Box of Shocks (15 page)

“No fair, Mrs. Franzen!” Greg says. “Ollie brings a pet that can talk. He doesn't have to say anything. The bird will do his presentation for him!”

The class laughs. But I don't. “Actually, this parrot can't talk,” I say. “It's never said a word in its life.”

“A parrot that can't talk?” Greg says. “What's the point of having a parrot that can't talk? That's about as dumb as a Mexican jumping bean that can't jump! Or a hyena that doesn't laugh at your jokes!”

“If the parrot can't talk, it doesn't really matter. The whole point of this assignment is that Oliver has to imagine what the parrot thinks of its life,” Mrs. Franzen says. “Go ahead, Oliver. Tell us about your parrot's life.”

But I can't go ahead. I stand there as silent as this parrot, staring out across the classroom with everyone staring back. After a few moments of silence, all I can manage is an, “Um…um.”

“Go ahead, Oliver,” Mrs. Franzen says. She sounds impatient. “We're looking forward to hearing about your parrot.”

I glance at Mrs. Franzen, then back out across the classroom. I can't do it. I'm not any good at this sort of thing. I may as well be trying to ride a unicycle or play the bagpipes or juggle chainsaws.

“You did plan a presentation, didn't you, Oliver?” Mrs. Fransen says.

“I…uh…uh…” I look out across the class of staring faces and see the kid. He's getting out of his seat and wrapping his arms around the bucket. Everyone turns to look at him as he walks to the front of the room carrying the bucket. There are whispers and a few snickers.

For most of the kids in my class, it's the first time they've taken a really good look at the kid. Sure, on his first day in class, everyone looked him up and down. After that, he faded away and became pretty much invisible.

He puts the bucket down on the table beside the birdcage.

Mrs. Franzen looks confused and says, “What is it, Diggory? It's not your turn.”

The boy with the greasy hair, the mismatched socks and the ratty sweater stares out across the class toward the back of the room. He speaks in a voice barely above a whisper. “I'm just trying to help Oliver out.”

“But it's not your…” Mrs. Franzen begins, then stops herself. She looks over at me, smiles, nods and says, “Very well, Diggory. You go ahead with your presentation.”

The kid named Diggory takes a deep breath and reaches into the bucket with both hands. He pulls them out, hands cupped together, water dripping from his fingers. When he opens his hands, there, lying calmly, is a small fish. It's about the same size as Bubbles. And it's mostly gold with lighter patches along the bottom, just like Bubbles. It has to be Bubbles. I'm wondering if he's dead, but then I see his tail fin twitch a little.

Diggory carefully puts the fish back into the bucket and looks up at the class. He bites his lip, looking nervous, as he stares out across the silent classroom with everyone staring back.

Finally he opens his mouth, and a few wispy words float out. “Life as a fish…”

“Pardon me, Diggory,” Mrs. Franzen says. “You'll have to speak up. We can hardly hear you.”

He's breathing hard but says in a louder voice, “Life as a fish is easier than being a human.” He pauses. The class is silent. “Fish never get chased by the police.” He hesitates, then his eyes turn to the ceiling. He says very slowly, “It's really scary being chased by the police.”

Diggory looks down at the floor, and I can see his bottom lip quivering. I can tell he needs some help.

“BUT WHAT ABOUT PARROTS?” I shout. Everyone in the class jumps, including the parrot, who flaps its wings a couple of times. “Life as a parrot is also way, way, way easier than being a human. For instance, parrots never go trick-or-treating at a zombie's house!”

There are some giggles in the class. Diggory turns and looks at me. “A zombie's house?”

“Yeah, a zombie's house! A zombie whose name is Milburn! And the worst part is that he only gives out one single lousy candy!”

There are more giggles, but Mrs. Franzen clears her throat, and everyone goes quiet.

I'm about to tell everyone more, but Diggory starts talking again. This time, his voice is stronger and louder. “And a fish never has to drive really fast through back alleys and side streets while a police car chases it with the siren screaming.” He pauses, takes a deep breath and says, “It just swims around in its fishbowl. It's way safer in a fishbowl.”

“Same for this birdcage,” I say, banging the bars of the cage a couple of times. “Look at those sturdy metal bars protecting the parrot. Nothing could break through those bars. Not even Spike McChomp!” Okay, so I'm lying. Spike McChomp would use the bars of this cage for dental floss. But I'm not going to let a little exaggeration get in the way of my presentation.

“But what about humans?” I continue. “Not so lucky! No cages for them! No, sirree! Spike McChomp can run up to any human trying to steal a spike from his yard and chew their pants right off!”

Again the class is giggling. Before Mrs. Franzen has a chance to quiet them, Diggory starts speaking again.

“This fish…his fishbowl broke. It's sort of like when people have to ditch their car in a gravel pit and set it on fire with all their stuff inside, then run for it.”

The class listens to every word he says. But again Diggory stops, and he's looking up toward the ceiling. I wait for him to say more, but he has this look in his eyes. It's like his mind's lost in remembering something, and he's forgotten all about his presentation. Then I notice a tear trickle down his cheek. I have to do something.

