by Gary Soto
A chicken, dusty and fat as a soccer ball, pecked the ground.
"You want to buy a chicken?" the man asked. "Two dollars a pound. She's 'bout three pounds. Six dollars the way she is, or seven if you want her plucked."
He began to plow dirt from under a fingernail with a matchstick. The chicken gazed up, seemingly curious about my decision.
"Nah, sir," I declined. "I'm a vegetarian." I returned to my mission and asked him again if he knew a gymnast.
The stranger pointed. "A girl that used to do flips and stuff lived over there. But she moved." He related a story about how she could fit herself into a cardboard box that was no bigger than a small suitcase. "I don't know how she did it. She was little then, but still." He shook his head and said, "When I looked in that box, she was all folded up. Just one eye was looking at me." He then nudged the chicken back into his yard, but not before trying again to close the sale.
"I'll throw in the plucking for free if you want." He pointed vaguely at a hatchet leaning against the fence.
I shook my head, and the chicken let out a happy cluck.
Chapter 4
I rolled away with no chicken under my arm and only a hint of where Jessica—if it was her—had moved. The man had pointed, saying "Yonder." I was baffled by "yonder." Had I missed this calculation of distance in math class? I also debated the fate of that poor chicken. She was already so fat that her feathers had separated and you could see the skin underneath. It was Saturday. Would she find herself in a stewpot on Sunday?
The country roads quickly led to our town's best neighborhood: The Heights. The expansive lawns were deep green, almost bluish. There were spring colors in window boxes and rows of daffodils in flower beds. In the eaves, wind chimes rocked but hardly made any music.
Three blocks later I encountered my mom at a corner. She was staring at something round and shiny in her hand. At first I thought it was a compass. Was Mom lost?
"Hey, Mom," I yelled. Without a doubt, she'd been out hawking her Glorietta Cosmetics in the better part of Pinkerton. Her briefcase sat at her feet.
"What are you doing here?" Mom asked. She eyed my haircut. "Did your uncle cut your hair, or did Joey?" Joey occasionally mowed my head with a pair of kindergarten scissors, and sometimes I did my magic on his hair.
"Uncle," I answered.
Mom turned my head this way and that, and judged that Joey was the better barber.
"What do you have in your hand?" I asked.
She held up a Sacagawea dollar, which winked a single sparkle, then popped open her briefcase and let me view her loot of fifty-nine more. She had made a hefty sale to a woman who had paid in dollar coins. Mom complained that her back was stiff from lugging the briefcase.
"I'll take them home for you."
Mom brightened at my suggestion. She poured thirty coins into my right pocket and twenty-nine into my left pocket, then gave me one to spend on a soda.
"Go straight home, Ronnie," she told me. I parted company with Mom and took off on my skateboard, slowing now and then to hitch up my pants. The coins were weighty, and I wasn't sporting a belt to keep my pants up. Each time I propelled myself on my skateboard, I sounded like a tambourine. The coins were like music.
I was two blocks from home when I met Cory, who was sitting on a fence with two of his friends. He unleashed terrible threats, flicked a bottle cap at me, and ordered me to stop or else.
"Come here, monkey face!" he growled. "I wanna talk to you!"
I knew he wanted to pour nasty words into my ears since Joey wasn't with me. However, he was scared that neighbors might hear—an old lady was raking leaves nearby and Cory knew better than to let loose with cusswords. Peppered with age, she was probably hard of hearing, but I suspected that Cory wouldn't chance it.
"I have to go," I hollered in return. I pulled off, my skateboard chipping up sparks against the cement, but Cory and his friends were on my tail.
"Joey," I whimpered. I envisioned Joey pinning Cory in six seconds and doing it again for the fun of it.
"Your friend's not going to help you now!" Cory yelled.
Breathing hard, Cory described how he was going to get me into a headlock, run my nose into the ground, and twist my ears off. The ears he was going to feed to his 4-H project—a hog named Porky.
