Jake and Lily (10 page)

I
went to Poppy’s for breakfast. We sat at the kitchen table. I would have had toast and blackberry jelly except there was no toaster. So it was jelly on bread. I would have had hot chocolate except there was no microwave. So it was cold chocolate milk. Poppy was sipping coffee.

“It’s not working,” I told him.

“I think I heard this before,” he said.

“I tried,” I said. “All day yesterday. Mom made us stay together. I was mad at him all day. I ate my lunch in front of him and didn’t share a bite while he was starving. I made him watch my
Gray Shadow
DVDs. I didn’t speak to him all day.”

“Not a word?”

“Not a word. And I thought it was working.
And then I got up this morning and—
fssst
. Zippo. No mad. It was gone.”

Poppy sighed. “I guess you just don’t have what it takes.”

I sighed. “Guess not.” I finished my bread in silence. “What’s wrong with me, Poppy?”

He squeezed my hand. “Not a thing. You’re just too nice, that’s all.”

“So what now?”

“Well,” he said, “at least we learned something. We know mad doesn’t work for you. So we need to find another way to get you a life.” He sipped and stared at me, as if there was an answer somewhere on my face. “How about”—he stared some more—“a friend.”

“I have friends,” I told him.

“I mean a best friend. Like girls always seem to have in books and movies. Somebody you’re on the phone with as soon as you wake up. Always sleeping over at each other’s house. Shopping the malls together. Somebody you just can’t live without.”

I said, “Does the name
Jake
ring a bell?”

“This isn’t about Jake. It’s about Just Lily.”

“Sorry.”

I told him I have friends in school and in the neighborhood. I talk to them and we do stuff and we have fun and I like them. But I never slept over. And I
can
live without them.

“Pick one out,” he said. “The one you like best.”

I thought about it. “Well, Anna Matuzak, I guess. She lives a block away. She’s in my grade. We both like Reese’s Pieces. And purple.”

He slapped the table. “Sounds like a match. Call her up. Invite her for a sleepover.”

I wish Poppy would take things a little slower. I’m getting woozy. But I did what he said. I didn’t just call Anna Matuzak. I rode to her house. Her mother came to the door. She said Anna was out swimming somewhere. I asked if Anna could come for a sleepover. Her mother looked surprised. She said my invitation was “very nice” and she would ask Anna as soon as she got home. As I was walking away she said, “Oh, and honey, I’m sorry but I have to ask—what’s your name?”

“Lily Wambold,” I said.

Anna called after dinner. She sounded surprised too, but she said, “Sure, I’ll come.”

So it’s set. Tomorrow night a friend is coming
to sleep over. Mom and Dad said no problem. They said we can order pizza. We can watch DVDs. We can stay up as late as we want—“as long as you’re not going wild,” said Dad.

I’m planning the whole night. I feel myself getting excited. All of a sudden Anna Matuzak is the biggest thing in my life.

W
hat happened yesterday?

I felt like I missed the first half of a great movie. I tore my Pop-Tart out of the toaster and ate it on my bike. We always meet at the hideout first thing in the morning, but no one was there yet. I waited as long as I could—about thirty seconds—and pedaled for Meeker Street.

I could see the word from a block away, but even when I pulled up close I couldn’t believe it. It was painted across the wall of the clubhouse in thick yellow letters:

SOOP

Soop must have put the roof on yesterday,
because the clubhouse looked finished—if
finished
is the word. The ends of the wallboards were sticking out past the corners and were diving this way and that. The whole thing was slanted to the right as if it was falling into a sinkhole. If my parents saw it, they’d either croak or laugh for a week. It looked like it belonged in a cartoon. And that’s not even counting the giant yellow word.

I felt a little uncomfortable, being the only one on the scene so early in the morning. So I did a loop around town. When I came back the kid was outside, staring at the word. I didn’t want to deal with this, but the kid saw me U-turning and called, “Hey, Jake!”

Drat
, I thought. I don’t know why I didn’t just keep going. You never ever let a goober call the shots. I guess it was hearing my name.

“Hey,” I said. I pulled to the curb. “What’s up?” I felt funny talking to him without the guys around. I missed Bump leading the way.

He pointed. “Look what somebody did, Jake.”

I pretended like I hadn’t noticed before. “Wow,” I said.

He walked over to me. I was really uncomfortable now. He had never been so close. He leaned on my handlebars. “That’s me. Soop. The nickname you guys call me.”

He knows!
I thought.

“Think so?” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. I think so. But”—he zeroed in on me—“the big question is, who did it? And why?”

He didn’t seem mad or upset. Just curious.

