Marvin and the Moths

by Jonathan Follett

  “What?” Fatima said, looking up. “But I’m not done yet. I have so many questions. Where did you come from? Why are you so intelligent? How can you talk?”

  “Oh, we’re done talking, kid,” Abraham replied, hustling them through the hole in the wall. “Come back when there isn’t a game on. Or better yet, never!”

  Back in Marvin’s room, Fatima said, “That was bracing! And we managed to figure out our class project. Well, Marvin, you aren’t as useless as I thought!”

  “Uh, thanks,” said Marvin. The smell of charcoal smoke and sweet barbecued ribs wafted through his open window.

  Lee breathed in deeply. “Wow, that smells good.”

  “You’re both welcome to stay for the barbecue,” said Marvin. He looked at Lee. “Although, you’re not allowed to eat anything for forty-eight hours.”

  “Starting now,” said Fatima, and she pressed a button on one of her many devices.

  “You mean you want me to stay?” Lee said.

  Marvin thought about it. He remembered that he had introduced Lee and Fatima to the moths as his friends. Were they? Did he have any friends anymore? Since starting middle school, since tearing his shorts in gym class, he seemed to have lost all the people he’d thought of as friends in elementary school. No one would associate with him now—except for Lee and Fatima. Lee, though smelly, was generous and kindhearted. And Fatima was smart. She wasn’t just good at her classes; she also had a sharp wit (and a sharp tongue). As friends went, they might not be too bad.

  Before Marvin could respond, Fatima said, “Of course he wants you to stay. We’re the outliers, the outsiders. The explorers. The discoverers of giant moths! We’re a team.” She looked to Marvin. “Right?”

  Marvin nodded. “Let’s eat.”

  When Marvin, Fatima, and Lee came downstairs, the party was already in full swing. Adults stood around in small clumps talking and eating as younger children ran through the grass squealing and giggling. People made way for Marvin and his friends, as Lee’s odor, although less intense than it had been in the attic, was still off-putting for anyone trying to eat. Folding tables had been set up around the small backyard, and the edges of their paper tablecloths danced merrily in the breeze. The tables were covered with bowls of potato salad, macaroni salad, coleslaw, and chips, and heaping platters of barbecued chicken wings, pork ribs, and, of course, big slabs of grilled Pork Loaf. Marvin’s dad worked the grill, wearing a faded apron that said, “PLI Pork Loaf Chili Cook-Off 2012.” He cut a two-finger-thick “steak” from the extra-large version of the classic Pork Loaf Log Roll known as the “Big ’Un.” Then he threw the twelve-inch oval of meat onto the hot grill, eliciting a gout of flames from the charcoal beneath.

  Lee walked up to the grill, eyes wide at the sight of all of that tasty, sizzling meat. As he watched, Marvin’s dad stabbed one of the finished steaks with a barbecue fork, sending delicious juices shooting out of it. “You want one, son?” he asked Lee. “This one’s ready to go—let me just sauce it up for you.” Marvin’s dad put the steaming steak onto a plastic plate, then brushed on some homemade barbecue sauce to finish it off. “There you go,” he said, handing it to Lee.

  “Mmmm,” Lee murmured. Not pausing even to cut it up, he stuck the slab of meat with a fork and lifted it to his mouth, whole, to take a bite.

  From across the yard, Fatima let loose a shriek, then charged, her leg brace squeaking madly as she ran straight at Lee. “We will all fail!” she screamed, then body-checked him before the steak could touch his lips. Lee crashed to the ground, and the meat spun end over end through the air, landing with a wet thud near the back fence.

  Lee, still mesmerized by the sight of the meat, pulled his aching body through the grass toward his fallen steak. He crawled across the yard, Fatima clutching him by the ankles. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t do it!” she said.

  Just then, a large flatbed truck crashed backward through the fence, smashing it to splinters and grinding Lee’s steak into the mud beneath its wheels.

  “See?” said Fatima. “I told you!”

  Marvin could only stare aghast at the shattered fence and torn-up shrubbery.

  A burly man with cut-off sleeves and a tattoo of Mr. Piggly Winks on his shoulder descended from the cab carrying a clipboard. Harry Watson pushed his way through the startled guests and said, “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Sorry about that,” said the truck driver, waving his clipboard at the broken fence. “Narrow alley, and all. I’ve got a delivery.”

