Hokey Pokey (5 page)

Approaching Snuggle Stop, she slows down. Her memories of the candy-cane-striped red-and-white hut are still warm. Many days she stood in line with the other little kids, awaiting her turn to step inside and lose herself in the big, soft, loving, furry embrace of Snugger. To this day neither she nor anyone else knows what Snugger looks like, it’s so dark in there. Not that it matters. All that matters is that Snugger is there to give you what you need, whenever, 24/7. She feels the need less now. Only rarely is Snuggle Stop visited by a Big Kid, and then only at night, a solitary shadow crabbing over the glittery landscape, cursing the moon that is always full over Hokey Pokey.

It has been one of the quiet prides of Jubilee’s life that her little brother, Albert, has never stood in the line at Snuggle Stop. He hasn’t had to, because
she sees to it that he goes to sleep snuggled into the loving spoon of his big sister and wakes up the same way.

Until this morning.

She reins in Hazel. She surveys the long line. There he is, toward the end, in his striped shirt. His posture alone tells her all she needs to know. A sob ball falls from her. It’s the saddest thing she’s ever seen. She hates herself.

She parks the bike. She moves closer. She calls, “Albert.” He looks—oh the look! He turns away. She says his name again.

He turns. He wails, “You wasn’t there!”

Now or never
, she thinks. She reaches for him, tugs. He resists. Then doesn’t. He allows her to pull him away from the line. She needs to distract him, make him forget. She points to the bike. “Look, Albert—want a ride?”

Albert looks, then kicks her in the shin. “You wasn’t there.”

She fights the tears. Abandoning him to wake up alone, choosing bike over brother—is there a rottener sister anywhere? “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“And then I got exploded!”

She looks at him. “Huh?”

“I got exploded!” he bawls. “And I was nex!”

She cups his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“I was nex in line and then he did it!”

“Who? What?”

He snivels: “I was nex in line for Snugger and Destroyer came in his truck and exploded me and when I was dead the other kids went ahead of me and then I was at the end of the line!” He kicks her again.

She’s not sure what all that’s about. She only knows she needs to steer him in a new direction. She leads him to the bike. “Look, Albert—it’s mine now. Want to ride?”

He looks at it. He won’t give up his monkey face, but she can see a glimmer. He reaches out, pulls his hand back and kicks the front tire. The bike topples. “You wasn’t there!” She catches the bike before it hits the ground. He’s bawling harder than ever now.

She picks him up, pulls him into herself. She’s not furry and her name’s not Snugger, but she gives him the best, the warmest, the most loving hug a sister ever gave a kid brother. She sobs into his ear. “I’m
sorry, honeybunny, I know, I know. Bad Jubilee. Bad. Bad. She’ll never do it again. Never let you wake up alone again, never, never,
never
.” And suddenly she’s aware that he’s clutching—
Thank you!
—his arms and legs wrapped around her, practically squeezing the breath out of her. Then a shift in his weight. He’s reaching over her shoulder, reaching for the bike—

She lets him down. She lets him pet it. She kneels behind him, chin on his shoulder. He’s still sniffing but she knows the worst is over. He’s drinking in the full glorious view. “So—what do you think?”

He traces his fingers solemnly over the black-and-silver flanks. “Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, it just sort of came to me.” Get him off this track. “I call her Hazel.”

“It’s Scramjet,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s Jack’s.”

Why is she surprised? Jack and Scramjet are famous, even among little kids,
especially
among little kids.

“Not anymore. It’s Hazel.” She kisses his ear, whispers into it. “And it’s
mine
.”

No reaction, but she knows he’s taking it in, processing. His eyes never leave the bike.

“And y’know what?”

“What?”

“I think Hazel wants a new paint job.”

At first there’s no sign, and she’s afraid he’s missed it. But now his head is turning, and one wide, wonder-struck eye is coming into view.…

E
VERYBODY KNOWS
. Everybody’s a detective.

“Hey, Jack! I saw her over there!”

“Hey, Jack! Over there!”

“Hey, Jack! I saw bike tracks!”

“Hey, Jack! We’re makin a posse! We’ll find her!”

So public his shame. For once, he resents his own popularity. Every show of sympathy, every offer to help, cranks up his disgrace, his hatred of the girl.

“Hey, Jack! We found Scramjet!”

Jack waves dismissively:
Yeah, right
.

“Jack! It’s
buried
!”

