Noah Green Saves the World

by Laura Toffler-Corrie

  “It’s Pops!” I yell breathlessly.

  A car engine grinds and, through the mist, a large, battered black SUV comes into view.

  “Get in! Get in!” Pop shouts, opening the door. We all dive into the back seat, and Pops spryly jumps into the front.

  “Step on it, George,” he instructs the driver—a short, elderly black guy craning his head to see out the front window. He’s wearing coke-bottle glasses, a loud sports shirt, and a cap with tufts of gray hair poking every which-way out from under it.

  I whir up the back window just as Mike and Jake, pointing and panting hard, reach the road.

  “Don’t you hippies have any skills?” Pops explodes. “How are we going to save the world if you get caught?”

  Chapter 18

  “Who are you?” Pops demands, twisting around in the seat, narrowing his eyes at Josh and Tyler.

  “Put your seatbelt on, you old coot,” George scolds Pops as he chugs up the road at what feels like a cool three miles an hour. A mole crosses our path. George slams on the brakes, and we all jerk forward.

  “See that?” George carries on. “You coulda been killed right then. You gotta obey safety rules.”

  “Keep your pants on,” Pops grumbles, fumbling with the seatbelt.

  The mole stares into the headlights, his eyes glowing bright red. Slowly, he scuttles across the road, not looking the least bit afraid.

  “That’s right,” George scolds Pops. “You keep on complainin,’ old man. This isn’t your army jeep, swervin’ around those narrow German roads. Every time you drove, I said my prayers.”

  “You’re still here, aren’t you?” Pops snaps back.

  “Well, this isn’t 1944 anymore,” George says. “It’s 2005, and I’m drivin’!”

  I lean forward. “Um, actually, it’s 20—”

  Simon pokes me in the ribs with his elbow, which he can do pretty easily since we’re all crushed in the back like a bundle of celery stalks.

  George jerks the car to a stop again and swivels all the way around. He’s so short that we can only see his glasses through the small gap where the headrest is bolted to the top of the seat. He squints hard, and his eyes almost disappear into his scowling face.

  “Now, who is this smart aleck?”

  “That’s my grandson,” Pops says. He leans toward George conspiratorially and whispers loudly, “Don’t worry about him. He’s a little off.”

  I’m a little off?!

  “Hmph,” George grunts. He starts jerking the car up the road again, his foot firmly on the brake.

  “Are you trying to loosen my dentures with all that jerky driving?” Pops snaps. “Take your foot off the doggone brake! Or by the time we get to the diner, it’ll be tomorrow. These boys are probably hungry, seeing as how it’s way past breakfast time already.”

  Josh, Tyler, Simon, and I exchange confused looks. Outside, it’s pitch black, and the clock on the dashboard reads 3:30 a.m.

  “What’s going on?” Josh shoots me a sidelong whisper.

  “And why are we going to the diner?” Tyler adds.

  “In my short acquaintance with Noah’s pops,” Simon whispers, “I’ve learned that it’s better not to ask questions.”

  About twenty minutes later, with the pedometer reading that we’ve traveled about four miles, George slowly pulls into the parking lot of a small, rundown all-night diner. In front is one of those signs encased in little colored bulbs that blink and race around and make you dizzy. The windows glow yellow in the dark, and there are only a few trucks in the parking lot. Through the glass, I see a pair of burly-looking guys eating at the counter.

  Simon has been swiping through his texts, but by now, his chin’s dropped to his chest, and he’s dozed off. Tyler’s head is tipped sideways, and a thin line of drool is slipping from the crack of his mouth onto Josh’s shoulder. Josh’s head is way back onto the seat, his mouth is open, and he’s snoring slightly.

  But I’m too wired too sleep, and I have too many questions. It’s been such an exciting night. And there’s so much spinning around my brain! Are the Rotties really looking for the same thing Pops is? What are they selling, and who’s buying it? What is the valuable thing they didn’t find? Who were they talking to on the phone?

  I remove my headpiece and scratch where the band clutches my scalp. The best part is that I got it all on film!

