“I guess he’s never seen a car before,” Dex says.
“No kidding,” I say, putting down my book bag. I try to coax Moss out of the tree because Mr. Hyatt hates kids, especially in his yard, and he might call the police. “Moss, come out of that tree. It was only a car.”
“Car?” Moss asks.
For the first time since we met, Moss looks a little scared. I guess a piece of flashy metal speeding by is intimidating if you’re from a time when the wheel hasn’t even been invented.
“Come on, Moss. I’ve got your back,” I say.
“Got my back?” Moss asks. He glances behind him, then back at me.
“Yes,” I say. I feel protective of my new friend. We’ve all been in uncharted territory before. I wish somebody had been around to show me how to get along without a dad after he left.
Moss climbs out of the tree as fast as he scaled it. He must have learned to climb trees to get away from wild animals. When another car goes by Moss starts to duck and run, but I grab him before he can. I lock my arm in his and reassure him that this is normal stuff and we keep walking. After we get to the bus stop the other kids stare at Moss and whisper. Moss sniffs in their direction like he’s on the scent of some real danger.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Dex says, watching their reaction.
“What else are we going to do with him?” I ask. “It’s not like he can stay in my room. If Mom finds him she’ll end up calling the police or something. Then he’ll never get home. It’s my fault he’s here, Dex. I’ve got to figure out how to get him back.”
Dex nods like he understands. “Any ideas of how to do that?”
“Nope,” I say, which is the dead-on truth. I have no idea how to get through the next few minutes, much less a zillion time zones to the Ice Age to return a prehistoric kid to his cave. For about the tenth time this morning I’m wishing Dad was here. Not that he would know what to do, either. But I’m pretty sure his reaction would be better than Mom’s.
“I guess for now we have to figure out how to get him in school,” Dex asks.
“I have an idea,” I say. “I just hope Mr. Richie isn’t there today.” Mr. Richie is the assistant principal and he doesn’t trust anybody. He stands outside the school and watches the students like we’re all carrying automatic weapons in our backpacks. I can’t imagine him letting a kid he doesn’t recognize walk right into the building.
At the bus stop three girls start to giggle because Moss is tugging at the seat of his pants again. I’m praying that he doesn’t start with the zipper.
Moss growls and the girls giggle again. Seconds later they decide to give him the royal brush off, which throughout the eons must feel the same, because Moss’ growl turns into a prehistoric pout.
“It’s hard to be different,” I say.
“Tell me about it,” Dex says. He takes a photo of Moss with his iPhone.
“Tell me about it,” Moss repeats in half-grunts and half-speaks. Moss gets the Nobel Prize for being different.
When the bus arrives we have to drag Moss on. I try to imagine what it’s like to hop on a big yellow container with an engine, wheels, and a bunch of strangers. When the driver revs the engine, Moss’ eyes widen. We grab his arms so he won’t jump off the bus and run for Mr. Hyatt’s tree again. It takes several blocks before he settles into his seat.
A stop or two later, Moss starts playing with the latches on the bus windows. He opens and closes them as fast as he can, like he was doing his zipper earlier. The bus driver has her eye on us through the rear-view mirror. Dex and I take turns grabbing Moss’ hands to make him stop. But it isn’t working.
Finally, Dex sits his heavy backpack in Moss’ lap. It’s a brilliant idea because Moss stops with the windows and starts zipping and unzipping Dex’s backpack a zillion times. The bus driver quits giving us the evil eye. When we approach the school I realize our adventure has only just begun.
PRISON TIME
By the time the bus pulls up to the front of our middle school, my stomach feels queasy, and not because I’m about to take a cave boy into my school. Queasiness is my usual reaction to this place. I grip my backpack and feel like a prisoner arriving at San Quentin Prison to do hard time. My task for the next seven hours is to get out of this place alive.
After taking a deep breath, I get off the bus. The crowd is thick. Within seconds I realize Moss isn’t with me. When I look back I see him playing with the bus door. Silver lever in hand, Moss opens and closes the door with a satisfied grin. Meanwhile, the bus driver is threatening to take him to the principal’s office.
