Box of Shocks (9 page)

My teacher this year is Mrs. Franzen. She's one of the most bizarre teachers in the school—maybe in the world. She's famous for her crazy assignments, like making a sculpture of our favorite character from literature out of recycled pop cans.

But what's even more bizarre is that the new kid is in my class. Of all the classes in our school he could end up in, he's in mine! Not even Reggie, Grayson or Karl are in my class, but this kid is. What's the likelihood of that?

Of course, I don't like it one little bit. Yeah, I don't know much about him, but I do know that I can't stand him for one big reason. This kid is standing between me and my Box of Shocks.

Mrs. Franzen likes to talk. As she babbles on and on and on, my mind drifts. Quite often, I catch myself looking over at the kid. It's hard to tell anything about the kid from watching him. He never says a word in class, not even to the other kids. Even when Mrs. Franzen asks him a question, he doesn't open his mouth. She tries to get him to talk, but the best she can get out of him is a mumble that no one can understand.

At lunch, I sit in the lunchroom with Reggie, Karl and Grayson, but I keep glancing over at the new kid while I eat my sandwich. Don't ask me why. It's not like he's the sort of kid I'd ever be friends with.

There is one thing I do notice about him. Crackers. That's all he eats for lunch. Just crackers!

I love crackers. Today I have a ham sandwich with lettuce, mayo and two kinds of mustard on stone-ground rye bread. I'd love to have just crackers for lunch. So here's this kid, eating crackers! And that's all! How great is that? Even though I still think the kid is bizarro, I have to admit he is lucky as far as lunch goes. His parents probably let him make his own lunch.

After he finishes his crackers, he heads outside like the rest of us. While Karl, Grayson, Reggie and I shoot hoops, he leans against the back wall of the school and looks off into space. No one talks to him, and he doesn't try to talk to anyone else.

Dad is five minutes late picking me up at the end of the school day. “We've got to make a bit of a detour before I drop you at home, Ollie,” he says. “I have to pick up my dry cleaning.”

As Dad turns the car up Wood Avenue, I spot the kid. He's walking really fast—almost running—and not in the direction of his house. As we drive past, I see him turn into Wayne's Bottle Depot. But the kid isn't carrying any bottles. Very strange.

As soon as I'm home, I get back to spying. I run upstairs to my room and pull my chair up to the window. The rusty old hulk of a car is in the driveway, so I know at least one of his parents is home.

I dig around in my desk and find an old notebook. If I'm going to do a proper job spying on this family, I'll have to keep notes. The first three pages of the old notebook are sketches of superheroes I was going to use for a comic book. The superheroes look like flying cows, so I tear out the pages. On a fresh page at the top, I write the date. Under that, I put:

3:25 PM
Parents home. Not sure about kid.

I'm about to go downstairs to get a snack when the side door of the house swings open. Out come the man and woman. Just like yesterday, they crawl into the car through the passenger door, start up the rattling rust bucket, and pull off in a cloud of blue smoke.

I grab my notebook, check my watch, and write:

3:31 PM
Parents leave house in car. No sign of kid.

I skip my snack and drag my desk over to the window. It's the first day of school, and I already have homework. But Mrs. Franzen is not going to stop me from spying. As I work on my homework, I glance up every few minutes, keeping an eye on my old house.

I do math problems, read Chapter One of the socials textbook, write a short essay on “Why Summer Holidays Should Last Until December” and read the first twenty-six pages of my novel. I'm hoping Mrs. Franzen has given us the entire year's homework on the first day. Otherwise, this year is going to be murder.

I'm stuffing my books into my backpack when Mom shouts from the kitchen, “Oliver! Supper's ready!”

Before heading downstairs, I take one more look across the street. There's the kid! School got out almost three hours ago, and he's only getting home now. While I was slaving away on my homework, that kid got to ramble around town, having a great time doing whatever he wanted!

Plus, he isn't carrying anything! No homework, no nothing. The real bonus is that his parents aren't home to bug him about his homework or about coming home late.

Only in my dreams!

I watch him climb the back steps to the side door, fight with the door handle and finally get it to open. When the kid disappears inside the house, I check my watch, quickly flip open my notebook and write:

5:55 PM
Kid returns home. Still no parents.

I slap the notebook shut and race for the stairs.

“Oliver? Did you wash your hands?” Mom calls from the dining room.

I do a quick about-face and head for the bathroom. As I listen to the water run into the sink, I imagine how amazing it would be to come home to an empty house. No one to make sure I do my homework or wash my hands. I could eat anything I wanted for supper. I could do whatever I wanted when I wanted. The kid across the street probably doesn't even know that he has it so good. But I still can't stand him.

