Alley & Rex

by Joel Ross

  I almost tell him to go away, but (a) that’s mean, (b) I owe him for the teachers’ lounge, and (c) he’s not getting in my way or anything. He’s just tagging along as I head for the stairs.

  “ ‘Cold air,’ ” I repeat. “ ‘Water molecules. The sun heats the oceans.’ ”

  He jabbers more nouns and verbs and, for all I know, adjectives.

  “ ‘The evaporative phase,’ ” I repeat. “ ‘Condensation.’ ”

  “Runoff,” he says.

  “ ‘Runoff!’ ” I play an air-guitar solo. “Weeyow! Smackdown monsoon storm cycle!”

  Rex clears his throat. “Percolation.”

  “ ‘Perco—’ ” I stop short. “Jell-O!”

  That last word isn’t a repeat, it’s a heartfelt expression of joy. Because the third-grade Hill Build Contest must’ve happened today. A bunch of models are displayed in the lobby near the stairway.

  Most of them are neat and normal:

  But one is different.

  What kind of boneheaded baby goblins built a model out of Jell-O?

  That’s a terrible plan. It’s a complete fumble. It’s a massive fail.

  They’re my heroes. They brought twenty pounds of blueberry-flavored slime into school! Pure genius. And now it’s sitting here in the lobby.

  Well, not “sitting” so much as “wobbling.” And I’m wobbling too—with excitement. Because an awesome new choice just appeared before me.

  “I cannot support your inclination,” Rex says, “to tamper with that whiffle waffle gorgonzola…”

  Well, I don’t know what he says exactly, because I’m too busy gazing at the Jell-O that is glistening before me. And, I mean, I’m only waiting around for Dad, right? It’s not like I have anything else to do.

  Plus, there’s always time to sculpt a robotic JELL-O-butt.

  15

  The PA system says: “Alley Katz, your grandmother is waiting in the driveway.”

  My heart shrivels like my fingertips after a five-hour bath.

  My heart shrivels like the apple I forgot in my backpack all summer.

  My heart shrivels like a slug in a bowl of potato chips.

  My heart just shrivels, okay? I mean, Grannie Blatt? Again? What happened to this is just a test?

  “Oh no,” I moan.

  “You are fretful because you failed to locate the Golden Keys,” Rex tells me. “However—”

  “That’s not why I’m full of fret!”

  “Then what is the cause of your distress?”

  “My grandmother! She’ll chain me to her kitchen table all weekend and make me study.”

  “How unfortunate,” he says, with an odd tone in his voice. “Still, perhaps that will improve your grade?”

  “But at what cost, young Rex?” I ask gravely. “At what cost?”

  He blinks at me. “Beg pardon?”

  “The Blatt is a grandmother without mercy,” I tell him. “She carries a picture of me in her purse.”

  “That is neither unpleasant nor unusual.”

  I laugh bitterly. “It shows me as a three-year-old, sitting on a potty with Cheetos in my ears.”

  “I retract my previous statement,” he says.

  “And she flashes it around like a pop-up ad! She showed my whole fourth-grade class. Plus, the only soda in her fridge is celery-flavored.”

  Before Rex bursts into sympathetic tears, there is a screeching from the front of the school. It sounds like a squeaky door hitting a cat’s tail. Also like tires squealing when a terrible driver jerks forward and slams the brakes, then jerks forward and slams the brakes again.

  My heart soars. That’s the sound of Bubbie’s pickup truck!

  Bubbie is my other grandmother. My sweet and cheerful grandmother. Actually, Grannie Blatt says I’m just like Bubbie. She calls me “a chip off the old blockhead.”

  So I bid Rex “a dew,” which makes his ears quiver happily, and race outside.

  Sure enough, there’s a dented old pickup truck waiting on the sidewalk. Well, half on the sidewalk. Bubbie never gets all four wheels on the same surface.

  The passenger door creaks open and Bubbie calls, “Climb in!”

  “Hi, Bubbie,” I say, fastening my seat belt.