He halts. Frost coats his heart.
Would she?

It’s a couple of Gappergums, a girl and a boy, pulling up in front of him, panting. He knows they have no more sense than moss, so why is he listening?

“Behind Tantrums, Jack! Mitchell found it!” Each grabs a hand. “C’mon!”

Jack allows himself to be led. Prays:
Please no
. But fears.

As they head for Tantrums, Jack is barely aware of walking through Flowers, barely aware that, midmorning, it’s already trampled. Two Snotsippers and a Longspitter are waiting in line to enter Tantrums. All three are grimly tearing at faceless rag dolls, ripping them to shreds: dog bones for fitpitchers. On a bench outside the door sits a bored Big Kid, the attendant. His job is to hand out rag dolls and assist the exiting fitpitcher, who often can hardly walk at the end of his or her tantrum. Tantrums itself is a dome-shaped structure—white, rubbery, soundproof—with a plastic pipe in the top for tantrum exhaust. The color of the exhausting gas signifies tantrum category, from One (black: mild) to Five (white: achieved only once, by Robert the Fuse). At the moment it’s showing aqua: Category Three.

From behind Tantrums comes a cry: “I need help!”

They run. Mitchell, a Longspitter, is tugging a bike wheel, still half buried, and at once Jack’s heartfrost melts: it’s not Scramjet. It can’t be. It’s too big. Mitchell is grunting with effort. Jack, feeling charitable now, grabs Mitchell’s spade, pushes him aside. “You need to dig more.” A couple minutes of spadework frees the wheel. Jack lifts it, stands it on the ground. The little kids gasp, wonderwowed, reach tentatively to touch it. They’ve never seen anything like it. Neither has Jack. Half the spokes are gone. All remaining metal is a rock-hard red-brown rustcrust. All that remains of the rubber are a few black scraps. But that’s not what astounds them—it’s the size. The wheel stands higher than Jack’s head.

“Jack,” one croaks, “what is it?”

“What it looks like,” says Jack. “A bike wheel.”

“
That
big?”

“Yeah.” Dumb answer, but that’s all he can say, for he has no idea where it came from or what it’s doing in the ground. He’s heard of a race of giant bikes that once roamed the land, but he’s always assumed it was a fairy tale.

Suddenly he stops—that sound again. He turns.
“Who whistled?” They look at him like he’s goofy. Already Mitchell is back to digging.

As Jack walks away, he hears Mitchell’s cry: “Sprocket!”

He passes Tantrums again. The Big Kid attendant is helping a sagging fitpitcher wobble off as, already, the next in line plunges inside and slams the door.

He spots the tiny terrorist, the one who calls himself Destroyer. He’s pointing his plastic clicker at a pair of little kids dumb enough to believe it’s a magic weapon. Normally Jack would sneak over behind the kid, mess with him somehow, show him up for the harmless runt he really is. But he’s got no will for it today. Everything’s been sucked out of him but the need to get his bike back.

A gang of assorted little ones comes running. “Hey, Jack!” He keeps walking, tries to ignore them. It doesn’t work. They plant themselves in front of him. “Jack! Jack!”

He blows disgust, snarls: “What?”

“Jack—is there monsters?” pipes one, pulling on his pant leg. “There is, right, Jack? Right?”

“No there ain’t!” screams another. “Tell him, Jack! There ain’t no such thing as monsters!”

Now they’re all babbling, pushing, clutching at him.

“Yes there is!”

“No there ain’t!”

“Jack! Jack!”

Over their heads he spots Dusty and LaJo. He pushes through the kids—“Whatever”—tries to move on, but they practically trip him clinging to his legs. “Jack! Tell us! Tell us!”

He shakes them off, rudely shoves the most persistent one away. But already they’re regrouping. He points, warns: “Touch me again—” They stop in their tracks. He’s heard the question many times before and has always, according to his whim, snapped off a sharp yes or no and enjoyed the victors’ cheers and the losers’ glum dejection. But he’s in no mood to play this time, so for once he’ll give them the only honest answer there is, unsatisfying as it may be to all, which of course is,
How the heck do I know?
—when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, there they are, the words, the
real
answer, coming out of his mouth: “You believe there is, there is. You believe there ain’t, there ain’t.” Jack leaves them staring stupidly at him like guppies in a fishbowl, musing as he walks away,
Where did
that
come from?

The Amigos are heading away from him. They don’t seem to have noticed him.

