Marvin and the Moths

by Jonathan Follett

  To Cyndi and Jen

  Contents

  Half title page

  Frontispiece

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Foundation of a Successful Life

  2 The Smelly Kid No One Liked

  3 The Screaming Pink Raisin

  Interlude

  4 The Evil Robot Girl

  Interlude

  5 The Algebra Lesson

  Interlude

  6 The Meeting in the Dark

  7 The Future King and Queen

  Interlude

  8 The Experiment

  Interlude

  9 The Stench

  10 The Panic

  11 The Smell of Victory

  12 The Swine in Pearls Brigade

  13 The Letter V

  Interlude

  14 The March toward Victory

  15 The Wrinkle in the Plan

  16 The Dance

  Interlude

  17 The Return of the King

  18 The Doom of Us All

  19 The Seventh Smell

  Interlude

  20 The Highest Honor

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Marvin Watson stared at the thirty feet of rope hanging from the steel beams of the ceiling and wondered what scheduling god he had offended to get gym as his very first class of the year. When he got up that morning, Marvin’s two biggest concerns were making sure he didn’t wear anything funny-looking and that he didn’t do anything to embarrass himself on his first day of middle school. Here, fifteen minutes after entering the building, was the opportunity to do both.

  “What’s the matter, couldn’t afford a new uniform?” asked Marvin’s cousin, Little Stevie Upton. Marvin’s gym shorts from the previous year were riding a little high, and his T-shirt had the words “GO PIGLETS!” above the face of a shy little piggy, which was the mascot of Butcherville Elementary School. Everyone else was wearing new red-and-gold gym uniforms that featured the emblem of the Crashing Boar, which was the middle school’s symbol. Little Stevie had even accented his uniform with a custom-made gold-trimmed tracksuit with his name monogrammed across the chest. The gold trim may have been actual gold, and it appeared that the large boar logo on the back of the jacket had diamonds for eyes.

  “This track suit costs more than your house, Watson,” Little Stevie said. “And it probably smells better.” Marvin was used to his cousin, Stevie, tormenting him at family functions, but being tormented by him at school was a new experience. Until this year, Little Stevie had attended Swineheart Academy, a private elementary school.

  “My mom didn’t have time to take me shopping,” Marvin said lamely. “You know, because of Baby Harry.”

  “It’s been three weeks since he was born. Don’t blame the kid for your problems, Watson,” Stevie said.

  Marvin stared down at his uniform, the bashful piglet on the T-shirt riding slightly above his belly button. The pig looked the way Marvin felt.

  Pigs were big in Marvin’s hometown of Butcherville. All the school sports teams were named after pigs—the Piglets for the elementary school, the Crashing Boars for the middle school, and the Trotters for the high school. Just as a city like Atlanta is flush with streets named for peaches, many of Butcherville’s roads and byways were named after cuts of pork, like swanky Loin Lane and the unfortunately titled Butt Boulevard.

  It was all because Butcherville was the home of Pork Loaf International, makers of the world-renowned Pork Loaf Log Roll. Butcherville was a company town, proud of its heritage, and the type of place where the flagship product in the company’s line of processed, enriched meats was often served at all three meals.

  Lunch was already on Marvin’s mind. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on his physical education as the smell of cooking food wafted out from the kitchen and into the cafetorium where gym class was held. As soon as class was over, the janitors would start setting up the room for lunch. Marvin was counting the minutes.

  He tried to pay attention as Mr. Franco, the gym teacher, began explaining the feats of strength they would be expected to perform. “Welcome, class. In this room, over the next three years, you will make the transition from being boys to being young men. Just as Pork Loaf is the foundation of a good sandwich, physical fitness is the foundation of a successful life. Today, we’ll start with some baseline fitness tests so we can gauge your progress over the year. It doesn’t matter how long it takes you to climb this rope, or how many push-ups you can do, or how fast you can run a mile. It just matters that you try your very best. Now let’s get to it!”

