Quentin and the Cave Boy - Funny books for boys and adventurous girls

by Susan Gabriel

  The menu today is a pizza slice, midget corn on the cob, and peaches in a cup. Who comes up with these combinations? Not once have I been to a restaurant where pizza is served with corn and peaches. I don’t think this is something normal people eat. I can’t imagine that the President of the United States is served pizza, corn, and peaches in a cup right there in the Oval Office, along with two cartons of chocolate milk. He might get fed up and start a war.

  I survey the crust on the pizza as Moss gobbles it down like it’s the best food he’s ever tasted. What’s more alarming than his appetite is how messy he is. Sure enough, he’s eating his own hair with every bite. Bits of crust and corn cob kernels scatter in his wake. He finishes his pizza in three bites, licks the plate clean, and slurps the peaches down in one swallow. Everybody at the table laughs, like he’s doing it to be funny. Why else would anyone eat cafeteria food in thirty seconds flat?

  “Hey Quentin, who’s the freak?” Jake Hudson yells from the next table. Jake and I used to be friends until he got popular. Now he doesn’t want to breathe the same air I breathe.

  “He’s my cousin,” I say to Jake.

  “Yeah? Well he acts like he just came out of his cave.”

  “If you only knew,” I say under my breath.

  “Does he talk?”

  “Not a whole lot,” I reply.

  “That’s weird,” Jake says.

  “Weird,” Moss agrees. He smiles to reveal pieces of corn and peaches sticking between his teeth.

  Dex enters the cafeteria and gets his tray, then joins us. “How’s it going?” he whispers. “Is anybody onto him?”

  “Not yet,” I say. I look over at Moss, who’s now eating everything on my plate, too. Two teachers look over at him but don’t say anything. On Fridays, they let more slide. They’re just trying to get through the day like the rest of us.

  “At least we don’t have to bring him to school tomorrow,” I say to Dex.

  “What are you going to do with him?” he asks.

  I don’t think either of us can imagine keeping this secret full time. “I guess I’ll try to hide him at my house without my mom finding out. At least until we get him home.”

  “But what if he’s here to stay?” Dex asks.

  “I can’t think of that right now,” I say truthfully.

  Moss slurps down what’s left of everybody’s peach cups at the table. “Do you think he’s hungry?” Dex jokes.

  “Like a bear,” I laugh.

  When Moss hears the word, bear, he crouches, on the alert.

  “Just kidding,” I say to Moss.

  He looks at me. I should know better than to joke about bears.

  Dex starts on his lunch and has to slap Moss’ hand away so he won’t eat it. Kids from all over the cafeteria are throwing him their fruit cups and unopened milk cartons and he catches them like he plays for the Atlanta Braves baseball team.

  “I wish he would talk to us more,” Dex says. “You know, about what his life is like.”

  “I do, too,” I say. “I guess he doesn’t have the words. But I think he understands what we’re saying. Isn’t that right, Moss?” I ask, loud enough for him to hear.

  “Right,” he says back to me, crushing six empty milk cartons under his fist. Milk sprays all over.

  Dex and I watch in disbelief as Moss sticks two straws up his nose like he’s pretending to be a walrus. Everybody at the table laughs again, especially Dex, who can relate to having a nose that attracts foreign objects. When he was four he got a lima bean stuck up his nose. His parents didn’t realize what had happened until they noticed a strange smell coming from Dex’s face. When they took him to the doctor he had to use forceps to pull the bean out of his nostril. The weird part was it had been in there so long it had begun to sprout!

  Jake Hudson acts like he doesn’t like all the attention Moss is getting. He throws his pizza crust at Moss and it hits him in the shoulder. Moss looks at Jake and snarls.

  “He’s a regular garbage disposal,” Jake says to his friends at the table. They laugh and point at Moss who has Jake’s pizza crust sticking out of his mouth.

  I look at Dex like ‘What should we do now?’ Before Dex has time to say anything Jake throws his milk carton with his napkin and straw stuck in the top at Moss. “Let’s see if he’ll eat garbage, too,” he laughs.