“Hey!” he calls.

They keep walking.

“Amigos!”

They keep walking. It’s not like they’re miles away. He knows they hear him. What’s going on? He feels the chill coming on again.

He trots, calls: “Dusty! LaJo!”

They don’t turn till he’s practically up their backs. “Hey, Jack,” they go, acting surprised, but it’s fake, and so are the smiles.

“So?” he says. His mouth is dry. He hardly gets out the next word. “Anything?”

They trade glances. “Hey, no,” says Dusty, like,
What a silly question
.

Neither will meet his eyes. Something tells him,
Walk away. Don’t ask
. But he does. “What is it? Stop lying. What happened?”

Dusty is trying so hard he’s squeaking. “Nothing happened, Jackarooni. We’re still looking.”

Jack grabs a fistful of shirt, pulls Dusty to his toes. “What?”

LaJo says, “It’s painted.”

For a moment the world stops. “Huh?”

“Yellow.”

Dusty yells, “Shut up, you moron!”

LaJo shrugs. “He’ll find out anyway. He should hear it from us.”

The word has long since passed through his outer ear, speared the drum and inner ear; now it burrows deeper, deeper into his brain—and still makes no sense.

Yellow?

O
F COURSE HE WANTS TO
—what kid wouldn’t want to ride Scramjet (oops, Hazel) by himself, and she’s proud that he wants to—but Albert’s little legs are way too short to reach the pedals. So she walks alongside, holding him to the saddle, while he churns his legs in the air. “C’mon, Jubilee! Faster!” The paint is still wet. By now her little brother is half yellow himself but couldn’t care less—he’s riding the most famous bike in all the world! “Faster!”

She trots. His arms are stretched to their limit to reach the handlebar. It’s getting harder to keep him safe
and under control because he’s turning the front wheel this way and that, pretending he’s swooping over Great Plains chasing the wild herd. He’s been delirious ever since she gave him the paintbrush. In spite of herself she winced as he slapped yellow even on the spokes and tires, but her heart is singing to know she’s made him so happy, and there’s no way she’s going to stop him.

“Faster!”

She accelerates.

“Faster!”

She goes as fast as she dares. She’s holding one slippery yellow handlegrip now as he thrusts both hands in the air and yells at boggle-eyed watchers: “Look at me! Look at me! I’m Jack!”

“D
ID YOU SEE IT
?”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I saw
something
. But the sun was in my eyes. It mighta been sun glare.”

“It wasn’t sun. It was real.”

They’re talking about the uncomfortablest moment of their lives, the moment after they told Jack they had spotted Scramjet. When LaJo told him it was yellow, Jack seemed confused, as if he needed a dictionary to look up the word.
“Yellow?”
he said. Then his face, his
whole body, seemed to crumple. He slumped to the ground at their feet and began to cry. He pulled up his shirt to hide his face—and that’s when Dusty saw it too. And that’s when they walked away, left him alone.

“Say it,” says LaJo.

“Say what?” says Dusty.

“Say it.”

Dusty has had his back turned to LaJo the whole time. “Say
what
?”

LaJo doesn’t answer. He knows Dusty can’t stand silence. If nobody else fills it, he will.

Dusty kicks dirt, picks a weed, chews it, spits it out, slumps, sighs dramatically, throws his hands to the sky: “O-K. His tattoo.”

“His tattoo what?”

Dusty turns. His eyes are glistening. He seems to be looking for something that LaJo can’t give him. He creaks, disbelieving: “It’s … 
fading
.”

LaJo says vacantly, “It’s almost gone.”

Dusty surrenders, sags, sighs, nods.

They share a long silence that even Dusty does not invade. At last LaJo says, “So. What do you think?”

Dusty drags his eyes skyward. He gives a LaJo-like shrug. “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t say
know
. I said
think
. What do you
think
?”

Dusty tries, tries, gives up, snarls: “I don’t think nothin. Nothin. OK?” More silence. Kicking dust. Staring at separate horizons. Dusty turns, stares at LaJo. Suddenly he lifts his own shirt. He can’t stand to look. “Is it there?”

LaJo looks. “It’s there.”

Dusty blows relief, checks out his tattoo. It’s clear and sharp as always. The unblinking inky eye. The belly-button eyeball staring at all there is. A bold stare. A daring stare. “Lift your shirt,” he says to LaJo. “Let me check you.”