The Last Martin (9 page)

“Fine.” I whip a comb from my back pocket and fling it at him. “Plan B.”

Poole pushes the teeth one inch through the brown shag rug. They stick.

“Let me get a scissors.” I back toward the house. “Haircuts can’t be too hard.”

He double fists the plastic handle and yanks some more. It breaks free and Poole screams and stares at the hairball matted in the tines. “I done scalped myself. Forget this, Martin.”

“Oh no,” I grab his arm and yank him out of the boxcar. “We have a deal.”

Minutes later, we walk toward the bus stop. We rehearse for the tenth time. “You’ll go to the office and talk to Ms. Corbitt. She’s the secretary.”

“Office. Corbitt. Secretary.”

“Tell her you just moved into the area —”

“Nope. No lyin'. I’m telling her I need to start school.”

“Fine. And she’ll want to know a ton of information from your parents.”

“Covered. Frank, I mean,
Dad,
is meeting me there.”

I shoot him a thumbs up. “That’s really good. Then you’ll get a schedule.”

He frowns.

“You know, algebra, phys ed — okay wait, that’s trouble. For phys ed you’ll need a gym uniform.”

“I’m only going one day.”

“Halden won’t care. I barely escaped The Treatment, and he’s in the mood. Okay, listen close. 14 – 2 – 15. That’s my locker combo. Locker 121 in the boys’ locker room. There’s a clean uniform in there.”

“14 – 2 – 15.”

We reach the bus stop. “Listen. Middle-school survival is tough, but I need you focused on the goal. What’s the objective?”

He places his hands on my shoulders. “Find Julia and tell the truth.”

I wince. “You might need to be creative with the truth. We’re trying to help Julia form a
favorable
impression of me.” I jam a folded sheet of paper into his hand. “I’ve listed all your important duties. Find Julia. Make contact and engage. Look for her table in the lunchroom; it’s a good place to get something started. Etcetera.”

A distant yellow speck grows. “I’m counting on you, Poole. Find Julia and I’ll … I’ll … be very thankful.”

“For what?”

“This favor,” I mutter.

“Yell it!”

“I’m thankful that you’re doing this for me.”

“Scream it, friend!” Poole smacks my arm. “I’m
thankful for Poole the Magnificent and his willingness to do in one day what I’ve been unable to do in thirteen years! Scream it!”

“I’m thankful that I don’t need to endure you today!” I peek at him and grin.

Poole smiles and jumps. “Close enough. I’m gettin’ excited, Marty. I’m going to school!” He jukes and spins.

I stare at the bus. “Calm down. I don’t need psycho help. I need
cool
help.”

I turn and race back toward my house, slip behind a telephone pole and eye the bus stop. Poole still jukes. I slap my face, shake my head.

What have I done?

The bus door opens, and Poole hollers at Father Gooly. “Wow, you’re a man of tremendous proportions! How are you today? Do you know a Julia? ‘Cause that’s my job. See, the name is Poole, and I’m going to school, and there’s only one rule, I gotta stay cool, and find the most attractive Julia on behalf of my friend.” He spins and does a backflip. “Oh hey, Charley! You ride the same bus? That’s helpful because you can help me find —”

The door slams on his voice and the bus pulls away.

I step out from behind the pole, and scuff the sidewalk with my tennis shoe. This seemed like a good idea yesterday, but now my stomach thinks otherwise.
I have unleashed a monster.

O
PERATION IMPRESS JULIA. PHASE TWO UNDERWAY.”

I’m confident — anxious, but confident. If anyone can change Julia’s opinion of me, it’s Poole.

I shuffle home, my house rising in the distance. My huge, bed-filled, three-shower, toasty-warm house. My empty house. Dad never came home from last night’s battle, and Mom was called in to the library.

I glance from my summer home to Poole’s. I know Poole said that Frank and the depot guys take care of him, but making a kid sleep on wet wood in a dark boxcar is a strange kind of care.

Think, Marty. What would Poole be thankful for?

The thought comes in so quickly, my head aches.

I run to the back door, lift the fieldstone, and grab the baggied house hide-a-key. I slip inside.

“Mom?”

Silence. Good.

I suit up. Elbow-length rubber gloves, protective goggles, and a ski mask. I grab a table knife and walk to the backyard.

Okay, Poole. Let’s see what we can do about making life a little more comfortable.

I squeeze behind the evergreen shrub that hides the outside outlet, lower myself into the infested bluegrass, and slice. An hour later, I’ve dug a two-inch channel from my house to the boxcar. My hands are raw and I’m a mess, but as I search for the fifty foot extension cord, I feel good.

I dash out of the garden shed and press the cord into the channel. I thread one end between a rotted seam in the bottom of the boxcar, plug the other end into our house outlet, and replace the grass on top. Then I tromp it down.

Poole has power. Invisible, beautiful power.

I race inside and check my filthy look in the mirror. I laugh. It doesn’t matter —

I’m on a mission. I duck into the main floor storeroom, our personal cemetery for outdated and unwanted appliances.

“Mini fridge … old microwave … lamp. And beanbag chair.”

I haul out the goods and plug them in, careful to set things far from the visible mouth. A low hum of electricity
fills the boxcar.

“Hmm. One more thing.”

Back in the house, I grab a laundry basket and head to our fridge. “Apples, oranges, can opener, cans of soup, Spaghettios, ravioli … hot pad.”

Soon, Poole’s summer cabin is stocked. I smile. It’s a start.

I stare at a blank sheet and feel the wind on my face. I’m exhausted from my work. With Mom coming home soon, Poole’s outdoor bench will be the perfect place to spend the day and prepare the next installment of
The White Knight.

I lie on the bench and listen to trains. What would it be like to live here? To wait three years for your mom to come?

