PD191
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What?
I opened my eyes. Smooth, brown, plastic surface. My wastebasket. Sitting by my pillow. Tabby. Grinning. Dropping black jelly beans. One by one. Into the basket.
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I moved. She ran screaming from my room. The basket toppled to the floor. Clatter! Jelly beans rolled under the bed. Dad called, “What’s going on?” Tabby screamed, “Mischief Night!”
It wasn’t night, and it definitely wasn’t Mischief Night, which around here is the night before Halloween, which is seven months from now. But ever since Tabby heard about Mischief Night, and ever since she was told that she would not be allowed to go out like a big kid and terrorize the neighborhood, she’s been threatening to have her own Mischief Night.
I was slowly waking up. In front of my face my left wrist was coming into focus—it was naked! My atomic watch was gone! I sleep with it. She must have snuck in and weaseled it off my wrist. I went ballistic. I roared into her room. I dragged her out from under her bed. The watch was too big for her wrist. It was on her ankle. I yanked it off. I said something murderous. She squealed, “Mischief Night!”
Evidence of other crimes today:
a string of Elmer’s Glue on the toilet seats
a vacuum cleaner humming inside the dining room closet
four sinks, a shower, two bathtubs, a laundry room tub—every faucet in the house running
a pile of Lucky Charms on the living room rug
the doorbell is ringing—nobody’s there(a hundred times)
At least my trophy was safe, hidden away for the day. Ditto Black Viper.
BT came to the rescue, took her outside for skateboard lessons. “Don’t leave the driveway,” Mom told them. Crazy as BT is with himself, he’s never that way with Tabby. He never lets her roll off the driveway.
I watched them from the dormer window. If you drove by and saw them, you’d think they’re brother and sister. I thought of BT’s little sister bringing her hurt knee to him, laughing when he fixed it….
BT stayed for dinner. He was in the kitchen helping my mother with the rigatoni. Tabby was on the phone with Aunt Nancy. Well, not really—she just punched the number, yelled “Mischief Night!” into the phone and hung up. When she turned she found me standing there. She screamed, “BT!” and tried to run. I held her. From the look on her face, she thought this was it, the Big Counterattack. She thinks that someday I’m going to get so fed up with her tormenting me that I’m going to blow my stack and come after her with all guns blazing. She flailed. “BT! BT!” All I wanted to do was ask her something, but the violence of her struggle surprised me, the terror in her eyes. I let her go. She bolted like a freed animal.
At dinner she wanted to sit on BT’s lap. My father wouldn’t let her. She pouted.
I asked her, in front of everybody, “Why don’t you like Korbet?”
Shock showed on the faces of my parents and BT, like: Whoa, Will just spoke to Tabby! They all turned to her.
Tabby was cutting her spaghetti into pieces with her blue plastic saw. She stabbed a meatball with her screwdriver. She held it up to her mouth and licked at the sauce, like it was a Popsicle. She took a bite out of the meatball, chewed with her mouth open, grinned meatball mush. I finally realized she had no intention of answering my question. For once in my life I give her some attention and she hangs me out to dry. I wanted to plead Korbet’s case, tell her what a great little kid he is, but it wasn’t going to happen.
All my mother said to Tabby was, “Chew with your mouth shut.”
PD194
Another week of nice from Mi-Su. I’m sick of nice.
PD200
Two hundred days since 10:15 A.M. that September Saturday morning when Riley picked his nose and the phone rang and Mi-Su said turn on 98.5 FM and I learned that a proton had died in Yellowknife. How many have died since then across the universe? Are dying protons like roaches: for every one you see there’s a hundred behind the wall? How many need to die before it starts to show? Before steel becomes transparent? And people? Ghost world. I feel a twitch. A blip. Was that a tiny flash inside of me? Is my liver down one proton from yesterday?
HERE LIES WILL TUPPENCE (OR WHAT’S LEFT OF HIM)
PD201
Idea!
eBay!
Nice be gone!
