I Am Fartacus

by Mark Maciejewski

“Then I accept your apology,” she says.

  She leads me into a side room that’s more like an antique store than someone’s house. There’s stuff everywhere, and I have to search for a place to sit. I pick up a mountain of mail that’s on the couch so I can sit down. Every single unopened letter is addressed to Shelby in loopy handwriting like my mom’s. One word pops out from the return address as she snatches the envelopes from me: “Penitentiary.”

  Shelby’s mom is in jail? I suddenly feel bad for having two parents at home that I try to avoid.

  She looks at me and it’s obvious she knows I saw the return address.

  “Where’s your dad?” I say, hoping to avoid the subject of her mom.

  She rolls her eyes. “He died before I was born.”

  This is not going well. It’s probably better if I just let her tell me what she wants me to know instead of me asking any more stupid questions.

  “I never knew him.” She points to a table covered in framed photos. “Just through pictures.” The biggest picture is of a young guy with his arm around a Shelby look-alike that has to be her mom. “It was me, Mom, and Grammie until Mom went away.”

  I don’t want to make Shelby relive any more bad stuff, but the curiosity is like an itch in the middle of my back. Is Shelby’s mom some kind of psychopath? It would explain a lot. I have to know. “What did she do?”

  Shelby takes a deep breath. “She stole a bunch of money from a guy she worked for.”

  “Why did she steal money?”

  Shelby throws her hands up. “How should I know? I guess she thought she needed it more than he did.”

  I’m starting to think the hardest part of being an adult is holding on to whatever you’ve earned. “Then what?”

  “Then she got in trouble and she left. It’s been me and Grammie ever since.”

  As far as I can tell, she doesn’t have any friends other than Moby and me, and the only other person she hangs out with is probably older than Mrs. Belfry. Now it makes sense why Shelby always acts and dresses like she’s sixty.

  She crams the letters behind the couch and neither of us speaks.

  “Ask your friend if he would like something to drink,” Grammie Larkin calls from the other room.

  I nod, and Shelby calls back, “Yes please, Grammie.”

  Every time I move, dust puffs out from the couch, threatening to make me sneeze. It looks like it’s irritating Shelby’s eyes too. For once they aren’t staring into my soul like she wants to suck my brain out. In fact, she doesn’t look at me at all. There’s something else bothering her.

  When it’s obvious she isn’t going to start a conversation, I ask, “Why no drama club today?”

  “It’s canceled, Maciek.” She pulls a cloth handkerchief out of the sleeve of her sweater and wipes her eyes and nose.

  I see an actual tear, and my guts turn to Jell-O. Plotting the overthrow of a student body president or blackmailing my principal is one thing, but dealing with a crying girl scares the heck out of me.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until Wednesday to meet the rest of the club, then,” I say, hoping to make her feel better.

  Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to say, because the tears really start to gush.

  Grammie Larkin comes in carrying a silver tray with a small plate of cookies and a tea set on it. She pours out two tiny cups of steaming tea and then leaves the room without ever noticing Shelby’s tears. After dealing with having a daughter in jail, a few tears probably didn’t even show up on her radar. Say what you want about my parents, but you can’t say they don’t notice me. Now it makes sense why Shelby is always trying to hang out with us. I think about how much time I’ve spent trying to avoid her for no reason, and I feel a little sick. People have disliked me for no reason since second grade. I should know better than to treat someone that way.

  I pick up one of the cookies from the tray and take a bite as I wait for Shelby to come around. The cookie tastes like butter and dust, but I try to act as if I like it so she won’t cry anymore.

  Finally she stops and looks up at me, her eyes bleary behind her glasses. “The Kangaroos,” she says. “The uniforms.”

  “Huh?”

  “The track team needs new uniforms because the old ones got burned.”

  She isn’t into sports; why does she care about the track uniforms?

  “So?”

  “So, the new student government met at lunchtime today to figure out how to buy them.”

  “Okay.”

  “The track team is the pride of the school, and uniforms aren’t cheap. There’s only so much money in the budget for student activities. Archer Norris proposed a motion to take the money from the extracurricular clubs and use it to buy the new uniforms.”

  “He can’t just do that, can he?” It sounds so wrong.

  “The class elected him to be the ‘voice to the faculty.’ ” She quotes Mr. Mayer at the assembly, only with a snarky tone. “The vote on the clubs was three to one. Sherman Mills voted with Archer and Troy. It’s all over. There is no more drama club, Maciek.”

  My hand clenches into a fist, crushing the cookie back into dust. I may not have actually ever gone to a meeting, but that club is the most important thing to Shelby. It means as much to her as track does to Sizzler. Probably about as much as my only friend meant to me in second grade. Why should everyone else have to pay for the things he destroys? Plotting against me is one thing, but Shelby never did anything to him (that he knows of). The Arch is making a path of destruction through the school and he doesn’t even care.

  This is exactly the kind of thing I feared when I heard about that stupid election. Archer Norris got a little bit of power and now he’s using it to trample whoever he wants just because he can.

  Something inside me snaps. The Arch has messed with a member of the wrong cadre for the last time.

  Now it’s going to cost him.

