Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend (36 page)

I turn and run in the same direction as Max, not bothering to enter the trees. I can run faster if I stay on the lawn. When I reach the street, I stop and look left and right.

No Max.

I turn left, toward the main road, and run, hoping Max has kept moving in the same direction. A few seconds later I hear him call my name.

‘Over here!’ he shouts in a whisper. He is on the other side of the street, in a small patch of trees, crouched behind another stone wall.

It takes me a moment to realize that he has crossed a street on his own.

‘What did you do?’ I ask, climbing behind the wall with him. ‘Mrs Patterson is hurt.’

‘I set a trap,’ he says, panting and shaking and sweating but grinning, too. Not smiling, but so close to smiling.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘I pulled a branch way back and let it go when she got close,’ he says.

I stare in disbelief.

‘I learned it from Rambo,’ he says. ‘
First Blood
. Remember?’

I do remember. Max watched the movie with his dad, and then his dad made Max promise not to tell his mom.

Max told his mom when she got home because Max is a terrible liar. Max’s dad slept in the guest room that night.

‘She’s really hurt,’ I say. ‘Bleeding.’

‘It wasn’t really a Rambo trap. His trap had spikes that stuck in the police’s legs. I didn’t have any rope or a knife, and I didn’t have time even if I had that stuff. But it’s where I got the idea.’

‘Okay,’ I say. I don’t know what else to say.

‘Okay,’ Max says. He stands up and moves along the stone wall, staying low, in the direction of the main road.

He does not wait for me to lead or even ask me for a direction. Max is moving on his own.

He is saving himself.

CHAPTER 59

Max reaches the end of Mrs Patterson’s street and stops. He has stayed in the woods on the opposite side of the street, walking slowly and quietly between the trees, but when he turns off this street, he will no longer have patches of forest where he can hide. The houses with the long driveways and enormous plots of land along the pond will be gone. He will be on a street with short driveways, bunched-up houses, street lights and sidewalks.

If Mrs Patterson is still chasing Max, he will be easy to see.

‘Go right,’ I tell Max.

He is standing on the corner. His body is pressed against a tree. He looks unsure about which way to go.

‘The school is to the right,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ Max says, but instead of stepping out from behind the tree where he is hiding, he turns into the backyard of the first house on the street.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

‘I can’t walk on the sidewalks,’ he says. ‘She might see me.’

‘So where are you going?’ I ask.

‘I’ll stay behind the houses.’

This is what Max does. We walk for almost thirty minutes this way, crossing from one backyard to another. When the space between the houses is not guarded by fences or trees or garages or cars, Max runs. He stays low to the ground and moves fast. When a backyard is fenced, he walks around the outside edge, pushing his way through bushes and weeds. He scrapes his hands and face on shrubs and soaks his feet in puddles and mud but he keeps moving. He sets off six more spotlights along the way but no one inside any of the houses sees him.

Max is not like the Rambo guy in that movie. He can’t swim through abandoned mines or break into police stations or climb mountains, but that is because there are no mines or police stations or mountains here. Max has houses and backyards and fences and trees and rose bushes, but he uses them just like Rambo would.

When we reach the next intersection, Max recognizes where he is.

‘The park is across the street,’ he says. ‘Over there.’

He points left in the direction of the park. The school is behind the park. But instead of turning left, he turns right.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask. He is already moving along a fence, making his way behind another house.

‘We can’t cross the street there,’ he whispers. ‘That’s where Mrs Patterson would expect me to cross.’

Max crosses the street two blocks down, and he does not cross at an intersection. Instead he waits behind a parked car until no cars are coming and then he runs across the street without the help of a crosswalk.

Max just broke his first law, I think.

Unless there is a law against pooping on someone’s head.

Once he is on the other side of the street, Max keeps running. He is using the sidewalk this time instead of sneaking behind houses, and he is running as fast as he can. He wants to get to the park as quickly as possible, I think. The park feels safe to me, too. The park is a place for kids, even in the middle of the night.

