The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen (11 page)

Hayley Mills plays two characters – twins Sharon and Susan. Sharon and Susan spend most of the movie trying to get their divorced parents back together again. They even surprise them by reenacting their first date. And guess what? They
succeed
. It is a happy ending.

When the movie was over, I crawled back into bed. I was drifting off to sleep when it hit me: I can do the same thing. I can reunite my parents. I can’t reenact their first date, but I
can
plan the best night ever.

I can take them to the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.

Garbage-picking, here I come.

Recycling Managerial Services – Rules to Live

By by Henry K. Larsen

At the very first bin we emptied at 7:30 this morning, I stuck my arm in practically up to my armpit and touched, not metal or glass, but something oozy and soft. When I lifted it out, I screamed like a girl. I was holding a half-eaten burger patty that was writhing with maggots. I won’t mention what else Farley and I touched today, but let’s just say it included three used snot rags, a cup full of congealed gravy, and a dead mouse. Which brings me to Rule #2.

That congealed gravy wasn’t
that
congealed, and some of it splashed onto my shirt. Plus we discovered that kids throw a lot of half-finished sodas into the bins. Splash-back is inevitable.

Recycling Managerial Services is surprisingly sweaty work. I had no supplies to freshen up with, and when I had to stand next to Alberta at our cooking station in Home Ec, she said, “You stink.”

Rude.

Farley was rifling through the third bin (we took turns while the other person held open the garbage bag) when our vice principal, Mr. Mackey, rounded the corner. “What do you boys think you’re doing?” he said.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Mackey,” said Farley, without a hint of embarrassment. Then he proceeded to tell Mr. Mackey
every last detail
about our plan to raise money for the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.

Mr. Mackey thought it over. “I guess it’s alright, as long as you don’t make a mess. And as long as you don’t collect during school hours.”

“It’s a deal, Sir!” said Farley. He tried to shake Mr.
Mackey’s hand, but the VP took one look at Farley’s filthy, sticky fingers and walked away.

We found ourselves near the boys’ change room just before 8:30 – exactly the time team practices wrap up.

Farley’s arm was deep in a bin, so he was looking the other way when Troy burst through the double doors from outside, his rugby uniform smeared with mud. He headed toward the change room, away from us. I breathed a sigh of relief – till Farley yelled, “Gatorade Central! We’ve hit the mother lode!”

I was sure Troy would turn around. But luck was on our side. He just kept walking into the change room.

Still. It was a close encounter of a possibly nasty kind. We’ve agreed we need to map out a route that will achieve minimum exposure. Thursday we’ll
start
near the change rooms.

We filled four garbage bags with cans and bottles this morning. It took a lot of maneuvering to cram them into
our lockers. But after school, we faced the true challenge: how to lug the bags to the recycling depot, which is eight long blocks away.

First we had to wait for a good half hour for most of the kids to clear out. Then we tried carrying two bags each. We knew it was impossible before we reached the stairs. “We’ll have to do two trips,” Farley said.

But even carrying one bag each was hard work. The bottles were heavy and clunked against our shins. My bag almost split open. By the time we reached the recycling depot, we were pooped.

The depot was packed with people. Some of them showed up in Subaru Outbacks and Volvo station wagons; most people had shopping carts or baby buggies, piled high with cans and bottles.

We had to wait in line for over twenty minutes. The guy behind us started tapping me hard on the shoulder. I turned around. He smelled pretty ripe, and his hair was long and matted.

“Where’d you find all that loot?” he asked.

I guess I was overwhelmed, both by his smell and his mouthful of rotten teeth, because I didn’t answer right away.

“You better not be taking any stuff between Broadway and 16
^th
,” he said. “ ’Cause that’s
my
turf.”

“We weren’t near your turf,” Farley said, taking a step backward. “Honest.”

“We got them from the recycling bins at our high school,” I told him.

He broke into a grin. “Good thinking.” He extended a rough, dirty hand. “Name’s Preacher Paul. You ever need any advice, I’m your guy.”

We didn’t want to be rude so we both shook his hand.

“First piece of advice,” he continued, even though we hadn’t asked, “get yourselves a buggy or a cart.”

He gave us other advice too as we inched forward in line. Things like, “Remember, the government is watching you at all times,” and, “Don’t ever let them put a microchip in your brain.”

Finally we were able to sort our cans and bottles into cardboard flats. When we were done, we handed the flats to the guy behind the counter.

He punched some numbers into his register, opened it – and handed us eleven dollars and fifty cents.

Farley and I nodded good-bye to Preacher Paul and left the depot. We walked all the way back to the school, grabbed the last two bags, walked all the way back, and waited in line for another twenty minutes.

This time, the guy handed us twelve dollars and ten cents.

We left the depot again. We walked around the corner. Then we grabbed each other and jumped up and down. “Twenty-three dollars and sixty cents!” Farley shouted. “That’s amazing!”

We took our money and headed to the big dollar store just east of Blenheim. We bought rubber gloves, heavy-duty garbage bags, a couple of chef’s aprons, and some soap. That left us with exactly one dollar and seventeen cents.

Still. We were already into profits.

“GWF Smash-Up Live! here we come!” announced Farley.

“Um. I’d like to bring one more person, if that’s okay.”

“Who?”

“My mom.”

“She’s a GWF fan?”

“Huge.”

“So, they’re not getting divorced.”

“Did I
ever
say they were getting divorced??”

“So where is she?”

“Away. On business.”

Farley just looked at me with his magnified eyes. I could tell he didn’t believe me. But all he said was, “One more ticket plus a little more spending money.… We should probably raise another hundred bucks. That brings our grand total to five hundred.”

