The In-Betweener

by Ralph Fletcher

  “Do you know where Gwen is?” I asked our teacher.

  “She’s been sick,” Mrs. Wrenham told me.

  What’s wrong with her? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. The flu had been going around.

  The following week my family went to dinner at the Cracker Barrel restaurant. We hardly ever went out to dinner, so this was a BIG DEAL. We left the restaurant through the gift shop.

  “No souvenirs,” Mom warned.

  “But, Mom…” Tommy whined.

  She firmly shook her head. I was walking past the checkout counter, where I happened to see a basket. Leaning closer, I saw that it contained rolls of Necco Wafers. But these looked different. The sign said CHOCOLATE NECCO WAFERS.

  I was stunned. A whole roll of nothing-but-chocolate Neccos! Luckily, I had enough pocket change with me to buy two rolls. I couldn’t wait to show them to Gwen when she got back.

  Funsies and Keepsies

  NOWADAYS KIDS COLLECT things like Pokémon cards or friendship bracelets. When I was a kid we collected marbles. The smallest marble was a peewee, followed by a cat’s-eye, then a bogey, a mumbo, and then a jumbo. The bigger the marble, the more valuable it was. If a marble was a crystal (totally clear inside), it had an even higher value.

  I adored my marbles and spent countless hours holding them up to the light, turning them this way and that, peering into their interiors to see what might be inside. Like icicles, marbles seemed to sparkle with their own concentrated light. I loved the liquid way they poured out of my bag, and the peculiar click-click-click sound they made bumping against each other, as if those orbs might be speaking their own language. Gazing down at my marbles, I imagined I had my own personal solar system, a collection of tiny planets on my bedspread.

  Marbles were like money, only better. If you had lots of marbles kids treated you like you were rich. And you were rich. Nobody doubted it.

  If you collected marbles you had to have something to hold them in. I used a cloth bag that I’d made myself with a lot of help from my mother. She provided me with a needle, thread, and a piece of fabric.

  “I recommend you double-stitch it to make it extra strong,” Mom advised. “You don’t want that seam to rip open.”

  So that’s what I did. When I finished sewing the seam, I turned the bag inside out to hide the stitching. It worked great. Now I had a pouch to keep my treasures snug and secure.

  My friends and I played a number of common marble games:

  Ringer: Played in a large ring with thirteen marbles arranged in a cross in the center. The object was to use your marble as a “shooter” to knock the other marbles out of the ring.

  Poison: The target is a shallow hole about six inches across and a half inch deep. Players shoot from behind a line three to five feet away. Each player tries to be the first to get his shooter into the hole. If successful, the shooter becomes “poison.” After that, you can collect any marble that ends up within a hand span of the hole.

  Boss-Out: First player shoots one marble. Second player tries to hit the first player’s marble. If he does, that player collects both marbles.

  Off-the-Wall: Players take turns rolling their marbles toward a curb or wall. Whoever has the closest marble to the wall collects all the other marbles.

  We also made up games of our own: Knuckle-Down, Holies, Bogeys, Closeys, and Shooties.

  You could buy marbles at the Woolworth’s five and ten-cent store, not far from my house. They didn’t cost much, but kids who simply bought their marbles didn’t get much respect from other kids. Nope, you had to win them. You played against other kids, head-to-head. If you beat your opponent, you won the marble he played. We all knew famous stories about skilled players who amassed a fortune in this way. One time my good friend Freddy Fletcher (one of the other Fletchers—no relation—who lived down the street) went to school with only one marble. He risked playing it and won, and won again, and kept winning until that afternoon he triumphantly climbed onto the bus, his bag jammed with marbles.

  It was exciting to win, but hard to lose, and harder still to watch one of my brothers get beat. One time Tommy took eight brand-new bogeys to school. He was eager to win more; unfortunately, he wasn’t a very good player. An older boy challenged him to play Off-the-Wall. I watched Tommy lose his bogeys one after another, and I felt terrible. I could see what was happening and tried to get him to quit. His expression turned hard and desperate, but he shook me off, and soon all his marbles were gone.

