by Jody Feldman
Normally I’d love a teacher to break up any contact with Randall Denvie. Not now. I need to get into that locker, but more than that I need to stay out of trouble.
I catch up to him and match his stride till just inside the cafeteria doors. That’s when I cut him off and steer him to the puke green cinder block wall. “Don’t bother denying it,” I say. “I saw the envelope.”
“Big whoop. Should we alert the media?”
“Good idea. Let’s haul it out and show the world what you’re doing.”
“No!” He whisper-yells with enough hot air that I can smell his before-lunch breath. Onion-breath would be better.
“Then admit you have a shine-under-the-surface blue envelope with my name on it.”
His eyes shift left then right. He backs off. “It doesn’t have your name. It has mine.”
His name? He’s getting puzzles and coins? But he’s an oaf. He has to be lying. “So, this is your first one, right?” I say, testing him.
“Do you just have one?”
Now he’s testing me, but we won’t get anywhere unless I say something. “More. You?”
“That was my fifth.”
He got five? Why’d I put fingernails in the envelope? I stare at him. He grins back at me like we’ve been chosen for the same team.
Problem is I don’t want to be on the same team with him. It’s bad enough he’s in science and Spanish and sports with me in seventh grade, at Lauer Middle School, on Earth.
I push away from the wall. “I’m going to eat.”
I look up. My lunch table is staring at me. Not the table itself. My friends at the table. I’d be staring if I watched me have a no-yelling conversation with Randall Denvie.
“I hope you’re not getting friendly with the enemy,” says Kip even before I sit.
“Not exactly,” I say.
Seven pairs of eyes keep staring, waiting for an answer.
I need to scramble for some excellent excuse. If we’re both getting envelopes, I have a feeling this won’t be the last time they see me and Randall talking. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s not so complicated,” says Matti, getting right to the point. “What’d he say to you? What’d you say to him?”
“It was nothing,” I say. “I ran into him in the hall, he started yelling at me, then Mr. Drummond told us to take it to the cafeteria.” I shrug, then I smile. I told the truth. Sort of.
My smile shrivels. They know there has to be more. I take a bite of my Swiss cheese and mustard sandwich, and chew and chew and chew and chew until it’s so mushy I have to swallow.
They’re still waiting.
And so am I. I’m waiting for inspiration. And Ms. Skrive, my English teacher, passes by and gives it to me. Blame it on an adult.
“I was in Mrs. Pinchon’s office,” I say, the right words leaping into my brain.
“Again?” Matti says.
“I wasn’t really in trouble.” I tell them about the soap.
“Did you take it?” asks Katie.
“Are you nuts?” Matti says. “Travis is the most honest person I know.”
Great. This story I’m about to tell is a total lie, but at least it’s a lie that won’t hurt anyone. “So I sort of accused Randall of setting me up. And Mrs. Pinchon said maybe Randall won’t bother us if we’re nicer to him. Maybe he’s acting out of jealousy.”
I have no clue where this psychological stuff came from. Maybe bully episodes of ancient TV sitcoms. But I go with the story and say I was making the first move.
“Obviously it didn’t go too well,” says Matti.
“I promised Mrs. Pinchon I’d try more than once.” I roll my eyes for effect.
“Well, that stinks,” says Katie.
Everyone agrees except Matti. “Why is it that teachers don’t hate him? Pretend I’m a teacher. Tell me why he’s such a mean oaf. Give me ammunition.”
She’s nuts.
“You’re nuts,” says Kip. “You know it all, Matti. But if it’ll make you happy, there’s last year when Randall shoved Marco’s soccer ball underneath Mrs. Bloom’s car so she’d run it over.”
“Then why did I see Marco the next day kicking the same ball?” She is nuts.
“What about Jackie Muggs in fourth grade?” I ask. “Randall sent him to the hospital. Almost dead. Thirty-eight stitches.”
“Did anyone see it happen?” she asks.
Kip’s turn. “There was the cupcake incident in second grade.”
