The Children and the Wolves

by Adam Rapp

  Another superdumb thing:

  There was this seventh grader who used to faint all the time. His name was Jason Salerno and in shop he was afraid of the electric saw.

  It’s just a saw, Mr. Gass told him. We won’t even use that till next year.

  But he would faint in every class. His body would collapse like a kiddie pool after you knife it. You could practically hear the air hissing out of his body.

  Sometimes I would go up to Salerno in the hall and just say the word.

  Saw, I would say. Saw.

  He would start running to his next class.

  Dumb.

  About getting sucked off by a guy, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I just closed my eyes and pictured Bounce doing me.

  Oh, Orange, she cried in my mind. Oh, Orange, you’re so big and hard.

  Lyde calls me Huck Finn and whimpers when he’s doing me.

  Huck, he’ll wheeze. Motherfucking Huck.

  For a big security guard he sure is a pussy. He works at Best Buy so he can get Blu-ray DVD players and Canon products. He put the copy machine in a bag with a receipt and everything. So now we got posters of the Frog. Posters and flyers. Bounce brings good paper from her parents’ home office. Her mom and dad are sales reps for Plaxco, this company that makes prescription pills. Apparently there’s this new pill that lets you see the future. Bounce says she’s going to get some so we can have psychic knowledge.

  We started the Frog Collection about five weeks ago. Our system is tight. Wiggins is the watchdog and Bounce and me are the brains and muscle.

  When we collect, Bounce does most of the talking cause she’s got communication skills. She told me how in speech drama and journalism she always got the top grade and how she gave a speech about the human jaw, all the bones and hinges. How it can be broken and how you got to suck your food through a straw while it’s healing. Bounce can talk about the difference between the human jaw and the horse jaw. She can talk about the alligator jaw and how it snaps.

  Bounce’s real name is Carla Reuschel, but if you call her Carla you better be ready to fight.

  When we knock on doors I just stand there with the collection can. Bounce does a speech about the Frog and how we’re taking donations to help find her.

  What do the donations go to? they’ll ask.

  We make posters, Bounce’ll say. Posters and flyers. We post her picture on bulletin boards all throughout the Dumas community. The YMCA, St. Jude’s, the Library. We need to do something to find this poor girl. We use the Internet too.

  The truth is we don’t do shit on the Internet — we don’t got a website or nothing — but in plop the quarters anyway.

  Plop plop.

  In slide the dollar bills.

  Swish swish.

  Even a twenty now and then.

  Bounce’ll say, Andrew Jackson, you pretty bitch.

  Little do they know, little do they know.

  We’ve been averaging about twelve bucks a day. One day we made eighty-five. Sometimes people invite us in and feed us. Like grilled cheeses and microwave burritos. If that happens I take their salt and pepper shakers. I keep them in a pillowcase in my room at home.

  You’re a good thief, Bounce will say.

  I’m in love with her. We don’t do nothing yet but sometimes she lets me put my hand on her beautiful round stomach.

  Let me have some, I’ll plead.

  You beg like a dog, she’ll say.

  She don’t care that Lyde does me.

  It’s for the greater good, she’ll say. You’re taking one for the team. You’re crewing for the crew.

  I know the good people of Dumas think I’m peculiar because my crew consists of a pair of poor, dirty, irresponsible, scholastically retarded, pubescently challenged seventh-grade loner chuckleheads. Tom Toomer Junior High School is made up of rich kids and poor kids. There’s not much in between. I happen to have been brought into this world by a set of parents who are supernaturally wealthy thanks to their accelerated ascent up the pharmaceutical conglomerate they both work for and now actually own shares of. I’m not supposed to take interest in the unlucky or the disposable members of my peer group. Then again, I’m not supposed to be doing most of the things I do.

  We watched this film in advanced natural sciences featuring a herd of migrating wildebeests attempting to cross a river in the Sudan. A congregation of crocodiles came heaving up out of the water and slaughtered a third of the herd. You could see the bodies of several wildebeests being severed in half by the deadly crocodile jaws. It was impressive to say the least. The biomechanics of it. Mr. Flint was teaching us about the brutality of natural selection and the instinct to survive.

  I see Wiggins and Orange as two lost wildebeests — two of the unlucky ones — and I’m just trying to help them get to the other side of the river.

  I’m their river guard.

  Big momma River Guard.

  I met the chuckleheads in detention.

  The detention supervisor, Mrs. Slakeberry, had to use the washroom and put me in charge of the room because she was aware of my startlingly high grade-point average. Wiggins, Orange, and I were the only ones in detention that day. Wiggins was pretending to be studying his language arts textbook and Orange was slumped so low in his desk chair it was like he lost his ass in a car accident.

  I’m in charge, I told them.

  They didn’t say anything in response because my commanding reputation obviously preceded me.

  After a minute, I asked them, Do you know each other?

  Orange said, I don’t know that fag.

  Wiggins wouldn’t say anything, the stubborn little beauty. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls T-shirt and his big hazel eyes looked heavenly.

