The Fight for Kidsboro

by Marshal Younger

  By the end of the meeting, we had come up with some pretty interesting ideas. Jill was going to do a History of Kidsboro collector’s book, outlining how Kidsboro came to be and events that had shaped Kidsboro along the way. Nelson suggested that Jill include a short biography of every citizen who had ever settled here. He reasoned that people would be more apt to buy the book if they could see their own names in print.

  We were also going to have refreshments. We all agreed to bring food from home, plus, we would ask Sid to offer his cooking expertise and make a smorgasbord of pastries especially for the event. (As it turned out, Sid agreed to make the pastries and sell them for half price, but our end of the deal was that we had to advertise his bakery as much as was humanly possible. Sid was a hard sell.)

  We also decided to create a flag, though admittedly, It wasn’t an original idea. The Bettertown flag flew high across the creek, in full view from Kidsboro. Jill suggested that we ask Roberto to come up with some ideas because he was a pretty good artist. I told her that we needed something that symbolized what Kidsboro was all about—freedom, loyalty, peace, justice, responsibility, fun—and she said that to get all those things into one flag, we would have to fly a copy of our city charter on a pole. I told her that if he got any two of those things on the flag, I’d be happy. She said she would talk to Roberto.

  Alice said that she would take care of security, “just in case things get out of hand.” We all knew that things rarely got out of hand, but we nodded to support Alice’s one and only contribution to the meeting.

  But the one idea that we all got excited about came from Nelson.

  “I’ve got a new invention I’ve been looking forward to unveiling. Eugene and I are almost done. Maybe I could do it at this thing.”

  “A new invention?” I said.

  “Yeah. We’ve been working on it for about a month now, and I think we’ve got it just about right.”

  “What is it?” Jill asked.

  “It’s … in the entertainment field,” he said.

  Nelson’s inventions were always extremely popular. Everyone loved the idea of playing with something that no one else in the world had. His last invention, a computer-programmable car, had sold 51 units in only three months. The fact that he had a new creation was not only a magnet to draw people to our celebration, but It was also good for Kidsboro. It would set us apart from Bettertown because we had something they didn’t—ingenuity. Yes, they had a bowling alley, but we had Nelson. And he would bring Kidsboro back.

  We decided that the celebration would be in four days, on December 10.

  I stopped counting after it became clear that we were not going to get as big a crowd as Max’s grand opening had. But It wasn’t bad. After the rest of the town got word of the celebration, a few people got into it and created attractions of their own. Pete, our resident movie buff, made a short video presentation that was a reenactment of the settling of Kidsboro, 11 months before. It started out with the words “Birth of a Town” in big bold letters in the foreground, then in smaller letters, “Brought to you by Sid’s Bakery.” It was part of the deal.

  In one scene, the boy playing me said to four people standing around, “What shall we do, my friends? We have fought oppression and slavery, and won. And now, I yearn for a land of freedom.” And then I planted a flag in the ground. Not only did we not have a flag back then, but we never faced any oppression or slavery, nor do I ever remember having used the word yearn, and I most certainly didn’t have a British accent, as this actor did. So, the facts were a little exaggerated, but it was still fun.

  Speaking of the flag, Roberto came up with what I thought was a great symbol. It looked a lot like the American flag, with a blue field in the upper left hand corner, but instead of stars, there was a white silhouette of a big oak tree, and the trunk formed the vertical line of a K, for Kidsboro. The red and white stripes were the same, except the red stripes were thinner. He told me that this represented us, in that we were smaller, yes, but that we still wanted the same things that America did—freedom, peace, and so on. I thought it was pretty cool. He and Jill had printed out about 20 copies of the flag, and they were flying them all over town. And at the bottom of each flag, there was the fine print that read, “This flag sponsored by Sid’s Bakery.”

  As predicted, many people bought the History of Kidsboro collector’s book simply because it contained their names. The facts in it were more accurate than Pete’s film, but it still sparked some controversy over who actually came up with some of the ideas for the town. The layout was sharp. Jill had scanned color photos and placed designer borders around the edges. The quality was only slightly marred by the Sid’s Bakery ads on every other page.

  Sid outdid himself with the food. He baked every pastry known to man—donuts, bagels, Danishes, coffee cakes, cheesecakes, pies, breads, muffins, cinnamon rolls, sweet rolls—and it was all delicious. I had forgotten what an asset Sid was to our community, but he proved himself once again.

  Mark had lowered the price on rounds for the day, and his miniature golf course was packed. He’d even added two holes. On one you had to pretend you were crossing a city street with the ball. There were tiny plastic pedestrians walking across the street, and if you hit one, you got a one-stroke penalty. This was the type of ingenuity I was talking about.

  But the highlight of the day was, of course, the unveiling of Nelson’s new invention, which would occur near the creek. All day people were stopping to gaze at the large quilts that were covering the invention, curiosity oozing out their eyeballs. There was a sign next to it that read, “Nelson Swanson’s new invention to be unveiled at three o’clock.”

