Box of Shocks

by Chris McMahen

  At lunch I keep watching. It isn’t easy. I have to be careful. I can’t let Reggie, Karl and Grayson see me paying too much attention to the weird new kid.

  Not only that. I can’t let the kid notice I’m watching him. This isn’t hard, because he doesn’t seem to notice anything. It’s like he’s in a different dimension or something. Mom would say he’s in his own little world.

  At the start of lunch, he unrolls the sleeve of his sweater. It’s not my bolt. It’s a small wax paper package. He pulls the wax paper open and takes out a cracker. Crackers again for lunch. It makes sense. That’s all there is in his kitchen. As much as I like crackers, having them for lunch two days in a row might be a bit much.

  I watch him nibble the cracker, bit by tiny bit. It’s like he’s trying to make it last longer by eating it really slowly. Halfway through the first cracker, he stops and chews for a couple of minutes. This is really weird, because crackers don’t need that much chewing. It’s like he’s wishing he was eating something more, something bigger—like a sandwich or a cookie—instead of a cracker.

  Then he starts nibbling the rest of the cracker until it’s almost gone. With only a tiny corner left, he holds out his tongue and puts the piece of cracker on it, closes his mouth and just sits, like this last piece of cracker is the greatest-tasting food in the entire world.

  He reaches into the package and brings out another cracker and eats it just the same way. I can eat two crackers in about five seconds. He’s taking about ten minutes with each one.

  I look in my own lunch bag and see what Mom’s packed—cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, celery sticks with a small tub of dip, a juice box of organic orange-mango juice, a whole-wheat bran muffin with raisins, an organic McIntosh apple, and a whole-grain carob-chip cookie. She always packs way too much food.

  In the time it takes the kid to eat his third cracker, I wolf down the sandwiches, celery, muffin and apple, and guzzle my juice. When the kid gets up to leave the lunchroom, I slip the cookie in my pocket so I can get outside and keep my eye on him. There’s still a chance he has my bolt.

  After school, I’m supposed to walk straight home because Mom has a staff meeting at the bank and Dad teaches a late class at the college.

  I don’t walk straight home. Instead, I follow the kid.

  I stay as far back as I can without losing sight of him. Along the way, I keep an eye out for any bushes to hide behind just in case. But the kid never turns around. He walks straight up Wood Avenue to the bottle depot, where he disappears around the back.

  After a few minutes, I creep up to the front window and poke my head up just enough to peer inside. There he is. He’s near the back, wearing this big old apron and a pair of rubber gloves. He’s sorting bottles and cans into big bins, and a fat guy in a dirty undershirt is ordering him around. It must be the kid’s after-school job. If he works here every day after school, just think how much spending money he’s got.

  A few months ago, I told Mom and Dad I wanted to get a job to earn extra cash. They told me I’d be working for the rest of my life, and they wanted me to enjoy my childhood. It didn’t surprise me. They never let me do anything.

  The sign on the front door says the bottle depot is open until six o’clock every night. That explains why he doesn’t get home until late every day after school. Except for yesterday. Maybe he got off work early. Maybe there weren’t any bottles or cans to sort. Who knows? All I know is that he came home way earlier than normal.

  Today there’s a mountain of cans and bottles for him to sort. By the look of things, he’ll be kept busy until closing time. Maybe even later.

  And his parents—they never show up at the house until after eight o’clock. Who knows where they go. Probably some job where they have to work late. I don’t care where they go or what they do. All I care is that tonight the house will be empty until at least six o’clock.

  Eleven

  Yeah, it’s reckless. You might even call it downright stupid. Call it what you want, but I run from the bottle depot straight to my old house. I’ll have plenty of time to search the closet for the bolt and rescue my Box of Shocks before anybody shows up.

  Then I won’t have to think about the kid ever again. I won’t have to look over at my old house. I can get on with filling my box with more crazy shocks.

