“Everything is going to be fine,” he said. “It’s just a pain because I have to do all this paperwork. Plus, I’m gonna need earplugs if I’m working with Victor all day.”
Uncle Victor’s voice has one volume level: loud.
When Dad told me everything was going to be fine, I could feel my whole body relax. That was what he always said when something got messed up. Like once when I was playing with a pen, and the ink exploded all over Dad’s favorite blanket from Grandma Olivia, and Dad washed it out so I would stop crying my face off. Or another time when he left work early to drive me to the pumpkin-patch field trip in first grade because I had been in the school bathroom and missed the bus.
Obviously, I didn’t know then that everything wasn’t going to be fine. Neither did Dad. And he hadn’t known it when we last saw him in Florida, either.
* * *
Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about after I showed up late to school on Monday, and when Mrs. Thumbly called on me during social studies, I had no idea what the question was. I didn’t even hear her until she’d said my name a couple of times. Some of the kids giggled.
“Quit laughing,” Brain barked at them. She looked at Mrs. Thumbly. “The Hudson River,” she said, which I guess was the answer to the question I hadn’t heard.
Mrs. Thumbly nodded at Brain and then looked back at me. I waited for her to send me to Headmaster Nurbin again, but instead she just nodded at me, too, and then asked a question to another kid.
13
BUS RIDE 2: BACK ON THE BUS
Brain and I were going to wait until we were off the bus to tell Popcorn the bad news about the money, but after a whole day of keeping my thoughts to myself about our failed mission to save Dad, I was out of patience. When we got on the bus Popcorn smiled so big at us that I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Brain’s mom spent all our money,” I whispered, pressing my spine against the back of the seat. “We can’t get the tickets.”
“Guess we’re not gonna wait,” I heard Brain mumble.
There was silence from Popcorn.
“I’m really sorry,” I continued, whispering to Popcorn. “You did my Saturday Service Reflection for nothing.”
It sounded like Popcorn was sniffling, but he still didn’t say anything.
“We know how much you wanted to meet Tito,” Brain whispered from the other side of Popcorn.
“I have to meet him,” Popcorn whispered so softly that we could barely hear him above the sounds of the bus. “I need to talk to him about the number one fan.”
“Oh,” I whispered.
“Seat twelve!” Mrs. Blanky barked from the front of the bus. “No talking!”
We rode along in silence for another few minutes. I heard some gulping sounds and weird breathing, so I turned my head. Popcorn was actually crying. On the bus!
For some reason this kind of annoyed me. “It’s not that big a deal, Popcorn,” I said in a voice a little louder and a little meaner than I’d intended. “It’s not anything to cry about.”
“Leave him alone, Oliver,” Brain whisper-warned. She leaned forward and looked across Popcorn at me. “It’s not his fault. It’s my mom’s fault.”
It’s really my mom’s fault, though, I thought. She’s the one who left my dad, and if she hadn’t left him, maybe he would’ve stayed in Virginia and never gone to Florida to work for Walker Stewart. Or maybe it’s Carl’s fault. I don’t know. It’s someone’s.
“This whole thing was a stupid idea,” I whispered to Brain, or to Popcorn, or maybe to myself. It was completely stupid to think that I could meet Tito the Bonecrusher and rescue my dad from jail.
“Hey, it was my idea,” Brain hissed, “and it wasn’t stupid.”
“Why have you been helping me, anyway?” I whispered back.
“Because you’re my friend,” Brain snapped.
The bus screeched to a halt. Then we heard Mrs. Blanky’s terrifying voice.
“SEAT TWELVE! YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF RULES SEVEN AND TWENTY-THREE! THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!”
Brain and I pressed our spines completely against the back of the seat and stared ahead.
The bus started moving again.
I was about to grumble some sort of apology at Popcorn, just to get Brain off my back, when he whispered something else.