Now he’s at school helping me out. Definitely worth more than boots and a lasagna.

I spend hours wondering what he’ll say when he sees his boxcar thank-you. I think myself to sleep, and I’m still thinking when I wake.

I stretch and sit up and grab my tablet off the ground.

“Poole will break zee ice.” I yawn and crack my knuckles. “Martin, zee half-dead love machine, will swoop in with the real continuation of her favorite story.” I grab a pencil from behind my ear and blow on the tip.

Oh, Martin, your story and my pictures go so well together! It’s like we were made for each other.

“Okay let’s see. Where were we …”

Sadly, the White Knight laid hold of the shaft, raised it to heaven, and …

Crash!

Shards of clear stone, like daggers of light, exploded into the air. Creatures shrieked and dove for safety, but for many it was too late. Light shattered their armor and they lay in gnarled heaps against dungeon walls.

But not the jackal. Foam dripped from his mouth as he padded among the carnage.

The White Knight backed away, glancing from the wild dog to his stunned adversary.

The Black Knight slowly brought his hand to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Black blood oozed onto his fingers.

He fell to his knees. “Tas,” he hissed. “Finish him.”

The jackal’s eyes gleamed as he limped toward his fallen master. He reached him and licked the blood off his chest. “I hate knights. White or Black.”

The Black Knight reached up and grasped Tas by the neck. “I will not be destroyed by a dog!”

Tas crumpled in a furry heap beside his master, and the Black Knight released his grip, collapsing breathless onto his back.

“The prophecy is strong. It has bought you time, young knight.” He coughed. “But unless you finish me now, I will be
back. And I will claim what is mine.” The Black Knight closed his eyes. “Look for me in the heat of summer.”

The heat of summer. We’re almost there.

The White Knight reached into the rubble and took hold of Alia’s hand. He gently lifted her to his side and pulled her close. Her eyes sparkled.

“Behind you!” she screamed.

Tas leaped toward the knight, his jaws clamping around his forearm.

Crack!

“Off, foul beast!” The White Knight pried open its mouth and flung him against the wall. Tas yelped and scampered out of the dungeon.

“Your arm.” Alia gently rubbed her fingers over the wound. “It’s broken.”

“It will heal.” The knight smiled. “We are together!”

I set down my pencil. My arm aches from squeezing it so tightly. I rub my forearm and wrist and peek at my watch.

“The time!” I throw down the pencil, slam shut my pad, and bound off the bench. School’s out.

I race toward the bus stop, slip behind my pole, and wait. The bus appears and Poole is the first one out. He
does another backflip and waves as the bus pulls away. Kids hang halfway out windows and wave back.

“See ya tomorrow, Poole!”

“Do another flip!”

Must’ve gone well. Wait, where’s Charley?
“Well?” I rush up to him. “What did you say about me? What did she say? Did she seem … interested?” I rub my hands together. “You know, did she ask lots of Martiny questions?” I circle him like a yappy terrier. “Say something! You always blab, and now you’ve gone mute? Speak!”

“Uh, how was your day?” he asks. “Poole!”

“Oh, right. Our talk. It’s a little tough to recall.” He turns sober. “I’m thinkin’ I should go back tomorrow.” I scratch my head. “So you didn’t talk much.” “Not enough. I mean, not enough to do a thorough job.”

I grab his arm. “But you did talk?” He nods.

“A sentence? A minute? What?” “Pretty much all fourth and fifth hours. She is something. I think another day and we’d know each other pretty well.”

“You’d what?” I squint. “Why are my clothes spotted purple?”

He pulls away. “Probably best to leave that detail alone for now.”

Minutes of silence drive me crazy. We reach my backyard and Poole sighs. “Okay, particulars about today,” he says. “First off, what’s The Treatment?”

My eyes widen. “Why?”

“I went to gym and started to open your locker. Number 120.”

“Stop.” I exhale hard. “That’s Will’s locker.”

“Found that out. I’m good with names, not great with numbers. So I turn the lock and the door swings open. Must not have been latched. I put on your uniform.”

I shake my head. “Will’s uniform.”

“Right. Will comes in and gets pretty mad, but I tell him the truth. You told me to do it. Seems like first thing tomorrow you need to report to phys ed for your Treatment. Halden said this isn’t the first one you’ve earned.”

I tongue the inside of my cheek. “Dead. Officially dead.”

“Then there’s the matter of a small prune fight at lunch. A rather … sizable lunch lady escorted me to the office and the principal wanted to see my schedule, but when I dug for it, your note slipped out and —”

“Oh … What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That I was acting under your orders. That you were sunning, with sunblock, on my bench. He
gave us both tickets for some after-school event. Tomorrow, we need to report to reflection, no wait, intention or demention or —”

“Detention.” I let my head fall back.

“Yeah! That’s it. Go there tomorrow. Here.” He digs in his pocket and hands me the slip. “I guess your folks need to sign your ticket. I’ll get Frank to sign mine.”

My mouth hangs open. I’ve never had detention.

“Oh, and Charley. There’s a small matter with him, but you guys will patch it up. That’s most of the big things, I think.”

I yank Poole by the shirt and pull him to the boxcar. “In. I want my clothes. You will never go to my school again. Are we clear?”

“But I told Julia —”

“Never!”

He shrugs, and soon purple clothes fly out the boxcar mouth. “This is the way you thank your friend —”

Silence.

Poole appears in the opening, drop-jawed and standing in his boxers.

“Okay, the microwave latch is tricky,” I say.

“What did you do?” Poole peeks back into the car.

I frown. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s just that I haven’t uh … It’s been a long time since …” Poole scratches his head, turns, and leaps. I hear
the beanbag chair crunch.

“Love it. Love it.” He laughs. “If you ever need another favor, I’m your guy.”

I nod and stare at my detention slip.
I don’t think so.