Saturday Boy (4 page)

Ms. Dickson didn't say anything. Was that it? I hoped that was it. I put my jacket on and zipped it up all the way. Maybe if she couldn't see my shirt she'd forget about it.

“Is someone coming to pick you up?”

“My aunt Josie doesn't have a car right now because she was in an accident and it's being fixed and my mom's at work.”

“So no?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do then, I wonder.”

I thought about it for a minute and realized there wasn't much I
could
do. Calling Mom was out. Calling Aunt Josie was out, too, because she'd just turn around and call my mom anyway. Walking was out. It was too far. What else was there? Taxi? Jet pack? Hovercycle? I suddenly felt like I might throw up. I looked at Ms. Dickson and shrugged.

“Come along then,” she said. “I'll take you home.”

Ms. Dickson started to walk away toward the parking lot. I must have been hearing things because it had sounded like she said she'd take me home and that couldn't be right. I didn't even think that was possible. Budgie said that if teachers get too far away from school they blow up. I watched Ms. Dickson. She seemed okay. I couldn't hear ticking or anything.

“For pity's sake, Derek, stop dawdling!” she said.

I grabbed my bag and ran after her. The barfy feeling was gone and I felt lighter—like I could fly almost. Budgie's plan had backfired and I was going home and nobody would have to call anybody and nobody would get in trouble and as I got into the back of Ms. Dickson's car I swore I'd try to never let Budgie get to me again and this time I meant it.

Ms. Dickson's car was kinda like my mom's only it was clean and didn't smell like hot dogs. There weren't any soda cups on the floor or fish cracker crumbs in the seats. I got the feeling that there hadn't been any kids in Ms. Dickson's car in a long time.

“Where do you live?”

“In a house. Sorry. A
white
house.”

“I meant what is your address?”

I told her but before she started the car she took out her cell phone, handed it to me, and asked me to call home and explain to Aunt Josie what was going on. Aunt Josie listened while I spoke. Then she spoke to Ms. Dickson. When Ms. Dickson was done she started the car and backed out of the parking space. She drove the car for a while and didn't say anything, which was fine with me. I figured it would be strange talking to her outside the classroom. I mean, I barely had anything to say when I was
in
the classroom so it wasn't like I would suddenly have all this stuff to talk about now that I was out of it.

“I taught your father, you know.”

“What?”

“I was your father's English teacher when he was in the eighth grade,” said Ms. Dickson. “We read
Catcher in the Rye
that year. Some of us did, anyway.”

“My dad? Really?”

I had never really thought about what my dad was like when he was younger. I bet he was cool, though, like with slicked-back hair and a motorcycle. And sunglasses. I bet he had sunglasses. All cool guys had sunglasses.

“What was he like?”

“There are two students I remember very well from that year because it was my first year teaching in this district and Jason Lamb is one of them.”

I smiled when Ms. Dickson said my dad's name because I didn't hear it a lot. Mom always called him Bunny.

“Your father wasn't a great student. He wasn't a
bad
student, necessarily . . . just not a great one. The thing about your father, Derek, is that he always did his best. And no matter how bad the situation, no matter how frustrated he might get, he wouldn't let anything beat him. He was also a good
person.
He had a good
heart.
And in the end . . . well . . . let's just say that in the end we are judged not upon the strength of Holden Caulfield's character but upon our own.”

“Was he the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“You said you remembered two students from that year—my dad and some other guy. Was he the other guy? Was he a good person, too?”

“Holden Caulfield is the main character in one of the greatest works of American literature of the twentieth century,” Ms. Dickson said. “Whereas Rory McReady threw his desk at me on more than one occasion.”

“So Holden Caulfield wasn't the other guy.”

“No.”

It was weird listening to Ms. Dickson talk about stuff other than math or reading. It was weird that she knew my dad. It was weird that she
liked
my dad because I liked my dad, too, and let me tell you—having something in common with Ms. Dickson was the weirdest part of all.

“What's he doing these days?” she said.

