I left Kidsboro without any more thought to our scheduled city council meeting and headed to Whit’s End, Odyssey’s ice cream shop and discovery emporium. I was certain that Mr. Whittaker, the owner and operator of the place and the founder of Kidsboro, would have something to say about Max starting his own town. Mr. Whittaker owned the woods behind Whit’s End, where both Kidsboro and Better town were situated. If he said Max had to go, his word would be final.
Before I even sat down at the counter, I was already into my story. “Max is starting his own town!” I said to Mr. Whittaker.
“I know.”
“He’s across the creek, building a … what?”
“I know, Ryan,” Mr. Whittaker said. “He Was in here last night and asked permission.” My face burned. This was typical Max. He was always a step ahead of everyone else.
“And you said yes?” I asked weakly.
“I didn’t see any reason why not.”
“But … don’t you know Max? The only reason he’s building this town is to tear ours down! He just wants to get even because we forced him out. His only purpose is to destroy Kidsboro!”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s really anything Max could do to destroy Kidsboro. I’m actually thinking it could be good for you.”
“What?”
“Healthy competition. I’m sure he’ll create new businesses. It’ll force your business owners to make better products and lower prices so that they can compete with Max’s businesses. It’ll give you a taste of the real world.”
I didn’t want a taste of the real world. I was very happy in my imaginary one, a world that for about 12 hours didn’t include Max. “He doesn’t want healthy competition, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Ryan, I know Max. I know what he’s like. I know he’s schemed his way to the top, and if things go the way they usually do, he’ll scheme his way back to the bottom. But I also know that there’s hardly anyone more capable of being the leader of a town that could compete with Kidsboro. He’s smart, he’s ambitious, and he knows how to get things done. I wouldn’t do this unless I thought it would be good for you. Who knows? Just like different countries of the world, you may end up needing each other.”
“I’m sorry for saying so, Mr. Whittaker, but I can’t imagine this being good for us.”
“I guess you’ll soon see.”
I walked out the door of Whit’s End, my shoulders drooping. I reached down, picked up a rock, and threw it at a tree. How could Mr. Whittaker show no loyalty to Kidsboro? The town was his idea. He had helped write the laws and set up the government. And now he was going to let it be taken over. I couldn’t understand it.
For the next month, we could barely hear ourselves think with all the construction going on in Max’s new town. Eight of his friends were working, and, from the looks of it, not all of the structures they were building were houses. Max was mum on what he was creating, which had Jill fuming, of course. She had tried to interview him a number of times, but he kept answering questions such as, “What kinds of things will you have in your town?” with comebacks like, “Good things.” The construction workers didn’t know anything either—they were just following orders.
I was watching them work on an odd-shaped, three-story building (I’m not sure I would have the guts to go up to the third story) when Nelson came up from behind me.
“Look at this,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. It was a flyer.
GRAND OPENING!!!
BETTERTOWN
COME SEE THE ATTRACTIONS! EAT THE FOOD!
LIVE THE EXCITEMENT! ALL FOR FREE! ALL FOR FUN!
THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING
“Our location is just across the creek,
but our attitude is miles away.”
Sponsored by Max Darby, King of Bettertown
Nelson watched my reaction as I read it. “These flyers are all over Odyssey. I guess he’s inviting pretty much anyone,” he said.
I decided right then and there that this was going to be for real, and I could not show others that I was scared of it. People were going to look to me for leadership, and I had to convince them with my actions that I was not threatened by Max’s new town.
I swallowed and said unconvincingly, “Good. I’m looking forward to going.”
“You’re going?”
“Sure. They’re our new neighbors. We need to be neighborly.”
“This town is obviously a direct attempt to bring us down. I mean, look at their slogan. ‘Our attitude is miles away.’ That’s a slam on Kidsboro, and you know it.”
“There’s nothing like competitive juices to stimulate people.”
Of course, I was unable to look Nelson in the eye when I said that.
