I shrug. “I don’t know.… Stuff like that. Girly stuff.”
She crosses her arms across her faded yellow T-shirt. “Well, maybe I do. And besides, it beats the heck out of being at home with Carl. If I have to spend one more afternoon watching my stupid stepfather chug beers while watching game shows, I might go bonkers.” My mom says Franki’s stepdad has a deep love for Budweiser and unemployment checks. “Plus, Chuck,” she says, jabbing my shoulder, “it might actually be fun. It’s our first middle-school event together!” She winks, then races toward the crosswalk. I hesitate for a second, then take off after her.
But the belt around my gut is so tight, I can’t catch up. Franki and me at a school event? Where there might be dancing? Slow dancing?
I don’t have a good feeling about this.
CHAPTER
7
Thanks to math class and the order of operations, by second period I’ve completely forgotten about Franki, the festival, and dancing.
After slogging through first period language arts and the correct use of adverbs, it’s time for math, a subject I like almost as much as science. Both make way more sense to me than words.
But today’s lesson stinks.
“The order of operations is kind of like a grammar book for mathematicians,” Mrs. McElfresh, my math teacher, tries to explain. “Even though you may know what the different numbers and symbols mean in an equation, if you don’t follow certain rules, your answer will be very different from the correct one.”
I think about this for a minute. Rules, rules, and more rules. They seem to be everywhere now. Wear this, don’t do that. Be different, but don’t stand out. Mess up just a little bit, and the whole outcome will change. The older I get, the more rules there are. And if I forget one? Things just seem to get worse.
I leave math class feeling less in control than ever.
Unfortunately, that’s when my real trouble begins.
“Charlie!” I look up from the water fountain and see Stella floating toward me. I hunch my shoulders and turn away, but she’s zeroing in fast. I’m not sure why Miss Popularity feels the need to seek me out in the middle of the sixth-grade hallway, but here she is, singsonging my name so everyone can hear.
She stops in front of me, arms crossed.
“Oh … hi,” I mumble, staring at a ketchup stain on my sneaker.
“Do you realize I’ve been calling your name all the way from … Oh, never mind. Listen—Dad just texted and said Pickles is coming for dinner tonight.” She grins, and I do too. Pickles is my dad’s mom and our favorite relative. “He wants you to come home right after school.” She reaches out to smooth down my hair, but I swat her away. Two girls with thick blond ponytails slide past us, giggling. My face burns like someone just shoved a space heater in front of me and turned it on high.
“Charlie?”
“What?” I say too loudly, pulling at the collar of my T-shirt.
“Straight home after school,” Stella says calmly. “You. Today.” She talks to me like English is my second language.
I’m about to remind her that I have soccer practice when whap! Something smashes into the back of my head, causing my eyeballs to roll like they’re inside a pinball machine. Next thing I know, the smell of feet and pizza grease rushes toward me as my face meets the floor. Something oozes out of my nose.
I listen for Stella to scream once she realizes I’m lying in a pool of my own brain matter. Instead, she sighs like someone just cut her in the lunch line.
“Jeez, Boomer. What did you do that for?”
Uh-oh. I stop worrying about my liquefied brains and realize I have a much bigger problem on my hands.
Lying in a pool of my own gore is like Disneyland compared to dealing with Boomer Bodbreath.
Stella leans over me, a long piece of hair dangling in my face.
“Charlie?” She reaches down and grabs me under my armpits. “Get up. You’re making a scene.”
Me? A scene? She pulls me up, and I feel relieved. I can stand. That’s a good thing.
“Boomer,” I hear her say, “you could’ve really hurt someone.”
“Sorry, Stel.” The guy sounds like he eats rocks for lunch. “We were just goofing around is all.” He gives me a slap on the back, then spins me around to face him, poking a thick finger into my chest. “You got snot on your shirt, kid.”
I stare at the bright-blue 44 on his football jersey.
