The Waffler (6 page)

A
rmed with his
five facts, Monty managed to write his sloppy copy about Leo the next Monday at school. That was the good news. The bad news was that from then on, his whole life started revolving around being a Buddy.

Monty thought Leo had been pretty cool about Kieran and Winnie and Finn. But Leo still had to make sure that the other kids knew that he was the
real
Buddy, and he did this by running out to Monty's spot by the fence just about every day. If Leo saw Monty with Kieran, he showed up. If Leo saw Monty with Winnie, or with Finn, he showed up. And if Leo saw Monty all alone, he showed up, too.

It was all part of the unspoken deal: Leo didn't tell on him about the extra Buddies, and Monty didn't tell Leo he couldn't hang out. Because the last thing Monty wanted was the teachers finding out. He'd probably be hauled off to the social worker's office. Monty lived in constant fear that Jasmine Raines was going to tell by accident. Somehow she'd managed not to, so far, but Monty figured it was only a matter of time.

In the meantime, he had to keep finding books small enough to fit into his back pocket.

“You want
small
books?” asked Mrs. Harkins, the librarian, who had a streak of purple in her dark brown hair. “Do you mean, short? Not too many pages?”

“I mean, tiny,” explained Monty, holding up his hands to show the size he needed.

Mrs. Harkins tilted her purple streak to one side, as if the idea of a fourth grader reading a tiny book made her head hurt. “We do have some tiny books,” she said. “But they're mostly picture books. You don't want a chapter book?”

Monty shook his head. “I want little books,” he said. “A whole bunch.”

Mrs. Harkins still had a puzzled tilt to her purple head, but she found what he wanted. She gave him
Harold and the Purple Crayon.
She gave him
The Little Fur Family
and
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
. Best of all, she showed him about twenty books by the same author, Beatrix Potter. There were books about rabbits and ducks and frogs, and even one about a rat named Samuel Whiskers. Everybody's favorite was still
Chicken Soup
, though.

“‘In January it's so nice

While slipping on the sliding ice,

To sip hot chicken soup with rice.'”

The kids liked to chime in. Kieran: Sipping once. Winnie: Sipping twice. Finn: Sipping chicken soup. Leo: with rice!

Monty didn't actually mind hanging out with the kindergartners. They were funny. They thought he was super cool, just because he could read. But hanging out with kindergartners was sort of like sitting at the nut-free table. Monty might as well have hung up a sign on the fence saying big-kid-free zone. After that first day, Sierra and Jasmine and Lagu pretty much left him alone. Sometimes Jasmine showed up to say hi, but then she ran off again. Lagu came over once in a while, but he couldn't sit still and he usually took off halfway through a book to race around with the other fourth-grade guys, who stayed far away, as if they were allergic to little kids. If they did swing by, running in a pack, they shouted “Waffles! Hey, Waffles!”

As Monty worked his way through tiny book after tiny book, the weeds behind the chain-link fence were turning yellow and orange and red. And every Wednesday Monty and his class trooped over to the satellite classroom so they could “search for hidden treasures” with their Reading Buddies. Monty always checked out the changes on the
TODAY IS
sign.

TODAY IS
. This was always followed by
WEDNESDAY
. Then came the month, and then a number for the date that got bigger and bigger, until finally the month changed from
OCTOBER
to
NOVEMBER
.

THE WEATHER IS.
This was followed by S
UNNY
or
CLOUDY
or
RAINY.

THE SEASON IS.
Still A
UTUMN
.

THE NEXT HOLIDAY IS
. The first time they'd visited, the sign said that the next holiday was
C
OLUMBUS DAY
. Then it changed to say the next holiday was
HALLOWEEN
, and orange paper pumpkins spotted the classroom walls. After Halloween the pumpkins came down and up went flags of white paper painted with red stripes, and white stars glued to blue squares.
THE NEXT HOLIDAY IS: VETERANS DAY
.

The morning of the Veterans Day parade Monty woke to a gray sky.
THE WEATHER IS: CLOUDY
. He lifted the rat from its cage, settled him on his shoulder, and headed down to the kitchen.

“Mom,” said Audrey, his stepsister. Otherwise known as Big A. “Is that, like, allowed?”

Audrey wasn't usually around when Monty and Sierra were, because of the schedule. The week they came to their dad's house was usually the same week she went to stay at her dad's house. But sometimes the schedule got changed around and they ended up in the same house at the same time. Monty wasn't too thrilled when that happened. Audrey acted like being thirteen gave her the right to boss him around. She was constantly telling him what to do. Either that, or telling him about all the terrible things that would happen to him when he got to middle school.

