Box of Shocks (6 page)

Over the next couple of weeks, Stuart and I go swimming at the river a bunch of times. Unfortunately, either Aunt Jean or Uncle Ned comes along every time, so jumping from the bridge would be tough to pull off without my parents hearing about it.

The day before I'm due to go home, Stuart and I finally get to bike down to the river by ourselves. It's my last chance. This is the day I have to do it. It's now or never.

When we get to the river, I spend about an hour splashing around in the water and throwing sand at Stuart. When Stuart sits down on the sand to eat a cucumber sandwich and drink Aunt Jean's homemade lemonade, I say, “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Where are you going?” he says.

I don't say anything as I walk straight out to the middle of the bridge.

When Stuart sees what I'm doing, he throws down his cucumber sandwich and runs across the sand toward the bridge, shouting, “You'd better get off there before the police show up!”

“The police don't show up for stuff like this,” I shout back. From the main deck of the bridge, I crawl out and then slowly, carefully stand up, balancing on the outside beam.

“But there's a sign! An official-looking sign! ” Stuart shouts.

“Don't worry, Stuart,” I call back, trying to keep my balance. To steady myself, I grab a wire with one hand and curl my toes over the splintery beam.

“Why would they put up a sign if they weren't going to arrest you?” Stuart isn't going to give up. He reminds me of Mom and Dad. I bet Mom wishes I was more like Stuart. I stop for a second and watch him try to scramble up the sandy bank, but he keeps slipping back down.

“If the police show up, I don't know you, Oliver! Do you understand?” Stuart's finally reached the top of the bank, and he's running toward the bridge in his baggy swim trunks and rubber beach shoes.

“Yes, Stuart. I understand,” I shout back.

So here I am, ready to do the most dangerous stunt ever. All I have to do is jump. Gravity will do all the work, and it'll be over in a few seconds.

Then I look down.

I don't like what I see.

From way up here, the water looks dark and angry as it swirls past. It doesn't look like a river—it looks like a gigantic serpent waiting to swallow me.

Okay, so jumping from this bridge may not be as easy as it looks from the shore. I can't jump right away anyhow. I have to figure out what I'll bring back for my Box of Shocks. What can I take from this bridge?

I pick at the old wooden beam for a minute, but a splinter of wood isn't good enough. It has to be something bigger. Something better. My hand slides over one of the bolts that run through the beams. A bolt would be perfect! There must be a hundred or maybe a thousand of these bolts holding the bridge together, but the one my hand rests on is loose. By jiggling it a bit, I'm able to slide the bolt out of the beam. Then, just before the bolt is all the way out of the beam, I stop. What'll happen if I pull this bolt all the way out of the beam? Will the bridge fall apart? Will it suddenly collapse into the river, taking me with it? That's a chance I have to take.

As I pull the bolt free of the wooden beam, I hold my breath. I don't hear any creaking or cracking. The bridge isn't shifting or swaying. Maybe this bridge will be fine without this bolt—my bolt. Yes, my bolt. This bolt is now mine. I clutch it tightly in one hand while I hang on to a wooden beam with the other. Now that I have my bolt, I have to jump. I'm ready.

Or am I?

Stuart sure isn't any help.

“If I were you, I'd come back down, Oliver! I mean it. The sign says…”

“I know what the sign says, Stuart!” I yell.

“Then why are you disobeying it?” Stuart yells back. “I don't understand you. Why do you want to do something like this?”

I ignore Stuart and look back down at the river. The water doesn't look any closer. The longer I look, the higher I seem to be. This is way higher than I've ever been before. It's way higher than the diving board I went off for those diving lessons Mom made me take at the pool. It's even higher than the time I climbed the tree in Grayson's backyard. And now I'm supposed to jump? I begin to wonder if this is such a great idea after all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stuart standing on the riverbank, jumping up and down and waving his arms like his armpits are on fire. He's shrieking, “Oliver! Look out! The police are coming!”

I turn quickly and see an RCMP cruiser driving onto the bridge. As I spin around, I lose my grip on the beam. I try to grab something—anything—but gravity takes over.

The next three seconds are the longest three seconds of my life.