I grab Moss’ hand off the lever and apologize to the bus driver. “He’s from California,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow like she understands. “Well, if he tries that again he can’t ride this bus anymore,” she says, as tough as any prison guard when it comes to her bus.
I apologize again. Like a parent pulling a kid out of the cereal aisle at a grocery store, I pull Moss toward the gray building. We follow the flow of human traffic. Moss tugs at the seat of his pants again and grunts loudly. A few people stop to stare.
“Good luck,” Dex says, as we approach the front doors. This is where we split off every morning and go to homeroom.
“Thanks,” I say. My stomach lurches when we go inside, and I try not to toss my Wheaties. At best, middle school is like a zombie movie that you can’t stop watching even though you’re scared to death. It’s not for the squeamish. Even if you’re one of the popular kids, your fate can change in an instant.
“See you after first period,” Dex calls after me.
“If I live that long,” I call back.
I take Moss by the arm and go into the office. The good news: Assistant Principal Richie is nowhere in sight.
“This may actually work,” I say to Moss. We stand at the front desk to sign him in as a visitor. My shoulders relax, and then a Big Voice booms behind me, like someone talking through a bullhorn.
“And who is this?” Big Voice asks.
I turn around. Principal Proctor eyes Moss with suspicion. His voice is the biggest thing about him, and compared to Mr. Richie he’s a pushover. But my palms are leaking sweat anyway.
“Hello, Mr. P-Proctor, this is my c-cousin,” I begin. “He’s v-visiting from California.” My mom says I’m not a very good liar because it’s the only time I stutter.
“I didn’t know you had family in California, Quentin,” Big Voice says.
“My dad’s side,” I say.
He nods his head like what I’ve said is now believable.
A few months after my dad left, Mr. Proctor had two dates with my mom. They met on an online dating service. Luckily, The Voice from home and Big Voice from school didn’t hit it off. Otherwise I may have been forced to run away from home just to get some quiet. It also means I don’t have to worry about Mr. Proctor calling my mom to check out the California story. But he still treats me like the son he almost had.
“Welcome to Franklin Middle School,” Big Voice says to Moss. He hands him a special visitor’s pass. Before we walk away he pats Moss on the back. I grab Moss’ arm, right as he’s about to throw Mr. Proctor to the ground.
“My cousin isn’t comfortable with strangers touching him,” I say. I smile like the son he might have had and Moss and I get out of the office before anybody gets hurt.
In the hallway, an eighth grader walks by with dyed green hair and his nose pierced in three different places. Moss breaks into a laugh. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh and it wouldn’t be bad, except it sounds like a very large, very loud goose doing a mating call. In a matter of seconds he’s drawn another crowd.
I pull Moss into the boy’s bathroom as fast as I can. Two boys leave in a hurry because Moss can’t stop honking. “Quiet,” I warn him.
“Quiet,” he repeats, still honking away. I flush a toilet to get his attention. He stops honking to watch the water swirl and go down the bowl. I stop him from putting his he
ad in there to see where the water went. When new water fills the bowl his face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.
“Fire?” he asks.
He must be remembering the light bulb from this morning. “No, it’s water,” I say.
He nods. “Water,” he repeats.
The first bell rings and Moss jumps onto the sink like a herd of elephants are charging him. I reassure him that we’re safe. We leave the bathroom and step back into the flow of traffic. Moss sniffs random people; their back packs, their clothes. Some laugh. Some push him away. Some ignore him. He’s fitting right in.
At my locker I get out my biology book that I’ll need right after homeroom and hand it to Moss. “Hold that for me,” I say.
He grunts, takes the book, and starts flipping through it. For someone who doesn’t read he really likes magazines and books. He’s about to tear out a picture of a magnified amoeba, but I grab his hand. “Don’t destroy school property,” I say.
“Don’t destroy,” he repeats. He looks disappointed.
“And don’t grunt or growl about anything, either. And don’t laugh.”