  At 2:51, when I got there, there was already a crowd of at least 30 people gathered around the quilts. Nelson and Eugene walked up at exactly three o’clock with their chins raised in the air a little. Eugene had invented some very impressive things himself, most of them having to do with computer programs. He often helped Nelson with his more elementary inventions. Eugene’s pride was more in Nelson, instead of their inventions. He took a couple of steps to the side of the quilts, letting Nelson have the spotlight.

  Nelson smiled as he checked his watch. He looked up and breathed in heavily, as if trying to smell the anticipation of the crowd. It grew quiet. He glanced at Eugene, who nodded back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, for many years, this creek has been impossible to navigate with any kind of watercraft. Boats didn’t work because, during most times of the year, the creek was too shallow, and a boat would scrape the bottom. But three months ago, I saw something that made me change my outlook regarding this impossible task. It was a water moccasin—skimming across the top of the water. I asked myself, ‘Why couldn’t we do that? Why couldn’t we float on top of the water instead of sinking slightly below the surface?’ And that is the reason I decided to create something that will revolutionize the way we view creek navigation.

  “I present to you … the water Moccasin 250!” Eugene jerked away the quilts to reveal something that looked like a go-cart without wheels. It had two seats, a steering column, a propeller on the underside, and four inflatable inner tubes serving as “wheels” on the bottom. There Was a Sid’s Bakery bumper sticker on the back. The crowd stepped closer and peered inside, and we saw two pairs of bicycle pedals attached to axles in front of both seats. It was very impressive.

  Nelson, Eugene, and two other boys took the invention to the edge of the creek and placed it in the water. Nelson would be the first to try it, just to show the others that there was no risk of drowning. Without hesitation, he plopped down into the Moccasin and began pedaling. Sure enough, the craft floated on the water with no problem.

  Eugene cleared his throat. “Notice the rubber bumpers on each side of the craft, so that rocks can’t damage the sides.” Nelson bounced a little as he maneuvered upstream. He pedaled frantically, the propeller twirling behind him, and the craft inched up the creek in slow motion. The amount of work Nelson had to do to ge
t the thing to move that slowly didn’t seem worthwhile.

  “Now,” Eugene said, “the craft’s velocity will increase when another passenger is added.”

  Nelson ducked his head as he went under the bridge, and he continued upstream. The crowd cheered.

  Nelson floated back downstream a few minutes later. He didn’t even have to pedal as he went with the current. But one thing was certain: No one would be taking this thing any farther downstream, no matter how easy it was. There was a five-foot waterfall only 100 feet downstream from the bridge, and no one would risk the fall.

  The crowd cheered again, and Nelson waved to the fans. No one had ever gone that far upstream before because there was a tall fence put up by the city of Odyssey that prevented anyone from walking along the shore. But this watercraft would enable people to go up stream in the water. No one even knew what was up there. I knew this would be a popular attraction.

  That day, Nelson gave everyone free five-minute rides. The passengers couldn’t really get very far in five minutes, so this was a smart strategy. It made people want to try it the next day, when they would have to pay four tokens per ride but could go for 10 minutes. The crowds were lined up all day. Nelson was beaming the entire time, giving a history of the invention, and the history of boats, and the history of all things that floated, to people standing on shore while passengers took the Moccasin out.

  At one point, I glanced across the creek and saw Max. He was watching the crowds line up to try Nelson’s invention, stroking his chin as if he had a beard. Bettertown was noticeably quiet, and it appeared that the tide had turned. Kidsboro was the place to be on this day.

  But I had seen that look in Max’s eyes before. He was plotting something.

  5

  THE WALL

  I WAS ON THE way out of my real house, heading toward Kidsboro, when my mom stopped me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I followed her into the living room, and she grabbed a cup of coffee off of the end table. The fingers that held the handle shook slightly, and the coffee jostled back and forth in the cup.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?” I asked.

  “Sit down,” she said, taking a sip and then placing the cup back on the end table. She paced back and forth.

  “It’s your father. He may be looking for us.”

  When I was eight years old, my mother and I left our house in California in the middle of the night to escape my abusive, alcoholic father. An abuse center helped us start our lives over. We changed our names and moved to Odyssey, where we’d been ever since. We didn’t tell anyone in California where we’d gone. My father was a dangerous, violent man, and we knew that when he discovered we were gone, he would be furious.

  For several years now, we had been able to hide from him, but then we discovered a chink in the armor. An old friend of mine (well, pretty much an old enemy of mine) from California had found me and was threatening to blow our cover. His name was Jake, and he would be visiting his grandmother every summer in Odyssey. Because it was now wintertime, Jake was back in California. So, if he was able to communicate with my father, he might have told him where we were. Jake had been mad at me for years for turning him in for possession of a weapon. He’d had to go to a juvenile detention center, and I was sure he blamed me. I didn’t doubt that he wouldn’t think twice about putting my mom and me in danger, so my mother’s news wasn’t all that surprising.

  “Mr. Henson called me today,” she said. Mr. Henson was one of the agents who was assigned to keep us hidden. “Your father’s been traveling. He hasn’t moved anywhere, settled down in a house, or anything. He’s just driving around the country, asking lots of questions.”

  “Does Mr. Henson think he’s gotten any clues?”

