The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

by Ferrill Gibbs

  Shay stood by the dance machine, mingling with her friends, and when he waved her on she slightly rolled her beautiful, sapphire-like eyes. Weedy softened as she did, probably because of how beautiful she was . . .

  “C’mon,” he said, now cordial all of the sudden. “Come play Nitro with us. Put those years of driving daddy’s golf cart to some use.” For a moment she seemed to think it over, then, biting her lip, she sashayed toward the game and took a seat beside the chili-covered Kevin.

  Once there, she turned to Kevin and smiled sympathetically. “Kev,” she said, pointing to her own chin. “You’ve got some right here.”

  “Yeah?” chewed Kevin, opening his mouth wide to reveal a pasty wad of chili dog.

  She winced. “You’re so gross,” she muttered, turning away.

  “One more!” Weedy yelled. “Who’s it gonna be?!”

  “I’ll play,” said Edgar, stepping forward.

  The crowd turned to him and murmured as Weedy glared down from above, like a judge. When he recognized Edgar, he grinned. “Hey! It’s Jean Rolls!”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Yeah,” shrugged Edgar. “You got me.”

  He walked over and took a seat beside Shay.

  “Hey,” he said, taking the wheel. “I’m Edgar.”

  “Hey Edgar,” she whispered.

  Weedy dropped from the top of the game and plopped into the fourth and final seat, and Edgar noticed the boy was gripping the wheel so tight, his two knottily knuckled, bruised fists turned snow white. Massaging it in a sort of uninhibited, unquenchable rage, he glared at Edgar and fumed.

  Dude, thought Edgar, you are definitely a psycho.

  “So, Jean Rolls. Mama’s Boy,” Weedy said loud enough that everyone could hear, all of them now congregating around the game to watch.

  When Edgar looked around him he realized he was suddenly surrounded by bodies.

  “Listen, redneck,” Weedy added, as scattered chuckles erupted behind them. “We play ‘Next Game’ around here. Do you know what that means: Next Game?”

  “Yeah,” said Edgar. “We play like that back in Alabama. It means if you come in last, you pay for the winner’s next game.”

  “Incredible!” said Weedy, imitating Edgar’s southern drawl. “Did you hear that, Kevin? This redneck says they have extra dollars down there in Alabamer . . .”

  Laughter again, always laughter with this guy. It was like he traveled with a studio audience.

  The older boys who’d taught Edgar to play played that way back in Alabama, just like he’d explained. However, currently, for Edgar, he had one major problem: there was only one dollar in his pocket, the only redneck in Washington without an extra bill.

  “Not a problem,” said Edgar. “I’m down for Next Game.”

  Edgar watched Weedy, Shay, and Kevin select their cars, and was surprised about Weedy’s choice; he’d selected the BMW, not even close to the best car in Nitro Streak.

  Shay had chosen a convertible: the red Miata, not a very good choice for Nitro Streak, but then again, he could overhear her telling Kevin that she wanted a convertible for her sixteenth birthday. Rich girl, huh? Finally, he peered at Kevin’s screen and discovered the sloppy eater had chosen the worst car of all, the Mazda 626.

  He was a mess.

  Delighted, Edgar spun the wheel to the best car in the game: the thunderous, rapturous, Nissan 370Z. How people in Washington did not know about the 370Z, Edgar did not know. Triumphantly, he smashed the gas pedal and selected the car, and the race began.

  As the cars lurched from the starting line, all four screens were filled with smoke and debris, and the tire screeches echoed throughout the arcade.

  For a moment the pack stayed together, with Weedy’s car directly in front, but when the appropriate sidewalk came along, Edgar tapped the brake and swerved to the right, then smashed a particular trashcan on the side of the road. It burst into about a million pieces, revealing a Nitro Canister, which Edgar’s Nissan gobbled up. It sent the fiery, red car surging forward like a rocket, and instantly he left Weedy’s BMW far behind, along with the others.

