Hoot

by Carl Hiaasen

  It was the same story the next day, and the day after that. By Friday, Roy had pretty much given up. He was sitting ten rows from the door, reading an X-Man comic, as the bus turned the familiar corner and began to slow down. A movement at the corner of his eye made Roy glance up from his comic book—and there he was on the sidewalk, running again! Same basketball jersey, same grimy shorts, same black-soled feet.

  As the brakes of the school bus wheezed, Roy grabbed his backpack off the floor and stood up. At that instant, two big sweaty hands closed around his neck.

  “Where ya goin’, cowgirl?”

  “Lemme go,” Roy rasped, squirming to break free.

  The grip on his throat tightened. He felt Dana’s ashtray breath on his right ear: “How come you don’t got your boots on today? Who ever heard of a cowgirl wearing Air Jordans?”

  “They’re Reeboks,” Roy squeaked.

  The bus had stopped, and the students were starting to board. Roy was furious. He had to get to the door fast, before the driver closed it and the bus began to roll.

  But Dana wouldn’t let go, digging his fingers into Roy’s windpipe. Roy was having trouble getting air, and struggling only made it worse.

  “Look at you,” Dana chortled from behind, “red as a tomato!”

  Roy knew the rules against fighting on the bus, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He clenched his right fist and brought it up blindly over his shoulder, as hard as he could. The punch landed on something moist and rubbery.

  There was a gargled cry; then Dana’s hands fell away from Roy’s neck. Panting, Roy bolted for the door of the bus just as the last student, a tall girl with curly blond hair and red-framed eyeglasses, came up the steps. Roy clumsily edged past her and jumped to the ground.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the girl demanded.

  “Hey, wait!” the bus driver shouted, but Roy was already a blur.

  The running boy was way ahead of him, but Roy figured he could stay close enough to keep him in sight. He knew the kid couldn’t go at full speed forever.

  He followed him for several blocks—over fences, through shrubbery, weaving through yapping dogs and lawn sprinklers and hot tubs. Eventually Roy felt himself tiring. This kid is amazing, he thought. Maybe he’s practicing for the track team.

  Once Roy thought he saw the boy glance over his shoulder, as if he knew he was being pursued, but Roy couldn’t be certain. The boy was still far ahead of him, and Roy was gulping like a beached trout. His shirt was soaked and perspiration poured off his forehead, stinging his eyes.

  The last house in the subdivision was still under construction, but the shoeless boy dashed heedlessly through the lumber and loose nails. Three men hanging drywall stopped to holler at him, but the boy never broke stride. One of the same workers made a one-armed lunge at Roy but missed.

  Suddenly there was grass under his feet again—the greenest, softest grass that Roy had ever seen. He realized that he was on a golf course, and that the blond kid was tearing down the middle of a long, lush fairway.

  On one side was a row of tall Australian pines, and on the other side was a milky man-made lake. Roy could see four brightly dressed figures ahead, gesturing at the barefoot boy as he ran by.

  Roy gritted his teeth and kept going. His legs felt like wet cement, and his lungs were on fire. A hundred yards ahead, the boy cut sharply to the right and disappeared into the pine trees. Roy doggedly aimed himself for the woods.

  An angry shout echoed, and Roy noticed that the people in the fairway were waving their arms at him, too. He kept right on running. Moments later there was a distant glint of sunlight on metal, followed by a muted thwack. Roy didn’t actually see the golf ball until it came down six feet in front of him. He had no time to duck or dive out of the way. All he could do was turn his head and brace for the blow.

  The bounce caught him squarely above the left ear, and at first it didn’t even hurt. Then Roy felt himself swaying and spinning as a brilliant gout of fireworks erupted inside his skull. He felt himself falling for what seemed like a long time, falling as softly as a drop of rain on velvet.

  When the golfers ran up and saw Roy facedown in the sand trap, they thought he was dead. Roy heard their frantic cries but he didn’t move. The sugar-white sand felt cool against his burning cheeks, and he was very sleepy.

