The head judge yawned. “We’re ready.”
“One, two, three…”
All together we shouted, “Go!”
Everyone sucked in their breath. Harley just stood there. Or rather, he leaned there. Human heads tilted to the left, to mimic his.
“What’s wrong with him?” Hugh asked behind me.
“Nothing,” I snarled.
Max said, “Come on, Har. Get up, boy. This is it. The big one.” She lifted him up and plopped him down.
We tried again. “Go!” we barked.
He leaned and flopped.
“Maybe he’s nervous. Maybe he needs a practice run,” Lydia said.
“Maybe he needs his head examined,” Ashley muttered behind her. “Like his trainers.”
Ooh, I wanted so bad to accidentally on purpose stomp her foot and break a toe. Think anyone would notice? The screaming might draw attention. I reached in the greasy bag and pulled out a coconut doughnut. I crumbled a hunk of it in front of the first milk carton. Harley’s whiskers twitched. He rose to his feet. He snarfed up the doughnut and scrabbled ahead.
“He’s off,” Max announced.
Everyone bent forward to watch as Harley squeezed through the milk jug, into the oatmeal carton, and around the steering wheel. He manuevered through a Saltines box, over a halogen headlight, up a tower of toilet paper holders, and down the other side. He stopped and leaned. Then he picked up an old trail of crumbs at a tire rim and circled inside. He wiggled through a rusty coil and weaved around a maze of plastic pudding cups. At the CD speaker, the last hurdle, right before the siren, Harley stopped. He leaned left once, twice, three times. His whiskers twitched. Max whispered, “One more, baby.”
Harley looked up at her. He looked at the siren. Then he wobbled unsteadily on his legs and keeled over.
Everyone gasped. No one moved.
Max said, “Harley?” She reached down and touched his tummy. “Har?”
Nothing. Wait, something. Babies, I thought. What a time to give birth.
Harley didn’t have babies. He shuddered all over, closed his eyes, and died.
Chapter 20
Poor Harley. Poor me. His death just brought everything to a head. A fat head. Mine. Because I had no doubt in my mind that I had killed Harley. He wasn’t a she. And he never was pregnant. Harley died of obesity. He ate like a pig. He didn’t know when to stop. Sound like someone you know?
At home I threw myself on the bed and prayed death would come quick. Harley’s death was horrid enough, but what happened afterward was hideous. I had a nervous breakdown. Right there in front of a hundred thousand people, I burst into tears. Right there in front of Kevin Rooney. And the flood wouldn’t stop flowing. Not through the wheezing or hiccuping or nonstop runny nose. The Beak Man had the gall to offer me his hankie. Choke me with a licorice rope.
Needless to say, we didn’t win any science prize. We did bring notoriety to Montrose Middle School, however. From now on we’d be known as Home of the Dead Rats.
Through my soggy pillow, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Dad said, “Jenny, you have a call.”
“I’m busy,” I blubbered.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, swell.” I curled up like a caterpillar.
Dad’s footsteps creaked down the hall. A few minutes later, they creaked back and I heard a note slip under my door.
With what little life I had left in me, I hauled my you-know-what up to retrieve the note. It said, Lydia called. She asked you to meet with everyone tomorrow at noon for a farewell to Harley. You’d know where. Dad added underneath, Who’s Harley? And where’s he going?
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I fumed. Don’t ask me why I was mad at Dad. It wasn’t his fault Harley was dead—or that I was fat.
Well, maybe it was. Maybe they were his defective genes making me the baby blimp of the family.
The knock sounded again. “Geez!” I muttered into my mangled sheets. Can’t anyone sulk in silence around here?
It was Mom this time. “Jenny, you have a phone call.”
Cripes. “Tell Lydia I’m asleep,” I called. Better yet. “Tell her I’m a slug.” Lydia could be such a pest.
“You may want to take this call. It sounds… important.”
“I can’t come to the phone right now, Mom,” I told her. “I’m, I’m writing in my food diary, okay?”
“Writing what?” she asked. “You skipped dinner. Are you hoarding food in your room again?”
