Six Kids and a Stuffed Cat (4 page)

“I'm sure they meant
dangerous
flying objects.” I led the high-fives all around.

Taylor ripped the toilet paper away and took a deep breath, glaring at each of us in turn. “What stinks in here?”

“Probably me.” Regan grinned. “I repeat: Just came off the track after running laps.”

“It might be that we're in a restroom and you don't actually smell anything so much as the environment is highly suggestive to the existence of a malodorous scent.” Mason's not the only one who can trot out big words to confuse people. I have a dictionary, too, you know, and can use fancy vocabulary to confound people when it amuses me.

Taylor looked gratifyingly confused and confounded. “Hunh?”

“Jordy means you're imagining things, Taylor.” Mason shot a tiny glare at me for stealing the big-word thunder although I was the only one who noticed. “I don't smell anything.” Then Mason took a deep sniff for emphasis and course-corrected. “Oh, wait, scratch that: I
do
smell something funky.”

We all checked out the air quality and then looked at each other suspiciously and edged away from the stalls. Taylor peered in the trash can, but discovered no source of stink there.

“It's puke,” I suggested.

“Nah, it's toe jam,” Taylor said.

“Nope.” Regan went the stinky cheese route, because what middle schooler doesn't bring reeking, imported, runny dairy product sandwiches to lunch instead of a PB&J? “Limburger cheese.”

“You're all wrong,” Mason said, wincing. “It's goat pee and used cat litter and fresh skunk and rotten chicken.”

Avery looked around, did a double-take, and took a tentative whiff of the mummy cat, before looking embarrassed and shoving the cat back in the duffel bag. “Uh, actually it's the stuffed cat.”

“Your stuffed cat?” Taylor asked.

“No, Taylor, the stuffed cat that the builders put in the air vents for good luck and to drive away bad spirits. How many stuffed cats do you imagine we're dealing with here? Today? In this restroom?” Now it was Mason's turn to be the high-maintenance person in need of calming down. Mason's patience, at least with Taylor, was nearing an end.

“Is that a trick question?” Taylor looked worried and then thoughtful. “Like that Venn diagram thingie you tried to show me? Are there somehow three cats in circles and there's an overlap of the stinky and the nonstinky and the possibly stinky cats I'm supposed to figure out?”

“One cat, Tay.” I held up my index finger as a visual aid.

“I knew it! I was right! I'm not always wrong, no matter what Mason says.” Taylor looked triumphant about having solved the cat word problem.

“Why does your cat stink like death, Avery?” Regan asked. Probably wondering where to get one so as not to be the stinkiest thing in every room. I'm not sure Regan schedules enough showers or deodorant applications in the weekly agenda. It's not something I'd say out loud, because Regan is a great person, but it's something I've been thinking for quite some time now.

Avery gave up the extra syllables thing and went for hyper-speed as the nerve burn-off delivery system this time. “It's not my cat; it's my brother's cat, he's only four. Four year olds have stuffed cats. It's perfectly normal. For a four year old. But I have no idea why it reeks like this. It doesn't normally smell like vomit.”

“Apparently, confined spaces combined with the warmth of your head resting on the bag all day adversely altered the chemical compound of whatever the stuffed cat was originally stuffed with, turning it into a rancid stink bomb,” I said, glad I'd paid attention in science class and could whip out theories and theorems and hypotheses when needed, like in The Case of the Mysteriously Putrid-Scented Stuffed Cat. “There are some extra credit science points in there somewhere if you figure out the hows and the whys of the mystery stench. I'm just saying—you might need some bonus projects to submit, seeing as how you cut class today.”

Avery nodded, looking happy, and took out a notebook, jotting down, no doubt, my brilliant suggestion. Mason leaned over and scribbled down what looked, from my vantage point, like a phone number; Mason's either a glutton for punishment or can't, apparently, let anyone do their homework unassisted. Mason handed the notebook to Taylor who, surprisingly enough, wrote a number down too. Taylor handed the pen to Regan who, I noticed, wrote down two numbers—someone had to bring Devon into the mix, it wasn't time for another set break yet. I wrote my number down when the book made its way to my hands and made sure I had everyone's number in my phone. I looked up and saw I wasn't the only one punching digits in my phone's contact list.