  Marvin’s dad looked up at the cargo on the flatbed. A large boxy shape was hidden underneath a canvas shroud. “Delivery? I think you’ve got the wrong house.”

  “Are you Harry Watson Jr.?” the truck driver said, glancing at his clipboard.

  “No, I’m Harry Watson Sr. Look, what—”

  “Ah, I see that it’s arrived,” said a voice from the direction of the house.

  Everyone turned to see Marvin’s uncle Steve coming out of the kitchen door, accompanied by Marvin’s mom. She bobbled Baby Harry in her arms, glowering at her brother and at the mess the truck had made of the yard.

  “I told you, Steve, we don’t need that thing,” she said.

  “Nonsense, Sis,” Steve said with a wide smile. “Every baby needs a crib.”

  “Crib?” Marvin said, bewildered.

  “Steve,” said Marvin’s dad, stepping up to shake his brother-in-law’s hand. “I didn’t hear you pull up, what with all the crashing and destruction. Where’s your wife?”

  “Oh, you know her,” said Uncle Steve. “She’s out in the car.” He stepped over shattered fence pickets to reach the truck, where the driver was already undoing various ropes and hitches. The huge man grasped one end of the canvas shroud and whipped it off like a magician revealing a trick.

  “Ta-da,” the driver said in a gravelly voice.

  The crib stood six feet high and ten feet wide. Its twisting rails were carved from dark mahogany and were topped with grimacing gargoyles. On the footboard was a huge golden plaque that read, UPTON. All the party guests took a step back. Baby Harry started to cry at the sight of it.

  “What the heck is that?” Marvin asked.

  “It’s the Upton family crib, of course,” said Uncle Steve, turning to look at Marvin with an oily smile. “It’s been passed to the firstborn of the Upton family for seven generations. Why, Little Stevie spent a lot of time in it.”

  “That explains a lot about Stevie,” Fatima whispered to Marvin.

  “Shouldn’t it stay in the Upton family?” Marvin said.

  “This is a chance for your side of the family to make up for lost time,” Uncle Steve said.

  “Lost time?” Marvin said, confused. “You mean, lost time with the crib?”

  “You said it, bucko,” Steve said.

  “It’ll take up the whole nursery,” said Harry.

  “Yeah, and I imagine we’ll have to cut out that window in order to get it inside,” said Uncle Steve, sizing up the house. “Probably have to reinforce the floor to bear the weight, too. I’ll have my guys come by tomorrow with a crane. You make it hard to give a gift, Harry.”

  Uncle Steve turned to the driver. “Cover it back up, Hal. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Today’s a day to celebrate!” The driver flung the tarp back over the forbidding piece of furniture, and everyone in the yard breathed a sigh of relief. Baby Harry stopped crying.

  “What smells so good?” said Uncle Steve. “Is that a Big ’Un?”

  “Big ’Un,” Lee sighed, gazing mournfully at the churned-up mud underneath the truck tires.

  The party resumed as best it could with a large flatbed truck in the middle of it. Lee, Fatima, and Marvin went off by themselves. Fatima sat Lee down in a lawn chair in a corner of the yard—far from the food—and told him not to move. The rest of the guests seemed pleased by this arrangement, as it kept his odor at a safe distance from the merrymaking. The kids watched as the guests passed Baby Harry around, tick
ling him and cooing to him.

  “You’re lucky to have a brother,” said Fatima as she munched on some potato salad. “It beats being an only child.” Lee nodded in agreement.

  “How so?” said Marvin, chewing on a hot dog.

  “Well, you always have someone to play video games with, someone to tell secrets to, someone who will take sides with you against your parents …”

  “Nah, all he does is cry and poop,” said Marvin.

  “That’s all he does right now, knucklehead,” Fatima said. “He’s only a month old! He’ll grow up. Then you’ll have a built-in friend.”

  “That might not be so bad,” said Marvin. “I don’t know. He messed everything up so much when he arrived. But you’re right—I guess I am lucky to have family.”

  Just then, Little Stevie Upton came out of the house, a cake in one hand, Amber Bluestone clutching the other. “Hey, Watson, why is your yard such a mess?”