“As for this parrot, well, he's just plain lucky he can fly,” I say. “If he decided to jump off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, it would be no big deal. But not for a human! If a human jumps off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, it is downright terrifying! So terrifying, he might even tear a bolt right off the bridge before he jumps!”

Diggory looks at me for a couple of seconds and wipes the sleeve of his sweater across his cheeks. He sniffs, then turns to the class and says, “This fish doesn't like this bucket as much as his fishbowl. But a bucket isn't as bad as living in a car-wrecking yard. It's not as bad as living in a rusty van with a roof that leaks when it rains and has a nest of rats living under the front seat.”

Diggory stops, and his eyes get that look again where he stares up at the ceiling. This time, I don't wait. I just start to babble.

“Yeah, the life of a parrot, I tell you! This parrot might think he has it tough, but he never has to spend two whole months staying with his aunt and uncle and nerdy cousin on some farm. This parrot never has to milk cows, shovel poop or weed the garden during their summer holidays! This parrot has it so easy.”

Diggory steps toward the bucket and rests both hands on the edge as he stares down into the water at Bubbles. Then he says in a quiet voice, “This fish would like to move into a new fishbowl. He'd like to live in a fishbowl that wouldn't break. A fishbowl that couldn't be taken away. A fishbowl that was safe.”

No one in the class says a word or raises their hand. Diggory just stares into the bucket. I have a feeling that he's not going to say any more, so I shout, “On behalf of the fish, the parrot, and Diggory, I would like to thank you for your kind attention! Our presentations are over!”

I look over at Mrs. Franzen, worried about what she's thinking. I don't think my presentation was exactly what she was looking for. Neither was Diggory's. I don't know if we exactly “got inside the head” of the fish or the parrot.

My only hope is that Mrs. Franzen thinks our ideas were original and imaginative. Maybe she figures I made everything up.

I wonder about all the stuff Diggory said, and I have this bad feeling that, just like me, he wasn't making anything up either.

Sixteen

D
ad picks me up after school to take the parrot back to Grandpa Golley's. As we pull away from the school, Diggory's heading in the other direction, lugging the bucket with the fish down the sidewalk on his way to the bottle depot.

“Dad?” I say. “Could we give that boy a lift? His bucket's pretty heavy.”

“I'd like to, Ollie,” Dad replies, “but we're already late. We have to drop off the parrot at Grandpa Golley's house, then you have a dentist appointment. We can give him a lift some other time when we're not in such a hurry.”

“That's okay,” I say. “Maybe we could give him a lift to school tomorrow morning.”

“Sure. That's a good idea,” Dad says.

The next morning on my way to school, I scan the sidewalk as we drive down the street. I don't see Diggory. Most days, we pass him on the first block, just around the corner. But not today.

When I get to school, I look everywhere—checking the spot where Diggory normally leans against the gym wall, the corner of the library where he normally hides, the other classrooms. But I don't see him. During class, I keep my eyes glued to the classroom doorway, watching, waiting for Diggory to show up.

But he never does.

After school, Mom picks me up and I ask her to stop at the bottle depot. I look in through the front door. Today there's a teenage girl sorting the bottles and cans.

When we get home, I look across the street. There are no lights on in the house, and the car isn't there. It's supposed to be there. It's
3:20
. It's always in the driveway at
3:20
. But not today.

That night, I sit by my bedroom window resting my elbows on the window ledge, watching and waiting, staring at Diggory's house. For once I'm hoping that noisy old car will pull up, or that Diggory will walk up the street.

I watch and wait until it's way past my bedtime. I wait and watch until my clock radio says it's midnight. My eyelids grow heavy, so I slap myself in the face. I have to stay awake, because there's a chance the car will pull into the driveway or a light might come on in the house.

I lift my head from my arm. My clock radio says
5:38
AM
. When I look out across the street, I can tell something is wrong. Diggory's house looks the same as it did last night. There's no one home.

On my way to school that morning, there is no Diggory shuffling along the sidewalk. When I get to school, I check all the usual places, but I don't see him. All day his desk sits empty.

At the end of school, I fish a couple of empty bottles out of the recycling bin. On the way home, I ask Dad to stop at the bottle depot.

He gives me a puzzled look, so I say, “It's about Diggory. The kid from our old house. He works there…or used to.”

Dad nods and parks in front of the bottle depot without asking any more. I run to the door and walk in. At the back, where Diggory usually works, there's an older lady sorting cans and bottles.

“Excuse me,” I call. “Is Diggory working today?”

The lady shakes her head and scowls. “Supposed to. He didn't show up the last two days. Do you need a job, kid?”

I shake my head and leave.

When Dad pulls into the driveway of our house, I look across the street. There's still no sign of life in Diggory's house. No car and no lights on.

I skip my usual snack and go straight up to my room. Instead of doing homework, I stare out the window at my old house. No matter how hard I look, I don't see any signs of life. The place is deserted.