King of the Mutants (12 page)

HOW TO GET AROUND MANHATTAN

Freddie gave me a quick five-minute lesson on handling Cherry Pie and we switched off between sleeping and driving. Which was awesome. Once I knew what I was doing, especially if I counted on the fact I didn’t have the added pressure of killer clowns trying to run me off the road in a torrential downpour, the bike rode like a dream.

We cruised like outlaws, the drive becoming more outrageous by the second. Hills, forests, creeks, and mountains surrounded us. The road expanded before us, twisting and undulating like a snake. It was a spine-tingling ride. The fresh air cleared my lungs, the smell of pine trees tingled my nose, the road glided beneath us, just a blur. It was my first taste of real freedom—a feeling I’d only halfway experienced on stage when I performed.

I cut off Cherry Pie’s engine when we reached Darling’s cousin’s house, hopped off the bike, and staggered slowly up to the front door. That’s when I noticed the note.

Maverick/Freddie,

Pool house in the back is yours and the door is open. Sorry I wasn’t able to meet you in person, but I had to catch a flight out of town. Hopefully, we’ll meet one day.

My heart jumped. I raced to the backyard.

There it was—sparkling in the moonlight like a fantastic dream—the pool. I don’t know what came over me. I suppose it was because of the long journey and the hot weather, but the urge was strong. Careful with my new prized possession, I set my guitar down on a sun lounger. Then I went for it. I threw off my trench coat and my t-shirt, kicked off my shoes, and dove headfirst into the water.

I sat still at the bottom of the pool, for what must have been at least ten minutes, when a big splash rocked my body. I snapped to attention and looked up. On the surface, Freddie splashed around like a wounded seal. He dove under, swam toward me, and grabbed my arm, dragging me to the shallow end. Snaggletooth ran around the pool in frenzied circles.

Freddie coughed, his eyes wide. “What are you trying to do, Mav, kill yourself?”

“No, I’m fine, really,” I insisted. “I could have stayed under for at least twenty more minutes. Really.”

Freddie took notice of my back. He backed away from me, regarding me with suspicion. I’d forgotten he’d only seen me with my shirt on. To finally get over his fear of me he needed to face it straight on. I grabbed his hand and placed it on my neck. He flinched, but his hand didn’t move.

“Weird,” he whispered, his face awe-stricken. “You have, like a 3-D spine. It’s so bumpy…and scaly.” He withdrew his hand. “It’s not a scary as I’d thought it would be. Your back is really cool. Have to admit, I’m a little jealous.” Freddie lowered his gaze. “I’m just a dorky nerd. I wish I was as unique as you.”

“Careful what you wish for,” I said. “It just might come true.”

Freddie shrugged, but he obviously had something else on his mind. I shot him a look that said spit it out already. He spaced out for a second and stared blankly at the stars. After a moment, he said, “Hey, our dip in the pool woke me up a little. If you’re not tired, do you want to forge on? I really want to get back to my home base.”

It was the way he said
home
. It dawned on me. He needed to get back to where he came from in a bad way. He needed his justice, his truth. He was just like me. I could have slept, but I wasn’t going to let my friend down. No way. “Yeah, I can keep going. I’m a bundle of nerves. Let’s hit it.”

“I’m feeling strong. I’ll take the first shift,” said Freddie. He flexed a chicken-egg sized muscle and laughed. “Oh, by the way, I called up my friend Ashby when you were under water. He said we could crash at his place when we get to the city. That iPhone rocks.”

“Killer,” I said—even though something didn’t feel quite right when he mentioned his friend’s name. I brushed off the feeling as overtired paranoia. Once again, we knuckle bumped and made our way back to Cherry Pie.

According to Freddie’s calculations, it would take us about six more hours to reach New York—but with my rotten luck, who knew? After what we’d experienced over the past two days, I had serious doubts about whether we would make it there alive. We rode on and
on, only
stopping
to switch driving, or the occasional
bathroom break
. We kept
our heads down and avoid
ed
any potential mishaps. Soon, we were spitting distance from the Big Apple.

It was close to eleven at night when the New York City skyline sparkled before us—such a righteous sight after our long trip. Hundreds and hundreds of buildings jutted into the air. Humanity! My heart jackhammered as we went through the Holland Tunnel. And then my excitement turned to fear. The city was so big. I didn’t know where to turn, didn’t know what to do. Our cash supply was getting lower every second and we needed to find a place to stay. I pulled over the bike the second I could, sweaty palms gripping the handlebars.

