“We’ll never get it, not if we have to wait until four o’clock,” Isaac said.
“We could—” Oscar started, but Raj cut him off.
“No, we can’t,” he said.
“How do you—?”
“We can’t ditch.”
“Maybe I—”
“It’s not possible. I have two strikes already. One more, and my mom’s going to send me to boot camp.”
“C’mon, she wasn’t serious about that,” Oscar said.
“You don’t know my mom,” said Raj. “One time, my sister talked back to her, and my mom wouldn’t let her talk for a week.”
“That didn’t actually happen,” Isaac chuckled.
“Oh no? Ask Avni. She says by the sixth day, it’s like she forgot how to talk at all.”
Raj looked in the distance, haunted by the specter of his mother while Oscar turned to Isaac.
“Don’t look at me. I have to walk Jordan home.”
Oscar knew he couldn’t argue with that one. Even as little brothers go, Jordan was okay, and Oscar knew for a fact that Isaac’s mom would go nuclear if he even thought about leaving Jordan alone until she got home from work at three o’clock.
There was no getting around it. Despite all of Oscar’s big ideas, he knew he was too afraid to actually go through with it. Ditching school was like a mortal sin to his mom, who’d fought hard for her own education while raising Oscar by herself.
Oscar and his friends would have to wait until four o’clock.
The day was agonizingly long. Mr. Tallis made the entire class recite the preamble of the Constitution over and over until they got it right. Ms. Davni popped a completely unfair quiz on isotopes. Coach Riggins made them run laps around the field even though it was still muddy from the last rain. Oscar thought maybe he’d never faced a more miserable day.
Then at 2:33, it got worse.
Two minutes before the final bell rang, Oscar was called to the front office.
“Now?” he pleaded with Mr. Enriquez.
His geometry teacher shrugged, helpless to bail Oscar out, despite his being Oscar’s favorite teacher.
“Sorry, Mr. Avila. Nobody ever said sophomore year was cruelty free.”
He turned to Raj and Isaac in the only class they’d ever shared since they met on the playground in the third grade.
Mustering all his strength, he tried not to choke on his sacrificial offering: “Wait for me until three thirty. If I’m not back by then …”
The whole class sat in witness.
“… then go without me.”
Raj and Isaac nodded solemnly, and Oscar scooped up his notebooks and bag and cast one last glance at Mr. Enriquez.
“It’s your mom,” he murmured, patting Oscar firmly on the shoulder. Mr. Enriquez knew Oscar’s mom sometimes needed Oscar’s help at the Royal Oaks Nursing Home. He didn’t know exactly what his mom’s job was, but it had something to do with making sure the whole place didn’t come undone. His mom was important.
The secretary at the front desk was waiting impatiently for Oscar, the receiver already in hand.
“Thought you got lost,” she said humorlessly. “Does your mom know this is why most parents get their kids cell phones?”
Oscar bared his teeth into something simulating a smile. “I think she just likes hearing your voice on the regular,” he said, and the secretary matched his smile. “Besides, phones aren’t allowed at school.”
Not that we can afford one, he thought, not without a little venom toward the secretary.
Oscar took the phone from her hand fast because she looked like she was about to smack him with it.
“LM, Mr. Devereaux isn’t doing well today,” Oscar’s mom said. His mom only used his nickname, “LM,” code for “Little Man,” when her need was dire.
Not this. Not today. Mr. Devereaux was possibly the world’s oldest man, and when he was out of sorts, there were only a few people who could reason with him enough to get him to take his meds or eat something. For some inexplicable reason, Oscar was one of those people.
“Where’s Connie?” Oscar whined, referencing the only orderly to whom Mr. Devereaux responded.
“Puerta Vallarta, where I should be,” his mom said. “Besides, he’s asking for you.”
Oscar handed the phone back to the secretary, who already had her purse in hand as she tapped her white-tipped fingernail on the counter between them.
“I trust you’ve resolved your crisis? I have to get to the Toy Box before they sell out of Plushtraps. I have five nephews.”