  Why are you in detention? I asked him.

  ’Cause I missed the bus, Wiggins replied.

  I asked him how he got to school and he told me he walked.

  How far? I asked.

  I don’t know, he said. Far.

  Where do you live?

  He said, In a apartment.

  I said, An apartment. Why’d you miss the bus?

  He replied, ’Cause my mom forgot to wake me up.

  Don’t you have an alarm clock?

  No, he said.

  Here, I said, come here.

  He walked over to me and I gave him my Timex Ironman Global Trainer GPS watch.

  He took it and looked at it like it was the heart of a lion cub beating in his hand.

  Don’t be late anymore, I said.

  He didn’t even say thanks because he was too amazed.

  Wiggins still wears the watch. He hates to get it dirty. I don’t think he’s ever taken it off.

  Then I asked Orange why he was in detention and he said how he punched Sarah Margin after she narked on him for trying to copy her multiple-choice pop quiz about the French Revolution.

  Let them eat cake, I said.

  He had no idea what I was referring to and made a face like he’d swallowed a fork.

  Eighteenth-century bullshit, I added. Where’d you punch her? I asked.

  In the stomach, he replied.

  In class?

  At the water fountain.

  You like punching girls? I asked.

  He said, I don’t give a four-legged fuck. Girls. Little kids. Old people.

  I said, What about animals?

  I’d punch a cat, he answered.

  He scratched his orange hair and dandruff floated onto his shoulders.

  Why’d you get detention? Orange asked me.

  Because I challenged Mr. Kantu to an arm-wrestling match.

  No shit? he said.

  Mr. Kantu? Wiggins chimed in. The football coach?

  We were discussing derivatives in Advanced Calc, I explained. I raised my hand and challenged him.

  Did he do it? Orange asked.

  Nope, I said.

  He’s got big arms, Wiggins said.

  I would’ve whipped him, I said.

  How do you know? O
range asked.

  I said, Because I know the secret.

  What secret? Wiggins asked.

  The secret to winning in arm wrestling.

  What is it? Orange asked, the dummy.

  Forearm strength, I answered.

  Then to Orange I said, You wanna punch me?

  No, he answered.

  Come on, I said, punch me. It’ll feel good. You can punch me right in the face.

  Then Mrs. Slakeberry returned from the bathroom.

  Thank you, Carla, she said.

  She had brushed her hair and put it up in a bun.

  Was everything okay? she asked.

  Everything was great, I replied.

  After detention I invited them to go to the mall with me.

  My mom’s picking me up in the Lexus, I told them.

  Both their faces changed when they heard the word Lexus. Put a poor kid in a one-hundred-and-eleven-thousand-dollar car and watch him suddenly act polite. They were polite as pussy willows.

  It’s a six-hundred-h, I told them. Five-liter V-eight engine, continuously variable transmission, satellite radio, iPod input, DVD player. She’ll drop us off, pick us up, drive us home, door-to-door service.

  So that day after detention they came to the mall with me. We ate Cinnabons and played video games and went to a Mel Gibson movie.

  That was back in January and we’ve been inseparable since.

  They like me because I’m rich and maternal.

  And I like them because they’re lost and stupid.

  One of them is also pretty but the other one is just lost and stupid.

  they come out of the trees

  they walk slow and their eyes glow yellow

  I can see them from far away

  I am the best at seeing them

  my arms are dirty from the mud and the bugs

  last night they got dingdong and becky

  dingdong was pushing becky up a tree but they got him from behind and then becky fell and they got her too

  becky was my friend

  she talked about dolls and sparkles

  they ate her head, the hair and everything

  dingdong was dumb but he had a nice face and he told me about his pet duck and his train set

  when the wolves come I make myself skinny so they cant smell me

  they cant smell me and if I make myself skinny enough they wont eat me cause they dont like it when its just bones

  they like it if youre chubby or if you got big feet or a fat butt

  theres another boy who can run fast

  his name is shane and hes got a face like a catfish

  shane caught a bird and we ate it with some sticks

  shane ate a stick too which made him slow and stupider than dingdong but he got smart again after the moon came

  I am smaller than the others and I like my tree

  raheem is chubby and he lets me curl up near his belly

  he told me I would soon eat a wolf

  soon he said

  soon you will eat one and then more birds will come

  toofairy feeds me and lets me tinkle and I know he is good

  The Frog was on the news again.

  Dirty Diana was watching it when I walked in. She was bleaching her feet and eating a big bag of Tostitos.

  You see this? she said. Poor little girl.

  According to the news, the Frog’s real name is Laurel May Gillett. This anchorwoman said she’s three-and-a-half and that she’s allergic to nuts. The anchorwoman’s hair looked like it would taste like a birthday cake. Her name is Ronette Stone and she said the Frog’s nut allergy is potentially fatal and they showed her preschool picture and talked about how the police had formed a special task force to find her, how they were going to use all these German shepherds.

