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1. The Scarecrows
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T he castle. Although it was only seven feet tall, it appeared oddly majestic with the sun rising in the east behind it. Its ornate spires glittered in the morning light, and the elongated shadows they cast ran across the tee-off mat, over the driveway, and pointed directly to Wedgeâs bedroom window like large arrows.
Wedge was sitting on his bed, his pajamas still on, rubbing the drowsiness from his puffy eyes. He yawned as he rose and shuffled across the rippling linoleum more like an old man than a ten-year-old boy. The floor creaked and groaned under his weight. He stopped at the window, squinting at the castle. Wedge scowled at the golden turrets. âI feel like Iâm waking up in Disneyland ,â he said to himself, disgusted.
It wasnât Disneyland. A far cry from it. Actually, it was King Arthurâs CamelotâMayfield, Wisconsinâs first and only miniature golf course.
Arthur (âKingâ) Simpson, Camelotâs owner and Wedgeâs brand-new stepfather, had just opened the course at the end of the school year. Camelot was Kingâs pride and joy. Wedge thought it was embarrassing. He couldnât understand why a grown man would pour his entire life into a miniature golf course, go by the nickname King, or parade around in public in a plastic gold crown with fake jewels glued on. Especially when he was married to your very own mother.
It didnât make any sense to Wedge. Sometimes nothing made sense to Wedge. In fact, most of the time nothing made sense to Wedge anymore.
For openers, Wedge never understood why his real father had to take off before he was born and never come back. Wedge didnât even have a picture of him. And his motherâs description of himâwhen Wedge pressed her for oneâhad a tendency to change from time to time. Drastically. Wedge wondered if she ever really got a good look at him.
Wedge also never understood why, out of the entire male population of Mayfield, his mother had to choose King for a husband. Two of Wedgeâs friendsâJackie DeRose and Eric Schellerâhad stepfathers, too. But that was different. Wedge wasnât exactly sure how it was different, but he knew that it was. Maybe it had something to do with that stupid crown King always wore. (At least Jackieâs stepdad had the decency to cover his head with a Milwaukee Brewers cap.) Or maybe it was because acquiring King was a package dealâalong with him came his own son, Andrew.
Whenever Wedge looked at Andrew (who was five), he was reminded of King. And whenever he looked at King (who was thirty-eight), he was reminded of Andrew. In Wedgeâs opinion they both bordered on pathetic. They were thin and pale with lanky arms that hung down the sides of their bodies like long curtains. Their arms even moved like curtains wouldâfloppy and smooth. And if the wind happened to be blowing, Wedge thought that they could pass for scarecrowsâsleeves waving wildly about, as if they had no arms at all.
Their faces were almost white with pinkish splotches haphazardly cropping up here and there. The splotches turned deep red when King got angry or when Andrew was embarrassed. And their hair was like blond string, falling halfway down their faces in straight lines, partially covering their beaked noses. (Andrewâs, incidentally, happened to be dripping quite frequently.)
Pitiful, Wedge thought. Extremely pitiful.
Wedge had physical problems of his own, but they were more tolerable; he looked almost normal. Most obvious was the fact that Wedge was slightly overweight. Possibly more than slightly overweight. Wedge liked to eat and it showed. Wedgeâs other disability, only he, his mother, and his pediatrician knew about. The left side of his buttocks was completely covered with a large white spot. Doctor Harris said it was simply from a lack of pigment in his skin and that it was nothing to be alarmed about. The spot
Kenizé Mourad, Anne Mathai in collaboration with Marie-Louise Naville