It was almost too much for Oscar to bear. Five fewer Plushtraps after Ms. Bestly (Ms. Beastly in his head) snagged whatever might be left for her undeserving nephews. Oscar dragged his feet in misery all the way to the number 12 city bus, transferred to the 56 line, and walked the quarter mile from the bus stop to his mom’s work, moping into the lobby of the Royal Oaks Nursing Home.
Irvin, seated at the reception desk, nodded to him from under his headphones.
“Dude’s in a bad way, big man!” Irvin said loudly, his volume unchecked by the deep baseline emanating from his playlist. “He says Marilyn wants to steal his soul!”
Oscar nodded. Irvin was well-versed in the oddities of Royal Oaks, including Mr. Devereaux’s chronic, baseless paranoia. Hearing Irvin confirm what his mom had already told him on the phone did nothing to alter Oscar’s position of unconditional surrender. He would be here all afternoon, likely into the evening, trying to calm Mr. Devereaux. The Plushtrap Chaser, if he’d ever had a chance at getting it in the first place, would never be his now.
The automatic doors whooshed open, revealing the back of his mom’s tall figure. She handed a clipboard back to an orderly Oscar hadn’t met before. This place went through orderlies like Oscar went through Electric Blue Fruit Punch.
“Make sure Ms. Delia doesn’t get any dairy after four p.m.,” his mom said. “She’ll fart so much, we’ll have to quarantine the room, and I promise you, I’ll make sure you’re the only one assigned to that wing for the entire night.”
The new orderly nodded earnestly, clearly shaken, and hurried away with the clipboard just as Oscar’s mom turned to smile at him, arms extended. That was the thing about his mom—she could always be counted on for a hug strong enough to crack ribs. Even the time she threatened to put a bounty on Oscar’s head after he “rescued” a bat and set it free in the house, she still managed to hug him hard enough to make him sore the next day.
“Mr. Devereaux thinks Marilyn—”
“—wants to steal his soul. I heard,” Oscar said.
“After eighteen years, you’d think Marilyn had earned the benefit of the doubt.”
“No rest for the truly suspicious,” Oscar said, and his mom smiled at him.
“Thank you, Little Man. You are my angel.”
“Mom,” he said, looking around to make sure no one heard, even though the only ones who would give him a hard time were miles away at the Toy Box, claiming the very last Plushtrap no doubt. The thought of Raj and Isaac lining them up for epic, chomping battles in the yard was pure agony.
Oscar began to think about compromises. Maybe if he gave Raj or Isaac half the amount, one of them could be persuaded to let him take partial Plushtrap custody.
Oscar managed a weak smile at his mom and wondered if the fates might bestow upon him a Plushtrap if they witnessed his angelic behavior. He knew better than to hope, though.
When he arrived in Mr. Devereaux’s doorway, he found the old man staring into the corner of his room, his eyes trained like lasers ready to vaporize.
“It’s started,” Mr. Devereaux said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What’s started?” Oscar asked, not so much curious as eager to begin this process.
“She’s been plotting this whole time. I should have known. She waited until I let my guard down.”
“C’mon, Mr. D., you don’t really believe that.”
“I can feel my soul slipping
away. It’s oozing out of my pores, Oscar.”
Mr. Devereaux didn’t sound afraid; rather, he seemed resigned to his fate, and Oscar thought maybe they had something in common today.
“But why would she do that?” Oscar asked. “She loves you. She’s shared your room every night for almost two decades. Don’t you think if she wanted your soul, she would have taken it by now?”
“Trust cannot be rushed, young man,” Mr. Devereaux said. “Good fortune cannot be predicted.”
It was these seeds of wisdom that kept Oscar interested in Royal Oaks’s longest-term resident. No matter how many times Mr. Devereaux let some sage observation slip, Oscar was surprised every time, like Mr. Devereaux could sense what was occupying Oscar’s mind … even if Mr. Devereaux’s own mind was like a sieve, his thoughts slipping through holes into some bottomless abyss.
“Maybe Marilyn isn’t stealing your soul. Maybe she’s guarding it. You know, like holding it for safekeeping,” Oscar posited.
Mr. Devereaux shook his head. “I thought of that. It’s a tempting theory … but she should have asked permission.”