  The “cowgirl” jab—well, that was my own fault, he thought. He’d told the kids at school he was from Montana, cattle country, when in fact he’d been born in Detroit, Michigan. Roy’s mother and father had moved away from Detroit when he was only a baby, so it seemed silly to call it his hometown. In Roy’s mind, he didn’t really have a hometown; his family had never stayed anywhere long enough for Roy to feel settled.

  Of all the places the Eberhardts had lived, Roy’s favorite was Bozeman, Montana. The snaggle-peaked mountains, the braided green rivers, the sky so blue it seemed like a painting—Roy had never imagined anywhere so beautiful. The Eberhardts stayed two years, seven months, and eleven days; Roy wanted to stay forever.

  On the night his father announced they’d be moving to Florida, Roy locked himself in his bedroom and cried. His mother caught him climbing out the window with his snowboard and a plastic tackle box in which he had packed underwear, socks, a fleece ski jacket, and a $100 savings bond his grandfather had given him as a birthday present.

  His mother assured Roy that he would love Florida. Everybody in America wants to move there, she’d said, it’s so sunny and gorgeous. Then Roy’s father had poked his head in the door and said, with somewhat forced enthusiasm: “And don’t forget Disney World.”

  “Disney World is an armpit,” Roy had stated flatly, “compared to Montana. I want to stay here.”

  As usual, he was outvoted.

  So when the homeroom teacher at Trace Middle asked the new kid where he was from, he stood up and proudly said Bozeman, Montana. It was the same answer he gave on the school bus when Dana Matherson accosted him on his first day, and from then on Roy was “Tex” or “cowgirl” or “Roy Rogers-hardt.”

  It was his own fault for not saying Detroit.

  “Why did you punch Mr. Matherson?” asked Viola Hennepin. She was the vice-principal of Trace Middle, and it was in her dim office cubicle that Roy now sat, awaiting justice.

  “Because he was choking me to death.”

  “That’s not Mr. Matherson’s version of events, Mr. Eberhardt.” Miss Hennepin’s face had extremely pointy features. She was tall and bony, and wore a perpetually severe expression. “He says your attack was unprovoked.”

  “Right,” said Roy. “I always pick the biggest, meanest kid on the bus and punch him in the face, just for fun.”

  “We don’t appreciate sarcasm here at Trace Middle,” said Miss Hennepin. “Are you aware that you broke his nose? Don’t be surprised if your parents get a hospital bill in the mail.”

  Roy said, “The dumb jerk almost strangled me.”

  “Really? Your bus driver, Mr. Kesey, said he didn’t see a thing.”

  “It’s possible he was actually watching the road,” Roy said.

  Miss Hennepin smiled thinly. “You’ve got quite the snippy attitude, Mr. Eberhardt. What do you think ought to be done with a violent boy like you?”

  “Matherson is the menace! He hassles all the smaller kids on the bus.”

  “Nobody else has complained.”

  “Because they’re scared of him,” Roy said. Which was also why none of the other kids had backed up his story. Nobody wanted to nark on Dana and have to face him the next day on the bus.

  “If you did nothing wrong, then why’d you run away?” Miss Hennepin asked.

  Roy noticed a single jet-black hair sprouting above her upper lip. He wondered why Miss Hennepin hadn’t removed the hair—was it possible that she was letting it grow?

  “Mr. Eberhardt, I asked you a question.”

  “I ran because I’m scared of him, too,” Roy replied.

  “Or perhaps you we
re scared of what would happen to you when the incident was reported.”

  “That’s totally not true.”

  “Under the rules,” said Miss Hennepin, “you could be suspended from school.”

  “He was choking me. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Stand up, please.”

  Roy did what he was told.

  “Step closer,” Miss Hennepin said. “How does your head feel? Is this where the golf ball hit you?” She touched the tender purple lump above his ear.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re a lucky young man. It could’ve been worse.”

  He felt Miss Hennepin’s bony fingers turn down the collar of his shirt. Her chilly gray eyes narrowed and her waxy lips pursed in consternation.

