Bluefish (2 page)

"So are you an undercover cop, here to break up a raging crystalmeth ring?"

Travis shook his head.

"Maybe you're an alien, morphed into an eighth-grader so you can infiltrate the human race and learn our secrets."

She waved her hands, erasing that idea before the smile even made it across his face.

"No, wait, I've got it. You're a super- big brain like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, a secret math genius, right? That's why you don't say anything, because smart math formulas would pour out and they would ship you off to work for the government, right?"

"Nope." The smile feeling dipped back under.

"Okay, I give up. What are you?"

The old third- grade picture of the bluefish popped into Travis's mind, standing beneath the swimming one fish, two fish, and redfish. Just hanging around, leaning on an ocean wave, smiling because it was too stupid to know it was stupid.

"Nothing," he said.

"Well, then, where are you from? Have you ever seen Old Yeller? No? It's very old Disney, a classic, about a Travis who lives in Texas. Are you from Texas?"

"No, Salisbury." He finished off his burger.

"Salisbury, Wisconsin? Seriously? Okay, I get it, that's the cover story, because it's so boring no one will question it, moving from one crappy little town to another. You going to eat that cookie?"

She reached across to Travis's tray and took his cookie and held it up in the air, a hostage.

"Hey!"

"Straw is cheaper; grass is free; buy a farm, and you can have all three. Come on. Tell me something. One clue and I'll give it back."

"But it's my cookie."

She looked at the cookie in her hand, then back at him.

"You're right," she said. "Why trust me with your checkered past? I'm a cookie thief. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it?"

She handed the cookie over.

"This school makes the best cookies - it made me lose my mind for a minute.

Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you didn't throw it in the garbage.

That would be a travesty. Ha. Travesty. Travis."

As she picked up her tray to leave, he broke the cookie in two.

"Here," he said. "You can have half."

She looked directly into his eyes. Like she was reading whatever was written on the back wall of his brain.

"Thank you, Travis Roberts, Mr. Undercover Alien Genius Cop Man," she said.

"I think I like you."

She took the cookie half and walked away, her black-and- gray camo pants sagging and dragging on the floor behind her.

on WEDNESDAY

Remember how you said there's only two stories: someone goes on a trip or a stranger comes to town? Remember how I went crazy for days, trying to think of a movie that wasn't either of those to prove you wrong? And no matter what I came up with, you figured out some way to make it one of those.

There's a stranger in town, and if you were here asking me "How was school?"

and pushing for details every day like you used to, I'd be telling you about him.

But you're not here. It's two and a half weeks now of you being more not here every day.

This is morbid, writing to you. Like, what? I'm going to put it in an envelope and write Calvin Whalen, Dead in Heaven, and stick it in the mail? Like writing letters to Santa Claus? It makes me feel better, though, coming here after school. Like maybe you're on a long vacation and you'll be home soon. Nothing wrong with pretending, right? Like The

Muppet Movie song, remember? Life's like a movie, write your own ending. . . .

Because I gotta say, I don't like the way this movie is going lately. We need a better writer.

Did you do the reading?" Velveeta slid into the seat behind Travis first period.

He shook his head.

"How about McQueen's paragraph on literature?"

He shook his head again.

"Me neither," she said. "Homework is against my religion."

Someone behind them whistled, and Velveeta turned.

A couple of girls in the back corner whispered and almost fell over giggling.

"See those girls? They write for People magazine, and they've spotted us as the smoking- hot new eighth- romance. All we have to do is adopt octuplets, and the paparazzi won't give us any peace."

Travis knew why they were giggling, and it wasn't about octuplets. One of them had corrected his science paper the day before.

"Please turn to page eight of your text," said Ms.

Gordon. "You can read a paragraph or just say 'pass' if you prefer not to read.

The next person can just pick it up.

Megan, will you start us off ?"

