by Mark Gimenez
PARTS & LABOR
The Adventures of Max Dugan
- Book One -
A novel for middle-grade children
MARK GIMENEZ
&
COLE GIMENEZ
Navarchus Press
Copyright © 2011 by Mark Gimenez and Cole Gimenez
Published by Navarchus Press, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Navarchus Press, LLC. Published in the United States of America.
ISBN 978-0-9839875-5-0
Epub Edition: 1.00 (11/8/2011)
Ebook conversion: Fowler Digital Services
Formatted by: Ray Fowler
Cover design: Brion Sausser at Book Creatives
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
Coming soon
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our sincere thanks to our early readers who shared their thoughts: Jeanne Green, children's librarian at Bedford Public Library; Kara Cuellar Sowards, fourth-grade teacher; and Emma Grace Foreman, sixth-grader. And special thanks to Joel Tarver at T Squared Design in Houston for the website and email blasts to our readers, Ray Fowler for the e-book conversion, and Brion Sausser at Book Creatives for the fantastic cover.
To Ashley Broadus, Cole's fourth-grade teacher, who understands that boys do read.
one
It was three-thirty, so I was running. I always ran at that time, as soon as the school bell rang. It was my daily run, like the lady who lives across the street jogs every morning at seven. I don't think I'd like to run that early. Of course, I didn't really like to run at this time either. But I had no choice.
I was being chased.
I cut the corner hard at Mrs. Baker's hedgerow on Fourth Street and turned north on Drake Avenue. Two more blocks, and I'd be home and safe. I was halfway down the block, and there was only silence behind me.
Hey, maybe they turned back!
But then I heard the high-pitched engines that powered their scooters buzzing behind me like a pack of angry bees.
Dang, they hadn't turned back.
I glanced back just as the school bullies rounded the corner riding their scooters like a motorcycle gang. Push, Shove, Punch, and Trip. Not their names. Their modus operandi. (I heard that on TV.) Biff, Bud, Rod, and … where was Vic? They were the biggest kids in fourth grade because they should be in fifth grade. Their parents had held them back in kindergarten so they'd be bigger for football when they got to high school. They were athletes. I was not. I struggled with my weight.
"Hey, fat boy!" Bud yelled. "You might as well stop and take it like a man!"
Take it like a man? I'm only ten.
I crossed Third Street at the stop sign without stopping and ran past Mrs. Cushing's purple house—oh, wow, her pansies had bloomed. She had gotten the house in the divorce, I heard Mom say, and she had been way too young for Mr. Cushing anyway, another mom had said. Mrs. Cushing was a favorite topic of discussion among the neighborhood moms, and not because she had painted her house purple after the divorce, but because she always tended her garden in snug short-shorts, like now, which for some reason really annoyed the other moms. I think they were just jealous of her garden. I waved at her—"Hi, Mrs. Cushing!" She was bent over so she waved back between her legs—"Hi, Max!" Boy, she had a really nice garden. All the dads in the neighborhood thought so too; they walked their dogs by her house whenever she was outside just to admire her garden.
"We're coming for you, four-eyes!" Rod yelled.
I wore my rec specs (secured to my head by a wide elastic band) for PE and the chase home each day. I took a quick check back—they were gaining on me fast. But I only had one more block. My house stood at the corner of Drake and Second Street.
At the bottom of the hill.
Just past Mrs. Cushing's house, the sidewalk turned downward. We called it a hill although it was really just a gentle slope, but enough that I had to run faster to keep from falling over forward and tumbling down the sidewalk. My big backpack bounced on my shoulders, my baggy cargo shorts flapped in the breeze like sails, and my red high-topped Legend Jones sneakers slapped the pavement. Sweat trickled down my face—September in Texas was still hot—and my T-shirt stuck to my chest. I could hear myself sucking air like a vacuum cleaner, and my stomach was feeling really nauseous, but it always did by this point in the chase, especially when it was pizza day at lunch. But the heat made it worse today. A lot worse.
"You can run, but you can't hide!" Biff shouted.
I'm sure as heck gonna try!
The last hedgerow before my house was now in sight. If I could get around those hedges I would be in my own driveway and then in my own yard. Even these guys wouldn't try anything in my yard … at least I didn't think they would. I focused on the hedgerow and pumped my arms and legs even harder. I glanced back at them one last time and then I—
"Uggghhhh."
—ran into a brick wall and collapsed to the concrete.
I lay face down on the sidewalk, and my backpack sat on top of my head. The sun had baked the sidewalk all day, so the concrete was pretty hot, which made my stomach feel even worse. I pushed my backpack off and sat up. My right knee burned with pain, and blood oozed from a nasty road rash.
I looked up.
The brick wall was named Vic. He was almost twelve and the biggest of the bullies, and he was standing over me with his fists on his hips. He had come up Second Street and cut me off at the hedgerow. I now sat on the sidewalk in front of the house next door, invisible to anyone at my house. Of course, no one was at my house. I was alone and surrounded by Vic and his posse.
Again.