“I know it’s not really fair, ’cause I’ll be using three-quarters of the money –”

“So? I don’t mind.” Then he opened his palm, revealing the loonie and change we had left. “Check it out. Only four hundred and ninety-eight dollars and eighty-three cents to go!”

Maybe I don’t need an upgrade, after all.

After Farley and I did our rounds this morning (which went much smoother, thanks to our new rules), we lugged our garbage bags back to our lockers. Something was leaning against my locker door.

It was a baby stroller, covered in a thick layer of dust.

“There’s a note,” Farley said.

I picked up the piece of paper and read it:
“For transporting you’re garbadge. Alberta.”

“Wow. Now I know why she never answers the spelling questions at Reach For The Top,” Farley said.

I thanked her later in Home Ec.

“No probs. I found it in our basement.”

“You’re sure your parents won’t mind?”

“Are you kidding? It’s like an episode of ‘Hoarders’
down there,” she said. “Trust me, no one will notice it’s gone.” We were at our cooking stations, making muffins.

The timer went off. I took my tray of apple cinnamon muffins out of the oven. They looked perfect – golden and delicious. Alberta took hers out. They were brown and burnt.

Mrs. Bardus was doing her rounds. Just before she came to our station, Alberta said, “Oh my God, look!” and pointed at something over my shoulder.

I turned around. “What? I don’t see anything.”

When I turned back, her tray of burnt muffins sat on the counter in front of me.
“Tsk, tsk,”
Mrs. Bardus said, looming up behind us. “I expected more from you, Henry. These look and feel like rocks. Completely inedible.” Then she turned to Alberta, who held
my muffins
in her oven-mitt-clad hands. Mrs. Bardus plucked a muffin out of the tray and took a bite. “Delicious!” she said with her mouth full. “Nicely done, Alberta. This is a first.”

Mrs. Bardus moved on to the next station. And Alberta burst out laughing.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HEEE-haw!”

RUDE!!!

But guess what? The stroller is perfect. If we balance the bags really carefully, we can bring them all to the recycling depot in one go. Never mind that one of the wheels is wonky
and makes the stroller veer to the left all the time – it’s still a huge improvement.

Do other kids laugh when they see us pushing a baby stroller piled high with garbage bags? Yes. Do they laugh when they see us at school in our aprons and rubber gloves (’cause no matter how early we get there, there are
always
a few kids who are there even earlier than us)? Of course they do. But when they find out how much money Farley and I have made in just one week, they laugh a lot less.

And, of course, my work doesn’t stop with Recycling Managerial Services. I’m also laying the groundwork for my plan.

Every time Mom and I talk, I make sure I’m always really chatty. She asks me to tell her all about school. So I do, in minute detail. I’m never, ever frosty with her. I tell her about the Reach For The Top team; I tell her about Farley and Alberta. I tell her about Mr. Atapattu.

I do not tell her about Karen.

I tell her about the flowers that are already blooming in February and about the trees that have exploded with cherry blossoms, because I know that was one of her favorite things about living on the West Coast.

I do my best to paint a nice, happy picture of our lives out here.

And whenever she’s missed one of the GWF shows,
I tell her what happened in such vivid detail that she says, “I feel like I’m there.”

And in the back of my head, I’m thinking,
You WILL be there! And sooner than you think!

Cecil is a jerk.

He started our session yesterday by talking about my behavior with Carol. “You really frightened her, Henry. You told her you were going to shoot her.”

“I did not! I told her I was going to
zap
her. With my ray gun. Big, significant difference.” I unzipped my backpack and stuffed my hat inside.

“Still, you might consider apologizing.”

“
You
should apologize.”

“For what?”

“For subjecting me to such a horrible therapist! From now on, I speak to no one but you.”

He smiled. “So, you
do
want to talk to me.”

“I don’t
want
to. But if I
have
to talk to someone, I want it to be you.”

I swear he looked a little pleased, like I’d just paid him a compliment.

“I couldn’t help but notice: You’re carrying the journal I gave you.” He pointed at my backpack, which was still open on the floor. Sure enough, this book was poking up just enough for him to recognize it.

“So? I use it for homework.”

“Oh. Okay.”

We sat in silence for at least a minute after that. I think he was hoping I’d break down and start talking, but really, as if.

“What’s new in your world?” he finally asked.

So I told him about Recycling Managerial Services. I told him that Farley and I had already made thirty-six dollars and twenty-nine cents, and that’s
after
the money we spent on supplies. I told him that our goal is to bring in at least fifty bucks a week between now and the end of April, excluding March Break.

He was impressed. “Holy Moly! You’re a real entrepreneur, Henry. Are you saving up for anything special?”

“I most certainly am.”

“What?”

So I told him all about the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.

“Who’s going with you?”

“My mom and dad.”

He paused. “Your mom and dad?”

I nodded. “They don’t know it yet. It’s a surprise.”

He pulled on his ponytail. “Your mom’s still in the hospital, Henry. In Ontario.”

“So? She won’t be in there forever. It’s still two months away.”

He pulled on his ponytail again. “When tragedy occurs in a family … it can take a long time to heal. Sometimes, things never go back to the way they were before.”

“Duh,” I said. But I knew what he was driving at. He was trying to tell me my parents might
never
get back together. Cecil and my dad could start a Pessimists Society.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

I didn’t answer.

He put his feet on the desk. This time his socks were pink and his left heel poked through. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m Thinking. You Should Start Living. In the Twenty-First. Century. And Cut Off. That Gross. Ponytail,” I said in Robot-Voice.

Then I got up and left.

Screw Cecil.

Screw this journal.