Funny—Mason, Taylor, Regan, Devon, and I have gone to school together forever and this was the first time we all made sure we had each other's numbers.

I studied Avery, who was starting to look a lot less like an overwrought curiosity with a soft toy and a lot more like the reason this little group of mismatched misfits was coalescing into Team Riding Out the Storm Together in the Bathroom.

Maybe the cat's stench was some sort of magic potion that brought unexpected people together.

I'm sure Avery's folks would say weirder things have happened.

One of the best parts about hanging around Devon is that, when there's a lull in the conversation, no one's necessarily bored or even uncomfortable; we just shift our attention to observing Devon's gig. Being near Devon means never having to experience an awkward silence or struggle to come up with something to say. When we run out of conversation topics, we just settle back and watch the show. Everyone should have a Devon in their lives; we're just lucky we have the original.

Devon didn't let us down; it was solo time.

Devon switched from air guitar to a combination of air drums and air piano, twisting back and forth slamming the drum heads and pounding the keyboards. Devon held up both hands, ring and middle fingers tucked under the thumbs, index and small fingers up in the rock-and-roll sign, twirling in circles and head-banging to a beat no one else could hear.

Except we could all feel it. We were rocking back and forth to the rhythm. Even Taylor's head started nodding in time. Eventually, Devon moved away from the keyboard and drum kit and started playing the guitar again. Solo over, Devon wandered back to the corner of the bathroom in what was, clearly, the upstage area where, at least in Devon's universe, the roadies probably stood by with bottles of artesian spring water and a new box of guitar picks, maybe a towel to wipe the sweat off Devon's face.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but does anyone ever wonder if there's something not quite right with Devon?” I felt a lot like Taylor asking that so I made sure to have a friendly voice. I didn't want anyone to think I was being judgmental. I was just curious. It sounds weird, but I'd never taken the time to ask anyone's opinion about the Devon situation before. You don't ask what people think about gravity; it's just there, doing its thing, everyone is aware, but no one really discusses it. Just the way, when you come to think about it, we blindly accept and never question the weird alchemy that makes up Devon.

“You mean because of the way Dev doesn't seem to live in the same world as the rest of us?” Regan was studying Devon as if this was the first time we'd all laid eyes on our silent musician friend.

I nodded. “I love Dev—what's not to love about Dev, right?—and it's not like Devon hasn't been like this since kindergarten and we've all gotten used to things but, you know, looking at the situation with fresh eyes, a person starts to wonder.”

“What I wonder is why Devon's even at school this late anyway,” Mason said, studying Devon, too. “Taylor and I were in the library, researching; Regan was at practice and Jordy was in detention because that's where Regan and Jordan always are; and Avery was asleep—but does anyone know why Devon was still roaming the halls playing guitar so long after school was dismissed?”

“Devon missed the bus. And I don't mean just today.” Taylor turned, looked at Mason, and smirked. “It's a metaphor.”

“Spell it,” Mason dared. “And if you use an
F
, I'll throw my shoe at you.” But even Mason seemed more preoccupied with watching Devon than taunting Taylor. With that in mind, we might need to send Devon to the United Nations to broker some peace between other warring factions.

“It doesn't take a third-year psych student to figure out Dev's the teeniest, tiniest bit touched in the head, as my great-aunt Blanche would say,” Regan said gently. We all nodded and kept watching Devon wander around strumming.

“We haven't actually spoken—Devon
can
hold a conversation, right?” Avery asked and we shrugged in reply; truth be told it had been a while since any of us had spoken to or heard from Devon. The best we could do at this point was guess. “But I get the feeling Devon's a good person. I like people who are different.”