“I’m … Tito … fan…”
He whispered so super softly, I felt like I had to turn my ears inside out to catch any of it. But I figured I had a good idea of what he was probably saying. He was a fan of Tito, so he really wanted to meet him. But he had no idea how much more important it was to me. Tito was my only hope, because he was the only person who cared enough about helping people to want to help me, and he was the only person who would know how to help me. And some bad, bone-buzzing feelings started to come up from where I’d pushed them down, and some voice inside said maybe Tito couldn’t help me. Maybe my dad really was going to be stuck in Florida for years. In prison. He wouldn’t be able to come to Virginia for Louisa’s graduation, even though he’d promised he would. And maybe Louisa would never forgive him. The buzzing got stronger, and it was in me everywhere, like a roller-coaster drop that goes on too long, where the fun part is over and you’re just shaking and falling and wishing you were back on the sidewalk. I covered my ears and closed my eyes.
I think I might have yelled or something, because the next thing I knew, the bus SCREECHED to a halt again.
“SEAT TWELVE. EXIT.”
I heard Mrs. Blanky pull the lever to open the door.
I looked up. Brain and Popcorn were eyeing me carefully. Probably because I had just screamed on the bus.
“SEAT TWELVE,” Mrs. Blanky repeated.
“She’s kidding,” Brain whispered. “She’s not actually going to make us walk home.”
Brain didn’t look like she believed what she was saying, though.
“NOW,” Blanky barked.
Little Joey in the seat in front of us started to cry. Brain, Popcorn, and I grabbed our backpacks. All the other kids stared at us in shocked silence as we marched down the aisle and down the steps of the bus.
Mrs. Blanky closed the door and drove away. We had been let off right in front of the Fluff Cream Dairy Dessert Shop, at the corner of Culverton and Main. Mr. Jiggly Fluff was standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, holding a sign that said FREE WAFFLE CONE WITH PURCHASE.
Getting kicked off the bus wasn’t the greatest—it was super cloudy and cold for May, plus I’m not big on exercise—but at least now we could figure out what the heck Popcorn had been talking about.
“What the heck were you talking about?” I asked him, glancing at Mr. Jiggly Fluff to see if our conversation was being overheard.
“Um, well, I haven’t really … I haven’t told anyone this, but you know that letter that Tito got from a kid a few years back? The one that said it was from his number one fan?”
Was this a serious question? Brain and I had probably talked about Tito on the bus in front of Popcorn every day so far this year, except for the day we got distracted by the mailbox crash.
“You know we know,” Brain said. “What about it?”
“I, basically, I kind of wrote it,” Popcorn said.
“You mean you wrote a letter like it?” I clarified.
“Well, no,” Popcorn said. “I mean, I wrote the letter.”
“Not really, though,” I said. “I mean, not the one that says ‘Dear Tito, I love to watch your movies. You are so exciting…’”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Popcorn said. He looked kind of nervous.
“Whoa,” Brain said, a little dazed.
“Wait, so you’re saying … YOU’RE the number one FAN?”
This was not possible. One day Brain and I had spent about four hours reading message boards where people tried to piece together clues about the number one fan. Lots of folks thought he was one of Tito’s relatives in Mexico. Some people believed Tito made him up. Nobody thought he was
some kid squished in the middle of seat twelve on bus 179.
“Yeah,” Popcorn said.
“But your dad is a famous writer,” I said. “You’re rich.”
“He hasn’t always been famous,” Popcorn responded, kicking at the leaves on the sidewalk.
Mr. Jiggly Fluff shouted something at us.
“Let’s walk,” I said, moving as quickly as I could and avoiding eye contact as I passed Mr. Jiggly Fluff. Then I turned the corner and hustled down Culverton Avenue.
Brain and Popcorn followed. I didn’t slow down until we were out of sight of Mr. Jiggly Fluff and the Fluff Cream store.
As we made our way slowly down Culverton Avenue toward Brain’s house, Popcorn told us about how he had written his fan letter to Tito in third grade.
“I didn’t know that my teacher had mailed it,” Popcorn said. “Then I heard about it on the news. The video of Tito reading my letter was everywhere.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone?” I asked. I figured if I were Popcorn, I would have been bragging to everyone that I was Tito’s number one fan and he had talked about me at SmashFest.
