Box of Shocks (11 page)

Before I leave my room, I pick up my dirty sweater and shirt and stuff them in the laundry basket. I don't want Mom to get on my case for leaving my room messy.

Ten

T
he next morning I hold my breath as Mom pulls the car up to the school. I'm on the lookout for a police car. Last night I stayed awake worrying about the police showing up at school and arresting me for breaking into my old house. But when Mom pulls into the drop-off area at school, I can breathe again. There are no police cars.

As for the kid, he doesn't even show up at school until the morning break. Reggie, Grayson, Karl and I are shooting hoops when he finally arrives at school. I'm worried he's going to come right up to me and ask what I was doing in his room yesterday. I'm worried he'll tell me he's going to the police unless I pay him a hundred bucks a day for the rest of the year.

But he doesn't do anything. He ignores me and stands in his usual spot against the gym wall.

It would be so easy for me to leave the game and run over to him and say, “Hey, did you find an iron bolt lying around on the floor of your closet last night?” I really want to ask him, but I don't. I can't.

No one—and I mean NO ONE—ever talks to him. Ever. He has no friends. He doesn't even have enemies. Everyone acts like he's invisible. If he disappeared, it would probably take a week or two for anyone to notice. Probably the teachers wouldn't even notice. So for me to leave a game of two-on-two and talk to this kid would look really bad. As much as I want to, I can't ask him about my bolt. Or about why there's no food in his kitchen and why there's no furniture in any of the rooms and why he doesn't even have one single map on his bedroom wall.

During class, I watch the kid from my seat in the back of the room. I can't stop wondering if he found my bolt. I watch, I stare, I follow everything he does, every move he makes, looking for a clue that he might have my bolt. But all I see is his blank stare as he sits with his hands hanging down by his sides. He never moves his head and only blinks once in a while. That's it.

Halfway through math class, his left foot is tapping the floor at high speed and every so often, he shakes his head. Sometimes, he'll scratch his leg, and twice he sticks his pinky finger in his ear and twists it like he's digging around for something. This doesn't tell me anything.

He's wearing gray sweats that are way too small for him, and his socks don't even match. One's dirty white while the other one's blue. Mom would be appalled. She always says the way you dress shows what kind of person you are. What do the kid's too-small sweatpants, mismatched socks and baggy old sweater say about him?

I couldn't care less how he dresses. All I'm interested in are his pockets. If he has a pocket somewhere, there's a chance he could be carrying around the bolt he found in my closet. But the sweats don't have any pockets. His sweater doesn't have any pockets either. I do notice something rolled up in one of his sleeves. Yes, whatever he has rolled up in his sleeve is a definite possibility. I'll have to keep an eye on that one.

At lunch I keep watching. It isn't easy. I have to be careful. I can't let Reggie, Karl and Grayson see me paying too much attention to the weird new kid.

Not only that. I can't let the kid notice I'm watching him. This isn't hard, because he doesn't seem to notice
anything
. It's like he's in a different dimension or something. Mom would say he's in his own little world.

At the start of lunch, he unrolls the sleeve of his sweater. It's not my bolt. It's a small wax paper package. He pulls the wax paper open and takes out a cracker. Crackers again for lunch. It makes sense. That's all there is in his kitchen. As much as I like crackers, having them for lunch two days in a row might be a bit much.

I watch him nibble the cracker, bit by tiny bit. It's like he's trying to make it last longer by eating it really slowly. Halfway through the first cracker, he stops and chews for a couple of minutes. This is really weird, because crackers don't need that much chewing. It's like he's wishing he was eating something more, something bigger—like a sandwich or a cookie—instead of a cracker.

Then he starts nibbling the rest of the cracker until it's almost gone. With only a tiny corner left, he holds out his tongue and puts the piece of cracker on it, closes his mouth and just sits, like this last piece of cracker is the greatest-tasting food in the entire world.

He reaches into the package and brings out another cracker and eats it just the same way. I can eat two crackers in about five seconds. He's taking about ten minutes with each one.

I look in my own lunch bag and see what Mom's packed—cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, celery sticks with a small tub of dip, a juice box of organic orange-mango juice, a whole-wheat bran muffin with raisins, an organic McIntosh apple, and a whole-grain carob-chip cookie. She always packs way too much food.

In the time it takes the kid to eat his third cracker, I wolf down the sandwiches, celery, muffin and apple, and guzzle my juice. When the kid gets up to leave the lunchroom, I slip the cookie in my pocket so I can get outside and keep my eye on him. There's still a chance he has my bolt.

After school, I'm supposed to walk straight home because Mom has a staff meeting at the bank and Dad teaches a late class at the college.

I don't walk straight home. Instead, I follow the kid.

I stay as far back as I can without losing sight of him. Along the way, I keep an eye out for any bushes to hide behind just in case. But the kid never turns around. He walks straight up Wood Avenue to the bottle depot, where he disappears around the back.

After a few minutes, I creep up to the front window and poke my head up just enough to peer inside. There he is. He's near the back, wearing this big old apron and a pair of rubber gloves. He's sorting bottles and cans into big bins, and a fat guy in a dirty undershirt is ordering him around. It must be the kid's after-school job. If he works here every day after school, just think how much spending money he's got.

A few months ago, I told Mom and Dad I wanted to get a job to earn extra cash. They told me I'd be working for the rest of my life, and they wanted me to enjoy my childhood. It didn't surprise me. They never let me do anything.