“Yes,” I said. Go away, I prayed.
She sighed heavily. Finally her footsteps faded.
Poor Mom. She didn’t understand. How could she? She wasn’t a trained professional. She wasn’t even a registered dietician. She was just a mom. Or a dad. Whichever role she played, I bet she wished she’d gotten a better cast of kids. I mean, look at us. Both losers. Especially the fat one.
Right, Jenny. Blame everyone but yourself.
“Who was that?” I said aloud, sitting up.
Eyes met eyes in the mirror. “Oh, it’s you again.”
Yeah, it’s me again. How come it’s everybody else’s fault that you’re so miserable?
“Shut up,” I said, glaring. “Just shut up.”
She glared back.
“Okay, so maybe it is my fault. Maybe I am a big fat ugly pig all by myself.”
She rolled her eyes. You must be a pig, she said. ’Cause you sure know how to wallow in it.
“Shut up,” I said again. I looked away. She kept staring; I could feel her beady eyes on the back of my head. Finally I couldn’t stand it. “What?” I yelled at her. “What do you want me to do?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
You know what.
“All right!” I threw my pillow at her. It missed, but cleared my dresser with a crash. I cringed, waiting for Mom and Dad to ax down the door with the rescue squad in tow. Nothing. I was saved.
From everyone but myself.
I sighed. It was a long, painful sigh. Then I got up and rummaged around in my backpack. “Where’s that stupid food diary? Guess it’s now or never.”
There it was, in the bottom, under a half-empty box of Milk Duds. “So long, old pals. Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Who said that? Shakespeare? What a turd. I tossed the Milk Duds in the trash.
I retrieved the diary and carried it to my bed. The notebook seemed heavier than I remembered, especially since there was next to nothing written in it. Wait. Something was stuck to the back.
My eyes widened when I unstuck it.
Uh-oh. It was Lydia’s science notebook. Melded to my food diary with sticky puffy paint.
Great, I thought. Tomorrow was going to be a double funeral. Harley’s and mine. Because Lydia would kill me when she found out it was my fault she’d had to redo the science notebook. And everyone else would assist in the assassination since I’d spoiled our science project. So long, Harley. Good riddance, Jenny.
Chapter 21
“This is where I found him.” Max stood beside the carcass of an old motorcycle and pointed to the ground. “This is where we’ll bury him.”
She handed Harley’s shoe box coffin to Lydia while I handed Max the shovel. As Max dug, Prairie pulled out a miniature tape recorder from her book bag and said, “I brought some of my S-Sunday school music to play.” She slid in a tape and hit the button. A rock version of “Jesus Loves Me” jolted us from our reverie.
The music was nice, even though it made my tears well up again. Church music always does that to me. Max stopped shoveling. She straightened her spine and stared down into the hole. For a few minutes, we all just stood and stared down into the hole. Then, over the background singers doo-wopping the finale, Max yelled, “It’s time!”
Lydia started to hand the coffin to Max, then stopped. She said, “You were a great rat, Harley. An exceptional rat. Maybe the smartest rat in the world. Even though we didn’t win the science prize, we’ll never forget you.”
“A
men,” Prairie whispered.
Lydia turned and handed the box to Prairie. Prairie set the tape recorder down on a stack of car batteries and took the coffin. Closing her eyes, she moved her lips in a silent prayer to Harley. Then she handed the box to me.
I inhaled a long, shaky breath. No way could I say anything, silent or otherwise. A lump as huge as a hearse parked in my throat. Sniffling, I stared at the coffin. I had to say something. Everyone was waiting. At last I cleared my throat and croaked, “I have two confessions to make.”
They all waited.
I swallowed hard, then said, “First, I’m the one who took your notebook, Lydia.”
Her jaw dropped.
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” I explained how it turned up last night attached to my food diary. How I must’ve picked them both up that day in science when Mr. Krupps was there.
Lydia took the pink notebook from me and said, “I was so sure Ashley stole it.”