Boomer Bodbreath, the Gatehouse Vikings’ best defensive tackle.
Boomer Bodbreath, the Pantser.
Stella cocks her head to one side and studies the two meatheads who stand next to him. Their jerseys sport the numbers 17 and 32.
“That isn’t even yours,” she says, pointing to the black-and-white soccer ball lying at my feet. It takes me a minute to realize it’s the cause of my almost-decapitation. “You guys hate soccer. Where’d you get it?”
“From the short kid,” Boomer says. “You know—nerdy guy with glasses, weird eyebrows.”
Stella and I exchange a look. Grant.
“He gave it to you?” Stella asks.
Boomer smirks.
“I guess you could say that.” The goons behind him giggle. “He can’t really use it right now anyway.”
I feel the belt start tightening again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Stella asks him. “What did you do to him, Boomer?”
Boomer crosses his arms, which are twice as thick as my thighs. “Tell you what, Stella,” he says, winking. “Go to the festival with me on Friday, and I’ll tell you where he is.” The goons nod in unison. “Whaddya say?”
Stella picks up the ball with one hand and grabs my wrist with the other. She drags me behind her, past Boomer and his gang.
“Your loss!” Boomer calls out as I trip down the hall behind my sister.
It’s not difficult to find Grant. He’s inside the screaming locker.
“Help! Someone!” His voice is higher than normal, which is pretty impressive, considering he already sings soprano in the sixth-grade choir. “I think maybe I’m having a panic attack in here!”
It takes a few minutes before Stella can get Grant to calm down enough to tell her his locker combination. She pops the lever and he flops out, his bushy eyebrows and too-wide eyes making him look a little bit like Cookie Monster. “Oh, man … Oh, wow,” he says, pulling down his shirt. I wrinkle my nose at the smell that follows him out.
“Jeez, Grant,” I say, and try to breathe through my mouth. “What the…”
Stella gets right to business. “Okay, guys, let’s go.” She starts toward the front of the school but stops when she realizes we’re not following her. “We need to find Dr. Moody. He’ll want a full report, and Charlie and I will serve as your witnesses, Grant.”
This would almost be funny if it weren’t so ridiculous. If you’re going to rat out a guy like Boomer Bodbreath, you better have your spot in the witness protection program all lined up. What planet is my sister living on anyway?
Nobody budges.
“Fine,” she says, tossing Grant his soccer ball. “But don’t say I didn’t try to help you guys.” She turns and stomps off, leaving us alone in the hallway.
I slam Grant’s locker closed, then fiddle with the lock, not wanting to look him in the eye. “How’d you get mixed up with Boomer and his crew in the first place?”
He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “How should I know? One minute I’m juggling my ball in the hallway—and the next, this maniac is in my face, telling me to hand it over, or else. When I didn’t, he said he’d make my decision easy. Next thing I know, I’m in my locker.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Look, I need to go to the office, Charlie.” He starts to push past me, but I grab his arm.
“What are you thinking, Grant?” He must be living on the same planet as my sister. “Are you nuts? Telling on Boomer is like a suicide mission. You really want to be on that maniac’s radar?”
“Shut up, Burger,” he hisses. “
You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Listen.” I put my arm around his shoulder. “We’re measly sixth graders. Our job is to lie low and not call attention to ourselves this year.”
He pulls away from me and lifts the bottom of his shirt. A dark stain is spreading across the front of his khakis. “I’ll tell you what I know, Burger. I know that if I don’t call my mom and ask her to bring me some new pants, every single person at this crummy school is going to know I just got the pee scared right out of me. Think that’s going to help me not call attention to myself?”
He shoves past me, and this time I let him go.
I drop my head in my hands. Boomer Bodbreath is one dangerous human being.
CHAPTER
8
I decide to tell Franki about Grant’s run-in with Boomer, but I leave out the pants-wetting part. Some stuff is just too personal to tell a girl, even if she is your best friend.
I should’ve known the whole thing would make her flaming mad.
