Quinny & Hopper (4 page)

Ten

The batteries in my flashlight go dead.

The cord on my lamp doesn’t stretch far enough.

But then the moon comes out from behind a cloud and throws silver light right where I need it—onto the drawing I put in my window.

The drawing is a sketch of Quinny. I drew it with my charcoal pencils. It wasn’t hard, because her face is impossible to forget. It didn’t take long, because I didn’t draw all twenty-two of her teeth, just the ones you can see in front.

I tap on my window.
Tap tap tap.

Then again—
tap tap tap.

I hide behind my window shade.

Quinny comes to her window. She sees the drawing. She looks confused.

But then she smiles.

Okay. Now I can go back to bed. It is much easier to fall asleep when you feel good.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll teach Quinny how to juggle.

Eleven

I didn’t know Hopper could draw so great. I didn’t know he remembered my face so much. And I had no idea my teeth were so beautiful!

It takes me a long time to finish staring at myself. Finally I get back into bed, but it’s hard to stay there, so I get up and look at my picture some more.

Then I figure out why I can’t sleep. My picture is all by itself. It has nobody to talk to. I think it might be lonely.

I have no idea where all my art stuff is, but I find an empty moving box
—
#29.
Rip!

I tiptoe to the bathroom and unzip Mom’s makeup bag. She’s got all kinds of pencils and crayons in here. It would be rude to wake her up, so I borrow just a few.

Back in my room, I draw a crinkly forehead and a careful, quiet mouth and a pair of looking-looking eyes. My picture is a little crooked. I guess my fingers can’t draw as fancy as Hopper’s, but so what? His mouth can’t talk as much as mine.

I lean my cardboard picture of Hopper against my window, facing out at his paper picture of me.

There.

Now these two can keep each other company while Hopper and I sleep.

Twelve

Teaching a person how to juggle isn’t easy. Especially if that person is Quinny.

I’m too shy to knock on her door, so Mom calls her house after breakfast. Thirty seconds later, Quinny is standing right in front of me. Smiling. She’s not even out of breath. She’s got a watermelon barrette in her hair, but she smells like peaches.

“Hi, Hopper!” she cries. “Guess what! That chicken named Freya came clucking at our door again, but she ran off before I could talk to her. Plus then, in my cup of milk at breakfast I had the biggest bubble ever!”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I turn and walk upstairs. Quinny follows me. I go into my room. She keeps following me.

Quinny stares at my fish tank full of clown fish and crabs. She stares at my foot model full of bones. She stares at my eyeball, brain, and heart, all lined up on the shelf next to my foot.

“
Wo
w, Hopper, your brothers were right.
Yo
u’ve got tons of body parts in here!”

“I’m saving up for a whole skeleton.”

“A
real one?”

“No, a plastic one. Like the kind they use to train doctors in medical school.”

Then Quinny notices my favorite book,
Atlas of Human Anatomy
by Frank H. Netter. She picks it up. “
Wo
w, it’s so heavy! What’s inside this thing?”

“Please be careful with that.” I help her be careful. The book is special.

We
open it.
We
turn the pages gently.

I show Quinny what the inside of a person’s head looks like.
“T
hat’s very, very, extra-very beautiful,” she says.
“A
nd kind of weird.”

“T
his is where you feel sad.” I point to the limbic system, deep inside the brain.
“A
nd also where you feel happy.”

“
We
ll, I get sad in my stomach,” says Quinny. “I get happy in my nose.”

And in her teeth, too, I think.

“So where is it?” she asks.

I don’t understand this question.

“My picture.
Yo
u know, the one you drew of my face last night? With the skin on?”

Oh that. I took it out of my window this morning and slid it under my bed so Trevor and Ty wouldn’t see it when they left for soccer practice. I pull it out. I show it to Quinny.

“I look so quiet,” she says.

“I made up that part.”

“Yo
u’re good at drawing teeth,” she says.

“T
hanks.
Yo
u’re good at having teeth.”

What I mean is, I like Quinny’s smile—but you can’t just say that, especially not to a girl. My face feels hot. I decide to change the subject.

I pull out my beanbags and toss them up into a basic three-ball cascade.

“
Wo
w, Hopper, you’re the best juggler in the world!”

I switch over into a cross-arm reverse cascade. Quinny gasps and laughs and grabs one of the beanbags from the air as I juggle. “Can I try?” she cries.

“Of course. But not with these.” I put down the beanbags and pull out two thin blue silk scarves instead.

“Scarves?”

“Silk juggling scarves. They’re lightweight, so they float in the air and are easier for beginners to catch.”

“Sounds boring. How about juggling knives?”

“Quinny, just give it a try.”

“Or fire sticks! I think the best way to learn juggling is with fire sticks! Because then you would really pay attention!”

I hand Quinny the scarves. I teach her how to juggle. I teach her and teach her. But she doesn’t exactly learn. She ties one of the juggling scarves around her head like a pirate, and the other one around her body like a genie.

“Quinny, pay attention.”

“I’m starving,” she says. “Let’s get a snack!”

We
go downstairs to the kitchen, and I fix us some cheese and crackers. Quinny points to a photo album lying open on the counter and cries, “Hey! Look, there she is! Freya the chicken!”

She’s looking at an old photo from my mom’s birthday party last year. I forgot that Freya came too. “Who’s that old man with her?” Quinny asks.

