Moss has everybody captivated by his primitive beat. Everybody is beating on their music stands with their hands and stomping their feet. It’s like we’re all remembering our jungle roots, a time when life had a rhythm to it and wasn’t so complicated. Moss keeps playing, using so many different sounds and beats that the entire trombone section is dancing to it and dipping their trombones up and down. Then the tuba section joins in and then the flutes.
After he plays a flurry of drum rolls, he points a drum stick in my direction like it’s my turn for a solo. He keeps the beat going, and keeps motioning for me to join in. I pick up my saxophone and improvise to the beat like the jazz solos Dex and I have listened to on different recordings. Even though we didn’t get to hear that special band in Underground Atlanta, all that listening to my dad’s records pays off.
Moss’ beat is inspiring me because I’m playing saxophone jazz riffs better than I’ve ever played in my life. We go on for several minutes, everybody clapping to the beat, and then we build up to a finale.
Silence follows. This could very well be my most humiliating moment ever, which means I’ll have to get a passport and move to Iceland or Finland or one of those other cold places. But then everybody applauds.
Mr. Davis yells, “Bravo, bravo!” like they do at symphony concerts. It’s the loudest standing ovation I’ve ever heard. I join Moss in the percussion section, and we bow together like we’re at Carnegie Hall and we’ve given the performance of our lives. Before I know it, my humiliating moment morphs into a surprising victory. Everybody continues to clap and whistle. We take another bow. I notice Alicia smiling at us. I’ve never been the star of anything before, but this feels great.
Moss has a huge grin on his face. Music is the universal language. I think Moss knew that even before I did. For someone from another age he sure is smart. Primitive doesn’t mean you’re stupid, I guess. It just means you’re from an earlier, simpler time.
Moss and I take a final bow and saunter out the side door of the band room like rock stars leaving a stage. Quentin Moss has left the building.
HICCUPS
I’m still smiling from band but my smile fades when we get to the last period of the day, study hall. Mr. Richie is nowhere in sight. A couple of guys are tossing a football in the back corners of the library so I pull Moss in the opposite direction. We walk past the big aquarium and Moss stops to watch the exotic fish swim around. I don’t know what’s going through his mind, but I have a feeling after all that drumming he’s considering sushi. Mrs. Gilbert, the librarian, wouldn’t go for that at all. She talks to those fish like they’re her relatives.
We take a corner table and I grab a library book from the back shelf on famous paintings in the world and plop it down in front of Moss. Nothing distracts my prehistoric visitor more than a bunch of pictures. “This is art,” I whisper, pointing to the first picture.
“Art?” he asks.
“Drawings, like in caves.”
“Art,” he nods.
It’s like Moss and I are becoming buddies. And I like how he has a way of turning things around when they aren’t going my way. But what’s got me baffled is how he’s still here. Any dream I’ve ever had in the past faded fast. Moss hasn’t faded in the least. If anything he’s getting more real.
Moss is like a genie that I can’t figure out how to get back into the bottle. I look over and smile at him. He’s making the best of it, that’s for sure. But I can tell he wants to get back home. I wrack my brain for a solution and decide I need somebody much smarter than me to find an answer. I need Dad.
My frustration builds. Even when I call his cell phone he doesn’t always answer. It’s like someone in Oregon dreamed him up and he hasn’t been able to get home, either. If I were smart I’d figure out how to make Moss disappear and make my dad reappear.
“You were great playing those drums,” I whisper to Moss.
“Great,” he smiles. “Girl go--” he claps, like he noticed Alicia, too.
“Yeah, she did clap,” I say, feeling pleased.
While Moss looks at pictures, I remember the details of my dream. In my memory I see where Moss lives, his dark cave, and a fire burning inside. His bed is a pile of straw and animal hides and there are animal bones lying around. Furs, antlers, skulls. I zone in on the dream, remembering things I didn’t notice before, like the drawings on the far wall. There are animals painted on them, as well as spears and arrows, similar to what was in the documentary Mrs. Henry showed us in history.
