Just J (12 page)

My physical change doesn't go unnoticed by Connor, who at least tries to be subtle, looking away when I catch him staring at my chest, which is more than I can say for his brother, who I've christened Mullet Boy.

Mullet Boy is three years older than Connor. He's already showing the effects of the short-order kitchen, but not as much as his “Monkey” or Monk, as Mullet Boy calls him. They both stare and stare at my chest, which is why I now wear Aunt Guin's jean jacket if I know they're going to be around.

Monk is the same age as Mullet Boy. He would be taller if he didn't slouch all the time, not wanting to show Mullet Boy up as he follows him around, repeating the last part of whatever Mullet Boy says.

I'd think Parrot would be a more appropriate name than Monkey if it weren't for the way his unusually long arms swing loosely at his sides, bringing his knuckles danger–ously close to the ground.

They're always torturing Connor, calling him names, hitting him on the back of the head. Sometimes Monk will sit on him, which I'm sure falls into the cruel and unusual punishment category. I try to get Connor to tell his parents.

“What for? A three-day reprieve in return for an endless barrage of ‘Tattletale, tattletale, tied to a bull's tale, when the bull begins to pee, you shall have a cup of tea,'” he says, making an idiotic face and putting on the stupidest voice ever. “Well, no tea for me, thank you very much.”

“He doesn't really say that, does he?”

“Yes,” Connor says, “he's done it since we were kids. He knows how much it bugs me so he keeps doing it.”

“So don't let it bug you,” I tell him before I can stop myself from echoing what I'd heard from so many clueless adults.

He shoots me an
easy for you to say
glare before turning away. I get the feeling I'm not the first person to offer him this completely useless piece of advice.

Connor isn't big enough to be able to protect himself phys–ically. He's got his father's build and metabolism—neither of them are the least bit affected by calories. It's quite annoying. Connor's dad is a little shorter than Connor, who's only about five foot six. His dad's very friendly, but also sort of mouse-like, maybe because his wife weighs twice as much as he does.

As Connor's mom leaves the tv room, she gives the dog, a big black lab that sits on the couch beside me, a little swat on the nose, which is making its way up to my plate.

“And I've told you about your begging enough times too,” she tells the dog.

Connor's family has two dogs—the Lab, Fred, and a German shepherd named Barney—who bookend us on the couch. Barney's older and pays no attention to the food at all. But Fred puts his chin on my lap, staring up at me with his big sad brown eyes, which make me feel that I'm neglecting him by not sharing. I give him some of my fries to alleviate my guilt.

They also have three cats—Pebbles, Bam Bam and Gazoo—so the house is far from pristine. But there's a comfort and a freedom in the air that are stronger than the smells, which really aren't
that
bad. That is, of course, until Mullet Boy enters, with Monk a few steps behind.

“Hey,” Mullet Boy says, reaching over and grabbing a handful of Connor's fries before he sits down.

“Hey,” Monk says as he reaches for some of my fries.

My scowl stops him and he retreats to just behind Mullet Boy's chair.

“What you girls doin'?” Mullet Boy drones.

“Yeah, you girls,” Monk repeats.

“Discussing the laws of quantum physics and how they affect space and time. Care to weigh in on the subject?” I say. Television, you great teacher, you.

Mullet Boy stares blankly as Monk looks to him for guidance.

“Yeah and what do you do in the dunes?” he asks, staring at my chest.

“The dunes
,
” Monk repeats, followed by a snorting laugh that reminds me of Martha. I picture Monk's hand sliding down the back of his droopy jeans and I'm com–pletely put off my food. I set the plate down on the floor, and Fred pounces on the burger, quickly followed by Monk. They each get half, Monk's half being ripped from Fred's mouth.

My hands free, I pull my jacket closed and cross my arms. It doesn't stop Mullet Boy from staring. Monk's more interested in his burger.

“You probably build sand castles and play with Barbies,”

Mullet Boy continues.

“Barbies,” Monk says.

“Shut up,” Connor yells at his brother.

“Shut up,” Monk repeats, too distracted by his burger to be able to keep track of who is saying what.