  The students stood with their backs to the cold, painted cinder-block wall of the cafetorium. They had lined up by alphabetical order to take attendance, and Marvin was thankful his last name put him at the end of the line. He didn’t want to have to go first.

  “Let’s start at … that end of the line,” Mr. Franco said, and his finger slowly swung across the crowd. When it came to rest, it was pointing squarely at Marvin.

  “Me?” Marvin said. “But it’s the first day of school!”

  “Well, then you shouldn’t have anything to complain about yet, should you?” Mr. Franco said.

  Marvin approached the rope like he would a thirty-foot snake. He turned to Mr. Franco. “What do I do?” he said, looking for some instruction.

  “Just try to climb it with your arms first,” said Mr. Franco. “If you need to use your legs, that’s okay.”

  Marvin nodded warily. Although there had been ropes in his elementary school gym classes, climbing them hadn’t been mandatory. Marvin had always preferred running, swimming—or just about anything else. So he had managed to dodge rope-climbing until now.

  “I’m going to count down from five and then hit the stopwatch,” said Mr. Franco. “Ready? Five, four, three, two, one—GO!” Mr. Franco pressed his thumb down with a click, and Marvin leaped at the rope, which sent him swinging out in a wide arc and back toward the line of students. Stevie, who was next in line, helpfully gave him a hard shove to send him back on his way.

  Mr. Franco was beginning to look annoyed. “Come on, quit goofing around,” he said. “Start climbing. Use those arms!”

  “I’m using my arms to hold on!” Marvin said as he careened through the air. He couldn’t figure out how to make any progress. If he let go to grab higher on the rope, he’d end up falling.

  “Use your legs!” Mr. Franco said.

  Marvin brought his legs together and tried to shimmy his way up the rope. He was rewarded for his efforts by the sound of tearing fabric and a collective gasp from the other students, followed by slowly rising laughter. Marvin tried to glance back over his shoulder to see how badly his shorts had ripped, but that just put him into a spin. After what seemed to Marvin like an eternity of struggling, Mr. Franco grabbed him and lowered him to the ground.

  “Stop, stop, stop,” Mr. Franco said. “We don’t have time for this. You’re taking way too long.”

  “I thought you said that it didn’t matter how long it took,” said Marvin. “Just that I try my very best.”

  “You can’t try your best if you don’t have any pants,” said Mr. Franco. “But don’t worry—you can stay after school sometime and make up the fitness test.”

  As he was contemplating the prospect of not only doing this again, but staying after school to do it, Marvin heard Stevie call out, “Nice funderoos, Watson!”

  “They’re not funderoos,” Marvin protested. “They’re just regular underwear.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Franco said. “We can all see your big-boy underwear. Now get in the back of the line.”


  The back of the line was just fine by Marvin. That’s where he’d wanted to be from the start, he thought to himself, as the ventilation fans at the edge of the cafetorium sent a cool breeze through his tattered gym shorts.

  Marvin fared a little better in the next class, algebra. It was extremely confusing, but at least no one saw his underwear. After that came the library, where Mrs. Goudy, the librarian, greeted the class with an enthusiastic smile.

  “Welcome, young explorers!” she said. “The library is a sacred space. A place where the vibrations of the past and the future overlap like ripples crossing in a pond. Here, the pursuit of knowledge is hallowed above all else. Here, all questions are valid, and we will help you take charge of your own education and find your voice.”

  She paused. Marvin and the other students stared blankly back.

  “Now, we will begin this exploration together by exploring—silence,” she said.

  Marvin raised his hand. “I thought you said we were going to find our voice,” he said.

  Mrs. Goudy looked at him with a sour expression. Marvin could almost see her mentally jotting down his name for future use. “Your inner voice,” she said.

  “We’ve already seen his inner voice,” a boy said from the back of the room. “When his gym shorts ripped.” Laughter spread through the room.

  Mrs. Goudy frowned and clapped her hands together. “Enough of that,” she said. “I want you all to explore the library—while being quiet—for fifteen minutes.”

  “Then what?” Marvin asked.

