Box of Shocks (8 page)

Kosmo's reaction was different. He found a huge sheet of paper and began drawing a web of ideas. Amazing, wildly fantastic ideas flew out of Kosmo's head faster than he was able to write them down.

“Motorized elliptical trainers to counteract the effects of differing gravitational forces…oxygen-enriched greenhouses to grow plants high in fiber and particularly vitamin C…waste compaction systems that extract water before running it through a purification plant to fully recycle it…”

When it comes to generating wild ideas to solve difficult problems, Kosmo is the man. Compared to building a space station on Mars, flushing three people out of an old house should be easy.

The next morning, I give Kosmo a call.

“Hi, Kosmo? It's Ollie. I've got a little situation, and I need some of your wild and crazy ideas.”

“Hold on a second,” Kosmo says. “I need some paper and a pencil.” He puts the phone down, and I wait until he says, “Okay, shoot. Tell me about your situation.”

“I need to flush some people out of a house for a few hours,” I tell him. “It's my old house, and I have to get back inside. Something was left behind.”

“Something?” Kosmo says. “What kind of something?”

“Just something,” I reply. I won't tell him about my Box of Shocks no matter how much I need his help.

“Is this
something
alive?” he asks.

“No. All I need is a way to get the people out of the house for a while. I'll take care of the rest. What do you think?”

Kosmo doesn't say a word, but I know his pencil is probably galloping across the paper, scribbling down a bunch of great ideas.

Finally Kosmo shouts, “I've got it!”

“What? What have you got, Kosmo?”

“You can pose as an exterminator and show up at the house and tell the people they have poisonous snakes living in the attic and you're there to take care of them, but they have to leave the house for the day for their own safety. How's that, huh? Huh? Huh?”

“I don't know, Kosmo. Posing as an exterminator at my age? I don't think they'd buy it.”

“A mustache!” he shouts.

“What?”

“You could wear a fake mustache! Then they'd think you were older. Huh? How about that, huh?”

“I don't know. What else have you got?” I appreciate Kosmo's wild imagination, but sometimes you have to hear a few ideas before you get the right one.

“A skunk!” Kosmo shouts. “Get a skunk from Stenchly, and get it to run into the house and then…”

“Already thought of it, Kosmo. Stenchly's rates are too expensive.”

“Okay, then, rats! Big ugly toothy furry stinky rats!”

“No, Kosmo. I hate rats. Can't stand them. Forget about rats.”

“What about a porcupine?”

“Too prickly,” I say.

“How about a camel? They spit, you know.”

“Sorry, Kosmo. No camels. Have you got any ideas that don't involve animals?”

There's no sound coming from Kosmo's end on the phone. With Kosmo, silence means he's out of ideas. But he can't be out of ideas. Kosmo has to come up with one that will actually work, and something that doesn't involve animals.

“Kosmo? Hello! Have you got any more ideas?” I say. But there's silence on the other end of the phone. When it comes to designing space stations on Mars, Kosmo's the man. But when it comes to flushing three people out of a house, I guess he's not going to be any help at all.

I spend the next two days in my room staring out the window at my old house. I'm hoping that if I stare at the house long enough, some brilliant idea for rescuing my Box of Shocks will pop into my head.

I actually come up with plenty of ideas, like building a giant slingshot and firing chests of drawers, beds, desks and everything else in my room across the street at the people in my old house, forcing them to evacuate. Then I realize I'm starting to think like Kosmo. Forget the giant slingshot. I need an idea that will work.

Finally, on the third day, the side door of my old house opens, and the new people come out. A man and a woman walk down the steps and out to their old car. The man opens the passenger-side door and climbs in, sliding over to the driver's side. The woman gets in after him, sits in the passenger seat and pulls the door shut. When they start the car, it sounds like a lion with a bad cough. Clouds of blue smoke pour out the back of the car.

Then, I see the door of the house open again. A boy runs out, slamming the door behind him, and rushes down the steps. He yanks the car door open and dives into the backseat as the car takes off, sputtering and lurching down the street.

I watch the cloud of blue smoke. Then my eyes drift up to the second-floor window. That kid's living in my room. That boy in the long baggy sweater hanging down below his knees has his stuff in my closet. Every day that kid goes in my closet, only a loose wooden panel separates him from my Box of Shocks.

As the smoke clears, so does the fog in my brain. How stupid can I be! I don't have to flush the new people out of the house. All I have to do is wait until they go out! I can use the hidden back-door key and sneak into the house when there's no one home. It'll be so simple!