With the Sacagawea coins jingling in my pockets, I had to hold them down with the flat of my palm. If they spilled, Cory and his friends would jump for them. How could I face Mom, who was walking around the rich part of town in worn shoes? When she wasn't selling cosmetics, she worked at a grocery store, and with Dad gone, every dollar mattered.
I made it home, but my pants almost didn't, as they slid around my ankles when I rounded the corner onto my block. It was this calamity, perhaps, that saved me from a showdown with Cory. He stopped to bend over and laugh, then gave up the chase. But it was no laughing matter.
I took the key from under our front mat and entered the house, my face shiny with sweat. I got a drink of water and noticed that the answering machine's red eye was blinking. I pushed the Replay button.
"Ronnie, can you come over?" The voice was Joey's. I picked up the sound of wind and a bird's chirping. I assumed that his mother had passed her cell phone to him up in the tree. His mother was a super nice mom who let you rob the fruit bowl of all the bananas and apples when you came over.
Joey's voice wasn't edged with urgency. "Come by when you have a chance," he said.
I took a break from my search for Jessica.
For lunch I devoured two quesadillas while I sat on my mom's recliner watching Animal Planet. The show was a repeat about an injured female bald eagle rescued from its twiggy nest by a biologist. The first time I caught that episode I had clung to the arm of the recliner, muttering, "Don't let the eggs fall." I pushed my knuckle into my mouth and wept when the biologist discovered that two of the three bald eagle eggs were cracked.
When the program was over, I ventured into the bedroom for a belt. I'd cleared my pockets of the coins, but there was no telling if I might run into Mom again with an additional horde of Sacagawea dollars. I then got a call from this kid named Wilson who wanted to borrow my skateboard. Wilson was freckled, smaller than me, and smarter than most everyone. I said, "Sure," and hid the skateboard under a blanket on the front porch for Wilson to come pick up.
I would have to continue my quest on my bike. I decided to travel a mile to downtown before I went to see Joey. I remembered a ballet school on Main Street that also offered gymnastics classes. First, though, I rode over to Rankle's Drugstore to spend my dollar coin. I pulled a soda from a tub of icy water and approached the front counter.
"What's this?" Mr. Rankle mumbled. Pigeon-chested, turkey-necked, and bird-eyed, he lowered his reading glasses, which had been propped on his forehead. He studied the coin and uttered a grouchy complaint: "I hate these coins."
But he didn't hate it enough to throw it over his shoulder or press it back into my palm. He was a merchant, and money was money. He pocketed the coin and gave me the change—a nickel and a dirty penny.
"I heard 'bout your friend going crazy."
I blinked. I was surprised that even he had heard about Joey's ascent into the rafters.
"You did?" I responded.
"I don't know why he would do that."
I nearly rolled out the story of Joey's first love, but Mr. Rankle was a stingy old man who wouldn't understand. I twisted open the soda and chugged with great reverence, breathing hard as I came up for air. I was about to leave when I spotted a bin of used books for sale— So Now You're a Teenager by Justin F. Lockerbie, Ph.D., caught my eye. The cover featured a black-and-white photo of a happy-looking teenage boy and girl walking side by side, hands almost touching. I sneaked a glance at Mr. Rankle and opened the book. It gave off a musty scent as I paused on a page that featured a photograph of a boy, aged thirteen, with splayed ears and Braille-like pimples on his forehead. I swallowed. He reminded me of me, except his eyes were set clos
e, like a rat's. The book was so old, the boy had to be an elderly man by now, or possibly dead and in his grave. I had to wonder whether he ever found love.
"He's a chimp," I unhappily concluded.
I scanned the table of contents as I swigged my soda—the fizz burned my nostrils. Dealing with parents. Containing your anger. Growth spurts, hygiene, and home remedies for pimples. Bullies—Cory popped to my mind. The opposite sex. I chugged long and hard on my soda and was getting comfy to read this chapter when one of Mom's Glorietta Cosmetics customers came into the drugstore. She had a pug nose, tweaked to smell gossip. In fact, she sniffed me out even though I was half hidden behind a beam.
