us. Tuna salad sandwiches for Sydney and me. Peanut butter and marshmallow (ugh!) for the kid.

We talked and talked. Sydney goes to Saint Catherine’s. She told me all about life there. She rides her bike a lot when she’s not pulling the wagon. Her father says if he can get permission, he’ll take her for a ride in his engine for her next birthday. She says maybe I could come too!

I set up the croquet game in the backyard and we did that for a while. I gave Devon my stuffed watermelon to play with.

We talked.

I gave them a tour of the house. Sydney loved the basement, which is mostly my mom and dad’s workshop. They make stuff for their jobs and for us. “It’s like a factory!” said Sydney.

Did I say we talked?

That’s what we were doing when my parents’ truck pulled into the driveway. Sydney looked at
her watch. “Ohmygod—I gotta get home.”

I introduced her and Devon to my parents. Devon yanked my finger. “Lil-wee”—that’s what he calls me—“
you
pull me home.” So I walked them home, me pulling.

When we got there, Sydney was about to introduce me to her parents when Devon punched her. “Let
me
do it,” he growled. He raised my hand like a winning boxer. “Mommy and Daddy—this is Lil-wee!”

I ran all the way home. I gobbled down my dinner. I biked over to Poppy’s. I burst into the house. “Poppy!” I shouted. “I think my new life just found me!”

I
walk the creek for stones.

I poke crayfish.

I hunt raspberries.

I still see the guys, but not as much. The name Death Rays is starting to sound a little dumb.

When we met today at the hideout—that word is starting to sound dumb too—Bump said, “I found another one!” He sucked on his licorice wad. “Let’s ride!” he goes.

Bump can be like a broom. He just sweeps you along. A minute later we were all heading for the playground at Hancock School. The goober was alone on the basketball court. He couldn’t bounce the ball twice in a row without losing it. Half of his shots didn’t just miss the basket—they missed
the
backboard
. He wore black socks with green tennis shoes and…well, that was enough for me. “I gotta go home,” I said. “I forgot to take out the trash.” I took off before they could start asking questions. “Hey, Jake!” I heard Bump call.

I guess my bike did the thinking, because before I knew it I was cruising down Meeker Street. I stopped a block away. I parked behind a car. The rubble was gone. Ernie had the four corners staked and was starting to put up the first wall. I couldn’t help smiling—it was already crooked. I saw his hammer hit, then heard it a half second later. It seemed like each hammer hit was saying something. I didn’t know what. I think I stayed there a long time, watching. I think I was doing something else too. I think I was rooting.

I
didn’t wait for them today. I met them two blocks down the street. Devon was still whining, “Take me now!”

When he saw me coming, he hopped out of the wagon and practically tackled me. “Lil-wee!
You
take me to McDonald’s.”

I picked him up. “Sorry, little dude. It’s too far away and I don’t drive.”

He punched me. “I hate you!”

“I hate you too,” I told him, and gave him a big wet kiss.

He went, “Ouuu!” and scraped it off with his little fist and went running back to the wagon.

“If you take him for a week, I’ll give you my supercool train hat,” said Sydney.

“No thanks,” I said. “One brother is enough.”

Sydney had a bunch of babysitting money, so we went to the dollar store and got Tootsie Pops and temporary tattoos. “On my face!” Devon piped. Before we left the store, he had four Bullwinkle tats on his cheeks and forehead.

“Your mother’s gonna kill you,” I told Sydney.

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. She’s so happy I take him all day, I can do anything I want.”

We went to Bert’s Deli and got hoagies and sodas. Then I suggested we take our lunch to 214 Monroe Drive and eat it there. That’s where my parents are working. They’re building an addition on a house.

So that’s what we did. My parents were sitting on the back steps, just opening their lunch boxes when we arrived. By the time I sat down, Devon was rooting through my mother’s lunch box. My parents laughed. Sydney was mortified. “Devon!” She slapped his hand. The stolen MoonPie he was holding fell to the ground. Devon yelled, “See what you did!”

My mom picked up the MoonPie. She broke it in two and gave half to the kid. It was almost in
his mouth when Sydney grabbed his wrist. “What do you say to Mrs. Wambold?”

He glared at his sister. “I say poop-poop to you.”

By the time we were all done laughing, the half MoonPie was in his stomach.

My father mussed the kid’s hair. “You got a handful here, big sister.”

Sydney nodded. “I’m cursed.”

We were all getting down to some serious munching when Devon pulled on my father’s pants leg. “Will you take me to McDonald’s?”

I explained the situation. My parents tried to tell Devon nicely that they had a job to do and couldn’t go driving little kids around to McDonald’s playgrounds every day. When my mother saw Devon’s sad-sack face, I thought she was going to start bawling herself. Then she seemed to snatch a passing thought from the air. She looked at me. “Well, Lily, you know what Dad and I always say. If you want it—”

—
make it.

Click! A light went on.

“Make it!” I said. I turned to Sydney and said
it again: “Make it!”

She looked at me. “Huh?”

“We’ll
make
a playground for him. We’ll do it ourselves.”

I saw the light click on in her eyes. “Hey—yeah!” She looked around. She pointed. “Like…there?”

She was pointing to the empty lot next door. It was like a bare lawn. No shrubs or anything. Just high grass.

“You’d have to ask the owner of the property,” said my dad. “You can’t just go ahead and do it without permission.”

“Do you know who owns it?” I asked him.

He patted the porch step. “Right here,” he said. “These people. Mr. and Mrs. Addison. They own both properties.”

“Mrs. Addison is inside,” said Mom. “Upstairs.”

I jumped up. “Let’s ask her.” I hauled Sydney to her feet. I looked at my parents. “Can we ask her?”

“Sure,” said Dad.

“Who’s stopping you?” said Mom.

We barged into the kitchen, into the dining
room, into the living room. Devon trailed us. We stopped at the foot of the stairs. I called, “Hello? Mrs. Addison?”

She came down in bare feet, cutoff jeans, and a T-shirt that said:

STOP GLOBAL WARMING

FART IN A

FREEZER

I asked her about making a playground for my friend’s brother on her next-door lot. She thought for a minute. Then she made a sad smile and said, “Sorry. I’m afraid not.” Because if somebody got hurt, they could be sued, she said. Plus they were thinking of putting in a vegetable garden.

“Poop,” said Devon before Sydney could clamp his mouth shut.

We slunk back to the porch. I flopped down beside my mom. “We struck out,” I said.

“And she had such a cool T-shirt,” said Sydney.