On the table beside the display case was a printed card. I put it in my back pocket.
When I got home, Mom had brought two hot dogs back from the diner, wrapped in aluminum foil and filled with ketchup and mustard and pickle relish and sauerkraut like in Yankee Stadium, and I know because I’ve been to Yankee Stadium, which you might remember. She was moving around the boxes and still cleaning in the kitchen, and we could hear my father downstairs clanking away at his tools and swearing that Mr. Big Bucks Ballard wasn’t going to get away with being such a freaking cheapskate and what did they take him for? Some kind of a jerk?
Well, he wasn’t some kind of a jerk, he said when he came back upstairs.
He wasn’t some kind of a jerk, he said when he told me and my brother to carry all our stuff upstairs and sort it out, which I ended up doing by myself because my brother wouldn’t.
He wasn’t some kind of a jerk, he said when he hollered up at us to cut out the wrestling and turn out the light and go to sleep—which hadn’t really been wrestling but my brother trying to find out where I’d put the jacket, which he still didn’t know belonged to Joe Pepitone and which he didn’t really want anyway so he wasn’t half trying.
That night, I lay in the dark and drew the falling bird in the air: the wings, the tail feathers, the long beak. The eye. I drew them all again and again and again, trying to feel the wind through the feathers, wondering how whoever drew it had made it feel that way.
I fell asleep.
The terrified eye.
On Sunday, as soon as I woke up, I could tell it was going to be one of those days where the temperature is so high that you wonder how anything can still be alive. It was hardly morning, but already the room was sweating hot. If there had been curtains, they would have hung like they were dead.
When I came downstairs, Mom was already in the kitchen, sweating, trying to keep the pancakes warm in an oven that only kind of worked, and sizzling bacon in the frying pan over the one burner that lit, and scrambling eggs in the bowl next to the frying pan, and timing it all so that when Dad came down he could eat the pancakes and bacon, and then the scrambled eggs cooked in the bacon grease and he wouldn’t have anything to complain about. I guess Mom figured it was worth the sweat.
I went outside so that I wouldn’t throw off the timing. Everything was white and glarey. The sun wasn’t up that far, but you still had to squint, and the light gave everything that kind of droopy feeling that lets you know this is going to be a long and slow and drippy day and you better think about finding a pool someplace and how that first cold plunge is going to feel great.
Not that stupid Marysville would even think of having a pool.
I waited by the back door as the sun got hotter, staring at the hard-packed dirt of the backyard, wondering how even the few patches of crabgrass were still alive. I waited until after my father had eaten and gone off somewhere with Ernie Eco. I waited until after my brother came down and ate the rest of the pancakes and then went off somewhere, probably with whoever he could find who had a police record. Then I went inside. My mother was folding a wad of newspaper and putting it under the wobbly kitchen table.
“You’ve been in the sun,” she said.
I nodded. “It’s already pretty hot out.”
“Can I scramble you some eggs?”
I shook my head. “I can do it.” I broke two eggs into the frying pan. The bacon grease was still hot, and the eggs began frying up pretty quick.
“Do you think you’re going to be happy here?” she said.
I watched the eggs start to turn white. “I guess,” I said. “Here as anywhere. How about you?”
“Me?” she said. “Here as anywhere.” She got up from underneath the kitchen table.
I’m not lying when I say that Hollywood actresses would kill for my mother’s smile. You think Elizabeth Taylor can smile? If you saw my mother’s smile, you wouldn’t even let Elizabeth Taylor in the same room.
If Joe Pepitone saw my mother’s smile, he would give up baseball for her. That’s how beautiful her smile is.
She put some toast on for the two of us, and I searched through all the boxes still stacked in the kitchen until I found some strawberry jam, and by then the egg yolks were too hard but who cares and we each had one and split the toast and we sat there quiet in the heat, me looking up to watch her smile and wondering how I could ever draw it, it was that beautiful.
I felt my hand trying to figure out how to do it. But it was like trying to draw the feathers of the bird. It didn’t feel like my fingers were going the way they should. I knew my fingers weren’t going the way they should.