“Don’t laugh,” he says with a frown. I didn’t realize until now how many rules kids have to live by just to stay out of trouble. Moss acts like he understands. He stops sniffing and imitates the way I walk and hold my head. It’s all about fooling people into thinking you’re cool, even when you’re not. Instinctively, Moss knows he’s different, and different can be dangerous.
My homeroom teacher, Mr. Baxter is counting the days until he retires. A big, red 178 is written in the corner of the dry erase board. Tomorrow there will be a 177. As long as we don’t kill anybody in homeroom, he leaves us alone. He doesn’t even take role any more.
When the announcements come on Moss jumps and stares at the ceiling like enemy invaders are coming through the roof. A couple of guys elbow each other and laugh, but nobody else notices. Everybody is half-asleep for homeroom anyway or trying to finish homework that’s due later in the day. Announcements end and Moss relaxes. Then the bell for first period rings and he crouches behind a desk as student’s spring toward the door. His survival instincts are good and will come in handy for the next few hours.
We enter first period, biology class, and the smell of formaldehyde almost knocks us over. Today is the day we’re going to dissect frogs. Some of the girls are already squealing in disgust at the idea of making the first slice. Moss imitates their squeals, and I poke him in the ribs. He grunts and pokes me back. I squeal like one of the girls, too, because it hurts.
Miss Joyce, my biology teacher, stands by the door and hands us each a small cutting tool sealed in plastic. “Who’s this?” Miss Joyce asks, looking at Moss.
“My cousin,” I say. “He’s visiting from California.”
Miss Joyce smiles. “What part of California?” she asks.
Moss looks at me and grunts a question mark.
“Oh, uh, he’s, uh, from Hollywood,” I say. “His agent is trying to get him in a remake of the movie, Encino Man.”
Miss Joyce doesn’t even blink and congratulates Moss on his acting career.
Speaking of Hollywood, Miss Joyce could easily be the Wicked Witch of the West’s younger sister from The Wizard of Oz. Her nose is pointed and she wears black a lot. Even though it’s ancient, my family used to watch the movie, The Wizard of Oz, together every Halloween. It’s my mom’s favorite. One year at Halloween my dad dressed up as one of the flying monkeys. He scared little kids when he was handing out candy at our door so Mom didn’t let him do it again. She said he could be the wizard behind the curtain but not in public. I prefer Oz the Great and Powerful myself.
If I dressed up as a character right now I would either be the scarecrow without a brain or the cowardly lion. For one thing, I can’t think up how to get Moss back to where he came from. And also I’m scared to death that someone will find out our secret and take him away to wherever prehistoric juveniles are detained. I could use a wizard behind the curtain right now. But he seems to have taken up residence in Oregon with Glinda, the gum-chewing witch.
“Can Moss and I be lab partners?” I ask Miss Joyce.
“Certainly,” she says.
Miss Joyce is permanently laid back; nothing seems to bother her. If she found out about Moss I could probably talk her into not telling.
I lead Moss to the container of formaldehyde and use tongs to pick out the biggest frog corpse I can find and put it on a little tray. Moss sticks his nose in the container and sniffs deeply. As a result, he starts to cough, which sounds a lot like his laugh. Then he falls backward from the smell of the chemicals.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I pull him over to the lab table. He shrugs and sits on the stool in front of the frog body on the tray. Formaldehyde can preserve things for years. For all we know this frog could be leftover from cave men times.
While we’re waiting Moss begins to look at the frog like he’s considering it for a snack. He picks it up by one of its petrified legs.
“No!” I say. I knock the frog out of his hand right before he’s about to take a bite. For the first time I realize the guy must be starving because he didn’t have anything for breakfast. It never entered my mind that a dream image might need to be fed. I rummage around in my back pack and find half of a petrified peanut butter and jelly sandwich left over from the week before.
“Here, eat this,” I say. Before I can stop him he starts eating the whole thing, including the zip-lock bag.
“Wait!” I say. “Take off the plastic first.” I grab it back and pull off the plastic which is now covered with teeth marks and saliva. I feel like I’m babysitting a two-year-old. Moss doesn’t know anything.
