The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

by Ferrill Gibbs

  As Van Rossum strolled down the hall, he added one more thing. “I say fight with your brain, Edgar. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard—not with guys like those.”

  Edgar grinned broadly and wiped the last of the milk from his neck. Then, he turned to the big double doors and gazed through the sliver of window in the metal.

  There was Flounder, still getting nailed by the boys. It was their payback—their revenge for what he had done—and they were taking it out on Flounder. The food rained down on Flounder even worse than before, and Edgar was not around to help.

  To Flounder’s credit, he sat stoically with both hands gripping the edges of the table, enduring it.

  Edgar felt the rage return. He grabbed the door with both hands and burst out into the commons, but just at that moment—right above his head—the bell rang, louder than a fire truck. It almost scared him half to death.

  When it did, students came spilling through the doors around him. He looked back outside and saw that the bullies had suddenly stopped with Flounder and were rising to go to class.

  He’d been spared. At least for the moment.

  Flounder lingered afterward and cleaned himself. Edgar felt sorrow for him. It was absolutely pitiful to witness. He was a disaster, with fluids dripping from his hair and chin and from his cheeks—food everywhere on him. Flounder sat and wiped his dark brown eyes with many napkins, attempting to brush the rest off with his hands, but it was too much. What he really needed was a full change of clothes and a shower, but that was not possible. Edgar ran a hand through his own filthy hair, and wracked his brain for a plan.

  He knew that on the walk home today, they’d try to catch him, knowing that he and Flounder always walked to the fish stand together. Should he get his mom to pick them up? Maybe.

  “You’re a smart kid,” said Van Rossum’s voice, reverberating in his mind. “You should learn to fight with your brain.”

  And that’s when the crazy idea emerged. It was risky, and it was complicated, but he figured it just might work.

  He’d go over it with Flounder next period. They didn’t have much time so they’d have to get it right the first time.

  Fifteen

  Flounder stepped across the stones of the brook, peeling away the last partition of leaves that revealed, finally, the cabin in the woods.

  “This is it, I think,” muttered Flounder, as Weedy’s gang lingered behind, forming a wall around him so that he couldn’t escape.

  “In that crap heap?” hissed Weedy, pointing at the cabin beyond.

  Flounder nodded and stepped aside to let the boys through. The stains on their letterman jackets from Edgar’s outburst at lunch had grown crusty and faded. One guy, Kevin, had a greasy splotch in his hair, which was hilarious to Flounder, but there was no way he dared stare at it.

  “So, how deep is this hole?” probed Weedy, as they made their way toward the cabin.

  “Uh, Edgar says it’s about a hundred feet deep,” answered Flounder. “That’s what he thinks, anyway.”

  When they reached the cabin door, Chris whirled and got in Flounder’s face, snarling at him from inches away. “And he told you he wants to throw me into it?”

  “Yeah,” confirmed Flounder, swallowing hard. Weedy’s scowling face grew even more suspicious. “Well, why tell me all this, Flounder?” He leaned in even closer, almost touching Flounder’s nose with his own. “Everybody knows you two rejects are friends.”

  “Yeah, well, to be honest,” said Flounder, his voice cracking, “to be honest, I’m just tired of getting picked on every day. With all the stuff about how ‘I stink’ and all the food being thrown at me at lunch. I told you, if I give you Edgar in an isolated place, you agree to leave me alone. That’s the deal, right?”

  Weedy thought it over for a minute, and through a cruel, broken smile, he gave his answer. “Sure, Flounder. Whatever you want.”

  Weedy then stepped by him and pushed open the cabin door. It creaked loudly on its hinges as it swung open, and inside Edgar stood facing Weedy and his gang, before the large, gaping hole in the floor.

  “Flounder!” called Edgar. “I hope you didn’t rat me out!”

  Flounder shrugged and looked down. Edgar laughed as Weedy escorted his gang inside, then closed the door behind them.

  “You’re trapped,” informed Weedy.

  “And with the entire football team, too, apparently,” grinned Edgar. “What, do you think it takes this many guys to beat me up, Weedy? Besides yourself, of course?”

  Weedy scowled. “We’re here for what you did to us at lunch. We want to make sure you don’t get away, idiot,” he snarled.

  “Dang Weedy, you sure use the word ‘we’ a lot,” Edgar grinned, egging him on.

  “Block the door,” instructed Weedy. “Nobody gets out of here unless I say.”

  Like a police force, his three big boys spread out and guarded the door, and one even sequestered Flounder, making sure he was contained. When Weedy was satisfied the cabin was on lockdown, he took a long look around the room.

  “What is all this stuff?” he said, pointing to the fish cleaning station. “What’s this—a refrigerator and generator? What, Edgar, is this where you host all your little parties?”

  “You know it,” grinned Edgar.

  Suddenly Weedy’s anger seemed to blossom and overflow and he darted across the room and got in Edgar’s face. The boys at the door cackled in anticipation, cheering Weedy on. Weedy brought his fists to attention, standing ready, looking as if he might strike at any moment.