Travis let out a long, slow breath. The windows were open on the other side of the classroom, and warm air breezed in. Sunshiny bright and cooking up to be another hot one. The swamp would be thick with that baked summer pine-needle smell. Gallons of drool would be sliding down Rosco's sloppy tongue.

"Travis!"

Travis's face flushed hot, and he pretended he was trying to find his place.

"Would you like to pass?" Ms. Gordon asked.

"Yeah, pass," he said.

Velveeta started reading, and Travis relaxed. Her voice motored across the words as if they were a flat, smooth road - no bumps.

At lunchtime, two different groups of girls called

Velveeta's name out, but she walked right on by and set her tray across from Travis.

"Look, we're regular lunch buddies now," she said.

"You didn't have one clue where we were in social studies, did you? What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"Do you have a talking quota?" asked Velveeta. "Like, a limit, maybe fifty words a day, and if you go over, you, what, lose your undercover badge? And you can't waste any of them reading out loud in class. Is your limit fifty or only twenty- five? No, no, don't answer - then you'll have to kill me."

"Ten," he said.

"Ha. And you've already used, two on me. Nothing and ten. Better shut up and eat."

He finished off his grilled cheese and started spooning up soup.

"Are you going to eat that cake?"

Velveeta had already finished hers. Travis cut his and handed half across to her.

"Okay, so sometimes the words are not so necessary," she said.

After inhaling the cake, Velveeta sat back and crossed her arms.

"I know what you're thinking. Why does she pick me? He wonders. She could be baaing with the popular sheep over there, or shooting baskets in the gym with the jockolas, or outside smoking with the delinks, so why is she sitting with me again?"

She leaned across the table, bringing her nose close to his. One end of her purple- and- blue scarf trailed on the tabletop.

"Because I saw you give Whistler his shoe back," she said. "That's why."

After the last bell, Travis walked through town, crossing the street so he wouldn't have to pass in front of the big glass window of the bakery where Grandpa worked.

He stopped at the bridge and leaned on the railing, trying to find the cardinal that was blasting its lungs out. He scanned the trees alongside the pond and finally spotted it, high in a birch, a hot patch of red in the swim of green.

"Hey, you gonna jump or what?"

Four guys sat on a picnic table in the green space on the other side of the bridge, smoking cigarettes and drinking sodas.

"You need a push?" yelled one of them. "Or a dump?"

"Dump, ha, I'll give him a dump."

"Maddox, you are a dump," said a heavy- shouldered guy with a hint of blond mustache trying to crawl across his lip.

Travis looked closely, measuring them. They must be high- schoolers. He hadn't seen them in the halls, and they were his age or a bit older. The two smaller guys he could take, no problem. Maybe the one called Maddox, too. The blond guy was solid, though, and he had that look. He was the one to watch.

Travis shoved away from the bridge railing and walked past. If they were going to come after him, they'd have to climb the little hill up to street level, and they weren't moving. But their eyes on him wrecked the bird and the water and the color, so there was no point in hanging around. That was the problem with living in town. Someone looked at him wherever he went. Even the houses had eyes, watching every move.

Travis headed up the hill, and as he rounded the curve, the sidewalk ended.

The houses became scruffier and farther apart, with shaggy yards and gravel driveways.

The paint- peeling yellow box on the right had an empty yard and drive. No old hound standing out front, waving his thin cord of a tail, droopy red rimmed eyes asking why they'd made him walk the whole twenty miles. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Travis fished the key out of his pocket and opened the door. He made a peanut-butter sandwich and took it out to the back stoop. He pushed Grandpa's stinky soda can of soggy butts away and leaned against the house.

Three school days down. A zillion left to go.

In the back corner of the yard, a little pine tree tried to scraggle its way up past the shade of the tall wooden fence. The other corner was full of dried dog dookey, and a path was beaten all the way around the perimeter where some trapped dog had run in endless circles.

The front door banged.

"Want a doughnut?" Grandpa called.

Footsteps tromped around the house. Then Grandpa stepped out on the stoop, lighting a cigarette.