Hannah and Haley, the girls at the lab table behind us, start to whisper. They are cheerleaders and two of the most popular girls in school. Moss is oblivious to social status and the fact that guys like us are never supposed to approach or acknowledge girls like them. He turns to face them and crams the whole sandwich in his mouth at once. He gags before swallowing it whole.
“Gross!” Hannah and Haley say in unison.
“He’s from California,” I say to them.
Moss belches a cave size belch and smiles, revealing pieces of leftover plastic bag sticking between his teeth.
Meanwhile, Moss begins to forage for more food. He eyes a collection of roots and berries from the botany section in the back of the room.
“I’ll get you more food after class,” I say, hoping he can wait that long. I wish our science department had a time machine or a space shuttle or something, anything to get Moss back home.
Our tiny glassy-eyed victim stares up from the lab table in front of us. In order to get credit, we have to cut our frog open with a scalpel, stretch him apart with pins, and then identify his internal organs. I study the diagram of how we’re supposed to do it. When Miss Joyce gives the go-ahead, I make the first slice. The skin makes a popping noise as it opens. A disgusting smell escapes from under the skin. Suddenly, the room gets hot and starts to spin. I feel like I’m going to pass out in a heap on the gray tile floor. I grab the table, handing the scalpel to Moss.
“You’ve got to do it,” I say, nodding toward the frog.
Moss looks at the scalpel and studies the blade. He looks like something like this could come in handy where he’s from. Then he steps up to the frog and deftly peels off the skin to expose the muscle, like he’s done it a thousand times before. He isn’t grossed out at all. I’m already counting on this being the first A+ I’ll ever get in biology when Moss cuts out the frog’s tiny intestines and flings them over his shoulder in the direction of Hannah and Haley.
They let out a blood-curdling, eardrum-ripping scream. Miss Joyce runs to the back of the room. After the girls calm down, Miss Joyce gives me a look like my flying monkey days are over. On behalf of Moss and me, I apologize to both girls and Miss Joyce.
The truth is Moss is doing things I wish I had the guts to do. Before our l
ab time is over, he tosses the little frog brain in Hannah’s direction, too. And for his grand finale he pops both frog eyes out of the sockets and tosses them into Haley’s lap. She runs out of the room, her hands covering her mouth, like she’s about to lose her breakfast. Two slimy frog eyes stick to her white skirt, and look back at me and Moss as she flees.
I’ve never been so grossed out in my life, but it’s also the most fun I’ve ever had in biology. In that moment I decide that if Moss gets stuck in the 21st century and ever becomes a surgeon, he’s never getting his hands on me. Despite this fact, I’m in awe of the damage that can be done to a frog using a scalpel and a little imagination. There isn’t much left of the poor amphibian by the end of the period.
“Another life donated to science,” I say to Moss.
“Huh?” he grunts back.
“Never mind,” I say.
Even though she’s probably dissected millions of frogs, when Miss Joyce sees Moss’s work she turns a shade of green I’ve never seen before. At that moment all she needed was a little theatrical make-up and a pointed black hat, and she could easily get a part in a remake of The Wizard of Oz and give up teaching all together.
As for the frog:
May he
rest in
pieces.
GO, TIGERS!
“How’s it going?” Dex asks in the hallway between classes.
“I think a convicted felon could be brought into this place as long as he kept quiet,” I say. “The only thing middle school teachers care about is whether a person can keep their mouth shut or not.”
“I hear you,” Dex says. “How’d he do in biology?”
“Don’t even ask,” I say. “Hey, do you have anything that he can eat? I forgot to feed Moss this morning.”
Dex digs around in his backpack and produces a strawberry fruit roll-up. I take off the wrapper and hand it to Moss who swallows it in one gulp. The bell rings for second period and Dex gives me a thumbs up for good luck and takes off. But I’ll need more than a thumb for luck in Mr. Griffin’s English class. We don’t have assigned seats, so I choose two desks near the back of the room in case Moss grunts, growls or sniffs.
Quentin and the Cave Boy - Funny books for boys and adventurous girls Page 4