The Downside of Being Up (13 page)

“You, um, walking home?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “You?”

“Not sure,” I answered. “I mean, they want me to join the after-school nuclear physics team.”

“The after-school nuclear physics team?”

“Yeah,” I told her. “But with my jujitsu class and the cake-decorating course I already signed up for, well . . . sometimes it can be a bit much.”

“You decorate cakes, too?” she said with a grin.

“Not weddings,” I answered. “Just birthdays, graduations and anniversaries. Weddings don't present enough of a challenge.”

“Oh. I see.”

“But now that I think about it,” I told her, “walking you home is probably best for my bionic foot anyway.”

“You have a bionic foot?”

“Not one hundred percent,” I answered. “My toes are real.”

She laughed. How awesome was it that Dr. Cox had some sort of personal emergency that had forced her to cancel our regular Thursday after-school session? Talk about an awesome break.

Allison tore open a bag of peanut M&M's as we walked along.

“Oh, you came prepared, I see.”

She popped a blue M&M into her mouth.

“For me, maybe, not for you,” she teased, not offering me any. A moment later she smiled, then poured a few peanut M&M's into my hand.

“You got our tickets to the Big Dance, right?”

“Of course,” I answered. “Of course.”

Okay, so technically I still didn't have
our
tickets. But I did have the money for the tickets and that was the biggest part of getting tickets anyway, right? All I really needed to do was figure out how to get her father, Sheriff “You Can Only Buy Two Tickets” Mustache, to sell 'em to me.

Right then it hit me. I could get another kid who wasn't going to the dance to buy the tickets for me. But who?

Stephanie Teemer. Of course!

I mean, her parents were so religious they didn't believe eighth graders should be going to dances anyway, so I knew Stephanie wouldn't be able to attend. Plus, we'd done good business with each other before. I felt pretty confident that eighteen boxes of Mentos and a wheelbarrow full of Jawbreakers would do the trick.

Besides, when I peeked at Sheriff Mustache's green envelope the other day, it looked as if there were still about twenty thousand tickets left. I betcha he was just making up that stuff about Mrs. Mank's two-ticket rule just because he didn't like me.

Good idea, Bobby.
I decided to hit up Stephanie on the school's e-chat system as soon as I got home.

Things were working out great!

The only thing I wasn't too sure about right then was whether or not to tell Allison about my great plan to set my sister up with a way to go to the Big Dance and party with all her friends.

After all, I didn't want Allison to think that I was just being nice to my sister simply so that I could score points with her. But on the other hand, I was definitely hoping that by being nice to my sister I was gonna score points with her.

Hmm, what to do? Should I come right out and tell her, or should I hang back and wait for the exact right moment to appear?

I decided to wait.

My plan was a good one. Allison would go to the Big Dance, Hill would go to the Big Dance, and Finkelstein would go to the Big Dance, and by the time it was over I'd have fixed my relationship with my sister, found someone else to occupy Finkelstein's time, and landed my first real girlfriend.

Nice. The universe was humming along.

I looked around for a kitten to assist or maybe a toothless squirrel that needed some help opening a nut in order to keep my good karma going, but didn't see any opportunities. Oh, well, if any animals needed my assistance, I could give them my phone number or something.

Along the way to her house, Allison and I talked about school stuff. We chatted about teachers with bad breath, dumb lunch-line rules, and how cool the school librarian, Mrs. Meredith, was. Mrs. M, as all the kids called her, was always trying to bring interesting stuff into our school. A few months ago she even did a special program on banned books, explaining how censorship was a bunch of baloney.

“I mean, isn't the point of education to get kids like us to think about these things for ourselves?” Allison asked, getting all serious about the banned books issue. “Really, it's not like we're not going to grow up one day. Admit it, Mrs. M rocks.”

“I like how last month she told us about how doctors are using video games to warm up for surgery,” I said. “I went right home and told my mom that I needed to spend more hours playing Die Death Die so I could get into medical school.”

“Did she buy it?”

“She made me water the plants.”

Allison laughed. Before I knew it we had polished off two bags of M&M's—I had brought one, too—and arrived at her door.

“Wanna come in?” she asked.

I paused. There was a silver car in the driveway. That could only mean one thing: Sheriff Mustache.

“You mean, like, into your house?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” she replied. “You have been in a person's house before, haven't you?”

“Well, um . . .” I glanced a second time at the car in the driveway, not sure of how to say what I was thinking.

“Oh, my dad?” she said, also looking at the silver vehicle. She checked her watch. “It's his daily jog time. Does it religiously. He's not home now.”

“He's not?” I said. “And still I can . . . I can still come in?”

“Of course,” she answered. “My dad trusts me.”

“Wow,” I said. “I wonder what that feels like.”

She reached for her key.

“Trust is everything, Bobby. If I don't trust someone, I don't deal with them. It's one of my rules.”

“You have rules?” I asked.

“I have rules,” she answered, putting her key in the lock.

“What kind of rules?”

“Like, be a giver,” she said.

“Be a giver?” I said, not quite understanding. I mean, I had rules, too. I guess. Like never eating yellow snow and making sure to wipe my butt after going number two, but for some reason I didn't think these were the same kind of rules she was talking about.

“Yep, be a giver,” she repeated. “Give to people who need your help. That's how my mom passed away. She was flying to Ecuador to do some aid work for a group called Doctors Without Borders and there was a plane crash.”

“A plane crash?” I said.

“Yeah,” Allison said, opening the door. “Going to therapy really helped me work some of the issues out.”

“You mean you used to see a shrink?” I asked.

