Spider Boy

by Ralph Fletcher

  Bobby stood there watching his sister watch him.

  "Uh-huh." He cleared his throat. "Well, um, I don't think so. See, I'm sort of busy this weekend."

  "Oh, okay." Another pause. "Okay. Maybe some other time."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "See you tomorrow."

  "Okay. Bye."

  ***

  After supper he went upstairs. His room was quiet. He peered into the terrarium and saw Monk, almost motionless, still sucking the juice out of his cricket.

  Bobby took out a magnifying glass and looked down at the tarantula. He put the glass directly over the spider's face and saw Monk looking up at him. A face alert, curious, somehow intelligent. A creature so incredibly ugly he was beautiful.

  Eight

  October 5

  The guy who sold Monk to Dad gave him a book on how to take care of tarantulas—Arachnomania by Philippe de Vosjoli. It has tons of great stuff about the African king baboon spider and other kinds of tarantulas, too.

  There are about 800 different tarantula species in the world.

  The king baboon spider is the second largest African tarantula. They are big and beautiful, covered with short red hairs. Females are bigger than the males. Thats true of all tarantulas.

  King baboons are considered aggressive tarantulas. These little monsters come at you hissing, with their fangs raised. Dad was right: You definitely dont want to handle this species.

  Tarantulas are "primitive" spiders—living fossils. They haven't changed much through evolution from the way they were tens of millions of years ago. No fancy webs for these creatures. They get their food the old-fashioned way by overpowering their prey with strength, speed, and viciousness. Earth tigers.

  Adult tarantulas eat crickets, mealworms, and small pink mice. (Why pink, I wonder?) Spiderlings can eat pinhead crickets or wingless fruit-flies until they get bigger.

  Young tarantulas should be offered food twice a week. Adult spiders can be offered food every week to ten days. If you get a tarantula that's been imported from another country and it has a shrunken abdomen, that usually means it hasn't been eating enough. They should be fed more frequently.

  The book has lots of helpful information, but some of the author's advice is really funny even though he probably didn't mean it to be:

  Young children should not be allowed to handle tarantulas. (Gee, really?)

  If you're going to hold a tarantula, sit on the rug, or a soft couch. The biggest risk of handling tarantulas is that they'll fall and split open their abdomens when they hit the ground. The tarantulas usually die when that happens but a few people have had some luck using a fast-drying glue to hold the split edges together. The author recommends Krazy Glue as a last resort to glue the tarantula back together!

  Tarantula hairs can fall off and cause severe itching and allergic reactions in some people. Getting tarantula hairs in your eyes or mouth is no fun. Do not let them climb on your face.

  Okay, I won't.

  It's important to use common sense when taking care of large spiders. Tarantulas from the desert like their cage or terrarium kept hot. Tarantulas from tropical climates like it moist and humid. Tarantulas that climb trees need something to climb to feel like they're at home.

  Think spider.

  Suddenly Bobby heard a strange sound, a soft hissing coming from the terrarium, from Monk. He bent down to take a closer look. He had read about this sound some adult tarantulas make: stridulation. Even the word sounded dangerous.

  Maybe Monk was still hungry. He opened the screen top and dropped in a live cricket. The baboon spider pounced in a blur of motion, pierced the insect with its sharp fangs, and sat motionless, sucking out the crickets insides.

  Bobby watched, fascinated. Even in her healthy days Thelma never ate like that. He thought about Thelma alone in Mr. Niezgocki's laboratory at school. All at once he missed the way she felt resting contentedly in the palm of his hand. How was she doing? Did she miss him?

  Watching Monk eat, Bobbys own stomach gave a rumble. But then he remembered, Luke Hall is coming to dinner tonight. The thought started a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach and erased whatever feeble appetite he might have had.

  Fifteen minutes later Bobby flopped down at the breakfast bar and poured himself a small bowl of cornflakes.

  "Morning," Mom said, smiling over at him from the ironing board. She was ironing her nurse's uniform.

  "Where's Dad?" he asked.

  "He's already up and out," Mom answered. "And I've got to get out, too. One of the nurses called in sick at the hospital."