We finished breakfast, then cleaned up together. Afterward we unpacked all the dishes and pots and dry food and stuff and put everything away. (I carried out the box of broken dishes without unwrapping them.) By then, it was almost 150 degrees in the kitchen, but when we looked around, everything was settled just the way she wanted it, and when I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room where you could fry eggs while holding them in your hand,” she went over to the sink, filled a glass full of cold water, turned, and—I’m not lying—threw the whole thing all over me.
She did.
Then she smiled again and started to laugh, and I started to laugh, and I took another glass and filled it up and she said “Douggie, you better not—” and then I threw the water over her and she laughed even louder until she started to snort and then we both laughed even harder and she filled her glass again and I filled my glass again and before long everything was dripping and it wasn’t because of the humidity.
Then my father came home with Ernie Eco. Walked into the wet kitchen.
My mother looked at him, then opened a cabinet door and pulled down the Change Jar. She handed me four quarters and told me that we needed a gallon of milk—which we really didn’t need but I’m not stupid. I left through the back door, crossed the hard-packed dirt, and was gone before whatever happened happened.
That night, I heard everything through the cardboard walls. The Dump wasn’t a wreck like he said. And so what if Ernie Eco saw it? So what?
I lay in the dark, the criminal snores of my brother honking in the bunk beneath me, and I thought of my mother’s sweet smile. Maybe she could take me to Yankee Stadium.
I felt my fingers moving again, trying to get that smile right.
I went back to the library on Monday, a little while after my father swore himself out of the house and headed off to the Ballard Paper Mill, where he was going to let Mr. Big Bucks Ballard know he wasn’t some kind of a jerk. When my mother told him that maybe he shouldn’t say anything and he should be happy to have a job, he said something to her that you don’t need to hear but that I heard fine, since the walls in The Dump are, like I said, cardboard.
So I got to the library way too early because it was still dark inside, and I sat on the marble steps to wait, since what else do you think I’m going to do in stupid Marysville, New York? I mean, it wasn’t like Horace Clarke was around to bat with.
So I guess I waited most of the morning. When people walked by, they’d look at me like I didn’t belong there. You know what that feels like after a while?
I’m not lying, if Joe Pepitone had walked by, he would have stopped. He would have sat down next to me on the stupid steps and we would have talked about the season, like pals. Just talking. How maybe the season wasn’t going as good as he wanted. How maybe he’d only had thirteen home runs last year, but so what? He had thirty-one the year before that. And even though he wasn’t playing as many games this year, he’d probably get way past thirteen. Stuff like that.
And then someone would notice that Joe Pepitone was sitting on the steps of the library with me, and the news would spread all around stupid Marysville, and people like the girl with the stupid pink chain would start to gather and they’d all look at me and wish they were sitting on the steps with Joe Pepitone. And then Joe Pepitone would say, “Hey, Doug, it’s getting crowded around her
e. What say we go someplace and throw a few?” And we’d get up and walk through the crowd, and the girl with the stupid bike would have to back away and everyone would look at us and they’d wish they were the ones walking someplace with Joe Pepitone to throw a few.
So I waited on the library steps.
But Joe Pepitone didn’t come.
The girl with the bike did.
I looked at her. “You going to the library again?” I said.
“No,” she said, “I’m not going to the library again. What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re waiting for the library to open.”
“That’s right.” I leaned back against the stairs. Pretty cool, like before.
She got off the bike and flipped down the kickstand. “Do you think I can trust you?” she said.
I wondered if this was supposed to be a trick.
“Sure,” I said. Kind of slowly. Probably not so cool.
“Then watch this for me.”
She walked down the block. I leaned forward and saw her turn into a store. After a minute, she came out with two Cokes in her hand. She walked back and handed me one. It was so cold, there was still ice on the outside of the bottle, and frozen air came out of the open top like fog.
She sat down next to me. “You didn’t steal my bike,” she said.
“This piece of junk?”
“You know, you might have to wait a long time,” she said.
“Where did you get these?”
“My father owns Spicer’s Deli.”
“So you just went in and told him to give you two Cokes and he gave them to you?”
“No, I didn’t just go in and tell him to give me two Cokes. I asked for a Coke for me and a Coke for the skinny thug sitting on the library steps.”
“The skinny thug?” I looked around. “Is someone else here?”
“The library is only open on Saturdays,” she said. “And since today is Monday, you’re going to be here for a while. So I felt sorry for you and got you a Coke.”