I told her how my dad was far away in Afghanistan flying helicopters for the army and how it had been eight months, one week, and four days since he was home and how before that I hadn't seen him much since I was five. I also told her that the last time he came home he was supposed to stay home and we even had a big party with cake and two kinds of ice cream but then one day he got a letter in the mail and he had to go back.

Ms. Dickson got quiet all of a sudden and I sort of got the feeling she was frowning. Not like she was mad, though. It was more like she was sad or like she was thinking.

“Eight months, one week, and four days is a long time not to see your father.”

“We write letters back and forth so it's not so bad,” I said.

Ms. Dickson got quiet again and she stayed that way until we got to my house. She stopped the car and turned around in her seat and looked at me with a funny expression on her face like the one Mom gets when I'm sad or I've hurt myself. She looked at me like that for what seemed like a long time. It made me a little uncomfortable. I pulled my book bag into my lap.

“I hafta go now, Ms. Dickson,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she said.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“You're welcome. Oh, and Derek?”

“Yes?”

“The next time you write your father could you tell him Ms. Dickson is thinking of him?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my aunt Josie standing on the front stoop. You can tell my mom and my aunt Josie are sisters because they look exactly the same when they're getting impatient.

“I really gotta go now. My aunt's waiting.”

“What are you doing talking to me then? Shoo! Shoo!”

I got out of the car. I'd never heard Ms. Dickson talk like that—like a regular person, I mean. Usually no matter what she says she sounds like a teacher. I waved good-bye to her as she drove away.

WE HAD OUR FIRST
meeting for
A Christmas Carol
in the middle school cafeteria which meant I had to hoof it all the way from Ms. Dickson's classroom at the end of the fifth grade hallway to the other end of the school past the auditorium and along the hallway that connected the two buildings and I know that might not sound far but it was. Believe me.

Mr. Putnam was late and Violet and I had to listen to all the middle schoolers talk about middle school stuff, which, after a while, was really starting to terrify me. Dances? Permanent records? My mind whirled. I was pretty sure no one had even
tried
to tell us about those things. Violet and I sat there, not really looking at each other or saying anything. I was getting tired of listening to middle school stuff.

“Did you watch
Zeroman
last night?” I asked Violet.

“What's that?”

“
Zeroman
. You know. The TV show?”

“Oh. No.”

“You probably watch
Jenny Rainbow and the Starlight Pony Squad
, right?”

“No.”

“
A Dog Named Cat
?”

“No.”

“What do you watch then?”

“Nothing.”

“Cable out?”

“No.”

“What's wrong with your TV?”

“Nothing,” said Violet. “We don't have one.”

She might have said more things after that but I stopped listening. I couldn't help it. Not seeing
Zeroman
was one thing, but not having a TV at all? What did her family do to pass the time—read? Talk to each other? It just didn't seem right. I was still wondering what Violet and her family did without a television when the cafeteria doors banged open and Mr. Putnam entered.

Everything about him was big. He was tall and wide and big around the middle. His voice was big. Even his beard was big. The air seemed to get out of his way when he moved. He sat at an empty table, cracked his knuckles, and opened his briefcase. He took out a bundle of papers and held it up.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is a copy of the script,” he boomed. “In time you will each have your own to work from but since I seem to have broken the copy machine, today we have six.”

Some of the middle schoolers laughed. Mr. Putnam stroked his beard and cracked his knuckles again.

“Come, gather round, gather round,” he said, waving us all to the table. “Most of you were probably too busy to notice but we are joined today by Monsieur Derek Lamb and Mademoiselle Violet Gardener from Ms. Dickson's fifth-grade class. Please join me in welcoming them.”

My cheeks got hot and I put my head down a little. I was starting to wonder if this whole thing was a mistake when the strangest thing happened—Mr. Putnam and all of the middle schoolers stood up and
clapped their hands
!

A kid next to me who I'd never seen before even put his hand out so I could shake it. Some of the girls were giving Violet hugs and Violet had a big smile on her face and was hugging them back. Mr. Putnam thumped me on the back and I swear my skeleton almost jumped out. It was weird. I didn't think anyone had been that happy to meet me before.