  "So how come you're in such a good mood?" Breezy said from her seat at the far end of the breakfast bar.

  "Guess who's going to be in Maternity today?" Mom said, smiling. "Guess who gets to kiss all those brand-new babies? Moi!"

  "Hey Mom, what should we have for dinner tonight?"

  "How about that four-alarm chili Dad makes?" Mom suggested. "That's always a big hit. We can make some corn bread to go with it."

  "Luke doesn't like spicy food," Breezy said.

  "Luke doesn't like spicy food," Bobby repeated in a nasal voice.

  "Maybe he could make that nice shrimp dish," Mom said. "Shrimp over puff pastry."

  "Great," Breezy said. She gave Bobby a sly grin. "I'll buy the shrimp. You know, I heard about this local shrimp herder who has the freshest, most wonderful shrimp you can imagine. You would not believe how he does it. See, he's got these porpoises, these trained dolphins who actually herd the shrimp up the East Coast—"

  "Mom!" Bobby cried, dropping his spoon into the bowl. "How does ... I mean ... man! Doesn't the word privacy' mean anything around here?"

  "I swear I'm innocent," Mom replied, lifting her hands.

  Bobby finished his cereal. Dad.

  "Relax, both of you."

  "Why don't you cook, Brianna?" Bobby suggested.

  "Oh no you don't," Breezy said. Luxuriously, she tossed her long hair. "I take after my very modern mother. I don't do windows and I don't cook. Except breakfast."

  "You could at least make dessert," Bobby said. "Remember that jam cake you made last summer, the one that tasted like stale glue? That would impress any swimmer."

  "Hold it, you two," his mother said. She put down the iron and approached the breakfast bar. "Hold it right there. I want you to be on your best manners tonight. Understand?"

  "Truce?" Breezy looked at him.

  "Oh, all right."

  "You know, your watch is wrong," she said. "The clock in your room, too. They're off by an hour. You're an hour behind the rest of the world."

  "Yeah, well it's, like, an experiment we're doing in my science class," Bobby lied. "Half the class switched to daylight savings time, half didn't."

  "Whatever," Breezy sighed.

  ***

  At school Bobby waded through the crowd of kids drifting toward homeroom, thinking how terrific it would be if Chick Hall were absent for a whole week. A solid month.

  "Spider Boy!"

  Chick Hall stood before him, black hair wet and gleaming, flanked by two boys on one side, one on the other. I swam a mile this morning, his cocky smile seemed to say. What have you done with your morning?

  "Missed you yesterday, Spider Boy!" Chick said, smirking. His front teeth were big and white. "I hear you brought your little brother to school yesterday! I woulda loved to meet the furry little beast!"

  Bobby started pushing past but one of Chicks friends stepped in front of him and blocked the way. It was Scott Shanahan, a short, wiry boy with curly brown hair. Bobby had heard from Butch Fostick that Scott's father, Bird Shanahan, was a local garbage collector, a man of legendary physical strength.

  "You know, I got a boa constrictor that'll make lunch meat out of your tarantula any day of the week," Scott said.

  "Congratulations," Bobby said, shrugging and walking away.

  "See ya in homeroom, Spider Boy!" Chick yelled. Bobby walked down the corridor to the sounds of a spirited choru
s:

  Spider boy! Spider boy!

  Spider boy from Illinois!

  He's the best in the West

  Friend to all those spider pests—

  Oh yeah! Here comes Spider Boy!

  Oh yeah! Here comes Spider Boy!

  Bobby slid into Mr. Niezgocki's lab and pulled the door shut behind him. He was surprised to find Lucky there.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi," he replied. Standing next to her, he was struck again at how tall she was. He was tall for his age, but she was every inch as tall as he was. Maybe an inch taller.

  "Just came in to see how she's doing," Lucky said.

  Thelma barely moved when Bobby lifted her out. The live cricket he'd given her for dinner was still jumping around. He sat down on the floor and put her on his lap. Thelma took two lazy steps up the front of his shirt. Then stopped.

  "How are you, girl?" Bobby asked in a quiet voice. "You like it here okay? Huh?"

  "She okay?" Lucky asked, sitting beside him.

