Hellhole (35 page)

She smirked. “Can we eat it in the whale?”

Max almost kissed her right then and there. “I—yes. Of course.”

They went outside and lowered themselves, then the cake, inside. Light from the full moon streamed in through the open porthole.

“Crap,” Max said. “I didn't grab silverware. Should I go get some?”

“No. I forbid you.”

“Then how do we eat this thing?”

“Like this.” Lore dug her hand into the gooey, half-baked dough, rolled it into a disgusting-looking ball, and held it up in the air. Max did the same, making a mental note to encourage more Mom-Lore bonding, since they seemed to share a fondness for utensil-free eating.

They clinked the blobs together as if they were champagne flutes. “Go team go,” Lore said.

She shoved the abomination into her mouth, then proceeded to moan with delight as she chewed. Max took a more modest bite, but had the same reaction. “Oh, man. That
is
good.”

“Glad you agree.”

“Hey, does loving cookie cake count as a common interest?” Max asked.

“I don't think so. I think it just means we're both pigs.”

“Okay. Well, we should keep looking, then. I still think you should give model dinosaurs a try.”

“You are aware of my feelings on model dinosaurs. Want another glob?”

“Yes.”

Lore scooped up another clawful and plopped it into his hand. “Now, here's an important question: You're committed to finishing this whole cake, right?”

“Absolutely. We deserve every single calorie.”

She snorted. “Like you have to worry about calories.”

“And you do?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh.”

Max's heart thumped double time. Dead Noah or not, he knew what he was going to say. He was powerless to stop it. “Well,” he said carefully, “I think you're perfect.”

Lore was quiet for a moment. The cicadas swelled and faded, swelled and faded.

“You know the moon?” she said out of nowhere.

“The . . . one in the sky?”

“That's the one.”

“I've heard of it, yeah.”

“So . . . like . . .” She waved her hands around, casting about for the right words. “You think you know the moon pretty well, right? It's big and white and circular, or sometimes half or crescent. You know?”

“Sure.”

“Well, there was this one time—” She paused to grab more cookie off the plate. “I went with Noah's family on vacation to Cape Cod a couple of years ago. And the town we were staying in had fireworks on the beach every Friday night. So we went down to the beach and sat on our blanket, and even though it was summer, it was cold at night, you know? So we were huddled all together on the blanket, and I was digging my feet into the sand, and we were waiting for the fireworks to start.”

She took a big bite of cookie, so her mouth was full as she spoke. “But instead of looking at the spot on the beach where the fireworks were set up, everyone started to look out at the water. Because the ocean was starting to . . . glow. A weird red color, just on the horizon. There were some clouds, so it was hazy. But then it got stronger and brighter. It looked like a nuclear bomb had gone off and we were witnessing a genuine mushroom cloud, and then, just when it looked like it couldn't get any brighter, a light pierced through the clouds. It was the moon. A full moon, rising right up over the ocean.”

Her bit of cookie was gone, but this time she didn't reach for more. “And like I said—I thought I knew the moon. But turns out, I didn't know the moon at all. I'd never met this version of the moon. Because this one was red, then orange, then gold—this furious, unstoppable gold that was pissed it never got to be seen. And it was
huge.
You know how sometimes you see the sun at sunset and it seems really big? The moon was even bigger than that. It was enormous. It lit up the beach. And everyone just sat there in awe. The kids stopped waving their sparklers. The adults stopped drinking their wine. Everyone stopped to watch the moon.”

Max's chest got tight. He loved her so much right then, he couldn't trust himself to speak.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“I like you.”

“I like you too.”

“No, I mean—well, in the words of your average seven-year-old, I
like you
like you.”

Max's heart thumped triple time. “Oh.”

“And you like me like me too, right?”

Max swallowed. His throat was dry.

“Yes,” he said. “How could you tell?”

“It's kinda obvious.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“So I like you and you like me.”

“Correct.”

“But I still really miss Noah.”

“I know.”

“So we'll have to take this very slow.”

Max felt lightheaded. “Okay,” he said.

Hold her hand,
Burg had said.

So he did, slipping his gooey fingers into her gooey fingers.

“How's that?” he asked.

A pause.

“Perfect.”

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A WEEK
Max got a full night's sleep. He woke up feeling as fresh as a daisy (the friendliest flower, according to
You've Got Mail
). Everything seemed to exude a rosy glow; his teeth seemed whiter, his nose seemed smaller, even his hair seemed to resemble a hat that
didn't
have a brim.

He buoyantly skipped into his mother's room to wish her a good day, though he had a strong inkling that she'd be having one regardless. “How do you feel?” he asked, way too earnestly.

She gave him an odd look. “Uh, fine. What's with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, grinning like a hyena. “Just checking in.” His fingers sprang out to her wrist. “How's that pulse? Feeling any stronger?”

“Doubt it. Same old pitter-patter of a three-legged kitten it's always been.”

“Well,” he said, winking, “who knows? Miracles can happen.”

She frowned. “Max, did you eat some expired meat?”

After assuring her that he was perfectly sane, he biked to school. And so began the Great Apology Tour of First Semester, wherein Max proceeded to beg amnesty from every teacher who had scolded him, berated him, or flunked him over the past week.

“I've been having trouble at home,” he said, which technically wasn't untrue.

