She nods.
I start with Dodge. When I text him, he says he’ll be right over.
Dad agrees to pay us to wash his car. Mom says we can fill gift bags for a bridal luncheon at the restaurant.
When Dodge shows up, he’s breathing hard like he ran the whole way. “Crash says we can help him clean out our house.”
“Really?”
Dodge leans over, panting. “The magazines and newspapers.”
“What are they?” Izzy asks as she gallops by with Brownie.
“Newspapers are how people used to find out things before cars but after dinosaurs,” Dakota explains.
Mom comes in with a pile of clean laundry, which she sets on my bed. “They still have newspapers, Dakota. They aren’t that old. I subscribe now. I read it online.”
“That isn’t a newspaper, Mom,” Dakota calls out to Mom, who is heading to Dakota and Izzy’s room with a stack of folded pink shirts.
“True,” Mom calls back, “but it comes from a newspaper company.”
“But it’s still not paper,” Dakota mumbles.
“Whatever, Dakota. Look,” I say, “the Forty-Sevens can earn money recycling newspapers.” I’ve been in Dodge’s garage. I know how many stacks of newspapers are in there. We’ll never get them all cleaned out without help.
“Crash will pay a quarter for every stack. He wants to clean things up so he can have a Sisters in Crime meeting at our house. We got to take them down to the curb before Monday,” Dodge says.
“But he’s not a sister. Only girls can be sisters,” Dakota says.
“They all want to come to the house of a real detective. They treat him like a celebrity,” I say.
“How much will we make from that?” Dakota asks.
“A lot,” I say.
Dodge nods. “You won’t believe how many newspapers there are.”
Dakota’s eyes glow. “Let’s go ask Mom now.”
I shake my head. “Let’s ask Izzy first.”
Izzy is our lucky charm. Mom says yes more often if things are Izzy’s idea.
Izzy is sitting on the couch making one of the Brownies leap over the cushions.
“Izzy,” I say, “we need your help.”
She plunks the horse on her lap with her head in our direction, like she is listening.
I sit down next to Izzy. “We need to ask the Forty-Sevens if they’ll help us make money for Cupcake. Will you go with us to ask Mom?”
Izzy gets up and follows us to the kitchen, where Mom is stirring hamburger into the spaghetti sauce.
Mom sighs when she hears about the plan. “You guys, we can’t—”
“This is a lot of money, Mom. You have to let us try,” I say.
“Try, Mom. Always try,” Izzy chimes in.
All of us stare at Izzy.
Mom throws up her hands. “Okay, you win. What day did you want to do this?” she asks Dodge.
“Sunday.”
“I’ll email them. But don’t be surprised if they can’t come. Sunday is not our usual meeting day.” She looks at Cupcake, who is sleeping on the rug. Two days is all we’ve got.
“Cupcake, walk!” Mom calls. Cupcake jumps up. This time there’s no yellow puddle. Even Cupcake is trying.
On Sunday we tiptoe past Torpse’s apartment. Yesterday was the deadline for getting rid of Cupcake, but he hasn’t said one word about it. Maybe he’s forgotten, or changed his mind, or gone back to the old deadline he gave Mom. I try not to think about that right now. We all pile into Mom’s car and head for Dodge’s house.
Dodge is outside waiting for us. Mom says Dodge and I are in charge. I think Dakota is going to complain, but she doesn’t say a word. She’s busy poking around, looking at things. We decide to bring the stacks onto the porch and then the Forty-Sevens will carry them from the porch to the curb.
We have more than ten stacks down there when the Forty-Sevens start arriving. Beatrice, with her wild red hair; Emilio, in his button-down shirt; DeShawn, who somehow ended up with two pink wristbands; and Phillipe, in his yellow crocheted cap.
“Your mates are here, Izzy,” Mom says with a smile.
“Yay!” Izzy says, and runs out to meet them.
Soon Dodge and I have everyone singing and marching back and forth from the garage to the street.
“We’re the herd.
(We’re the herd)
Of the nerd.
(Of the nerd.)”
That’s when I notice another thing I love about the Forty-Sevens. Compared to them, I am tall. Plus, none of them would ever embarrass me on purpose the way Dakota does.
The Forty-Sevens are reliable. Nobody takes a break. Clinkety-clankety—Crash puts a quarter in the coffee can for every trip from the porch to the curb one of us makes. He paces back and forth, watching the stacks in the house grow smaller.
“You sure this is the right thing to do, Dodge?” Crash asks.
“Your girlfriends need room to sit,” Dodge tells him.
Crash rolls his eyes. “They aren’t my girlfriends.”
Dodge grins.
Crash chews his lip, as he and my mom watch Beatrice carry a short stack of newspapers to the curb. “Lily would have loved the Forty-Sevens.” His voice breaks.
“She would have,” my mom agrees. “We all miss her, you know that.”
“Who do they miss?” Dakota asks.
“Dodge’s grandma Lily. She was the one who collected the newspapers.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Four years.”
“Four years? How can you miss someone that long?” Dakota asks.
“You can miss someone forever,” Mom whispers, squeezing Crash’s hand.