"Hi, Ronnie," Mrs. Fuller greeted smoothly. "I drove by your friend Joey's house. I didn't stop but people are saying that he's living in a tree." She chuckled. "He's acting like a monkey if you ask me. You know anything about it?"
"Uh, no, Mrs. Fuller," I claimed.
"Heard he climbed to the gymnasium roof last night at the awards banquet. Good thing no one was hurt." She licked her thin lips and her pug nose pulsated as she waited for me to offer my impression of last night.
"Yeah, he sort of did that."
Mrs. Fuller waited for more explanation.
"He just, kind of like, you know, got this balloon that went up into the rafters." I lubed my throat with a quick swallow of soda.
"You're sure growing," she remarked and looked me up and down. "What grade are you?"
"Seventh," I answered, and slowly edged away from the book bin. I could see her eyes lower, scan the bin, and lock onto So Now You're a Teenager.
"You are a growing boy!" There was a twinkle in her eyes.
"Sorry, Mrs. Fuller, but I have to leave."
"Where are you going? What's the hurry?"
"I have an eye appointment," I lied.
I scooted out in a hurry, the bell on the door ringing that I had lost that round with Mrs. Fuller. I imagined her opening that book on teenagers and maybe pondering—briefly—her own teenage years in ancient times. Try as I might, I couldn't imagine her as a young person. She seemed to have been born an old gossip.
I was glad to escape. As I stepped into the daylight—the noontime sun was knife shiny—I was forced to pleat my brow, narrowing my eyes, in order to see. But I wasn't so blinded that I missed Jessica. She was standing in front of the ballet studio, her hair tied back into a ponytail and a black and pink canvas bag over her shoulder. Her face was as pink as it had been last night.
In a frenzy, I unlocked my bike, tossing the last of my soda away. Most of it sloshed in my stomach as I bent over to pull the chain through the spokes. I had to catch up; Jessica was already climbing into an idling station wagon.
I did a wheelie and headed up the street, gripping the handlebars, my mouth clamped closed with determination. The station wagon, I noticed, had a church sticker on the back bumper. The car was headed north. If I lost sight of it, at least I had a clue that Jessica lived in that direction.
I put my sugar rush from the soda to work. My legs were like pinwheels, and my mouth opened wide and scooped air into my lungs.
"I got to catch her," I told myself.
I was keeping pace when a police car pulled up next to me. I kept churning my legs and gave only a glance to the vehicle. I believe this was my undoing—that single glance and, thus, a sign of disrespect for the law—because a tinted window rolled down. The officer ordered me to stop.
"Who, me?" I yelled, inhaling road dust and car exhaust. I had never been in trouble with the law, though when I was nine I had sweated with worry when Joey and I wrote our names in wet cement.
The officer nodded. I slowed my bike to a halt, dripping from my fiery effort to keep up with the station wagon. My chest was heaving for air.
"Come around over here," the police officer commanded. It was my classmate Madison Keenan's dad.
I rolled my bike to the driver's side.
"What is it, sir?" I asked with exaggerated politeness. My knees were weak, and sweat was beginning to roll off my face.
"You ever see the back of a squad car?" he asked.
I shaded my eyes and stared into the back of the car.
"Don't be a wise guy," the officer grumbled.
"But you said." Then I caught on that he meant me in the back of a squad car.
I quickly learned my infraction—littering. Officer Keenan had been parked across the street from the drugstore when I ditched the soda bottle.
"I'll go pick it up," I said and pledged never to litter again as long as I lived. I even offered to pick up litter for a day. If only he would let me go so I could try to catch the station wagon!
But the officer changed the subject and asked about Joey.
"Heard he climbed into the gym rafters last night. Takes a lot of courage to do that. Wonder why he did it."
I searched Officer Keenan's eyes, which were the lightest blue. I wasn't sure what was behind those eyes and was reluctant to respond. Was he really interested in Joey's courage or was he just stalling before he arrested me for littering? I pictured myself in the backseat of the squad car and decided to answer honestly. "This girl lost her balloon and he had to climb way up there to get it." The squad car's engine noise covered up the sound of my nervous heartbeats.
"Do you know if he's going out for basketball when he gets to high school? We could sure use someone who can leap."