As I fall, I'm laid out flat. If I hit the water like this, it'll be the belly flop that was heard around the world. How painful will that be?

Then, just like they taught us in diving lessons, I quickly pull my knees up to my chest, tuck in my chin, and somersault in the air. When it feels like I'm the right way up, I straighten my body out.

I hit the water feet first. Water shoots up my nose, my arms are thrown up above my head, and my swim trunks give me a giant wedgie.

I don't care. Thanks to my diving lessons, I didn't do the world's biggest belly flop.

But now, I'm deep under the water with bubbles swirling around me. Maybe I should have done a belly flop. My feet haven't touched bottom, and it's dark. Really dark. I look up and see the wobbly glimmer of the sun through the water.

I need air, so I'd better get to the surface, and fast, or else…

I flail my arms and legs…kicking and thrashing… thrashing and kicking…the light getting brighter by the second…my chest feeling like it's about to burst…kicking and thrashing…thrashing and kicking…until…my head breaks the surface! I gasp for air, panting and puffing and trying to keep my head above water.

I swim toward the shore, thrashing my arms and legs, but by the time I reach the riverbank, I've been swept downriver and the bridge is out of sight. I flop onto some grass, with my arms over my head as I try to catch my breath. My body feels like a huge blob of Jell-O—except for my right hand, which is still tightly clenched. I slowly uncurl my fingers. There, in the palm of my hand, is the bolt.

Six

T
he bolt's not going to leave my hand until it's inside my Box of Shocks. Not even for a second.

After hiking back through the bushes to the beach, I grab my flip-flops, jump on Stuart's old bike and ride all the way back to the farm. I hold on to the handlebars with my left hand. My right hand is still clutching the bolt.

Stuart follows on his new bike, yammering the whole way. “You sure were lucky the police didn't stop when you jumped off the bridge, Oliver. Maybe they didn't see you, or they were on a call to something more important like a bank robbery or something. Did you hear me, Oliver?”

Stuart can babble on all he likes. All I can think about is my deadliest stunt yet, and how I'm going to be adding this amazing shock to my Box of Shocks.

I consider putting the bolt in my left hand or in my pocket, but I don't trust my left hand as much as my right, and there might be holes in my pocket. No, the bolt will stay in my right hand until it's safely inside my Box of Shocks. That's all there is to it.

At supper that night, I'm still clutching the bolt when I sit down for supper with Uncle Ned, Aunt Jean and Stuart. This makes eating a little awkward, but I don't care.

“You know, it's a lot easier to eat corn on the cob if you use both hands, Oliver,” Aunt Jean says.

“It's okay, Aunt Jean. I always find that corn tastes better if you eat it with one hand.”

Aunt Jean's eyebrows wag up and down. She and Mom are very different, but one thing they do share is pickiness about table manners.

After supper it's always my job to clear the table. Because I'm using just one hand, I have to make twice as many trips to the kitchen. Stuart rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. If he did squeal to his mom and dad about me jumping off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, Aunt Jean would blame him for letting me do such a dangerous thing in the first place. For his own good, Stuart knows the best thing is to keep his mouth shut.

That night I wrap my right hand in Scotch tape so I won't lose my grip on the bolt as I sleep. When I wake up the next morning, I can feel the bolt nestled in my hand. Before heading down to breakfast, I use nail clippers to cut the tape, open my fingers and stare at the bolt. Everything comes back to me—balancing on the old wooden beams of the bridge, trying to loosen the bolt from the beam, somersaulting in free fall and nearly drowning in the river. Nothing can happen to this once-in-a-lifetime bolt.

Uncle Ned is going to drive me home. I jam my clothes into my duffel bag with my left hand and use my teeth to close the zipper. Luckily, I'm wearing flip-flops, so I don't have any shoelaces to tie.

It's a three-hour drive back to my house, and Stuart gets car sick, so he stays at the farm. Aunt Jean makes me ride in the back of the van because she doesn't trust the air bags. I hop into the backseat, reach across and pull the door shut with my left hand. Aunt Jean and Stuart stand at the end of the driveway and wave as Uncle Ned and I pull away.

