Yelling I can take. But when The Voice gets soft it’s scary. I stare at my plate.
“Who was this ‘visitor’ Mr. Richie spoke about?”
I freeze. Think fast. Think fast. Think fast, I say to myself, which stops any thoughts from coming, slow or fast. “He’s a friend of Dex’s,” I say finally.
“Then why didn’t Dex get in trouble?” The Voice asks.
My mom is smart, there’s no question about it. The Voice starts asking questions and The Look joins in. My sister appears to be getting immense pleasure from Mom’s interrogation. I don’t blame her. I sound like an idiot. I let silence fill the space where my confession would go. My lips are pressed together so tight I have to remind myself to breathe.
“I’m too tired to deal with this tonight,” The Voice says. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. But for now, no television for the rest of this month.”
Since I was expecting jail time, this punishment seems like nothing. What she doesn’t know is that I have the Discovery channel going 24/7 in my room. Considering how much worse this day could have been, I feel lucky.
“Can I have seconds?” I ask before getting up from the table. I make a point to sound contrite and hungry.
“It’s more like thirds,” Katie says.
“At least I don’t pretend to eat like a bird then binge on potato chips in my room,” I say to her.
She gasps, like she never knew I had this level of strength in me.
Mom refills my plate with pasta, a hefty amount of sauce and another meatball. Moss is going to love my mom’s meatballs.
“I’ll eat this in my room,” I say. Before The Voice has time to object I’m halfway up the stairs. I enter my room and latch the door, grateful to see Henry the VIII still swimming around in his bowl.
Moss sits on the floor and shovels in the pasta with his fingers. He crams the entire meatball into his mouth. Red sauce covers his face, mixing in with the grease from Dex’s Honda. Even I’m disgusted. He lowers the last strings of spaghetti into his mouth, and then licks the plate. Coltrane whimpers, like Moss is trespassing on his territory.
“I guess manners haven’t been invented yet, either,” I say to Moss.
“I guess,” he echoes, letting out a loud belch. “Burp, not throw up,” he says. He smiles, then puts a sauce-covered hand under his armpit and starts pumping.
“No, Mom may hear us!” I say.
He stops. Pasta sauce hangs out in his ears and hair. I rummage through a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and find him a towel to wipe his face. He sniffs the towel deeply, like in the shower earlier that day, but then stops mid-sniff. This is not a clean towel. Not even close. He crinkles his nose and looks at me like he’s not the only cave boy in the room.
“If you end up staying here, you have to learn how to eat without getting it all over you,” I say.
“Stay here?” he asks. He doesn’t look too happy about it.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m going to try to dream you back tonight, but it may not work.”
“Moss home,” he insists.
“I’ll try,” I say. I feel responsible for getting him here but I still have no idea of how to get him back.
He drops his head to his chest. His grunt turns into a moan.
I dig my history book out of my book bag and show him photographs of cave paintings to cheer him up.
“Home,” he says. He points to a cave picture.
“Yeah, home,” I echo.
“Yeah,” he says.
Mr. Richie’s call and the attempted robbery are all I can think about. Moss, however, seems oblivious to all that’s happened. I give him paper and a handful of big markers to draw pictures like the ones in the book.
I’m worried now that Mr. Richie will call Dad. But I don’t even know if the school has Dad’s number. A few minutes later, Moss shows me a picture he drew of his cave. “You’re really good,” I say. I nod and smile, pointing to the pad.
He’s talented for somebody who’s never picked up an art marker until today. I don’t think I have any artistic talent, unless playing the saxophone counts. I smile as I remember Moss’ amazing drum burst and our improvisation before our grand exit.
Moss hands me a marker and motions for me to try. I draw stick figures of my mom and sister. My mom’s mouth is open really wide so The Voice can come out and my sister is bald. When I show them to Moss, he starts to honk again like the Canada geese have decided to stay. I have to cover his mouth so no one will hear and it leaves a spaghetti sauce imprint of Moss’ nose and mouth on my hand. Moms and sisters must be the same no matter what time period you’re living in.