“Beats me,” I said, looking around—where were the guys? “Maybe just some kids goofing off. Summer vacation, y’know?”

“Nothing better to do,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“A prank.”

“Yeah.”

And then I heard Nacho’s war cry, “Death Rays forever!” and the guys were busting down the street. They pulled up at the curb and they all did just like me—they pretended nothing was wrong. I’m sure they rehearsed it.

“Hey, Erno—nice clubhouse.”

“Way to go, dude!”

“You da hammer!”

You could see the compliments sinking into him. “Thanks, guys. It was my first construction venture, so I guess it’s okay. But”—he pointed—“what do you think of that word?”

“Looks great to me, Erno,” said Bump. “Nice paint job.”

“I like the yellow,” said Burke.

“But I didn’t do it,” said Soop.

“You
didn’t
?” said Bump, and I knew from the fake shock on his face that he was the one. “So who did it?”

Soop snapped his fingers. “Bump,
that’s
the question.” Still not mad, just curious. “I mean, you’re the only guys who call me Soop. I wonder who else knows my nickname is Soop.”

Bump pretended to study the clubhouse in a new light. “Golly gee, Erno. Beats me.”

Soop gave me a shoulder pat. “Jake thinks it was just kids playing a prank.”

“Hoodlum kids,” sneered Burke.

“Nothin’ better to do,” sneered Nacho.

Soop snapped his fingers. “That’s
exactly
what Jake said.” It was almost like he was starting to
enjoy being vandalized. But that’s typical of goobers too. You dump crap on them and they think it’s roses. “Or maybe”—he laughed—“they were trying to write the S-O-U-P soup and they can’t even spell it right!”

Five kids howling with laughter, only four at the same thing.

Then Bump was wagging his head. “I don’t know…I don’t know….”

“What, Bump?” goes Soop.

“I got another theory,” said Bump.

“What’s that?” Soop was all ears. Fascinated.

“I think it’s just somebody telling you how beautiful your clubhouse is and they think it would be even better if you painted it yellow.”

Soop’s eyes widened. He gave the shack a long look. “You think so?”

Bump nodded. “Yep. I think so.”

Soop seemed to study Bump for a minute. Then he looked at the rest of us. “Can I ask you guys a question?” he said.

“Ask away,” I heard myself say.

“How come you guys call me Soop? It’s the first time I ever had a nickname, but I don’t know
where it comes from.”

The four of us looked at each other, like we were flipping a ball back and forth. The silence was making me nervous. “No big deal,” I told him. “It just means ‘cool’ around here.”

Nacho picked it up. “Yeah. I guess you didn’t have that word in Gary, Indiana.”

“It’s short,” said Bump, “for ‘super kid.’”

Soop beamed. “Neato!”

T
he sleepover stunk.

Anna Matuzak—what a bimbo. All night she complained that the pizza didn’t have extra cheese. “I
always
get extra cheese…I
always
get extra cheese.” She said it a thousand times. But that didn’t stop her from eating six of the eight slices.

When she wasn’t complaining and eating, she was looking at herself in my mirror. She brought a purple suitcase with her, and inside that suitcase was
another
purple (she calls it “lavender”) suitcase. A little square
purple
one. It was full of cosmetics. She shoved my stuff aside and laid it all out. Suddenly my room was a beauty salon. Or, in her case, ugly salon. She crapped up everything above her neck except her ears. When I clamped her
eyelash curler onto the end of my nose, she screamed and took it to the bathroom and scrubbed it. When she finished with her face she painted her fingernails. “It’s Lovely Lavender,” she snooted, holding the bottle out to me like I was supposed to kiss it. Then she did her toenails. She was a vision in Poopy Purple. She said I should use a toothpick to get the dirt out from under my nails.

Just to pry her away from my mirror, I took her down to the basement to my train place. It’s just a bookcase, for now. Someday I’m going to make a whole display on a Ping-Pong table. I showed her my yellow-and-red caboose with the off-duty engineer waving out the window. I showed her my Pennsylvania Railroad Vista Dome car. I showed her my Southern Crescent Pullman Palace sleeper. I showed her my B&O hopper complete with tiny coal pieces from a chunk I smashed on the sidewalk with a hammer. When I told her she could touch the coal, she made a face and said, “No way!” and raced back upstairs to the mirror.

“Wanna play poker?” I said.

She looked at me like I was a talking turnip.

