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

by Susan Gabriel

  “Wait a minute,” the cashier says. “Your friend here is a hero.”

  “He’s not a hero. He’s just a regular kid,” I say. I glance over at Moss who doesn’t look like a regular kid at all. “Sorry, but we’ve got to go,” I add. I grab Moss’ shirt and pull him out the door. The sirens get louder. We take the side street to our neighborhood. We’re running like we’re the crooks because we don’t know what else to do. We don’t slow down until we reach the next street.

  Dex and I are breathing heavy, but Moss isn’t the least bit winded. Dex and I lean over to catch our breath. I have to admit I’m impressed. Moss didn’t hesitate for a second. He took on both those guys and didn’t get a scratch. Maybe he is a hero.

  We walk in the direction of our neighborhood. Three blocks later we arrive at Dex’s house. We didn’t do anything wrong but we’re nervous that the police will want to ask us questions. We duck through the shrubs into Dex’s backyard where we won’t be found.

  Nobody’s ever home at Dex’s house. Most of the time not even Dex, since he spends so much time with me. We take the sodas and chips and sit on the top of an old picnic table.

  “That was unbelievable,” I say. My shaking finally stops.

  Dex nods. He still looks like he’s in shock. Or maybe that’s just his hair.

  “Did you see Moss take those guys out?” I say. He did everything I wish I had the guts to do.

  “Two at once. Just like that. Piece of cake,” Dex says.

  We look at Moss in admiration. He shrugs like he doesn’t get what the big deal is.

  “Head butt to the gut,” Dex says. “Very effective.” He punches Moss in the arm, but Moss doesn’t even flinch.

  But everybody has things they’re afraid of. When we pop open the sodas, the spewing Coke scares Moss so bad he jumps backward in a reverse long-jump that any track star would envy.

  I reassure Moss that carbonation is nothing to be frightened of, but he doesn’t believe me. When I try to get him to drink, Moss grunts, like he’s not so sure he wants to.

  “Like this,” Dex says to Moss. He takes several big gulps.

  Moss imitates him and starts sneezing like a dozen fossilized gnats have flown up his nose. I guess carbonated sodas seem a little different if you’ve been drinking from streams your whole life.

  Moss keeps rubbing his nose as Dex and I each grab a handful of potato chips. Before we’ve had time to finish what’s in our hands, Moss has devoured the rest of the bag and is licking the salt off his fingers that he hasn’t washed all day. By now he’s thirsty and sips the soda with a big grin on his face. I feel a little guilty for introducing him to junk food, because whatever he was eating before has made him stronger than Dex and I put together.

  Moss sees an azalea bush and goes over and gives it a good watering, like he’s been waiting all day to find a decent bathroom. Dex and I don’t have the heart to stop him. Nobody can see into Dex’s backyard anyway. In a moment of guy-bonding, we join him. Moss smiles and grunts like he’s found his clan.

  “Weren’t you scared?” I ask Moss after we finish.

  “Scared?” he repeats.

  “Yeah, weren’t you afraid those guys would cream you?”

  Moss tilts his head like Coltrane does sometimes when he’s trying to understand.

  “I was plenty scared,” Dex says.

  “Me, too,” I say. “Do you think those creeps had guns?”

  “I think the short one did,” Dex says.

  “Well, we had a secret weapon ourselves,” I smile. “Moss, the amazing cave boy.”

  “He was awesome,” Dex says. “He was probably operating on pure adrenaline. You know, like when moms lift cars off their kids.”

  Moss finishes his soda and is now eating Dex’s potato chips. He crams a fistful in his mouth.

  “If Moss ends up staying, I don’t know how I’m going to feed him,” I say to Dex. “He eats enough for ten kids.”

  Dex nods.

  Before I have time to figure out how I’m going to buy mass quantities of food on my meager allowance, Moss holds his stomach. Then he gets a goofy look on his face like an alien is about to burst out of his skin and lets out a belch to end all belches.

  A gaseous fog of Coke and potato chips fans out in our direction. Dex and I cover our noses, and then start laughing. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. Moss laughs, too, and it sounds like an entire flock of Canada geese are coming in for a landing in Dex’s backyard. The laughing feels good after being so scared before.

