Trout and Me (7 page)

“Flush it down the toilet like I do,” he said.

“I will, but I still hate it that the school treats me like I’m some kind of freak.”

“Yeah. Me too. But you’ll get over it. They’ve thought I was a freak since I was six. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

“So you’re up for going to New York tomorrow?”

“I think I am.”

“Well, I’m going whether you do or not,” I said.

“What about calling in sick?”

“I’m just
not
going to school,” I said.

“What are you going to tell your parents?”

“I’ll call them from New York so they won’t worry.”

“Oh, brother,” Trout said. “We could be suspended.”

“I thought you were the one who didn’t worry about that sort of stuff,” I said.

“I’ve just never been to New York before,” Trout said, but he agreed he wasn’t
so
worried and we decided to meet at eight on the corner of Peartree and Euclid, two blocks from school, and head to the train station from there.

“Bring money,” I said.

“Do you have any?”

“I’ve got about a hundred dollars saved and more in the bank,” I said.

“I don’t know how much I’ve got,” Trout said.

“I’ll lend you some,” I said, and hung up the phone quickly when I heard my father coming into the living room.

My dad wanted to talk to me about Trout. He sat down on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table the way he does, and said he was getting some bad vibes about my new friend Trout.

“Like what?” I asked.

“It seems a group of parents are getting together and trying to get Trout into a special school.”

“I know about that. So you’re getting to be like Mom and think I shouldn’t hang out with him?”

“Just tell me about him, Benjamin. I trust your judgment.”

“Mom doesn’t.”

“That’s not true. She’s just worried about you. Before spring vacation you were beginning to get on top of things at school, and in the last three weeks, since Trout arrived, we’re getting telephone calls from your teachers almost every day.”

“It’s not Trout’s fault,” I said, and told him everything I knew about Trout.

“The school worries that his father travels and leaves him at home alone.”

“Someone named Ginger in the apartment building
where they live checks in on him. Like every five minutes. That’s what Trout told me.”

“But he’s eleven, Ben.”

I shrugged.

“You don’t go over there after school, do you?”

“Nope,” I said. “But I’m not going to stop being his friend. I like him. I told Mom that Trout is the only friend I’ve had since first grade who I trust completely. I mean, he never thinks I’m stupid.”

“Well, I’m glad about that,” my dad said, giving my shoulder a gentle punch. “That says a lot.”

“So you don’t mind that we’re friends?”

“I don’t mind at all as long as you just let me know things about him.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ll keep you up to date.”

That night I couldn’t sleep a bit. All I could think about was New York and going alone on the train with Trout and walking through the city just the two of us, like we were grown up. And about Ritalin.

It was “a piece of cake,” as my dad would say. I met Trout at exactly eight at the corner of Peartree and Euclid. Actually, Max and Meg dropped me off there because I was late. I think Mom had a second sense that something was going on, and after breakfast she kept asking me questions about my math homework and whether I was keeping up in my chapter books and whether I wanted to go to a lake in New Hampshire for summer vacation after I finished tutoring. I was so anxious to get out of the house I didn’t even argue about tutoring. But by the time we had finished talking, it was too late to meet Trout, which is why Max drove me.

Trout was waiting, sitting on a brick wall in front of a house on Euclid, but Meg didn’t see him and I was glad of that. I didn’t want her to tell Mom for any reason, especially since we were just skipping school, not bothering to call in an excuse.

I had about a hundred dollars in my pocket, and we walked to the train station and made the 8:20 New Jersey Transit easily, and the best thing was that I didn’t see anyone I knew on the train who might call my parents or the school. Everyone knows my parents, especially my father, since he owns the hardware store. So plenty of people know Meg and me too. But Trout and I were lucky. All strangers on the train, as far as I could tell.

We went into the first car, sat down in one of those double seats so Trout was across from me, and we were feeling pretty great until the conductor stopped to collect our tickets and gave Trout a long once-over look and asked him why he had drawn a red question mark on his chin.

I had pretty much forgotten about Trout’s question mark. We were always together, and now when I looked at him, I didn’t even see the question mark. Or if I saw it, I wasn’t aware. At school, for some reason, the teachers decided to ignore it, even the librarian. Sometimes one of the kids would say something or make a joke but not very often. So I was surprised when the conductor noticed.

“It’s a tattoo,” Trout said, and he looked startled.

“A tattoo. How old are you?”

“Eleven,” Trout said. “Him too.” He indicated me.

“And why aren’t you in school on a Wednesday?”