Simple, yes, but I'll still have to be careful. When the people go out, I don't know how long they're gone for. Maybe they've just gone to the corner store for a few minutes. I'll have to find a way to be sure they won't suddenly return home while I'm sneaking around inside the house.

How will I do that?

By spying on them, of course! All I have to do is watch them come and go for a while. I'll figure out when they leave for work and when they come home at night. I'll look for patterns. Soon I should be able to tell when it's safe to sneak into the house and rescue my Box of Shocks. It's so simple!

Eight

T
here's only one small problem with my plan to spy on the new people—school! Summer vacation is over, so I'll be away from my bedroom window for most of the day. I'll only be able to watch them from the time I get home from school to around
10:00 PM
, when I go to bed.

On the first day of school, Mom drives me because she wants to meet my new teacher. Talk about embarrassing!

Another reason Mom drives me is that it's raining. She always drives me when there's even a small chance of rain. I tell her I won't dissolve if I get wet, but she won't listen to reason. She smiles and laughs as if I'm joking.

Even when it's sunny without a single cloud in the sky, she'll come up with some excuse to drive me to school. “It's on my way to work, so I may as well give you a lift,” or, “I have to have a word with the principal about the next Parent Advisory Council meeting.” But the real reason Mom insists on driving me to school is that she sees danger everywhere. I've been hearing about
stranger
danger
and runaway cars my whole life.

As we drive down the street, I listen to Mom trying to get me all pumped up about school. “You must be looking forward to seeing your friends. You haven't seen them all summer! Isn't it exciting to be starting a new year? I made a special lunch for you, seeing as it's your first day…” I knew I should have worn earplugs.

When we're about three blocks from the school, I see a strange kid walking along the sidewalk. He must be headed toward the school, and he must be new, because I've never seen him before.

Or have I?

There's something familiar about him.

“Look at that poor boy,” Mom says. “Imagine his parents sending him to school like that in this rain.”

He doesn't have a raincoat, so his sweater's soaked, and his dirty blond hair is plastered to his head. All he's carrying is a tiny plastic bag—not big enough for the school supplies we're supposed to bring on the first day of school. It doesn't even look big enough for a lunch.

“I think that's the boy who's living in our old house,” Mom says.

So that's where I've seen him! He was wearing that old sweater yesterday when I saw him jump into the back of the car.

“Maybe we should give him a lift to school,” Mom says.

“No!” I shout. “I mean…it's probably not a very good idea.”

“And why not?” Mom says, looking puzzled.

“Well…we're strangers, and the kid's probably been told not to take rides from strangers.”

“We're not strangers, Oliver. We're his neighbors.”

“But…but maybe it's not safe for us to give him a lift. You know what you always tell me about picking up hitchhikers. Maybe he's dangerous! Maybe he's got something hidden underneath his sweater like a hacksaw or a crowbar or something.”

There's no way I want Mom to give this kid a lift. He's an enemy alien living in my very own bedroom! Instead of giving him a lift, Mom should swerve through a puddle and soak the little stinker with muddy rainwater!

“He certainly doesn't look dangerous, Oliver,” Mom says. “In fact, if you gave the poor boy a haircut and put some decent clothes on him, I'd say the two of you would look a bit alike. He's about your height, and…”

“Forget it, Mom. He doesn't look anything like me. Just let him walk the rest of the way to school. Maybe he likes getting wet,” I say. “He's probably one of those weird kids that acts strange just to be different.”

“Oh, Oliver, don't be so…so…” Mom can't find the word, so I try to find it for her.

“Negative? Prejudiced? Mean?”

“Yes,” Mom replies. “All three.”

“I'm not being negative, prejudiced or mean, Mom. It's just that some kids are plain weird. I bet he's one of them. He sure looks like it.”

I take a good close look at the kid as we pass him, searching for any signs that he might have found my Box of Shocks. I can't really tell. He walks with his head down, scuffing along in old sneakers that are way too big for his feet.

“The least his mother could do is sew up that hole in the knee of his pants,” Mom says.

“Maybe he thinks having a hole in his jeans is cool,” I say.

“Oh, Oliver. Don't be silly. You should go out of your way to make the new boy feel welcome at school. You know how hard it was for Karl when he moved here.”

“Are you kidding, Mom? It wasn't my choice to have this kid move into our house. Forget it.”

“Now, Oliver. You're being insensitive.”

“Well, that's the way I feel,” I say, staring at the kid as we drive by.