  Not one to be outdone, I put a hand under my armpit and start pumping like I’m playing an accordion, unleashing a chorus of arm farts. The three of us roll around on the ground, grunting and laughing like this is the funniest thing ever. We’re like three primitive cave boys bonding during an ancient initiation rite. Except instead of having to survive in the wilderness, we have to survive armed robbers and belching arm-farts.

  “Quentin, funny,” Moss says. At that moment he looks proud of me.

  “Thanks,” I say. I jump up on the picnic table and take a bow for my arm-farting concert, which was almost as good as my saxophone solo earlier. But Moss is the real star of the day.

  ROAD TRIP

  Since Dex’s parents won’t be home until late, Dex’s backyard is a perfect hiding place for Moss. I can’t imagine the police going door to door to search for witnesses of a foiled crime, but it makes sense to lay low anyway.

  “Hey, we already have a getaway car if we need it,” Dex says. He points to the faded blue Honda in the back driveway that’s on its way to becoming extinct. His dad drove the Civic in college, and he’s been saving it for Dex until he gets old enough to drive. We have spent endless hours daydreaming about where this car will take us some day. As far as I know my dad hasn’t saved me anything. He did leave an old license plate in the garage from when he lived in Minnesota after college, and a snow shovel that we’ve never used in Georgia, not even once.

  We show Moss the Honda. We work on it almost every day after school. Or at least we pretend to work on it. Most of the time we just take out a part, shake it a few times, blow on it and then clean it off before putting it right back in again.

  Dex opens the creaky hood. The three of us peer inside at the gray, dusty engine, like there’s a magic carpet inside if we can figure out how to make it work. Come to think of it, a magic carpet might come in handy for getting Moss back home.

  It’s weird to see Moss admiring something that won’t even be invented for thousands of years. He pulls a couple of hoses and twists the oil cap a few times, then wipes grease on his face. He looks like the original prehistoric Honda mechanic. Then we notice that one of the hoses under the hood is moving. We look closer and see that it’s a big rat snake about as thick as one of my wrists that's made his home under the hood. Dex and I scream a primordial scream and jump back.

  Moss looks at us like what’s the big deal? And grabs the snake and flings it against a nearby oak tree. Dex and I gasp in glorified horror. Did he really do that? The snake lies limp and dead at the base of the tree. Moss smiles, then pats us both on the back and walks over to the snake. He picks it up, takes a good look at it and even licks his lips before he flings it into the bushes. Would this be food for him? I guess we’re lucky that he’s already full of chips and soda. For the first time we get a glimpse of what Moss’ life must be like.

  “Good job, man,” Dex says. “First you take out two criminals and now a snake.”

  Moss nods.

  I thank Moss, too, and at the same time realize what a wimp I am. I wouldn’t have grabbed that snake in a million years. Nor would I have taken on those two criminals.

  Still in shock, we get inside the Civic. Dex gets in the driver’s seat, I’m in the passenger side and Moss gets in the back seat.

  “This would be a good get-away car,” Dex says, his hands on the steering wheel.

  I’m thinking this would be like the worst get-away car in history. It barely even runs, but I
don’t tell Dex that.

  “Where do you guys want to go?” Dex asks me and Moss.

  “Go?” Moss asks.

  “Yeah, where do you want to go?”

  “Home,” he says.

  Dex and I look at each other. Neither of us knows how to give Moss what he wants, given this old Honda isn’t a time machine.

  I have to admire how calm Moss is, even if he is a little homesick. I’d be panicking right now if I were in his shoes, though Moss doesn’t actually have shoes, since he borrowed a pair of mine.

  “Well, maybe we could go to China,” I say, changing the subject so Moss won’t feel bad.

  Moss grunts like it’s an interesting possibility, but I’m pretty sure he has no idea what China is––the country or the dishes.

  “It’s hard to get to China in a car,” Dex says. He looks out through the windshield toward our future.

  We sit in silence, thinking up possibilities. “How about Alaska?” Dex asks finally. “I hear you can see Russia from there.”