  George pulls into an empty parking spot and keeps adjusting, spinning the steering wheel, jerking us back and forth and back and forth.

  Tyler and Josh bump awake.

  “Gross, dude!” Josh grimaces, wiping Tyler’s spittle off his sleeve.

  Simon awakens to the buzzing of his phone, which is practically vibrating off his lap. It looks like he’s gotten about a million messages from his mates.

  Simon looks around. “Where are we?”

  “The diner,” I answer.

  “Oh, right.” He rolls his eyes and stretches his arms above his head. “The diner. Brilliant.”

  “Your mates are texting,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, they can wait, can’t they?” he says.

  “Can they?”

  “Sure.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “This is way more exciting, right?”

  “It is?”

  “I mean, I can play football anytime. But how often does a bloke get to save the world with three of his best mates and loopy, geriatric George and Mr. Pops?” He leans across me and peers out the window. “At the Happy Hour Diner, no less. Is there any place else I’d rather be?”

  I’m guessing he’s being rhetorical and maybe a little sarcastic, so I don’t say anything. But I’m happy that he thinks I’m one of his best mates and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

  Pops unclicks his seatbelt and creaks the door open.

  “I’m not done parkin’ yet!” George growls at him, accidentally leaning on the horn, which blares loudly. Inside the Happy Hour, a trucker angrily raps his knuckles on the window and glares. George whirs his window down and sticks his head out as far as his short neck will allow.

  “Have some respect!” he yells. “We fought in the big war. If it hadn’t been for us, you’d be eatin’ sauerkraut right now!”

  “For breakfast? That’s nasty,” Josh says. “But it’s good on hot dogs.”

  “Agreed.” Tyler nods. “But it smells really bad in the refrigerator. My mom has to keep it in a plastic container.”

  “One that burps?” I ask. “I know all about those!”

  “What are you yakking about now?” Pops says. “Get out of the car already!”

  “I said,” George yells, “I’m not done parkin’!”

  “You are now.” Pops reaches over and turns the key in the ignition, cutting the engine.

  “Time for eggs, pancakes, and coffee,” Pops announces. “And time to teach these boys how to save the world.”

  Chapter 19

  My body must think it’s breakfast time because I’m starving. We order practically everything on the menu and sloppily shovel it in, grunting so loudly that even the truck drivers look disapprovingly at our super-bad manners. The tired-looking waitress, whose name tag says “Madge,” keeps bringing stuff. And she’s saying things like . . .

  “Here you go, hon.”

  And “You boys are awfully hungry, ain’t ya?”

  And “What’re y’all doing up this early, anyhow?”

  Pops winks at us and tells her we’re on a fishing trip. Then he and George take turns saying flirty things like . . .

  “How come a pretty gal like you’s not married?” (Because they asked her if she was married and she said “Not anymore.”)

  And “I like a modern woman who earns her way.”

  And “I was a secret agent in World War II, but I’m a lover, not a fighter.” (Which is Pops.)

  After a while, Madge seems mostly bored and is like, “Uh-huh.” And she tells us to pay the cashier.

  Outside, the morning glows at the bottom of the hills. I wonde
r if Nathan has checked our bunk or if Yipsy is doing any nightly rounds. Because even if Nathan wanted to cover for us, if Yipsy saw our empty bunks, he’d freak. Then he’d rat us out to Rabbi Blum, and then Rabbi Blum would call the police, and then the police would call my parents.

  I imagine how angry they’d be if they thought I’d just disappeared. Though a small part of me wonders if they’d be just the tiniest bit relieved.

  “So, George,” I say, draining the last bit of juice from my glass, “are you the same George who was stationed with Pops during the war?”

  “One and the same,” George says, sipping his coffee from one of those thick, beige-colored ceramic diner mugs.

  We all nod silently and keep eating.

  “Enough small talk,” Pops exclaims. “Now you boys lean in, ’cause I’m gonna explain what’s going on.”

  We lean in.

  “First of all . . . who are you?” he demands.

  “Um, well, I’m Noah,” I start.