  Moss catches the milk carton in one hand and throws it back at Jake and hits him right between the eyes and leaves a red mark. A couple of Jake’s friends laugh, so Jake reaches over and grabs Moss, but Moss pins his arm to the table until Jake begs him to stop. Moss lets go and Jake storms out of the cafeteria.

  As a reward for standing up to Jake, a feat I haven’t had the nerve to do, I buy Moss an ice cream. Moss grunts his approval of the ice cream, so I let him eat the wrapper as well.

  Seconds later Mr. Richie enters the cafeteria and looks in our direction. Dorky Jake is right behind him. Mr. Richie is as close as our school gets to having a Gestapo. He even has a flat top haircut like a small runway where toy planes could land.

  I gasp. Dex sits up straight. Moss has his back to Mr. Richie. He also has chocolate ice cream smeared around his lips that he’s licking off with his tongue. He has a really long tongue.

  “What do we do?” I whisper to Dex.

  “Act normal,” Dex whispers back.

  I’m wondering how exactly to act normal, since the most abnormal event in my life is happening right now.

  “Mr. Moss. Mr. Greenfield,” Mr. Richie says to me and Dex. “Mr. Hudson says we’ve had a little trouble.”

  Mr. Richie has an obnoxious habit of always calling students by their last names. Meanwhile, Jake lowers his head, stares a hole through his Nikes and rubs his arm where Moss held it.

  “Who is your friend?” Mr. Richie leans in to get a closer look at Moss. There’s a deep crease on his forehead that makes him look either mean or crazy. Moss lets out one brief honking laugh before he sees my alarm and stops.

  “This is Moss,” I say. A lump forms in my throat that runs the risk of becoming projectile vomit. Moss and Mr. Richie stare at each other like ancient enemies.

  “I see he has a visitor’s pass,” Mr. Richie says. “But even visitors will be asked to leave if they don’t follow the rules.”

  Moss starts to scratch his head. He eats something that he finds in the tangles.

  Mr. Richie grimaces, like Moss is a walking health code violation. “Where exactly are you from?” Mr. Richie asks Moss.

  “California!” I chime in.

  “Please let Mr. Moss answer,” Mr. Richie says.

  Moss looks at me like: What do I do now?

  I look back at him like: I have no frickin’ idea.

  “He has laryngitis,” Dex says. “He’s lost his voice.”

  “Laryngitis?” Mr. Richie asks. He eyes Moss. “I want you and your friend, Moss, in the library for seventh period,” he says.

  Seventh period is two hours from now but I wish it was never. Mr. Richie sends all the kids he considers troublemakers to study hall seventh period. This is the first time I’ve ever had to go.

  Mr. Richie straightens his shoulders and walks out of the cafeteria, Jake at his heels.

  “We got study hall, but at least he didn’t throw me or Moss out of school,” I say.

  “Study hall sucks though,” Dex says.

  “Sucks,” Moss agrees, even though he has no idea what a ‘study hall’ is.

  “I’m glad Moss stood up to Jake,” I say. “But that was too close.”

  “Too close,” Dex agrees.

  “Too close,” Moss echoes.

  ANCESTORS

  When we go into my history class Mrs. Henry is setting up a laptop and projector the library sent over. Of all my teachers she would be the one to turn Moss in if he starts grunting or something. She always plays by the rules. This is a shame, because I love history otherwise. History was never played by the rules.

  “Today we’re starting a new unit on prehis
toric cave man,” she says as we take our seats.

  No way! Is this a weird coincidence or what? I raise my eyebrows and look over at Moss, our very own example sitting right next to me.

  “Prehistoric means pre-history, before humans began documenting things,” she continues. “Which means archaeologists and historians have had to piece together evidence to determine what life was like back then.”

  I wonder what Mrs. Henry would do if she knew there was a witness to pre-history sitting on the back row of her classroom.

  Moss scratches his head and looks at the illustrated timeline on the wall like he’s trying to connect the dots between this world and his.

  My dad’s family did a family tree that shows how our ancestors came over from England in the early 1800s. It shows six generations of the Moss family. If cave boy Moss were to do the same it would be more like 60,000 generations. It’s strange to think that Moss’ family is one of the first families to ever exist.