“Are you all right in there?” The Voice asks from the outside of the door. “I thought I heard . . . honking.”
Moss freezes. I reassure her that I am fine and make every effort to sound like my normal self.
“You’ve been in your room a long time,” The Voice calls through the door. I see the doorknob turn, thankful I had the good sense to lock it.
“I’m cleaning my room,” I say, thinking fast, but not fast enough.
“You are?” The Voice sounds happy and I realize the mistake I’ve made. Now I actually have to clean my room or she’ll know I told a lie.
“I’ll be out later, Mom,” I say glumly. But the good news is her upset over Mr. Richie’s call appears to have dissolved and she leaves.
I roll my eyes for Moss’ benefit, which he imitates with perfection.
“Moms,” I say.
“Moms,” Moss repeats, rolling his eyes again.
If he ends up going home, I may be the inventor of the first pre-teen rolling of the eyes.
I pick two handfuls of dirty clothes off the floor, wanting to kick myself for not coming up with something different to tell my mom. Even homework would have been better than this.
“Do you have to clean your cave?” I ask.
Moss snarls and grunts the affirmative.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” I say. It helps to think of it as an ancient ritual performed by kids throughout the ages. I wonder what other ancient rituals we have in common. I bulldoze a pile of toys and books with my shoe, but there’s still no sign of floor underneath. Moss’ cave, from what I remember in the dream, didn’t have any of this stuff. In a way I envy how simple his life must be.
“Can I come and visit you someday?” I ask.
“Visit someday,” Moss says, then smiles.
“But I’m not wearing the furry underwear, okay?”
“Okay,” he says. We shake hands.
“But I would like you to show me how to play the drums if you’ve got one.”
“Drums,” he says. He nods his head to agree, then smiles.
I wonder if Moss’ head hurts from ramming it into that thief’s stomach. He’s been a hero today. I hope he rubs off on me before I try to make him disappear.
CAVE ART
Later that night, I leave Moss drawing pictures and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed. On the way back, the door is open to Katie’s room. Her door is almost always locked, and I’m barred from entering for fear of death. One toenail inside unleashes her wrath: “Quentin, get out of here! Quentin, quit looking at me! Quentin this, Quentin that. . . .” She is The Voice in training. Despite all that’s happened I feel drawn into her room, like one of those victims in scary movies, who go in the very room where the killer lurks.
“Come on in,” she says, when I venture to the door.
What’s going on? I wonder. Even Coltrane is allowed inside. He sniffs everything on his level. I plop down on a small square of uncluttered space on her bed between a stack of magazines and her pink book bag that looks like the explosion of a cotton-candy machine. The room is dark except for the eerie white glow of her make-up mirror and the small television flickering in the corner. The news is on. For a split second I’m surprised my sister is watching the news, but more than likely she was watching a program before it and just didn’t chan
ge the channel.
Dex and I are convinced Katie is a vampire. Not only has she read Twilight a zillion times and has posters of all the stars of the movies on her walls, but she lives in a room barring sunlight and has two rather pointed bicuspids. But the mirror thing spoils our theory. Vampires can’t see themselves, and Katie looks at her reflection at least a thousand times a day.
My sister being in a good mood makes the day seem even stranger. If I didn’t feel so wide awake, I’d think I was dreaming again. As much as I hate to admit it, I like talking to her when she treats me like a human being instead of something to stomp under her shoe. An older sister comes in handy sometimes. For one thing, she’s full of information on girls, because she’s been one for years.
In an effort of good will, I resist calling her “Spazz,” and thinking up new ways of getting revenge. For a split second I surprise myself and consider telling her about Moss and the robbery. But my temporary insanity abates. A total eclipse of the sun is beautiful but dangerous. A person can go blind.
“If I tell you something, will you not tell Mom about it?” I ask, risking the lesser of my two confessions.