Now there are so many newspaper stacks at the curb I give up counting. The coffee can is overflowing with quarters.
“Money.” Izzy runs her fingers through the coins.
Crash smiles at Izzy and gives her a hug. “Thanks for bringing your friends over. We couldn’t have done this without them.”
* * *
After we carry the last of the newspapers to the curb, Crash brings out a plate of cookies and a pitcher of punch. The punch is regular. The cookies are peanut butter with bacon in them, but they aren’t bad.
Dodge and I walk through the house eating them. “Wow,” I say.
Dodge nods. “There’s so much more room.”
“We can play foosball now,” I say. We couldn’t play before because there were always stacks of newspapers on the foosball table.
* * *
At home, we count the money. Izzy’s in charge of putting the quarters into piles of four. I tally the dollar piles. Dakota makes the stick marks. One hundred and twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents!
“We’ve got to give some to the Forty-Sevens for helping,” I say.
Dakota shakes her head. “I asked them. They said no.”
“All of them? Really?”
She nods. “They have our back. And that’s a fact.”
“I like the Forty-Sevens.”
“Me too. But it’s not enough,” she says.
“Dakota, there’s no way we can make three thousand.”
“We could sell our mug collection.”
“Nobody’s going to pay for a bunch of chipped mugs. Besides, Mom said no more eBay.”
Mom comes in. She takes one look at our long faces. “Not enough,” she says.
We shake our heads. “Nope.”
She collapses into my beanbag chair. “At least we gave it a shot.”
“There’s still time,” Dakota says.
Mom nods, but her arms are crossed tight over her belly like she has a stomachache. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Let’s sleep on it. Things have a way of looking better in the mo
rning.”
In the living room, Dakota curls up on the couch with our ancient laptop. Our laptop is so old that it was created before people had laps.
Izzy starts mumbling about a second person. I think she must be talking about Apples to Apples Junior, a game we like to play. You need a second person to play. I get the box down and open the lid, but my heart isn’t in it.
Cupcake comes over and sticks her nose in Dakota’s face. Then Izzy sits on Mom’s lap.
“What would I do without you all?” Mom runs her hand over Izzy’s straight blond hair.
* * *
Back in my room, Dakota closes my door. “Liam, let’s call Dad.”
“I already talked to him. He said he’d pay us ten dollars for washing his car.”
“How about if we wash it for the rest of our lives and he pays us five hundred dollars now?”
I dig the phone out of my pocket and press the Dad icon. Dad answers right away. “Hey, Liam. How you doing, buddy?”
“Good. Guess what? We earned a hundred and twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents toward Cupcake’s vet visit. We carried newspapers for recycling.”
“A hundred and twenty-three dollars. That’s serious money. Good for you.”
“But we still need more. We were wondering if, you know, you could help us out?”
“Of course. I’ll bring the car over tomorrow.”
“Thanks, but could you lend us some money if we wash your car every week forever?”
“Liam.” Dad sighs.
“It was worth a try.”
“Okay, you gave it a shot.”
When I tell Dakota what Dad said, she goes into her room and lies on the floor next to Izzy’s bed so she can hold on to Pink Kitty’s tail. I know how she feels.
That night in bed, I stare at cardboard Roger Federer. No matter what happens, he keeps smiling. Being cardboard must be nice.
Imust have fallen asleep, because when I wake up, Dakota is shaking my arm. “What?” I growl.
“When does the recycling truck come?”
“How should I know?”
“Didn’t Dodge say Monday?”
“I think so. What time is it, anyway?” My eyelids do not want to open. They feel like two magnets that don’t want to let go.
Dakota flips on my desk light. “Four-fifteen. Liam, look!” She plunks the laptop on my legs.
I try to focus on the screen. “We’re not allowed on eBay,” I tell her.
“I know, but look anyway!” She points to the top of the screen. Collectible Newspapers, it says. U.S. ATTACKED…$19.99; MEN WALK ON MOON…$49.99; and MARILYN MONROE DIES…$89.99.
“Who’s Marilyn Monroe?” I ask.
“She invented something. Underwear, I think,” Dakota mutters.
“Somebody invented underwear?”
“Of course, Liam. You’re not born with it.”
“Why am I looking at this?”
“Because I saw those papers in one of Crash’s piles. They’re historical and people want to buy them.”
“Yeah, but they aren’t ours.”
“They’re nobody’s. We put them out for the recycling truck.”
“We still have to ask.”
“Why?”
“Hello, Dakota? It doesn’t feel good when people sell your stuff.”
“It’s not like Bigfoot. Crash is throwing them away.”
“Right, but you know how they make you ask permission to use the bathroom? Nobody ever says no you can’t do your business, but you still got to ask.”
“Okay, okay. But we got to get those papers now before the truck comes or they’ll be gone. Didn’t Torpse say we only had three more days a while ago?”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“How do you know?” Dakota asks.
“I don’t,” I admit.
“Look, they were in a separate stack. Dodge’s grandma Lily must have known they were important. I noticed them because the headlines were so big. I woke up and wondered if we could sell them and then I looked and we can!”