  “I guess we could drive there,” I say, “as long as we don’t have to cross any oceans.” I wonder if a car with 280,000 miles on it can make it to Alaska.

  “I’ll MapQuest it later and see how far it is,” Dex says. “The police would never find us there.”

  We both like the idea of far away. We turn and look at Moss. He smiles like he likes the idea.

  “We should start saving money for gas,” I say.

  “Good idea,” Dex replies.

  I fish into my pocket for spare change and add up one dollar and 53 cents. “This will get us started I guess.” I put the money in the glove compartment next to a petrified chocolate bar that melted on top of the owner’s manual when Dex’s dad was still in college.

  “I wonder if it’s as cold in Alaska as people say,” Dex asks. He digs in his pocket and throws in 75 cents. Moss digs in his pocket and throws in what looks like a mouse skeleton and a piece of flint. I close the glove compartment.

  “We’ll have to fill the car with antifreeze if we go to Alaska,” I say.

  “That’ll be another couple of bucks,” Dex says.

  “We’ll manage,” I say. I look back at Moss who is now rolling the window up and down with impressive speed. “Hey, you want to go to Alaska, Moss?”

  “Alaska,” Moss says. He studies the handle of the window.

  “You’re going to have to give up those clothes you’re used to wearing,” I say. “Furry underwear won’t make it.”

  “He wears furry underwear?” Dex asks. He opens one eye wider than the other.

  “Animal skins,” I say. “I hid them in my closet.”

  Dex shudders. “Do you think he had to kill his underwear himself?”

  “Probably,” I say.

  “Cool!” Dex says. He puts the key in the ignition and turns the radio on. The tuner is already set on our favorite station. Moss is turning his head from side to side like he’s a satellite picking up signals. It’s hard to imagine someone our age hearing a radio for the first time. Dex starts to show off and turns the sound up so loud the bass rattles the change in the glove compartment. Moss covers his ears and howls like a wolf baying at the moon. I make Dex turn the radio down. Moss hasn’t jumped into any bushes for a while, and I don’t want him to start now. It’s funny how brave he was with the thieves and the snake but he’s scared to death of technology. Maybe he knows something we don’t know.

  Just as a special news report comes on, the station fades. I’m wondering if it was something about the robbery.

  I give the radio a slap. Dex looks at me like I’ve just slapped him instead of his clunker car. Since the car is never driven, the battery wears down a lot. More than once we’ve had to jump-start Dex’s car off his dad’s, which is always there when his dad is out of town. We keep jumper cables in the trunk and are getting good at recharging that old battery in record breaking speed. Sometimes we pretend to work for the pit crew at the Indy 500.

  With the windows rolled up, the car is stuffy and smells like a combination of Armor All, potato chip belches, and a boy’s locker room.

  “Don’t take this personally, Quentin, but you smell,” Dex says.

  “That’s Moss,” I say, whose odor has ripened as the day progresses.

  “No, Quentin, I think your aftershave has turned sour,” Dex says. “When are you going to quit wearing that stuff?”

  The smell of Armor All competes with my aftershave.

  “Your car doesn’t smell so great, either,” I say. “The Armor All on the dashboard is an inch thick.”

  “Well, that aftershave you’ve got on makes me want to throw up,” Dex says.

  “Throw up,” Moss repeats, as if he could use another snack.

  “If we touch the dashboard we leave fingerprints,” I say. “Which is fine if we’re putting together an FBI crime file.”

  Dex shrugs like he’s become Moss and doesn’t have anything to say. Smells are about the only thing Dex and I disagree on.

  I look at Moss, who shrugs, too, then belches again.

  “Throw up?” he asks.

  “No, that’s a burp. Throwing up is something else,” I say.

  Dex laughs. “We have a chance to move history forward, but instead we’re teaching our prehistoric ancestor the difference between throwing up and belching.”

  I laugh, too, while Moss practices burping in the back seat.

  “Well, I’m not the only one who smells,” I say, returning to our earlier conversation. I nod toward the back seat.