  “Whoa!” someone shouted. “I didn’t know a Nitro canister was there!”

  When his Nissan rocketed into another canister—this one hidden atop a building Edgar had ramped up onto—the car turned molten orange, and Edgar could feel Weedy glaring at him from the adjacent driver’s seat. The crowd began to cheer him on.

  “No way!” someone yelled. “You can drive on the roof?!”

  Not many people knew about that, but the older boys back in Alabama did.

  “Shut up!” snapped Weedy, glaring back at the crowd. “It’s distracting!”

  At the last turn, with the race easily in hand, Edgar downshifted coolly and coasted toward the finish line, taking the car into fourth gear and then to third, weaving in between a few remaining orange barrels and cones just to mess around. Triumphantly, he glanced up at the lap time and nodded: just as he thought. It would be his fastest lap ever.

  It might be anybody’s fastest lap ever.

  “Nope!” he heard Weedy say. Glancing over, Edgar realized that he was talking to Shay. They were battling it out for second. Weedy’s car was just nearing hers from behind and he was shouting at her.

  “No way, Shay,” he growled. “You’re not beating me.”

  Shay was beating Weedy straight up, even with a mediocre car. Her driving was impressive, Edgar noted. As he coasted his own car down the final stretch, he watched from the corner of his eye as she smoothly shifted up and down and took the curves like a good driver should, her palms sliding along the wheel smoothly and cleanly, all-in-all kicking Weedy’s ass.

  Yet, since her car was so inferior—a frumpy convertible without any open road speed—Weedy got her on the straightaway. He came up alongside her and, for good measure, swerved right into her with one quick and vicious motion. Suddenly, Shay’s car was flipping off the road like litter in a sandstorm.

  The crowd behind them erupted in protest.

  “Asshole!” Shay’s friends screamed. “What a jerk!”

  Shay was shocked and sat defeated with her mouth wide open. She turned to Weedy and said, “Naturally!” as a bitter anger flashed in her eyes. “That’s so . . . you.”

  The crowd continued to groan at Weedy. What he had done was clearly against the unwritten rules of Nitro Streak: you never wreck another car on purpose. It was an honor thing. That’s how it was back in Alabama, and Edgar was glad to see that in this weird, awful town, at least they had standards here, too. Not that Weedy was good enough to abide by them.

  “Oh, shut up!” he shouted, cackling, a huge grin on his face. He sped ahead of Shay and laughed maniacally as he left her behind. Her car was left to spin helplessly against a curb where it finally conked out to a complete stop, steaming pathetically by the highway.

  “Real classy, Weedy,” she muttered, steering her battered Miata back onto the highway. “You ask me to play this stupid game,” she said, fighting against the now out-of-alignment tires, “and then you wreck me. How many issues do you have? Jesus. Too many to list I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he grinned. “It was an accident.”

  Weedy then downshifted and took the last turn, that was when Edgar—who had been stationed all along by the side of the road with the finish line still in sight—waited like a snake in the grass.

  As Weedy drove unsuspectingly up the backstretch, Edgar smashed the gas and crashed Weedy’s car off the road. With a violent surge, both cars went crashing and banging, instantly mangled and tumbling into the desert.

  The crowd fell silent as they watched in awe. Then, suddenly, as they realized what Edgar had done, they burst into wild applause and cheered him even more.

  “You . . .” said Weedy, whipping around in his seat, glaring at Edgar with two evil, sm
oldering eyes. “You inbred son of a bitch.”

  As Weedy cursed at Edgar, Shay—who’d recovered from her wreck, came sputtering around the last bend and passed them. She grinned as her car crossed the finish line uncontested, making her the winner. Again the crowd went wild.

  “Serves you RIGHT!” her friends screamed into Weedy’s ear, who winced at the sound and turned and glared at them all.

  “Shut up, you skanks!” he yelled.