  “Hmm,” she said, peering like a buzzard.

  “What is it?” Roy backed out of her reach.

  The vice-principal cleared her throat and said, “That knot on your head tells me you’ve learned your lesson the hard way. Am I right?”

  Roy nodded. There was no use trying to reason with a person who was cultivating one long oily hair on her lip. Miss Hennepin gave Roy the creeps.

  “Therefore, I’ve decided not to suspend you from school,” she said, tapping a pencil on her chin. “I am, however, going to suspend you from the bus.”

  “Really?” Roy almost burst out laughing. What a fantastic punishment; no bus ride, no Dana!

  “For two weeks,” Miss Hennepin said.

  Roy tried to look bummed. “Two whole weeks?”

  “In addition, I want you to write a letter of apology to Mr. Matherson. A sincere letter.”

  “Okay,” said Roy, “but who’s going to help him read it?”

  Miss Hennepin clicked her pointy yellow teeth. “Don’t press your luck, Mr. Eberhardt.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  As soon as he left the office, Roy hurried to the boys’ bathroom. He climbed up on one of the sinks that had a mirror and pulled down his shirt collar to see what Miss Hennepin had been staring at.

  Roy grinned. Plainly visible on each side of his Adam’s apple were four finger-sized bruises. He swiveled around on the rim of the sink and, craning over his shoulder, spotted two matching thumb marks on the nape of his neck.

  Thank you, dumb-butt Dana, he thought. Now Miss Hennepin knows I’m telling the truth.

  Well, most of the truth.

  Roy had left out the part about the strange running boy. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like the sort of thing you didn’t tell a vice-principal unless you absolutely had to.

  He had missed his morning classes and most of lunch hour. He hurried through the cafeteria line and found an empty table. Sitting with his back to the doors, he wolfed down a chili burger and a carton of lukewarm milk. Dessert was an over baked chocolate chip cookie the size of a hockey puck and just about as tasty.

  “Gross,” he muttered. The inedible cookie made a thud when it landed on the plate. Roy picked up his tray and rose to leave. He jumped when a hand landed forcefully on his shoulder. He was afraid to look—what if it was Dana Matherson?

  The perfect ending, Roy thought gloomily, to a perfectly terrible day.

  “Sit down,” said a voice behind him, definitely not Dana’s.

  Roy brushed the hand off his shoulder and turned. Standing there, arms folded, was the tall blond girl with the red-framed eyeglasses—the one he’d encountered on the school bus. The girl looked extremely unhappy.

  “You nearly knocked me down this morning,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Why were you running?”

  “No reason.” Roy tried to get past her, but this time she sidestepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “You could’ve really hurt me,” she said.

  Roy felt uncomfortable being confronted by a girl. It wasn’t a scene you wanted the other boys to see, for sure. Worse, Roy was truly intimidated. The curly-haired girl was taller than he was, with wide shoulders and tan muscular legs. She looked like an athlete—soccer, probably, or volleyball.

  He said, “See, I punched a kid in the nose—”

  “Oh, I heard all about it,” the girl said snidely, “but that’s not why you ran off, was it?”

  “Sure it was.” Roy wondered if she was going to accuse him of something else, like stealing the lunch money out of her backpack.

  “You’re lying.” The girl boldly seized the other side of his lunch tray, to prevent him from leaving.

  “Let go,” Roy said sharply. “I’m late.”

  “Take it easy. There’s six minutes to the bell, cowgirl.” She looked as if she wouldn’t mind socking him in the stomach. “Now tell the truth. You were chasing somebody, weren’t you?”

  Roy felt relieved that he wasn’t being blamed for a serious crime. “Did you see him, too? That kid with no shoes?”

  Still gripping Roy’s tray, the girl took a step forward, backing Roy up.

  “I got some advice for you,” she said, lowering her voice.

  Roy glanced around anxiously. They were the only ones left in the cafeteria.

  “You listening?” The girl shoved him once more.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She didn’t stop pushing until she had Roy pinned to the wall with his lunch tray. Glaring balefully over the top of her red-framed eyeglasses, she said, “From now on, mind your own damn business.”