“Well,” said Monty's stepmom, Beth, “we haven't really talked about it.”

Beth was the exact opposite of the wicked stepmothers in the fairy tales. She didn't order him and Sierra around. If there was some sort of problem, she called a family meeting and asked everyone to be part of the solution. Then she called the solution a “house policy” instead of a rule. Monty couldn't figure out how such a nice mom had got Audrey for a kid.

“Mom, that's disgusting,” said Audrey. “It's a rat!”

“He's a pet rat,” said Monty. “And for your information, his name is Scratcher!”

Monty's dad came out from behind his newspaper. “I thought his name was Mack.”

“He changed it,” said Sierra, who was sitting at the kitchen table eating a piece of toast with chocolate spread.

“I thought it was Officer Rat,” said Beth. “Wasn't it Officer Rat last time you were here?”

“It was,” said Sierra. “But then he changed it again. He's changed it a bunch of times.”

“How many?” asked his dad.

“A few,” admitted Monty.

“Like, ten,” taunted Sierra.

“Not ten!” argued Monty. “Dad, that's a lie!”

“Monty, don't call your sister a liar. Sierra, don't exaggerate.”

“I'm not exaggerating!” protested Sierra.

“You are so!” objected Monty.

“Sierra—stop,” said their dad. “And Monty, did you ever think about just choosing something and sticking with it?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the compost bucket from beside the sink and stepped outside, heading for the compost pile.

“Whatever,” said Audrey, launching back into her complaint. “Mom, he touched the rat and now you're going to let him touch all the food in the fridge? And what are you doing with that—whatever it is?” she asked, pointing to a red and yellow scarf her mom was holding.

Monty's stepmom held up the scarf. “Isn't this lovely? One of my clients gave it to me. It's from Sudan.”

Beth's job was helping people who just got to the United States find jobs and apartments and get their kids settled in school. Sometimes they gave her fabric from the country they'd come from. She belted the scarf around her waist. “Monty, you do understand that you need to wash your hands after you pick up the rat and before you touch anything in the fridge, right?”

“Right,” said Monty. “Absolutely.”

With Scratcher perched on his shoulder, he washed his hands. Then, carefully (house policy: Take the piece you want and want the piece you take) he grabbed the topmost apple from the fruit bowl and took a big bite.

“Or any food in the cupboard,” commanded Audrey.

Monty didn't like being bossed by Audrey, but he decided not to argue right now. It felt good having the rat ride around on his shoulder. He didn't want Scratcher banished.

“Or any food,” he agreed.

He took another bite of sweet, crunchy apple. He could hear the rat sniffing, as if it was thinking, you know I love apples! Monty wanted to give him a piece, but he knew Audrey would freak.

“I think that goes without saying,” said Beth. She dunked a tea bag in a mug of hot water. “I'm sure Monty gets the point, Audrey. We'll start with that understanding and if there's a problem, then we'll find a solution.”

“Which would be no rat in the kitchen, right?” said Audrey.

“
Audrey
,” said her mother—a one-word warning to drop the subject.

“
Mom
,” said Audrey—dropping it, but getting in the last word herself.

“What about getting silverware out of the drawer?” asked Sierra. “Doesn't he have to wash his hands before that, too? Or else he'll get rat germs on the spoons!”

Monty had expected grief from Audrey. But now his own sister was against him? Maybe he should tell Beth how Sierra used a spoon to eat chocolate spread straight from the jar! Except he would never tell on her! “Thanks a lot,” he muttered as his dad came back inside and set the empty bucket by the sink.

“What?” demanded Sierra. “I'm just saying!”

“Saying what?” asked Monty's dad.

Beth fished the tea bag from her cup. “We were just saying,” she said, “that of course Monty will be careful to wash his hands after he touches the rat and before he touches anything in the kitchen. It's a nonissue, so let's move on.”

Monty's dad knew how to take a hint from Monty's stepmom. He nodded and moved on. “I'm going to walk down to the parade. Who's coming with me?”

“Not me,” said Beth. “I've got loads to do around here.”

“Not me,” said Audrey, heading into the bathroom where she would probably spend an hour fussing with her long, blond hair.

“Not me,” said Sierra.

“Me,” said Monty. He had promised Leo he would look for him.

“Okay,” said Monty's dad. “You sure?”

“Sure I'm sure,” said Monty as the rat clambered from one shoulder to the other.

“Really? You positive?”

“I just said so!”

“Well, I'm just asking! Because sometimes you change your mind.”