  “Then we will begin the extended lesson,” Mrs. Goudy said, “where you will sit quietly for another thirty minutes. You may put your heads down if you like.”

  Marvin laid his head down on the table in front of him. He hadn’t slept well the night before, or for about a dozen nights before that. It was nice to be able to close his eyes without having to hear a baby wail.

  Forty-five minutes later, Marvin awoke to the sound of the bell ringing. His sleeve was wet with drool, and the library was empty. He grabbed his books and hurried off to the cafetorium for lunch.

  Marvin’s lunch period started at 11 a.m. Last year, his mom had usually packed him a nice sandwich, but this morning she’d been too busy with the baby, and had just given him lunch money. He picked up a tray and took his place in the long, slow-moving line.

  As he inched forward, he kept an eye on the lunch tables. They were steadily filling up. Marvin spotted one of his classmates from elementary school, Phil Kazarian, sitting at a nearby table.

  “Hey, Phil! Can you save me a seat?” Marvin said.

  Phil shook his head and stretched his arms out over the still-empty benches on either side of him. “No can do, Watson. These are all spoken for.”

  Marvin found it odd that Phil had called him “Watson.” Only Little Stevie had ever done that before. He glanced around to find someone else he recognized who might have an empty seat.

  “Tilly!” he said, waving his arms. Tilly Hoefecker, who had been one of his best friends in music class, was sitting at a table with several other girls—and three open seats. Tilly and he had both played saxophone, and they had bonded over the fact that they were both equally terrible at it. She looked him up and down for a long moment, then shrugged.

  “Sorry, Watson. Girl power,” she said, gesturing at the all-female table.

  “Oh, okay,” Marvin said, halfheartedly raising his fist in the air in support of “girl power.”

  Now he was getting nervous. Most of the tables seemed to be at capacity, and the few he saw that still had spaces were being guarded by grim-faced students who all silently shook their heads at him. Marvin rushed through the rest of the lunch line, not even looking at what the lunch ladies slapped onto his tray, and began a frantic quest for an open seat.

  After a long minute of fruitless searching, he heard a familiar voice call out, “Hey, Tarzan! Need somewhere to sit?” Marvin turned and saw Little Stevie at a nearby table with one open seat left.

  “What did you call me?” Marvin asked, confused.

  Next to Stevie sat Amber Bluestone, a girl Marvin knew from elementary school but had rarely spoken to. Beside the open space on the bench was Roland Offenbach, Stevie’s burly enforcer. Roland never said much; even at this age, his weight had exceeded his IQ.

  “Aren’t you the one who was swinging from a rope in nothing but his underwear?” Amber asked with a mean smile.

  “Sorry you missed the show, Amber,” Marvin said. “I’m doing an encore presentation in forty-five minutes.”

  “What? Eww,” Amber said. She turned to Stevie. “He’s not really going to sit with us, is he?”

  “Of course he is,” Stevie said. “This is my cousin, and my dad always says that family’s important.”

  Amber turned to Marvin. “Well, we’re doing you a favor. Family or not.”

  Marvin set his tray on the table and sat down awkwardly. He stared at his food and began to eat.

  “Nice lunch, Watson,” Stevie said, pointing to the goop in the polystyrene bowls on Marvin’s lunch tray. “Is that the ‘Back-to-School Casserole’? Or is that the mushy peas? I’m having trouble telling the difference.”

  “Yeah,” Roland said with a chuckle. “The difference.”

  “Heh heh,” Marvin said, forcing a fake laugh. “Yeah, maybe they call it ‘Back-to-School Casserole’ because it’s been sitting around since the end of last school year.” He smiled. No one else did.

  “Are you trying to be funny?” Amber asked.

  “Is it working?” Marvin said.

  “No,” she said.

  “I was afraid of that,” Marvin said.

  “Look at poor Tarzan here,” Stevie said. “He needs help being funny. Let’s assist him.” He looked over at Roland. “What’s funny, Roland?”