Mullet Boy gives him a dirty look. Then he punctuates the look with a quick punch to Monk's leg, giving him a charley horse and causing Monk to drop the rest of his burger, which Fred quickly snatches.

Monk swings at the dog, trying to pass the punishment along, but Fred's too quick for him, resuming his place beside me on the couch while looking at Monk with what I'm sure is a victory smile. Fred's panting takes on the rhythm of
nya
nya nya nya nya.

Mullet Boy jumps to his feet, pretends to launch himself at Connor, stops and then pretends to lunge again.

“We'll get ya,” he says, then looks at me. “Both of ya.”

He raises his eyebrows and smiles.

“Both of ya,” Monk repeats, still holding his leg. Mullet Boy punches him in the arm. He winces but doesn't respond.

Mullet Boy saunters out of the room with Monk in hobbling tow.

Chapter Twenty-two

E
very morning, Connor and I search for the lost dance hall. But we are no closer to finding it than we were at the beginning of the summer. It's our final week, so we're redoubling our efforts, while still making sure that we aren't followed by the not-so-dynamic duo and that our bikes are especially well hidden.

Aunt Guin and I haven't talked all week. I've done my best to avoid her. Art tries to talk to me, but I avoid him also. I still help out, but I work by myself. The furniture is coming today, and I don't want to be there when it arrives, so I get an extra early start and meet up with Connor on the dunes just after sunrise. He's managed to get hold of a couple of wide-brimmed Tilley hats and a couple of Tilley shirts—proper explorer gear for sand dunes. Connor has the afternoon off, and I have no intention of going back to see the house being decorated—with some of my ideas—to increase its profitability. With walking sticks in hand, we set off.

It's nearly noon when we hear it. All morning we've been carefully searching—sticking our walking sticks into the sand to see if they hit anything, hoping for that dull
clunk
you hear in the movies when a shovel hits a treasure chest or a coffin.

We take our quest to the bigger dunes that lie at the tip of the peninsula.

I sit with my feet in the water, a few meters from Connor, my walking stick by my side, trying to cool myself, when…

THUD, THUD
.

“I think I found something,” Connor yells excitedly.

He's digging into the dune with his hands. I leave the walking stick, run over to him and push both my hands into the dune.

“Dig, dig,” he says, the sand filling in the hole as quickly as we try to empty it.

And then we hear another something.

“What are you girls doin'?”

“Yeah, you girls.”

I turn around and see Mullet Boy and Monk. They leave a trail in the sand as they drag their way over to us, neither of them having the ambition to lift their feet when they walk.

Connor doesn't bother to turn around; he only lowers his head and shakes it. I stand up and walk a few meters to meet them.

“Leave us alone, Mullet Boy.” It's the first time I've called him that to his face, and he doesn't seem to find it as amusing as I do.

He moves, pulling his right hand over his left shoulder like he's going to backhand me, but when the hand comes around, it grabs my shoulder and pushes me down onto the beach.

Connor gets up and runs to my defense, but Mullet Boy uses Connor's forward momentum against him, simply moving aside while sticking his foot out. He gives Connor a hard push on his back, which sends him tumbling to the ground near Monk, who promptly sits on Connor and washes his face with sand.

While Connor spits sand out of his mouth, Mullet Boy drives his fist into the dune where we were digging. With some struggle, he pulls out a piece of driftwood. Connor and I both sigh with disappointment.

“This what you were looking for?” he mocks.

“Looking for?”

Connor puts his forearm under his forehead, hiding his face.

“We're looking for Moonlight Palace,” I say.

Connor looks up at me with a
what'd you tell them that
for?
expression.

Mullet Boy laughs and Monk echoes it, without getting the joke.

“A fairy chasing a fairy tale,” Mullet Boy says. “That's funny.”

“Funny,” Monk repeats.

“Be like you looking for a donkey,” I say.

Mullet Boy looks at me, not understanding.

“Don't need to hear from the princess who lives with the circus act,” he says, which brings me to my feet.

“Circus act,” Monk mimics.

“I don't live with a circus act,” I say.