PD208
It came today, my order from eBay. It’s a little figurine not much bigger than the pewter king on my chess trophy. It’s a band member. Tall red and white feathered hat. Red and gold jacket. White pants. Playing a trombone. A tiny gold-gilt trombone. A label on the bottom says “76 TROMBONES.” It’s from The Music Man!
It’s plastic. It’s cheap. I don’t care. I’m thrilled.
PD209
How shall I do it? All I know for sure is how not to do it. Don’t give it to her at school. Don’t give it to her at Saturday-night Monopoly. Think…think…
PD210
Thinking…
PD211
Got it!
PD213
I wrapped it up. White paper, red bow. One word on the tag: “Mi-Su.” Skateboarded over to her house yesterday. Sunday. Walked the last block. Had to be careful she wasn’t outside. Snuck up to the front step, laid it down on the bricks, rang the bell, ran, hid on the far side of the garage. I was hoping she would answer the door. She usually does, runs for it like a little kid. But even if one of her parents answered, I could live with that. I peeked around the corner.
She opened the door. Frowned. Looked around. Looked down. Picked it up. Tore it open right there. Squealed. Came out farther. Looked up and down the street. Called to the empty street, “Hey?…Hello?” Looked again at the figurine. Kissed it. Held it up in the sunlight, the tiny trombone gleaming. “Thank you!”
I stepped out. “You’re welcome.”
She turned, saw me, came running, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me, squealed, “Where did you get it?”
“Oh, somewhere,” I said, mucho cool.
We spent the rest of the day together. If she touched me once, she touched me a hundred times. Big, long, non-nice kiss good-night.
Today I’m floating through school. She blew me a kiss in the hallway. Is there a Cloud Ten?
PD214
Up in the dormer before dinner. Staring at her roof. Imagining her in her house, moving from room to room, humming Music Man tunes. The show will be Friday and Saturday nights.
At lunch today she said to BT and me, “So, which night are you guys coming?”
“Friday, of course,” said BT. “Saturday’s Monopoly.” He deadpanned at her. “You’re not giving up Monopoly to do that stupid play, are you?”
She looked at him, her face blank for a half second, then caught the twinkle in his eye and broke out laughing.
I said, “Both.”
She turned to me. “Huh?”
“I’m going both nights.”
I’m not sure they believed me.
I was tempted to ask her to the dance right there. The freshman dance is next month. I’ve been thinking of it since Valentine’s night. I probably would have asked her already, but I held off because things were uncertain there for a while. Now I’m ready to roll. Or at least, ready to plan. Valentine’s night and the Music Man figurine worked out well. So I know that’s the way to go for the dance.
In fact, the plan is already in place. It just came to me. I guess I’m getting good at this. I’m going to do it this Saturday night, right after the last performance of the play. I’ll meet her in the lobby, or maybe even backstage. She’ll be flushed and breathless and glowing from excitement, and I’ll congratulate her and we’ll hug and then I’ll say something like, “Well, y’know, just because the play is over doesn’t mean you have to stop dancing. Let’s go to the freshman dance together.” And she’ll squeal out “I’d love to!” or “Yes!” or whatever and we’ll hug again and so forth.
I can see it
so clearly. After three or four days of this, I’ll hardly be able to tell it from a memory, it will be so real. In fact, the looking forward will be so much fun that when Saturday finally comes, I’ll probably wish I had another week to think about it. I’ll carry my thoughts around with me like soda in a cup, sipping through a straw whenever I feel like a taste: during class, on my skateboard, lying down to sleep, especially then.
I’m that way, goofy as it sounds. Sometimes I don’t want things to happen—I’m talking about good things, even wonderful things—because once they happen, I can’t look forward to them anymore. But there’s an upside, too. Once a wonderful thing is over, I’m not all that sad because then I can start thinking about it, reliving and reliving it in the virtual world in my head.
Down below, BT was giving Tabby skateboard lessons in the driveway. She was arguing with him about something. The word “Now!” kept coming up through the windowpane. If I had to pick one word to sum up her life, I guess that would be it:
HERE LIES TABITHA TUPPENCE NOW!