  I glance over at him with new appreciation. When I look at him I see where Homo sapiens evolved from. And when he looks at me he can see where humankind is going. Between the two of us, it isn’t just a family tree but an entire forest.

  I pick my nose. The Dalai Lama moment fades.

  Mrs. Henry is preoccupied with the laptop, so she doesn’t ask who Moss is. Mrs. Henry is near retirement and anything invented in the last twenty years is a challenge for her. When the lights go off and the documentary starts I think we’re home free. But when the larger than life images appear on the screen Moss leaps onto a nearby table. Several kids giggle. I jerk Moss down so fast I’m surprised I don’t pull his shoulder out of joint. A second too late, Mrs. Henry turns and squints into the dark classroom.

  Moss grunts his fascination with the documentary, like it’s a big book with pictures. The film shows what scientists think life was like back then. Except that for Moss, back then was sometime early this morning. He tugs at my arm, with a look of awe and terror, like a little kid who’s meeting Santa Claus for the first time.

  “Shhh,” I say.

  He tugs at my arm again and points at the drawings on the screen.

  “Shhh,” I say louder, but it doesn’t do any good.

  Mrs. Henry turns and looks in our direction again, but the room is still too dark to see.

  When the photographs of cave drawings come on I have to hold Moss down so he doesn’t lurch at the screen. It’s like he doesn’t have words for what he’s feeling so he’s whining like Coltrane does when he needs to go outside. More kids laugh, but luckily Mrs. Henry hasn’t been able to tell who’s making the noise. With every new scene Moss grunts or whines. The laughter from our side of the room gets louder.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Henry asks. She fumbles with the laptop and turns off the documentary. When she walks to our side of the room, I bend over and moan like I’m having the worst stomach ache of my life. The closer she gets the louder I wail. Even Moss looks concerned.

  “Quentin, are you all right?” Mrs. Henry asks. The only light is from the hallway which reflects off her glasses and makes her look like she’s dressed up for Halloween.

  “It must have been something I ate,” I say, moaning again. Having Moss around has brought out the actor in me. Instead of trying not to be noticed—a position I decided is the safest in middle school—I’m drawing attention to myself. This is dangerous, but what’s more dangerous is Moss being found out and both of us being ushered into Mr. Richie’s office where he calls the people who carry clubs, as well as CNN. That kind of attention I could live without my whole life.

  “Quentin, do you need to go to the bathroom?” Mrs. Henry asks in a loud whisper. I stifle a laugh.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say. I’m doubled over but can see Moss sitting quietly in his chair.

  “You have my permission to leave if you need to,” Mrs. Henry says, as if my bowels may explode at any moment.

  With a straight face, I thank her and she walks away. Between the difficulties with the electronic equipment and my outburst, she’s forgotten about Moss, and turns on the documentary again.

  Toward the end of the video there’s real footage of an ancient cave somewhere in Europe. I wonder if it’s the same cave Mr. G. was talking about in English. When I look over I see tears in Moss’ eyes and I almost tear up, too. His grunts change to moans mixed with a whimper or two. A couple of girls turn to look at him. Their eyes soften like they feel sorry for him and would go on a date with him if he asked.

  In that moment, I feel responsible for dreaming him up, and I wish I knew how to get him back so he can see his family again and visit his cave friends. I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t have any of your clan around. Especially since Dad left. He was the only one in our family who understood me. I try to imagine hundreds of years from now somebody showing a documentary of what my life was like. I would be sad, too. Who knows? I might even long to hear The Voice and see The Look, though it’s hard to imagine missing my sister, Katie.

  The video ends and everybody groans when the lights go on again. Several people look like they’re just waking up from a good nap.

  “What do you think it was like to live in prehistoric times?” Mrs. Henry asks the class. On most days I avoid eye contact or she might call on me, but this time I look straight at her. I even raise my hand.

  When she sees my hand go up she looks as surprised as I am. “Yes, Quentin?”

  “I think it was a hard life, but also exciting and cool,” I say.

  “Cool?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “For one thing, you wouldn’t ever have to take a bath. For another thing, you wouldn’t have to go to school.”