Jill, Scott, and I went to the grand opening together. I encouraged everyone in town to go, though I didn’t really have to twist anyone’s arm. Max had done well to keep everything secret, and now people were brimming with anticipation. Plus, there was free food.
Max had spared no expense getting his town ready. There were flags, balloons, and streamers every where. The smell of barbecue was in the air, music was playing, and in every direction there was a beehive of activity. Max was decked out in a shirt and tie (one of those string ties that country singers wear) and dress slacks, greeting everyone with a welcome smile as they came across the bridge to Bettertown. I think mine was more of a welcome sneer.
The first thing I noticed was the housing district. It was the Beverly Hills of the woods. Two-story clubhouses were lined up, majestically overlooking the creek. They all had “For Sale” signs hanging on posts in the front yards. The three of us went into one of the houses, and Jill almost choked on her tongue. Smooth, painted walls and ceilings, plywood floors (the floors in Kidsboro were dirt), and two soft chairs decorated the first floor. A ladder led up to the second floor where there was a 10-foot cathedral ceiling, a small balcony, and—most impressive to Scott and me—electricity. Max had put outlets in each of the houses. They were connected to mammoth extension cords, which disappeared underground outside the houses. He had dug a trench from the town and wired the cords through a pipe under the bridge, through Kidsboro, and all the way to Whit’s End.
I wondered if Mr. Whittaker had helped Max just as he had helped us build Kidsboro. Kidsboro had electrical access, with the same underground cables, but It was only hooked up in certain places like the meeting hall and the movie theater. If Mr. Whittaker had helped Max out, that meant he had gone to greater lengths to help Bettertown than he had to help Kidsboro. My teeth clenched as I bent down to look at the trench.
Mr. Whittaker’s work, I was sure of it.
Max had proudly placed an electric appliance in each of the houses—a radio, a fan, a CD player—to demonstrate the possibilities with a house hooked up to electricity. Scott was mesmerized by the working radio, as if he’d never seen one before. “Excuse me for saying so, but this is awesome.”
Jill was enchanted by the balcony and the painted walls. I tried to act like it was nothing special, but to be honest, I was impressed.
The business district was no less impressive. The crowd seemed to be flocking to a large meeting area inland. It was a building much larger than the meeting pavilion in Kidsboro, and it turned out to be a hangout. There was a sign on the door that said “Max’s Room.” We rolled our eyes as we went in. Tables and chairs were set up. People were mingling and eating popcorn and chips and drinking sodas. There was a concession stand with a line of people waiting to get free food.
The front four tables were arranged so that people could watch Charlie Metzger, a boy from Odyssey Middle School, perform magic tricks on a stage that was raised about six inches off the ground. To his left was a large, white poster board on an easel with the schedule of performances for the day. “Jim Jones, the Junior High Juggler” would perform at noon.
At one o’clock, “The Vocal Stylings of Margaret Piloscowitz” was scheduled. So She was either a singer, or she made funny noises. I probably wouldn’t at
tend in either case.
At two o’clock, Slugfest, an alternative band from our school that consisted of four electric guitars and a guy who played a tambourine and sang every now and then, was playing. The school newspaper had done a story on them once. The reporter had asked them why their songs didn’t rhyme, make sense, or contain any complete sentences. The guy with the tambourine had answered that it was because life didn’t rhyme, make sense, or contain complete sentences. I asked around, and nobody knew what that meant, but everyone thought it was a totally cool thing to say.
Then at three o’clock was “The Rip-Roaring Comedy of Herb Martin.” Herb had done a comedy act at a school talent show once and he wasn’t funny, but he could pop any joint in his body at will. His routine was pretty much centered around this talent.
“We gotta come back at three,” Scott said. “Herb Martin is hilarious.”
Jill seemed hesitant to say anything complimentary, probably fearing she’d hurt my feelings. But she did note, “Interesting place.”