  Edgar, meanwhile, kept his eyes on Weedy and tried to remember to breathe. If he only kept his wits about him, he could get himself and Flounder out of this. In the bright spotlight of sunshine pouring down from the roof, the two were like wiry prizefighters in the middle of a boxing ring.

  “You gonna take a swing?” whispered Edgar. “Or, what? Do you need permission from your girlfriends over there?”

  At that, in a rage, Weedy swung his fist. Deftly Edgar ducked it, bobbing to the left, dipping down low below Weedy’s stomach. Then, aiming for Weedy’s waist, he lunged and latched himself to the skinny boy, pinning his arms, and rendering him unable to strike.

  Trapped by Edgar’s hold, Weedy convulsed and jerked and wiggled, bucking like a bronco to get away.

  “No!” screamed Edgar suddenly, and could feel Weedy limpen. “Don’t do it, Weedy!”

  “What?” hissed Weedy. “What the hell are you talking about? Let me go, you freak!”

  “No!” Edgar continued to shout, “please don’t push me down there, Chris! PLEASE DON’T PUSH ME DOWN!” And at that, Edgar launched himself off Chris Weedy, falling backward into the hole, flipping dramatically so that everyone could see, and as he did, he screamed as loud as he could for as long as he could, just for effect.

  “NOOOOO!” his voice rang from the hole in the floor, until, finally, it faded into nothingness.

  The boys walked to the hole and looked at Chris Weedy, then downward, crowding around the hole to see.

  Weedy’s face, pale with horror, was stoic as he gazed into the hole alongside his clan, his mouth wide open in shock.

  “I . . . I didn’t push him,” he said softly, a long moment passing. Then, he turned to his friends and repeated himself. “Guys, I didn’t push him,” he insisted. “The redneck jumped.”

  The boys said nothing, but continued to stare downward into the darkness. “He grabbed my arms, and then he jumped backward on purpose like an idiot, I swear to God. You guys saw it, right?”

  Their three frightened, gloomy faces could only stare back at his. Even Flounder could tell that nobody believed him.

  “OK, then,” he said, an angry snarl emerging on his face. “Just so you know, I’m not going down alone. You’re all accessories to murder with me. Everybody’s as guilty as I am. What do you think of that?” />
  The boys burst into a rowdy protest and crowded around him, yelling in his face.

  “It was you!” they yelled. “Not us!” and then like a pack of dumb animals they began arguing amongst themselves, which, to Flounder, was absolutely delightful.

  But he’d never let them know that.

  “This is how it’s gonna be,” said Weedy, silencing them, his hand upraised. “We’re in this together, so let’s figure it out together.” The boys became silent at that, gazing down the hole, searching for ideas.

  And then they all turned to Flounder who stood innocently behind them, near the door. With Weedy leading the way, they moved from the hole, approaching him.

  “Anthony,” Weedy purred.

  “Yes.”

  Weedy gave Flounder a friendly pat on the back.

  “You know I didn’t push Edgar into that hole, right?”

  Flounder bit his fingernails and stared at Weedy. “It sure looked like you pushed him down, to me at least.”

  That sent Weedy’s gang into an absolute frenzy.

  “Oh my God!” they shouted. “This dork is gonna rat on us! We’re screwed!”

  “No, no,” said Weedy, waving his hand downward. “Anthony is not a dork.” Then, a peaceful, almost benevolent look came upon Weedy’s face. “Shut up, you morons,” he said to them softly, and obediently, the group quieted.

  “Now,” he cooed to Flounder. “Flound—I mean Anthony. Didn’t you say you wanted me to call you that?”

  Flounder nodded enthusiastically.

  “How then, Anthony, can I convince you that I didn’t push Edgar in the hole?”

  “Uh, well, I have no idea,” said Flounder. “I already told you. It looked to me like you pushed him.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” answered Weedy, softly. “Look, Anthony. There has to be something—some way I can convince you that I didn’t do it, right? You don’t want me to push you down the hole, too, do you?” Then, reconsidering that, he shook his head and said, “Wait, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. There’s no need for that. But you see, the other guys here don’t think I pushed him and they’re acting a bit intense, and didn’t you say you didn’t want us to bully you anymore? Well, how about meeting us halfway. We will definitely and once and for all stop throwing food at you forever, and we will stop talking about how you smell. How about that? Wouldn’t that be good?”

  Flounder nodded. “I guess that would be pretty good.”

  “You guess?” laughed Weedy. “C’mon Anthony! It’s a good deal! This is a big moment for you! Don’t you want us to leave you alone?”

  “Yeah,” said Flounder, scratching his head, “but I also want . . .”

  “Oh? What’s that? What do you want, Anthony?”

  “I guess I want money,” said Flounder, flatly.

  Weedy’s jaw fell open, and so did the other boys’. For a long time, Weedy was unable to respond.

  “What do you mean, money?” asked Weedy.

  “Well, you know. Cash.”

  Chris flashed his crew a quick smile and they all burst out into laughter. “Sure,” chuckled Weedy, turning back to Flounder. “We can certainly do that.”

  “That’s cold, Flounder!” laughed one of the boys, and another slapped Flounder on the back. “You’re not such a dork after all!”