That afternoon we did a read-through, which is where you just sit and read the script out loud for the first time. Me and Violet were in only one scene and it was a small one. It was the one where the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back in time to when he was a little boy trapped alone in a schoolhouse on Christmas Eve and had to be rescued by his sister. I was going to be Young Scrooge, and as if being rescued by a girl wasn't bad enough, Young Scrooge is
so
happy that he
embraces
her. I had a pretty good idea of what embracing was but wasn't completely sure. I hoped it wasn't what I was thinking of.

“Trouble with the script, Mr. Lamb?”

Mr. Putnam was looking at me with a raised eyebrow. I'd noticed a lot of people had been looking at me like that lately.

“Um . . . embracing?”

“Yes?”

“That's like hugging, right?”

“Yes. Only more so.”

So it
was
what I was thinking of. Great. Couldn't Young Scrooge and his sister fist-bump or high-five instead? Couldn't they just shake hands? What kind of weirdo hugged his sister, anyway? It didn't seem right. Violet and all the others were looking at me, waiting for me to do something.

“Right. Okay. Embracing. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! I love embracing things. I'm like a professional embracer.”

Mr. Putnam's eyebrow came down as the other one went up. I'd never seen that before. He stroked his beard and cracked his knuckles. There was a funny little grin on his face and I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

“Seriously,” I said. “I'll embrace you right here.”

He put up his hands.

“Easy, tiger,” he said. “We hardly know each other.”

Some of the middle schoolers laughed and Mr. Putnam was smiling and that's how I knew it was okay and they weren't being mean. He was just being funny. I sort of laughed a little then, too, even though I didn't really get it. After the read-through this kid named Desmond asked Mr. Putnam when the next practice would be and he said, “Desi, me boy . . .
jocks
practice. But actors, oh . . . actors
rehearse
!”

Mr. Putnam rolled the
r
the way Señora Cruz likes us to when we're doing Spanish. I couldn't do it right. Either I wouldn't roll the
r
enough or I'd roll it too much and end up spitting on someone by accident. Don't ask me how it happened but it did.

The rehearsal ended and I walked with Violet out to the front of the school and we sat on a bench by the turnaround. Mr. Putnam had given us a script to share and Violet had her nose in it, reading scenes we weren't even in. I'd also caught her paying attention during the read-through while I'd been trying unsuccessfully to solve her television problem.

“So what
do
you do?” I said.

“About what?”

“About not having a TV,” I said. “I mean, how does that even happen?”

“My parents don't believe in it,” said Violet. “They say it rots your brain.”

“No way! That's what
my
mom says!”

“Is your mom a professor, too?”

“No, she's a nurse. Wait—are
both
your parents professors?”

“Yes.”

“So is it like school all the time?”

“No,” said Violet. “It's just normal.”

“Well, not
normal.
I mean, you don't have a TV and TVs are pretty normal. Seriously, you can ask anybody.”

A car pulled into the turnaround and the horn beeped twice.

“That's my dad, Derek, I gotta go,” said Violet. “See you tomorrow.”

Violet put the script in her book bag and stood up and walked to the car. She opened the door and got in. Before Violet could shut her door I shouted, “What do you do for fun? Flash cards?”

Only I wasn't teasing. I really wanted to know. Violet closed the door and waved as the car drove away. My mom's car pulled into the turnaround a few minutes later. I opened the door and got in and put my book bag on the seat next to me and buckled up.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

Only it wasn't Mom.

“Oh hey, Aunt Josie. Where's Mom?”

Aunt Josie looked at me in the rearview mirror. She was wearing her glasses with the black frames—her Clark Kent glasses as she called them. I'd put them on once to see how cool I looked but it was so blurry I could barely even see the mirror. Man, Aunt Josie was
blind.

She started to say something but had to stop and clear her throat and start again. Her smile didn't look right. It looked on purpose.

“She's at home. She's, um . . . not feeling well, sweetie, and she asked me to come get you. Cool?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“If you didn't have a TV what would you do for fun?”

“I don't know. Paint, I guess. Cook? Why do you ask?”

I told her about Violet and about how her parents were professors and how they didn't have a TV.

“Do you think Violet cooks?” I asked.