  People laugh.

  “I can see how those things might appeal to someone your age,” she says. “If Quentin is right, what do you think were the hard things?” she asks the class.

  I wish Moss could answer. When nobody else raises their hand I raise mine again.

  “Yes, Quentin?” Mrs. Henry asks, as if lightning has struck the same place twice.

  “I think you’d have to grow up really fast. And you’d have to work really hard, because nothing like we have today was invented yet. And you’d have to learn to be brave, I think. You’d have to do things on your own a lot. Maybe you wouldn’t even have a dad.”

  Mrs. Henry pauses. “Well done, Quentin,” she says, looking kind of proud of me. My classmates are over the novelty of me speaking up and are now glaring over at me like I’m making them look bad.

  A knock on the door interrupts our discussion. The principal, Mr. Proctor, a.k.a. Big Voice, comes in. I’m glad it’s not Mr. Richie, but my palms get sweaty anyway because I’m wondering if Mr. Richie gave him the heads up about Moss.

  To my relief, Mr. Proctor is there on other business. Big Voice introduces a new girl to the class who makes Heather Parker look like a scrawny mutt from the animal shelter. Moss watches me watch her. Then he grunts, smiles, and nudges me in the ribs with his elbow in a universal guy language which almost knocks me off my chair.

  My face flushes red. But nobody else notices because they’re all sizing up the new girl.

  “Fire,” Moss says, pointing to my blushing face.

  “Don’t start,” I whisper to him.

  Truth is, I’m a coward when it comes to girls. You’d think I’d have all sorts of experience with females since I live with two of them, but it doesn’t help. I’m still living in the Stone Age when it comes to getting girls to notice me. Moss seems to know that about me without me even saying a word. He puts a brotherly arm around me like he promises to teach me everything he knows. Family comes in all shapes, sizes and time periods.

  ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

  After the bell rings we make our way to my next class: band. The new girl’s name is Alicia and she’s in band, too. She plays French horn and if I look over the top of my music stand, past the flutes and clarinets, I can see her eyes. She doesn’t look up much from the music, prob
ably because she doesn’t know anybody yet.

  I play my dad’s old saxophone that he used to play when he was my age. A rubber band holds one of the key pads together and the tarnish looks like a bad case of metallic chicken pox, but it still works.

  Right behind Alicia, Moss stands in the percussion section. The guys back there are close to being primitive themselves. They’re showing Moss how to beat the bass drum. Moss is good, and I wonder if he’s beat on drums before. Maybe that’s how cave teenagers sent messages before you could text.

  For the longest time I watch Alicia. I fantasize about her looking across the band room and falling under the spell of my good looks. While we’re playing our warm-up scales, I pretend to be all serious, in order to win Alicia over with my passion for playing the saxophone. Then our band director, Mr. Davis, who looks like the human version of Homer Simpson, cuts off the band, except I don’t see him, so I keep playing after everybody else has stopped. My squawking saxophone cries out like the mating call of the biggest goose of all time.

  Mr. Davis tilts his Homer Simpson head and says, huh? Then he looks at me and says, “Mr. Moss, may I ask what planet you’re on?”

  The whole band explodes in laughter, because Mr. Davis has a funny way of humiliating a person. Meanwhile, I fall back to planet earth in crashing speed, still trying to determine the exact color of Alicia’s eyes.

  I slump in my seat and don’t have the courage to look in Alicia’s direction because my face is flushing so hot I figure the tips of my ears must be turning red, too. In my imagination I hear Heather Parker’s mocking voice: Forget the gums, look at his ears! At that moment I want to crawl under the biggest rock in Atlanta and hang out with the worms. Just when I thought nothing could be more humiliating than Heather Parker’s rejection or the rope-climbing incident, this is even worse!

  In the next second Moss starts playing a solo on the drums. Everybody turns to watch. The guys step back as he takes over the entire drum section. Moss beats the timpani drums, then the bongos, and then plays the snare drums, creating this amazing jungle rhythm that has everybody tapping their feet. At first Mr. Davis tries to stop him, but then he starts clapping along.