Mine. “And breaking Natalie Levin’s leg last year. And basically crippling mine for the rest of the soccer season two years ago.”
Matti shakes her head. “Those could’ve been accidents.”
“Not the worm farm,” I say. “He deliberately knocked my arm so the worm-and-dirt tray crashed to the ground, which got me in such deep trouble, I had to skip soccer practice. And my five dollars and eighty-five cents from fifth grade. And hey,” I say. “What about Kip’s cap?”
“I heard he didn’t do it,” says Matti. “Not on purpose at least.”
“Then why didn’t he fight back when Marco said he did?”
Matti unleashes her hair from her ponytail. “I don’t know.”
“Then why are you sticking up for him?” I say.
“I’m not.” She gathers her hair back behind her. “Call it a momentary lapse into Teacherland. Forget it.”
I can’t because Mrs. Pinchon’s voice is echoing in my head. Things aren’t always as they appear.
Randall is sitting a few tables over with Marco and four other oaf types. He looks at me, and I jerk away, knocking over Katie’s giant water bottle.
Kip and Katie and the rest jump around getting napkins and trying not to get wet.
Matti nudges me. “What’s this really about?”
I pretend I don’t hear her. I’d rather say nothing than lie directly to her. I join the mop-up crew and switch the topic to soccer camp. Katie tells me about this new drill she found online, and I have her show me. People stare because we’re really good at pretending we’re kicking the ball and guarding each other.
And I’m about to ask if anyone has a ball so we can kick it around during our five-minute recess when I catch Matti and Kip trading a weird look. Matti mouths a word to Kip. Kip shrugs. Then she pushes him like the time Natalie pushed me in first grade when she liked me.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on?” I look directly at Matti then Kip.
“Nothing,” he says. He couldn’t lie for the CIA either.
The rest of the day plummets from there. Not that anything bad happens, just that I get called out for not paying attention and stuff. But how can I concentrate on school? Soccer camp and soccer captain may be running away. I may have to lose one of my best friends. I’m getting all these instructions. I’m not so happy about paying money for gum to give to sixth graders. And I feel like I’m about to get in trouble for that, but I’m not sure how.
So I think I’d like to drop out of life and move to Monrovia for a month then come back and figure everything out. By then, though, I could lose out on becoming part of The Legend. At least I still have the promise of that.
Problem is so does Randall.
CHAPTER 19
I spend most of Spanish getting whiplash, turning away every time Randall glances at me. He even smiles once, which is totally creepy.
Do I really want to be in The Legend if he’s in it, too? Stupid thought. I’d pay every cent I ever had to get in. Even for bubble gum.
I get home and nearly wipe out my train bank, seal the money in an envelope, stash it in my backpack, ready to dash to the store after baseball tomorrow. Alone.
Before practice I tell Coach and Matti and Kip I have a doctor’s appointment and skip out two minutes early. I buy the gum, bring it home, and then I check the school phone book, which I forgot to do last night. “Curry, I could’ve bought three bags less.”
I should start my homework, but I spread the ten packages of gum around me and s
tare. What do I do with it? Throw pieces around the cafeteria so it looks like a gum factory exploded? Dump whole bags at the cafeteria doors? Hand it out as the sixth graders come to lunch?
No, no, and no. In the first case, a cafeteria adult would clean it up before anyone gets a piece. In the second, someone would hog all the bags. In the third, I’d be totally exposed.
I try to ignore my stomach, which is rippling like the time in soccer when I took the pass from Katie, dribbled the ball downfield, and shot the winning score with thirty seconds left in the game. But not. This isn’t nervous excitement. It’s more like something’s wrong. Something more than figuring out the gum delivery system. I think my gut’s telling me I’m getting two sets of instructions.
Questions attack my brain like nails to a magnet.
Question: Why would they suddenly start signing their instructions from The Legend? Answer: In case we’re getting frustrated, we know, for sure, it’s worth it.
