“I don’t know, Kosmo. Posing as an exterminator at my age? I don’t think they’d buy it.”
“A mustache!” he shouts.
“What?”
“You could wear a fake mustache! Then they’d think you were older. Huh? How about that, huh?”
“I don’t know. What else have you got?” I appreciate Kosmo’s wild imagination, but sometimes you have to hear a few ideas before you get the right one.
“A skunk!” Kosmo shouts. “Get a skunk from Stenchly, and get it to run into the house and then…”
“Already thought of it, Kosmo. Stenchly’s rates are too expensive.”
“Okay, then, rats! Big ugly toothy furry stinky rats!”
“No, Kosmo. I hate rats. Can’t stand them. Forget about rats.”
“What about a porcupine?”
“Too prickly,” I say.
“How about a camel? They spit, you know.”
“Sorry, Kosmo. No camels. Have you got any ideas that don’t involve animals?”
There’s no sound coming from Kosmo’s end on the phone. With Kosmo, silence means he’s out of ideas. But he can’t be out of ideas. Kosmo has to come up with one that will actually work, and something that doesn’t involve animals.
“Kosmo? Hello! Have you got any more ideas?” I say. But there’s silence on the other end of the phone. When it comes to designing space stations on Mars, Kosmo’s the man. But when it comes to flushing three people out of a house, I guess he’s not going to be any help at all.
I spend the next two days in my room staring out the window at my old house. I’m hoping that if I stare at the house long enough, some brilliant idea for rescuing my Box of Shocks will pop into my head.
I actually come up with plenty of ideas, like building a giant slingshot and firing chests of drawers, beds, desks and everything else in my room across the street at the people in my old house, forcing them to evacuate. Then I realize I’m starting to think like Kosmo. Forget the giant slingshot. I need an idea that will work.
Finally, on the third day, the side door of my old house opens, and the new people come out. A man and a woman walk down the steps and out to their old car. The man opens the passenger-side door and climbs in, sliding over to the driver’s side. The woman gets in after him, sits in the passenger seat and pulls the door shut. When they start the car, it sounds like a lion with a bad cough. Clouds of blue smoke pour out the back of the car.
Then, I see the door of the house open again. A boy runs out, slamming the door behind him, and rushes down the steps. He yanks the car door open and dives into the backseat as the car takes off, sputtering and lurching down the street.
I watch the cloud of blue smoke. Then my eyes drift up to the second-floor window. That kid’s living in my room. That boy in the long baggy sweater hanging down below his knees has his stuff in my closet. Every day that kid goes in my closet, only a loose wooden panel separates him from my Box of Shocks.
As the smoke clears, so does the fog in my brain. How stupid can I be! I don’t have to flush the new people out of the house. All I have to do is wait until they go out! I can use the hidden back-door key and sneak into the house when there’s no one home. It’ll be so simple!
Simple, yes, but I’ll still have to be careful. When the people go out, I don’t know how long they’re gone for. Maybe they’ve just gone to the corner store for a few minutes. I’ll have to find a way to be sure they won’t suddenly return home while I’m sneaking around inside the house.
How will I do that?
By spying on them, of course! All I have to do is watch them come and go for a while. I’ll figure out when they leave for work and when they come home at night. I’ll look for patterns. Soon I should be able to tell when it’s safe to sneak into the house and rescue my Box of Shocks. It’s so simple!
Eight
There’s only one small problem with my plan to spy on the new people—school! Summer vacation is over, so I’ll be away from my bedroom window for most of the day. I’ll only be able to watch them from the time I get home from school to around 10:00 PM, when I go to bed.
On the first day of school, Mom drives me because she wants to meet my new teacher. Talk about embarrassing!
Another reason Mom drives me is that it’s raining. She always drives me when there’s even a small chance of rain. I tell her I won’t dissolve if I get wet, but she won’t listen to reason. She smiles and laughs as if I’m joking.