“Did you draw art in your cave?” I ask.
“Draw art,” Moss repeats. He doesn’t look up from the book.
“That’s probably why you like all those pictures,” I say. “You’re an artist.”
“Artist?” he asks. He looks over at me.
“I bet you’ll be a famous artist,” I say. “I bet someday they’ll show pictures of your art in history classes.”
Moss shrugs like fame doesn’t interest him.
I’m not sure I’d like to live in Moss’ world. Who wants to work that hard? Even getting a drink of water requires finding a stream or waterfall, when all we have to do is turn on a faucet. Some things never change, though. My memory flashes on Moss’ mom yelling for him to get up. I guess every kid wants to sleep in. Moss might be tired of his mom’s voice, too. And there wasn’t a father around in the dream. But maybe his dad was out on a hunting party. Or maybe he isn’t part of the picture anymore, like mine.
It’s strange to think that even though his world is thousands of years older, Moss and I have similar lives, with friends, family, and dreams. In other ways our lives are different. Sure, he has a lot of freedom where he’s from, but it must be dangerous all the time, too. Even to get a drink from a stream you’d always have to be looking over your shoulder to make sure some giant prehistoric predator hasn’t chosen you for its meal.
Mr. Richie walks in and the boys throwing the football stop. Mr. Richie eyes me and Moss like we’re convicts on death row. I’ve never been in any real trouble a day in my life, but Mr. Richie treats me like I’m a multiple felon.
Moss begins a low growl behind his teeth. I kick his leg under the table and he stops. Moss could take out Mr. Richie in a fight. But Mr. Richie is the least of my worries now. I’ve got to get Moss back to his cave.
Dex enters the library and walks toward our table. “What are you doing here?” I whisper. “Did you get in trouble?”
“Nah, I just asked Miss Snyder if I could do research for my term paper.” Dex and Moss greet each other with fist bumps. Dex can get along with anybody. It doesn’t matter which eon they’re from.
Moss shows Dex a painting by Picasso from the art book. Moss crosses his eyes like he’s trying to imitate the eyes in the painting. Dex smiles. Mr. Richie glares over from where he’s perched near the door like a prison guard. He points to his eye, then points at me to tell me that he has his eye on me. I look down at the book. As long as he has his eye on me and not Moss I’m fine with that. It’s trying to explain Moss that threatens to put an end to my middle school career. Hmm. I consider confessing Moss’ true identity.
“You have to help me figure out what to do with Moss,” I whisper to Dex.
“You mean right now?” Dex whispers back. “He seems to be pretty happy.”
“No, how to get him back home,” I say.
“Maybe there’s a flight on Frontier Airlines,” Dex says.
“Think of the frequent flyer miles he would get. My dad has a zillion, and he only flies to New York.”
“Ha, ha,” I whisper to Dex. “I’m serious. What am I going to do with him? What if I can’t get him back?”
“Do you think your mom would like another son?” Dex asks, a dumb grin on his face.
“I’m not sure she wants the one she has,” I say.
Dex looks at me like we both know that’s not true. Not really. We think for a while. “Maybe we should ask your dad what to do,” Dex whispers. “He was always good at stuf
f like this. Remember when he took us to that museum in Washington, D.C. He had all the metro stops figured out.”
“This is a little more complicated than metro stops,” I say.
Dex nods his agreement. But I remember that trip to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum. We were seven. That’s when I first started getting interested in history. For every birthday and Christmas after that, one of my gifts has been a book on some part of history. But all of those books combined couldn’t prepare me for having history materialize right in front of me.
“We need one of those transporter things they had in those old Star Trek movies,” Dex whispers.
I think about how he got here in the first place. The transporter was my dream. “Hey, maybe I can dream him back,” I say to Dex. In my excitement I use my regular voice. Both Mrs. Gilbert and Mr. Richie shoot their gaze in my direction. My face turns hot and undoubtedly red. Mr. Richie walks toward us, but then he stops when the office calls him over his cell phone. He leaves. I exhale. Moss exhales. Everybody in the room exhales their relief.