“What’s eating you?” asked Freddie.

My eyes blinked rapidly. “Just a little worried about the cash flow situation, and like, where are we going to stay tonight? New York costs mucho money, you know?”

“Well, I’ve got it covered. Remember? I called my friend Ashby
Vanderholt
? He’s a really cool guy, like my big brother. Lives on the Upper East Side—right on the park. He said we could stay with him.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Trust me. He’s cool.” Freddie was adamant.

“Fine. We’ll head there,” I said, regretting my suggestion the instant I uttered it. My tail went mental, like ten thousand volts of electricity zapping down my spine. I assumed it had fallen asleep from sitting on it for so long, so I ignored my instincts. I kick-started the bike to life and we made our way to Ashby’s, Freddie pointing out directions along the way.

Big mistake. Because the second we got to Ashby’s I wanted to turn around.

A bunch of teenagers loitered outside the building. They all wore the latest and greatest clothes—the kind I’d only seen on the cover of magazines. Private school kids. Rich kids. I felt like pond scum. Reluctantly, I got off the bike and fought the urge to bolt across the street, right into Central Park.

The humongous building’s facade was constructed completely out of limestone. Incredible gargoyle sculptures eyed us, carved into either side of the entryway. They were so life-like I felt as if one might swoop down, pick me up, and fly me into the sky. Even the sidewalks were polished to perfection.

I’d never seen such a display of wealth.

Freddie grabbed my elbow and ushered me into the crowd toward the front door.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little freaky Freddie Finch, the dead schoolmarm’s son,” said one of the guys, sneering upon our approach. “You haven’t changed since middle school. I don’t even think you’ve grown.” The guy shouldered into Freddie, pushing him to the side. “Oh wait, I see your big mouth has, indeed, gotten bigger. How do you talk with those big lips, trout pout?”

Freddie’s face crumbled.

“Oh. My. Gawd. He actually brought another poor kid with him,” said a nasty blond girl wearing too much makeup. She twirled a long string of white pearls around her neck and lifted up her chin. “Nice motorcycle. Steal it from a convict?”

“I think it’s pretty,” said another girl. She pointed at Cherry Pie with long, glossy fingernails and then pointed at me. “Pretty ugly—just like little Freddie Finch and his freakish friend. Nice trench coat. Do you always wear sunglasses at night?” Her mouth twisted into an ugly smile. “What a loser.”

And they said things were more civilized in big cities.

A smarmy kid holding a martini glass stepped into view from behind the group. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he stood around six feet tall, looked to be about sixteen, and had squinty rat-like eyes and slicked back brown hair. A prominent scar carved into his left eyebrow made him look a lot tougher than he probably was. He kind of reminded me of a younger—and evil—James Bond.

I could only assume this was Freddie's friend -- the one and only Ashby Vanderholt.

With a wicked smirk, Ashby shouted over the snickers. “Guys, back off. Freddie and me, why he’s like my baby brother.” He staggered up to us, sipping his drink. “Freddie, my man, what can I do you for?”

“Hey, Ashby,” said Freddie. He shifted his weight from foot-to-foot, the right side of his big mouth twitching uncomfortably. “Remember? I called you about me and my friend crashing here for a couple of days?”

“Sure, absolutely, anything for you, Freddie. Parents are in the Hamptons and then off to Montenegro. Same old, same old.” He turned his back on me. “And who exactly is your friend?”

“His name is Maverick Mercury and he’s—”

“A joke?” said someone.

“A clown?” said another.

An idiot for coming here, I thought.

Somebody yelled, “What kind of a name is Maverick Mercury, anyway?” and the group of privileged punks burst out laughing. I didn’t understand what they found so funny. Truth be told, I thought my name was pretty cool. I stuck out my hand for Ashby to shake it. He slapped it out of the way with disdain, which only made his friends crack up harder.

“Guys, cut it out. You’re being rude to my guests,” yelled Ashby over the raucous laughter. “It’s been real and it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been real fun. And now that I’ve got company to entertain, you guys head off to the club without me.”

