Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith

did not say anything about the missing globe to the policemen who came out that morning. If he had, he’d have to have shown them the rest of the things inside the office. Johnny would not want to do that.
    There were smears on the old library shelf where Tyler’s fingers had tracked through the dust at the base of the globe. He didn’t even bother to take the stand. It was still there, still announcing the Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
    Not so much contained any longer.
    That was the first time I’d considered the possibility that maybe those four boys were going to end up getting sick.
    But I figured all that shit was from 1969, according to the dates on the labels. Nothing incurable could ever come from 1969.
    The Beatles and the Stones came from 1969.
    And like Johnny McKeon said, it was only photoluminescent mold, after all.
    The two-headed boy, although hardly bigger than a cantaloupe, was older than me. I talked to him.
    â€œYou’re nearing middle age, my man. You must be tired of being inside that jar.”
    I put my face close to the glass, resting my chin on the shelf so I could look directly into the little dark sockets of the boy’s eyes.
    I placed my palm on the cool curve of the glass.
    The boy inside twitched.
    The movement was so slight. Just a jittering spasm of the fingers. But I saw it.
    I snapped my hand away from the glass and took a step back.
    I bumped into Johnny McKeon’s desk so hard it felt like I ripped a hole in my jeans.
SKATING AND KAYAKING

    THE ALLEYWAY BEHIND Satan’s Pizza wasn’t nearly as long or accommodating for skaters as Grasshopper Jungle. The pizza place was a stand-alone business, so all we could really do there was goof around in small circles. Goofing around in small circles was how Robby and I usually skated, anyway.
    When I showed up, Robby had on the grimacing lemur mask and the Titus Andronicus T-shirt I loaned him the night before.
    After what happened to me in Johnny McKeon’s office, everything I saw that day seemed like it oozed out of some twisted nightmare. I kept telling myself that maybe I was only imagining things as a result of too much nicotine and too little oxygen in my brain.
    There was no way that little boy could have moved his fingers at me.
    â€œHey-ho, Lemur Boy,” I said.
    Robby raised his arms, twisting his fingers into claws above his hairy lemur head. He froze there like that, not saying anything. He stood with one foot on the deck of his skateboard. My board was right beside his.
    Grimacing lemurs are a little unnerving.
    â€œAmazingly lifelike,” I said.
    Robby remained silent and motionless, a taxidermist’s display of a lemur-Lutheran-boy-crossbreed experiment.
    I shrugged and slid my skateboard away from him. I got on it and pushed off.
    â€œHey, wait up,” Robby said. He followed after me.
    When he rolled up alongside me, still wearing the mask, Robby said, “I went through the jungle, Porcupine.”
    â€œDid you see anything?” I asked.
    â€œNah.” Robby said, “Somebody pushed the dumpster back. Everything was just like it’s always been.”
    â€œAre the pubic lice happy and well?” I asked.
    â€œThriving,” Robby said. “I picked up a few hitchhikers who wanted to hang out with you. Let’s have a fag.”
    â€œOkay. Can you smoke in that thing?”
    â€œI haven’t tried yet,” Robby answered. “It’s probably not flame retardant. Or else it’s carcinogenic, or will mess up your sperm and make you have two-headed babies and shit.”
    â€œYeah,” I agreed. “You wouldn’t want to smoke cigarettes wearing a carcinogenic grimacing lemur mask that’s capable of messing up your sperm.”
    â€œNobody wants messed-up sperm.”
    â€œMessed-up sperm is the evolutionary slot machine that will destroy mankind.”
    Robby and I were having a conversation about sperm.
    Robby said,