Even when it’s sunny without a single cloud in the sky, she’ll come up with some excuse to drive me to school. “It’s on my way to work, so I may as well give you a lift,” or, “I have to have a word with the principal about the next Parent Advisory Council meeting.” But the real reason Mom insists on driving me to school is that she sees danger everywhere. I’ve been hearing about stranger danger and runaway cars my whole life.
As we drive down the street, I listen to Mom trying to get me all pumped up about school. “You must be looking forward to seeing your friends. You haven’t seen them all summer! Isn’t it exciting to be starting a new year? I made a special lunch for you, seeing as it’s your first day…” I knew I should have worn earplugs.
When we’re about three blocks from the school, I see a strange kid walking along the sidewalk. He must be headed toward the school, and he must be new, because I’ve never seen him before.
Or have I?
There’s something familiar about him.
“Look at that poor boy,” Mom says. “Imagine his parents sending him to school like that in this rain.”
He doesn’t have a raincoat, so his sweater’s soaked, and his dirty blond hair is plastered to his head. All he’s carrying is a tiny plastic bag—not big enough for the school supplies we’re supposed to bring on the first day of school. It doesn’t even look big enough for a lunch.
“I think that’s the boy who’s living in our old house,” Mom says.
So that’s where I’ve seen him! He was wearing that old sweater yesterday when I saw him jump into the back of the car.
“Maybe we should give him a lift to school,” Mom says.
“No!” I shout. “I mean…it’s probably not a very good idea.”
“And why not?” Mom says, looking puzzled.
“Well…we’re strangers, and the kid’s probably been told not to take rides from strangers.”
“We’re not strangers, Oliver. We’re his neighbors.”
“But…but maybe it’s not safe for us to give him a lift. You know what you always tell me about picking up hitchhikers. Maybe he’s dangerous! Maybe he’s got something hidden underneath his sweater like a hacksaw or a crowbar or something.”
There’s no way I want Mom to give this kid a lift. He’s an enemy alien living in my very own bedroom! Instead of giving him a lift, Mom should swerve through a puddle and soak the little stinker with muddy rainwater!
“He certainly doesn’t look dangerous, Oliver,” Mom says. “In fact, if you gave the poor boy a haircut and put some decent clothes on him, I’d say the two of you would look a bit alike. He’s about your height, and…”
“Forget it, Mom. He doesn’t look anything like me. Just let him walk the rest of the way to school. Maybe he likes getting wet,” I say. “He’s probably one of those weird kids that acts strange just to be different.”
“Oh, Oliver, don’t be so…so…” Mom can’t find the word, so I try to find it for her.
“Negative? Prejudiced? Mean?”
“Yes,” Mom replies. “All three.”
“I’m not being negative, prejudiced or mean, Mom. It’s just that some kids are plain weird. I bet he’s one of them. He sure looks like it.”
I take a good close look at the kid as we pass him, searching for any signs that he might have found my Box of Shocks. I can’t really tell. He walks with his head down, scuffing along in old sneakers that are way too big for his feet.
“The least his mother could do is sew up that hole in the knee of his pants
,” Mom says.
“Maybe he thinks having a hole in his jeans is cool,” I say.
“Oh, Oliver. Don’t be silly. You should go out of your way to make the new boy feel welcome at school. You know how hard it was for Karl when he moved here.”
“Are you kidding, Mom? It wasn’t my choice to have this kid move into our house. Forget it.”
“Now, Oliver. You’re being insensitive.”
“Well, that’s the way I feel,” I say, staring at the kid as we drive by.
My teacher this year is Mrs. Franzen. She’s one of the most bizarre teachers in the school—maybe in the world. She’s famous for her crazy assignments, like making a sculpture of our favorite character from literature out of recycled pop cans.
But what’s even more bizarre is that the new kid is in my class. Of all the classes in our school he could end up in, he’s in mine! Not even Reggie, Grayson or Karl are in my class, but this kid is. What’s the likelihood of that?