As we drive along the highway, Uncle Ned blasts country and western music on the stereo. It's too loud to talk over, but I don't mind. I'm happy to sit in the backseat. Every once in a while I open up my hand, take another look at my amazing bolt and think about its honored place in my Box of Shocks.

The drive home seems to take forever. My grip tightens on the bolt with every mile we get closer to home. By the time we're halfway, my knuckles are white from squeezing so hard.

“Can't you drive a little faster, Uncle Ned?” I say. My knee is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer.

“I always drive the speed limit,” Uncle Ned replies. “What's your rush anyway?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I just want to see Mom and Dad.” I look out the window at the passing farms—the old barns, bales of hay scattered across the fields, cows, horses—stuff I've seen a million times before.

I've also looked in my Box of Shocks about a million times, but that's different. Every time I pull it out of my closet, my heart speeds up. When I sit on my bed and open the lid, the palms of my hands get all sweaty. I close my eyes, and when the lid swings open, I inhale the musty air. I open my eyes and see all of those stupendous shocks. I feel the chill of a cool Halloween night, the tickle of the tarantula on my arm, the tug of a vicious dog on my pant leg, and the taste of that greasy half-cooked burger. Every single memory is so amazing!

We reach the edge of town; it won't be long now before Uncle Ned pulls the van into our driveway. I know exactly what I'll do. First things first, I'll give my parents their usual hugs and tell them what a great time I had. I'll thank Uncle Ned. Then, while my parents chat with him, I'll run up to my room. I'll slam the door and barricade it with a chair, then rip the wall panel off the back of my closet. There my Box of Shocks will be, tightly nestled in its perfect hiding place. I will gently lift it out so that everything inside will stay in its special position in the box. The Halloween candy is in the right-hand corner. The picture of Mr. Creepy fits perfectly across the middle. The piece of spike is next to that, and in the opposite corner is the burger wrapper folded in four.

There's plenty of room in the box for the bolt, but it needs a special place because it's probably the greatest stunt I've ever pulled—so far. Maybe the bolt should go right in the middle, and I'll move the picture of Mr. Creepy over to the right side. Then again, maybe the bolt should sit beside the Halloween candy. After all, visiting the Milburn house was pretty crazy—probably second only to jumping from the bridge. But Spike McChomp almost tore my leg off. As I'm thinking of where to put Mr. Creepy's picture, Uncle Ned turns the van onto our street.

“Finally,” I say.

“Why's that?” Uncle Ned says. “You gotta go to the bathroom or something?”

“No. It's much more important than going to the bathroom.”

“If you've got to go, I can't think of too many things more important than going to the bathroom,” Uncle Ned says.

“Yes, it's even more important than going to the bathroom,” I say.

My eyes are fixed on our house—the old brown siding, the trellis covered in Virginia creeper, the heavy front door with the half circle of stained glass, the gravel driveway that curves around the side of the house.

But Uncle Ned doesn't pull into our driveway. Instead, he turns the opposite way and pulls into the Watsons' driveway across the street.

“Whoa, Uncle Ned,” I say. “You suddenly forgot where we live? This is the Watsons' place.”

Uncle Ned stops the van, looks at me and says, “Your parents have a little bit of news for you.”

“They do?” I say. “Is it good news or bad news?”

Uncle Ned shrugs as he shuts off the engine. The front door of the Watsons' house swings open, and my parents run out toward the van. They always run out like this when Uncle Ned brings me back from a visit to the farm. Only they don't usually run out of the neighbors' house. Something's a bit strange here.

Mom flings the side door of the van open, reaches in, grabs me by the arm, yanks me out and gives me a hug so powerful I'm worried my eyeballs will pop out. “Oh! It's so good to have you home, Oliver!” she says, giving me another bone-crushing hug. “We have such exciting news for you!”

“You do?” I reply. I'm suspicious. When my parents get this happy, it's not always a good thing. Their idea of “happy” and my idea of “happy” aren't the same. Right now, the situation looks dangerous.

“What are you doing at the Watsons' house?” I say.

“It's not the Watsons' house anymore,” Mom says with a grin. “It's our house now! Isn't that great?”