You Will Call Me Drog (13 page)

Dad called that night.

“Your mother tells me you’ve been getting into fights.”

“One fight. With a guy from B.M.”

“From Bradley Military? Really? Why’d he pick on you?”

“Um, I started it, Dad.”

“You did? You get hurt?”

“No.”

“You picked a fight with a boy from Bradley Military and beat him?”

“I didn’t beat him, exactly. I just hit him.”

“Well, what do you know? I didn’t realize you had it in you.”

I shuddered. “Me neither.”

“Well, what do you know?”

So Dad was suddenly kind of proud of me. For doing something that wasn’t like me at all, something that Sensei didn’t approve of. I couldn’t win.

“Drog,” I said as I was turning out the light, “Aikido is supposed to be about peace and harmony. Why can’t I learn that?”

Whoa. Did I just ask a mean puppet for advice? Maybe I
was
crazy.

“You’ve been hanging around the dodo too much, Boy,” he said. “You don’t seem to realize we won that fight. You should be saying won point, won point!”

“Why didn’t I find some other way?”

“Look, when the tough guy comes spoiling for a fight, he isn’t going to leave until he gets it. You gave it to him. You beat him with one hand behind your back, shall we say, ha-ha! And now
you’re
the tough guy. Simple.”

“I don’t want to be the tough guy.”

“Listen to Drog for once. You want peace? Be so powerful nobody will dare attack you. Do you think the emir spent all his time fighting? No. A few heads lopped off from time to time and everyone got the message. Then he was free to spend time in his pleasure gardens.”

I was so sick of hearing about that almighty emir I wanted to plunge him headfirst into a vat of his own gold-dust ice cream.

Still, I was starting to get used to talking with Drog. Even sitting still for his lectures, which was pretty weird. But who else besides me knew that he could talk on his own? That I wasn’t crazy? Only somebody who believed that could have anything real to say to me about my problems. Of course he was also my biggest problem. That
could
make me crazy.

Wren caught up with me at the school crossing the next morning.

“I feel bad for you that Sensei’s mad at you,” she said. “I’d hate it if that happened to me.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, maybe he’s right.”

“I don’t understand why boys have to fight all the time. I always thought you were different. But ever since you put on that awful pup—”

“You’re right, Wren,” I interrupted. “It’s no fun being on Sensei’s bad side.”

I didn’t want to hear her say again what I knew she was thinking: why don’t you just take the darn thing off?

At least there was Big Boy. He came over to my desk before the bell rang.

“I didn’t tell you last night at practice because you were ... kind of busy.”

“Tell me what?”

“Remember that tall guy with the notebook? When you left school yesterday, he was there and he followed you. And I saw him again outside the dojo. Watch your back, man.”

Notebook Man. Again? He hadn’t been around school since Mrs. Belcher told him off that day. So why was he still hanging around? And why was he so darned interested in me?

I didn’t go to aikido. With Wren giving me sad looks and Sensei giving me no looks, it just wasn’t worth it. And if Notebook Man really was following me, he’d just have to take a night off.

Mom had a library meeting and left supper for me on the counter. So what did I end up doing? Watching TV and starting a few homework problems and wishing I was at aikido. Pathetic.

“No practice today?” Mom said when she got home.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Oh, did something happen?”

“Yes. No. Don’t want to talk about it.”

“I see. Want to watch a movie?”

“On a school night? You okay, Mom?”

“Uh-huh. Got much homework?”

“Just math. Drog can help me later. What movie?”

“You won’t believe it.
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!
Somebody donated it to the library today. I’ll fix us some popcorn.” Mom and I saw that movie once and laughed ourselves silly it was so bad.

Forget the microwave. Mom makes real popcorn on the stove in an old pan with the lid rattling. Then she melts butter to pour on it. Nothing tastes better than popcorn like that. Especially on a school night.

After one look at the opening scene, where a tomato comes muttering up out of the garbage disposal and corners the terrified housewife, Drog ordered me to put him in my pocket for the night.

But Mom and I chomped our popcorn and howled at the man-eating vegetables rolling off the counter and across the floor. And we cracked up crooning the words from the theme song: “I know I’m gonna miss her. A tomato ate my sister....”

I felt so loose from all that laughing that I finished my math problems without much help from Drog. But when I turned out the light and got into bed, I ended up thinking about sisters.
I have a baby sister now, and I hardly ever see her. She’s a half-sister to me. A whole daughter to Dad. And not a daughter or anything to Mom. How could that happen? I mean, I know, but how?

I jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and opened my desk drawer.

“Wha ... Wha ...” Drog said.

“Something boring, Drog. Go back to sleep.”

When he started to snore again, I felt around in the drawer until I found the envelope with the picture Dad had sent. A picture of Shanna. I slipped it out.

I don’t know why people say a baby looks just like Aunt so-and-so, because to me babies don’t look like anybody but themselves. Shanna looked cute and smart and silly, like somebody I might like to know, but not particularly like anybody I knew already.

