And then the house was filled up with a big deep echoing silence, and I went downstairs to the TV room. My good mood wasn’t as good anymore. I was feeling homesick too, just like Norbert. Only I was already home. I was homesick for a home I didn’t have anymore.
I watched TV until Mom came home and started clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. She seemed to make more noise than she needed, as if she were angry and didn’t know any other way to show it. Or else she didn’t like the silence any more than I did.
They Really Like me
Dinner was chicken tenders. That’s what they call them; I don’t think either part of the name is right. They came out of the freezer with the succotash. There was steamed rice too. Mom likes rice, and I don’t, so we tend to have rice more often when she’s mad at me, and less often when she’s happy. The rice-o-meter is a sure sign of my standing. Last summer when I broke the aerial off her car playing football, we had rice seven days in a row.
We ate in silence, except for the rustling of pages. I was reading a book about a lost bat who was searching for the rest of his colony, and Mom was reading a case file. Every now and then she asked me questions: “How was school?” “Did you finish your homework?” “Do you want some more succotash?” And I said, “Fine,” “Just about,” and “No.” Succotash – now that’s something that tastes like its name.
After dinner I went to Victor’s house, ostensibly because we are working on a science project together, but really because I wanted to play NHL Hockey on his computer. The project isn’t due until the end of term. Lots of time for that. But the hockey game, and the joystick you need to play it, were brand new.
His mom opened the door with a big smile. “Come on in, Alan,” she said. “We’re just sitting down to dinner. Of course you’ll join us.”
“I’ve already had–”
She didn’t let me finish. “Just a bite then,” she said. Victor’s mom put her arm around me on the way in to the kitchen. She always seems to be on her way to the kitchen. It’s the air she likes to breathe … if she’s away for too long, she starts to gasp.
“Are you having chicken tenders?” I asked.
She frowned. “What are they?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we get them all the time.”
There was a huge pot of stew on the stove, with sausage and potatoes and chunky, pale-colored vegetables. At home I hadn’t wanted anything more to eat, but I found enough room inside me for a whole plateful. “What’s this vegetable?” I asked. “It’s not cabbage.”
“No.” Her eyes sparkled. “Do you not like cabbage, Alan? Last time you couldn’t really decide whether you liked it or not.”
Norbert liked it. I hated it. But I didn’t tell Mrs. Grunewald that. “I like this,” I said.
Victor and his dad shared a smile. They were both hearty eaters.
“It’s turnip,” his mom said.
I frowned. I hate turnip. Or I thought I did.
A small kitchen radio was playing classical music in the background. Very busy stuff, and familiar too – I couldn’t help smiling. Mr. Grunewald was listening. I could tell because he chewed along with it. When the music speeded up, so did his chewing. “That’s beautiful,” he said, finishing a bite. I wondered if he was referring to the food or the music. When we listen to the radio at dinnertime, it’s generally a news show. Hard to get excited at how beautiful the news is.
The Grunewald family talked about all sorts of weird things. Victor’s parents kept wanting to know how he felt. Did he really like Miss Scathely? Was he worried about the math test? They asked me too: How did I feel about boys wearing earrings? That boy with all the earrings, that Gary – a no-good boy, didn’t I think so?
I stared. Mom and I didn’t talk like this. It was almost embarrassing. “A no-good boy,” I told Mrs. Grunewald. “But not because of the earrings.”
“No no, put the chicken before the egg.” That was Mr. Grunewald. “A good kind of boy wouldn’t get his ears pierced in the first place.”
The music ended. An announcer’s voice came on. Mr. Grunewald held out his plate for another helping of stew. “Do you like this music, Alan?” he asked. “A great composer, Rossini, don’t you think?”
“I’ve heard his stuff on ’Bugs Bunny,’” I said. Victor snickered. I don’t know what he thought was so funny. That’s why the music was familiar. I could picture Daffy Duck running away from Elmer Fudd.
Mr. Grunewald frowned and said something that sounded like, “Hmph.”
A gold intramural award ribbon was pinned to the bulletin board. Grade Seven Champions, it said. The only things we pin up in our kitchen are school announcements and 50%-off coupons. There’s a drawer in my desk where I keep personal stuff–a picture of me and my dad holding up fish we’d caught, a copy of the local newspaper from last year, when it printed a story of mine.
Dessert was messy; a flaky pastry with fruit inside it, and white sugar dust on top. I must have thanked Mrs. Grunewald a dozen times. Victor and his dad smiled and smiled.
“Now boys, off you go,” said Mrs. Grunewald, shooing us out of the kitchen. “I know you want to work on your project. No, John!” She slapped Mr. Grunewald on the arm. He was trying to cut himself another piece of dessert.
In his room Victor breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” he said. “My mom is a bit…”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I like your mom. And the food was good. Even the turnip.”
“Yeah, she’s a good cook. If only she didn’t…care so much!”
It seemed like an odd thing to say. He made it sound like a burden.
The computer was already on. He took two CDs from a dustproof rack. World Encyclopedia and NHL. “You want hockey first?” he said, “Or science?”