The sign on the front door says the bottle depot is open until six o'clock every night. That explains why he doesn't get home until late every day after school. Except for yesterday. Maybe he got off work early. Maybe there weren't any bottles or cans to sort. Who knows? All I know is that he came home way earlier than normal.

Today there's a mountain of cans and bottles for him to sort. By the look of things, he'll be kept busy until closing time. Maybe even later.

And his parents—they never show up at the house until after eight o'clock. Who knows where they go. Probably some job where they have to work late. I don't care where they go or what they do. All I care is that tonight the house will be empty until at least six o'clock.

Eleven

Y
eah, it's reckless. You might even call it downright stupid. Call it what you want, but I run from the bottle depot straight to my old house. I'll have plenty of time to search the closet for the bolt and rescue my Box of Shocks before anybody shows up.

Then I won't have to think about the kid ever again. I won't have to look over at my old house. I can get on with filling my box with more crazy shocks.

I reach the house all out of breath. No wonder. I've sprinted all the way from the bottle depot. It isn't just the running that makes my heart thump. It's also the thrill, the excitement, the danger of finding the bolt and finally rescuing my Box of Shocks.

The old car isn't in the driveway. Of course it isn't. The parents are never home at this time of day.

I go straight to the side door. They don't lock their doors, so I won't bother getting the key from under the rock. I turn the doorknob, and the door swings open.

I race through the front hall and start running up the stairs. Halfway up, I stop. I can't help it. I have to have another look in the kitchen.

It can't be as empty as last time. Maybe I caught them the day before they did grocery shopping. Maybe the kid will bring a real lunch to school tomorrow.

I head back down the stairs, slip into the kitchen and open the fridge. Still nothing except that same old black carrot, only it looks more shriveled and even blacker than before. I open a couple of cupboards. Still empty. Now, there aren't even any crackers. He must have had the last of them for his lunch today. Maybe the kitchen
is
like this all the time.

After what happened yesterday, I know I'd better not hang around in the house longer than I have to. I head into the front hall and take the stairs two at a time. Something in my pocket keeps bumping against my leg. It's the cookie I didn't get around to eating at lunch.

When I get to my old room, I push open the door. It looks the same as yesterday. I can't believe how bare everything looks. The kid still doesn't have anything except that lumpy old mattress thrown down on the floor.

I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out the cookie, still wrapped in plastic. Then I cross the room to the window and put the cookie on the windowsill.

Now, it's time to grab my Box of Shocks and find my missing bolt. As I take a step toward the closet door, I hear something. Not again! It's the side door opening and then slamming shut!

I quickly look out the window. There's no car in the driveway, so it must be the kid. He must be a fast bottle sorter. Or maybe he got fired. Whatever the reason, he's home, and this isn't good. Not that I'm afraid of him or anything, but I have to rescue my Box of Shocks and find my bolt without him knowing anything about them.

If I'm quick, I might be able to find the bolt this time before he comes up the stairs. Maybe he won't even come up the stairs. Why should he? It's not like there's anything to do in his room.

Opening the closet door, I step in, drop to my knees and move my hands across the floor—back and forth, side to side, from one corner to the next. Where is that bolt? Where could it have gone?

Suddenly, I stop. Did I hear something else? Yes! And it's a sound I don't like one little bit! A sound I shouldn't be hearing at this time of the day!

It's the coughing, sputtering sound of the old car. The parents are home! It's bad enough that the kid's home, but I sure don't want to be caught in the house by the parents! I am now officially in big doo-doo.

Right after the car sputters to a stop in the driveway, I hear the creaking and squeaking of the stairs. The kid must be running up to his room!

All I can think is, Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I should have gotten out earlier, when I could. I shouldn't have wasted time checking out the kitchen. Now I'll never make it to the window before the kid reaches his room. Even if I could reach the window, the parents would probably see me out on the roof.

There's only one thing I can do. I pull the closet door shut and sit absolutely still. I can't make a sound. Even breathing might be too loud. If I move, the floor will creak. So I sit curled up in a ball in the pitch-black darkness of the closet and listen.

I hear the side door open and shut. There's shouting. Both the parents are shouting at once. Everything's kind of muffled from inside the closet, but even though I can't hear their exact words, I know they're angry—really, scary, wildly angry.

Their voices are getting louder. It sounds like they're coming up the stairs!

I hear the bedroom door open, then shut. Footsteps cross the room to the window. One set of footsteps. It must be the kid. I wonder if he found the cookie.

A few seconds later, I hear the bedroom door fly open again, so hard it bangs against the wall. The man and woman shout as they cross the room.

I put my hands over my ears and scrunch into a tighter ball, pushing myself into the corner of the closet. Even with my hands pressed hard against my ears, I can hear the parents shouting. I don't want to know what they're saying. I'm too scared to listen, so I stick my thumbs in my ears and press them in as hard as I can.

Even with my thumbs stuck in my ears, I hear the kid crying and trying to talk at the same time, but his sobbing keeps getting in the way of his words.

A few seconds later, the bedroom door slams; it sounds like they've left the room. As I pull my thumbs out of my ears, I hear footsteps pounding down the stairs, but the yelling doesn't stop.

I wait and I listen. Where did they go? What are they doing?

I don't hear the door downstairs open or shut, so they must still be in the house. Should I take a chance and go out the window again? What if they see me landing in the backyard? I don't like the idea of being chased by the kid's parents. And if they caught me? I don't even want to think about that.