“Dream him back?” Dex says thoughtfully. “You know, it might work. Like you said, it’s how he got here in the first place.” Dex thinks some more. “Are you sleepy now?” he asks, like maybe a nap would do the trick.
I look at him like he’s just suggested I strip down to my boxer shorts in front of everybody in the library and strap on my retainer headgear. “Not even a little,” I say. “But I guess I can try it tonight. That is, unless somebody catches on and we end up in FBI custody or on Inside Edition.”
“It’s worth a try,” Dex says.
I have no idea how to pull this off. I don’t understand how dreams work in forward motion, much less in reverse. The final bell rings and Moss, Dex and I fight our way through the crowded hallway to the lockers and then outside.
As the crowd clears we see the new girl, Alicia, waiting for her ride. Dex and Moss nudge me toward her. I resist. But when I’m not expecting it Dex and Moss team up and give me a good push. I yelp as I fall at Alicia’s feet.
“Sorry,” I say. It is the first of a long string of apologies I offer. In fact, I can’t seem to stop apologizing. Dex and Moss look over at me like I not only have a disgusting case of diarrhea of the mouth, but also a bad case of low self-esteem.
Alicia huffs her irritation. She turns away so fast the wind from her hair hits me in the face. But her hair smells good and makes me smile. Dex and Moss continue to look at me like I’ve sprouted four heads and none of them work well. They motion for me to try again. At that moment I’m wishing someone would have a dream and transport me to a deserted planet where I can live out the rest of my life alone. Against my better judgment, I approach Alicia again.
“Uh, hi Alicia,” I say timidly. “I’m Quentin Moss.”
She glances at me, then over at Dex and Moss. She does a double take on Moss before looking away, a common reaction to seeing him up close.
Dex gives me another jab, this time with his elbow. It hurts. “How was your first day?” I ask Alicia, wincing from Dex’s encouragement.
“It was okay,” she says. Her eyes stay focused on the school’s driveway.
“That’s good,” I say. I’m already running out of things to say. Any confidence I had left drains out of my body with the sweat that I’m producing in buckets. I begin to hiccup. Dex’s eyes widen. He knows what this means. When I get really nervous I get hiccups. Not quiet, barely noticeable blips that girls think are cute. But loud, body-jerking spasms that the general population fears might be contagious. In a matter of seconds I have the worst hiccups I’ve ever had in my life. Dex and Moss watch in compassionate horror as my whole body convulses every five to ten seconds in a sharp, distinctive hic-cup. I sound like a giant, hic-cupping, toad.
My face changes from red to the color of an overzealous beet. I hold my breath and count to ten. Nothing helps. Sweat pools in my sneakers as Alicia watches every convulsion.
Right when I’m trying to figure out how to get Moss back to the Stone Age and take me with him, Alicia says, “You’re funny, Quentin,” as if the show is for her benefit.
I smile between spasms.
“Hey, aren’t you the friend of the drummer?” she adds.
“Yeah, that was Moss.” I gesture in Moss’ direction.
She smiles over at Moss. I don’t like the shift in her attention.
“I was the one playing the saxophone,” I say. I give her my best smile––minus the gums––before hiccupping again.
Moss ambles over and slaps me on the back, like he’s proud of me for not barfing or running away. He gives a jovial grunt.
“Did he grunt?” Alicia asks.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say. “Well, there’s a reason for that.” I pause in brief horror as I try to think up the reason. “Uh, he hasn’t talked much since the accident.”
“The accident?” she asks, a curious look on her face.
“The accident?” Dex repeats, his curiosity peaked, as well.
“Yeah, the accident,” I say. I glance over at Dex and scream help with my eyes.
“Oh, yeah, the accident,” Dex says. He catches on to what I'm doing. “Horrible accident,” he adds. “One of the worst accidents ever.”
Alicia looks at Moss again, who is eying the zipper on an 8th graders backpack. “But he seemed okay when he was playing the drums.”
“Yeah, it comes and goes. Mostly, he’s okay,” I reassure her between hiccups. “But he doesn’t talk much. Hasn’t since the accident,” I whisper.