"I don't know. That's two years away." I swallowed and tasted dust, car exhaust, and fear. I ventured an answer that might make him happy. "He did mention that he likes basketball."
"We could sure use an athlete like him."
"Joey really likes basketball." I feared my nose would grow a couple of feet from this lie.
Officer Keenan put on his shades. "You better not litter anymore," he warned me, and put the squad car into drive. I caught sight of his grin in the mirror, a smile that was almost devilish, before he punched the gas pedal and the back tires screeched up a dust storm.
"He did that on purpose," I spat. I thought I heard laughter from his squad car, but maybe it was the squawk of his radio. The dust the car had stirred up was like a tornado—and inside this funnel stood a teenage chimp.
Chapter 5
The station wagon was long gone. I postponed my search for Jessica, turned my bike around, and sailed on the wave of what I must brag was an awesome wheelie. I set course for Joey's house. I found him still in the tree, and, around the tree, a dozen or so banana skins, apple cores, and the top of a pineapple. Ants were making a holiday of this debris.
"Joey!" I bellowed.
Joey peered down from among the leaves.
"Where you been?" he asked. He pulled a pair of earbuds from his ears.
I struggled up into the tree's lower branches and then made an easy ascent into the higher limbs. I refrained from reporting my detective work in search of Jessica. I didn't want to disappoint my best friend if I couldn't find her. I opted, instead, to tell him about Officer Keenan's interest in him going out for basketball.
"But I don't like basketball." The music from the earbuds whined. I recognized the song by a band called the Gnats.
"But Officer Keenan heard about your climbing way up into the rafters." I gave Joey time to ponder how the story had spread so quickly. I already knew—there were nearly a hundred people at the awards banquet and each was the owner of a tongue, some looser than others.
"People talk," Joey answered. He thumbed his iPod off and the gnatlike sounds ceased.
I had to agree.
"Plus Mom had some friends over for lunch. They came over and looked at me, like I was..."
Like you were a monkey, I nearly blurted.
"Everyone knows," Joey remarked.
We sat in silence. A breeze rustled the leaves. A faraway wind chime made music. After a brief moment of quiet reflection, Joey told me that his mother had baked him banana bread. He asked me if I wanted a slice.
"A delicious thought," I answered. I ate two slice
s while I mustered up a plan to get Joey out of his funk. "Let's go camping," I suggested. "We take an inner tube down French Creek and try to get really lost. Then we can see if we can get back."
"I'm never coming down. Coach Bear called me a monkey in front of everyone."
"He was just mad. Maybe he would've lost his job if you fell." A thought percolated in my mind. I should find out where Coach Bear lived and ask him to apologize. He would have to do it once he realized Joey was serious about staying in the tree.
"I don't care. He shouldn't have talked to me like that."
Joey had been blasted with insults in front of a girl he liked and with lots of other people around. Any teenage chimp would have buckled under that kind of barrage, but he couldn't stay in the tree forever. I was going to tell him to get over it when his mom's cell phone, near us on a branch, began to ring.
Joey answered. I could hear his mom asking if we wanted lemonade. I licked my lips. I was thirsty from all my running around, as well as hungry. My stomach juices had already pulverized those two lunchtime quesadillas and were working on the banana bread. I assumed that it was only two o'clock or so. Dinner wouldn't be for at least four more hours.
Mrs. Rios delivered the two water bottles filled with icy lemonade and asked me to remind my mom to visit her.
"I will, Mrs. Rios. And your banana bread was really good." I rubbed my tummy in satisfaction. After she departed, I drank my lemonade in one long stretch.
"Joey," I said softly.
Joey raised his face to me. I could see that two new pimples on his forehead had replaced the dried-up ones on his chin.
"There's this book I saw at Rankle's." I hesitated.
"What about it?" Joey inquired.
"It's called So Now You're a Teenager." I explained what I believed was its thesis, that boy chimps like us in time grow up to be handsome and productive citizens.
"We're always going to be like this!" Joey snapped. "This is permanent. Just look in the mirror!"