  “Yeah, but he has an excuse,” Dex says.

  “Like what?” I say.

  “Like he lives in a cave and hasn’t used soap a day of his life.”

  “Well, I’m not giving up my aftershave until you give up your Armor All,” I say to Dex.

  “I’m not giving up my Armor All until you give up your aftershave,” Dex says back.

  “I’m not giving up my aftershave,” I counter.

  Dex takes a cloth from under his seat and rubs on another think layer of Armor All to the dashboard. The odor in the car overtakes us. Moss makes hacking noises like he’s swallowed a bug. Now an expert, he rolls down the window with impressive speed and spits a huge hocker outside.

  “We’re probably killing billions of brain cells with that junk,” I say, grateful for the fresh air.

  “So what?” Dex says.

  “So, when we’re old, we’ll probably need adult diapers,” I say.

  “You watch too much cable TV,” Dex replies.

  “TV?” Moss says.

  “Don’t ask,” we say in unison.

  Before dark, Dex stands guard at my front door as we prepare to sneak Moss back into my house. A police car drives by the front of the house as Moss and I hide in the bushes. Once the cop passes, we push Moss inside and close the front door.

  “Do you think they’re looking for those thieves?” I ask Dex.

  “I don’t know,” Dex says. “But keep Moss hidden the rest of the night. We don’t want anybody questioning him.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say.

  We can hear my mom making dinner in the kitchen. Moss starts to lick one of the large houseplants in the entryway. “Why does he do stuff like that?” I whisper to Dex.

  Dex shrugs.

  We lead Moss up the stairs. Dex checks to make sure Katie is nowhere around. Then we pull Moss into my room.

  “I still can’t believe what happened at the convenience store,” I say.

  “No kidding,” Dex replies.

  “Seriously, do you think the cops will come looking for us?” I ask.

  “No, we didn’t do anything wrong,” Dex says. “I guess we could describe the guys. But the cashier could do that, too. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

  “Good,” I say. “I don’t think I can take any more excitement in one day.”

  This may be the truest thing I’ve ever said. I never thought so much could happen in one day, and I still haven�
�t figured out how to get Moss home again.

  ANCIENT RITUALS

  “You’re awfully quiet, Quentin,” The Voice says at dinner. “Tell me about your day.”

  I clam up a lot with The Voice, but it isn’t that I don’t have anything to say. It’s that my words hang out in my head for a while before I’m ready to talk to her. Not that I could even begin to tell her about my day.

  “My day was fine,” I say. I slip a meatball into my napkin to take to Moss. Coltrane sniffs the napkin from under the table. Moss is in my room and probably starving. I remember my goldfish, Henry the VIII, on the top of my dresser, and wonder if he’s already history. There were seven other goldfish named Henry that came before him, over the span of about three years. But I’m not about to tell my mom that I’m concerned that the latest Henry might be eaten by a prehistoric teenager.

  “He’s hiding something, Mom,” my sister says. “Haven’t you noticed how strange he’s acting today?”

  I fire a look in her direction that could stop a grizzly in its tracks. She looks surprised. Hanging around Moss has made me stronger. As ancestors go, I’ve discovered I’m made from sturdy stock. But maybe not as sturdy as I hoped because Coltrane wrestles with my napkin under the table and wins. The meatball falls with a plop to the floor. Coltrane devours it before anyone notices.

  We eat in silence, as I hatch my plan on how to get food to Moss without my mom catching on.

  “Sorry about the concert, Quentin,” The Voice says. “Maybe next time.”

  I’d forgotten about the concert. It has simplified things not to go, because of Moss. But I would never tell her that.

  The phones rings and The Voice answers it. She’s talking to someone and sounds serious. She looks in my direction. When she hangs up the phone, I can tell I’m in trouble.

  “That was Mr. Richie,” The Voice says to me. “He said you had a little trouble at school today.”

  A spaghetti noodle lodges in my throat. “What kind of trouble?” I cough to dislodge the noodle and push another meatball near the edge of my plate. Coltrane licks his lips.

  “I think you know what kind of trouble, Quentin,” The Voice says calmly.