Dad’s hand propped her up for the picture. I kept looking at that hand, because I could tell, just from the way his thumb wrapped around her waist and his fingers pressed a little into her belly, how much he loved her.
He holds her that way every day. Was it ever like that with me?

I put the picture away and tiptoed to the landing. Mom was on the couch, dozing into her book, so I went into her room and pulled open the bottom drawer where she kept the old family album. Lots of pictures of Mom and me in there, because Dad was the photographer. I flipped the pages until I found the one of Dad and me.

I couldn’t tell anymore if I remembered that day or not, but I remembered the picture. Me on a sled, grinning out of my parka hood, and Dad riding behind me, grinning too, our cheeks red from the cold and our knees splotched with snow. Dad looked happy. Like there was nothing he’d rather be doing, nothing else on his mind. One of his hands spread across my chest, holding on. I could feel the warmth of it through my parka.

So he held me that way too, once.

What happened after that? Maybe kids are easier to like when they’re little because they just are. Then they get too old to be cute, and their fathers start to worry about them and feel like they have to set an example and get them to do things right and it’s not much fun anymore. But maybe if I’d been better at math ...

I eased the picture out of the album and took it back to my room.

Big Boy came over to my desk the next morning. “You weren’t at practice yesterday.”

“Did Sensei say anything?”

“No, but ... he gave me and Wren progress certificates.”

“What!”

“Yeah. You should have had yours before us. And you would’ve, if—”

“I hate this!” I said, slamming my desk with my fist. “I mean, good for you Big Boy, but—”

“Yeah. You and Sensei used to like each other. Maybe you should come back to class anyway.”

“He’ll just act like I’m not there.”

“Well, do what you gotta do.”

“What I have to do is apologize to Wade Hunt, no excuses. That’s what Sensei says.”

“That’s rough, man.”

I waited to eat lunch with Big Boy, but he said he was working with Mrs. Belcher again.

“You having trouble? Maybe I can help you.”

“Nah, Mrs. B.’s working with me because I’m doing so good now! She says if I go to summer school, maybe I can get double promoted into eighth next year. Then I’ll only be a year behind.”

“That’s great, Big Boy!” I said. Right then, I wished I had something else to call him.

Wren passed me a note during social studies:

I glanced up to see her holding up a faded red book and pointing to the cover. I turned away and pretended I wasn’t interested.

As soon as Wren left school, I asked Mrs. Belcher if she knew anything about a famous ruby yacht.

“Oh, do you mean
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam?
” she said.

“That’s the one!” I said. “What ... what is it?”

“It’s a poem, Parker.”

Oh no.
“A poem?”

“Yes. A very long, very old Persian poem.”

She wrote the title on the blackboard for me. “What a coincidence,” she said, “Wren checked the book out from our library just today. I’m sure she would share it with you if you’re interested.”

Oh, I’m sure she would.

I thanked Mrs. Belcher and left.

“The Ruby Yacht is a poem, Drog,” I said. “How come you told me it was a boat?”

He took his time. “Why of course it’s a poem, Boy,” he said in a too-high voice. A poem ... about the boat. Not at all surprising, do you think, that such a fabulous object should inspire poetry?”

“But it’s spelled R-u-b-a-i-y-a-t. All one word.”

“Hmmph! The reason should be obvious, even to you. That’s simply how you write ruby yacht’ in the Persian language.”

Could that be right? I didn’t know what to think. Use your head, Parker, Dad would say.

I did go back to the dojo that night. I wasn’t too surprised when Sensei treated me like the Invisible Boy, but then I started to feel invisible. Over on the side mat, I tried some falls I had seen the older students do, where they fly through the air and slap the mat coming down. I wanted to feel that. To have it sting a bit so at least I would know I was there. Wren and Big Boy turned around a couple of times when I landed hard, but Sensei didn’t.

I left after half an hour. He didn’t pay any attention to that either.

I was going to have to do the one-down thing with Wade or quit aikido. I couldn’t think which was worse, and my one-point mole wasn’t sending me any clues.

“Wake up, Boy,” Drog said when we got outside. “That Sen-sei is jerking your strings. All you have to do is give up all your self-respect and grovel in front of your enemy, right? Then you can come back to the doodoo and be his little pet again.”

I yanked at a piece of paper that was stuck in my bike spokes.

“I don’t need your opinion, Drog.”

“Ha! That’s what you think.”

“Hey Drog! Look at this!”

The paper I had pulled out was an ad.

“GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!” it said. “COME TO THE TITANIUM CLUB! LIVE EXOTIC DANCING NIGHTLY! (GENTLEMEN ONLY PLEASE)!”

It had a blurry picture of a woman leaning over a table. She didn’t have a whole lot of clothes on.

I showed the paper to Drog.

“Aha! This is in Ferrisburg?”

“Uh-huh, out on Locust Boulevard.”

“Wheee! Fun point, fun point! Well, what are we waiting for?”

“You mean
go
there? Now? But—”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”

“No, but I’m supposed to —”

“Not as elegant as I would have expected,” Drog said.