  “Let me look at you!”

  “My handsome bubbeleh!” Bubbie stomps on the gas. “So? How was your day?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Enough about you!” She spins the wheel wildly, scattering cars like a toddler chasing pigeons. “Let’s talk about me!”

  I brace against the dashboard. “How are you?”

  “With my new titanium knees? I’m as strong as one of your killer robots.”

  “Like a Terminator!”

  “Nu?” she says. “Which one is that?”

  “The ones that come from the future to change the past.”

  “That’s me in a nutshell,” Bubbie says, honking the truck horn happily. “Except I came from the past to kvetch about the present.”

  I laugh. “Oh! That reminds me, I have a science test Monday.”

  “How does that remind you?”

  “Well, mostly because of the kvetching.”

  “Kvetching” means “complaining,” and the thing I want second most in the world right now is to complain to Bubbie about how unfair school is. But what I want first most is to ask her to help me get the A in science.

  Except before I mention it, she says, “Test, shmest. There’s french fries in the glove compartment.”

  I don’t ask why there are french fries in the glove compartment. I just open the glove compartment and ta da! French fries. Which immediately leap to the top of the Things I Want Most in the World Right Now list, making me forget about the test and the Golden Keys—and even the kvetching.

  “Help yourself,” Bubbie says as the truck squeals around a corner. “Put on your hat and coat—and where’s that fake beard?”

  “No idea,” I mumble, around a mouthful of fries.

  She blasts through a yellow light. “Then strap in, Alley-gator! We’re heading for the belly of the beast!”

  16

  Bubbie lives in a seniors-only place across town. They don’t allow kids, so when I visit, I have to dress as an old man, in weird hats and patchy jackets and a fake beard.

  I still look like a kid, of course, but nobody cares. Either that or they’re afraid that if they complain, Bubbie will take revenge, like smearing hot sauce on their dentures.

  When Bubbie first moved in, this what I imagined:

  I also imagined wisdom. I mean, if you’re older than rust, you should be full of knowledge and dignity, right?

  Except this is what it actually looks like:

  Bubbie is my favorite person. She makes everything fun. And once I tell her about the Golden Keys, she won’t scold me: she’ll just think of a way to help.

  I open my mouth to explain, and Mr. Morris says, “Does anyone want soda?”

  “Oh!” I say. “Yes, please.”

  “Which flavor?” he asks, showing me two bottles. “Pickle or pastrami?”

  Mr. Morris once told me a story about growing up in New York City. The only telephone on his entire block was at the candy store. Any kid lucky enough to answer would get a penny for running to the apartment that was getting the call. So I asked him what kind of candy they had back in the Stone Age, and he said, “Brontosaurus Swirl,” and we still make up funny flavors.

  “Oh no,” I say. “You’re out of Broccoli Crunch again?”

  We both laugh, he pours me a glass of cherry cola, and a lady I don’t know tells me, “Mr. Morris is a member of the Greatest Generation.”

  I think she’s kidding, so I say, “According to him!”

  Except apparently that’s what his generation is called: the Greatest Generation. Seriously, look it up. I mean, there’s Boomers, Xers, Millennials, Z, and… Greatest?

  That’s pretty bigheaded, if you ask me. I don’t say anything, though.

  And I don�
��t need to, because Bubbie says, “Greatest Generation, my wobbly bottom.”

  “They won World War II,” the other lady sniffs.

  “They were children,” Bubbie says. “Do you know what they called sleeping bags in the army? ‘Fart sacks.’ ”

  “No way!” I say.

  Bubbie nods. “And one night, on the boat to Germany, the soldier next to my father suddenly screamed, ‘Gas attack!’ Everyone woke up, scrambling for their gas masks—but guess what actually happened?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Your great-grandfather farted.”

  The other lady clucks about showing some respect, but Bubbie doesn’t care. That’s one of the things I love about her. She once told me, It’s always okay to question things, Alley-gator, especially things that nobody else questions. Especially those things.

  “I never saw anything like that…,” Mr. Morris tells Bubbie, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

  “Ha!” the other lady says.