  “Thanks, Edgar!” laughed Shay, leaning toward him. They locked eyes for a moment and he could smell her wonderful, sweet perfume.

  “Anytime,” he smiled.

  “Yeah!” shouted Kevin, whose car suddenly crossed the finish line as well. “I didn’t lose! Finally!”

  Weedy’s eyes widened. He glared at Edgar then whirled back around in his seat to slam on the gas. His smoking, demolished BMW whined as he slowly rumbled back onto the highway. And immediately Edgar knew: he was screwed. His heart sank. He’d been so preoccupied with helping Shay he was caught idling. Suddenly Weedy was off toward the finish line and Edgar had no chance to catch him. He was clearly too far away for Edgar’s limping Nissan to challenge.

  Edgar, it appeared, was going to lose.

  *Game Over* flashed on the screen. The crowd fell silent.

  “Oh no,” muttered Shay. After an expert display of Nitro Streak, the room suddenly realized that Edgar had come in last place, and owed Next Game.

  “That’s RIGHT!” shouted Weedy, pounding the wheel with a fist. Then he pounded it again, with both fists, still glaring at the screen, as if Edgar’s finishing in last place was still not enough to make him happy. “You owe next GAME, hick!”

  Shay walked over to them. “I don’t want the dollar, Weedy,” she said. “Edgar doesn’t owe me anything.”

  “Fine,” Weedy growled. “Since Shay doesn’t want her dollar,” he announced to the crowd. “Jean Rolls will pay Kevin’s Next Game since Kevin came in second.”

  At that, Kevin, who was busy tearing into a Snicker’s bar, perked up.

  “Yeah,” he chirped. “Pay me, Jean Rolls.”

  “No problem,” Edgar said. “I’ll get Kevin a dollar. I just have to go ask my mom.”

  “Your who?” asked Weedy, enraged. “You mean you played Next Game and didn’t have the money to pay for it?!”

  “I . . .” Edgar answered, and just then, as if on cue, his mom stuck her head through the door.

  “Edgar?” she hollered.

  “Over here,” he said meekly, rising from the Nitro Streak cockpit.

  The crowd parted for him as he crossed the arcade and neared her. When he arrived, he said softly, “Mom, please don’t embarrass me right now. I really need a favor.”

  “What kind of a ‘favor?’” she asked far too loudly.

  “Oh my God,” he said softly, waving his palms down. “Just . . . OK, I need a dollar. OK?”

  “For what?” she shouted above the arcade noise, as if trying to make him go insane on purpose.

  “I owe that guy a dollar.” He pointed to Kevin across the arcade.

  Her eyes became fiery slits.

  “Have you,” she asked, her voice suddenly stern, “have you been . . . gambling?”

  “No!” Edgar said defensively, his hands upraised in defense. “We were just playing loser pays ‘Next Game,’ that’s all.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, “what a relief. I was sure you were gambling, but it turns out, you were . . . gambling!”

  With a frown, she withdrew a dollar from her purse and walked it over to the silent group of kids. They all looked up at her with wide eyes. Edgar felt like melting into the arcade carpet. Standing before them, she waved the dollar in the air, disgustedly, as if it was dirty underwear.

  “Whose is this?” she asked softly.

  Timidly, from the back of the crowd, Kevin raised a hand.

  “Um,” he said. “It’s mine?”

  “Yours,” she said, then walked it over to him.

  On her way back to Edgar, who she took by the arm to usher from the arcade, the word, “Douche!” resounded throughout the arcade. It was Weedy who’d shouted it. He slumped back into the Nitro Streak seat to hide from Mrs. Dewitt. All the kids gasped in horror. Slowly, Edgar’s mother turned and scanned the crowd for the guilty party with laser eyes.

  When she couldn’t determine the guilty kid, she shrugged and looked down at Edgar. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she announced, scanning the crowd. “You lost to a bunch of clowns at Nitro Streak.”

  The crowd burst into wild laughter again, and there were even some shouts for Mrs. Dewitt. Edgar’s mother led him to McDonald’s where his father waited.