In most cases his plaintive tone—plus the masterful way he was able to blink back watering eyes—earned him a “Well, just do better next time” or a “I'll let it go just this once” or, the most painful, “I'm disappointed in you, Max. Don't let it happen again.” He'd thank them profusely and sit upright at his desk, taking copious notes and asking thoughtful questions. He attended every one of his classes on time, with the utmost studious aptitude. He raised his hand so much some teachers politely asked him to stop.

He even poked his head into Principal Gregory's office to personally apologize for blowing her off. By the end of the day, he was convinced he'd undone most of the damage Burg's presence had wrought.

The only snag was Mrs. Rizzo. Once the room had cleared after class, he approached her podium and formed his face into the expression he'd come to think of as the Heartbreaker.

“Mrs. Rizzo, can I talk to you for a sec?” he asked, biting the inside of his lip until a tear sprang to his eye. “It's about the past week. I've been having some trouble at home, and—”

“Spare me.”

“W-what?”

She crossed her arms, unmoved. “I've been a teacher for thirty-three years, Mr. Kilgore. I know your kind. The innocent, meek students who think that a solid track record is enough to fall back on once senioritis hits. Or who think that they can make up sob stories, spinning tales of woe and sorrow and five or six dead grandmothers. Or maybe you're one of the ones who think that teachers are just plain idiots.”

She vaulted herself forward and towered over him. Max had never realized how tall she was.

“I'm not an idiot, Mr. Kilgore. I will not be changing your grades. You made some unfortunate choices. No matter the circumstances, you made them. And now you will have to live with the consequences of your actions.”

Max's hands started to shake. She was only talking about grades, of course. But her words resounded much deeper within him. The unease that had so lightly flitted away began to creep back in, more insidious this time, seeking out newer and smaller capillaries in which to hide.

“There will be a final test on
Hamlet
next Monday,” she said, going back to her desk. “I suggest you study.”

“I will,” Max said. “I'll be better now, I promise.”

But his words felt hollow.

 

He delivered the same song and dance to Stavroula when he got to work after school, but she'd just chased off another gas-and-dasher and wasn't in the mood.

“I'm not in the mood,” she huffed. “Probably same hooligans who steal snacks, throw off inventory. Headaches and scoundrels! Why I even bother?”

Max felt bad. Bad enough to slip some of the change from Flossie's administrative fees into the cash register when she wasn't looking.

“Well,
I
think you look ravishing today,” he told her, gesturing at her hair, which seemed poofier than normal.

“Is fake,” she said, but Max could tell she was pleased. “Something called weave. They say the kids wear it, but I no spring chicken! Bah.” She waved her hand and disappeared into the office.

That afternoon was one of the busiest shifts Max had ever worked at the Gas Bag, with an endless stream of customers coming in to stock up on supplies for the homecoming game and the tailgating parties that would precede it. By the time the sun went down, they'd already sold out of hot dog buns, frozen hamburger patties, and red plastic cups.

It was so crowded Max almost missed Paul's braces as they poked their way up to the counter. “Paulie boy!” he cried. “How's it going?”

“Good.” Paul gave him an odd wink. “The turkey's in the bag.”

“Huh?”

“The eagle is in the nest.”

“Paul. In English. Without bird metaphors.”

Paul stared at him. “Uh, the hole. I filled it all up.”

Max could have kissed him. “You have no idea what this means to me, Paul. Seriously. Here—” He dug through his pockets and pulled out more of Lore's money. “Here's a hundred bucks. That seem fair to you?”

Paul gawked at the bills on the counter, but as his mouth was in a constant state of gawking, it was difficult to tell the difference. “Um,
yeah.
”

Max was in such a good mood, he reached out and arranged the bills into a little dinosaur-shaped wad. “Here,” he said. “To the Super Fossil.”

“To the Super Fossil!”

And Max, no longer able to contain his gratitude, lunged over the counter to hug him.

 

Not five minutes after that, Lloyd Cobbler walked in.

“Oh! Hey!” Burg-Lloyd said as Max stared at him. “Didn't realize you still worked here. Shouldn't you have gotten fired, like, days ago?”

Max's previous jubilation all but disappeared. “What are you doing here?”

“Just came to load up on some supplies. Look the other way, would you?”

Reluctantly, Max pretended to bend down to tie his shoe. When he straightened up, all the Slim Jims were gone.

Max concentrated hard on not looking up at the security camera. “How's the house?”

“EPIC. You would not
believe
what that hot tub can do. I already had to clean out the filters twice.”

“Well, there's a lot of information I didn't need.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment.

“So I guess this is goodbye, huh?” Burg said.

Max wanted to grab him by the throat and pull him in close, but he settled for giving him a dark look. “Except my mom's heart still isn't fixed,” he spat. “When are you going to pencil that in?”

“
Soon,
I promise. Did I forget to mention that devils are notorious procrastinators?”

“Burg, I swear to God—”

“Kid, don't sweat it. I'm a man of my word! You helped me out, and . . .” He trailed off and looked at the floor, his voice taking on a more contemplative tone. “You really did help me out.”

He rubbed his sculpted chin. “I want you to know that I'm grateful for all the things you did for me. I know they weren't easy for a simple-minded mortal like you, and sometimes I wish things could be different . . .” He looked out the window, then back at Max. “But they aren't. So thank you. Is what I'm trying to say.”

“You're welcome. Just fix my mom, all right?”

Burg smiled harder. “Already on it.” Energized, he exited the store, dropping a couple of Slim Jims.