“Sure,” she answers, almost cheerfully.
I pull back the blinds to see if there’s a full moon.
“There’s a school dance coming up, and I’d like to ask someone,” I say. It feels weird to confide in a person who tattles on me for sport.
“Quentin Moss,” she croons, pleased with the secret she’s been handed. Within seconds, I regret my decision. She looks in the mirror and basks in her conquest. Then she applies a splotch of white paste on her upper lip to bleach her unwanted facial hair. This doesn’t seem fair since I’ve been waiting since I was ten to get any small sign of a mustache, and my sister does everything she can to keep it invisible. Girls go to great extremes not to look primitive, I decide.
“How long have you known this girl?” Katie asks, now tweezing her eyebrows. I watch each pluck, amused by how barbaric it is to remove facial hair with tiny forceps.
“I met her today,” I say. I’m fascinated with watching her wield the hand-held torture device.
“Today?” she asks, mid pluck. “You’re moving a little fast, Q-Tip. You should become her friend first.” She says this sounding as sophisticated as a person can when bleaching a mustache, tweezing eyebrows, and putting on a purple facial mask. “Get to know her as a person,” she continues. “That’s the only way these things really work out.”
Okay, so this isn’t what I wanted to hear. It sounds like the get-rich-slow plan to me when the get-rich-quick plan is what I have in mind.
“It works,” she says with confidence.
I’m wondering if I can trust someone who cares more about her hairbrush than me. Meanwhile, my imagination presents me with another humiliating moment: I ask Alicia to the dance and she laughs in my face, making comments about Mr. Ed, as her new friends join in the laughter. My number one fear is history repeating itself. I imagine history repeating itself with Moss. What if I dream of Moss’ cave again and instead of dreaming him back, I bring somebody else forward? My palms sweat at the thought of having two moms or two sisters in the house.
Katie takes off the mustache cream and proceeds to peel off the bright purple facial mask. This shocks me out of my current fear. If I had a camera I could put myself through college with the blackmail money.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. All that purple stuff is making me sick.
“Suit yourself,” she says, blowing a bright pink bubble with her gum. She glances over at the television. “Hey, that kid looks like you,” she says. A special report is on and they’re showing footage of the robbery. The convenience store must have had a security camera. They show Moss head-butting the robber in the stomach and are giving a number to call if anyone knows him.
I scream. Katie jumps.
“Why are you on TV?” Katie asks. “And who is that kid with you and Dex?”
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
“Mom’s going to kill you,” she says. Total satisfaction is written on her purple-tinged face.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. I rush down the hallway, Coltrane nipping at my heels. I can’t believe the one thing I was trying to hide—Moss—is splattered all over the television screen. Several thoughts rush at me at once, all involving the end of life as I know it.
Just when I don’t think things could get any worse, I go back into my room where Moss has a surprise for me. I stagger at the sight and cover my eyes. I slowly open my fingers. Every single wall in my room is covered with life-size drawings of animals. “Oh. My God!” Katie is right. Mom is going to kill me. Or at the very least she’s going to ship me away to relatives in the Hungary. I swallow another scream and close the door behind me.
“Moss, what have you done?” I yell in a half-whisper.
Moss drops the markers and jumps up on the window sill as if preparing to leap out to save himself.
“No, it’s okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say. I pull him away from the window.
This latest surprise takes all the wind out of me. I slide down the wall at the feet of two six-feet-tall woolly mammoths whose tusks are locked in battle. I sit in the floor on a pile of dirty clothes and books and look up at the walls. It is a panoramic view of Moss’ world and what a world it is. Strange creatures fly in the sky. Dark clouds are on the horizon, as the sun comes up over mountains. The drawings are large and vivid against the white walls. Life-size pictures of horses, reindeer and bison are in full gallop, chased by hunter’s arrows. Moss is in the picture, too, standing next to a large cave overlooking a meadow and watching the herds. Next to Moss is me, complete with baseball cap and saxophone. At the bottom right corner is Moss’ handprint, like he’s signed the painting.