  CHAPTER 15

  By the time I get to Moby’s, my mind is a hurricane with everything we need to discuss. The Colonel pulls open the door and waves me inside.

  “Is Moby here?” I ask. But then I spot his backpack by the bottom of the stairs.

  The Colonel makes a psssht. “He’s upstairs, turning his brains into mush.” This is adult code for playing video games, but “mush” is an exaggeration. Moby could barely even soften his brain with the lame games his parents allow him to play. “Go on up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I’m almost to the stairs when the Colonel says, “I figured you’d be up there with him right after school.”

  I can’t tell the Colonel I was in detention and have him think I’m becoming a dirty hippie, but I don’t want to lie to him either, so I split the difference. “I was . . . working in the library today.”

  He raises his chin and looks me up and down. “Doing a little civil service, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, then turn to make my exit.

  “Well, the library’s not the military, but it’s a start,” he says.

  I nod, then wait a second to make sure there’s nothing else. I’m about to head upstairs when he says, “I ever tell you boys about my buddy Lenny? Talk about a civil servant.”

  Normally, I love to hear the Colonel talk about almost anything, but I have some major stuff to discuss with Moby, and I need to get out of here quickly so I’m home before my parents. The sooner they find out that I’m not in trouble for the whole arson misunderstanding, the sooner I can get out from under the microscope and get down to some serious scheming. I’ve got to bring Archer down, and I’ve got to do it soon.

  I try not to sound impatient. “Nuh-uh.”

  “Lenny and I joined the army and went to boot camp together. We used to stay up late and play hearts every night after lights-out. Good times.”

  “Hearts?”

  He shoots me a look. “It’s a card game. Back then video games were called cards. That’s how we passed the time. Anyhow, after basic training we ended
up in the same unit. All told, we fought in two wars together.” He sighs. “That will bring a couple of friends pretty close.”

  I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I hope he gets there quickly. “He sounds like he’s a really good friend.”

  “Was,” he says. “Lenny died in—well, it’s classified. But I’ll just tell you this: Lenny sacrificed himself to save me without even thinking twice. If I’d seen that grenade first”—he takes a deep breath—“I would’ve done the same for him. You see where I’m going with this?”

  For a guy who’s so in love with the army, he sure doesn’t make it sound very appealing. “I think so.”

  I didn’t realize he knew how to smile, but he does. “If you’re going to have that kind of friend, you need to make sure you are that kind of friend.”

  I nod the way my parents like to see me nod when they are trying to teach me a valuable lesson. It has the right effect on the Colonel, because he smiles again, then says, “That is all.” Then he turns and marches off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the foyer.

  The Colonel usually knows what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t always know what we’re talking about, so before I head upstairs, I stop and think about what he said. Moby has always been that kind of friend, but have I?

  Moby is sitting on the floor in the theater room, staring up at the screen. His brain might be a little mushy, judging by the drool running down his lip. He twitches when he notices me, but his eyes stay locked on the game. On the screen a cartoony turtle floats around on a cloud sprinkling sparkle dust on some grumpy mushrooms, turning them into sunflowers. I think this game is designed for five-year-olds. I stand by the wall just inside the door and wait for him to notice me.

  After a few minutes I can’t take any more of my best friend ignoring me, and I clear my throat loudly.

  “I know you’re there,” Moby says. “I saw you walk in.”

  “Did you see me looking for you at school today too?”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “To tell you some good news.”

  “What? Did you get some more people to join your cadre?” He gives me a look I’ve never seen on his face before.

  It looks an awful lot like disappointment, and I feel really bad.

  “Moby, why have you been avoiding me all day?”

  He keeps sprinkling stupid sparkle dust.

  I step between him and the screen. “Hello!”

  Moby pauses the game but won’t look me in the eye. I know him; I can tell he’s trying to figure out a way to escape, like he always does when things get uncomfortable. The fact that we’re at his house is probably the only reason he doesn’t make a break for it.

  “It’s almost time for Extreme Bunker Builders. I’m going to have to let the Colonel use the TV,” Moby says.

  “Well, then I guess you better hurry up and tell me why you don’t want to talk to me.”

  “If I tell you, then I’ll be talking to you, and that will sorta ruin it.”

  The kid has a point, but I’m not going to back down.

  “C’mon, Mobe, you’ve been my friend forever. We’re like Green Hornet and Kato.”

  He finally looks at me. “Why are we friends, Chub?”

  The question hits me like a punch in the stomach. “Because we are. I don’t know.” I’m starting to wonder if cornering him and making him talk was such a good idea.

  “Well,” he says, “I know why I’m friends with you. Back in second grade I used to get so nervous at school because I didn’t have any friends, and I just wanted to hide all the time so no one would see me. The day we met, I was in the cafeteria and my stomach was all upset from stress, and because my parents had made falafel and tahini the night before. I had to blow off a little gas blast so I wouldn’t poop my pants, so I waited for it to get real loud in there, then I tried to let out a quiet little fart to let off some of the pressure.”

  I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the day we became friends. A grin creeps onto my face as I remember what happened next.