“I know,” I said. “I feel kinda bad about accusing her.” Who would’ve guessed she’d actually been telling the truth when she’d played dumb? I mean, it’d be a first.
Lydia stared at the notebook, shaking her head. “But how did Ashley know about our project? About Harley and the Rat-o-rama?”
Prairie piped up, “How d-did she know so much about Hugh?”
Lydia and I both looked at Prairie. Then we eye-balled each other. “The survey!” we cried. Lydia riffled through her notebook. “It’s gone. Ashley swiped it, right after she peeked at my science notes. I’d bet my life on it.”
I wouldn’t go that far. A super-size Snickers, maybe.
“Can we get on with this?” Max grumbled. She reached for the shoe box coffin.
“Wait.” I held it back. “You haven’t heard my second confession.”
The air grew still. Stale. A fly buzzed around my ear, and I whapped it away.
“Well?” Max said. “Spit it out.”
“I, uh…” I gulped. My throat was dry as desert dust. Squeezing my eyes closed, I whispered hoarsely, “I killed Harley.”
This time three jaws unhinged.
“H-how?” Prairie asked.
“If I hadn’t given him junk food for positive reinforcement, he might still be alive.”
In unison they all went, “Huh?”
“Don’t you know he died of obesity? Probably had a heart attack from all the cholesterol.”
“Crapola,” Max said.
I glanced over at her.
Prairie wrinkled her nose. “I d-doubt it, Jenny. It was just his time. It c-comes for all of us, you know.”
I looked at Lydia. She didn’t say anything.
My eyes welled with tears. In a moment I was going to start blubbering. “Maybe you should elect another leader,” I said. “Somebody more… responsible.”
“You’re responsible.”
Through tears I blinked up to see who’d spoken. Shock. It was Lydia. “Yeah,” I muttered. “For Harley’s death. For ruining our project.”
“Crapola,” Max said again.
“What I meant was you’re responsible for all the good stuff that happened,” Lydia continued. “For getting our science project done on time. For assigning us duties and organizing us. You’re responsible for all of us getting A’s in science.” She shoved her glasses up her nose. “My first A ever in science. My mother’s going to cheer for a year. Maybe she’ll even let me watch TV.” Lydia grinned.
Prairie put in, “It’s m-my first A in science, too.”
Max mumbled, “My first A in anything. Ever.”
Mine, too. A slow smile spread across my face. Thanks, guys, I thought. You’re the best. I still felt a little responsible for Harley’s death, though. Exhaling a long breath, I raised my eyes to the sky. “Harley,” I said, “if you can hear me, say hi to Petey.” I hoped that rats and hamsters shared rodent heaven.
I passed the coffin to Max. She stared at it for the longest time. I was sure she was going to start bawling. Instead, she set the shoe box on a stack of tires and said, “I wrote a poem.”
She dug into her camouflage jacket pocket, pulled out a notebook, and flipped it open. In a husky voice, she read, “ ‘To Harley, The Wonder Rat.’ ” She cleared her throat.
“ ‘To others you were just a rat;
To us you were a wonder.
Better than a cat or bat,
A muskrat or a condor.
You were a friend,
The best I had;
I wish you lots of luck.
Compared to other friends I’ve had,
You’re the best—
They suck.’
“No offense,” Max said to us. “It’s the only rhyme I could think of.”
“None t-taken.” Prairie sniffled.
Max lowered Harley into the grave. We each tossed a handful of dirt over the coffin. Lydia said in a wavery voice, “I m-made a marker.” From her book bag, she pulled two silver chopsticks glued together in a cross. With purple puffy paint she’d spelled Harley on a hunk of cardboard hot-glued to the cross. Lydia stuck the cross in the ground at the head of the grave. Prairie had picked a handful of dandelions to sprinkle on top of the box. We all bowed our heads for a moment of silence. Then Prairie cranked up “Jesus Loves Me,” and, tears streaming down our cheeks, we covered our little lost friend with dirt.