“We go to private school and we have a field trip today to the Bronx Zoo and we’re meeting our class there.”

“Just the two of you eleven-year-olds going to the Bronx Zoo alone?”

“Our school is in a different town and we live in Stockton, which is why we’re going by train.”

This seemed to satisfy the conductor. He took our tickets and gave us a receipt and moved on to the next passengers, but not without telling Trout he ought to get the tattoo removed, young as he was and with such a nice-looking face.

“Weird,” I said.

Trout didn’t say anything. He just sat in the train looking out the window as the New Jersey towns whipped by, his arms folded across his chest. I couldn’t tell if he was having a good time or not. He was too quiet.

But just after Newark, when we could see the New York skyline with all the skyscrapers like building blocks in the distance, he sat on the edge of his chair and pressed his face against the window.

“So what do you want to do first?” I asked.

“Go to the Bronx Zoo,” he said.

Even I was a little scared when we got to Penn Station in New York. It’s so big and I had to ask how to get out of the place where the trains stopped and into the station. Then once we came up the stairs into the station, it seemed so much bigger and stranger than it ever had when I came in
with my parents. There was a lot of construction and I couldn’t tell which way the signs were pointing and I suddenly realized that I didn’t know New York at all. I didn’t know where I’d be if I followed the signs for Seventh Avenue or Madison Square Garden or the subways. So we went to a desk marked
INFORMATION
and asked how to get to the Bronx Zoo.

The man told us to take the number 2 express and get off at Pelham Parkway and walk. He pointed us in the direction of the number 2, which meant that we walked underground, which I’d never done before, or if I had, I didn’t remember how terrible it was. Homeless people along the walls sleeping, sometimes on green garbage bags with all of their possessions beside them, and musicians playing their guitars or flutes or clarinets, and all the people rushing. There were kids, but none of them seemed to be alone as we were, except one group, and they were traveling with their teacher.

“Are you worried about being murdered?” Trout asked.

“Nope,” I replied. I hadn’t even thought of being murdered. The only thing on my mind was finding my way to the zoo, but now that Trout had mentioned it, I started to think how easy it would be for someone in the crowd to grab one of us or both of us—no one would notice—and take us someplace and we’d be gone. My parents might never know what happened to us. Just disappeared.

“We’re not going to be murdered,” I said, but I didn’t like the subway, not the smell of it or the crowds of people.

“So you know where we’re going?” he asked.

“I do,” I said, and I had been following the signs for the number 2, but once we got there I didn’t know how to buy a ticket. So I went to the token booth and asked. I got four tokens and went through the turnstile and stood next to a pillar, waiting for the train.

“It’d be easy to push someone onto the tracks,” Trout whispered. “I’ve read about it.”

“What did you read?” I asked. I don’t read the newspaper and Trout probably doesn’t either. It’s hard enough to read large print.

“I read that this guy pushed this girl in front of a train. She was just standing there drinking a Coke and he gave her a giant push and she flew right in front of the train and the Coke spilled all over and she was killed and he got away. So.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Trout.”

I told him to stand by the pillar in case someone did decide to push him; he’d have something to hold on to.

The number 2 express charged into the Thirty-fourth Street stop and we pushed our way into the train with about a hundred other people and had to stand forever until we finally got a seat, and then it was almost Pelham
Parkway. But we made it. We got off the train, asked directions, walked two blocks, and there we were at the entrance.

I looked over at Trout. He had the funniest smile on his face like the “cat who swallowed the canary,” as my father would say. It was a great smile and I knew he was having a good time, and to tell you the truth, I was pretty proud of myself. For a kid with learning disabilities, I’d managed to find the Bronx Zoo without getting murdered or pushed onto the subway tracks or getting my money stolen. Not bad for eleven.

By the time we got to the zoo, it was eleven and warm, so we stopped at the lunch place and got hot dogs and two Cokes to cool off and sat down at one of the tables looking at each other. We just couldn’t stop laughing.

We were at the zoo until almost three and I’ve never had such an amazing time in my life, in my
whole
life, and that’s been a lot of time.

We kept congratulating each other for being so smart and grown-up.

“It’s amazing we’re here,” Trout said. “I mean, New York City, and we got here by subway, and now we’re walking around the zoo like we’re famous. My father would die if he knew.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Mine too.”