  “I know who you are!” Pops huffs. “And that’s the hippie.” He gestures at Simon. “But who are these two?” Pops says, narrowing his eyes. “I hope they’re not internet trolls.”

  Simon coughs like he’s trying to hide a laugh.

  “Actually, Mr—” Tyler starts.

  “Mr. Pops,” Simon mouths at him.

  “Okay. Well, actually, Mr. Pops,” Tyler says, “we’re campers. We share a bunk with Noah. I’m Tyler.”

  “What about you?” Pop snaps at Josh.

  “I’m Josh.” Josh clears his throat nervously. “You might have caught a glimpse of us the other night in the woods.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “They just told you, you old coot,” George chimes in. “They’re friends of your grandson, Ned, here.”

  “Noah,” I say softly, raising my finger in the air.

  “Ned, Noah, whatever,” Pops says. “You kids think you know everything. Well, let me tell you—”

  And suddenly, for some reason—maybe it’s all the sugar from the thick shakes, donuts, maple syrup, and pie talking—I kind of feel like I’ve had enough.

  “Pops!” I shout.

  A few truck drivers snap their heads around.

  “I know you, like, yell at everyone and say things that don’t make sense,” I say. “But it’s getting a little annoying, ya know?”

  A hush falls over the table, and all eyes swing toward me. There’s no turning back now.

  “It’s, like, four-thirty in the morning. I’m supposed to be at camp. But I just dragged my new mates into the woods to spy on two big guys digging stuff out of the ground, who are probably gonna beat me up tomorrow. And now I’m in a diner. I don’t know what we’re doing here. I’m trying to do tikkun olam, but I don’t even know what this save-the-world business is about! Plus, I’m super tired, and I have Real Boys Swing Dance class first thing in the morning. And if Yipsy finds us missing, we’ll probably be sent home. Now could you please tell us what’s going on? Oh, and don’t call me Ned. Mom and Dad named me Noah. So I’m Noah. Your grandson. Is all that clear?”

  It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and there’s a part of me that’s like, Who just said that?

  But there’s another part that feels good. Really good. Like I’m reading this room to the max. I feel more confident than I have in a long time.

  Pop stares at me. George puts down his cup and stares at me. Josh lets out a low whistle. Tyler and Simon stare at me, then exchange a He is so busted look, darting their eyes everywhere but at me.

  Finally, Pops is like, “Who’s Yipsy?”

  “Gah!” I grunt and drop my head onto the table.

  “You tried, mate.” Simon pats me on the shoulder.

  “Well, do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Pop says, all exasperated.

  “Sure.” I lift my head. “Hit me.”

  “I’m not gonna hit you,” Pops replies.

  “It was a figure of—”

  “It’s 4:40,” he interrupts, glancing at his watch—one of those big, bubble-faced, magnifying-glass jobs balancing on his skinny wrist.

  “That’s 0100 hours,” George says solemnly.

  “Let’s get back to headquarters,” Pops says.

  “And where might that be?” Simon asks.

  “The motel! Where else?”

  Pops motions for George to slide out of the booth, and his behind makes that squeaky noise across the pleather. Pops slides out after him, and we all follow.

  “It’s time,” Pops announces solemnly, brushing crumbs from his Boy Scout pants, “for you boys to learn the truth.”

  Chapter 20

  Fortunately, the motel is only a few blocks from the diner. George pulls into the spot and starts his straightening-the-car routine until Josh is finally like, “Excuse me, sir, but we have to be back at camp by 6:30 at the latest, or Yipsy will go ballistic.”

  “Again with this Yipsy.” Pops throws up his hands. “Saving the world takes time!”

  “Don’t worry, son.” George mercifully cuts the engine, strains to push open the driver’s door, and wiggles out. “We’ll have you back at camp before breakfast.”

  Josh and Tyler exchange a look that’s like, I don’t think so.

  “I’ve got a rideshare app,” Simon whispers to us. “I can get a car to pick us up in forty-five minutes.”

  “Good thinking!” Josh says.