“Unbelievable,” I say to Moss.
He looks at me like he wants me to say more.
“They’re fantastic,” I say.
He smiles, pleased with his first art review. Then he tilts his head like he’s listening for a herd of giant elk. I can hear it, too. Footsteps up the stairs, two stairs at a time, as the most dangerous predator in the world approaches my bedroom cave. I break out in an immediate sweat.
“Lay down on the bed,” I tell Moss. He does what I say. I throw a bunch of dirty clothes over him and rush for the door, but my mom beats me to it. She bursts into my room like a mountain lion cornering her prey.
“Quentin Timothy Moss,” The Voice says.
I know I’m in deep dinosaur do-do if she uses my full name. But then her face goes white and she looks like she might faint when she sees the life-size drawings on the wall. Considering the tiniest crayon marks on my walls warranted no Sesame Street for a week when I was little, I can’t imagine what this will cost me. I may not get to watch television again until my grandchildren are out of college—provided I live past this moment.
She stares at the life-size murals, her mouth open in a silent scream. I wait for her to ignite rocket boosters, hit the ceiling and go through the roof. Instead I am surrounded by an eerie silence that is much scarier than ten thousand rocket boosters. Under the dirty clothes, I hear the faint sound of Moss gagging, as if the smell has gotten to him. I start to hum The Battle Hymn of the Republic to cover up the sound.
“Quentin, what have you done?” The Voice says much softer than I expect.
“I can explain,” I say.
She stares at Moss’ drawings like someone drawn to the scene of a bad accident. I search my mind for an explanation that will keep me from becoming extinct. My heart is racing and my throat is very dry from all the humming.
“We’re st-studying c-cave paintings in school,” I stutter. “It’s a school project. But I guess I got c- c- carried away.” She knows I’m lying; I always stutter when I lie.
Moss moves under the clothes. I take a flying leap toward the bed, landing on top of him. He grunts when I land. I grunt, too, so Mom will think it was me. Then Coltrane sta
rts sniffing where Moss is hiding. I push Cole away and toss a pair of dirty boxer shorts in his direction. He buries his head in the crotch with a satisfied sniff.
“Quentin, I’m worried about you,” The Voice says. “I’ve never known you to be so, so primitive.”
“I just got carried away, Mom. I’ll paint over it, I promise.”
The body squirms underneath me. I do a cover-up squirm. Pretty soon I’m gyrating like an army of red ants is under me.
The Voice tells me to stop and then gives me The Look.
I apologize and thump down hard on the bed to send the message to Moss that we’re both in danger of rapid extinction. Meanwhile, my mom can’t stop staring at the paintings. The last time I saw her stunned this bad was the day after Dad announced his plans to run away with the blueberry pancake lady.
The Voice asks what all my dirty clothes are doing on the bed. She walks over like she’s going to fold it up and put it away.
“I was cold,” I say. I pile the clothes higher without revealing Moss. Coltrane thinks I’m playing and begins to grab at clothes and growl. I throw a pillow at him and he stops.
“It’s eighty degrees in here,” my mom says. “Why in the world would you be cold? Are you sick?” She feels my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
I grunt and give her a shrug that Moss would be proud of. “I’ll get started on my room right away,” I say. I clear a path to the door like I’m rolling out the red carpet for her.
The Voice says we’ll talk about this more tomorrow. I can tell she’s still dazed by the pictures on the wall as she walks out.
As soon as Mom leaves I lock the door, and Moss throws off mounds of dirty clothes, taking in big gulps of fresh air.
“That was really close,” I say.
“Close,” Moss says.
In the next instant I remember the television report. “I’ve got to call Dex,” I say.
Moss smiles. I think he likes Dex.
Since I’m not allowed to have a cell phone until next year, I grab the portable phone down the hall and bring it to my room. “Have you seen the news?” I ask Dex.
“No,” he says. “Why?”
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