bulged. “Scooter made them?”
She looked so happy, I almost lied. “No,” I said. “I did.”
She looked at me, like, What’s this alien life form doing in my house? She looked into the bag again. She pulled one out. Her whole face squished in on her nose. “These aren’t catfish cakes. They look like baby doodles.”
Catfish cakes are mostly just regular brownies. What Scooter would do then was make catfish faces by squeezing a string of white icing onto each one. I had made them in Mike’s microwave the day before. Maybe I’m not the world’s greatest artist, but—“They look like catfish faces to me,” I said.
I had thought she would be glad. Instead, she slammed the brownies down, blubbered, “Well, they’re not!” and stomped out of the house.
Mike took his football laundry bag to school today. “I got news for you,” I told him, “the season ended three months ago.”
He grinned. “I got news for you.” He pulled me over to the lockers. He opened the bag a little. I looked in. It was the Jetwater Uzi.
“You’re gonna get suspended,” I said.
He closed the bag. He stared at me. “You’re really acting weird.”
I felt my neck getting warm. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know. You’re just acting different. Like when I said let’s trick Webb, you told me you weren’t interested. And like this.” He swung the bag in my face. “You never woulda said”— he made his voice prissy—“you’re gonna get sus-pen-ded.”
I pushed the bag into his face. “I didn’t say it like that.”
He backed off. “You said it. It’s like you don’t want to do nothing no more. You’re a dud, man.”
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pushed it up to his chin, forced his head back. “Am I a dud now?”
We had never fought each other for real, but we both knew who would win if we did. He looked down his nose, his face practically tilted to the ceiling. He croaked, “You ain’t a dud.” He gulped. “Let me go, man.”
I pushed him into the lockers and went to homeroom.
This afternoon, a block from school, a gang of kids were yelling and hooting near a stop sign. As I got closer I could see between the heads enough to know it was Deluca and Webb. I could hear the splatter of the Uzi. I kept walking. I knew what was happening. Mike was firing away, sogging Webb from head to toe, and Webb was standing there taking it, like the day he refused to have a water-gun fight with me. I could tell when Mike was missing high: the shots would ping off the stop sign.
Was Mike right? Was I a dud? Why wasn’t I joining the mob and hooting with the rest of them? Why wasn’t I grabbing the gun and pumping a couple rounds into the victim myself? In fact, I did feel like grabbing the gun, but I felt more like shooting Deluca than Webb. Did that make me a dud? Did others see me that way?
Crash Coogan. The Crash Man. Suddenly the name didn’t seem to fit exactly. I had always thought my name and me were the same thing. Now there was a crack of daylight between them, like my shell was coming loose. It was scary.
When I looked back, the mob was a block behind me.
Tonight when I came back from the bathroom to go to bed, I found a note on the blanket. It was from Abby:
I am sorry I was so mean this morning. I guess I was being a big baby. Thank you for making catfish cakes for me.
(Even if they didn’t look like catfish.)
37
F EBRUARY 13
Scooter talks.
One word: “A-bye.”
At first I thought he was telling us to go, saying good-bye, even the minute we got there. But it turns out that’s all he says. It’s his only answer.
“Hi, Scooter.”
“A-bye.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“A-bye.”
“Do you like your therapists?”
“A-bye.”
“How many days in a year?”
“A-bye.”
In the car Abby said, “Can’t he say anything else?”
My mother sighed. “For now, I guess not.” Her voice sounded even more tired than usual; each word seemed to drag itself
She looked so happy, I almost lied. “No,” I said. “I did.”
She looked at me, like, What’s this alien life form doing in my house? She looked into the bag again. She pulled one out. Her whole face squished in on her nose. “These aren’t catfish cakes. They look like baby doodles.”
Catfish cakes are mostly just regular brownies. What Scooter would do then was make catfish faces by squeezing a string of white icing onto each one. I had made them in Mike’s microwave the day before. Maybe I’m not the world’s greatest artist, but—“They look like catfish faces to me,” I said.
I had thought she would be glad. Instead, she slammed the brownies down, blubbered, “Well, they’re not!” and stomped out of the house.
Mike took his football laundry bag to school today. “I got news for you,” I told him, “the season ended three months ago.”
He grinned. “I got news for you.” He pulled me over to the lockers. He opened the bag a little. I looked in. It was the Jetwater Uzi.
“You’re gonna get suspended,” I said.
He closed the bag. He stared at me. “You’re really acting weird.”
I felt my neck getting warm. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know. You’re just acting different. Like when I said let’s trick Webb, you told me you weren’t interested. And like this.” He swung the bag in my face. “You never woulda said”— he made his voice prissy—“you’re gonna get sus-pen-ded.”
I pushed the bag into his face. “I didn’t say it like that.”
He backed off. “You said it. It’s like you don’t want to do nothing no more. You’re a dud, man.”
I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pushed it up to his chin, forced his head back. “Am I a dud now?”
We had never fought each other for real, but we both knew who would win if we did. He looked down his nose, his face practically tilted to the ceiling. He croaked, “You ain’t a dud.” He gulped. “Let me go, man.”
I pushed him into the lockers and went to homeroom.
This afternoon, a block from school, a gang of kids were yelling and hooting near a stop sign. As I got closer I could see between the heads enough to know it was Deluca and Webb. I could hear the splatter of the Uzi. I kept walking. I knew what was happening. Mike was firing away, sogging Webb from head to toe, and Webb was standing there taking it, like the day he refused to have a water-gun fight with me. I could tell when Mike was missing high: the shots would ping off the stop sign.
Was Mike right? Was I a dud? Why wasn’t I joining the mob and hooting with the rest of them? Why wasn’t I grabbing the gun and pumping a couple rounds into the victim myself? In fact, I did feel like grabbing the gun, but I felt more like shooting Deluca than Webb. Did that make me a dud? Did others see me that way?
Crash Coogan. The Crash Man. Suddenly the name didn’t seem to fit exactly. I had always thought my name and me were the same thing. Now there was a crack of daylight between them, like my shell was coming loose. It was scary.
When I looked back, the mob was a block behind me.
Tonight when I came back from the bathroom to go to bed, I found a note on the blanket. It was from Abby:
I am sorry I was so mean this morning. I guess I was being a big baby. Thank you for making catfish cakes for me.
(Even if they didn’t look like catfish.)
37
F EBRUARY 13
Scooter talks.
One word: “A-bye.”
At first I thought he was telling us to go, saying good-bye, even the minute we got there. But it turns out that’s all he says. It’s his only answer.
“Hi, Scooter.”
“A-bye.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“A-bye.”
“Do you like your therapists?”
“A-bye.”
“How many days in a year?”
“A-bye.”
In the car Abby said, “Can’t he say anything else?”
My mother sighed. “For now, I guess not.” Her voice sounded even more tired than usual; each word seemed to drag itself
Similar Books