The Titanium Club was a low building, painted dark blue, with no windows. Light poured out from the doorway, though, and a man stood there, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t see us.

I leaned my bike against a lamppost and stuck Drog in my pocket for the moment. Then I went up to the entrance.

The man barred the door with his arm.

“Where you going, kid?”

“We ... I came to see the dancers.”

“Nice try. They’re not even on for three more hours. But you now, you need to come back in about ten years.”

“Ten years?”

“Yep. This is strictly an adults-only establishment. Whoooeee! If I let a little greenhorn like you in here, they’d bust my—I’d be shut down before midnight. You better run along.”

I walked back over to my bike.

He called after me, “Do your folks know where—what? You came here on a bicycle? Wait a minute. We’d better make sure you get home.”

He pulled a phone from his belt and punched some numbers. In less than a minute, a policeman drove up on his motorcycle.

Uh-oh. It wasn’t just any policeman, either. It would be Officer Dahl.

“This young man here came to the wrong place, Officer,” the Titanium man said. “Probably didn’t realize he was trespassing. Think maybe he needs an escort?”

Officer Dahl took a good look at me. “Say,” he said, “aren’t you Brian Lockwood’s boy? Used to come downtown with your dad sometimes when he was working on the Simmons Street bridge project?”

I nodded. It must be the hair.

“Well, I’ll be darned. What’re you doing here, of all places? And on a school night?”

B.M. here I come.

I didn’t answer.

“Get on your bike, son. You and I are going to ride along together to your place. Still live in that big old house on Prairie?”

I nodded again.

His blue motorcycle light flashed around and around. He was waiting. I had to take my Drog hand out if I was going to steer my bike.

“What’s that you’ve got on your hand?” Officer Dahl said.

I held Drog up.

“Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

We headed down the street, me pedaling as fast as I could, and him cruising so slow he had to put his foot down every once in a while to keep from falling over. I prayed nobody I knew would see me.

When we got to my house, blue light still flashing, Mom rushed out onto the porch.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Officer Dahl put down his kickstand and walked toward her to shake hands.

“Evening, Mrs. Lockwood. Don’t worry. Nobody hurt, nobody in trouble,” he said. “Got a call from the doorman at the Titanium Club saying your son was there. Thought I’d better see him home safe.”

“The Titanium Club! What on earth—”

“You’re on your own, son,” Officer Dahl said. He got back on his motorcycle, revved it, and rode off.

Mom herded me inside.

“The Titanium Club! You were supposed to be at aikido!”

“I left early. Mom, you won’t tell Dad about this, will you? Please?”

“Tell him what? That his son played hooky from aikido and had to have a police escort home from the Titanium Club? Not if I can help it! But I’ve got a couple of things to say to you, mister.”

I could imagine.

She shuddered, reached for a sweater from the hook, and put in on, crossing her arms. “First of all, for a guy who’s promised me he’d do his best to stay out of trouble, I wouldn’t say you’ve been using very good judgment, would you? The Titanium Club? It’s not just the awful place, it’s—”

“Mom, it was Drog. He wanted—”

“No! You will not use that puppet as an excuse. It’s you I’m talking to here. The fact is that without telling anyone where you were going, you went alone to a part of town where there aren’t exactly a lot of people watching out for kids. You tried to get into a nightclub that’s barely legal for adults. And you were riding your bike after dark in a strange neighborhood, with a pretty dim headlight, I notice. I’d say you were lucky Officer Dahl came along!”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“If you’re really sorry, nothing even close to this will happen again.” She tried to button up her sweater. Her voice sounded sure, but her hand shook. “I’m hanging your bike up in the garage for the winter.”

Good. She’s thought of something to do. Take it easy, Mom.

“You can walk to aikido from now on. And anytime you’re not at home, at school, or at aikido, you need to get to a phone and let me know where you are. Agreed?”

I nodded.

“What is all this about exotic dancers anyway?” she said. “First the Internet, then those videos in your room, now this?”

“It’s not me, Mom, it’s—oh, never mind.”

I figured things couldn’t get much worse, so I told her. “Someone’s been following me.”

She sank down on the couch.

“Oh, Parker,” she said in a tired voice, “why would anyone follow you?”

“I don’t know, but I know who it is. It’s a man who came to our school and wrote things down in a notebook. Notebook Man.”

“Parker, please don’t do this.”

“Do what? I thought you’d want to know if someone was following me.”

“Of course I would, but ... aren’t you letting your imagination run away with you?”

I yanked off my jacket and threw it on the couch. “You don’t have to believe me! Big Boy saw him. Ask Big Boy!”

I stomped up to my room and slammed the door. A second later, Wren’s geode crashed to the floor. I groaned and picked it up. It was still in one piece, just a chip out of the edge and a couple of crystals cracked, but I put it in my sweatshirt drawer to be safe.

“What kind of country is this, that nobody is allowed to watch dancing girls until they’re twenty-one?” Drog said.

“Shut up, Drog.”