Before I can get back to spying on my old house, I have to finish eating all three courses of Mom's supper, listen to millions of questions about my day at school and do forty-five minutes of piano practice.

When I finally get back up to my room and look out the window, I see the driveway is empty. His parents still aren't home.

The house is dark except for a single light. I'm glad to see the light's not on in my old bedroom, but in the living room. I bet the kid is watching tv or playing video games. While I'm stuck answering my parents' questions, that kid is watching something great like
Celebrity
Demolition Derby
! While I'm practicing piano—which is nothing but pure torture—he's probably playing
Alien
Invasion VII
. It's so unfair!

A bit later, I hear the old car chug up the road, roll into the driveway, wheeze, cough and die. I watch the parents climb out of the car, trudge up the stairs and try to open the side door. The door's stuck, so the man gives it a kick to get it open.

I check my clock radio, open my notebook and jot down:

8:17 PM
Parents arrive back home.

When I look up from my notebook, the light is off.

8:20 PM
House in total darkness.

I keep watching, just in case. But after fifteen minutes, there's still no sign of life.

They must have gone to bed. At least it's too dark for the kid to snoop around my closet.

I keep watch on the house across the street whenever I can. After only four days of spying, I can already see a pattern. Around three thirty in the afternoon, the parents leave the house in their old car. Around six, the kid comes home. He does something in the living room with that one light on until the parents come home. A few minutes later, the light's turned off and the house stays dark even though it's only eight fifteen. And I thought I had an early bedtime.

I don't have much time to watch in the mornings, but I do notice that the parents' car is always there when I leave for school. We always pass the kid on the way to school.

One thing that worries me is how much time the kid spends in the house on his own. Before his parents come home each night, he has all the time in the world to get bored and snoop around the house. Maybe he'll end up finding the loose panel in the back of my closet. And if he finds the loose panel, he'll find my hiding spot. And if he finds my hiding spot, he'll find my Box of Shocks.

My Box of Shocks isn't safe at all! Every day I get more nervous about the kid finding it. It's driving me nuts. I have to make my move soon…before it's too late.

I know that every day during the week, the house is empty from three thirty until around six. Two and a half hours. That should give me plenty of time to sneak into the house and rescue my Box of Shocks.

Nine

M
y clock radio reads
4:29 PM
. In one minute the phone should ring. It'll be Dean from school. He'll tell Mom I have to come over to his place. He needs help with a school project. The project is on mollusks.

The reason I know Dean will call is that I paid him five bucks. Dean's saving for a new dirt bike, so he'll do anything for five bucks.

The clock flashes
4:30
. I stand at the door and listen. I wait and wait. Finally, after a very long fifteen seconds, I hear it. The phone is ringing. I can hear Mom say, “Oh, hello, Dean. Really? Mollusks? That sounds like a fascinating topic. I'll send him over as soon as I can. Thanks so much, Dean.”

Mom's high heels cross the hardwood floor and stop at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oliver! Your friend Dean just called. He's wondering if you could go over to his place and help him work on the mollusk project. Apparently, he thinks you know a lot about mollusks.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” I reply. “I'm not sure how much help I'll be. Even so, it's always good to help a friend in need.”

“That's the spirit, Oliver! I can drive you over there in a minute,” Mom says.

“It's okay, Mom. I can walk. He only lives two blocks away.”

“Are you sure you'll be okay?” she says.

“I'm sure, Mom. You can trust me.”

“I know that!” she says with a smile. “But try to be back in time for supper.”

“I'll do my best,” I say. “But mollusks are surprisingly complicated.”

Everything is ready for the rescue mission. I have my backpack, and I'm wearing my darkest clothes, because that's the way burglars always dress. Not that I'm a burglar, or anything. I'm just going to fetch something that belongs to me. Even so, I have to be careful. I've worked out a detailed plan for rescuing my Box of Shocks.

Step
1
: Find hidden key to get me into the house.

Step
2
: Zip upstairs to my room.

Step
3
: Get my Box of Shocks out from its hiding place in the closet.

Step
4
: Put it in the backpack.

Step
5
: Zip back downstairs and get out of the house.

The whole rescue mission shouldn't take more than three minutes. After I've rescued my Box of Shocks, I'll hide out in the back alley for a bit, then head home in time for dinner. It'll be easy smuggling the box up to my room in my backpack. Finally, my Box of Shocks will be safe and sound. My plan is perfect. Nothing can go wrong!

Just before leaving my room, I open the bottom drawer of my desk and unzip the pencil case. There's the bolt. I pick it up and hold it in the palm of my hand for a few seconds. That's when I decide I've got to bring the bolt with me. I can't wait to see it sitting in my Box of Shocks alongside all the other shocks I've collected.