  “The fart started out silent, but then the whole place went completely quiet for a half a second. I was so nervous everyone could smell it already—I just let it go.” Moby hangs his head.

  “The fart heard round the school,” I say, remembering the giant blast that introduced me to my best friend. “How could I ever forget that?”

  “I wish everyone would.” Moby closes his eyes like the memory is a bad smell he’s trying to avoid. “After it happened, everyone was laughing at me . . . almost everyone.” Moby looks up at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. “That’s why I’m friends with you. You didn’t laugh.”

  I wanted to be his friend because of the exact same fart. Because he looked straight at me that day, with the cloud still hanging in the air, and then walked away like it was no big deal. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Funny how two people can see the same thing so differently.

  I want to say something, but he’s finally talking to me again, so I don’t interrupt.

  “We were the only two people who didn’t laugh. It’s been you and me ever since, until last week.”

  It’s true—since our group has gotten bigger, he and I have had less time together. “Are you mad about the cadre?” I ask.

  “The Green Hornet is a hero no matter what. The only reason anybody cares about Kato is because the Green Hornet needs his help.”

  I honestly thought having more people to help would make things easier, but it never occurred to me Moby wouldn’t see it that way. I became so focused on my enemy, I forgot about my best friend.

  “You’re upset I got Sizzler to steal the Arch’s underwear instead of you?”

  He shoots me a look. “What?”

  Then it dawns on me that he doesn’t even know about the whole Skivvies scam.

  “Listen, Mobe. I needed to blackmail the Arch so he’d say the fire was an accident. Sizzler had a pair of his messy underwear, and I—”

  He shakes his head. “You never would’ve blackmailed the Arch without me before.”

  He’s right. I wouldn’t have. But things are different now. The Arch is much more dangerous, and I need to fight him any way I can.

  But when I look at Moby’s face, something hits me I never thought of before. Everyone else is in the cadre because of the Arch. But Moby is here because of me. He’s stuck by me since the beginning, and lately I haven’t been a very good friend in return. I need to make sure Moby has a key role in all our activities. The trick will be figuring out a key role he can’t mess up with one of his improvisations.

  “So let me get this straight. From now on you want to be the only one who gets to handle other people’s dirty underwear?” I try to hold a straight face, but I crack, and then Moby laughs too. Laughing with him makes me feel like everything is good in the world, at least for a little while.

  “Something like that.”

  “You know the cadre needs you, right?” I shove him in the shoulder.

  Moby cracks a small grin and shoves me back. “Yeah.”

  That’s the thing about best friends—you don’t have to say everything to know what the other guy means. I grab the extra controller off the shelf and get down on the floor next to him. I have half an hour before I need to leave, so we activate two-player mode and start turning mushrooms into sunflowers together. I need some gaming time with my best friend. Back when it was just Moby and me, it seemed like we goofed around a lot more. Lately, going after the Arch has started to feel kinda like work. Managing people can really wear you out.

  “You know the Arch is up to something major?” I say.

  “Yeah, I heard about the drama club. That sucks.”

  “If somebody’s up to something, you follow the money.”

  We didn’t know the Colonel was there, and his voice makes us jump.

  “This isn’t a government operation, Grandpa,” Moby says. “It’s just some stu
ff at school.” Moby rolls his eyes at me.

  “Well, take it or leave it, that’s my two cents,” he says, taking a long drink out of a glass of watered-down soda.

  “We need to figure out what the Arch is up to.” The picture I got from Sizzler pops into my mind. It’s the only play I have at the moment. If the Colonel isn’t going to be of any use, maybe I—we—can use the photo somehow to get the Arch to reveal himself.

  The Colonel releases a belch like the roar of distant cannons. “Pack up the fairy dust, boys. Time for my show.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Jarek doesn’t work on Mondays, so he comes over to our house for dinner later that night. He gets there at the same time as my parents, which is great because he makes a nice buffer between my dad’s jaws and my butt. I avoid my parents until dinner is ready by pulling a Moby-style bathroom session to think about the best way to use the photo of the Arch. My legs are numb when my mom calls us all to the table. As I walk downstairs, I pray my dad is in a good mood. How his day went could make or break a delicate operation like this.

  After Dad says the blessing, it’s quiet as we all dish up. I’m about to speak up when my dad says, “There was no call from the school today.” He glances at my mom. “I will call the principal tomorrow.”

  This is it.

  I say the line I’ve rehearsed: “We explained what happened to Mr. Mayer. I’m not in any trouble.” I know it won’t end the conversation, but it’s a solid start.

  My dad looks at me and then at my mom. “What did you explain?”

  “We were trying to melt the end of the drawstring on his uniform, and it got out of hand.”

  Dad gives me a suspicious look. “Why were you doing this?”

  I swallow a huge chunk of fried potato. “The little plastic thing came off the end of it, and it was fraying—”

  “Aglet,” Jarek says through a mouthful of brussels sprouts.

  My mother snaps her fingers at him because she doesn’t allow talking with food in your mouth. “Jarek! What would Nastusia say?” Nastusia is Jarek’s mom, my aunt back in Poland. I don’t remember her, but her name is brought up only during the enforcement of rules, so she’s probably pretty scary.