They had thick bodies for eleven-year-old boys—knowing them, they might already be on steroids—and looked especially menacing in their black Under Armour sleeveless compression shirts, long black Nike shorts, and black Legend Jones All-Pro "1" signature competition sneakers with the cool Velcro ankle flaps, the $150 style that we couldn't afford. Their sharp flattops made them look like young action-figures. They wanted to get barbed-wire tattoos around their biceps like pro football players, but the school district's code of conduct prohibited tattoos until middle school.
"Hiya, Max," Vic said. "Did you really think we were gonna let you get past the hedge? We ain't stupid."
"That's not what your report card says," I said before I knew it.
Vic was the oldest but not the brightest kid in fourth grade so it took a moment for that remark to register. When it did, his flat face turned dark. Which meant he was going to do something bad. He did. He snatched my backpack. I held onto the straps, but the other guys yanked my hair from behind and pulled me back. I wore my curly reddish-brown hair long and wild, which Mom said was
a statement of my personal individuality but which definitely was not an advantage in moments like this—it made for an easy handhold. Vic finally ripped the backpack from my hands then stood straight and searched the pockets.
"Where's that iPod I saw at lunch?"
"Don't you dare touch it, Vic! My dad gave it to me for my birthday!"
"And that means what to me?"
He found my iPod.
"You steal it, Vic, I'm gonna report you to the police! For grand theft iPod!"
Vic's face changed. He was obviously trying to think things out—a criminal record might affect his chances for a football scholarship … well, maybe at some colleges in Texas—which explained his pained expression.
"Oh … well … then I guess I won't steal it."
Ha. The threat to his football scholarship had worked. I held up an open hand. I always tried to project an outward appearance of confidence even though inside I was so scared I thought I might pee my pants. Like now. Basically, I had learned to survive on my wits, like most kids who struggled with their weight. But sometimes, I should just shut up. This was one of those times.
"Hand it over, Vic, and no one gets hurt."
Vic's face changed again, like a thunderstorm had blown across his brain. His eyes turned two shades darker. He didn't put the iPod in my hand. He dropped it on the sidewalk then stomped on it like Mom that time she saw a cockroach in the kitchen. He pounded my iPod into pieces.
"How's that for hurt?" Vic said.
I stared at my busted iPod and felt the anger rising inside me again and the heat wash over my body. My fists clenched. I wanted so badly to stand up and punch Vic right in his big fat nose. Sometimes when the anger got the best of me I punched the walls in my room, but difference was, the walls didn't punch back. Vic did. Hard. Then the others would join in. Push, Shove, Punch, and Trip. I had been there and done that before, and I was too scared to go there again. Too weak to stand up to the bullies. Max Dugan had always been the weak kid in school. I felt tears coming into my eyes, but I fought them. I bit my lower lip and clenched my jaws and squeezed my eyes shut … but nothing worked. Hot tears squirted out of my eyes and burned my cheeks.
"Oh, look, we made Max cry again."
They stood over me and laughed. Their laughter hurt as much as their fists. They ganged up on me and pushed my head down and grabbed at my rec specs, and they were getting really rough with me now so I tried to stand and run but Vic punched me right in the gut, and I sank down to my knees and grabbed my stomach, and I felt a bad rumbling deep inside, and that nasty burning taste suddenly filled the back of my throat and then a terrible hot sensation washed over me like a big wave, that awful feeling that happens right before you … throw up.
I threw up.
Pepperoni-and-sausage pizza. Two … no, three pieces from lunch. Two cartons of chocolate milk. An ice cream sandwich. Salted peanuts from the vending machine. A bag of regular M&Ms. A Butterfinger bar in the restroom before recess, a Reese's peanut butter cup during recess, and a bag of Cheetos after recess. Half a pop tart during English. Three cheese crackers during History. Four yogurt pretzels during art class. And … oh, yeah, a chewy granola bar during study hall … and maybe even some scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast lingering from breakfast. All partially digested and mixed together in one hot stinking blob that exploded from my belly and erupted out of my mouth like a volcano and spewed all over—
The bullies' $150 sneakers.
They shrieked and jumped back. "You moron!" Vic yelled. "You puked on my Legends! They're brand new!"
Wow, that was a lot of hurl. The last five months, I'd been eating a lot more than normal, and I had gained almost ten pounds. The therapist said I was seeking solace—whatever that was—in food. But still, that was a lot of hurl.
"Man, what'd you eat?" Bud said.
"How much did you eat?" Rod said.
"What's that yellow stuff?" Biff said.
Must be the Cheetos. I tried to spit out the throw-up taste, but it stuck to my mouth like Elmer's Glue (which I used to eat as a kid).
"You're gonna pay for my shoes!" Vic said.
"You're gonna pay for my iPod."
"Difference is, Max, I can beat you up. You can't beat me up."
He took a step toward me as if to hit me again, but I felt a second wave coming so I grabbed my stomach and gagging noises came from somewhere deep inside me. It turned out to be a false alarm, but Vic backed away just the same. He jabbed the air in front of my face instead.