  Jim Dean, a kid from a nearby neighborhood, had one amazing crystal bogey, gorgeous aquamarine. One night I had a magical dream about that marble. I badly wanted Jim’s crystal bogey, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what he had, and wasn’t going to let it go for cheap.

  “I’ll play three of my bogeys against your crystal bogey,” I offered.

  Jim smirked in amusement, then shook his head.

  “No way.”

  “How many, then?”

  “Six.”

  “Six!” I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re nuts! Nobody’s gonna play you six against one.”

  Jim shrugged. “Then I won’t play.”

  “How about five?” I countered. “I’ll play you five against your one.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  Game on. A half dozen kids followed us to a corner of the playground where a large circle had been marked out in the dirt. There was a hole, about five inches across, dug in the middle. The objective of the game was to be the first to shoot your marble into the “pot” (hole). You won if you got your marble in first—unless your opponent could get his marble into the pot on the very next shot. When that happened, the game would be declared a tie, and you started over.

  There were different ways to shoot a marble. My buddies and I prepared to shoot by putting one hand on the ground directly behind the marble. When it was your turn, you propelled the marble forward, using the part of your forefinger between the first and second knuckles.

  Jim had a reputation as one of the best players around, but I wasn’t too bad myself. On my second shot, I tossed a bogey that landed two feet from the hole and scampered in.

  Kids whistled. It was an amazing, improbable shot, and it set me up to win unless Jim could match my shot. All of a sudden, he looked concerned. His prized bogey was in peril.

  “I call funsies!” he cried.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. When kids played marbles for funsies, it was understood that they were just playing for fun—nobody could lose or win any marbles. Playing for funsies allowed you to practice without pressure. But that had to be agreed on before the game started. Otherwise it was keepsies—you were playing for keeps, for real. Losing the game meant losing your marble.

  “What?!” I sputtered. “This is keepsies!”

  He folded his arms. “You didn’t call it. And I called funsies.”

  “It’s keepsies!” I insisted. “Why the heck do you think everybody’s here watching?”

  “I called funsies,” Jim said for the third time.

  “You’ve got to call it ahead of time!” I objected.

  “I called it now, before you did.” He went to stand beside the crystal bogey. “You still want to play?”

  “What’s the point?” I shouted. “No!”

  I could feel my neck muscles straining, and tried to swallow down my rage.

  “Okay, then,” Jim said. He grabbed that crystal bogey and left.

  I was furious, but I wasn’t surprised. Arguments—even fistfights—involving marbles were common. Marbles was only a game, but a game with particular rules and rituals that took on tremendous importance for us all. Marbles mattered.

  Andy tried to console me. “Let it go. Who needs that crystal bogey anyway?”

  I do, I thought as we walked. I tried to shake off my fury, but I knew I’d have a bad taste in my mouth for a long time. What was the sense of having rules if you didn’t follow them?

  Mushrooms

  MUSHROOMS GREW EVERYWHERE in our neighborhood
: in damp areas of the field or forest, under shady trees, near swamps and streams. They reminded me of small, helmeted soldiers, a secret army that patrolled and controlled the forest. And I loved their fantastic names: devil’s snuffbox, witch’s cap, boletes, wine caps, chanterelles, giant puffballs, jack-o’-lanterns …

  “There are some wild mushrooms you can eat,” Lainie declared at supper one night. “My teacher told us in school.”

  “That may be,” Mom quickly interjected, “but mushrooms can be poisonous too. So whatever you do, don’t eat any of them.” She gave the little kids a pointed look. “Are you listening? Do you hear what I’m saying? Leave mushrooms alone.”

  A bunch of little heads bobbed up and down. “Okay, Mommy.”

  I had figured out that people were like mushrooms, in a way. Most were fine, or at least harmless, but a few could be dangerous. Take Barry O’Neil, a boy who moved into the neighborhood one summer. He didn’t actually move in; he was a cousin to Ricky O’Neil, a kid who lived on a nearby street. At first Barry’s easy smile gave me the impression that he must be a nice kid. But Barry turned out to be pure poison.