Of course, I don’t like it one little bit. Yeah, I don’t know much about him, but I do know that I can’t stand him for one big reason. This kid is standing between me and my Box of Shocks.
Mrs. Franzen likes to talk. As she babbles on and on and on, my mind drifts. Quite often, I catch myself looking over at the kid. It’s hard to tell anything about the kid from watching him. He never says a word in class, not even to the other kids. Even when Mrs. Franzen asks him a question, he doesn’t open his mouth. She tries to get him to talk, but the best she can get out of him is a mumble that no one can understand.
At lunch, I sit in the lunchroom with Reggie, Karl and Grayson, but I keep glancing over at the new kid while I eat my sandwich. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like he’s the sort of kid I’d ever be friends with.
There is one thing I do notice about him. Crackers. That’s all he eats for lunch. Just crackers!
I love crackers. Today I have a ham sandwich with lettuce, mayo and two kinds of mustard on stone-ground rye bread. I’d love to have just crackers for lunch. So here’s this kid, eating crackers! And that’s all! How great is that? Even though I still think the kid is bizarro, I have to admit he is lucky as far as lunch goes. His parents probably let him make his own lunch.
After he finishes his crackers, he heads outside like the rest of us. While Karl, Grayson, Reggie and I shoot hoops, he leans against the back wall of the school and looks off into space. No one talks to him, and he doesn’t try to talk to anyone else.
Dad is five minutes late picking me up at the end of the school day. “We’ve got to make a bit of a detour before I drop you at home, Ollie,” he says. “I have to pick up my dry cleaning.”
As Dad turns the car up Wood Avenue, I spot the kid. He’s walking really fast—almost running—and not in the direction of his house. As we drive past, I see him turn into Wayne’s Bottle Depot. But the kid isn’t carrying any bottles. Very strange.
As soon as I’m home, I get back to spying. I run upstairs to my room and pull my chair up to the window. The rusty old hulk of a car is in the driveway, so I know at least one of his parents is home.
I dig around in my desk and find an old notebook. If I’m going to do a proper job spying on this family, I’ll have to keep notes. The first three pages of the old notebook are sketches of superheroes I was going to use for a comic book. The superheroes look like flying cows, so I tear out the pages. On a fresh page at the top, I write the date. Under that, I put:
3:25 PM Parents home. Not sure about kid.
I’m about to go downstairs to get a snack when the side door of the house swings open. Out come the man and woman. Just like yesterday, they crawl into the car through the passenger door, start up the rattling rust bucket, and pull off in a cloud of blue smoke.
I grab my notebook, check my watch, and write:
3:31 PM Parents leave house in car. No sign of kid.
I skip my snack and drag my desk over to the window. It’s the first day of school, and I already have homework. But Mrs. Franzen is not going to stop me from spying. As I work on my homework, I glance up every few minutes, keeping an eye on my old house.
I do math problems, read Chapter One of the socials textbook, write a short essay on “Why Summer Holidays Should Last Until December” and read the first twenty-six pages of my novel. I’m hoping Mrs. Franzen has given us the entire year’s homework on the first day. Otherwise, this year is going to be murder.
I’m stuffing my books into my backpack when Mom shouts from the kitchen, “Oliver! Supper’s ready!”
Before heading downstairs, I take one more look across the street. There’s the kid! School got out almost three hours ago, and he’s only getting home now. While I was slaving away on my homework, that kid got to ramble around town, having a great time doing whatever he wanted!
Plus, he isn’t carrying anything! No homework, no nothing. The real bonus is that his parents aren’t home to bug him about his homework or about coming home late.
Only in my dreams!
I watch him climb the back steps to the side door, fight with the door handle and finally get it to open. When the kid disappears inside the house, I check my watch, quickly flip open my notebook and write:
5:55 PM Kid returns home. Still no parents.
I slap the notebook shut and race for the stairs.