These are the times when Oscar struggled, when logic had to win.
“I mean, it’s not like she can actually ask you,” he said.
“Of course she can!” Mr. Devereaux raged, and Oscar put up his hands, trying to ease Mr. Devereaux before the new orderly came scurrying around the corner.
“Okay, but just stick with me for a minute, Mr. D.,” Oscar said, sneaking two steps into Mr. Devereaux’s room. “Maybe she thought, you know, since you were close enough, that you wouldn’t mind if she … uh … borrowed your soul for a bit—”
Mr. Devereaux cut his eyes toward Oscar, suspicious.
“She didn’t tell you to say that, did she?”
“No! No no no of course not. No one could come close to the, er, relationship you have.”
Mr. Devereaux looked into the corner of the room that had held his attention until that moment.
“Well, Marilyn, what’d’ya have to say for yourself?”
Oscar followed Mr. Devereaux’s stare, and now they were both staring at the same ancient calico cat who had slept on the pillow by the window of Mr. Devereaux’s room for as long as Mr. Devereux had slept in his own bed. She didn’t come here with Mr. Devereaux, at least according to legend. She’d been a neighborhood stray. But one day, the staff found her in the room, and without objection from the rotating cast of residents, Marilyn had remained, finding Mr. Devereaux’s company the most pleasing, despite his periodic disdain or downright hatred. No amount of scratching behind the ears or catnip offerings by anyone else could entice her away from Mr. Devereaux.
Maybe she really was after his soul.
Marilyn blinked her slow cat blink at Mr. Devereaux.
“Well, I think we both know what that means,” Oscar improvised, and for a second, Mr. Devereaux looked confused, but after another moment of contemplation over the loud purring of Marilyn, something inside him settled.
“All right then. It seems Marilyn owes you yet another debt of gratitude, young man.”
Marilyn stretched languidly on her chair and yawned, but Oscar wasn’t looking for gratitude from a cat. He was looking for a way out.
“Sit down, young man, sit down,” Mr. Devereaux said, and Oscar let the last of his hope slip away. This was to be his entire afternoon.
Oscar slumped in the chair closest to the door. Mr. Devereaux stared at him with the watery eyes of an old man.
“My soul may be in trouble,” he said, “but your heart is stolen.”
Oscar tried to laugh. If he didn’t, he might cry. It was just the latest in what was panning out to be a lifetime of almost. He had almost made Varsity baseball, but he dislocated his elbow. He had almost saved enough for a cell phone, but someone picked his pocket on the train. He had almost had a whole family, but then he lost his dad.
If you could earn a trophy for almost, he’d probably fall just shy of the honor.
“Ah yes,” Mr. Devereaux continued. “Love is a many splendored thing … until it crushes you to pieces.”
“It’s not like that,” Oscar said. It was ridiculous to set the record straight; Mr. Devereaux might or might not even remember this conversation. But he needed someone to know, needed someone to confide in, and truly he had never known a better listener than this man whom he had never once seen standing, whose first name he didn’t even know.
“It’s … just this stupid toy,” Oscar said, but even as he tried to diminish the Plushtrap, he felt his heart squeeze.
“It broke?” Mr. Devereaux said.
“It was never even mine,” said Oscar, and Mr. Devereaux nodded slowly. Marilyn began the long practice of cleaning herself.
“And I take it the toy will never be yours?” Mr. Devereaux said.
Oscar felt ridiculous hearing it in those terms, hardly something that should be causing a twelve-year-old to despair.
“It’s not even that special,” Oscar lied.
“Ah, but the toy is only the stem that breaks ground,” Mr. Devereaux said, and Oscar looked up from his feet to stare into the old man’s eyes. He might have been slipping into one of his lapses.
But Oscar was surprised to see Mr. Devereaux looking right at him.
“The reason for the wanting is what lies underneath. It’s the soil that feeds the want.”
Mr. Devereaux leaned a little closer to Oscar, pressing his veiny arm against the guard rail enough to make Oscar nervous.