  “… but we used to stick our butts out of moving trains to poop.”

  So what I’m saying is, I forget to tell Bubbie about my school problems right then.

  And after the poker game, we join Zayde—my grandfather—at their apartment for a traditional Shabbos dinner. Well, traditional for us. We light candles, drink grape juice, and stuff ourselves on the homemade pineapple-garlic pizza that Zayde cooked.

  I sleep over that night, but what with one thing and another, the Golden Keys totally slip my mind.

  17

  On Sunday, Grannie Blatt comes to our house to light a yahrzeit candle for her father. A yahrzeit candle burns for twenty-four hours straight. You light one every year, as a memorial for someone you lost, on the anniversary of their death.

  Grannie Blatt says a prayer, then talks about her father a little.

  She sounds sad, but he sounds like he kicked butt.

  First he traveled to Spain to fight the fascists in the 1930s. I’m not really clear on the history, but I guess the “fascists” were Nazis before Nazis were Nazis? Anyway, he got captured and locked up in a prisoner-of-war camp for a year.

  But that didn’t stop him—because he kicked butt.

  So after that war, he signed up to fight in World War II. He was a motorcycle messenger. He died when his bike hit a land mine.

  “He fought his whole life against injustice,” Dad says.

  “He never backed down,” Mom says.

  “He was brave and kind,” Grannie Blatt says. “But he was reckless, too. He never even got to meet his daughter.”

  “You mean you?” I ask.

  “Yes, Alley. I mean me.”

  “Oh. That’s sad.”

  “My father was a good man, but nobody taught him to think about the consequences.” Grannie Blatt peers at me. “Now who does that remind you of?”

  I almost say Captain America, based on fighting in World War II, but Cap thinks about consequences. Then I almost say Wolverine, because he’s more reckless, except that’s not right either. So finally, I almost say Blue Beetle, because he’s so cool. But he’s DC, and I’m pretty sure that Grannie Blatt is only talking about the Marvel Universe, except now I can’t even remember the question.

  So I dig deep. I mean, really deep. Sure I forgot the question, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know any answers.

  And the answer I say is this: “The oceans contain ninety-six percent of the earth’s water.”

  Not bad, right? It looks like Rex’s science facts are rubbing off on me! I’m pretty proud of myself, but for some reason Grannie Blatt only sighs.

  18

  At school on Monday, the clock in gym class makes rude gestures at me with its minute hand.

  I’m out of time.

  The test is today. I need to free the Golden Keys from a locked cabinet in a storage room on the third floor or I’m doomed to a life of wart-trimming and squirrel cemeteries.

  My first class is gym. Which is usually nice. I’m a big fan of throwing and catching. Not to mention running, dodging, tackling, and whooping.

  On the other hand, I’m not great at rules. I’m more into disorganized sports.

  That’s why Ms. Vergara isn’t surprised when my warm-up involves chatting quietly with Chowder and Maya in the corner.

  “What happened on Friday?” I ask.

  “We were fighting goblins!” Maya says.

  “We,” Chowder repeats, smiling at her dippily.

  “I mean,” I snap, “about being lookouts!”

  “Oh,” Maya says. “Nothing happened, did it?”

  I grit every individual tooth. “Nothing but a hundred teachers coming and sitting on my head! Luckily, Rex saved me.”

  “Rex is great!” Maya says. “I owe him huge. He showed me how to defeat the goblin horde.”

  “One must alternate fireballs and ice blasts,” Rex says, suddenly behind me.

  I leap like a bullfrog sitting on a thumbtack. “Don’t creep up on me like that!”

  “Why aren’t you in class?” Chowder asks him.

  “A HOST is granted certain privileges. We are offered amenities such as hall passes.”

  The word “amenities” hits Chowder like a cinder block during a pillow fight. He staggers, so I jump into the ring.

  “Except you’re not a HOST, are you?” I ask Rex. “Not without a student to help.”

  “I remain committed to helping you, Alley.”