“How do you know it’s only open on Saturdays?”
She looked at me like I was visiting from Planet ZX-15. “Most people can tell when they read the sign posted on the door that says the library is open only on Saturdays.”
I took a sip of the Coke. “I didn’t see the sign,” I said. “And what kind of a library is only open on Saturdays?”
“Why do you care?” she said.
I pulled the card from the display case out of my pocket and showed her.
“‘Arctic Tern,’” she read aloud. “You want to see an Arctic tern? Wouldn’t it be a whole lot more likely to find one in, say, a zoo?”
“A painting of one,” I said, and took another sip of the Coke.
“That’s not how you drink a really cold Coke,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s not how you drink a really cold Coke.”
“So how do you drink a really cold Coke?”
She smiled, raised the Coke to her lips, and tipped the bottle up.
She gulped, and gulped, and gulped, and gulped, and gulped. The ice on the bottle’s sides melted down toward her—and she gulped, and gulped, and gulped.
When she finished, she took the bottle away from her lips—she was still smiling—and she sighed, and then she squared her shoulders and kind of adjusted herself like she was in a batter’s box, and then she let out a belch that even my brother couldn’t match, not on his very best day.
It was amazing. It made birds fly out of the maples in front of the library. Dogs asleep on porches a couple of blocks away probably woke up.
She put the bottle down and wiped her lips. “That’s how you drink a really cold Coke,” she said. “Now you.”
So what would you do? I lifted the Coke to my lips, tipped the bottle up, and gulped, and gulped, and gulped. It was fizzing and bubbling and sparkling, like little fireworks in my mouth.
“You know,” she said, “it’s a little scary to see your Adam’s apple going like that.”
The fireworks exploded—and I mean exploded.
Everything that was fizzing and bubbling and sparkling went straight up my nose and Coke started to come out all over the library steps and it wasn’t just coming out of my mouth. I’m not lying. By the time the Coke was done coming out of both places, my eyes were all watered up like I was about to bawl—which I wasn’t, but it probably looked like I was—and there was this puddle of still fizzing Coke and snot on the steps, and what hadn’t landed on the steps had landed on my sneakers, which, if they had been new, I would have been upset about, but since they had been my brother’s, it didn’t matter.
“If you—”
“Don’t get mad,” she said. “It’s not my fault that you don’t know how to drink a really cold Coke.”
I stood up. I tried shaking the Coke and other stuff off my sneakers.
“Are you going to keep waiting for the library to open?” she said.
“No, I’m not going to keep waiting for the library to open.”
“Good,” she said. “Then do you want a job?”
I looked down at her. There was still a little Coke up my nose, and I was worried that it was going to start dribbling out, which would make me look like a chump.
“A job?” I said.
“Yes. A job for a skinny thug.”
“What kind of a job?”
“A Saturday delivery boy for my father.”
“A delivery boy?”
She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. “Fortunately, you don’t have to be too smart to do this.”
“Why me? I mean, there’s got to be a hundred kids in this town you could have asked.”
“Because you have to deliver stuff out to the Windermere place and everyone’s afraid of her and no one wants to go. But you’re new and you don’t know anything about that so you seem like the perfect guy. What’s your name?”
“Thug,” I said.
She tilted her head back again.
“Doug,” I said.
“I’m Lil, short for Lily, short for Lillian. So finish your Coke—but don’t let your Adam’s apple do that thing.”
And that’s how I got the job as the Saturday delivery boy for Spicer’s Deli—five dollars a Saturday, plus tips—which, if you ask me, is pretty impressive for having been in stupid Marysville for only two days. Even my father said I’d done good. Then he added that it was about time I earned my keep around the place. When did I start?
“A week from Saturday,” I said.
“If they thought you were any good, they would have started you this Saturday,” he said.
Terrific.
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About the Author
GARY D. SCHMIDT is the author of the Printz Honor and Newbery Honor book Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy; Okay for Now, a National Book Award finalist; and The Wednesday Wars, a Newbery Honor book, among his many acclaimed novels for young readers. He is a professor of English at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Visit him at www.hmhbooks.com/schmidt.
Gary D. Schmidt, Orbiting Jupiter
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