  I reach the house all out of breath. No wonder. I’ve sprinted all the way from the bottle depot. It isn’t just the running that makes my heart thump. It’s also the thrill, the excitement, the danger of finding the bolt and finally rescuing my Box of Shocks.

  The old car isn’t in the driveway. Of course it isn’t. The parents are never home at this time of day.

  I go straight to the side door. They don’t lock their doors, so I won’t bother getting the key from under the rock. I turn the doorknob, and the door swings open.

  I race through the front hall and start running up the stairs. Halfway up, I stop. I can’t help it. I have to have another look in the kitchen.

  It can’t be as empty as last time. Maybe I caught them the day before they did grocery shopping. Maybe the kid will bring a real lunch to school tomorrow.

  I head back down the stairs, slip into the kitchen and open the fridge. Still nothing except that same old black carrot, only it looks more shriveled and even blacker than before. I open a couple of cupboards. Still empty. Now, there aren’t even any crackers. He must have had the last of them for his lunch today. Maybe the kitchen is like this all the time.

  After what happened yesterday, I know I’d better not hang around in the house longer than I have to. I head into the front hall and take the stairs two at a time. Something in my pocket keeps bumping against my leg. It’s the cookie I didn’t get around to eating at lunch.

  When I get to my old room, I push open the door. It looks the same as yesterday. I can’t believe how bare everything looks. The kid still doesn’t have anything except that lumpy old mattress thrown down on the floor.

  I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out the cookie, still wrapped in plastic. Then I cross the room to the window and put the cookie on the windowsill.

  Now, it’s time to grab my Box of Shocks and find my missing bolt. As I take a step toward the closet door, I hear something. Not again! It’s the side door opening and then slamming shut!

  I quickly look out the window. There’s no car in the driveway, so it must be the kid. He must be a fast bottle sorter. Or maybe he got fired. Whatever the reason, he’s home, and this isn’t good. Not that I’m afraid of him or anything, but I have to rescue my Box of Shocks and find my bolt without him knowing anything about them.

  If I’m quick, I might be able to find the bolt this time before he comes up the stairs. Maybe he won’t even come up the stairs. Why should he? It’s not like there’s anything to do in his room.

  Opening the closet door, I step in, drop to my knees and move my hands across the floor—back and forth, side to side, from one corner to the next. Where is that bolt? Where could it have gone?

  Suddenly, I stop. Did I hear something else? Yes! And it’s a sound I don’t like one little bit! A sound I shouldn’t be hearing at this time of the day!

  It’s the coughing, sputtering sound of the old car. The parents are home! It’s bad enough that the kid’s home, but I sure don’t want to be caught in the house by the parents! I am now officially in big doo-doo.

  Right after the car sputters to a stop in the driveway, I hear the creaking and squeaking of the stairs. The kid must be running up to his room!

  All I can think is, Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I should have gotten out earlier, when I could. I shouldn’t have wasted time checking out the kitchen. Now I’ll never make it to the window before the kid reaches his room. Even if I could reach the window, the parents would probably see me out on the roof.

  There’s only one thing I can do. I pull the closet door shut and sit absolutely still. I can’t make a sound. Even breathing might be too loud. If I move, the flo
or will creak. So I sit curled up in a ball in the pitch-black darkness of the closet and listen.

  I hear the side door open and shut. There’s shouting. Both the parents are shouting at once. Everything’s kind of muffled from inside the closet, but even though I can’t hear their exact words, I know they’re angry—really, scary, wildly angry.

  Their voices are getting louder. It sounds like they’re coming up the stairs!

  I hear the bedroom door open, then shut. Footsteps cross the room to the window. One set of footsteps. It must be the kid. I wonder if he found the cookie.

  A few seconds later, I hear the bedroom door fly open again, so hard it bangs against the wall. The man and woman shout as they cross the room.

  I put my hands over my ears and scrunch into a tighter ball, pushing myself into the corner of the closet. Even with my hands pressed hard against my ears, I can hear the parents shouting. I don’t want to know what they’re saying. I’m too scared to listen, so I stick my thumbs in my ears and press them in as hard as I can.