  "I guess so," Bobby said. "Still not eating. I've read that sometimes they go through a period where they don't eat for weeks, even months. It could be lots of reasons."

  "Let me hold her?" Lucky asked softly He looked at her.

  "Okay but be careful. Promise you won't freak out and drop her?"

  "I promise, I promise."

  "Be real careful. Cup your hands—just let her sit on your palms. Don't squeeze at all."

  He placed Thelma in Luckys hands. Thelma swiveled around, moving her furry feet until she found a comfortable position.

  "She seems to like your smell all right," Bobby said. Eyes wide, Lucky grinned.

  "She's heavy!" she whispered. "And the hairs are stiffer than I'd thought. Here."

  She handed Thelma back to him.

  "Can she see me? How do you think I look to her?"

  "Blurry, probably," Bobby said. "These spiders have eight eyes, but they don't have very good eyesight for things far away. Whatever they can see is right up close."

  He put Thelma back in her cage.

  "Thanks for inviting me over this weekend," he said without looking at her. "I, uh, didn't exactly tell you the truth. I really don't have anything planned this weekend except that my sister is having Chick Hall's big brother over for dinner tonight. She's going out with him."

  "Your big sister is going out with Chick's big brother?" Lucky clapped her hands and spun around, laughing. "And he's coming to dinner? That's too perfect! I'd love to be a fly on the wall at your house tonight!"

  "Yeah, I can't wait," Bobby said glumly. "Maybe that's why I'm a little down. It's like I'm having a bad—"

  "Month?" Lucky put in.

  "Yeah," he said with a short laugh.

  "Well, the invitation's still open," she said. "If you change your mind, give me a call."

  ***

  The bell rang in homeroom. Miss Terbaldi started taking attendance; two minutes later, Chick Hall came into the classroom.

  "Mr. Hall," Miss Terbaldi said, frowning.

  "I'm early," Chick said. "For first period."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Lucky smile.

  "Next time, Mr. Hall, don't bother coming without a late pass from the office."

  "Yes, ma'am," Chick said.

  On the way out of class, Chick slapped Lucky's arm.

  "Hey!" she cried, a mixture of anger and delight on her face. She whirled around and smacked Chick back.

  Later he saw them talking together in the hall way. They were both stretching, two athletes talking shop. Lucky had a bemused half-smile on her face. For guys like Chick, Bobby realized, life would always be good. Chick would always have nice cars, lots of money. Pretty girls.

  In math class, Mr. Niezgocki droned on and on about the associative principle of mathematics. If A = B and B = C, then A = C. A no-brainer. But even if this principle was true for A, B, and C, Bobby could see how worthless it was with people. He liked Lucky. Lucky liked Chick. Logically, he and Chick should be bosom buddies.

  Yeah, right.

  After school Bobby stopped into the lab to do his hour of work. It was fun being able to work so close to Thelma. He watered and misted Mr. Niezgockis plants, fed the fish, and cleaned out the geckos terrarium. Twice he reached into Thelma's terrarium to softly stroke her or whisper to her, just to let her know that he was there. Next he started working on the dissecting sets. He counted forty of them, most of them messed up, the scalpels and forceps put back the wrong way. He had about half of them done when Mr. Niezgocki arrived.

  "Here," he said, handing back Bobbys spider journal. "Great stuff! I really enjoyed it."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, sir. Your love of spiders comes through loud and clear. Not many people could see beauty in a spider, but you do. You see it, and you help me see it."

  "Thanks." He felt pleased. "Moms a little worried that I'm becoming obsessed."

  "Obsessed?" Mr. Niezgocki shrugged. "What's wrong with being obsessed? Galileo, Einstein, Curie—obsessed, all of them. You tell your mom I said there's nothing wrong with that so long as you still leave time to be a human being."

  "Okay," Bobby said.

  "Can I make one suggestion?" Mr. Niezgocki asked. "The tidbits you've collected about spiders are fascinating, delicious, but my favorite parts of your journal were the parts about you, what you noticed, what you were thinking. You've got the eye and the heart of a scientist. Trust your perceptions and intuitions."

  Bobby nodded.