“Then you are in the right middle school restroom with the right five people.” I looked around. “Because, not to brag or anything, but you could not have set out to gather together a group of people who are more unhinged than us.”

I didn't think I was exaggerating; I couldn't think of a more unlikely group to find themselves together in a more unexpected set of circumstances unless Pebbles Flintstone, Napoleon, Elvis Presley, a Sherpa from Mount Everest, Marie Curie, and the shark from
Jaws
decided to stage a coup on the constitutional monarchy of the principality of Liechtenstein and form a new ruling government.

“Speak for yourself.” Regan looked and sounded offended that I'd pointed out the obvious by stating we were an odd bunch. “I am the very definition of the clean-cut, all-American scholar-athlete young citizen role model. The fact that I am wickedly good-looking and heart-meltingly charming is a happy bonus.”

“Regan took more than one person's share while standing in the self-confidence line,” Mason explained to Avery while Regan nodded, trying to look humble. Mason decided to borrow a little of Regan's self-confidence and make a bold statement of self as well. “My only problem is that I might be too smart to fit in with my peers.”

“Mason took more than one person's share while standing in the ego line,” Taylor explained to Avery before turning to Mason. “And you spell
that C-O-N-C—E I
-before-
E
-except-after-
C T-E-D
.”

I have to hand it to Mason, instead of getting offended, Mason applauded Taylor's insult. It was a pretty good one.

“The only problem I have,” Taylor continued, “is a low tolerance for goofballs. Which, if you ask me, is pretty much everyone in this school.”

“None of you are anything like the kids from my last school,” Avery told us.

“What was that like?” I asked. I'd been wondering what kind of school spit out such a jittery, sensitive mass of worry.

“It wasn't a school so much as a—now don't overreact to the word—but
commune
.”

In my wildest dreams, I hadn't seen
that
coming. “You're going to have to do some explaining.”

“
Commune
might be the wrong word.” Avery paused, considering. “A bunch of parents and their kids lived together as one big family, raising a garden for food and sharing all the responsibilities.”

“
Commune
is the exact right word.” I said, nodding. No wonder Avery had been weirded out about meeting new people; that was a whole lot of bizarre history to have to share with new people.

“We only lived there for a few months. Just to see what it was like. My folks like to try new things.” Avery got my vote for biggest understatement of the day. I made a mental note to meet these parents someday and observe them up close. Because maybe the next new thing they'd want to try was counterfeiting hundred dollar bills or opening a gourmet chocolate shop out of their spare bedroom. A person would want to be around for stuff like that.

“Have you tried out any other alternative lifestyles we should know about? Other than that vegan thing you talked about before?” I'm sure Mason only wanted to know in case there was an extra-credit character study that could be turned in to English class: Interesting People I Met Near Toilets. Mason's always looking for ways to plump up the old GPA. Even if that meant exploiting the private lives of new friends by examining their origins and plumbing their family's beliefs.

“Like living in a tree house, maybe doing without electricity or prime numbers?” Taylor looked more interested in getting to the bottom of Avery's family life than I've ever seen Taylor get about anything.

“Taylor, I'm impressed. I don't believe you can actually
name
a prime number, but big props for knowing the phrase. We'll circle back to that concept later.” Mason and Taylor high-fived.

“I could totally live off the land if I had to live in a commune,” Regan said happily. “Hunting, fishing, building shelter.”

“You could not.” I popped the balloon of that dream real quick. “You were worried about starving to death during a storm emergency.”

“That's because I was surprised and didn't have time to get all my gear together. Under normal circumstances, I'm known for my preparedness. Gotta be on top of things when you're in as many activities as I am.”

“I can't believe we haven't voted you CEO of the school yet.” I was half-joking, but Regan took me totally seriously.

“Me too! CEO, COO, CFO, and whatever other C-Os there are. I
am
the personification of school spirit in this building.” Regan looked ready to do some more serious self-back-patting so I nipped that self-congratulatory excess in the bud.