“It’s embarrassing,” Popcorn said. “I said all that stuff about my dad and not being able to pay rent.”
“Hey! You got a hundred thousand dollars from Fists O’Blarney!” For a moment, I had forgotten about the bet between Fists and Tito.
“No, I didn’t,” Popcorn said. “I don’t know what happened. I guess maybe it took so long for Tito to get the money from Fists O’Blarney that he couldn’t find us.”
“That’s just like O’Blarney,” Brain said bitterly.
“Yeah, and that was around the time my dad sold his book for a lot of money, so we moved to a new apartment and then to our house.”
“What did your dad say about the letter?” Brain asked.
“Nothing. He doesn’t know about it. We don’t really talk to each other that much.”
“But you see each other every day!” I exclaimed. It was so strange to me that someone could have their dad nearby and not talk to him.
“I mean, we talk to each other,” Popcorn said, “but mostly about writing. And mostly it’s my dad talking to me.”
“I get it,” Brain said.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
Popcorn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to ask about that.
“Also, my dad doesn’t like wrestling or action movies,” Popcorn continued. “He says the storytelling is woefully base.”
“Oh,” I said again, nodding like I knew what that meant.
By this point we were in front of Brain’s house. The three of us trudged up her walk and through the front door. We collected our snacks in silence. I was in shock. If Tito’s number one fan was in my bus seat, it seemed like a sign that I was meant to meet Tito and find out how to save my dad.
“I feel like there’s something we’re missing,” Brain mused as we sat in her rec room. She hadn’t even bothered to get her homework out yet. “Some other way to never quit trying.”
“We could use fake money to buy the tickets,” I suggested. “Fake money that looks real. Counterfeit bills, like in Coyote Willis: Pioneer Cop.”
“Where could we get fake money that looks real?” Popcorn asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just brainstorming.”
“The counterfeiters get thrown in jail for life in Coyote Willis,” Brain reminded me.
“Maybe your stepdad will give you the money,” Popcorn suggested.
Brain and I had already ruled that out for sure. A long time ago, Mom had said that Louisa and I were never allowed to ask Carl for money, and she made Carl promise to tell her if we did. This was part of Mom’s big conversation with Louisa and me before she married Carl because she thought the two of us would be all traumatized by moving into Carl’s fancy neighborhood. (Never mind that I’d been spending most of my free time at Brain’s since I was a little kid.) A bunch of it was Mom reminding us that we are just as good and important as anyone who is rich, we should be proud of who we are, pep talk stuff like that.
“I’m not allowed to ask Carl for money,” I told Popcorn.
Brain started scribbling on a piece of paper. I started wishing there was no rule about asking Carl for money. But Mom wanted us to appreciate the “value of a dollar.” That’s why Louisa had an after-school job.
Louisa’s after-school job.
A weird combination of excitement and dread filled me. I knew how we could get into the gala.
“Brain?” I said. “The sponsors!”
Brain stopped writing abruptly. “YES,” she declared. “That is a great idea. Perfect.”
“What sponsors?” Popcorn asked.
“Fluff Cream and Designer Mart,” Brain answered. “The web page for the Number One Fan Foundation Gala says that there will be special guests from each sponsor. And the special guest from Fluff Cream has to be Mr. Jiggly Fluff. That’s it, Oliver! That’s how we’ll get you into the gala!” Brain’s face was all lit up.
“Maybe,” I said. My dread was overtaking my excitement.
“I don’t get it,” Popcorn said. “How can Mr. Jiggly Fluff help us?”
“Because Mr. Jiggly Fluff is my sister,” I said. “Louisa.”
14
SECOND-BIGGEST SECRET
“Maybe there’s another way,” I said. “I don’t even know for sure if Louisa is going to be working at the gala,” I said.
But even as I said it, I realized I did know. The other day I’d been half listening while Louisa complained to Mom about having to work this coming Saturday night while her friends were going to some “party” that just sounded like a bunch of kids sitting around in a house.