  Roy was scared, he had to admit. The edge of the tray was digging into his rib cage. This girl was a bruiser.

  “You saw that kid, too, didn’t you?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Mind your own business, if you know what’s good for you.”

  She let go of Roy’s tray and spun on her heels.

  “Wait!” Roy called after her. “Who is he?”

  But the curly-haired girl didn’t answer or even look back. Stalking off, she simply raised her right arm and reproachfully wagged a forefinger in the air.

  THREE

  Officer Delinko shielded his eyes against the noon glare.

  “Took you long enough,” said Curly, the construction foreman.

  “There was a four-car pileup north of town,” the police officer explained, “with injuries.”

  Curly huffed. “Whatever. Anyways, you can see what they done.”

  Again the trespassers had methodically removed every survey marker and filled in the stake holes. Officer Delinko wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was beginning to suspect that this wasn’t the random work of juvenile pranksters. Perhaps somebody had a grudge against Mother Paula and her world-famous pancakes.

  “This time you got a actual vandalism to report,” Curly said pointedly. “This time they messed up some private property.”

  He led Officer Delinko to the southwest corner of the site, where a flatbed truck was parked. All four tires were flat.

  Curly raised the palms of his hands and said, “There you go. Each a them tires is worth a hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “What happened?” the policeman asked.

  “The sidewalls was slashed.” Curly’s shiny head bobbed in indignation.

  Officer Delinko knelt down and studied the truck’s tires. He couldn’t see any knife marks in the rubber.

  “I think somebody just let the air out,” he said.

  Curly muttered a reply that was difficult to hear.

  “I’ll make a report, anyway,” the policeman promised.

  “How about this?” Curly said. “How about you put some extra patrols around here?”

  “I’ll speak to my sergeant.”

  “You do that,” Curly grumbled. “I got some people I can speak to myself. This is gettin’ ridiculous.”

  “Yes, sir.” Officer Delinko noticed that three portable latrines were strapped on the back of the flatbed truck. He caught himself smiling at the name painted on the blue doors: TRAVELIN’JOHNNY.

  “For the construction crew,” Curly explained, “for when we
get this project started. If we ever get started.”

  “Did you check ’em out?” asked the policeman.

  Curly frowned. “The johns? What for?”

  “You never know.”

  “Nobody in their right mind’s gonna fool around with a toilet.” The foreman snorted.

  “Can I have a look?” Officer Delinko asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  The policeman climbed up on the bed of the truck. From the outside, the portable latrines appeared untouched. The cargo straps were cinched tight, and the doors toall three units were closed. Officer Delinko opened one and peeked his head inside. The stall smelled heavily of disinfectant.

  “Well?” Curly called up to him.

  “A-okay,” said the policeman.

  “Truth is, there ain’t much to wreck on a port-a-potty.”

  “I suppose not.” Officer Delinko was about to shut the door when he heard a muffled noise—was it a splash? The policeman stared uneasily at the blackness beneath the plastic seat. Ten seconds passed; then he heard it again.

  Definitely a splash.

  “What’re you doin’ up there?” Curly demanded.

  “Listening,” replied Officer Delinko.

  “Listenin’ to what?”

  Officer Delinko unclipped the flashlight from his belt. Edging forward, he aimed the light down the toilet hole.

  Curly heard a cry and watched in surprise as the policeman burst from the doorway of the latrine, leaping off the flatbed like an Olympic hurdler.

  What now? the foreman wondered unhappily.

  Officer Delinko picked himself off the ground and smoothed the front of his uniform. He retrieved his flashlight and tested it to make sure the bulb wasn’t broken.

  Curly handed him his hat, which had come to rest near an owl burrow. “So. Let’s hear it,” the foreman said.

  The policeman nodded grimly. “Alligators,” he declared.

  “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  “I wish I was,” said Officer Delinko. “They put alligators in your potties, sir. Real live alligators.”

  “More than one?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Curly was flabbergasted. “Are they ... big gators?”