by Rick Detorie
I turned the camera on myself and said, “Hi, Larkin Pace here. I’m presently in the home of this typically anonymous family, and we’re about to open a treasure chest that’s been buried under their typically anonymous home for a very long time.”
I aimed the camera at the box and said, “All right, typically anonymous lady, you may proceed.”
Mrs. Schnase undid the latch and tried to open the lid, but it was stuck. She tapped the side of the lid with a knife and pulled the handle until it popped open.
“Ah, yes,” I said, quoting from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “I know what gold does to men’s souls.”
“It’s not gold,” said Freddie.
“I know, but I don’t know any famous quotes about paper money.”
Mrs. Schnase gently lifted out the plastic bag, set it on the table, and unraveled the green twist tie. Inside was a stack of cash bound together by a rubber band.
She picked up the stack and tried to lift the corner of the top bill, a fifty, but it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck to the stack. In fact, all of the bills were stuck together like they had become one big cash brick or something. When she tried to peel them apart, the edges crumbled and fell away like ashes.
I stopped filming because Mrs. Schnase had begun to cry again.
“What are we going to do now?” she sobbed. “It breaks my heart to think of him rotting away in some rat-infested foreign prison!” She blew her nose into a tissue. “Oh, Freddie, what are we going to do now?”
She walked slowly down the hall and I could hear her in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and gargling between sobs.
“Maybe they’ll put your dad on that show, Locked Up Abroad,” I said, trying to sound all positive. “And people will see it and start a fan club and hire a rich lawyer to get your dad released.”
Freddie shrugged and went back to his wallet collection.
Yeah, I guess not. Grumpy Mr. Schnase isn’t exactly the fan-club type.
I put on my jacket and went home.
WHY WEASEL’S LIBRARY LADY HATES ME
I went to the school library to return a book of poetry I’d borrowed for Mr. Bivic’s French class. He made us find a poem and translate it from English to French, then read it in front of the class.
What a dumb assignment. Most poems are hard enough to understand in English, and when they’re being read in French, nobody knows what’s going on.
The only good one was read by Thomas Petti, who translated a dirty English limerick into a dirty French limerick.
I gave the poetry book to Mrs. Creighton, the librarian, and I told her it wasn’t overdue, but she checked to make sure anyway. She gave me that look she always gives me, like she thinks I might be up to something.
She’s had it in for me ever since last semester when I found this injured pigeon in the parking lot. It couldn’t fly, and I was afraid it was going to be run over by a car or eaten by a cat or something, so I tucked it into my jacket and carried it around to my classes all day.
No problem.
That is, until that afternoon, when I took Pete the Pigeon to the library and let him walk around on one of the tables for a little exercise. All of a sudden, Pete hopped on top of a stack of books and took off flying across the room.
It was a miracle!
It’s too bad he landed on Mrs. Creighton’s head. His feet got tangled up in her hair and, well, it caused a big scene. She kept trying to shoo him off, and he kept flapping his wings, and by the time he managed to break free, she was left with a totally ruined fifty-dollar hairdo. I know that’s what it cost because she kept telling me that’s what it cost, not including tip.
As I was leaving the library, I noticed Brooke’s backpack on a chair. I knew it was hers from the pink “Diva-licious” sticker on the side flap.
So I went looking for her.
I spotted her in one of the alcoves. She was leaning against the back wall, talking to Dalton Cooke. That’s right—that Dalton Cooke!
A lot of things were going through my mind. Why was she with him? Did she actually like him? Were they going together? Was he the guy I overheard her talking to on her cell phone that night I called her?
No, this couldn’t be happening. He’s a big dummy. She’s smart, real smart. What could the two of them possibly be talking about?
I crept closer to listen.
They didn’t seem to be saying anything. In fact, she looked kind of bored. Then finally, she said to him, “What’s your story?”
“Story?” he said. “I don’t know no stories.”
Seriously, is he dumb, or what?
Then she said, “You aren’t too smart, are you? I like that in a man.”
“Huh?” said Dalton.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. She was feeding him a line from Body Heat, so I blurted out the next line. “What else you like? Lazy? Ugly? Horny? I got ’em all!”
“Larkin!” Brooke said, all surprised.
Then, to make a dramatic exit, I swung around real fast but crashed right into a metal cart loaded with books. It went flying across the main hall and plowed into a magazine rack, spilling books and magazines all over the place.
After everything settled down, and Dalton had dragged Brooke out of the library laughing his head off, Mrs. Creighton made me stay and clean up the mess and put every single book back exactly where it had been before.
That gave me a lot of time to think about the whole Brooke/Dalton thing. She couldn’t really be serious about him. Could she? I mean, he’s a major moron. There’s no future for her with him, and sooner or later she’s got to realize that.
Then I thought of the obvious reason they could never be together in the long run. If they were to get married, her name would be Brooke Cooke.
And that should be a deal killer right there.
PAYBACK TIME
At lunch today, Freddie told me that his dad came home last night.