Max crosses one more side street and then he turns right into the park, running off the footpaths and toward a soccer field between two steep hills. Max’s dad once tried to take him sledding on these hills. The hills are made for people to sit on while watching the soccer games, but they are great for sledding, too. There are tons of kids on the hills after every snowstorm. But Max refused to get on the sled and complained the whole time that his mittens were wet. His dad finally drove him home without saying a word.

Max flies down the hill today, faster than a sled, it seems, and runs straight across the soccer field. Near the goalpost he turns right toward the baseball field, but he stays off the footpaths, running on the grass and through the trees on the edges of the trails instead. After he is past the baseball field, Max turns right past the playground toward the trees.

There is a small patch of forest that stands between the school and the park. There are trails covered by woodchips, and the teachers sometimes take the students on these trails in the fall and spring. Mrs Gosk took her class for a walk a few weeks ago so her students could write some poetry about nature. Max sat on a stump and made a list of all the words that rhymed with
tree
.

There were 102 words on his list. It wasn’t a poem, but Mrs Gosk was still impressed.

Max heads in the direction of the forest. He runs along the edge of a small pond on the edge of the trees, daring to step on the path for a moment before he reaches the entrance of the forest and disappears into the gloom.

Fifteen minutes later, after getting lost on the trails twice, we stand on the other side of the forest. A field stands between us and the school. It is the same field where Max has refused to run and jump and throw softballs on field day. The moon has risen higher in the sky since we left Mrs Patterson’s house. It hangs over the school like a giant, blind eye.

I want to tell Max that he has made it. I want to tell him to crawl into the bushes along the edge of the forest and wait until the morning comes. I want to tell him that once the buses start pulling into the circle at the front of the school, all he has to do is run across this field to the school and go through the front doors like it was a regular school day. He could even walk down to Mrs Gosk’s classroom if he wanted. Once he is inside the school, he will be safe.

Instead I ask, ‘What’s next?’

I ask because I am not in charge anymore. I don’t think I could be in charge even if I wanted to be.

‘I want to go home,’ he says. ‘I want to see Mom and Dad.’

‘Do you know the way home from here?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ he says again. ‘Of course.’

‘Oh.’

‘When should we go?’ I ask, hoping he says that we will wait for morning. That we will let Mrs Gosk or Mrs Palmer or the police bring him home.

‘Now,’ he says, turning and starting to walk along the edge of the field. ‘I want to go home.’

CHAPTER 60

I do not know how long we have been walking when we pass the Savoys’ house. The moon has moved across the sky but it is still hanging over our heads. Max has not said much. But this is Max. He may have turned into Rambo overnight, but he is still Max, too.

We have been walking for a long time, staying behind houses and bushes and trees whenever possible. I have followed Max the whole way, and he has not complained once.

I can’t believe that Max will be home in a few minutes. I have stopped imagining the look on Max’s parents’ faces when they see him standing on the stoop. It is about to happen for real. I did not think it would ever happen.

I stop just before our driveway and stare at my friend. For the first time in my life, I understand what it feels like to be proud of someone. I am not Max’s mom or dad, but I am his friend, and I am bursting with pride.

And then I see it.

Mrs Patterson’s bus. The bus with the room in the back just for Max.

Max is about to turn up his driveway and take the final steps to his house, but he doesn’t know that Mrs Patterson is waiting for him. He doesn’t know that parked down the street, a little bit past the house, in the dark space between two street lights, is Mrs Patterson and her bus.

He doesn’t even know that Mrs Patterson has a bus.

I open my mouth to shout a warning but it is too late. Max is four or five paces up the driveway when Mrs Patterson steps out from behind the giant oak tree where Max and I have waited for the bus every day since kindergarten. The tree that Max touches until the bus comes.

Max hears the footsteps before he hears my voice, but both sounds are too late. He sees Mrs Patterson closing in on him and he runs. He is more than halfway up the driveway when Mrs Patterson’s arm comes down on Max’s shoulder and grabs hold. The force of her arm causes Max to trip and stumble to the ground, and for a second Max is free. He crawls toward the house on his hands and knees, but Mrs Patterson is on him in seconds, reaching down and grabbing him by the arm. She lifts him up like he is a doll.