We got some turquoise cotton candy and wandered around the open bird sanctuary, but I don’t love birds—I mean, they’re sort of pretty and boring—so we went to see the lions and then to see the monkeys. The monkeys I love, especially the spider monkey with his tiny fingers and toes, eating and spitting, throwing himself at the glass cage, turning upside down. And the baboons with their big pink behinds. From time to time, I’d throw my arm over Trout’s shoulder or he’d push into me, like my dog when she was a puppy and tripped me every time I got up from the couch.

We almost forgot what time it was. Trout noticed it first—almost three by the clock over the lion house, so we were late. Not very late, but late enough that we had to hurry to get to the subway in time to be back at Penn Station by four o’clock for the 4:17 to Stockton. We ran to the Pelham Parkway subway stop, bumping up against each other. If we’d been girls, we’d have been holding hands. But since we’re boys, we pushed each other instead.

The number 2 was just coming into the station when we arrived and it was practically empty, so we hopped in the third car, plopped down on a seat for two, put our heads against the back of the seat, and nearly fell asleep. Maybe I did fall asleep and maybe Trout did too, because someplace between the time we got on at Pelham Park-way
and got off at Penn Station, what was left of my hundred dollars, which happened to be $87.00, was stolen. I reached in my pocket and it was gone.

At first, I didn’t tell Trout. I was embarrassed that I’d been so stupid and I was afraid that if he thought a robber was around, he’d be worried.

We walked through the subway tunnel, through the turnstile, and up the steps into the station. We had almost twenty minutes before the train for Stockton left, which meant it was four o’clock, the time I’d planned to call my mom.

“How much money do you have?” I asked Trout, trying to sound casual.

“I’ve got $4.50,” he said. “I don’t know what happened because Dad usually leaves me more than that and he gives Ginger a bunch in case I need something, but I didn’t want to ask Ginger, so that’s all I’ve got.”

I wondered if $4.50 would be enough money to call Stockton.

“So maybe I could borrow some,” I said, stopping at the line of public phones.

“Sure,” he said, but he gave me a funny look.

I put twenty-five cents in the phone and called the operator and asked her could she help me to get my dad at 609-555-9475, which is the number of the hardware store. At the last minute I decided not to call my mom. She had
probably never skipped school in her life, but I bet my father had and would understand.

“Hi, Dad,” I said when he answered.

“Just a second,” he said. “I have a customer.”

I could hear him talking to someone and then he was back on the phone speaking in a quiet voice I’d never heard from him before, even when he was really mad.

“Where are you, Benjamin?” he asked.

I “cut to the chase,” as my dad would say.

“I’m in New York and I’ll be back at five-twenty on New Jersey Transit and then I’ll walk from the station,” I said. “I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

I made it sound as if it was perfectly normal to spend a school day in New York City, as if it wouldn’t bother my parents at all. At first, when I got him on the phone, I was very proud of myself. After all, I’d managed a whole day on trains and subways and in New York City and also the Bronx alone with only Trout, and I was the one in charge. But my dad didn’t seem to feel that way.

“As you might imagine,” he was saying, “the whole school knows that you and Trout cut classes today. Teachers, kids, parents, every bloody person around. This was not a smart move, Ben.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said, not wanting to let Trout know my dad’s mood. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“So what’d he say?” Trout asked.

“Nothing much. Just the usual stuff of coming straight home.”

“And he didn’t mind that you’d gone to New York?”

“He didn’t say he minded,” I said.

“No kidding.” Trout seemed surprised. “So let’s get a couple of milkshakes before we go, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

And we headed off to the yogurt and ice cream stand in the station.

The call to Stockton had cost $1.65, which meant that Trout had only $2.85 left. I looked at the price list on the wall behind the ice cream kiosk. A milkshake cost $2.50.

“Let’s split one,” I said.

“I want a whole one. Chocolate with whipped cream.”

“I don’t think I want one,” I said.

“How come?” he asked.

“I’m full.”

“Full? We had almost nothing to eat except a hot dog and Coke and that was a long time ago. I’m starving to death.”

I shrugged.

“Is your money all gone?” he asked, suddenly guessing the situation. “Is that why you needed mine to make a telephone call?”

We ordered one chocolate milkshake with whipped cream and shared.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think it was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Maybe on the train. I don’t know.”

“So there was a robber.”

“I guess.”

“And he put his hand in your pocket and took your money and you didn’t even feel it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “When we got to Penn Station, I reached my hand in my pocket and it was gone.”

“Jeez,” Trout said as we ran down the stairs to the New Jersey train to Stockton. “Do you think that’s bad luck?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I mean it’s bad luck it happened but I hope it doesn’t mean bad luck for us.”

“Right,” Trout said. “That’s what I was thinking.”