  “But you still want me to give a presentation! All I want is help getting the Golden Keys.”

  “I shall do whatever is necessary to secure you an A. You wish to open the supply closet on the third floor?”

  “Yeah. But how?”

  “If you clog a nearby water fountain, it will overflow onto the floor.”

  “That’s what clogging does,” I agree.

  “The water will seep into the closet,” Rex says. “Then a teacher will unlock the door to dry the floor inside.”

  “Ooh,” Chowder says. “Alley can walk right in!”

  “Not alone,” Rex tells him. “You and Maya must join him.”

  “No way! Clogging water fountains is serious trouble.”

  “I am confident you will face no official sanction.”

  “Muh?” Chowder asks.

  “He means you won’t get in trouble,” I explain, because I’m starting to understand Rex even when he uses made-up words.

  “I don’t know,” Maya says. “Messing with the plumbing is a big deal.”

  “As big a ‘deal’ as defeating the goblin horde?” Rex asks.

  “Not even close! And I owe you for that, so…” She takes a breath. “Okay, I’m in.”

  “Me too!” Chowder announces, gazing puppy-doggily at Maya. “Clogs away!”

  “Except why will a teacher let us into a wet supply closet?” she asks Rex.

  “Good question,” I say.

  “Very good,” Rex says, and looks at the mops leaning against the custodian’s room.

  “So what’s the answer?” I ask him.

  “What reason could there be,” Rex asks, gesturing to the mops, “to enter a room while water is on the floor?”

  “You’re answering a question with another question,” Chowder tells him.

  “We need you to answer with an answer,” I explain.

  “Maybe there is no answer,” Maya says, heaving a sigh.

  “Use the mops!” Rex drums his fingers impatiently on his briefcase. “Surely the strategy is obvious.”

  I look at the mops.

  Maya looks at the mops.

  Chowder looks at the mops.

  “Nope,” I say. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Complete blank,” Chowder reports.

  “You mean use them like swords?” Maya smiles fiercely. “We’ll ambush the teachers and drive them from our realm!”

  Chowder salutes Maya. “At your command, milady!”

  “No, no!” Rex bleats. “Just offer to mop the floor! The teacher will let you
inside to clean up.”

  “Oh,” Maya says. “That works too.”

  “Precisely so,” Rex says.

  I gaze at him in awe. This is the smartest thing I’ve ever heard. “You are the kingpin of bunnies! Other rabbits nibble and hop, but you roar.”

  “Thank you,” he says, giving a little bow.

  “Let’s grab the mops now,” I tell Chowder, “then during Quiet Study we’ll head upstairs.”

  So we edge toward the mops and—

  “Alley!” Ms. Vergara bellows. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Scrub-ercising!” I wave my mop overhead. “Now swab and turn, and swab and wring!”

  “Put that down and start running laps. All three of you! Give me a full mile.”

  19

  I stare at her in shock and horror. A mile? A full mile? We normally only do that twice a year!

  Ms. Vergara peers at Rex. “And what are you doing here, young man?”

  “I am here,” he tells her, “pursuant to my duties as an associate of the HOST program.”

  For a second, Ms. Vergara looks like a basketball just rebounded off her left eyebrow. Then she blinks and says, “Ah, okay.”

  What Rex does next is so amazing that you should take your hat off—because your brain’s about to explode. He pours all his XP into Flopsy Mind Control and asks Ms. Vergara, “May I borrow these? I’ll return them to the custodian when I’m finished.”

  “Sure,” Ms. Vergara says.

  “I shall place them in the stairwell for your later retrieval,” Rex murmurs to me.

  “Cool!” I say.

  A little too loudly, because Ms. Vergara turns to me and bellows, “WHY AREN’T YOU RUNNING? Alley, Maya, Charles!”

  So we start running.

  Then we keep running.

  And running and running and running.

  Sweat stings my eyes. My vision blurs. I run until my hair is a dripping sponge and my legs are overcooked noodles. Finally, after two and a half eternities, we finish and collapse to the floor.