“Still do,” she said. “I mean, whenever I feel I want to talk. My therapist helped me to understand some stuff. About myself, about my mom. I mean, like, she died giving. I used to be really angry about that, but then realized that giving to others was important to her. I guess that's why being a giver is also important to me.”

Oh my goodness,
I thought.
Wait till she finds out about me hooking up my sister with a date for the dance. I am SO in, bay-beeeee!

Right then I decided to tell her everything.

“You know, I—”

“But the other thing I learned about my mom by talking to my therapist was,” she continued, “that you should really only do good deeds for the sake of the deed itself, not for the credit. I don't like it when people do things just to get the credit for them. That's kinda wrong.”

Gulp
.

“Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Were you gonna say something?”

“Me, um . . . no. I mean, yes. I mean . . . nice door.”

She turned her head sideways. “Nice door?”

“You have a nice front door,” I said, standing in the archway. “It's very . . . door-y.”

“Door-y?”

“Yeah, door-y,” I said. “You know how some doors aren't really that door-y? Well, yours is.”

“Uh, yeah, right,” she said. “So, are you comin' inside or what?”

“Inside? Does that, um, mean you trust me?” I said with a smile.

“No,” she answered. “It means I trust me.”

She grinned and I followed her in.

Allison's house was nice. At least the living room was. There was a tan couch with a leather reclining chair and a fireplace in the front room. A small pile of wood was neatly stacked next to the fireplace, but since the weather had been pretty warm the past few weeks, I doubted they had used it in a while.

Allison dropped her backpack by a briefcase that was already sitting on the coffee table.

“You want something to drink? There's apple juice.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“Well, if you change your mind, the kitchen is in there. Help yourself. I'm gonna change real quick,” she said. “Wait here,” she added as she headed for the stairs. “I mean, my dad trusts me, but he doesn't trust me that much.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

I sat on the couch and waited.

Looking around the living room, I saw all the regular stuff you usually see in living rooms. Family pictures, a couple of candles, a set of coasters, the green envelope with the Big Dance tickets on the coffee table, the remote control for the TV, a—

The green envelope with the Big Dance tickets?
Hmm. I looked around. I was the only one in the room.

Maybe I didn't need Stephanie Teemer? I mean what if I took two tickets, put the money for them in the envelope and
poof,
problem solved.

Wow, when it came to solving predicaments, the universe sure worked fast for me. For sure I was going to aid an ailing giraffe or mend the paw of a limping coyote or something when I got home tonight. The universe was just being way too good to me.

I listened for signs of someone coming. Coast was clear. Quick like a cat, I opened the green envelope and sure enough, there were about seventy or eighty Big Dance tickets inside, as well as a thick wad of cash.

Sheriff Mustache would never know.

I swapped two dance tickets for two twenty-dollar bills. Carefully, I mixed the twenties into the wad of cash that was already there and wrapped it all together.

There must have been hundreds of dollars in my hand. Maybe even a thousand? I'd never held so much money in all my life.

But I would never steal it. I wasn't even tempted. That just wasn't the type of person I was.

I carefully put the green envelope back just the way I'd found it and tucked the two tickets into my pocket.

There,
I thought.
Like a ninja warrior at midnight.

There was still no sign of Allison. Why did girls always take so long to get changed? Me, I could be in and out of an outfit in less than eighteen seconds . . . and that's with having my shoes tied. But girls, with them two minutes always meant a hundred hours.

What was she doing, knitting herself a new sweatshirt?

I decided to go for the apple juice. I mean, I wasn't really all that thirsty, but at least it would give me something to do. Better than staring at a fireplace without a fire.

I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Vegetables. Whole grain bread. Apple juice. I took out the container. It was one of those super-big jugs, the kind that you can only buy at warehouse stores. I needed two hands just to lift the darn thing, it was so heavy. Jeez, how many gallons of apple juice did two people need?

I unscrewed the top and then opened the kitchen cabinet, searching for a glass.

Plates. Wrong cabinet.

Bowls. Wrong cabinet.

Ah, glasses. I grabbed one. They felt like the expensive kind. I reached up to close the cabinet and then, suddenly, heard a voice.

“Sweetie, I'm home.”

Oh no, Sheriff Mustache!
What was he doing here?

And what was I doing in his kitchen?

Quick, back to the living room,
I thought.

That's when it all fell apart.

When I turned to dash back to the couch, I—
oh crap!!
—knocked over the glass.

Everything from that point on happened so quickly, even though I saw it all go down in slow motion.

I knocked over the glass.

I reached for the glass.

I didn't get to the glass in time.

The glass fell to the ground, nothing I could do.

CRASH!!
Broken glass everywhere.

But worse, while trying to catch the falling glass, my elbow knocked over the giant container of apple juice.

SPLASH!!
A spill. The entire thirty-gallon bottle.

All over the floor. All over the counter. It even splashed up inside the open refrigerator door.

A total catastrophe.

At the sound of all the noise Sheriff Mustache rushed into the kitchen.

“Sweetie, are you okay?”

He froze when he saw me.

“Um, hi, Mr. Summers.”

Sheriff Mustache slowly checked out the mess. He was wearing running clothes and sneakers, his muscular shoulders wet with sweat. The black hair of his chest popped over the low collar of his damp Reebok tank top.

“Did you, um, have a nice jog, sir?” I asked.

He squinted.

Juice dripped from the counter to the floor. Pieces of broken glass lay everywhere. Allison was nowhere in sight.

We both looked down at the same time to see a puddle turn into a stream. Suddenly, a river of apple juice began to flow beneath his refrigerator, to that place that no one can ever get to.