Chapter 22
When I dragged myself through the front door at home, my whole family was sitting in the living room. It was strange. The TV wasn’t on or anything. Mom rose to her feet. “Jenny, I’m… we’re”—she looked around—”so sorry about Harley.”
“Harley’s a rat,” I said. “A dead rat.”
Mom nodded. “We know.”
I lost it. Mom rushed up and hugged me. Then Dad hugged me. Behind them came Vanessa.
Wow, a group hug. I couldn’t believe it. Wiping tears from my eyes, I said, “How did you know?”
“A boy in your class called,” Mom said.
My puffy eyes swelled. “Who? When?”
“Last night. Remember you got a call? He didn’t say who he was,” Mom went on. “Just that he wanted to know how you were doing. He told us what happened at the science fair. How upset you were.”
Hugh. Great.
“Why didn’t you tell us about Harley, Jenny?” Dad asked.
I sagged and shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d understand.” Then the truth. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
“Of course we care,” Mom said. “We’re your family.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Everyone dropped their arms. The hair on my neck tingled, like the air was about to burst into flames. Vanessa met my eyes. She clucked her tongue. I clucked back. She clucked twice. I clucked three times. We both cracked up. Then we all dissolved into hysterics.
When I regained composure, I whispered to Van, “We still on for tonight?”
She whispered back, “If you feel like it.”
A slow smile spread across my face. “Mom, Dad”—I turned to them—“would you guys mind leaving for about an hour?”
They shared a shocked look.
“Take a ride,” I said. “Go up to Inspiration Point.”
“Jenny!” Mom dropped her jaw.
Dad smiled at Mom. “We haven’t been up there in ages.”
“Robert!” Mom slapped his arm. “It’s still light out.”
Dad chuckled. “The better to see you with, my dear.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
Beside me, Vanessa muttered, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I pushed our parents out the door to the garage. “One hour,” I reminded them.
After making sure they were safely out of sight, I caught up with Vanessa in the kitchen. “Did you get everything?” I asked her.
She nodded. “You go find the good dishes and silver. I’ll cook.”
This should be good, I thought. I hoped Mom and Dad wouldn’t come back hungry. Vanessa added, “And don’t forget the ca
ndles.”
An hour later, Mom and Dad walked in on a romantic candlelight dinner. They both just stood in the doorway and stared.
“Sit here, Madame,” I said, ushering Mom to her chair. “Monsieur.” I escorted Dad.
While Vanessa dished up this stroganoff stuff she’d learned to make in home economics, I poured the champagne. Okay, it wasn’t real champagne, just diet Sprite, but it was bubbly and I threw in a maraschino cherry to make it fancy.
We lit the candles and dimmed the lights. Then Vanessa and I bowed out to the basement. “Call us when you’re ready for dessert,” I said, easing the door closed behind me.
We played darts for about an hour. “It’s awful quiet,” I finally said. “What do you think they’re doing up there?”
Vanessa hit a bull’s-eye. “What do you think?”
My eyes bulged. “In the kitchen?”
She aimed a dart at me. Suddenly we heard music seeping through the floorboards. It wasn’t music, exactly. It was the twang of a banjo, the yowl of a yodel.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You know how Dad hates to dance.”
Vanessa eyed the ceiling, looking worried. “We better break it up before they get in a big argument.”
We charged up the stairs. On the landing, Vanessa stopped me with a stiff arm. With her other hand, she held a finger to her lips. She opened the door slowly, and we both peered in.
It was dark. The only light came from the flickering candles on the kitchen table. The table where no one was sitting.
“Where’d they go?” I whispered. Then we heard the music drift in from the living room. This time it wasn’t country, or if it was, it sounded like a simple, soft ballad. Over the lilting melody, we heard Mom giggle.
Vanessa looked at me. We both must’ve inherited the same curiosity gene, because we couldn’t tiptoe to the living room fast enough.
There they were, dancing together to a love song on the stereo. Mom’s head rested on Dad’s shoulder. And they both had the same expression on their faces, probably the one I get whenever I dream about me and Kevin Rooney together. Except their expressions were sweeter because this wasn’t a dream.