Last Meeting of the Gorilla Club

by Sara Nickerson

  “What about earthquakes?” he blurted suddenly. “Did anyone think of that?”

  They stopped laughing.

  “There’s a major fault line. With shifting tectonic plates”—he motioned wildly—“all around! What would happen if the earthquake hit while we were all just standing here? Underneath the giant cement umbrella?”

  “We have drills,” Ms. Yoshida answered calmly. “Earthquake drills. You will be prepared for any sort of disaster.” She pointed to the wide cement perimeter dotted with fat green bushes. Everything was so green. “Or you can go around it. Most of the walkways are covered. But you’ll see. You’ll meet up with friends here. Sometimes there are bake sales.”

  Josh’s mother shot her laser-beam eye message to s-t-o-p and f-o-c-u-s. It was an amazing skill and froze Josh on the spot.

  It was true about the shifting tectonic plates: Josh had done the research before they moved. But now, on Monday, his actual first day, Josh knew it wasn’t the thought of an earthquake that was making his heart pound. It was the vision of those kids, his new classmates. Hello, hello.

  Another bell rang. Josh couldn’t remember if it was the late bell or the really late bell. Not that it mattered. He’d be the new kid, walking in either late or really late. Probably really late, since no one else was around.

  Right before he reached the Hello Walk, Josh spotted the glass door to the old library stairwell. A sign on the door said DO NOT ENTER. Josh tried to see past the sign, but it was nothing exciting. Just a dusty gray entry and a flight of worn stairs. When he stepped away, though, he heard a voice.

  “Haunted.”

  Josh shook his head, like an insect was buzzing in his ear.

  “I know you heard me.”

  The voice made Josh’s heart pound fast. Because it shouldn’t have been there. It shouldn’t have been anywhere, but especially not there, at that school, on that first day of a brand-new start. The voice made everything mixed up and muddled.

  He began to walk quickly. Which one was building C? Everything looked like everything else. And where were the building signs? Josh swung his backpack around and fumbled with the zipper. He pawed through his notebook, searching for the map.

  Where-where-where was it?

  “Everyone is in class already.” It was the voice again, familiar but older. “Not exactly the best impression on a first day, is it?”

  This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. It was just because of Ms. Yoshida’s joke about the haunted library. It was just about feeling anxious, and about his dad being gone, and his mom’s awful rash.

  Josh pulled out the crumpled map. With it came the pack of Kleenex.

  Hello?

  So Josh ran. On what was supposed to be the first day of his brand-new start, he ran. He aimed for the clear space between two buildings, far away from cement benches and bug-legs and the Hello Walk and a haunted library. Bushes and grass and trees blurred their terrible green all around, and his stiff new jeans made a rhythmic swishing that sounded like a whisper:

  Run, Josh! Run, Josh! Run, Josh! Run!

  Josh wanted to stop, but it was too late to go back to school. Way too late. Because “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”

  It was the truth. Josh had the poster at home.

  SHADOW

  Three weeks and one day into fifth grade and Lucas Hernandez was miserable.

  Fifth grade was supposed to be the best year yet. Fifth grade, when his class moved across the Hello Walk, from the little kid side to the big kid side. When he and his friends could be on the playfields instead of the monkey bars. When they’d have real PE, and Second Lunch with the upper grades instead of First Lunch with a bunch of kids who still spilled their milk and spit out chunks of food when they laughed. Fifth grade at Mountain View K–8 was supposed to be a fabulous year. But it wasn’t.

  And there was only one reason: Maxie Moon.

  She was back.

  Lucas could feel Maxie Moon’s eyes on the back of his head, boring into his skull like a dull but persistent drill. Even though his teacher, Mr. K, was being his usual best-teacher-in-the-world self, Lucas couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying because of those drill eyes, pointed at him from the far-right corner of the very last row. It was like she wanted to get inside his brain!

  While Mr. K jumped around in one of his rock concert T-shirts, most of the students laughed, raised their hands, and competed for his attention. But Lucas slouched low in his seat and attempted to calculate how many more miserable Mondays of the school year he’d have to endure. And Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and—well, Thursdays and Fridays, too. But he gave up trying to figure it out. What did it matter?

  Mr. K clapped his hands twice. “Ready-set?”

  The class clapped back and shouted, “You-bet!”

  “Okay, how’s everyone doing on their Marvelous Mystery projects? Has everyone narrowed down their topic?”

  Every hand in the class shot up. Every hand except one. Lucas hadn’t even narrowed down his brainstorm sheet.

  He’d been so excited when he first heard about the Marvelous Mystery project. They could pick anything—anything at all. And research it. And give a presentation. There was so much he wanted to explore. Big questions danced around in his brain, calling, Pick me! Pick me!

  He wanted to know more about Stonehenge and alien life-forms and Bigfoot versus Yeti. Vampire bats and Venus flytraps and seedless watermelons—how do they grow when there are no seeds? There was the question of infinity and the question of black holes and the question of mummies. There was that neighborhood dog with three legs. Lucas wanted to know more about that dog and about everything.

  Gravity!