PD215
Sipping…sipping…
PD216
Mrs. Mi-Su Tuppence
Mrs. Mi-Su Tuppence
Mrs. Mi-Su Tuppence
PD217
The play was great. And totally different from the rehearsals I’ve seen. The bright stage lights. Every seat filled. Suddenly I had a new perspective on Mi-Su and her fellow actors. I knew why I’d never try out for a school play. And I knew Mi-Su and the others were nervous; she told me so. But that didn’t stop them. They were talking and dancing and singing as if they were actually enjoying themselves. As if they were all going down their own Dead Man’s Hill.
PD218
The play was great again. Standing ovation.
I waited in the lobby with all the parents, grandparents, etc. She came out laughing with others, stage makeup still on her face, her eyes bigger than ever, dazzling, like, Doesn’t anybody want to take my picture? Her parents beamed, held out their arms. “My baby star!” her mother cried. I didn’t want to be too pushy. Give her time with her family, cast members.
Finally she noticed me. For a split second she didn’t react, and I had the weirdest feeling she didn’t know who I was, but then came the famous smile and I went to her and held out my arms like her parents and we hugged and I whispered in her ear, “You were sensational,” and she whispered back, “Thank you.”
That’s when it occurred to me that I had a problem. The lobby was crowded with people. No privacy. If she went right home, it would probably be in her parents’ car. Meanwhile, other cast members were saying they should all go out and celebrate, that’s what show biz people do after the last performance. So when, where, how was I going to ask her to the dance?
I considered waiting till tomorrow, Sunday, but all week long I’d been locked into the plan. Time was coming to a point. I tugged on her sleeve. “C’mere a sec.” I led her a couple of steps away. We were standing in front of the trophy case. Bright lights. Chattering, laughing people. I tried to remember my words.
“Your singing was great,” I said.
She chuckled. “You couldn’t hear me.” Her eyes were flying.
“Sure, I could,” I said. “And your dancing was great, too.” I was starting to feel stupid. She just looked at me, waiting, wondering.
“So…,” I said, and jumped in, “Let’s go to the freshman dance.” She just stared at me. “OK?”
She said, “You mean together?” The smile was still there, but it wasn’t real.
I felt a chill. “Yeah. ’Course.”
Her eyes wouldn’t look at me. Her smile tilted. “I was afraid you were going to ask me.”
Afraid? Afraid?
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Somebody already asked me.”
My kneecaps fell to my feet. I thought: BT!
“Who?” I said. And thought: No, not BT. I remembered the cast party at her house, and I knew. The star of the party. Star of the show. Mr. Music Man himself. Rob Vandemeer.
“Danny Riggs.”
I thought I heard her say Danny Riggs.
“Huh?” I said.
“Danny Riggs.”
She did say Danny Riggs.
“Who’s Danny Riggs?”
She shrugged. “A guy.”
This was all so strange. I felt like I’d stumbled into the wrong conversation. Or into one of those string theory parallel dimensions.
I said, “What kinda guy?”
She laughed. “A guy kinda guy. He’s on the stage crew. He makes scenery.”
“He asked you?”
She laughed again. “Is that so shocking?” She struck a pose. “I’m cute. I’m a star. Who wouldn’t want to ask me?”
All I could say was, “When?”
The smile vanished. “Last week. Nobody else”—finally her eyes swung into mine—“nobody else was asking, soooo…”
I just stared at her. And at the trophy case, at a tall silver quartet of Greek columns and a blue stone plate that said:
BASKETBALL CHAMPIONS
DISTRICT ONE
1998
I felt her hand on my arm. “Hey, no big deal.” The smile was back. She looked around. “Gotta go. See ya.” And she was gone.
I turned to the bright lights, the bright, chattering, laughing people. I wondered if one of them was Danny Riggs.
PD219
In the dormer. Staring at her roof.
Warm. Window open. Along the street forsythias hurled yellow fountains. In the driveway below, BT and Tabby were fighting. She wanted to skateboard on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t let her.
