“Didn’t you hear me calling?”
“Nope. You mad?”
“Yes—I mean, no—I mean…” I didn’t know what I meant. “Where’re your shells anyway?”
He pointed somewhere behind him. “In my special place.”
“Well, your special place almost gave me a heart attack.” I put my shirt back on and packed up my towel. “Let’s go.” My throat was so tense, the words came out in spurts.
“You are mad,” he moaned and started drawing a picture in the sand with his toes. “You are too, aren’t you?”
“Look, from now on, try to stay where I can see you, all right?”
“Where I can see you. All right. Where I can see you. See you.”
Mem must have been tired or bored because he didn’t put up a fuss about leaving. We didn’t talk during the walk back, and then I marched straight into the shower. I must’ve taken a pound of the beach home with me, plus I was hot, so the water felt good. When my blood pressure finally returned to normal, I got out and went to my room for some peace. But instead of finding privacy, I found Mem on my bed playing with the ferrets.
I coughed loudly to make him notice me. He glanced up. Whatever he saw on my face made him jump to his feet, rush Linguini back into the cage, and slip off to his own room with Jambalaya, all without a word. I think he was scared of me. He probably thought I was still angry, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t angry, I was just…I don’t know…glad I wasn’t him.
• • •
It seemed like forever until Aunt Collette got home and another eternity until she and Mem went to bed. Sometime after midnight they finally turned in, freeing me to take care of my business with Dirk.
The decals had gotten a little wet from the towels in my backpack, but not too bad. I snuck a flashlight out of the kitchen and peeked out the living room window to make sure the Dempster’s house was dark. Everything was a go, so I opened the front door, closed it gently behind me, and sneaked down the front steps in my bare feet.
Slinking along the grass, I realized I was smiling. It’s not that I loved the idea of messing with someone else’s stuff, but still, I felt like Tom Sawyer or something, doing mischief for a good cause. If only I had Mo or Reed along as my Huck Finn, this might be downright fun.
When I got to the Dempster’s mailbox, I turned on the flashlight long enough to peel off the first E and the P, changing A. DEMPSTER into A. D_M_STER. Then I took my time applying the U and the B I’d bought from Mr. Wizzly. I wanted the letters to be neat and straight, as if they had always spelled A. DUMBSTER. That way, it would take Dirk some time to get it. He’d have to look at the mailbox for an extra second and wonder if it were really any different at all. Then he’d stand there, humiliated, trying to figure out exactly which letters had changed. I only hoped I’d get to see his face when all that happened.
Perfect, I thought, stepping back to admire my handiwork. This was perfect. With those two little letters I was getting Dirk back for all the names he ever called me and all the pranks he ever framed me for. I should’ve thought of this ages ago. Before going back inside, I ripped the D off Aunt Collette’s mailbox. I’d forgotten to get new letters for DIPPY, but OPE was better than DOPE. Now nothing stood between me and a good night’s sleep.
Nothing except Mem, who appeared without warning on the porch. “Hi, Johnny,” he called in his too-loud voice, tying his bathrobe around his scrawny waist. “Whatcha do—”
“Shhhhh! Mem, what’re you doing here?”
“Watching you,” he whispered cheerfully.
I opened the front door and motioned him inside. “Look, Mem, out there, I was just…”
“Mailing a letter?”
“Yeah, right, I was mailing a letter.” Two letters, to be exact.
“Why don’t you talk to him instead? He lives right across the street.”
Talk to Dirk the Jerk? That’d be the day. But I told Mem I’d think about it for next time. “Why are you up, anyway?” I asked.
“Up, anyway? I heard Jambalaya crying, so I went to be with her. You weren’t there, so I came downstairs to look for you. Up, anyway?”
Great, now he was monitoring my every move. Didn’t he ever hear of personal space? “Hey, how’d you know it was Jambalaya crying and not Linguini?” I asked.
“Easy. Linguini never cries, only Jambalaya.”
“Yeah, but Mem…” I began, then stopped myself. I didn’t really want to get into a late-night debate with him over ferrets or anything else. I wanted to relish my mailbox master stroke, maybe gloat a little to myself, alone. So I told Mem I’d keep an ear out for the ferrets, and we both headed upstairs. I was going to sleep like a log.