“Well, sometimes I don't!” objected Monty, feeling the rat's feet tightening its grip, as if it was afraid. He couldn't believe this. His dad was always mad at him for not making up his mind, and now Monty's mind was made up, and it seemed like his dad was mad, anyway! How unfair was that!

“Mostly you do,” pointed out Sierra.

“I do not!” said Monty. “That's not true!”

“Is so,” said Sierra, shrugging. “But, whatever.”

Monty wanted to pound his sister. She sounded exactly like Big A. He also wanted to say that maybe sometimes he had trouble making up his mind in the first place, but it wasn't true that he changed his mind once it was already made up. The trouble came when people wanted him to make up his mind before he was ready. Then sometimes he gave an answer that wasn't really his final answer. But he was so mad he couldn't explain all that. All he could say, stupidly, was, “Not
whatever
!”

“John,” said Monty's stepmom. “Why don't you and Monty just go? And maybe later we should all talk about—you know.”

“The flip-flop thing?” asked Sierra.

Everybody knew about the flip-flop idea by now. Monty's mom had asked everybody to think about it, and Monty's dad had said he wanted to wait and see. Monty's stepmom and stepdad both said it was up to his mom and dad. And nothing had happened. Except every time he and Sierra had a little fight, the grown-ups sent meaningful glances at each other. They were so obvious they might as well be sailing a paper airplane across the room with a note on it:
What should we do about Monty and Sierra?

“
Y
es, the flip-flop
thing,” answered their dad, sounding annoyed. “But not now. I don't want to miss the parade. Come on, Monty—while we're young, please? Put that rat away and let's go.”

It wasn't Monty's fault they hadn't left yet!

By now he didn't even want to go to the parade with his dad, but he didn't have much choice. He was going and his dad was going. They were going together. He put the rat back in its cage, and they left the house and walked up Atlantic Street and down Congress Street. At the bottom of the hill they found a spot to wait.

Monty's dad pointed to the patchy gray sky. “Looks like it can't decide whether to rain or not.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” asked Monty.

“It was supposed to be,” said his dad, “but I guess it wasn't. Hey, I'm sorry, okay? I'm glad you wanted to come with me.”

Monty was still sore. “I promised Leo,” he said.

“Who?” asked his dad.

“My Kindergarten Buddy,” explained Monty. “Leonard Schwarz.” He told his dad all about Leo and his sister named Harriet and his dog named Noodle.

“That's pretty nice of you to come and watch him.”

“I guess,” said Monty.

His dad might think that Monty was being nice, but the truth was, hanging out with Leo was easier than dealing with the kids in his own grade. Leo thought he was awesome. Leo never called him Waffles.

“Who's he marching with?”

“His Scout troop.”

“I was a Scout,” said his dad.

“You never told me that,” said Monty.

“I didn't get too far,” admitted his dad. “But your granddad did. He went all the way to Eagle Scout.”

“He did?” Monty felt like an idiot for not knowing. But his grandfather had died before Monty was born, and his dad hardly ever talked about him.

“He gave me the badge he got when he made Eagle Scout,” said his dad, “but I lost it. I wish I'd been able to hang onto that.”

A loud noise rumbled overhead.

“Here come the planes!” said his dad, but his voice sounded funny. Tight—like he could hardly get the words out.

Monty glanced up and saw something he suddenly realized he had never seen before. His dad had tears in his eyes. It made Monty feel funny, as if he had seen something he wasn't supposed to. Quickly he looked away—up at the sky where the planes emerged from the clouds, zoomed high above the parade route, and then disappeared. The parade was starting.

One after another, the groups went by. The high school marching band trooped by playing “You're a Grand Old Flag.” Monty wondered if he would still be in the band in high school. He didn't see any guys playing flute, though. How could he talk his parents into letting him switch instruments again?

The band went past, and then came a convertible car with Miss Maine perched above the backseat, smiling and waving. Then came some soldiers in uniforms, marching. First were some men and women, and then some older men, and then a couple of super- old guys. Monty's dad said they were veterans from all the different wars. After the veterans came some clowns, spinning around in little cars, and finally the Scout troops in tan shirts with red kerchiefs around their necks. Monty scanned the group for Leo.

“That's him!” shouted Monty, pointing. “See the little kid with the buzz cut? Leo, hey, Leo!” He was waving like crazy and shouting, but he didn't think Leo could hear. Then a big, booming shout rang out.

“Leo!” roared Monty's dad. “Leo!”

Leo turned, saw Monty, and waved. Monty waved back. He felt his dad put an arm around his shoulders and squeeze him close. Monty didn't dare look up. He was pretty sure his dad was crying again.