  Although I noticed Barry a few times walking with Ricky down Acorn Street, the first time he caught my attention was at the beach. I spotted him standing near the top of the stairs that led from the parking lot down to the water. Other kids had gathered there too, including one kid who had a bag of marbles poised precariously at the top of the stairs.

  I saw the whole thing clearly, as if it was happening in slow motion: Barry sidled over and slyly nudged that bag so that it toppled over. Marbles by the dozens began to pour down the stairs. Bogeys! Crystals! Clayeys! Countless tiny orbs flashed and sparkled and streamed like water. Ricky’s friends frantically tried to help the boy corral his marbles once they landed, but other kids started grabbing them.

  “Hey, those are mine!”

  All the while Barry stood at the top, arms crossed, grinning broadly at the uproar he had created. And Ricky never suspected him.

  That left a big impression on me. Stealing a bite of someone’s doughnut was one thing, but messing with someone’s marbles? That was cruel.

  A few days later Andy, Steve, Freddy, and I met at the edge of the big field at the Fishmans’ house. We wanted to plan a football game. My brother Bobby had come along too. He and Steve’s youngest brother, Paul, were playing in the dirt about fifteen feet away. Glancing up, I saw Barry O’Neil and his cousin Ricky walking down the driveway toward us. When Barry reached Bobby he stopped and crouched down, I guess to talk to him.

  “Let’s make this a really big game,” Freddy was saying. “We should invite over some kids from school.”

  I nodded. At the edge of my peripheral vision, I half noticed that Barry had picked up a dandelion stem topped by a globe of silver spores. Squatting, he showed it to Bobby.

  “Isn’t that cool?” Barry cooed in an inviting voice. “Open your mouth.”

  I froze. In that interval my brother obediently opened his mouth wide. When he did, Barry blew the spores into his mouth.

  Bobby screamed.

  “Hey!” I cried, running over. “What do you think you’re doing!?”

  Barry laughed; he and Ricky quickly sprinted away. Paul led Bobby into the house so he could get some water to rinse out his mouth.

  “Somebody ought to punch that kid,” I declared, watching Barry disappear into the distance.

  Freddy smiled. “Where do I sign up?”

  * * *

  Two days later Andy and I were in the Woolworth’s store when we happened to run into Barry. I stalked over to him.

  “Hey, sorry about your brother,” he said, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean nothing—I was just messing around.”

  “Next time you better mess with someone else,” I warned.

  “Okay, okay.” He flashed his trademark easy smile.

  I watched him wander over to a display of balsa wood airplanes. A moment later he drifted to the checkout counter. When the woman at the cash register turned away, Barry quickly snatched a box of Jujubes and ducked out of the store. Andy and I followed.

  “We saw that,” I told Barry.

  “Bully for you.” He offered the opened box. “Have some.”

  Andy shrugged and took a few, but I hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” Barry asked.

  “Ralph’s a Boy Scout AND an altar boy,” explained Andy. “He’s practically a saint. No way he’s going to eat stolen candy.”

  I didn’t appreciate Andy teasing me like that in front of a kid we both didn’t like, but I didn’t know what to say, so I bit my tongue.

  “C’mon,” Barry persisted, waggling the box in my direction. “Live a little!”

  Barry brought the box closer, so close the sweet smell of the Jujubes wafted up to my quivering nostrils.

  “I can’t take ’em back now,” he pointed out. “They’re already opened.”

  Which was true. So I grabbed the box and spilled some into my right hand: one yellow, one orange, one green, one cherry, and one purple; the Jujubes were the size of the eraser on a new pencil. I popped the green bead into my mouth first. After I polished it off, I ate the others, one by one by one.

  I would have predicted that those Jujubes would have tasted nasty, or spoiled, or tainted in some way. But they were delicious. I felt guilt and amazement in equal parts. It didn’t make sense. Barry was a total jerk, so how come my taste buds were popping wheelies in my mouth? I was a rule follower, for sure, so it was a secret thrill to enjoy the spoils of this minor theft.