“A woman who's a carpenter and a pasty-faced weirdo?

Sounds like a circus act to me.”

“Pasty face,” Monk says, bringing my blood to a boil, as Aunt Milly would say.

Mullet Boy pulls out a Zippo lighter and starts playing with it, reminding me of Bam Bam's singed fur and Connor's remark about the cat's tail.

“Now,” Mullet Boy says, staring at my chest. I don't have my jacket to shield myself with, “what do you want to do for fun, Monk?”

“For fun,” Monk says, also staring at me.

Connor struggles hard to get out from under Monk's massive weight but to no avail.

I begin to shake with anger as Mullet Boy takes a step closer.

“Look, Monk, circus girl's trembling with excitement.”

“Excitement,” says Monk.

Mullet Boy gets a little closer. “Thinks it's her lucky day.”

And with that, the past, the present and the future come together: my fear of them and my anger at them; my rage at my abandonment; the knowledge that you can do anything if you take it one microsecond at a time. I visualize what I'm about to do, seeing it clearly in my mind before making my first move, and then… My foot hooks under the walking stick. With a quick kick it's in my hand, and with a fast swing it's between Mullet Boy's legs. As he hunches over I swing it again, taking him hard in the chin. He flies to the side, dropping face-first in the sand. I pirouette over him and bring the butt end of the stick into Monk's chest, sending him backward and freeing Connor, who goes for the other walking stick.

I stand sideways, legs apart, one arm stretched in front, the other holding the stick that's tucked into my armpit. In this crouching tiger stance, I look Monk dead in the eyes.

“You are not ready for the fight you have started,” I say.

“Leave now or meet a most painful demise.”

People really do underestimate the educational value of movies and television.

“Yeah,” Connor says.

“Demise?” Monk says, turning to Mullet Boy—who's already halfway up the dune.

“Wait,” Monk yells after him, scrambling to his feet and waddling as fast as he can to get back into position behind Mullet Boy.

“I'll get you for this, Connor,” Mullet Boy yells from the safety of the dune's crown.

“Do, and everyone will know that you got your butt kicked—by a girl!” Connor yells back.

“Yeah!” Mullet Boy shouts. “Well…you're lucky.”

I raise my stick and they disappear over the top.

“That was awesome,” Connor says. I start to cry.

“What's wrong?” Connor asks. “We won.”

I don't know what's wrong. I just know I can't stop crying.

I drop to my knees and Connor puts his arm awkwardly around me. I fall into his chest and I cry and cry.

Chapter Twenty-three

T
he desire to find Moonlight Palace has been knocked out of me, and I tell Connor that I'm willing to admit defeat. He reluctantly agrees that conceding failure is the wisest course of action. Aunt Guin would not approve.

The disappointment, the battle and my tears have taken the best out of us and we make our way to a shady area at the top of the last dune at the tip of the peninsula. We sit there, staring out over the lake, letting its calmness sink into us. I have no sense of time passing or of there being a world outside of this one—sand, water, trees, gulls, me and Connor. Looking at the clear blue sky, I think that heaven must be a lot like this place—without Mullet Boy and Monk, of course— and I can almost understand why Mom wanted to go there.

But she didn't want to go, she didn't want to leave me, she had no choice. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse.

I lie down and Connor lies quietly beside me as the future starts creeping toward us.

“I don't want to leave,” I confess.

Connor doesn't say anything in reply. He just reaches over, grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. I let him; I even squeeze back, and then I drift into sleep.

When Connor wakes me up, the sun is gone, replaced by a full moon that's almost as bright.

“Why didn't you wake me sooner?” I ask.

“I fell asleep too,” he tells me. “We'd better take the trail through the woods,” he adds, collecting our things.

I look at the forest, which doesn't seem at all welcoming at night, no matter how bright the moon.

“You sure?”

“It'll cut our travel time in half,” he states.

The forest becomes more sinister the farther in we venture. Dancing evening shadows make room for their deadly, older, larger and darker siblings. The black, distorted reflections of trees cover large patches of the forest floor, blocking the silver blue moonlight that offers our only source of light or comfort.