Danny Riggs…Danny Riggs…I couldn’t get the name out of my head. I was sad. I was mad. I was jealous. Sadmadjealous. Still couldn’t believe it. How could some other guy know her well enough to ask her to the dance and me not even know about him? I racked my brain, trying to remember her ever saying his name before. Who did he think he was? Didn’t he know we grew up together? That we were like brother and sister for years until we started to notice each other another way? Didn’t he know that his dance date, the dazzling Miss Mi-Su Kelly, kissed me—me!—on Valentine’s night? And again just last Sunday, only one short week ago?
Down below BT was showing off, doing stunts for Tabby. They’re called ollies. Tabby tried to do an olly, fell. They laughed.
I wandered through the dormer. What were we saving all this stuff for? A framed painting of a seashore landscape leaned against the stationary bicycle. I ran my finger along the top edge. My fingertip was gray. Dust. Everything was dusty except my telescope and the wedding gifts.
I ran a silver ribbon between my fingers. I tugged slightly. It held firm. Still tightly tied after all these years. The silver paper was fading to white along some edges and corners, where the afternoon sun strikes. Seventy-eight years they’ve been sitting, waiting. A hundred years from now will they still be here, the wedding gifts of Margaret and Andrew Tuppence, waiting, unopened?
PD219
Nightmare. I’m being chased by a swarm of fireflies.
PD220
Danny Riggs. Danny Riggs.
I spent the day checking.
He just moved here last year. He lives on Hastings, right behind the school. Homeroom 113. I got out two minutes early, rushed to 113, waited in the hallway. He’s taller than me. Skinny. Blond crew cut. Braces. Earring. Cheap clothes. Wal-Mart. Payless.
I followed him. Easy to do in the after-school mob. Pretty soon we were the only two. I hung way back, wondered where he was going, wondered why he was walking so far, no skateboard. Terror: he’s heading for Mi-Su’s! He wasn’t. When we got downtown he went into Snips. Maybe his mother is a hairdresser.
After dinner I took Black Viper for a cruise past her house. About ten times. I wanted her to come out. I didn’t want her to come out. Was she behind a window, seeing me, purposely not coming out? What would I say if she did?
She didn’t.
I hate Danny Riggs.
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I hate BT. This all started when he kissed Mi-Su at the star party last October.
I wanted to talk to Korbet. Suddenly talking to Korbet Finn was the thing I wanted most in the world. I pushed off, raced home, rang his bell. Mrs. Finn answered, smiled. “Will.” Or more like, “Will?” Because, even though they’re right alongside us, I never show up at their door. And here I was, a teenage big kid coming to ask for their five-year-old, like, “Can Korbet come out to play?” I had to think fast.
“Hi, Mrs. Finn. Can I see Korbet a second? I have this paper to do in school and I need to talk to a little kid.”
“Well,” she said, “he turns down most interviews, but let me see.” I just stood there with a dumb cow face; I was too preoccupied to realize she was being funny. “Come on in.”
“Uh, this would work better outside,” I said. Stupid.
When he appeared in front of me in the doorway beaming and said, “Hi, Will!” I was so happy I wanted to cry. We sat on my front step. I asked him a couple of stupid questions just in case his mother interrogated him. He took it all in stride. He didn’t seem to notice or care that a teenager had showed up asking for him. Now that I had him here, I didn’t know what to say.
His lips were blue. “Been eating blueberry water ice?” I asked him.
“Smackin’ Jacks,” he said. “Want one?” He was ready to run and get me one.
I told him no thanks.
I couldn’t help staring at him. This little survivor. He took incredible abuse from Tabby and still kept coming back. No visible scars, no limp in his personality. Going with the flow. How did he do it? Was it his age, or did he have something I didn’t have?
He picked a blade of grass, stuck it up his nose.
“Ever hear of protons?” I said.
An April ant moved across the flagstone at his feet. He placed the blade of grass in front of it. It walked around. “What’re protons?”