Chapter 4
Early—too early—the next morning, Aunt Collette and Mem dropped me off at my house to mow the lawn. Mr. Boots’ old dog Millie was roaming around out front, and she started barking her muzzle off when we pulled into the driveway. She hates everyone except cranky old Mr. Boots, so she yowls at anyone who walks by.
As soon as I got out of the car, Millie stiffened, bared her teeth, and growled viciously. I’m used to it, but I was sure Mem would freak. Then the strangest thing happened. Mem got out of the car, and Millie started wagging herself in circles. When Mem held out his hand, she bounced straight over to him and let him pet her—let him actually touch her. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Wow, Mem, this never happens,” I remarked.
“Well, it’s not like Mem’s a stranger here,” said Aunt Collette.
“Neither am I,” I said, “but you don’t see Millie doing her happy dance on me.” No, Mem had a special touch with animals, especially the crying ferret and yapping mutt varieties.
After giving Millie a final squeeze, Mem got back in the car. Aunt Collette said she’d pick me up after her hair appointment. “In about an hour,” she said. “That enough time?”
“Yeah, sure.” Millie whined softly as the car backed out of the driveway, then she turned around and started barking at me all over again. “Go on, get,” I scolded as I climbed the porch steps. “I’ve got work to do.”
Mr. Boots took his time answering the door. Finally, he appeared at the screen, pulling on his bathrobe and reading glasses. “Yes?” he grunted through his grey-white stubble of beard.
“I came to mow the lawn.”
He couldn’t hear me over the dog’s racket. “What’s that you say?”
“I’m here to mow the lawn. The lawn.”
He opened the door long enough to let Millie in. “I’ll open the garage,” he said, and before I could say thanks, he let the door slam. That figures. Mr. Boots is about as social as a prune pit. He’s probably what kids like Dirk Dempster turn into when they grow old.
As I pushed the mower on laps across the yard, I started wondering if Dirk the Jerk had gone out to shoot hoops yet this morning. I didn’t want to miss the look on his face when he noticed his mailbox. Hopefully he was still in bed, like any normal person would be at this hour; it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
When I finished the lawn, I put the mower back in the garage and waited for Aunt Collette under our willow tree, thinking how good a glass of my mom’s black-cherry iced tea would taste about now. Sweat was swimming down my face, and my stomach was growling louder than Millie—which was too bad for me because Aunt Collette was late.
It’s a good thing I recognized my aunt’s car when she finally showed up, because I’d never have recognized my aunt. In the space of one morning she’d gone from long brown hair to short blond locks with a streak of purple in the front. She was a cross between Tinkerbell and Cruella de Vil—a real hack job.
“What do you think?” she asked as I piled in.
“It’s…”
“Quite a change, huh?”
“That’s for sure.”
“My friend Holly—she does my hair—well, her niece was there, and she talked me into it. Cost me another parking ticket too,” she laughed, pointing to the fresh violation notice th
at joined the old ones under her windshield wiper. Aunt Collette always lets a stack of tickets collect there, announcing her bad parking karma to the world, until she gets around to paying them. “You like my new ’do, don’t you, Remember?”
“Nope.” It must be nice to be able to say what-ever you want and not have people get mad at you.
“Well, you know what they say about hair,” she said.
“You’ve gotta comb it every day?” Mem guessed.
“It’ll always grow back,” she said, eying herself in the rear-view mirror as she drove. “And I sure hope it’s true. Now, I’m gonna drop you boys off and run. I’m working late tonight—that darn punk again. But don’t you worry—I’ve got tomorrow off.”
“Yay, tomorrow off!” Mem shouted. “Tomorrow off off!” I wanted to jump for joy too, but I kept quiet.
“Everybody out,” Aunt Collette announced, grinding her wheels against the curb as she pulled up to the house. “You’re on your own for supper, but if you want to stop by the store later, there might be a snack in it for you.”
Mem headed straight inside for The Weather Channel. I planted myself on the porch with my Gameboy and a bag of whole wheat pretzels. There was no sign of Dirk yet, not even a telltale basketball in the driveway, so I figured I could still catch the show. He’d probably be coming out any minute now, and I’d have my moment of glory.