  “Please,” Edgar said. “Please. Just let me make a few friends before I get run out of Washington.”

  She draped a lazy arm over his shoulder, jerking him along toward the restaurant, swaying him back and forth even though he was making himself stiff and rigid. Together they strolled in silence throughout the warm, dry evening of central Washington, when suddenly she leaned down close to him.

  “You love me,” she whispered in his ear.

  “No, I don’t,” he said dryly, trying not to smile.

  “It’s a good school you’re attending tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Much better than your old one back home.”

  They studied the townspeople as they strolled, the rhythm of their steps never syncing. He could not believe he was about to start a new school—it made him so sad. He could not have missed home more. He missed all his friends. He missed the guys at the charter who knew how to play Nitro Streak, who didn’t wreck other people’s cars.

  When they reached the McDonald’s parking lot, Edgar asked, “Are you going to tell dad what I did back there?”

  “You’re off the hook.”

  Four

  On Edgar’s first day at his new school, he ate alone at lunchtime.

  He pulled a sandwich from his green Bass Pro Shops lunchbox and watched the JV football players catcalling the nearby girls. He looked down and peered through the straw of his thermos, thinking about the hole in the ground. Why had the plank come flying back up? Was there was a geyser at the bottom of the hole?

  That couldn’t be it. The wood wasn’t hot or wet.

  Maybe there was a trampoline down there.

  Ugh. I’m an idiot.

  After school, he grabbed some rope from his father’s tool shed and an empty paint can. Let’s see how deep this thing really is, he thought.

  Even after lying on his stomach and lowering his arm as deep into the hole as he could stretch, the paint can stayed suspended in mid-air, banging on the tunnel walls. Unbelievable. The rope was one hundred and fifty yards long, and it still wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom.

  One and a half football fields, he marveled.

  He pulled the can back up to the surface and untied it from the rope, then placed it beside him. Sitting with his legs dangling over the side, he suddenly had an idea. Slowly, he pushed the can to the edge and let it fall over the side wall, leaning over to watch it drop like an anvil.

  He rubbed his chin and waited.

  After one hour and twenty-four minutes went by, the paint can shot up from the darkness, same as the floor plank had done the day before. He caught the can in midair and marveled.

  “Hello?!?” he screamed into the hole.

  After checking his Pathfinder watch to make sure he wouldn’t be late for dinner, he tossed the can back into the hole once again.

  After another hour and twenty-four minutes exactly, the paint can arrived on schedule, shooting up from the darkness like clockwork.

  “This is insane!!” he howled into the hole.

  But still. No echo returned.

  __________

  The next day, on his way to fifth period, Edgar saw his
Earth Sciences teacher. The wily-looking man, Dr. Van Rossum, stood in the crispy brown grass of the designated smoking area puffing on a Marlboro red and mumbling to himself as students walked by.

  “What’s up, Van Rossum?” a student yelled. “Toss me one of those!” A herd of testosterone-ridden young men erupted in laughter.

  The teacher exhaled a thick, bluish cloud and squinted into the crowd of students, halfheartedly looking for the rascal then shrugged drowsily.

  Dr. Van Rossum caught Edgar’s eye. “Good morning, kid,” he sang, throwing up a two-fingered salute.

  Timidly, Edgar waved back.

  In the Earth Sciences classroom, Edgar took a seat near the back of the room, doing his best to steer clear of the group of kids he’d encountered at the arcade the day before—especially the raging Chris Weedy.

  For the second straight day, Chris Weedy seemed capable of only one thing: glaring at Edgar from the moment he entered the room.

  Edgar leaned forward in his seat and doodled, trying not to look at anyone. He also tried not to stare at Shay who sat two rows over—looking great as always—but it was impossible.

  “What is that SMELL?” barked Weedy, suddenly. “Flounder? Is that you? God!” The room fell silent as all turned to look.