  “Remember,” Flounder corrected him. “I’m Anthony.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Weedy, his hands upheld to his crew. “He’s right, it’s Anthony.” Then, addressing Flounder, he said, “So how much should we give you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Flounder, rubbing his chin. “Let’s see. I guess give me everything you have.”

  Weedy’s smile vanished in an instant, and he glared at Flounder as the jocks murmured to one another behind him. Overcoming his rage, Weedy swallowed it down and withdrew the cash from his wallet, offering it to Flounder.

  “No,” said Flounder, “I meant to say, I want everything you have on you. Could you empty your pockets?”

  Christopher began to snarl at Flounder, but then resisted, reaching into his pockets and emptying their contents onto the floor. One by one the items plopped onto the planks beside the hole—a bill fold, a set of car keys, a cell phone. Flounder bent and scooped everything up, nodding his thanks to the bully.

  “I guess I’ll take everything,” he said thoughtfully, “but not the car keys. I don’t need a car. I’m not even fifteen.”

  “Christ,” muttered Weedy, visibly trying to keep it together. “That never stopped me before. OK, Flounder, you win today. Are we good now? You’ve got my wallet and phone, for God’s sake.”

  Flounder thumbed through the money in the wallet and, satisfied, he nodded.

  “My name is Anthony, remember?” he reminded Weedy, and feeling just like one of those mob bosses that Edgar always talked about, he extended the car keys to Weedy and nodded toward the door.

  “You know,” said Weedy, snatching the car keys away, “I half-respect you right now. But only half.”

  Weedy ushered his gang out of the cabin and they scurried out the door, leaving Flounder all alone in the cabin. In a breathless mess, he collapsed in the corner and pulled his knees to his chest and tried to get his thundering heart under control.

  Then he waited, just like Edgar had told him to do.

  Every once in a while, he’d rise from the floor and walk around the hole, staring at it, investigating it. Who dug this? he wondered. Where did it come from? Interested as he was, he stayed a good distance away from the ledge, since Flounder was deathly afraid of heights.

  Eventually he returned to the corner and withdrew Chris’s cell phone and turned it on. He scrolled through the pictures on the SIM card and the videos that Shay had told them would be there.

  Sure enough, Flounder found shot after shot of incriminating photographic evidence of vandalism. There were street addresses, license plates, even pictures of unsuspecting victims.

  What a dummy.

  His phone offered an immaculate folder of evidence of all the crimes he’d committed against the community of Mount Lanier. Most of them were dark, to be certain—due to the fact they were taken at night—and the ones involving fire were almost always too bright to see details. But there were so many that had been captured just right. Chris Weedy could get years in Juvi for this.

  As the sun began to fade, and as the insects of twilight began to call out, Flounder could hear something coming up from down in the hole. It was the faint, but instantly recognizable, hollering of his friend. Edgar was coming. And he was singing!

  Flounder mustered up the courage to lean over the edge and watch him come up, and suddenly, Edgar appeared right in front of him. He had a huge smile on his face.

  “What’s up, man? I see you survived Chris Weedy!”

  Edgar snatched the side wall and climbed out from the hole, standing before his friend. “Ta daaa!” he sang, like a magician.

  “What in the Sam hell is going on around here?” said Flounder, pointing into the hole. “Dude, where have you been?”

  “Never mind, Flounder,” said Edgar. “First thing’s first. Did you get it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” grinned Flounder, pulling the cell phone out of his pocket. “It worked just like we planned.” He dangled the phone in front of Edgar’s face.

  “Oh! My man!” said Edgar, punching Flounder playfully on the arm. Flounder looked down at the hole again and his face darkened with curiosity.

  “OK dude,” chuckled Edgar. “Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you everything.”

  __________

  On the way home, he did tell Flounder everything. He hadn’t had time in seventh period when they’d commiserated to trap Weedy and his gang, but now, strolling home in the warm, Autumn sun, Edgar painted Flounder a picture.

  As they walked, he d
escribed the island and the fishing and the Ambercod, and how beautiful the water was on the shores at night on the Indian Ocean.

  “So that’s where the Ambercod has been coming from!” exclaimed Flounder.

  “Yeah, dude, it’s crazy fishing,” said Edgar. “They always bite.”

  Edgar also described what it felt like to fall weightlessly through the Earth, and how hot the Earth’s core was, and how much fun it was to spin and flip around in the middle of the world. “You’ve gotta come with me sometime!” he said.

  “No way, guy,” insisted Flounder. “I don’t do heights. I’d have a heart attack in midair.”

  “Shay’s been,” smiled Edgar.

  “What?” said Flounder, incredulously. “You dog!” He grinned broadly and wiggled his big, black eyebrows.

  __________

  The next morning, when Edgar and Flounder reached the commons outside the school—the place where the students always waited for the opening bell— Edgar noticed Weedy sitting with his crew, who were in their usual spot.

  “OK,” he said to Flounder. “Let’s go. But be cool.”

  They approached the table of jocks and when Weedy saw Edgar—who was obviously alive and well—he grinned evilly and hung his head. Behind him, the jocks exploded into wild protestations, but Edgar could also tell that some of them were quite relieved.