"One hundred fifty dollars, Max! Bring it to school tomorrow or you're dead!"
"Double that," Bud said.
"Triple," Rod said.
"Uhh …" Biff frowned. "Whatever four is."
"Quadruple," I said.
"Yeah, that."
Let's see: four times $150 equals … How much? Well, 150 plus 150 equals 300, I knew that, so 150 plus 150 plus 150 plus 150 would equal—
"Six hundred dollars? You want me to rob a bank?"
"Or your mother's purse," Vic said.
"We don't have that kind of money."
"You better find it." To his buddies: "Come on, I gotta get his barf off me."
He grabbed the handlebars to his scooter and turned it toward Second Street, but Rod pointed toward Third Street and said, "Mrs. Cushing's working in her yard."
"Really?" Vic gave him a devious grin. "Let's check out her garden."
Odd. I wouldn't have pegged them for horticulturalists, like Mrs. Cushing. One neighborhood mom had gotten really mad because her husband spent too much time admiring Mrs. Cushing's garden and told my mom that Mrs. Cushing was nothing but a horticulturalist, or something like that. Vic and his boys jumped on their scooters and buzzed up the hill to Mrs. Cushing's house.
"Six hundred bucks, Max," Vic yelled over his shoulder, "or you're dead!"
I wanted to run home and tell my big brother so he would chase them down and beat them up and tell them to leave me alone or he'd beat them up again. But I didn't have a big brother. I had a big sister. If I told her, she'd say, "Max, you're supposed to be the man of the house now, so you've got to man up and show those bullies they can't push you around." Yeah, like that was going to happen—I was ten years old and puberty was still a distant dream. How was I supposed to man up?
And I couldn't tell Mom; she had enough to worry about.
I sighed with the agony of defeat. Throwing up on their Legends was pretty cool, but now their bullying would only get worse, if that was possible. And six hundred dollars? It might as well be six million. I was as good as dead.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve then picked up the remains of the iPod off the sidewalk. I stood and shoved the pieces into my pocket then grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. When my head came up I noticed a pale face in the second-story window of the neighbors' house. A kid's face. He looked about my age. They had moved in only last weekend, but we hadn't met. Mom had taken them a pie (coconut cream, my favorite) and knocked on the door but no one had answered so she left it on their front porch. His expression did not show anger at the bullies or sympathy for me. It was more of a curious look. Like the scene that had just played out in front of his house fascinated him. I gave him a lame shrug and waved. He held an open hand to the window.
I trudged around the hedgerow to my house.
two
We lived in an old two-story frame house in an old neighborhood with lots of trees just south of downtown Austin and Lady Bird Lake. The wood siding was yellow and the trim was white. It needed to be repainted. And repaired. And renovated. We couldn't afford to hire someone to do all the work that needed to be done because money was tight now, but when I'm big enough, I'm going to take care of all that stuff, just like Dad did.
I really am. When I'm big enough.
I stopped at the mailbox and removed a stack of white envelopes. Uh-oh. More bills. I could see the same bold-print words through the thin envelopes: PAST DUE. I always wanted to hide the bills becau
se I hated to watch Mom open them; with each one she slumped further down in her chair, like the pieces of paper weighed a ton.
I walked down the driveway that ran along the hedgerow to the backyard. We had a big yard with a playscape my dad had built. The grass needed to be mowed—Dad had always kept the yard looking perfect—but the yard men wanted fifty dollars a week, which we couldn't afford. I wanted to mow the grass, but Mom said I wasn't old enough to safely operate the power mower. Mom was just being overprotective—again, like when she covers my eyes in the check-out line at the grocery store so I don't read the tabloids—but Dad always said she just didn't want us to grow up too fast, that she wanted us to enjoy our childhood. Which was nice, sure, but if she had her way, I'd still be wearing Barney underwear. She thought they were so cute, but let me tell you, that kind of cute can get you beat up in second grade. Actually, it had. Anyway, I'm going to mow the grass.
One day. When I'm old enough.
At the end of the driveway was a detached garage with a basketball hoop and a studio apartment above that my dad and I had converted into our man cave. We had our man talks up there and watched the Red Sox games on cable (Dad had grown up in Boston so he was a member of the Red Sox nation). I hadn't been back inside the man cave since.
The garage below was empty. Mom wasn't home yet.
A dog barked, and I flinched. But it was just Butch, the pit bull in the yard back of ours, barking like the deranged dog he was and trying to climb the tall chain link fence like he wanted to run over and attack me. He did. But he couldn't climb the fence (I didn't think). Still, he was pretty scary. When he got out—which he managed to do at least once a week—he enjoyed terrorizing the neighborhood kids. Especially me.
I hated that dog.
I wanted my own dog. I wanted to throw a stick and yell "Fetch!" and watch him chase across the yard and, well, fetch. We were going to get a golden retriever, but we can't afford a dog now. Mom said dog food and veterinarians cost too much so a dog would have to wait. But some day I would have a dog.