By the time she was finished with stuffing and
beautifying herself, it was midnight. She didn’t like any of our DVDs, so we turned on the TV and watched everything I hated. We were sitting up in my bed in our pj’s. Hers were dark-purple with light-purple dots. She ate a whole bag of Reese’s Mini Pieces and never offered me one. I made the big mistake of going to the bathroom. When I got back she was sprawled on her stomach in the middle of the bed, sleeping. I stood over her, studying the situation. I whispered, “Anna.” No answer. I gave her a little nudge. “Unnnh unnnh,” she went, and flapped her hand at me like I was a moth. I gave up. I grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and slept on the floor.

At breakfast my mother greeted her with a big smile and even a hug and said, “Okay, Anna, what’ll it be? Cereal? Eggs? Pancakes?”

“French toast,” she said.

She ordered five slices of French toast and ate two. She wanted blueberry syrup, but all we had was maple. She kept saying, “Boy, this would
really
be good with blueberry syrup.”

I was terrified she would hang around all day. And then I got lucky. Halfway through breakfast,
I let out a burp. I didn’t even mean it. It was an accident. It was also a doozie, a world-class ripper, one of my best ever. If you’re wondering about my parents, they don’t even bother to yell, “Lily!” anymore, except when there’s company. So I guess my mother figured she had to do something, so she says, “Lily,” and gives me a halfhearted glare. As for the overnight guest—ha!—she practically choked on her mouthful. Her eyes went wide and her face twisted like some chain-saw killer was loose in the kitchen. (Other kids just laugh and tell me to do it again.) I patted my chest. “Great French toast, huh?” I said. She took off right after breakfast. I carried her purple suitcase halfway down the block.

Later that day I told Poppy, “Now I feel worse than ever. And I hate my favorite color.”

Poppy acted like it was no big deal. “Hey—win some, lose some.”

“But it just shows you how rotten my life is now,” I told him. “I was
born
with a built-in sleepover person. It was perfect. Why did it all have to change?”

“That’s life,” he said. “Change. If you’re smart
you’ll change with it. Took me a long time to learn that.”

“If change means Anna Matuzak,” I said, “I’ll
never
change.”

He laughed. “There’s other ways. And one thing hasn’t changed—Anna or no Anna, you still need a life.”

So we thought about it, or rather Poppy thought about it. I have no idea how to think about getting a life.

“Hobby,” he said. “You need a hobby.”

“I have one,” I told him. “Trains. You know that.”

“That’s more of an interest than a hobby,” he said. “And anyway, trains obviously are not doing the trick. You need something that will occupy a lot of your time. Hours a day.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Like…stamp collecting.”

“Stamp collecting?” I wanted to barf. “Oh, pul-eeeeeze.”

S
o he painted his clubhouse yellow.

And next day there it was again, splashed across the side. In black. Nice contrast with the yellow.

SOOP

Of course this time it was no surprise to us. Bump had told us he was going to do it.

“Who do you think’s doing it?” Soop said as we pulled up to the curb.

“Doing what?” said Bump, all innocent, like before.

“Painting my name on the clubhouse,” said Soop.

“Oh, that,” said Nacho.

Bump leaned in and whispered to me, “Listen to him.
Look
at him.”

I knew what Bump meant. The goober still wasn’t mad, just curious, like this was a math problem he hadn’t run into before. He should have been pulling out his hair, howling,
What’s going on?
, maybe even crying. But all he did was talk all calm with his hands on his hips, like he owned the world. That’s what gets you. You know if it happened to you, you’d be going nuts, you’d want to kill somebody. And then you see this kid who refuses—flat-out
refuses
—to be normal. Who stands there with his hands on his hips, all cocky-like. And if there’s one thing that burns your butt more than anything else, it’s a cocky goober. So naturally you want to smack him, slap some normal into him.

But Bump stays cool. “I don’t know,” he says. “Who do
you
think’s doing it, Erno?”

“Beats me,” said Soop. “It’s a mystery.”

We all nodded: “Mystery…”

And now Soop was giggling. Another thing that drives the ice pick into your neck: a giggling goober.

“What’s so funny, Erno?” said Bump.

“He
still
can’t spell
soup
!” goes Erno. He went on giggling, like it was the funniest thing since cow pies.

His hand shot into the air. “Hold the presses!” He turned to us—“Wait here, guys”—and sprinted into his house. He was back in a couple minutes with a little paint can and a thin brush. He went to the wall. “I couldn’t find any black,” he called. He painted blue happy faces into the double
O
s. He turned to us. He threw out his arms. “Ta-da!”

Bump started a slow handclap that of course Soop didn’t realize was bogus. The rest of us joined in. Bump hissed, almost loud enough for Soop to hear, “This is his last day as a happy goober.”