Max screams. ‘Mom! Dad! Help!’

Mrs Patterson presses her free hand over Max’s mouth to silence him. I do not think that Max’s parents would hear him anyway. Their bedroom is upstairs and in the back of the house, and it is late. They are sleeping, I think. But she does not know this. She wants him to be quiet so she can get away with him for ever.

Finally I move, running up the driveway, stopping in front of Max. He is wriggling, trying to break free. His eyes are wide. I can see the terr++++++or in his face. He tries to scream through Mrs Patterson’s hand but all that comes out is a low hum. He kicks at Mrs Patterson’s shins. Some of his kicks connect, but Mrs Patterson does not even flinch.

I stand there like a helpless fool. I am inches from my friend, watching him fight for his life, and I can do nothing. Max stares into my eyes. He is pleading for help but there is nothing I can do. I can only watch my friend be dragged away for ever.

‘Fight!’ I yell at Max. ‘Bite her hand!’

He does. I watch his jaw drop open and then shut. Mrs Patterson winces but does not let go.

Max’s arms flail. His feet continue to kick. He grabs onto the hand that is pressed over his mouth and tries to pull it free. He strains, eyes bulging even more, but he cannot. He pounds his fist on her hand. Then I see something in his eyes change. The panic is replaced by something else for just a second. Max reaches into his pocket and removes the object that has caused his pocket to bulge all night. It is the piggy bank that was sitting on his desk in his room. The tarnished pig filled to the brim with pennies.

I was wrong. When Max crossed the street without the crosswalk, it was the second time he had broken the law.

He was a thief first.

Max holds the piggy bank in his right hand and brings it down on Mrs Patterson’s arm. The pig’s tiny, metallic feet bite into her skin. She flinches and cries out this time, but her grip remains in place.

She is not going to let go. I realize this now. Bitten and beaten and stabbed by pig’s feet, she knows that she needs only to drag Max back to her bus and then she will be safe again. And that is what she begins to do. With Max hammering on her arm with his piggy bank, she backs up, dragging Max back down the driveway toward the oak tree and her bus.

I want to scream and yell for help. Wake up Max’s parents. Let the world know that my friend has made it all the way back to his driveway and just needs a final bit of help to finish his escape. He has made this trip on his own and he just needs someone to step in and save him now.

Then the idea strikes me.

‘Tommy Swinden!’ I yell at Max.

And even as he continues to batter Mrs Patterson’s arm with the piggy bank and try to wriggle free, he furrows his eyes and stares at me.

‘No, I don’t want you to poop on her head,’ I say. ‘Tommy Swinden. He broke your window on Halloween. Break a window, Max!’

Max cocks his arm, ready to smash Mrs Patterson’s arm again with the piggy bank, when he stops. Understanding fills Max’s eyes. He has only one shot, but he understands.

He looks up at the house. He is halfway down the driveway now and still being dragged on the back of his heels. He will have to throw it now or he will be too far. There is a picture window in the living room. It is big. It is smack in the center of the house. But it will be a difficult throw. It is far away and his feet are barely touching the ground.

And Max can’t throw.

‘Bite her first,’ I say. ‘Bite her
hard
. As hard as you can.’

Max nods. While being grabbed and dragged, with his chances of ever seeing his mom and dad again disappearing, he nods.

And then he bites.

He must bite harder than before, because as he does, Mrs Patterson yells this time and pulls her hand away from his mouth, shaking it like it is on fire. More importantly, she stops dragging Max down the driveway. She is still holding Max by one arm, but Max’s feet are now on the ground. He has a chance.

‘Step into it,’ I say. ‘Throw with your body. Give it your all.’

‘Okay,’ Max says between breaths. He reaches back with the piggy bank and throws it into the night.

Mrs Patterson sees the piggy bank leave Max’s hand and her eyes widen as the pig soars snout up and then down toward the picture window.