Ashby turned his back on us and said goodbye to his friends—shoulder bumping the guys and hugging the girls. One by one his snobbish friends left, hailing taxis. A couple of his crew rolled their eyes at us like we were the stupidest and most disgusting street urchins they’d ever laid eyes on. I felt lower than pond scum. And then Snaggletooth jumped out of the sidecar.

“What the heck is that?” asked Ashby, snorting cruelly.

“That’s my dog,” I said.

“If you say so,” he hissed, his lip curled up in a sneer. “The repulsive beast can sleep in the pantry and you can park your old jalopy behind my car—the black Aston Martin.” He paused like he was expecting me to jump up and down just because he had an outrageous ride. “Just drive it in there,” he said, pointing to a garage. “Then come up to the penthouse. I’ll leave your name with the doorman.” He eyed me up and down with contempt. “What was your name again? Marvin? Marvin Merdle?”

It was clear Ashby and I were not going to get along.

I clenched my fists and glared at Freddie. I’d never wanted to punch anybody in the face so badly in my life—excluding Burt and Yorgi, of course.

Freddie had an ear-to-ear grin spanning his filthy face. It was my hope he didn’t look up to this jerk, but it was clear he did when he followed snotty Ashby inside the building like a lovesick puppy dog. Left to park Cherry Pie and wallow in my miserable and poor existence, a great feeling of dread coursed throughout my veins.

Upon entering the Vanderholt apartment, flabbergasted and intimidated were the two words that came to mind. I stood in an all-marble entryway with fifty-foot ceilings. Above my head hung a gold chandelier so big and massive, I knew it had to be made out of the real thing. Ashby walked up to me, bowing. “Welcome to my simple home, Marvin.
Mi casa, su casa
.”

“It’s outstanding, but my name isn’t—”

“Well, wait until you see the rest of it,” he guffawed. “You’re only in the reception area.”

I thought his hallway was his house.

Ashby’s thin, pointy nose pinched together like he’d smelled something bad. “Freddie is in his room, showering and stuff. Your nasty, three-legged beast is in the kitchen with the help. They’re giving him a bath. Which leaves you and me to get to know one another. So why don’t I show you to your quarters.”

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t offer to help me with my things. Panting heavily, I carried everything up two flights of slippery marble stairs. Ashby bounded up the steps quickly, his chin held up so high I could practically see up his nostrils right into his empty, shallow head. When I caught up to him, I found him waiting not so patiently in the hallway.

“This is one of the smaller guest suites,” he said with a condescending tone. “Freddie’s is right next door.”

The room wasn’t small to me at all. It had a sitting area, a king sized bed, and its own private bathroom. A real eyesore, everything was a gnarly green and blue plaid, including the walls, and there were mallard ducks everywhere—duck paintings, duck figurines, wooden ducks, and duck pillows.

Ashby sat in a green leather armchair and crossed his legs. “So, Marvin, what brings you to Manhattan?”

“I’m trying to find somebody,” I said, ignoring his blatant disregard for my name. Ashby motioned for me to continue with a bored flick of his wrist. I figured a rich guy like this must have connections and I had no idea where to start looking. “Have you heard of a Dr. Greizenheimer?”

Ashby narrowed his eyes and didn’t speak for a moment or two. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell, but if he’s a doctor he must be listed in the phone book,” he finally said. He gave me another disgusted once-over, totally sizing me up. “I’ve got some old clothes in the closet. You’re more than welcome to help yourself after you, um, shower. We were just about to donate them to the help.” Ashby burst out laughing, but I didn’t quite get what he found so hilarious. These rich kids sure had weird senses of humor.

“Yeah, right. Thanks, um, I guess,” I said.

“Well, you’re not from around here. Nobody except me will know you’re wearing my hand-me-downs. It’ll be our little secret.” He clapped his hands. “So when you’re cleaned up, meet us in the study and we’ll have ourselves a little nightcap.”

I must have looked confused because Ashby sighed, like I was putting him out, and he went on to explain where it was I had to go. “It’s downstairs, down the hall, and on the left. It’s about six doors down. If you have any problems, there’s an intercom on every floor and Henry will show you where to go.”

I shrugged my shoulders in confusion.

Ashby sneered and said, “He’s the butler,” like I should’ve known, and then he sauntered out of the room, leaving me to my own devices. “If you have any laundry, throw it outside your front door. Gertie will take care of it in the early a.m.,” he yelled from the hall.