  Pompeii!

  People in the circus who swallowed swords! How do they even do that?

  His biggest worry had been how to choose between them all. And now, he didn’t even care—about Marvelous Mysteries or soccer at lunch or the high school football game on Friday night or anything. Because she was back. And her eyes were drilling. And fifth grade was miserable.

  Lucas turned to the window. A line of trees had recently been planted between buildings C and D, right down the middle of the center strip of grass. But to Lucas, even the bright green things looked soggy and gray. And then something un-gray happened. Something red happened.

  Lucas leaned forward. A boy in a bright-red raincoat was running down the center strip between the buildings. Sprinting! No, not so much sprinting. He wasn’t the sprinter type—Lucas could see that right away. But he was going as fast as his legs could carry him. That was obvious, too.

  He held his breath, waiting to see what the boy could be running from. What would make a kid run like that? A wild three-legged dog? A zombie mummy from Pompeii? Lucas looked over his shoulder but Maxie was still in her spot in the corner, staring at him in her totally creepy way. The kid wasn’t running from her.

  Lucas glanced around the room. Was it really possible that no one else was seeing this amazing moment? He turned back to the window just in time to see something new. It was another boy, running alongside the kid in the red coat. This new boy was taller and faster and ran with ease. But no—Lucas blinked. It was just a shadow.

  A shadow? But could a shadow be taller and faster than the person it was shadowing? Could it have a better stride? Lucas leaned sideways, as far as he could, until the red raincoat was out of sight. For some reason he couldn’t explain, his own heart was beating fast. Like he’d been that kid out running.

  He stared at the small trees, thinking about the boy’s shadow. Usually he liked to watch the shadows the saplings made on the opposite building wall. But today—today there was not enough sun to make a shadow. Lucas pulled out his Marvelous Mysteries brainstorm sheet. At the bottom of his list he added a new one.

  Shadows on a day with no sun.

  BIG MOMENT />
  The voice had disappeared and the pants were no longer whispering, but Josh kept running. Because that was the plan that formed in his head as he was running. To just keep running.

  Then what?

  That didn’t matter. Because he was running. And he would run across the field, all the way to the high school stadium on the other side. He would cross the football field and go around the fence.

  No! He would climb the fence! Because this moment was bigger, it was grander than anything he’d ever been part of before. This moment was so big it was worthy of a musical score.

  So he would climb the fence—No! He’d jump! He’d jump over the fence like a pole-vaulter, only one without a pole. And then he’d just keep running.

  He’d run to the mountain, into the woods, and that’s where he’d live. His red raincoat was nearly as big as a tent—he would make a shelter out of it. In his backpack was a water bottle, and he had five dollars in his pocket, so he’d stop at a store along the way to buy provisions that he’d ration until he taught himself how to live off the land. Bread and candy bars and well, maybe peanut butter for protein. It was perfect. He’d also buy matches to build a fire. Or a lighter. Matches would get too wet in the rain.

  He’d done his research to know that the Pacific Northwest had a temperate climate. There were wild blackberry bushes and tons of apple trees. Cherry trees. And lakes—he would teach himself to fish in all the lakes.

  It was an epic plan, but when Josh reached the high school stadium on the other side of the playfield, he had to stop running. He stopped and bent over and gulped for air. And while bent over and gulping for air, he remembered that the mountain he was going to live on was a dormant volcano. And also that he had never gone camping. And also that he didn’t like fish. So when he was finally able to stand up straight and face reality, he had one thought:

  What

  had

  he

  done?

  Josh glanced back across the length of field he’d just crossed, expecting to see Ms. Yoshida or a team of police officers following him. But no one was there. On the other side of the soccer field was a baseball diamond, with a dugout. From where Josh was standing, the dugout looked like a safe little boat anchored in a sea of endless green.

  And it was the perfect hiding spot. Dusty and old, but cozy and quiet. Josh slid down the solid wooden bench and looked out across the dirt diamond and green field. He clutched his backpack to his chest like it was a teddy bear and tried not to cry. For the first time that morning, he could tune into his own thoughts clearly, without the static of nervous chatter from his mother, or the mocking whispers of his stiff new jeans. With his mind free, Josh wondered if there was a way to fix what he had done.

  Obviously he’d have to tell his mom.

  Or

  Obviously he’d have to go back to school.

  Which scenario made him feel worse? He closed his eyes and imagined one and then the other. They were equally bad.

  So he sat and waited.

  He knew what he should do. He should go back to school. Check in at the office front desk. The people there would be nice. Like Ms. Yoshida. She would welcome Josh and help him find his classroom in Building C. That would be a responsible and good choice.

  Another acceptable option: He could call his mother. He could tell her that this first day wasn’t going according to plan and could she come and pick him up and take him out for a strawberry milkshake and maybe he could try again tomorrow? Or Wednesday? But that would involve finding a phone somewhere. Probably the school office. And what would he tell her, anyway? He imagined her at home, answering the phone, grabbing her car keys with her red, rash-covered hand.

  No, he couldn’t call his mom. Not until he had something good to tell her.