  Cousins by the Dozens

  MY PARENTS EACH had seven siblings, and most of them grew up to have giant families of their own. I had cousins coming out of my ears, so many that I had trouble remembering their names. Clumps of cousins showed up at family reunions. They’d climb out of their cars and blink in the sunlight with their freckles and cowlicks and pale Irish skin. It felt strange but also kind of cool to realize that we all shared the same bloodline.

  My cousins often came over for a visit: MarkPeterMaryBethPaulMichaelChristopherBillyGregJudy. I’d introduce them to my friends Andy and Steve, who couldn’t believe their eyes.

  Andy sputtered, “I’ve got eight cousins—you’ve got eight million!”

  I smiled. “Not quite.”

  “Seriously, how many do you have?” he demanded.

  “I, well, I really don’t know,” I admitted.

  I went to my mother to get a solid number. “Mom, how many cousins do I have?”

  “Lots.”

  “Exactly how many?” I persisted.

  “Well, I don’t know but we can easily figure it out,” she said, grabbing a pencil. “Let’s count up all the grandchildren. We’ll start with the Collins side of the family.”

  Jimmy and Winnie Collins: 2

  Norma and Cecil Clark: 7

  Mary Collins: 0

  Ruth and Paul McCullough: 7

  Billy and Mary Collins: 5

  Johnny and Jane Collins: 3

  Eddie and Joan Collins: 5

  Next she tallied up the grandchildren on the Fletcher side.

  Paul and Louise Fletcher: 7

  Ann and Bill Whalen: 5

  Joan and Warren Charette: 6

  Billy and Jeanette Fletcher: 4

  Bernard and Nicole Fletcher: 5

  John and Mary Beth Fletcher: 0

  Margaret Fletcher and Bob Grant: 1

  She took a few moments to add them up.

  “Twenty-nine Collins cousins and twenty-eight Fletcher cousins. So you’ve got fifty-seven first cousins, if my math is right.” She smiled at me. “But don’t forget that you guys are cousins to them. If you throw in our eight kids, that makes a grand total of sixty-five cousins.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

  * * *

  One day at a family reunion, I found myself playing catch with one kid who looked familiar in a Fletcherish kind of way. I wanted to find out for sure if we were first cousin
s, though I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Finally I just blurted the question.

  “Are we cousins?”

  He frowned. “Of course! I’m Billy Whalen.”

  “Oh, right.” In my head I quickly scrambled up the Fletcher family tree. My father’s sister Ann was married to Bill Whalen. In fact, they were my godparents. So this kid was most definitely my first cousin.

  Most times I could sense when one of my cousins was around. A little voice in my head whispered, “Cousin close by!” But that voice didn’t work 100 percent of the time. A few times I got fooled.

  Our family had made plans to join a big gathering of the Fletcher tribe in Rhode Island. Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Fletcher would be there, plus all my uncles and aunts and cousins galore. Many of my cousins lived nearby, and I learned that some would bring along their own friends—kids who were not part of the family. The reunion took place on a beautiful July day. Someone organized a game of softball. Afterward the kids split up into two teams to play Capture the Flag. At one point I noticed a girl looking at me, half smiling. I’d never seen her before, and figured she must be one of my cousins’ friends.

  Toward the end of the game I found myself alone in the woods, or so I thought. The sound of crunching leaves made me whirl around. And there she was: the girl I’d seen earlier. She walked toward me, not the slightest bit shy.

  “Hi.”

  I swallowed. “Hi.”

  I looked at her closely. She was kind of beautiful, with dark hair and olive skin, and a sleepy smile that warmed me from the inside out.

  “What … what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Looking for you.” Reaching out, she touched both my shoulders and gently squeezed. “Want to kiss me?”

  Just like that: Want to kiss me?

  I did want to kiss her. I took a half step closer, and closer still. Now I could feel her breath, warm and sweet. I leaned forward until our bottom lips touched very lightly, but something made me pull back.