“It’s great,” I said, stating the obvious. If I’d said, “This is five times better than anything we have in Kidsboro,” that would’ve been a little more accurate.
Charlie the magician pulled a yardstick out of his hat, and the trick was met with a decent amount of applause. He bowed and said, “Thank you! I’ll be here throughout the holidays. Also, if you’d like to learn how to be a magician yourself, starting December third I’ll be teaching a class called ‘Beginning Magic’ at the Bettertown Community School. Thank you.”
Jill and I looked at each other. “They have a school?”
The school wasn’t nearly as nice as anything else we had seen, probably because Max had run out of his seemingly endless supply of wood. The classrooms were divided up by bed sheets hanging from the trees. Each classroom had blankets for the pupils to sit on, and a desk and blackboard for the teacher. There was no ceiling.
“Education always gets the least amount of money, huh?” Jill said, her political commentary for the day.
Outside of the school, a table was set up with a list of the classes that would be offered. A girl I had never seen before was behind the table, taking applications and answering questions. I looked at the list of subjects: Beginning Magic, Bowling, Extreme Sports, Basic Guitar, Wizards and Warlocks (a popular card game that our school had banned because of its references to the occult), Juggling, and a class titled, “Figuring Out Girls.” There was a note informing us that more classes would be offered at a later date.
Next to the class names were the names of the teachers of each. I didn’t recognize some of the names, but Charlie Metzger was going to teach magic, Jim Jones juggling, one of the members of Slugfest was to teach guitar, and Paul Isringhausen, the Odyssey teen bowling champ, was going to teach bowling. I couldn’t believe that Max actually got Paul Isringhausen to teach a class. He was practically a celebrity.
“Figuring Out Girls” was going to be taught by Ted Russo, a junior who had dated 6 of the 10 most beautiful girls at Odyssey High School (according to an informal poll taken by the football team). He was one of the most popular guys in the school. How did Max, a middle schooler, get someone like Ted to come to his little clubhouse town in the woods?
When I asked Jill this question, she gave me an immediate answer. “That’s how he got those guys to teach,” she said, pointing to a small building that looked like a photo booth. The sign said, “Money Exchange,” and it was a place where you could exchange real money for the currency used in Bettertown. There Was no one in the building, probably because everything was free this day, so no one needed any Bettertown money. I looked inside, and posted on the back wall was the exchange rate: the number of “darbles” you could get for a dollar. Jill and I exchanged another roll of the eyes, noting that Max had again named something after himself (“darbles” : Darby).
“You see,” Jill said, “he’s making money off of tourists coming in, so he can get outside people to teach by offering them real money.”
Across from each teacher’s name was how much the class would cost. The bowling class was $15 for non-residents of Bettertown and 400 darbles for residents. The “Figuring Out Girls” class was about the same. They were easily the most expensive ones. It appeared that Jill was right.
We were weaving our way through the quickly thickening crowd when I saw Sid staring into space, kneading his hands like he was washing them with imaginary soap. Sid owned Sid’s Bakery in Kidsboro and was a master chef.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him.
He didn’t say a word, only pointed his chin slightly forward. We all looked and saw a store with a sign that said “Le Bakeria.” It was a full-service bakery. Sid looked at me and shook his head. I assured him that no one could beat his donuts, and he said he knew that. But these appeared to be cheaper (apparently he had already calculated how many of our tokens would equal a darble), and most kids didn’t care about the quality of their food. So he figured he was in trouble.
Scott stepped forward, obviously wanting to taste one since they were free, but he looked at Sid and, out of loyalty, did not grab one. Jill tried to make Sid feel better by saying that the words Le Bakeria were not French or Spanish or anything for bakery, but Sid was inconsolable.