“And even if she is going, I don’t know how she could get us in,” I added. “Let’s think of something else. Forget I mentioned it.”
“No, this is going to work,” Brain said. “Louisa can sneak you in. Her costume is in a big box, right?” She crumpled up the piece of paper she had been writing on and tossed it in the direction of the trash can, then immediately began writing on the next page of her notepad. “We’ll probably need to get some surveillance equipment,” she said, “like in Time Crusher 2. When Lance Knightfox is sneaking into the space dungeon and Blade Hogan sits in the space van with TV monitors in it, and he’s talking to Lance through an earpiece…” Brain was scribbling on her notepad like crazy.
“I don’t think we can afford to buy a van,” Popcorn worried.
“Well, of course, your surveillance equipment won’t be that elaborate,” Brain clarified. “But we can probably get you some kind of equipment.”
Brain loves gadgets. She has a bunch of them, like a little voice recorder and a tiny camera on a keychain.
I was excited about the surveillance equipment, but I still didn’t understand one thing. “Why do you keep saying you? Can’t we all go now that we don’t need tickets?”
“You will go, Spaghetti-O,” Brain said, consulting the latest page on her notepad, “because you have to talk to Tito and find out how to get someone out of a federal correctional center. And Popcorn will go because we made a deal. But we need someone on the outside to make sure this operation goes smoothly. That’ll be me.”
“Someone on the outside,” Popcorn repeated, nodding. “While we’re on the inside.”
Oh, right. I remembered how we were supposed to get on the inside. “My sister will never agree to help us,” I told them. “I can’t tell her we’re trying to help Dad. It’s like she hates him right now.”
Brain put her notebook down. “Maybe we can tell her about Popcorn,” she said. “And if that doesn’t work…” Brain looked from side to side over her shoulders, like someone might be listening in. She lowered her voice. “I don’t love having to do this, but we can use signature move number four. We know Louisa’s biggest secret, and we can threaten to tell people that she’s Mr. Jiggly Fluff.”
Actually, Louisa’s biggest secret was that Dad was in prison. I was pretty sure she hadn’t told any of her friends.
But being Mr. Jiggly Fluff was still a big secret. Louisa didn’t want anyone to know that she has an after-school job, let alone that she’s Mr. Jiggly Fluff.
“You said her name is Louisa?” Popcorn asked, giving me a funny look. “Louisa Jones, right?”
I nodded.
“I bet she’ll help us,” Popcorn said.
“You don’t know her,” I told him. But it’s not like we had a bunch of other options. I checked the time. It was after five, which meant Louisa would be home from work any minute. “Let’s go ahead and get this over with.”
We marched down the stairs, out the door, and across the grass to my house.
15
LOUISA
Louisa was already downstairs in the TV room, lying on the couch and watching Los Angeles High, this show about high schoolers who like surfing and hanging out at a diner. It is the most pointless, boring show I have ever seen, but Louisa loves it almost as much as Brain’s mom loves her reality shows. I knew Louisa wouldn’t be happy that I was interrupting Los Angeles High, especially if I was interrupting it to ask for something.
Popcorn, Brain, and I stood beside the TV, and I began a little speech I’d made up in my head on the way over, explaining why Popcorn needed to meet Tito.
I’d gotten only as far as “of the utmost importance that you help us” when Louisa held up her hand to stop me.
“Forget it,” she said, her eyes never leaving the TV. “Go away.”
Clearly, Louisa was in a terrible mood. My nice little speech was not going to work. We had to go right for the throat and use signature move #4.
“Louisa, if you don’t do it, I’m going to tell everyone that you are Mr. Jiggly Fluff,” I proclaimed.
“Whatever,” Louisa said, sounding as bored as the kids on her beloved Los Angeles High.
“I mean it, Louisa,” I said. “Everyone at school will know. Everyone.”
A look of absolute shock crossed her face. I thought maybe my threat had gotten through to her. But no.
Tito the Bonecrusher Page 8