  “Yeah, you should really get that fence fixed,” said Amber. “If you can afford it.”

  “How about something with iron spikes on it, to keep people like you two out?” Marvin said.

  Marvin’s mom turned her head. “Marvin!” she said. “I’m surprised at you. Be nice to your cousin.”

  “Hello, Aunt Mary,” Little Stevie said.

  Marvin’s mom hoisted Baby Harry into a better position. “Harry, meet your cousin, Stevie,” she said. Baby Harry clutched at the air with a tiny hand.

  “Oh, look,” said Amber. “He wants to shake hands.”

  “Hello, Harry,” Stevie said, and gently shook the baby’s hand.

  “You have such good manners, Harry,” Mrs. Watson said to the baby, jokingly.

  “Yeah, it looks like you finally got it right this time,” Little Stevie said. He glanced over at Marvin. “You know what they say—you always throw out the first draft.”

  Stevie handed the cake to Marvin. “Hold this, Watson,” he said. Marvin glanced at the writing on the cake, which read Better Luck with This One in graceful script.

  “Stevie, is your mother still out in the car?” Mrs. Watson asked.

  “Yeah, you know her,” said Little Stevie.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake! She hasn’t eaten anything or even seen the baby yet! I’m being a terrible hostess.” She turned to Marvin. “Marvin, help me take some food out to your aunt Constance. And grab that bag of canned goods so she can take them to the PLLA food drive.” Marvin’s mom was the president of the Pork Loaf Ladies’ Auxiliary, PLI’s charitable arm, but Little Stevie’s mother had been acting as interim president while Mrs. Watson was on maternity leave.

  Marvin filled up a paper plate with various potato and pasta salads, slaws, and grilled meats, and he followed his mother through the house, grabbing the grocery bag full of canned goods with his other hand. They went out front, where a long, black car was parked. Mrs. Watson rapped on the back door’s tinted window, and it rolled down halfway to reveal Little Stevie’s mom.

  “Hello, Constance,” said Mrs. Watson. “Thank you for coming. And the gift was so—thoughtful.”

  “Why, you’re welcome, dear.”

  Marvin’s mom glanced nervously at the locked car door. “Would you—would you like to come and join the party?”

  “No, that’s quite all right, dear. I’m perfectly fine here.” The two women stared at each other in awkward silence. “It’s not you,” Constance Upton said. “It’s this … transitional neighborhood.”

  Marvin looked around at his neighborhood. Across the street, an elderly couple rocked in matching chairs on their front porch. Down the way, kids were laughing and playing basketball. A small girl ran past, trying to get a kite aloft.

  “I know you want to do good in this world, Mary, that you’re always concerned about the less fortunate … but at what cost? I’ll stay here in the car.” Mrs. Upton rapped the window with her knuckles. “Bulletproof glass.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “And where’s that new nephew of mine?” Constance asked. Marvin’s mom hoisted Baby Harry to the opening so that her sister-in-law could give him a kiss on the forehead.

  “We brought you something to eat, as well. Marvin?”

  “Hello, Aunt Constance,” Marvin said, holding the plate up to the half-open window. A Pork Loaf Bratwurst rolled off the overloaded plate, smearing its tasty juices down the outside of the car door. Marvin quietly kicked it out of sight beneath the car.

  “How sweet,” said Mrs. Upton. “A doggie bag. But I’m afraid we had to put the dogs to sleep. It broke Little Stevie’s heart.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Marvin said, still holding the plate awkwardly at the edge of the window. A trail of baked beans dribbled onto the glass.

  “And how is school, young man?” she continued. “Stevie told me you were exposing yourself to your classmates. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Marvin said.

  “Do you just careen from one fiasco to the next?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Remember when you crashed your soapbox racer into my Rolls-Royce?” Constance asked, her eyebrow arching.

  Marvin had built a car for a Soap Box Derby race a few years back. It was faster than anything else on the track—including Stevie’s molded-fiberglass race car, which had been designed by PLI’s Italian engineering division and tested in a NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory wind tunnel for maximum aerodynamic efficiency. Marvin had saved on his car’s weight by not installing a steering mechanism. Or brakes. He figured he could lean into the corners, and that the hill on the opposite end of the course would eventually bring him to a halt. But after he sailed off the track and through the crowd at the final turn, it was only the Upton family Rolls-Royce that had, fortunately, stopped him before he wound up in the river.