  Even with my thumbs stuck in my ears, I hear the kid crying and trying to talk at the same time, but his sobbing keeps getting in the way of his words.

  A few seconds later, the bedroom door slams; it sounds like they’ve left the room. As I pull my thumbs out of my ears, I hear footsteps pounding down the stairs, but the yelling doesn’t stop.

  I wait and I listen. Where did they go? What are they doing?

  I don’t hear the door downstairs open or shut, so they must still be in the house. Should I take a chance and go out the window again? What if they see me landing in the backyard? I don’t like the idea of being chased by the kid’s parents. And if they caught me? I don’t even want to think about that.

  Maybe I should wait. Maybe I’ll wait until everyone’s gone to bed, then I’ll sneak out. Or maybe not. For sure it would freak the kid out to see me come out of his closet. Plus, by then, Mom and Dad will have phoned the police, and they’ll be scouring the city for me. When I show up, I’ll have to explain everything. No. Waiting them out isn’t a good plan.

  What other choices do I have? Not many.

  Then I catch a lucky break. I hear the side door slam, and a few seconds later the old car starts up. Its tires crackle on the gravel driveway as it pulls onto the street. I listen as the engine fades into the distance.

  I hope they’ve all gone. I hope no one has stayed behind. I wait and I listen.

  Nothing. I don’t hear a thing. No closing doors. No creaking floorboards.

  I wait and I listen some more…Still nothing. It sounds like they’ve all left the house.

  I open the closet door slowly. As I tiptoe across the room, I glance over to the window. The cookie is gone. I hope the kid got it and not his parents. I go down the stairs two at a time, cut through the kitchen, run out the back door and sprint like crazy toward my house.

  As I cross the street, I pull my house key out of my pocket. At the top of the front steps, I jam the key in the top lock and give it a twist. I do the same with the lower lock, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one sees me. The door swings open, and I step inside, slam it behind me and turn the lock. I whirl around and punch in the four numbers on the alarm system, then run up the stairs and into my room. I made it!

  As I lie on my bed trying to catch my breath, that’s when I remember. My Box of Shocks! In my wild escape from the house, I was so worried about getting caught, I forgot all about my Box of Shocks. It’s still hidden in my old closet, but for some reason, it doesn’t seem so important anymore.

  Twelve

  The next morning, I tell Dad I have to get to school early. I don’t say why.

  “Do you have a practice or a meeting or something?” Dad says.

  “No,” I mumble. “There’s something I need to do. Some research.” It’s not exactly a lie.

  Dad doesn’t ask any more questions. He seems to know I’m not in the mood to talk.

  When he drops me off at school, I head straight for the doors of the school, but Dad honks the car horn. I turn around, and he shouts, “You forgot to wave!” He’s right. I always wave when Mom or Dad drops me off at school. Today, I have other things on my mind.

  I throw my pack on the front steps, open the zipper and reach in. My lunch will be on the lower left-hand corner of my pack right next to my math textbook. Mom always packs my stuff the same way every day. I feel for the flap on my lunch bag, pull open the Velcro and slide my hand into the right-hand side of the bag. I find what I’m looking for, pull it out and slip it into my pocket.

  Once I’m through the doors of the school, I head right for the kid’s locker. There are locks on all the lockers except his. His locker is as wide open as his house.

  The hall’s empty at this time of the morning, but I still look around anyway to make sure no one’s watching. I open the kid’s locker door. Inside, it’s like his house—pretty much empty, except for some crumpled-up school newsletters and a couple of broken pencils. I hear the bang of a door somewhere down the hall, so I quickly do what I need to do. Then I close the locker door behind me and try to look casual as I amble off down the hall.