But he didn’t show, not after half an hour, not after a full hour. Maybe it was still too early, or maybe he was out of town. Of course, there was also the possibility that he’d already seen his mailbox and was busy plotting some terrible revenge. I decided to think this over from the safety of the living room.
“It’s gonna be a hot one,” Mem said, pointing to Martin the Meteorologist.
“I know.”
“Wanna go swimming?”
“Maybe later. Hold on, I need to use the phone.” I went to the kitchen and called Reed’s house but only got his voicemail. Mo wasn’t home either, but Jo answered, so at least I got to talk to her. She said Mo was at the lumberyard with their father picking out wood for their new deck. Jo had her friend Patsy over, and they were on their way to Hair by Holly to get their nails painted.
“You just missed my aunt there,” I told her. “Got a hatchet job. Her hair’s short as mine now, plus two shades of weird.”
“Really?” Jo sounded fascinated. “Maybe we’ll stop by the 7-11 on our way. Well, see ya.”
“See ya.” I hung up and ran into the living room. “C’mon, Mem, let’s go visit your mom.” I couldn’t wait around for Dirk the Jerk any longer, not when there might be a chance to “bump into” Jo.
• • •
We were halfway through our 7-11 slushies when Jo and Patsy arrived. Jo looked like she’d walked off the cover of a tennis magazine, with her white skirt, white polo t-shirt and gold skin sizzling in the shafts of sunlight that poured through the windows. This was definitely worth missing Dirk’s face at the mailbox. I opened my mouth to say hi, but Jo and Patsy flew past me and ran straight to the counter.
“Ms. Dippy? Is that you?” Jo gasped.
“In the flesh. You like?”
“It’s outrageous—I love it!”
Patsy said she agreed, and the three of them started rattling on about hair color and how a little change is good for everyone. It was like I wasn’t even there. Not a wave, not a hello, nothing. I might as well have been one of the floor tiles they were standing on.
After a while Mem said, “Hi, Jo!” and she finally tossed us a glance.
“Hey Mem,” she smiled. “How are ya, buddy?”
“How are ya, buddy? Good! How are ya, buddy?”
“Remember, you know these girls?” Aunt Collette asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Just Jo.”
“Well, this is Patsy,” Jo said. “Now you know both of us. So, you guys hanging out?”
“Mem wanted to visit his mom,” I said, and it was true, sort of. He did want to visit her once I suggested it.
“Cool,” she said. “Well, gotta split. See you around?”
“Yeah, I have tomorrow off, so…yeah.” I wanted to say more, but words abandoned me.
“Wishing you blue skies and starry nights,” Mem said, which they apparently thought was adorable. They gave him big waves and cooed, “Same to you,” and said good-bye to him about ten more times before they finally bounced out of the store.
“Nice girls,” commented Aunt Collette.
“Yup, real nice,” Mem agreed, which made Aunt Collette crack up. Then all of a sudden she started acting like she was in a hurry to get back to work.
“Uh, Johnny,” she said, talking fast, “I see Remember has taken over your flip flops. Here, here’s a five spot. Why don’t you two go over to the drugstore and see if you can find yourself a new pair?” She set the money on the counter and started putting on her lipstick, even though she already had a coat of it on. “Go on now, both of you. Shoo.”
She obviously wanted to get rid of us, so I pocketed the money and turned toward the door, which is where I saw The Man for the first time. He was thumbing through the magazines near the cold drink case, sporting a cowboy hat and a flowery Bermuda shirt. He looked around my dad’s age but in better shape, and I think he was trying to grow a mustache. For a minute I thought he might be my old gym teacher, but no, for the life of me, I couldn’t place him.
The Man strolled up to the counter, and Aunt Collette instantly burst into a massive smile. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Aunt Collette looked pretty happy to see him—happy and a little nervous. I started to step closer, but Mem, who didn’t seem to notice The Man at all, was pulling on my arm and begging to go. I stole one last glance at Aunt Collette and gave up.
Mem kept running ahead of me on the sidewalk. “Why’re you so excited about helping me pick out a lousy pair of flip flops?” I asked.