I got the whole story, but only because I asked about a million questions. That’s because Freddie doesn’t volunteer much information, unless you keep bugging him about it.
The day after I dug the metal box out of the hole in the basement, Mrs. Schnase took the stack of stuck-together money to the bank. The bank people called in some guy from the Treasury Department, who examined it, measured it, and said it was the real deal.
The bank gave Mrs. Schnase a check for $30,000. She used $25,000 to get Mr. Schnase out of jail, and the rest she spent on a diamond bracelet and some patio furniture.
I told Freddie that it all happened thanks to me, and I reminded him of his promise to set up a sleepover for the two of us at his cousin Jason’s apartment so I could film the dead cat.
I meant the dead cat’s ghost.
After all, a deal’s a deal.
Before Freddie could answer, we were interrupted by Dalton, the scummy creep and girlfriend thief who was in my face saying, “Hey, Barkin’ Face, what’s the deal with this Bad Breath-any Weaver girl? She’s, like, all over me, because she said you promised I’d go out with her.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering the deal I’d made with Bethany. “You promised to take her out on a date to a restaurant if she participated in the French class prank.”
“No way,” said Dalton.
“Dalton Cooke, you’re avoiding me,” said Bethany, who popped up right behind him.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about no date!” said Dalton.
“Don’t give me that, you weasel,” said Bethany. “A deal’s a deal.”
Dalton headed for the exit with Bethany following him close behind.
“And it had better be a nice restaurant,” she shouted loud enough for everyone to hear, “not one with plastic chairs and pictures of food on the walls!”
“Bethany’s right about that,” I said to Freddie. “A deal’s a deal.”
THE UNINVITED GUESTS
My dad came downstairs all dressed up in a tux. He looked good, kind of like one of those guys who sho
ws you to your table at a fancy restaurant.
He and my mom were going to a big banquet in the city and they were going to spend the night in a hotel. That meant I would be left alone here with The Beast. You know, my sister Kelly.
My mom came downstairs next, and she looked great, like a movie star, only better.
“Wow, you clean up real good, Ma,” I joked.
I took out my camera and started taking pictures of my mom and dad like they were going to the prom or something. A geezer prom.
“Now help her on with her jacket,” I directed my dad. “Okay, now give her a kiss.” He did, but instead of a little smooch on the cheek, they went at it full force on the lips, a regular soul kiss, and it lasted a long time, maybe even longer than the kiss between Cary Grant and Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief, which lasted like a half hour or something.
“Disgusting,” said Kelly from the kitchen door. “Aren’t you two a little old for that sort of thing?”
“No one is ever too old for a little romance,” said my mom after they’d unlocked their lips.
I helped carry their bags out to the car, and the whole time they kept giving me instructions:
“Don’t let the dogs in the house.”
“Be sure to lock both doors.”
“Remember to turn off the stove.”
And this one from my dad: “Don’t torment your sister.”
I won’t even comment on that last one.
The first thing Kelly said after they’d driven off was, “I hate it when they get like that.” She rolled her eyes.
“What’s your problem, Kelly?” I said.
“They are my problem,” she said. “Have you ever noticed that when they’re all lovey-dovey like that, they’re impossible to deal with? They become a parental unit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you ask Mom for something, and she says no, when you go to Dad for help, he’ll say no, too. That’s because they’re in sync and they agree on everything. I hate it when parents cooperate with each other.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, “like you have such a hard time getting everything you want from Mom and Dad.”
“Like what?!” she asked, acting all surprised.
“Like everything,” I said, “like those stupid dolls that cost a ton of money and you’ve never even played with.”
“That’s because they’re not toys, they’re collectors’ items,” she said. “My American Girly Doll collection will be worth a lot of money someday.”
“And how about all those clothes you never wear?”
“Shut up, Larkin.”
“Like the dragon lady jacket.”
“You’re just jealous because I like nice things.”
“‘Oh, please, Daddy, I’ve got to have it, please?’” I was doing my impersonation of Kelly. “‘And how much does it cost, princess?’” Now I was doing my dad. “‘A hundred dollars? Sure, why not? Anything to make my little princess happy!’
“And you never even wear it,” I said.
“That’s because it wasn’t quality merchandise,” she said. “It made me look fat.”
“What makes you look fat,” I said, “is the chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream you cram into your mouth.”
So anyway, we argued like that for hours until she went up to her room and slammed her door, and I sat down in the den to edit a couple of videos.
I have never really finished editing the video of the stuck-together money. Even though Mr. Schnase was released from prison and got home safely, I felt kind of bad seeing Mrs. Schnase so upset and crying and everything. I didn’t tell anybody about that night, not even Mom and Dad. The video I worked on instead was of this big guy in a little car who nearly ran me over while I was skateboarding in the mall parking lot.
I always carry my camera with me just in case something like that happens. I figure it’s one more way I can fast-forward my career as a film director.
I call it My Other Master Plan.