They watched the rest of the parade—a group of marchers waving flags with doves, a fire engine, and finally a police car—and then listened to some speeches. Monty didn't feel mad at his dad anymore. He just felt afraid he might make his dad sad again. Monty had known forever that his grandfather was dead, but he'd never realized what that
meant
. Granddad was his dad's
dad
. The way Monty felt, thinking about this stuff, made him understand why his dad never talked about his father.

At the very end, after all the speeches, the trumpet player from the high school band played a song all by himself. The crowd was totally silent while the trumpet notes hung in the sky, and Monty knew what he would pick, if he could ever talk his parents into letting him switch instruments again. The trumpet.

Did he dare ask his dad right now? Making an important request called for good timing. Was this a good time or not? Maybe not, because he'd practically made his dad cry. But maybe yes, because here they were. Together. Monty was hardly ever alone with his dad.

“Dad,” began Monty.

“Let's get home,” said his dad, setting off through the crowd.

“Dad,” tried Monty again, trotting to keep up with his dad's long strides. The gray sky was starting to drizzle and the crowd was quickly thinning, people running to their cars. “Dad, you know the trumpet?”

“What about it?”

That sounded like grumpy-dad. Grumpy-dad walking home in the drizzle that was turning to rain. Maybe this wasn't a good time.

“What?” demanded his dad.

Definitely not a good time. “Nothing,” he said.

“What?”
repeated his dad. “Spit it out, Monty.”

“Could I play trumpet?” he asked. “Instead of flute?”

“You want to switch instruments?” asked his dad. “Again?”

“Kind of,” admitted Monty.

The sky was spitting rain for real now.

“I don't know, Monty. I'd like you to stick with something for once.”

“I want to stick with Band,” protested Monty. “But I never really wanted to play flute.”

The rain was coming down faster and his dad was walking faster, too. “Switching instruments isn't going to solve anything. Sometimes you just have to stick with something until you get better.”

“I'm not trying to solve anything,” said Monty. “I just want to play trumpet!”

“I don't know,” repeated his dad. “Let me talk to your mom.”

Monty didn't bother saying anything else. Monty's dad talking to Monty's mom was code for no. They walked the rest of the way up the hill in silence. By the time they turned onto Atlantic Street it was pouring rain. Monty wished he had never brought up the trumpet subject. The feeling he had when his dad gave him a sideways hug was gone. Now he was mad at his dad again, and his dad was mad at him again, too.

And his dad didn't waste any time changing his mind to be in a good mood. They walked though the back door, and
pronto
, his dad called Sierra into the kitchen. It was time for the talk.

“Your mom and I both think it might be good to try this flip-flop idea—you and Sierra getting a little break from each other—just for a little while. What do you two think?”

Monty didn't need to think. This wasn't something he needed to make up his mind about, like choosing between two flavors of ice cream. It was more like the question, Do you like ice cream? Of course. Do you want to stay with your twin sister? Of course! Sometimes they fought. Who cared? Sometimes he got sick of grown-ups thinking of him as half of
you two
. He was him! But neither of those things meant he didn't want to live with Sierra. What was the point of that? The whole best thing about having a twin was always having somebody around—somebody who understood exactly how annoying it felt to be half of
you two
.

But before he could explain all that, Sierra answered, “I don't care.” Those were her exact words.
I don't care.

She didn't care? If Sierra didn't care about being with him, why should he care about being with her? He was so mad at his sister for agreeing to flip-flop that he suddenly agreed, too.

“I don't care either,” he said. “We can flip-flop.”

“You sure?” asked his dad. “Because if either of you don't want to, we won't. Even if it's only for a little while, we need everybody on board. So, you're sure you want to?”

The truth was, Monty wasn't sure. He'd only said he wanted to because he was mad. The truth was the exact opposite. The one thing he was sure of was that he
didn't
want to.

“I didn't
say
I wanted to,” argued Monty. “I said I didn't care, but if everybody else wants to, then, fine! Whatever!”

Monty's dad rubbed his smooth head, still shiny from the rain. “Now I'm totally confused,” he said. “But it sounds like you don't like the idea. Maybe we should table it for a while.”

“Table it?” asked Monty.

“Wait and see,” explained his dad.

Sierra groaned, “Maybe he should make up his mind once in a while!”

“Sierra,”
said their dad.

“Dad,”
said Sierra, mimicking the warning note in his voice.

Monty was so sick of everybody being mad at him for changing his mind that he pretended he hadn't. That he actually did want to flip-flop. “I made it up!” he blurted, pointing to his twin sister. “I don't want to live with
her
.”