It’s a good idea. No doubt about it.
“We got to get them now,” she went on. “It’s the only chance we have.”
“We can’t go out at night. Mom will—”
“She’s asleep.”
“Cupcake will bark when we leave.”
“We’ll take her along.”
“We could wake Mom. Maybe she’ll drive us.”
“On a school night?”
Dakota’s dressed already. She’s half out the door. If I don’t go, she’ll go without me.
I pull my clothes on over my pajamas, grab a jacket, and tiptoe to the living room.
Mom sleeps on the sofa. She puts on thick, whitish-green face cream, which makes her look like a zombie.
The dog sleeps in the kitchen. When she sees us, she gets up slowly, stretching her legs. Even she knows it’s not morning yet.
I snap on her leash and open the creaking front door. Dakota scoots after me.
Outside it’s pitch-black. Torpse is too cheap to fix the lights.
We wait for a second, listening for Mom. But no Mom. She would have been out here already if she’d heard us, so that’s good, but we should have brought a flashlight. I try using my phone, only it doesn’t put out much light. I don’t dare go back. It’s a miracle Mom didn’t wake up as it is.
The only good thing about being out at four in the morning is I won’t run into Moses.
But it’s so dark out here. There are no streetlights and it’s too foggy for moonlight. Dakota grabs my hand and holds it tightly. I let her because no one I know will see. We creep by the dark windows of parked cars that look like maybe someone is inside.
In her other hand, Dakota clutches the page with the list of valuable newspapers she wrote out from eBay.
We half run. Most of the apartment windows are dark. Some are dimly lit, but one has all the lights on, and we can hear music blasting. A strange man stands out front. He has his back to us, like he’s hiding something.
I’m glad we have Cupcake along. Cupcake will protect us. But Cupcake pays no attention to the man. She has found a pinecone on the road.
The man sees us.
We bolt forward, running helter-skelter. Cupcake runs with the pinecone in her mouth. I keep looking back for the man but I can’t see him anymore.
When we get to Dodge’s, we are panting hard. I take off my jacket. Too hot.
I consider texting Dodge. It seems weird to be in his front yard, digging through his newspapers, without him. But it isn’t even light out. I text him anyway.
We r in yr yard.
Dodge doesn’t come out. He sleeps like he eats. Big and heavy.
Dakota goes straight for a stack of newspapers near the neighbor’s driveway. “This one,” she says.
But it’s too dark to see.
Uh-oh. Dakota and I look at each other.
“Wait,” I say. “I know where they have a flashlight.” Crash likes to be prepared in case of earthquakes. He keeps their emergency kit in an old metal box under the porch swing.
I sneak up the steps and get it out.
We take turns. One of us holds the flashlight, while the other looks through the pile. At first I hold on to Cupcake’s leash, but she keeps yanking on it, so I tie her to an upside-down lawn chair in a corner of Dodge’s yard, and she curls up. It’s still so early we can hear individual cars roar by on the freeway up above, but not the steady stream we’re used to.
We go through the entire stack. Paper by paper. But we don’t find a single valuable one.
“They were here. Somebody messed them up,” Dakota says.
“Everybody put things everywhere,” I say.
“Maybe it’s this one.” She taps
another stack.
We start on that stack, and then another and another.
The freeway sounds are getting louder, and the sky is gradually becoming lighter.
We can see without the flashlight, so we each take a stack.
“Mom will be up soon. We got to get home.”
“Just look for the large headlines,” she mumbles.
“What do you think I’ve been doing? You said you knew where they were.”
“They got moved. Keep your eye out for ‘Marilyn Monroe Dies.’ That one is worth the most.”
I start on another stack.
She looks up. “Do you think they’re in the recycling bin?” She flaps back the lid, which smells of boiled broccoli. When I turn around again, she’s climbed into the bin and has half the newspapers out.
“Wait!” Her voice, from inside the container, sounds faraway. Her head pops up. She waves a paper over her head. “ ‘Men Walk on Moon,’ ” she cries.
“How much was that worth?”
“Forty-nine ninety-nine.”
Are they all worth that much? I stick the newspaper under my arm.
Dakota dives down again. “Look! Here’s ‘U.S. Attacked.’ ” She pops up again.
“We need ‘Kennedy Assassinated’ or ‘Marilyn Monroe Dies.’ ‘Marilyn Monroe Dies’ is harder. It wasn’t a big headline,” she says.
The sun is rising: a bright orange ball halfway up the sky.
“We have to go!” I say.
“It’s almost a hundred dollars.” Dakota’s head disappears inside the bin. There’s a loud rumbling from the freeway above. Cupcake starts barking. She rushes into the street, pulling the lawn chair. I chase after her. Then I see that the truck isn’t on the freeway. It’s coming down the street, lights blinking. There’s a chuff and a hiss, then loud idling.
RECYCLING, the sign on the truck says.
I run faster, catching hold of Cupcake and the lawn chair and dragging them both back. “Dakota, get out of there!” I shout, but the freeway is so loud, she can’t hear.
One-Third Nerd Page 9