"It's a sticker out here," he said. "Musta been hot in school. Want a doughnut?"

"You said that already."

Grandpa looked down and gave Travis a very unsmiley smile.

"Did you manage to stay there all day?"

Travis handed him the butt can. Grandpa sat down and tapped the ash of his cigarette. Then he squinted at

Travis through a curl of smoke.

"Everything okay? Teachers and all?" he asked.

Travis shrugged, looking away. Grandpa dragged off the cigarette again, then turned his head sideways to blow out the smoke.

"Can you give it a chance? I miss the woods and the dog, too. But we're both going to have to buck up and make the best of what we've got."

The dull ache chewed on in Travis's chest. Everything he'd ever cared about was gone. Every single thing.

"Okay, don't buck up, then." Grandpa dropped his butt in the can and stood.

"Make it as bad as you want. I'm going to the six- thirty meeting. I'll pick you up a burger on the way home."

Footsteps, bathroom door, shower, and Grandpa headed out to his AA meeting.

He hadn't had a drink since that hot and horrible afternoon in August when Rosco went missing, but he smoked six times as much, and he was full of useless advice. As if not drinking meant he could tell Travis how to feel.

Travis got up and wandered around the yard, stopping at the little pine in the corner. He ran his fingers over the soft needles. Even if it stretched tall enough to look over the fence, it didn't have anything to look at but another scraggy backyard.

Because I saw you give Whistler his shoe back. That's why. Velveeta's voice slipped in and interrupted the chewing ache. That was the best thing anybody had ever said to him inside a school building.

The neighbors' TV noise rose over the drone of the air conditioner next door. A car backfired on the street.

Travis leaned his head against the fence, looking down at the skinny half- bare white pine. He bent over and pressed the green needles to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to fill himself with the smell of woods. The tree had nothing to give.

"It's okay," said Travis, petting the needles like they were Rosco's ears. "Not your fault, trapped here. If I could, I'd dig you up and take you someplace good."

on THURSDAY

Your buddy Connie was lying in wait for me after school.

When I passed the library, she waved me over like some street- corner drug dealer and off ered me a J- O- B. I asked her why, and she said maybe it would make her not miss you so much.

I told her I wasn't going to be joining the old people's canasta club, so forget it.

She said she doesn't want me to play canasta. She just wants me to shelve books and do whatever else she says. Five bucks an hour. Four hours on Saturdays and two hours Wednesdays after school.

She said since I'm not fourteen yet, it'd have to be under the table, and she'd pay me in cash and was that okay?

Ha. Is that okay? Now, THAT is funny.

Thirty dollars a week for whatever I want. Maybe I can get the electricity turned back on in your trailer so I can watch movies. Do you know how much torture it's been to not watch movies? I even watched reality TV with the madre last night. That is desperate. That should be a reality show.

Today we start individual conferences," said Mr. McQueen in reading. "When I call your name, bring your book into my office and we'll discuss."

He called Heather first. Travis glanced over at Velveeta. She was staring at the cover of a book and playing with the end of her scarf. This one was an October maple blast of red, orange, and yellow.

Travis traced his finger around the black paw of the fox on the cover of his book. They made such small, neat tracks, those fox paws. One day last winter, he'd followed fox tracks in a new snow and spent all morning tromping circles around the woods and swamp, over brush and under barbwire, until he ended up in a sweat more than three miles from home. He never did find a fox hole.

He opened his notebook and drew fox prints from the upper left to lower right corner of the paper. Then he made some rabbit tracks on the other side of the page.

"Mr. Roberts."

Travis grabbed the fox book and walked to the front of the classroom. He stepped through the office doorway.

Stacks and gangs of books and magazines leaned in from every wall, shrinking the small room down to nothing.

"Have a seat." McQueen settled behind the desk.

The pile of books at Travis's feet crowded his legs, making him sit slightly sideways. If all the books in the room jumped him at once, they'd bury him. It would take days to punch his way up through the covers and the pages.

"Let's see the book."