“Oh,” she says with sadness. She looks again in Moss’ direction. “Well, I hope he gets better soon.”
“I’m sure he will,” I say. “But don’t be surprised if he grunts or anything. He hasn’t gotten all of his speech back yet.”
“Oh,” she says again, giving Moss a compassionate smile.
Moss smiles back, like his dream is getting better with every flutter of her eye lashes. I pull him away from the backpack and punch him in the ribs so he’ll remember whose territory he’s in. Seconds later Alicia’s mom arrives and she has to leave. Before she closes the door Moss grabs the car door and acts like he’s going to get in the car with Alicia. Dex and I grab Moss and pull him back to the curb. As they’re driving away, I realize my hiccups are gone. Maybe they got scared out of me because for a second it looked like Moss was going to get the girl instead of me.
If I added up all the humiliating moments in my life there are probably hundreds of them. The latest being: I try to impress a girl and end up with the worst case of hiccups in adolescent history. But then there was the time Katie accidentally dyed my hair orange when she convinced me that blond highlights would attract girls. (Two cautions: Never listen to a sister that hates you most of the time and always read the directions.) And there was the time after it rained that I tripped and did a swan dive in the hallway in front of the school office. (Mats are at the front door for a reason.) And the time after Dad told me about Heather, that I got so angry that I accidentally told him that I never wanted to see him again. (I think he took me up on it.)
But all in all, thanks to Moss bailing me out a couple of times, what could have been a disastrous day at school turned out okay, in fact better than okay.
ACTION HERO
Moss, Dex and I ride the school bus home and get off a stop early to go to the convenience store for snacks. Dex picks up a big bag of chips and three Cokes while Moss opens and closes every single one of the refrigerated section doors at least twice. I wander up front and read the sensational headlines in The National Enquirer: Wolf Boy Discovered in Louisiana. I imagine the story of Moss splattered on the front page! Cave Boy Discovered in Atlanta. I shudder.
A couple of guys in their twenties come in with baseball caps pulled low over their eyes. One of them, who reeks of cigarettes and beer, shoves me out of the way so he can get to the counter.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing,” I say.
The guy stiff arms me again, pushin
g me further away. I join Dex and Moss at the back of the store. The cashier, an older Asian man, looks nervous. He keeps glancing in our direction. The second guy canvases the place. He looks down every aisle of the small store. I don’t know what he’s looking for. When he sees Moss and Dex by the canned sodas he hesitates for a second, and then grins. Come to think of it they do make a funny looking pair.
The guy up front asks the cashier for a pack of cigarettes. He keeps tugging up his pants every few seconds, like Moss played with his zipper at first. The second guy joins him at the front. He has his hand in his jacket pocket.
All of a sudden the two guys are yelling at the cashier. They tell him to give them the money in the cash drawer. Dex and I look over at each other, not knowing what to do. It’s like a scene out of a movie. If we run away we have to go right by the bad guys. My heart races to catch up with my thoughts and my body shakes. I’ve never been so scared in my life and Dex looks just as scared as I am. If I didn’t know it was his natural look, I’d think his hair was standing on end from fright.
Moss grunts and runs toward the two guys, like he’s turned into a cave boy action hero. He makes a flying leap at the two guys and tackles them to the floor. They cuss at Moss and get up. Then they come after him. Moss butts one of the guys in the stomach with his head. The guy falls to the floor moaning like crazy. Then Moss growls at the second guy who stops and rethinks his next move. Instead of coming after Moss he runs out the door like a charging mastodon is after him. Moss smiles.
Dex and I stand frozen in disbelief. We hear sirens in the distance. The guy he butted in the stomach is still on the floor moaning, curled up in a ball. When he hears the sirens he gets up and runs away, too.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I say to Dex. “How will we explain Moss?”
Dex gives the shaken cashier a five dollar bill for our chips and sodas and doesn’t wait for the change.
Quentin and the Cave Boy - Funny books for boys and adventurous girls Page 7