“Cuz. Cuz when you get the new ones, these old ones are definitely mine. Forever.” Talk about simple wants.
When we were opposite Hair By Holly, I said, “Let’s cross the street now.” Mr. Literal instantly darted into the road without looking. I had to yank him back before he got pancaked by a minivan. “Mem, when I say let’s cross now, I mean let’s stop, check for traffic, and go when it’s clear. Get it?”
“Get it?” he said blankly.
“Never mind. Just be careful, will you?”
As we passed Hair by Holly, I could see Jo through the window, sitting at a small table opposite Holly. I wanted to stay and watch, but I’d have died if they spotted me, so I ran to catch up with Mem. Three dollars and twenty-one cents later, I was wearing a pair of lime green flip flops and carrying my sneakers. This time, Patsy was at the manicure table when we walked by, and across the street The Man was unlocking his pick-up truck. I slowed down, trying to get a look at this guy’s license plate—New Jersey—and the sign painted on his truck—Cappellucci Property and something. He took off down the street before I could read the rest.
“Hey Johnny,” Mem said as we drifted along, “let’s go back to the hardware store.”
“What for?”
“What for?” He scanned the sidewalk like he was afraid someone would overhear. “I want to buy something,” he whispered.
“Mem, you don’t need any—” But wait, what else did we have to do all day? “Okay, fine, but you have to use your own money.”
“Yup.” He took off around the corner, and by the time I got to the store, he was busy poring over the letter decals.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“I need letters. The small ones are okay, and they’re only a quarter. I can get a lot.” With that, he started collecting a stack of them.
Was he going to wallpaper Dirk’s mailbox? “No, don’t,” I said. “This is a bad idea, Mem.”
He stopped what he was doing. “You don’t even know what my idea is,” he said, looking off over my shoulder. His cheeks got red and his eyebrows squashed together, and I cou
ld tell he was breathing fast—the surefire signs that a hissy fit was brewing. Then Mem did something pretty unexpected: he talked himself down. “Use your words,” he muttered to himself, his fists clenched. “Mrs. Potts says use your words instead of your lungs. Try, don’t cry. Talk, don’t walk. Breathe, don’t seethe. Flow, don’t throw.” Then he lifted his chin and said to me, “You can’t tell me what to do with my own money, Johnny.”
Impressive. He actually held it together. No screeching or stomping off or any of his other usual tricks. Plus, I had to admit it, he was right: I couldn’t tell him how to spend his own money. Besides, there was no sense pressing my luck with his temper.
“Okay, Mem, fine,” I said. “You do what you’re doing, and I’ll stand over here and look at the paint chips.” I decided to amuse myself by counting how many shades of white there were. I was at 68 when Mem brought a mound of decals to the counter. I joined him just in time to hear Mr. Wizzly remark, “Seems to be a run on these things this week.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, but what I really wanted to know was whether Dirk Dempster had been buying them.
“Selling like hotcakes,” Mr. Wizzly answered. “Isn’t that what you were here for the other day? You and some other folks. A regular hot item. That’ll be five dollars and thirty-five cents…thank you, young man. He handed Mem his change, which didn’t include any state quarters. Have fun.”
“Have fun,” Mem said.
“Always do,” Mr. Wizzly winked.
Mem winked back.
When we got home, Mem stashed the decals in his room before parking himself and Jambalaya in front of the TV. Okay, no immediate decal danger, I decided. Maybe he’ll forget all about them. Still, he was in an especially good mood—he even let me change the channel—so I wasn’t done being suspicious. He was a man with a plan, and I had the feeling I was going to be the one to pay for it. Thankfully, he didn’t carry out his scheme that day. He seemed happy to hang out in front of the tube, and all I had to do was make sure the Twinkies didn’t run out.
One other weird thing did happen though toward evening, and I mean it was totally bizarre. I’d been in my room listening to tunes and lounging with Linguini, and then I went downstairs to call Mo. But I never made it to the phone. I was too amazed by the scene in the living room: Mem was playing my GameCube, and he’d gotten StarBender all the way to level 10! No one I know has ever gotten that video game beyond level 8, and I’ve never made it past 7.
Remember Dippy Page 3