“I told you, Chuck,” she mumbles through a mouthful of veggie burger. Franki’s on the free lunch plan at school, but she’d rather eat one of my dad’s burgers any day. He always puts an extra one in my lunch box, just for her.
“Told me what?” I smash my milk container flat. I’m not in the mood for one of Franki’s lectures today.
“That things would get worse,” she says, waving her burger in front of my face. “Take my stepfather, for instance. That man is a bona fide, card-carrying bully, and he’ll keep doing what he wants until somebody stops him.” She stabs at a soggy green bean with her fork but just moves it around on her tray. “Last night? He came home with four of his buddies and told Rose to clear the table so they could play a round of Texas Hold’em. When I reminded him that it was a school night, you know what he did?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “He told me to make myself useful and go round up some beers.”
I take a small bite of my own burger, but I can’t seem to swallow it. I wonder how Dude would handle a guy like Carl.
“And you know what Lila did?” I shake my head, but I can already guess the answer. Lila is Franki’s mom and is pretty wimpy when it comes to Carl.
“She hustled me into the kitchen and begged me to be nice for once, saying it would make everyone’s life much easier.” Her eyes blaze. “Ha! That man’s life couldn’t get any easier if someone walked in and handed him a million bucks.”
She stuffs the last of the burger into her mouth and chews with such force, I’m afraid she’s going to break a tooth. Watching her, I think about the time my dad said that someday Franki is going to be quite the looker.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I say too quickly.
“I don’t know, all … moony faced,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “All I’m saying, Chuck, is that kids like Boomer grow up to be guys like Carl.” She picks up her tray. “And someone has to have the power to stop them.”
And then she’s gone and I can’t stop wondering: When did Franki Saylor turn into such a girl?
CHAPTER
9
That afternoon, I rush home from soccer practice, knowing Pickles is already there. When I get to our driveway, I see the beat-up yellow Volkswagen bug parked sideways in our driveway, the two front wheels dangerously close to my mom’s flower garden. I smile and take the porch steps two at a time.
“Pickles!” I shout.
Pickles isn’t like most grandmas. She likes cigars and spends a lot of time at comic book conventions. After my grandpa died, she decided Boston was too far away from us and moved to Salem, where she opened the biggest toy store on the North Shore. From potato guns to penny candy to three-hundred-piece Lego sets, you can find it all at Pickles’s Place. Everything great is in that store.
The last time I went was the Sunday before school started. Pickles had just gotten back from a toy convention in Baltimore and had asked my sisters and me to spend the day with her. Stella had cheerleading camp, but my mom said Lucy and I could go as long as we wore our seat belts, and Pickles promised to have us home before dark.
She picked us up in the Volkswagen, and we headed down Route 128, sharing her bubble gum stash from the glove compartment and singing old show tunes from South Pacific. When we got to her store, she flung her arms wide and announced, “Go crazy, kiddos!” then disappeared into her back office. The next two hours were ours.
I started where I always did: the candy wall. Rows of large glass jars held everything from lemon drops to mini chocolate bars. I tried every single flavor of jelly bean until I couldn’t stomach anymore. After a while, I plugged a few dimes into the player piano, and we sang along to “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while Lucy redesigned the train track running across the floor and I test-drove the pogo sticks that had just been delivered. We sang at the tip-top of our lungs, because no one was there to say we couldn’t.
At twelve o’clock sharp Pickles reappeared, ready for lunch at the diner next door.
Two hours later my belly was full of ham on rye, Lucy was stuffed with egg salad, and both of our arms were full of loot. Pickles had to drive over the speed limit most of the way, but she got us home by dusk. My dad came out to help us carry in our packages, but my mom stayed in the doorway.
“You’re spoiling those kids, Pickles,” she warned, but she smiled a little while she said it.
“It’s my job,” Pickles replied, pointing her unlit cigar out the window. “I’m the grandma.”