  “No, not yet. He’s been going to all the obvious places. Like Louisiana.” My mom was from Louisiana originally, and her family was still there. This probably meant Jake hadn’t told him anything yet. “So, Mr. Henson doesn’t think your dad has any leads.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Henson about Jake?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He knows about Jake. He can’t tell if Jake is a threat or not. But he’ll have someone keep an eye on him.”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Just keep your eyes open. If you see your dad anywhere, you call the police immediately. Here,” she said, handing me a cell phone. “You take this wherever you go—to school, to Kidsboro—everywhere. The speed dial is set. If you see him, you just press this button, and you’ll get Mr. Henson. Okay?”

  I nodded and stared at the cell phone. My eyes watered, and Mom noticed.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” she said and hugged me.

  We knelt on the floor and prayed together, a defense we never had when we were in California. But now that we were Christians, we had a God who was bigger than any danger we might face. I was calmer when I stood up, and so was my mom.

  On my way to Kidsboro, I wanted to stop by Whit’s End to tell Mr. Whittaker about everything. He Was the only person in Odyssey besides my mom and me who knew the truth about our situation. He had helped us through painful times before, and I wanted to talk to him now.

  I walked up to the door of Whit’s End, but couldn’t bring my self to walk through it. I was still angry with him.

  I made it to Kidsboro after lunch and immediately noticed a crowd on the shore of the creek. Nelson had created a game out of the Water Moccasin trips. Every team of two had 10 minutes to get as far as they could. At the 10-minute mark, Nelson blew his whistle, and the team had to retreat. So far, only one team, two boys with muscular legs, had made it beyond the borders of the tall fence upstream. Eventually, when the crowds waned, I imagined that Nelson would let somebody explore for a while and go as far as they wanted. But for now, with the crowds lined up, there had to be a limit.

  Everyone was having a good time, except for the people and business owners of Bettertown. The bowling alley was empty. Scott was standing around with no pins to reset.

  Max was talking to Rodney Rathbone, a school bully who had, for a short time, been a citizen of Kidsboro. Rodney was a pretty tough guy, and I wondered if Max was having him perform a little bouncer duty—though I couldn’t imagine who he would be kicking out of what. There was no one in the whole town.

  Suddenly, they both turned and walked purposefully toward the bridge. Nelson looked up and caught Max’s gaze. Everyone must have wondered what Max was up to.

  There Was a noticeable smirk on Max’s face as he crossed the bridge and stormed toward Nelson. He had a manila folder in his hand. A team had just parked so the vessel was halfway on the shore.

  “Okay,” Max said loudly. “Everybody off my property.”

  “What?” Nelson said.

  “I own this land, and I want everyone off of it.”

  “This is Kidsboro, not Bettertown.”

  “I still own part of Kidsboro, and this deed proves it.” Max pulled a contract out of his folder. I wove through the crowd to see what he was talking about. “As you can read here, I bought this land two months ago and built these houses on it.” He pointed to four houses, the ones with cardboard siding, the “Creek view Estates.”

  I looked at the deed. My signature was on the bottom, along with the other four members of city council. We had, indeed, sold him the land.

  “Take it,” Max said, pointing to Rodney. Rodney grabbed the Moccasin and pulled it out of the water. He dragged it across the grass toward Nelson’s house.

  “You can’t do this,” Nelson said. “You don’t even live here any more.”

  “Sir, you need to hush up and get off my property,” Max said, pointing a finger in Nelson’s face.

  This was the only place in Kidsboro where Nelson could launch his boat. There was a drop-off everywhere else. Max had successfully ruined the Moccasin business, and there was nothing we could do about it.

  Later that afternoon, Nelson walked into my office without knocking. “He’s imposing tariffs on all goods m
ade in Kidsboro,” he stated. Tariffs, in the real world, are taxes placed on things made in another country. For example, if you import something from France, you have to pay extra—a tariff. It encourages people to buy things from their own country, instead of a foreign country.

  “If anyone from Bettertown buys something over here, they have to pay a tax on it before they can go back over the bridge. Max even stationed a guard there to make sure they’re not smuggling anything in.”

  I walked out my door and saw a boy standing on the bridge, checking the jacket pockets of an innocent pedestrian just trying to get across the creek.

  “This means,” Nelson continued, as if I didn’t understand what it meant, “that we’ll be buying stuff over there, but they’ll probably stop buying stuff over here because of the tax.” I knew this affected Nelson more than anyone, because he sold his inventions every day.

  The city council met with in an hour to discuss our strategy for dealing with Max’s scheme. He had already dismantled our best industry, and he had chiseled little holes in the rest of them. We had to do something, or Bettertown would overtake us.

  Nelson had an idea. “Why is Kidsboro better than Bettertown?” This was a fair question, and it was a little disconcerting how long it took us to come up with an answer.

  “We don’t have Max,” Jill said.

  “Exactly. And what is Max doing over there?”

  “He’s putting everything under his control.”

  “Precisely. Bettertown is run by a power-hungry dictator, but in Kidsboro, there’s freedom. We can do whatever we want. We have the freedom to make a life for ourselves. We can follow the American dream, get an education, create a business, and own a home,” Nelson said proudly.