“Oliver? Did you wash your hands?” Mom calls from the dining room.
I do a quick about-face and head for the bathroom. As I listen to the water run into the sink, I imagine how amazing it would be to come home to an empty house. No one to make sure I do my homework or wash my hands. I could eat anything I wanted for supper. I could do whatever I wanted when I wanted. The kid across the street probably doesn’t even know that he has it so good. But I still can’t stand him.
Before I can get back to spying on my old house, I have to finish eating all three courses of Mom’s supper, listen to millions of questions about my day at school and do forty-five minutes of piano practice.
When I finally get back up to my room and look out the window, I see the driveway is empty. His parents still aren’t home.
The house is dark except for a single light. I’m glad to see the light’s not on in my old bedroom, but in the living room. I bet the kid is watching tv or playing video games. While I’m stuck answering my parents’ questions, that kid is watching something great like Celebrity Demolition Derby! While I’m practicing piano—which is nothing but pure torture—he’s probably playing Alien Invasion VII. It’s so unfair!
A bit later, I hear the old car chug up the road, roll into the driveway, wheeze, cough and die. I watch the parents climb out of the car, trudge up the stairs and try to open the side door. The door’s stuck, so the man gives it a kick to get it open.
I check my clock radio, open my notebook and jot down:
8:17 PM Parents arrive back home.
When I look up from my notebook, the light is off.
8:20 PM House in total darkness.
I keep watching, just in case. But after fifteen minutes, there’s still no sign of life.
They must have gone to bed. At least it’s too dark for the kid to snoop around my closet.
I keep watch on the house across the street whenever I can. After only four days of spying, I can already see a pattern. Around three thirty in the afternoon, the parents leave the house in their old car. Around six, the kid comes home. He does something in the living room with that one light on until the parents come home. A few minutes later, the light’s turned off and the house stays dark even though it’s only eight fifteen. And I thought I had an early bedtime.
I don’t have much time to watch in the mornings, but I do notice that the parents’ car is always there when I leave for school. We always pass the kid on the way to school.
One thing that worries me is how much time the kid spends in the house on his own. Before his parents come home each night, he has all the time in the world to get bored and snoop around the house. Maybe he’ll end up findin
g the loose panel in the back of my closet. And if he finds the loose panel, he’ll find my hiding spot. And if he finds my hiding spot, he’ll find my Box of Shocks.
My Box of Shocks isn’t safe at all! Every day I get more nervous about the kid finding it. It’s driving me nuts. I have to make my move soon…before it’s too late.
I know that every day during the week, the house is empty from three thirty until around six. Two and a half hours. That should give me plenty of time to sneak into the house and rescue my Box of Shocks.
Nine
My clock radio reads 4:29 PM. In one minute the phone should ring. It’ll be Dean from school. He’ll tell Mom I have to come over to his place. He needs help with a school project. The project is on mollusks.
The reason I know Dean will call is that I paid him five bucks. Dean’s saving for a new dirt bike, so he’ll do anything for five bucks.
The clock flashes 4:30. I stand at the door and listen. I wait and wait. Finally, after a very long fifteen seconds, I hear it. The phone is ringing. I can hear Mom say, “Oh, hello, Dean. Really? Mollusks? That sounds like a fascinating topic. I’ll send him over as soon as I can. Thanks so much, Dean.”
Mom’s high heels cross the hardwood floor and stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“Oliver! Your friend Dean just called. He’s wondering if you could go over to his place and help him work on the mollusk project. Apparently, he thinks you know a lot about mollusks.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” I reply. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. Even so, it’s always good to help a friend in need.”
“That’s the spirit, Oliver! I can drive you over there in a minute,” Mom says.
“It’s okay, Mom. I can walk. He only lives two blocks away.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she says.
“I’m sure, Mom. You can trust me.”
“I know that!” she says with a smile. “But try to be back in time for supper.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say. “But mollusks are surprisingly complicated.”
Box of Shocks Page 6