  The Dumas toddler has been missing for nearly ten weeks, Ronette Stone told all the viewers.

  She talked about her parents Paul and Gina Gillett and her older brother Davey and her baby sister Birdy. Then they appeared all huddled on their living room sofa. There was a fireplace and a giant gray cat lying across the sofa with a face like a fat president.

  Please bring our little girl back to us, Gina Gillett pleaded, crying to all the viewers. Please.

  I miss my sister, Davey said. He wore big glasses and a White Sox hat and looked like one of those kids with a lot of birthmarks. Like he might have a big purple one on his stomach.

  For some reason I imagined the Gilletts going sledding in the snow. Going sledding and then maybe drinking hot cocoa under a Christmas tree, one of those big white fake ones with a toy donkey and some upside-down angels under it. A paper star on top. I don’t know why I imagined that cause it was hot as hell in the living room. It was like a hundred degrees and Dirty Diana was sweating and scratching her feet.

  On TV Ronette Stone went, If you have any information or anonymous tips, please call the following number.

  They showed the number on the screen.

  Somebody better call that number! Dirty Diana yelled. What the fuck is wrong with everybody!

  She turnt to me and went, You see this shit?!

  She’d been drinking Bartles and Jaymes Melon Splashes. She’d had like three bottles and the living room stunk.

  You’re drunk, I told her.

  No I’m not, she said.

  Her mouth got all small and her chin started quivering and I thought she was going to cry.

  I said, Take your drunk ass to bed, and then I went to my room and did so many push-ups I got cramps in my arms.

  Before I fell asleep I couldn’t stop thinking about the Frog’s nut allergy.

  * * *

  The next day I told Bounce and Orange how the Frog was on the news. We were in Bounce’s parents’ Lexus, going to buy more cereal and milk for the Frog at Econofoods. Bounce was driving and Orange was in the passenger’s seat. I was in the back like always.

  I told them about the Frog and her parents and her brother and sister. And how she’s allergic to nuts.

  She’s got some condition, I said. If she eats a nut she’ll die.

  She can eat these nuts, Orange said, grabbing his junk.

  Her parents are really pale, I added. Their names are Paul and Gina.

  I saw them on the news, Bounce said. Little Birdy looks like she got left in the broiler too long.

  I was like, The police are starting a task force with German shepherds.

  She said, It’s about time, the geniuses.

  Two days later Bounce got this human scent eliminator called the Oxy Elim-A-Scent. It kills human smells in areas up to fifty feet.

  Hunters use this, she said. It basically makes them undetectable.

  Bounce bought it off the Internet with her parents’ credit card and had it FedExed overnight. It looks like a stereo speaker and takes four triple-A batteries.

  We put it in Orange’s basement, right over the washer-dryer unit.

  Now we don’t got to worry about no German shepherds.

  I had this dream that my mom was trapped inside a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum cleaner was in the middle of this dirty field full of broken beer bottles and rusted-out cars and half-burnt picnic tables. I was walking through the field when I heard my mom’s voice.

  Timothy! she cried. In here, Timothy!

  I tried to open the back of the vacuum cleaner, but it wouldn’t budge. I found a rock and hit it like a thousand times. I even used a car part. Then I realized the vacuum cleaner was plugged into this huge telephone pole so I turnt it on cause I thought that would somehow make it open, but the vacuum cleaner started sucking up all the broken glass and car parts from the field.

  It was vibrating like crazy and blood was suddenly spilling out of it.

  I could hear my mom screaming, so I turnt it off.

  I was like, Mom? . . . Mom?

  But all you could hear was her screaming.

  Now whenever I see a vacuum cleaner I feel like my head might pop off.

  Even a DustBuster
fucks me up.

  I threw our vacuum cleaner out two days ago. It was in the broom closet next to this life-size cardboard cutout of Paula Abdul from American Idol. My dad was sitting in the living room, watching The Ghost Whisperer and he barely noticed. I think he used to sleep with it. I heard him talking to it once.

  Oh, Paula, he said. Come on now, Paula.

  I didn’t just leave the vaccuum in front of the house. I walked it all the way down the street and put it in the dumpster.

  I hate dreams.

  Dreams and tunafish.

  The whole thing with the Frog started with the Poet, Wilbur Logg. He came and spoke to Honors English. We’d been reading Animal Farm and Mr. Moyer said he had a surprise for us, that some famous poet who lived nearby was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to visit class and that we would resume our George Orwell discussion next time.

  So this tall man with gray hair walks in. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt and beat-up tennis sneakers from the seventies. He’s pretty old, like sixty-something, and he isn’t moving too great — he has to use a cane.

  Sorry about the limp, he said. I’m afraid arthritis doesn’t discriminate.

  There were only twelve of us in Honors English and none of us had ever met a professional writer before. Earlier that semester, as an assignment we had to write a letter to our favorite living author, and some of us got responses, but no one had actually seen a professional writer in the flesh.