“I don't know, Derek.”

“I know she likes to read. What else do you think she does?”

“I don't know, Derek. I've never met her.”

“Maybe she likes gardening.”

“Maybe . . .”

“You think so?”

“Dude, I don't know her.”

“She's Violet. From my class.”

“Wanna listen to some music?” Aunt Josie said suddenly. “I've got some stuff in here you haven't heard yet.”

She selected a CD and a track number and turned it up before I could answer. I looked out the window and wondered if Violet liked punk rock because I sure didn't. I tried not to listen and thought about who would win a fight between Hammerfist and Deathpunch instead.

I considered all the variables—individual martial arts expertise, Deathpunch's quickness versus Hammerfist's strength and mutant healing factor—I even broke down their training, upbringing, and dojo affiliation. It went back and forth and there still wasn't a clear winner by the time we got home.

My mom wasn't in the kitchen when we came in. She wasn't in the living room, either. She was in her bedroom with the lights off, all curled up on the bed. Aunt Josie went and sat next to her. I heard her whisper my mom's name a couple times and when she didn't answer Aunt Josie pulled the quilt from the foot of the bed and tucked it in around her so she wouldn't get cold. Then she came back out into the hallway and closed the door.

“Looks like it's just us for dinner,” she said. “You up for some Pizza Jungle? You can have whatever toppings you want.”

“Even jalapeños?”

Mom never let me get jalapeños because she said I wouldn't like them and it would be wasteful, which, of course, made me want them even more. I kinda figured it was now or never.

“
Half
,” said Aunt Josie. “And I'll throw in an order of cheesy breadsticks.”

“Extra dipping sauce?”

“Deal,” she said, handing me the phone. “But you have to call and order it.”

I called Pizza Jungle and ordered a large, half-jalapeño, half-mushroom pizza and cheesy breadsticks with extra dipping sauce. Then I lay on the floor in the living room and did homework while Aunt Josie talked on the phone in the kitchen. When the guy from Pizza Jungle showed up she took the phone and left the room.

Pizza Jungle was my favorite because the delivery guys wore these funny gorilla masks and they had monkeys driving the delivery vans in the commercials. The pizza was pretty good, too. I paid for dinner with money Aunt Josie had left on the kitchen table and then got plates and glasses off the drying rack by the sink and milk from the fridge.

By the time Aunt Josie came to the table I'd already eaten most of the cheesy breadsticks and a slice of the jalapeño pizza. It was different from how I thought it would be. And not really in a good way. Aunt Josie sat down and picked up a slice of mushroom.

“Wanna try some jalapeño?”

“Why? Don't you like it?” she said.

“What? No, it's great! It's awesome!” I said. “Just . . . you should have some before I eat it all.”

“No thanks.”

“You're sure?”

“Derek, I'm crashing on the pull-out couch tonight, cool?”

Usually it was great when Aunt Josie stayed over because in the morning she would make this kind of French toast that's all crunchy on the outside, but something told me that this time there wouldn't be any. It didn't seem like it was going to be that kind of visit. She had a bite of her pizza and put the slice back in the box and closed the lid.

“Guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was,” she said.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“You can pick the peppers off if you want to. It's okay if you don't like them.”

“No, I like them! I just . . . I feel a little bit full.”

“Derek.”

“I don't like them,” I said. “They made my head sweat so much I thought I was melting.”

“Wow. That's hot.”

“Yeah, it was like biting into the
sun
!”

“No way!”

“Yes way,” I said. “Can I be excused?”

“Did you get enough to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“What about veggies?”

“What?”

“Did you get any veggies?”

“Jalapeños are veggies,” I said. “And the dipping sauce is made from tomatoes.”

After I'd cleared my plate and put the pizza box in the fridge I went into the living room and found the remote and turned on the TV.
Zeroman
was going to be on soon. It was the episode where Zeroman is captured by the evil Dr. Mayhem, who has built a mind-switching machine and plans to switch minds with Zeroman so he can get close to the president, capture him, and then switch minds with
him
and take over the world. I'd only seen the episode four times before, though, so I was a little fuzzy on the details.