  Josh hunched low, and that’s when he noticed all the words—names—carved into the wooden dugout bench. Some were faint scratches, some were deep grooves.

  Jase was here.

  Natalie was here.

  Ben and Emmett and Izaiah were here.

  He imagined all the kids over all the years, sitting in the dugout, waiting for their turn at bat. Had they been nervous or afraid? Or had they been brave?

  “I was here,” Josh whispered as he traced his finger over every name. Abby and Chloe and Jaxon and Maya. “Joshua Duncan was here, too.”

  Just saying that made him feel less alone. He wondered if that’s why people did it in the first place, wrote their names all over, like on walls and desks and freshly poured cement sidewalks. Public places, like bathroom stalls. Really public places, like freeway overpasses.

  He didn’t know the answer and didn’t know how he would ever know. But seeing the names and tracing them with his finger made him feel better. A little braver. Brave enough to stand up and start moving.

  THE LAST STOP

  Josh cut across the playfield to the main road that led to town. He knew the rule: There was no leaving school without a note from a parent or guardian. If he did not show up to class, his mom would get a call from the office. It’s what had happened at his old school on a regular basis, when he’d hide out in the bathroom or the storage closet. But things at this school were supposed to be different and he already dreaded seeing his mom’s disappointed face when he walked in the door. Thinking about it made him walk slower. Why rush home to that?

  The route was straightforward. Josh had practiced it with his mom over the weekend. As he walked through town, people gave curious glances before turning back to their cell phones and portable coffee mugs. That’s when Josh got the feeling that he was watching himself, too, almost like he was a character in a movie. But it wasn’t the right kind of movie, and he wondered about that. How do you get to be in the kind of movie you want to be in? Everyone else appeared to be in really awesome movies, full of camaraderie and laughter. Funny moments and ice cream cones. Adventure and suspense. Heroes! How could a person get into one of those?

  Josh trudged on until there were no more stores and the tidy sidewalks turned to bumpy strips of gravel. There on the corner, right before the road forked and went into the forest, was a small store called The Last Stop. Josh and his mom had driven past the store several times already, and he always wanted to go in. “Look,” he’d said, pointing at the sign. “Corn dogs!”

  Now as he stood at the glass door on his messed-up movie Monday, the name of the store seemed ominous. It really was the last stop before the long stretch of forest road. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled above his head in a welcoming way, and the guy behind the counter looked up from his cell phone and smiled. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” Josh said, acting extra perfectly normal. The guy nodded and turned back to his phone.

  The Last Stop was small but had just about everything in the world a person would need if it was actually their very last stop in the world, ever. Chips and buns and beef jerky and toilet paper were crammed next to strawberry jam and marshmallows and twine and bug spray. There was shaving cream and shampoo. Hair spray and cat food. Safety pins, baked beans, instant oatmeal, and ballpoint pens.

  Josh wandered until he found the candy aisle in the center of the store. It had all of his favorites, along with the weird, nearly extinct kind of candy that might occasionally show up in a Halloween bag—things like Charleston Chews and Wax Lips and Chick-O-Sticks and Goobers. Even Pop Rocks.

  Josh picked two PayDays, Twizzlers, a roll of Life Savers, and a package of Dots. He wanted the Pop Rocks but remembered a story about them exploding in a kid’s stomach. Even though he knew it probably wasn’t true, why risk it.

  “Corn dogs are two for the price of one today,” the guy at the cash register said, pointing to the glass case where golden corn dogs slowly rotated.

  Josh placed his candy on the counter. “Are they good?”

  “They are superb. Just like
the ones you get at the fair.” He took out a small paper sack and started ringing up the candy.

  “Maybe next time.” Josh looked to the far end of the counter where a display of Zippo lighters was propped next to a stack of bundled firewood and a small sign that said WORMS. The lighters and firewood and worms made him think of his original plan—to run to the mountain and live off the land.

  “There’s always that.” It was the voice again, buzzing in his ear. “It’s not too late for that.”

  The man handed Josh his bag of candy. “Try a corn dog next time.”

  And through the buzzing, Josh stammered back that he would, he most certainly would, he would even try two.

  LAPS

  Lucas was on the springy eight-lane track even before Coach Wolfberg, the PE teacher, showed up with her timer and clipboard in hand. Although the running unit didn’t seem like it would be as much fun as soccer or basketball, Lucas loved the sprint across the playfield, past the baseball diamond and dugout, over to the stadium where the high school team, the Panthers, played their Friday night football games.

  Bouncing lightly on his toes, like he’d seen the runners do on TV, Lucas turned back to watch the rest of the PE class trickle into the enclosed stadium. Some were running, some were walking. Fifth grade was the first year they could use the high school sports facilities. They also got to use the locker room to change into actual PE clothes, and even though those things made them feel big and grown up, Lucas noticed how small everyone looked next to the giant stadium and empty bleachers. A Marvelous Mysteries project idea fluttered around his brain, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. Something about relativity? Perception? He wasn’t sure.

  “Hernandez,” Coach Wolfberg called. “I expect to see you on the middle school track team next year.”