Question: Why are there two different kinds of envelopes? Answer: They don’t have enough of the shiny kind. Answer number two: They use different kinds for different reasons.
Question: Why would The Legend want to include anyone like the oaf? Answer: They wouldn’t. The shiny envelopes aren’t from The Legend. Answer number two: Things aren’t always as they appear, and Randall just appears to be an oaf.
Question: If they’re from two groups, which envelopes are real? Answer: No answer.
Question: If they’re both from The Legend, what happens if I don’t do everything they ask? Answer: I wouldn’t be that stupid. End of questions.
What’s the harm in being the Gum Fairy? The sixth graders’ll love it. Besides, The Legend’s special because it’s sneaky and surprising. I mean, who’d predict they’d pick me to—
Blump-blump.
“Come in,” I say automatically.
My dad looks down at me sitting inside the semicircle of packages. He doesn’t say anything. Just raises his right eyebrow.
“It’s something I have to do for school.”
“Right,” he says. “You have to build Bubblegum Mountain.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Travis. I’ve heard that line before.”
How can I prove it without breaking—“Wait. You signed a permission slip with a mess of rules. Or mom did when you were in Japan. It’s part of that.”
“Okay,” he says, “but where did you get all that gum?”
“I robbed a bank.” I show him my almost-empty train bank.
My dad opens his mouth to say something but closes it before any words come out. This can’t be good.
He goes out the door, and without looking back he says, “I came in to tell you it’s dinnertime.” He turns toward his bedroom.
I don’t follow him. Maybe he needs time to get unangry about whatever he thinks I did. I go to the kitchen, but he’s only five seconds behind me.
He hands me a twenty dollar bill.
I should take it and say thank you then nothing else, but I forget to make sure my mouth’s in on that plan. “What’s this for?”
“Yeah,” says my mom. “What’s that for?”
“For Travis going above and beyond and taking responsibility.” He tells my mom about the gum then gives me extra points for being secretive and following about four more rules.
He gushes so much, I hate to tell him the money doesn’t quite cover the cost of the gum. I didn’t expect a cent, so it’s all bonus. But I’d rather trade it for a way to dump the bubble gum. Which, after dinner, is staring at me so much I can’t do my homework.
I stash it all into two grocery bags, but then I stare at those. I’ve gotta get out of here. I go downstairs and hear my mom in the kitchen.
She has the oil, flour, and sugar out and is reaching for the measuring cups. I go into the freezer where we store the poppy seeds.
“While you’re there,” she says, “get out the eggs and a lemon.”
“A lemon? Moon cookies aren’t lemony.”
“Maybe not, but there’s another taste we keep missing, so I thought I’d try lemon juice.”
I understand the point in trying stuff, especially now with the puzzles and gum and everything. I put the eggs and lemon on the counter and open the cabinet to get the salt and baking powder. “These cookies are like a great big puzzle to you, aren’t they?”
“There’s that, but there’s more.” She measures out the flour. “My mother made moon cookies. My grandmother made moon cookies. My great-grandmother made moon cookies, and who knows how far back it goes. If we stop trying, who else will keep the recipe alive?” She dumps the flour into the mixing bowl. “There are some traditions worth preserving. What better than cookies?”
What better? The Legend.
I know what to do with the bubble gum.
CHAPTER 20
I run upstairs and write a message on notebook paper. Then I shred it.
After naming me King of Responsibility at dinner, my parents have to let me on the computer. “I promise,” I say to my mom. She’s cutting out the cookie circles. “It’ll take me five minutes. Ten at the most. And it’s for school.”
Thirty seconds later I’m on the computer. Within five minutes I’m printing what I need.
I think about finding some fun websites real fast, but if being good gave me twenty dollars and a few minutes on the computer unsupervised, I can wait five days, when my two weeks are up.
I put the printed paper into the gum bag and head to the kitchen. “I need to borrow the tape,” I say to my dad, who’s in the den. “I’ll bring it back after school tomorrow.”