“T
hat’s Mr. McSoren. He used to live next door to us.”

“He did?
Yo
u mean, in
my
house?”

“No, in his house.
Yo
u weren’t there yet.”

“
We
ll, I can’t believe how happy they look together. That chicken is practically glowing!”

I can tell Quinny wants to hear more about the chicken and Mr. McSoren, but it’s a long story, and, to be honest, I’d rather get back to juggling.
We
’ve still got a lot of work to do.

“Here, let’s eat.” I slide a plate over to Quinny.

After some cheese and crackers and a lot more practice, Quinny finally learns how to juggle scarves. Sort of. “Hopper, look! I’m juggling! I’m really juggling!”

Her technique is sloppy, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

“T
hanks for teaching me how to juggle! Now I’ll teach you something.”

“Like what?”

“Did you know that
shampoo
has the word
poo
in it?”

I stare at Quinny. Everybody knows that.

“What about…do you know how to whistle for a taxi?”

I shake my head. Quinny pulls me downstairs and outside, right in front of my house. She sticks her hand into her mouth, like she is biting down on two fingers. She whistles so loud it shocks me into standing up straight. When I try it, all I get is soggy fingers.

Quinny whistles and whistles. The street is empty, as usual.

“Oh well.” She shrugs. “It worked in the city.”

But then a car finally turns the corner. Only it’s not a taxi. It’s something worse.

Much, much worse.

“Run!” I grab Quinny’s hand and pull her away from the street.

Thirteen

That Hopper is much stronger than he looks! He pulls and pulls me into his backyard, away from the minivan that’s turning into his driveway. I look back to see those bully twin brothers of his burst out of the van and run in our direction.

I think they saw us!

Then Hopper lifts a wood flap under his back porch and pulls me through the tiny opening. It’s dark in here, but we can see out to the yard through tiny square holes in the wood. It feels safe and cozy to sit in the good-smelly, soft-wormy dirt underneath Hopper’s back porch.

“T
his is fun!”

“Shhh,” Hopper shushes me.

We
watch the bully twins kick a soccer ball around the backyard. I can’t tell which bullyhead is Trevor and which is Ty.

“T
hey’re home early,” whispers Hopper. “Soccer practice usually goes till noon.”

“Hopper, am I a secret?”

“Shhh,” he shushes me again, which I guess answers my question.

Trevor (or Ty?) keeps kicking that soccer ball around, while Ty (or Trevor?) pulls a giant soccer net out from behind the garage. Then they start kicking the ball into that net. There’s no way Hopper and I can get out of here without them seeing us. Hopper seems too scared to try, even though I’ve got some tae kwon do moves that could for sure flatten those bully twins.

“Why are they so mean?” I ask him.

“I said shhh.”

“T
hey’re bullies.”

“T
hey’re my brothers.”

“T
hey hurt you.”

“T
hey don’t realize it. I know how to stay out of their way.”

“Big brothers are supposed to be nice and protect their little brothers,” I inform him.

“Is that how it works in your family?”

Hopper has a good point. At least I’ve never swung Piper around by her ankles.

Trevor and Ty keep kicking the soccer ball into the net. Over and over and over.

“Hopper, I think your brothers are soccer maniacs.”

“My parents are, too. They played soccer when they were in school.
We
go to all my brothers’ games. I spend all weekend in the car sometimes because they’re on a travel team.”

“
Wo
w, that really stinks.”

“It’s not that bad. I bring stuff to do. I read or draw. And the games are sometimes interesting to watch. Until all the grown-ups start yelling, at least.”

I love it here under the porch, in the dirt, in the dark. I love the way the ground smells deep and mushroomy, and the way Hopper is talking to me so much about his life.

And then, all of a sudden, I love the way I am getting SOAKED!

Because it starts raining under the porch, and I hear the
boom-boom
thunder of footsteps above us and Trevor and Ty laughing like they just did something sneaky-horrible-brilliant, except they don’t realize they just did me a favor because I love getting soaked!

But, uh-oh—not everyone does.

“BOCK BOCK BOCK!”

I feel wet, tickly-sneezy feathers flap-flap-flapping and rough, pokey claw-feet scratching and splashing mud all over me, and I roll onto Hopper, who’s wet and muddy, too, and we crawl around the muck under the porch and the rain keeps coming down hard and I am laughing until I can’t get air and Hopper finally pulls me out from the goopy-sloopy dark of the biggest mud puddle ever and into the sunshine and—guess what! A chicken hops out, too!

It’s that killer zebra-chicken named Freya! She’s muddy and she’s mad.

Freya sees the bully twins standing on the porch holding a water hose.

“BOCKBOCKBOCKBOCKBOCKBOCK!!”

They drop the hose and run away. Ha! Those bully twins are chicken of a chicken!

Freya chases them around the yard and flaps her stylish killer feathers and pecks at their ankles with her powerful beak.
“BOCK BOCK BOCK!”
she bocks.
“BOCK BOCK BOCK!”

“Go, Freya, go!” I jump and clap and cheer for that gutsy bird.

Then I notice the water hose just lying there. So I pick it up and hand it to Hopper and point over at the bully twins, who are still running away from Freya like chickens with their heads cut off. “Hopper, what are you waiting for? Now’s your chance to get those bullies back!”

Hopper looks at me like I’m crazy, but I press that hose into his hand and push him forward.

“Go for it!”