  The motel is a squat, two-floor building covered with brown shingles. It semicircles around a sad-looking in-ground pool, wavy plastic-and-glass tables, and scattered metallic chairs. A row of identical white doorways stretches across each floor. It’s quiet, and most of the curtains are drawn, giving the impression that a lot of rooms are vacant or that people are still fast asleep.

  My parents wouldn’t want to stay at this motel. If Lily were here, she’d be like, “What. A. Dump!” Then she’d scrunch up her nose like she smelled a skunk.

  The night is slowly morphing into lighter shades of gray, and in the distance, the sunlight breaks over the hills. I should be drop-dead tired, but I’ve bypassed tired and am just super anxious, wondering what Pops and George have to say.

  Pops ushers us into his single room, which is a mess. Papers and charts are spread all over the bed and night tables. A whole bunch more are sloppily pasted to the walls. It’s a tight fit, and we’re all shifting and bumping into each other, unsure of where to stand.

  Pops weaves around us, opening drawers and slamming them shut, picking up papers, unfolding them, reading them, and throwing them over his shoulder. The whole time, he’s muttering things:

  “Dagnabbit!”

  And “That’s not right.”

  And “Who put this there?”

  I adjust the camera on my head.

  “Take that contraption off!” Pops says. “This meeting is top secret!”

  “Sorry,” I mumble and obediently remove it. But when Pops turns his back, I slip it back on and fluff my hair around it. There’s no way I’m not getting this on film. A filmmaker always has to be aware of potential opus moments. And this might definitely be one.

  George clears a place for us to sit down.

  “Don’t move my stuff!” Pop yells at George.

  “The boys gotta sit!” George yells back. Suddenly, there’s loud pounding on the wall from the room next door.

  “Shuddup!” the muffled voice yells. “It’s five in the morning!”

  George race-shuffles to the wall. “You shuddup! We’re tryin’ to save the world!”

  “No, you shuddup, nut job, or I’ll call the manager!” The guy thumps the wall some more.

  “Hmph,” George grumbles darkly. “Keep it down, kids.”

  “But we’re not—” I start.

  “Aha!” Pops exclaims, uncrumpling a ratty newspaper. “Here it is!”

  He pins the paper to the wall, grabs a pencil from a drawer, and points to something he’s circled in red about a hundred times. “There!”


  We all lean in but can’t read it because the type is really small.

  Tyler takes off his glasses and squints. “It looks like . . . an advertisement for hemorrhoid cream.”

  “That’s not it!” Pops rips the paper from the wall and starts digging through drawers again.

  Simon sighs loudly and waggles his phone at me. He’s probably already summoned an Uber or a Lyft or something. “Time. To. Go,” he mouths.

  “Pops.” I place my hand on his arm. “Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on . . . is this!” Pops unfolds a chart of the solar system and spreads it out on the bed.

  “This is us.” He points to the small blue planet, third from the giant sun. “And this is Agatha, the giant black asteroid hurtling toward Earth!”

  “Agatha the Asteroid?” Tyler frowns.

  “That’s right!” Pops waves his pointer finger in the air.

  “Seriously?” Josh says.

  “Out of the way, you old coot.” George shuffles in front of Pops and gently pushes him aside. “Let me explain to these kids. I am part Navajo, after all.”

  “What does that have to do with—” I start.

  “Let him talk.” Pops drops into a chair.

  George opens a small satchel, pulls out a DVD, pushes a bunch of papers off a laptop, connects some wires, and pushes some buttons.

  “Now, don’t get any funny ideas about stealin’ this DVD.” George narrows his eyes at us. “I carry it in this satchel, and I never let it out of my sight.”

  “What about in the shower?” Josh mumbles.

  George spins around looking fiery mad. “You want me to draw you a picture?”

  “No, sir,” Josh says apologetically to him. Then he’s like, “Gross,” to us under his breath.

  Static buzzes, and a black-and-white image pops up on the laptop screen. A small group of men in army fatigues huddle on cots in some kind of bunker. The image is grainy, and the whole vibe is like a classic movie from the 1940s. And they’re saying things I can’t quite make out.

  The camera focuses on one guy in the middle.

  “That’s my cousin, Bobby Running Feather,” George says proudly. “He’s the captain!”