Like if a guy really did crash into me while I was on my skateboard or bike, I’d film everything: the damage, the injuries, the witnesses, even the guy who ran into me. Then I’d edit it into a professional-looking video, complete with cross-cutting and dissolves and close-ups, and even subtitles. I’d add music, so that every time I cut to the guy who ran me over, Darth Vader–type music would play.
Then, when I sue him on one of those TV court shows, like People’s Court or Judge Judy, and the judge says, “Tell me what happened,” I’ll say, “Your Honor, why don’t I just show you what happened?” and they’ll play my video.
Meanwhile, sitting at home watching all this on TV will be Quentin Tarantino or George Lucas or some other famous movie director, and he’ll say, “Hey, this kid is good. I could use somebody with his kind of talent to work with me on my next blockbuster project.” And he’ll have his people contact my people (who are my mom and dad, I guess), and the rest will be history.
The problem with the near-miss I had yesterday at the mall, is I didn’t get any good shots. I didn’t really have any scrapes or bruises, and my skateboard didn’t look any more banged up than it normally looks. I didn’t even get a good shot of the guy who almost ran me over, just one long shot of him making a left turn onto the boulevard and giving me the finger.
After I finished editing, I played a couple of online games with Kyle and Ryan, two guys I know from school. Then I fell asleep at the computer.
At about two A.M. I heard the Buddies barking. Then somebody screamed. It was Kelly. I ran upstairs and tried to open her door, but it was locked.
“Kelly, open up!” I yelled.
I heard her telling somebody in her room, “Stay away from me! Don’t touch that! Stop it! Stop it!”
Who could it be, I thought, and how did they get in there?
Kelly flung open the door, and at first, I wasn’t sure what those things were in her bedroom. One of them was in Kelly’s bed, and the other one was in her American Girly Doll Collection case. Were they tiny bears, or midgets in fur coats?
Oh, I finally realized, they were raccoons!
The one on the bed raised its front paw as if to say, “Hi.”
I burst out laughing.
“What’s the matter with you?” shrieked Kelly. “Do something!”
But I couldn’t stop laughing.
Finally, I said in a voice like Al Pacino’s in The Godfather, Part II: “In my home, Fredo, where my children play with their toys!”
“This is all your fault, Larkin,” she yelled in my ear. “Get rid of them. NOW!” Then she stomped down the hall and locked herself in the bathroom.
I looked around the room for something to poke the raccoons with. They smelled real bad, so I didn’t want to touch them. I thought about chasing them with the vacuum cleaner, but I instead picked up one of Kelly’s American Girly Dolls. The tag on it read “Amber Beth.” I held it out in front of me like a vampire slayer would hold a crucifix, and said, “Be gone with you, creatures of the night!”
They didn’t budge.
So I took a step forward and hissed at them. The one on the bed bowed his head, leapt onto the windowsill, then squeezed out the cat door.
“You,” I bellowed at the other one, “go also from whence you guys came! Return to the darkness!”
Slowly, so very slowly, the other raccoon followed its smelly friend out through the cat door.
“Amber Beth,” I said to the doll, “you’re one fearsome little cupcake.”
I nailed one of Kelly’s three-ring binders over the cat door and told her it was safe to return to her room. But the raccoon odor was so bad, she decided to spend the night in our mom and dad’s bedroom.
Before she closed the door, she hit me with this one: “I feel like it’s November first,” she said, “and I’m that discarded jack-o’-lantern whose heart and guts are splattered all over the boulevard of broken promises.”
“And good night to you, too,” I said.
/> IT WOULDN’T KILL YOU TO EAT A LITTLE SOMETHING
I think Miss Sadie is running out of chores for me to do.
When I was at her place last week, she’d finally decided to let me dust her pudgy kid collectables—or as she called them, her tchotchkes. But instead of dusting them one by one, I saved a lot of time by putting them all in the bathtub and giving them a hot shower.
They seemed to like it.
Then she decided she liked the way the sunroom looked without all that clutter, so when they dried out, we wrapped each of them in newspaper and placed them in a couple of big boxes in the hallway.
When I was at her house today, the only chore she had for me to do was to coax the drawstrings out of the waistbands of three pairs of extra sweatpants. I tried using a knitting needle, a safety pin, and tweezers, but it wasn’t easy.
I was doing that chore in the living room where Miss Sadie and I were watching a DVD of The African Queen. When Humphrey Bogart gets out of the river and into the boat, I paused the DVD and said, “Here comes my favorite line.”
I pressed the PLAY button and said along with Bogart: “One thing in the world I hate: leeches. Filthy little devils.”
“This is an old movie,” said Miss Sadie.
“Yeah,” I said. “Nineteen fifty-one, directed by John Huston, a truly awesome director.”
“So how do you know so much about such old movies?” she asked.
“I’ve watched a lot of them.”
“But how do you know so much about them,” she said, “and at such a young age?”
“I don’t know. I just do,” I said. “Like, when I hear a character say something really funny or interesting, I sort of memorize it without trying to.”
“Do you also memorize all the things you’re being taught at school?”