There were a few more businesses that seemed to be mirror images of attractions in Kidsboro, only claiming to be of higher quality or having lower prices. Mark, the owner and operator of the miniature golf place in Kidsboro, had the same reaction that Sid had to the bakery when he laid his eyes on the Bettertown recreation center. This indoor/outdoor facility had an arcade-like area with carnival games like basketball pop-a-shot and football throw, two dart boards, an archery range, a weight bench, and an outdoor bowling alley with three lanes. Mark was not pleased. I had been repeating Mr. Whittaker’s words and telling everyone that the competition would be good for us. I’m not sure getting blown away by your competition is all that good for anyone.
On our way back to the bridge, we passed a table set up with applications for Bettertown citizenship. There was an illustrated brochure showing all the highlights. It looked like something from Disney World. So far, Bettertown was exactly what its name implied. In every conceivable way, it made Kidsboro look pitiful. I was starting to feel a little sorry for myself.
On our way over the bridge, we met Mr. Whittaker, who was heading over to Bettertown. He caught my eye, and I quickly looked away. My reaction was too obvious, though, so I looked at him again. He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back.
“Hi, Ryan,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. Whittaker.” We passed each other with nothing to say. I didn’t want to feel this way about Mr. Whittaker, but I couldn’t help it. I felt the knife in my back.
3
THE BETTERTOWN ADVANTAGE
THE ONE SAVING GRACE in all of this was that I couldn’t imagine how Max was going to get anyone to live in his town. I figured tourists would flock to Bettertown because of all of its attractions. People might even go to school there since some interesting classes were being offered. But who would live in those houses? I knew Max would charge an arm and a leg for them. Plus, knowing his greedy nature, I figured that the prices of everything else would be high too. But the main disadvantage was this: What would it be like to live in a place where Max had proclaimed himself king? Everyone knew he was a con artist. Who would voluntarily live in a place where he made the laws?
After school on Monday, I grabbed my copy of the Kidsboro Chronicle off the ground and went to Scott’s clubhouse. I skimmed through the paper on the way. The entire newspaper was dedicated to the opening of Bettertown. Jill had written most of the stories, including a full-page interview with Max, an in-depth article about all of the attractions, and a story about the school. Roberto, Jill’s assistant, had taken photographs and written a few articles himself. According to the statistics on page three, 104 people had passed over the bridge to attend the grand opening, and two had applied for citizenship. It w
as exactly as I’d expected—everyone wanted to visit, but no one wanted to live there.
Scott was reading a comic book when I went into his house. His eyes focused on my newspaper the second I passed through the door. “Oh, let me see your paper,” he said, snatching it from me. He looked with great interest at the front page.
“The whole thing is about Bettertown,” I said. “The grand opening was a huge success. Of course, Max is having a hard time getting people to live there.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Scott said, with an unnatural chuckle.
As he read on, lips moving, I glanced at his desk and noticed a Bettertown brochure. I hadn’t seen Scott pick one up when we were there, so I wondered if he went back for it. I lifted it, and Scott looked horrified.
“I, uh,” he stumbled, “I didn’t … somebody gave that to me. I was going to throw it away.”
He saw my face and must have sensed a look of disapproval. I tried to hide it. “It’s okay, Scott. Go ahead and be curious. I am. And don’t worry about going over, spending time there, whatever. It’s a fun place. I’m even thinking of taking a class at the school. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do magic tricks.” Actually, the thought had crossed my mind to learn magic, but I was hesitant to spend even one dime in Bettertown. Far be it from me to help their economy.
Scott’s shoulders were still tense, as though he felt no relief that I wasn’t mad at him. He stared at me like he expected me to do something, and then opened the newspaper back up.
I glanced through the brochure, and then I noticed something on the back page of the newspaper. I sat down on the opposite side of the desk and read it while Scott read a page in the middle.
It was a full-page advertisement, paid for by Max. It read:
Are you tired of being a lower-class citizen?
Living in a run-down clubhouse?
Having trouble making ends meet?
THEN BE A CITIZEN OF
The Fight for Kidsboro Page 18