My dad laughed. “Don’t be a stranger,” he told her.
“There are no strangers here—only friends you haven’t yet met,” she said, which is how she always responds. Then she winked. “That’s a quote by Yeats, kiddos. Look him up.”
And with that, she was gone.
But that was all before middle school started, and I haven’t seen her until now.
* * *
I find her in the kitchen with my dad. They stop talking as soon as I walk in.
“Well, well.” She grins. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
She sets down the onion she was slicing and walks over to me. I notice that her long white hair has strands of purple running through it. Last time I saw her, they were orange.
Stella thinks Pickles moved to Salem because she’s a witch. My mom says that’s ridiculous, but sometimes I like to pretend it’s true.
“Charlie,” she says, putting both hands on my cheeks, rubbing them as if to make sure I’m real. “You are a pleasant sight for this old woman’s eyes.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask her.
She pretends to look hurt. “Now, what kind of a question is that for your grandmother?”
“It’s just—well, it’s a weeknight. You usually come on Sundays.”
“Your father called and said he was making eggplant parmesan. He knows it’s one of my favorites.” She grins. “Plus,” she says, crossing her arms, “my only grandson just started middle school last week. Those are both good reasons for a visit, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I say, though I can’t imagine going anywhere for eggplant parmesan.
She motions for me to sit down, then does the same. Leaning her elbows on the table, she searches my face like it’s a road map. “So, tell me all about sixth grade.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Think of something.”
I pick at a scab on my elbow. “My science teacher wears cowboy hats and says ‘pardner’ a lot. He’s sort of weird.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Science, huh?”
I nod. “He gave us these journals, but told us to write stories in them instead of science stuff.”
She looks over her shoulder at my dad, then back at me. “Have you written anything yet?”
“Kind of,” I tell her, not sure I want to talk about this. Writing make-believe stories about a superhero in my sixth-grade science journal is a little awkward. But telling my grandmother about it is even
worse.
Lucky for me, my mom and Stella walk in. They’re fighting. About shoes.
“It’s not that I want them, Mom. I need them. There’s a difference.”
My mom unbuckles her police belt and lays it on the bench next to the back door. “Just because Stacey Stalen’s mother bought her new shoes to go with the new uniforms doesn’t mean I have to.”
“But it’s not just Stacey, Mom. Lori Crabtree’s mother bought them for her, and so did Betsy Hamilton’s, even though her dad just got laid off. Do you know how this is going to look? I mean, I’m the captain!”
My mom bites her thumb. “Money doesn’t grow on trees, Stella.”
“I know that.” Stella rolls her eyes like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “But what you don’t realize—”
Pickles stands and walks over to my sister. “What you don’t realize, Stella dear, is that your mother’s working hard to keep you in the shoes you have on your feet right now.” Stella looks down. “Now,” she continues, “if you’d like to earn some money to buy those new shoes yourself, I’ve got a big shipment coming into the toy store two weeks from Saturday.” She glances over at my mom. “If it’s okay with your parents, you could come help me sort and organize it before the afternoon crowd shows up.”
“Sounds fine by me,” my mom says as my dad raises his spatula in agreement.
Stella throws her arms around Pickles’s neck.
“Oh my gosh, Pickles, really? That would be great!”
“Good.” She turns to me. “You come too, if you want.”
I nod, but I doubt I’ll go. I love spending time with Pickles, but after last week’s mall trip, the idea of another Saturday inside any store makes me feel squirmy, even if it is the best toy store on the planet.
After dinner, I’m loading the dishwasher when Pickles comes into the kitchen. She grabs a dish towel and begins to dry the casserole dish. Her hands shake a little.
“So, other than this science teacher, do you like it? Middle school, I mean.”
I think about my run-in with Boomer, and Grant getting stuffed into his locker. I think about the order of operations and how if you don’t follow certain rules, the answers will be all wrong. And I think about Franki and the fall festival and how Stella said middle school was going to change everything between us.
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