“Done with the computer already?”
“Yep!”
“That’s my boy!”
Those good feelings keep me calm all night, but I squirm so much in my chair during English, Ms. Skrive comes up and whisper-asks if I need to use the bathroom. What does she think I am? Three years old and just out of diapers?
I have four more minutes before I need to get this bubble gum drop started. Maybe it’s a good thing I keep squirming because by the time I claim the bathroom pass, I think Ms. Skrive is relieved I didn’t, well, relieve myself in class. I throw the cord of the pass around my neck and speed walk to my locker where—score!—there’s a new, shiny envelope.
It’s too complicated to deal with two sets of instructions at once, so I grab only the plastic grocery bags that have the gum, the roll of tape, and the printed sheet of paper. I take off the bathroom pass and shove it inside my knee pocket, then pull out the hall pass Mrs. Pinchon gave me on toilet paper flood day when I was late for lunch. If anyone stops me and studies it hard enough to see that the time and date are wrong, I’ll figure something out.
I look at the clock down the hall. Six minutes until the bell rings for sixth grade lunch.
Perfect. If I get there too early, some teacher or other adult’ll find the gum before the kids do. If I get there too late, some kid’ll see me put the gum there.
It’s Friday Lunch Shuffle, and the table assignments are posted on every cafeteria door. That means kids will actually read signs there. I dump the individual bags of bubble gum out of their plastic grocery bags so they’re blocking one of the doors. Then I tape my sign next to the table assignments.
IT’S LEGEND GUM DAY!
To the first person who finds the gum by the door:
It’s your responsibility to make sure every 6th grader gets a piece of gum at lunch. If you do not follow these instructions, you might get banned from every Legend Event forever. Figure out a way to make this happen, and we will remember you helped carry on our tradition. BECOME LEGENDARY!
If that doesn’t work, nothing will. I stuff the tape into my pocket and the grocery bags into the trash can and pick up speed to get out of there before the bell rings. I take a right, head halfway up the nearest staircase, and bump straight into Mr. McKenzie. “Sorry,” I say.
“Back at you,” he says, but then he points down the stairs. “
The cafeteria’s that way.”
“I have to—”
“Wait. You’re in seventh grade.”
I flash the old pass at him, and before I pull it down, he swipes it from my hand and dangles it over his head.
“I’m thinking if I look at this, something will be fishy.”
“I swear, Mr. McKenzie,” I say, “I’m where I’m supposed to be, but I will get into trouble if I’m not back in class before the bell rings. Three minutes.”
He doesn’t move for eighty-three years, then he lowers the pass. “Be good.”
“I will.” I race up the stairs, down the hall, and get this shiver down my neck, feeling a little guilty about the lying, and also about using The Legend name in my note, but none of it’s for evil. Thirty more seconds and I’ll be back in class and—
Er-er-er! Er-er-er!
Fire alarm! Where am I? Where’s the nearest exit? That way.
I push open the door, shove the old hall pass into my pocket, hang the bathroom pass around my neck, and find my class outside.
I breathe in. No fire smell. I try again. Nothing. False alarm.
The good news: everyone’s safe. The bad news: Johnny Flood’s in trouble again.
It takes only fifteen minutes before they figure out it was a prank. It’ll take longer than that to clear my name.
When my next class lets out, every voice in my head yells at me to go straight to the cafeteria and blend in, but my legs move me to Mrs. Pinchon’s door. I knock on the glass.
“Don’t tell me,” she says before I get all the way inside. “You were passing the fire alarm and your shirt got caught on it, wouldn’t let go, and accidentally pulled the lever.”
“No. I’m here because you’d call me in anyway, and I didn’t want to go through the humiliation of being pulled out of class. I also came to remind you that things aren’t always as they appear, and that I didn’t do it, even though I had the opportunity.”
She rests her chin on the points of her fingers. “You had the opportunity?”
I nod. “I had the bathroom pass, so I wasn’t in class when the alarm went off.”