  “Ever since then, I knew you were going to be a highly inventive and generally unsupervised boy,” Constance said. She leaned in conspiratorially. “But don’t tell your mother I said so. Poor dear does the best she can.”

  Marvin’s mom, who was standing inches away, ground her heel into the asphalt and cleared her throat.

  “Are you coming down with a cold, dear?” Constance asked, turning to Marvin’s mom. “You should take care of yourself, especially with a new baby and a budding exhibitionist on your hands.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mrs. Watson said, forcing a smile. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she added. “I have some things for you to take over to the canned food drive. Marvin, can you put that bag in the trunk?” Mrs. Upton nodded to the driver up front, who popped the trunk. Marvin, who was still holding the unwanted plate of barbecue, went around to the back of the car. He set the paper plate carefully into the mahogany-lined trunk, and then dropped the bag full of cans directly on top. Marvin shut the trunk firmly and gave the driver a smile and a thumbs-up.

  “I hope the responsibilities at the Ladies’ Auxiliary aren’t too much for you and your busy schedule,” Mrs. Watson said. “I didn’t mean to put that all in your lap when the baby came.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble,” Constance said, smiling. “You know how I love planning and organizing things. And when I stepped in, I could see that the PLLA certainly needs a lot of organizing.”

  “Does it,” Mrs. Watson said coldly. “Well, it was lovely seeing you.” She and Marvin then walked inside the house as the car window rolled shut behind them.

  Back at the party, Marvin saw that Fatima was stewing in a quiet rage as Little Stevie and his date stood beside her and talked and talked.

  “This is going to be a great year for me,” said Little Stevie. “Not only am I going to be captain of the soccer team, but I have a strong feeling that Amber and I are going to be crowned king and queen of the Harvest Dance. They say no sixth grader has ever won before, but we’ll change that, won’t we?”

  “It’s in the bag, babe,” Amber said.

  “Oh yeah?” Fatima said angrily. Then she began furiously punchi
ng numbers into her wristwatch calculator. “Just a minute. Hold it. Hold that thought. Almost … nope, wait … divide by ten …”

  “Um …” Little Stevie said.

  “A-ha!” Fatima shouted. “Ahem. What I mean is, you’re in for some competition.”

  “Oh, really?” said Little Stevie.

  “That’s right,” said Fatima. “Marvin’s taking me to the dance.”

  “He is?” said Little Stevie.

  “I am?” said Marvin.

  “Yes,” said Fatima, elbowing Marvin in the ribs. She grinned through her headgear and laughed a fake, lighthearted laugh. “Just our little joke. Yes, Marvin’s taking me, and we’ll be entering the Harvest King and Queen competition, too. We’re going to give you a run for your money.”

  “You’re going to have to run pretty fast to keep up with our money,” said Amber Bluestone.

  “That’s big talk from a girl whose name is an oxymoron,” said Fatima.

  Amber got right up in Fatima’s headgear. “You’re the oxymoron!”

  From the center of the yard, Uncle Steve called for everyone’s attention, interrupting the confrontation. “Friends, neighbors, coworkers—I would like to propose a toast.” He lifted high a plastic cup full of Pork Punch. “A toast to the newest member of the Upton-Watson clan: Harry Jr. May the apple fall far, far from the tree. Just kidding! Let me tell you a story about when I first met my brother-in-law, Harry Watson Sr….”

  As Uncle Steve droned on, Marvin leaned in close to Fatima and whispered, “What do you mean, I’m taking you to the dance?”

  “Oh, don’t get so wound up about it,” said Fatima. “I calculated the likelihood that you would ask me to the dance—which was low—and calculated the likelihood that you would say no if I asked you—also low—and then I calculated that I should be spontaneous and seize the moment. So I did.”

  “But I don’t really want to go to the dance,” said Marvin.

  “Look,” she said. “I am not going to be shown up by your cousin. I refuse to let that pompous jerk win every honor at our school, just like he did at my last school. I am going to that dance, and you’re taking me, and we’re going to win those stupid crowns.”