Dumb question. “He shoots! He scores!” I said.
“You sure? What about: He researches! He organizes data!”
“Vic –”
“He observes! He draws conclusions!”
I punched him in the arm.
“Okay, okay.” He loaded the CD into the drive.
We played for an hour or so. He won almost every game, but I had fun, and we did manage to do a bit of work on our project before I had to go home.
Both of Victor’s parents came to the door to see me off. I thanked Mrs. Grunewald again for supper. She beamed and said to come back soon.
“You don’t know anything about music,” said Mr. Grunewald, slapping me on the back. “But you’re a good boy.”
Tell me, why did that statement make me want to cry on the walk home?
–Hey! It’s leaking in here. What’s the matter?
“I don’t know.”
–You’re not getting a cold are you? You know how I hate it when you catch a cold.
“I’m just a little upset,” I said. “My dad never tells me I’m a good boy.”
–Oh. Well look, if I tell you you’re a good boy, will you stop dripping? The carpet in the back room is soaked.
Norbert is so sympathetic.
–I’m wearing rubber boots in here.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to smile.
There aren’t any streetlamps around the bend from Victor’s house to mine. Night covered me like a blanket. The full moon looked close enough to touch.
“I wish I didn’t have to go home to my mom, sometimes,” I said.
Norbert sighed. –That’s funny. Sometimes I wish I could.
“Did you and Victor have fun?” my mom called from the kitchen.
“Uh huh,” I said.
“A girl telephoned a few minutes ago. Miranda, she said her name was. I took down her number.”
I hung up my coat and went into the kitchen. Mom sat at a corner of the table; a stack of files balanced precariously nearby. I had this insane urge to topple them all over.
“You know, Mom, the Grunewalds like me. They really like me.”
She looked up, briefly, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. “That’s nice,
dear.”
What Rhymes with Miranda?
I’d never phoned Miranda before. I was surprised to find that my fingers were slippery as I punched the number. I was breathing fast too.
Our phone is in the kitchen. Not very private, with my mom working just a few feet away. I keep asking Mom for a phone in my bedroom, and she keeps saying, “One of these days.” I wonder which one she means. Miranda’s line was busy. I ran upstairs, sweating gently.
–What is going on? Norbert sounded peeved.
“Nothing,” I said.
–It’s suddenly very hot in here, and I can hear your heart thudding away like a bass drum. Are you sick or something?
“I don’t think so.”
I sat down and tried to do some homework, but I wasn’t paying attention. Norbert interrupted me. –It’s her, isn’t it? You’re thinking about her.
“Who?” I blustered. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
–Look at your homework, Mr. Convincing.
I looked down, and there was Miranda’s name, all over my spelling workbook.
Oh. “Well, yes, I guess I am, a bit,” I said.
–Hey, that’s okay. I’ve been in love myself. Her name was Nerissa, and I still miss her – hey, that almost rhymes. I wonder what she’s doing now?
“I’m not in love!” I said.
–Eh? Oh no, of course not.
“I’m not, I tell you.”
–Uh huh.
We both knew I was lying. I took out a fresh sheet of paper, and thoughtfully wrote down the name again. Miranda. “Say, Norbert, you’ve given me an idea. You know a lot of words,” I said. “Can you think of anything that rhymes with Miranda?”
–Going to write a poem? he asked.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
He thought for a moment.
–Verandah, he said.
“Like porch? That kind of verandah?” Not exactly a romantic inspiration. My mom and dad had rented a cottage with a verandah a few years ago. I’d been sitting on the verandah when a giant spider dropped from the ceiling. Plop – right into my lap! Thing was the size of my fist. Scared the curds and whey right out of me.
–Hey, don’t blame me … talk to her parents. They could have named her Jane or Sue.
“I don’t see what I can do with verandah,” I said.
–How about –
Miranda, Miranda, I pace the verandah,
Remembering all about you.
Your eyes that gleam, your jaws that expand-ah
While on your sandwich you chew. “I don’t know,” I said.
– I think you’re the greatest, no libel or sland-ah
Could take anything from your charms.
My heartstrings stretch like a big rubber band-ah
When I hold you close in my –
“Alan?” My mom knocked at the door. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just fine, Mom. Goodnight.” She goes to bed before I do, because she has to be out of the house so early.
“Goodnight.” She hesitated outside the door for a moment, then sighed and walked away. A minute later the phone rang.
“Hi,” I said.
“Alan, is that you? You sound all out of breath.”
“Oh hi, Miranda,” I said. Norbert snorted. I held the phone away from my mouth and tried to relax. “I, uh, tried to call you earlier,” I said. “But your line was busy.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
Silence.
“I’m, uh, glad you phoned,” I said.
“That’s nice.”
More silence.
–Gee, this is like Romeo and Juliet, said Norbert.
“Shut up!” I whispered.
–So much poetry! So much romance! Come on, Miranda, can’t you tell that I’m crazy about you!
I drew in my breath sharply. I could feel myself blushing … I wondered if Miranda could feel me blushing through the phone wire. That’s how hot I felt.