  At noon in the lunchroom, I’m the first one there. I head to my usual table where Reggie, Karl and Grayson sit, but I make sure I take the seat against the wall. That way, I can watch. From here, I can see the table in the far corner of the lunchroom where the kid always sits— always by himself.

  My friends show up, and right away Reggie starts babbling about something that happened yesterday. I pretend to listen while I watch the kid.

  “So my grandma was driving down the highway doing about a hundred,” Reggie says. “She’s too cheap to get air-conditioning, so she’s got the windows rolled down…”

  The kid has something wrapped in a scrap of paper.

  “…and there’s this stupid crow pecking at some road-kill in the ditch…” Reggie continues.

  The kid carefully opens up the paper, folds his hands in his lap and stares down at what he’s unwrapped.

  “…and suddenly, the crow flies out of the ditch just as my grandma’s driving by…”

  I wonder if the kid likes raisins. Of course, chocolate chips would be way better, but Mom never makes chocolate-chip cookies. Not healthy enough.

  “…next thing you know, Grandma’s got this crow going ballistic, flapping around the inside of the car!” Reggie shouts, pounding the table with his fist.

  Finally the kid picks at the plastic, slowly pulling it back until the cookie is completely unwrapped.

  “…so all she could think of doing was pull into the next town and look for a car wash. So she drives through the car wash with the windows down, figuring the crow’ll want to get out of her car…”

  The kid breaks off a small piece of the cookie and, bit by bit, chews the tiny pieces, holding each one in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. It takes him forever to eat just one cookie.

  “…so the crow kind of liked it inside Grandma’s car, even when it was going through the car wash, and now my grandma has a pet crow. Can you believe it?”

  When the kid finally bunches up the empty plastic, he stands up and turns around. Then he does something I’ve never seen him do before. He smiles.

  The next morning, Mom drops me off at school early. I tell her I’ve got some work to do in the library. For the second day in a row, I forget to wave goodbye.

  At lunch the kid eats an avocado and bean sprout sandwich on whole-wheat bread. He eats it in the same, slow way, chewing each mouthful with his eyes closed. Each time he swallows, he smiles.

  The day after that, Dad drops me off forty-five minutes before the bell. “More research?” he says. I nod. But at least I remember to wave this time.

  For lunch, the kid has carrot sticks with yogurt dip. I’ve never seen anyone take so long to eat a single carrot stick. And I’ve never seen anyone smile while they eat carrots either.

  Right after lunch that day, we have English. Mrs. Franz
en is famous for giving strange assignments. “I’m trying to push the bounds of your imaginations!” she says.

  For this assignment, she wants us to bring a pet to school.

  “It’s not like the Pet Day you had in kindergarten,” she explains. “I want you to bring your pet, and then you are going to do an oral presentation about their life. But I don’t just want to hear about how old they are, some of the tricks they can do or what food they eat. I really want you to get inside your pet’s head and try to imagine how they see their lives. For example, what would Melissa’s dog say about its own life? What are his favorite things in the world? What does he worry about? Does he find life boring? Frightening? Really use your imagination to dig deeply into how your pet feels. This assignment should be very challenging and fascinating.”

  Mrs. Franzen says all of her assignments will be challenging and fascinating. In other words, really hard and mind-boggling.

  “How are we supposed to know what our pet’s thinking?” Kelly calls from the back of the room. “My hamster has a very limited vocabulary.”

  Mrs. Franzen taps the side of her head with her index finger. “By using the power of the creative mind!” she says. “Of course you can’t know exactly, but I want you to stretch your thinking to imagine what they might be thinking.”

  There are all the usual questions about how long our presentation should be, how many marks it’s worth, and then I ask, “What happens if you don’t have a pet?” Even though I have my Siamese fighting fish, Bubbles, I have another reason for asking.

  “If you don’t have a pet, I’m sure you’ll be able to find one to borrow. Ask a relative or a friend. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind lending you theirs,” Mrs. Franzen says. “If anyone doesn’t think they’ll be able to bring a pet, please raise your hand.”