  “Casserole in the milk is funny,” Roland said. He scooped up Marvin’s casserole in his bare hand and shoved it into the carton of milk on Marvin’s tray.

  It all happened so fast that Marvin didn’t know how to react. Then Stevie said, “That is funny. But you know what’s funnier? Eating the casserole in the milk.”

  “What?” Marvin said. “I’m not eating that.”

  “I’ll give you a dollar if you eat it,” Stevie said. Marvin looked around for some help. Amber stared back at him with glittering eyes and a half smirk.

  “Maybe you could use the money for some new clothes,” Amber said.

  “Why would I need new clothes?” Marvin asked.

  Stevie’s eyes never left Marvin. “Roland?” he said.

  Roland stood up and grabbed a large bowl from his own tray. It was full of sauerkraut and mini Pork Loaf sausages. “Shower-kraut!” Roland shouted, dumping the bowl over Marvin’s head. The pickled cabbage and its juices ran down Marvin’s face, stinging his eyes and soaking his shirt. Laughter bubbled up around the table, and echoing cries of “Shower-kraut! Shower-kraut!” rang out from the other kids.

  Marvin jerked to his feet, scraping the sausages and strands of cabbage from his hair. Before he could do anything but sputter in protest, Roland said, “Now you owe me two dollars. For ruining my lunch with your head.”

  Amber sniffed loudly. “Ugh—you stink!” she said, pinching her nose shut. “Are we done doing your cousin a favor, Stevie?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Stevie said. “You should probably leave now, Watson.”

  “Yeah,” Marvin said. “Right.” He grabbed the tray holding what was left of his lunch and staggered away from the table in shock.

  Marvin wandered through the cafetorium in a fever of kraut and humiliation. He kept bumping into students who angrily shoved him off, saying, “Get away!” and, “You smell like a walking hot dog!”

  Eventually the haze began to clear, and he glimpsed in the distance—like a mirage of an oasis in the desert—a table with some empty seats. As Marvin drew closer, he saw that there was, in fact, only one person sitting there.

  Finally! Marvin thought. Some good
luck.

  But as he walked down the aisle toward the empty table, he noticed a smell. A strong smell—stronger even than his own perfume of sauerkraut. He wondered if the janitors had forgotten to take out the trash before the school closed for the summer. Or if maybe a mouse had died in the walls sometime in July. Or if the breeze had shifted in from the direction of the landfill.

  When Marvin finally sat down and looked to his left, he realized to his dismay that the smell was coming from none of those things. The stench was emanating from his tablemate, a boy with white-blond hair named Lee Skluzacek. Lee, naturally, had been given the nickname “Smell-Lee” in elementary school.

  Now Marvin understood why the table was empty.

  “Hey, Marvin,” Lee said. “How was your summer?”

  “Um, it was okay,” said Marvin. He tried breathing through his mouth instead of his nose so he wouldn’t have to smell Lee’s odor. “How was yours?” he gasped.

  “Oh, you know,” said Lee. “Same old, same old.”

  “Yeah,” said Marvin. “I can see you haven’t changed much since last year.” He gulped some more air. “Um, Lee, I’m going to have to move way over here to the end of the table.”

  “Not a problem,” Lee said cheerfully. “That’s what my grandmother does at home.”

  Marvin slid his tray down the long table away from Lee. Once he was perched out by the aisle, the smell was only slightly swampy, but still strong enough to overwhelm the almost equally unpleasant aroma of shower-kraut. Marvin considered this a mixed blessing and tried to eat his lunch.

  “So, I hear that you were swinging naked from a rope in gym class,” Lee said.

  Marvin glanced over. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” he said. “I was just in my underwear.”

  “That’s still pretty bad, Marvin,” Lee said.

  Marvin returned to his food. He had not put more than three bites into his mouth when he heard a voice cry out, “Hey, it’s the stink twins!” The voice was that of Stevie, of course. He, Roland, and Amber had finished lunch and were on their way out of the cafetorium. “I’m glad you found a friend, Watson. You guys are like two cheeks on the same butt.”