  "Now. Do you have a strong stomach?"

  "I guess so," Bobby said.

  "Then let me show you something you've probably never seen before."

  He opened the refrigerator, took out a clear plastic bag, and held it up. That's when Bobby saw them. Eyes.

  A whole bag of eyeballs. And he could tell in a split second that they were real, living eyes. Or had been living. He couldn't believe it. There must have been close to a hundred of them. It was like a scene from a horror movie: dead eyeballs, all looking at him blankly through the clear plastic.

  "What the—"

  "Pigs' eyes," Mr. Niezgocki said, grinning. "We're going to dissect them in science class, probably in early November."

  "They look so..."

  "Human?" Mr. Niezgocki nodded. "Sometimes they give us a shipment of sheeps' eyes. Those are really eerie. I've also gotten a shipment of cows' eyes, which are enormous. One of the advantages of working here is you get first crack at all this wonderful science stuff that comes in. Wait till we get the owl pellets." He smiled. "Say, would you like to take a few of these eyes home to study them?"

  "Take them home? Could I?"

  "Just promise to bring them back tomorrow."

  "Promise," Bobby said.

  ***

  Bobby walked home. There was a strange car parked in the driveway. A smug little Corvette, powder blue with a custom paint job, orange flames on both doors. Luke Hall's wheels.

  Everyone was sitting in the living room. A plate of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. There was even one of those plastic logs burning in the fireplace. Luke was getting the red carpet treatment.

  "The prodigal son returns," Breezy said, pointing at him. "That's Bobby."

  "Hi," Bobby said with a short wave. He hoped Luke wouldn't get up off the couch, and he didn't.

  "Hiya," Luke said. He was taller than Chick, with wider shoulders, but you could tell in a heartbeat that he and Chick were brothers. The same square jaw, slicked-back black hair. The same cocky smile.

  "But like I was saying," Luke said, "the great thing about swimming is that you don't get the kind of injuries other athletes get, because the resistance gets spread out evenly on all the muscles in your body."

  "Excuse me," Dad said, getting up. "I'd better check on dinner. Bobby, can you give me a hand?"

  Gratefully, Bobby followed him into the kitchen.

  "How was your day?" Dad asked.

  "Okay," he said, but he could tell Dad wasn't
listening; he was too intent on studying a pot of cooking shrimp.

  "This is just about done. Be a sport and set the table for me? Forks, knives, spoons. Use cloth napkins, the red ones. In the fridge there's a bowl of pickles. And olives. Luke's crazy about green olives."

  Lukes crazy about green olives. He could hear Luke in the living room talking about a conditioning program he did last summer at Yale.

  "Doesn't all that lap swimming get repetitive?" Mom asked.

  "No," Luke said. "Actually I find it clears my head."

  Actually, Bobby thought, I haven't heard such a pile of manure in a long, long time. Bobby put the bowl of olives on the table. The large green olives reminded him of what he had tucked in his knapsack. Mr. Niezgocki had given him six pig eyes. He realized he'd better get them refrigerated.

  He brought his knapsack into the dining room and took out the plastic bag. The eyeballs stared up at him. "There's a definite Zen to swimming," Luke was saying. "The mental part is ten times more important than the physical part."

  Bobby took all six pig eyes out of the bag and added them to the bowl of olives. He arranged them carefully, making sure each eyeball was looking straight up. Then he buried the pig eyes beneath one layer of olives so they weren't visible from above.

  "Okay," Bobby said when he finished.

  "Table set?" Dad asked.

  "Yeah," he replied. It's set, all right.

  "Okay. We're going to eat in about ten minutes."

  Bobby went upstairs. His heart was racing. To calm down he lay on the floor and took five deep breaths. He peered into the terrarium. Monk was lying motionless in a shallow burrow he'd dug at one end. Most of a spider's life is spent waiting. Bobby waited. Seeing Monk made him think about Thelma. It occurred to him that when he left school he hadn't even thought to say goodbye.

  "AAAHHH!"

  The sound came from downstairs. Breezys scream. This was followed by a confusion of shouting, scraping chairs, loud talking. A deep angry voice.

  "Bobby! Come down here this instant!"