“I think you have tilled quite a lot of soil in your handful of years on this earth,” he said. “So much wanting … but you’ve never been able to pluck the fruits of your labor from the ground, have you?”
Oscar was never any good at growing things. He killed every plant he tried to water, every fish he tried to nurture.
“I don’t think you know—” he started, but Mr. Devereaux didn’t let him finish.
“The best cultivators are the ones who know when the right time is to pick the crop,” he said, and Oscar was trying, he really was, but Mr. Devereaux was losing him fast.
“Mr. D., you’re real nice to try—”
“Ugh,” Mr. Devereaux groaned like something hurt. He leaned away from his position against the rail and arched his back. Oscar could hear something pop deep inside the man’s rickety bones. Marilyn paused her bath long enough to make sure Mr. Devereaux was okay.
“A grower, maybe, but a thinker you’re not,” Mr. Devereaux said to Oscar. “Sometimes you have to know when to go for it, even when it doesn’t look possible.”
Oscar stared at Mr. Devereaux.
“Quit sitting here and go find your precious toy!” Mr. Devereaux yelled, his phlegmy throat catching on the words, and he began to hack. Marilyn wound herself into a tight ball on her chair.
The new orderly appeared out of nowhere, standing in the doorway but reluctant to walk any closer.
“Is everything all right in here, Mr. Dev—?”
“No, everything is not all right, you daft ferret! Go and get me a glass of water, for the love of …”
The orderly scurried away, but Oscar couldn’t seem to get up from his chair. He was frozen in place, contemplating the prophecy he’d received in a haze of cat hair and disinfectant.
“What? You don’t think she looks like a ferret? No one should have a face that small,” Mr. Devereaux said to Oscar.
“But what if it’s sold out everywhere?” Oscar said, his brain finally coming back online.
“Don’t you young people have the Internet? Or your computer phones or i-whatzits? Somebody has the stupid toy somewhere,” said Mr. Devereaux, coughing up a little more phlegm. “The point is, quit tilling. It’s time to pick.”
The orderly returned with a small yellow cup, and Mr. Devereaux took it from her roughly before turning on his side, his back to her and to Oscar. Marilyn poked an ear up to be sure all was well before resettling into her coil.
In the space of five seconds, M
r. Devereaux was snoring loudly, his ribs rising and falling inside his threadbare pajamas.
“Looks like you tuckered him out,” the orderly said to Oscar as they shuffled out the door, closing it behind them. “You’re my hero.”
Oscar felt dizzy by the time he made his way back to the front desk. His mom was hustling down the hall with three orderlies in tow, each following her like ducklings struggling to keep up.
“You’re a good soul,” his mom said to Oscar without looking up from her clipboard. Oscar knew she meant it, though. She was just busy.
“He calls the new orderly a ferret,” Oscar said.
His mom shrugged and mumbled something about a small face.
“Anyway, I told Raj and Isaac I’d meet up with them,” Oscar said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“Oh? Anything fun happening?” she asked, still absorbed in her paperwork. One of the orderlies was trying to get her attention.
Oscar stared at the top of his mom’s head, the gray streak that ran from her cowlick to her crown suddenly looking larger, like age had poured over her head while she slept one night.
“Nah,” he said. “Nothing special.”
She cupped his chin gently in her palm, finally looking up, and Oscar smiled back because she was always trying her hardest. She always had.
He turned on his heel toward the doors.
“Oh, Oscar, can you pick up some yog—?”
“Sorry, Mom! Gotta run!” Oscar said as he fled the lobby and returned to the safety of the vestibule. He was almost out the door when Irvin, still bobbing his head to whatever played in his ears, yelled over the music.
“You got a message!” he said.
“Huh?” said Oscar.
“What?” said Irvin, then pulled his headphones around his neck. “You got a message. From the short one, what’s his name? Isaac.”
“He called here for me?” Oscar said, utterly confused. He couldn’t remember a single time his friends had ever tried reaching him here, even though it seemed like he spent just as much time at Royal Oaks as he did in his own home. If anything, sometimes Raj or Isaac would wait for Oscar to finish helping his mom, wasting time in the vestibule while Irvin ignored them.
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