“Why, Squeaky!” she said, sounding kind of hot and bothered herself. “I’m so glad you told me,” she said. “I was beginning to worry; you see, I feel kind of like that about you.”
“You do?” I shrieked – or maybe it was Norbert. Maybe we both shouted together. And … well, I’m not going to go into too much detail over the next five minutes or so. At the end of it, Norbert said, –Whew! Now that’s more like it!
Miranda laughed. “There is something I want to ask you, though, Alan. I was just thinking now … well, I mean, I always sort of liked you. Even last year. And now that I know you better, how funny you are and everything, I like you even more. But…well, what I’m saying, is…oh, this is going to sound stupid.”
“No no, go on,” I said.
“Well … there isn’t really anyone living in your nose, is there?”
I didn’t know what to say. “Well,” I began. I didn’t want to lie. I wanted Miranda to like me for myself, and myself included a little spaceship and astronaut from Jupiter. Love me, love my nose.
But I didn’t want her to think I was really weird. Funny was okay. Funny was nice. But really weird…
“Well,” I said.
“Victor thinks it’s all a big joke. You put on this funny ventriloquist act, and say all these outrageous things, but you’re really you inside. Is that it?”
“I’m really me inside,” I said. “That’s for sure.”
“And Norbert? Is Norbert real?”
“Well,” I said. And then I felt a familiar little tickle at the back of my nose.
–Of course Norbert isn’t real.
I frowned at the phone receiver. “You aren’t?” I whispered. Norbert ignored me.
–Think about it, Miranda. A nose from Jupiter? Does that make sense? A nose with a spaceship, looking for a place to park? A nose drinking cocoa and playing soccer? Come on, now!
“I guess,” Miranda said
–Norbert is just a part of Alan … the brave and funny part he’s always had inside himself.
“You are?” I said.
–Shut up, you idiot, Norbert whispered.
“Who’s an idiot?”
–You are!
Miranda laughed. “You’re right. Squeaky. I should have known.”
Before going to bed I turned out my light and stared out my window at Lake Ontario. We live across the street from the lake. The moon was almost full. The surface of the water looked like a black velvet garment with a swathe of shimmering sequins down the middle. Moon shadow made the place next door to ours look spooky. It isn’t really spooky; it’s very clean and squared off. An older couple lives there. At the end of the block is the funny family with all the little kids. Their place never looks spooky. The front lawn was covered in tricycles and basketballs as usual. She’s a university professor and he’s a – hard to say what he is, but he wears sweaters and laughs a lot and plays tag and baseball. And when one of the kids falls and gets hurt, he runs over and carries the injured one inside.
I was just about to pull the curtain when a movement in our garden caught my eye. I tried to look down, but couldn’t because the angle was wrong. I was up too high and the garage overhang was in the way.
Had I imagined the shift of shadows by the big evergreen shrub? Had I?
Probably.
But I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I just ignored it. I’d be thinking about burglars trying to get in. Ugh. Walking downstairs in the dark was much scarier than I wanted it to be. I tiptoed to the bay window in the living room, and peered out at the garden. Was something moving around out there? Was someone? I couldn’t be sure, shivering there in the dark, so I ran to the hall, switched on the outdoor floodlights, raced back to the living room, and there it was: a dark streak leaping into the shelter of the shadows. Was it a monster? A walking corpse? An emissary from the land of the undead? Was it a gopher? “Hey!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. The sound of my own voice was very loud in the silent nighttime hous
e. I didn’t want to go outside, but I wanted to see more if I could. I ran upstairs to my room and threw open the curtains.
There it was. Not a zombie. Not a gopher. A person.
A single figure, hunched over the handlebars, racing down the street and around the corner. The figure was dressed all in black, except for a familiar stencil on the back of the leather jacket. Too small to be one of the guys, or Mary. It had to be Prudence.
“Alan?” A muffled question from my mom’s bedroom. “Were you shouting? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Sorry to wake you.”
I went to bed, thoughtful. So the Cougars were spying on me, were they?
Bad Omen
Next morning after breakfast I checked around the house. Sure enough, there was a set of strange footprints in the garden. They were human footprints and they were smaller than mine…about Prudence’s size. One of the shrubs was knocked over, probably when she ran away. Of course it could have been one of the plants Victor and I trampled last week, playing football. I’m no Sherlock Holmes.
“Alan, what are you doing in the garden? You’re getting your shoes all dirty.” Mom was on the front step, frowning as she buttoned her coat over her new greeny-brown suit. Gee, this was only yesterday. Yesterday morning. It seems like a lifetime ago.
“Sorry,” I said.
“I told you to keep those shoes clean. Your father will want you to look nice for the hockey game this weekend. He’s always complaining that you dress like a tramp.”
Thanks, Dad. “We’re not going to the hockey game,” I said. “Don’t you remember? Dad phoned to say he can’t make it.”
Mom swore. I hate it when she does that because it’s usually something to do with Dad. She slammed the car door and drove away, and I stopped trying to rub dirt off my desert boots.
The Nose from Jupiter Page 8