Going Nowhere Faster (18 page)

“Your mother and I wanted you to work for what you have. To understand that things aren’t always given to you. The money is tied up in investments. In the meantime, we were determined to live a normal life.”

“Normal?” I said.

“Normal?” Miles said.

“Well, I suppose you could make an argument either way,” my father admitted.

“What about the store?” I asked.

“Your mother enjoys the store, but I don’t think we’ve made a cent since it opened.”

“Finally, something I already knew.”

He laughed. “But that’s between you and me.”

I slapped myself on the forehead. “Then I need to borrow some cash, Dad, like, right now!”

He reached into his back pocket for the wallet he’d invented, Smith’s Secure-a-Let. He struggled for a while, unable to get it open.

“Let me try,” Miles said, squeezing and pulling. He couldn’t open it, either.

“What do you need money for, anyway?”

“Dos’s bail.”

My father nodded. “A very odd Mumper woman called this afternoon. It’s already taken care of. Dos is at his house right now, I believe.”

“Well, then,” I said, amazed that things seemed to be actually, kinda, sorta working out, “let’s go see him.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE fourth, fifth, sixth, and SEVENTH blubbery SEAL

Miles and I walked across the field.

“Your dad is so frickin’ cool, you know that?”

“I guess I do now,” I said. Why hadn’t I noticed before?

Miles felt his cheekbone with two fingers. “Does my bruise look like it’s healed any?”

“I can bring it back for you,” I said, cocking a fist.

He laughed. “I’ll pass.”

“What were we fighting about again?” I asked.

“I dunno? Some girl or something? Or maybe it was just bad kielbasa.”

“That’s right,” I said, and slapped my forehead. “Never trust German food.”

We got to Dos’s front steps, and had a hard time staying on them as they were slanted to the right.

“Cool as your dad is, he isn’t very level.”

“I know,” I said. “I think it’s an inner ear problem. I think it’s genetic.”

Miles almost fell off the step. I grabbed his shoulder as Dos opened the door.

“Amigo!” I said.

“Dos!” Miles said.

Dos didn’t say a word. Kids ran around behind him, playing some sort of game with a ball and sticks and pillows, screaming in Spanish. Mrs. Dos stood in the hallway, beaming. Dos got me in a bear hug and then pulled us into the house.

“Ohmygod, I’m stuffed,” Miles said, holding his stomach as we walked back across the lettuce field. Mrs. Dos had made an enormous spread and I’d eaten enough steak to choke a cow.

“Tell me about it.”

The stars were bright and the field smelled like fresh greens and it was a beautiful night. I pointed out Orion for Miles.

“The deer?” he guessed.

“No, the hunter.”

He pointed to Pleiades. “Constellation Hendrix?”

“Nope,” I said. “Good guess, though.”

“What is it really?”

I was about to say the seven sisters, when I noticed something on the roof of Smith’s Natural Foods
.
It sure wasn’t a weather vane.

“Do you see that?”

Miles squinted. “You mean that extremely fat thing on the roof?”

“Exactly.”

“Nope,” he said. “Don’t see it.”

“Let’s go check it out.”

We circled around the side of the store and hunkered in a corn row.

“Why are we playing marines?” Miles whispered.

I didn’t say anything.

“Why am I whispering?” Miles asked.

“I think it’s Chad Chilton. He’s probably painting dolls up there. We’ve got him dead to rights.
Finally
someone will believe me.”

“We?” Miles said.

I signaled for him to follow and began flanking the building, coming around back, until we could pop out of a furrow and be at the side door.

“What are we going to do after we surprise him?” Miles asked. “Like, he’s big and we’re small. It’s really not that surprising.”

“No time for thinking,” I said, palming his forehead. “It’s time for action! It’s time to channel Van Damme!”

“I hate Van Damme.”

“How about Bruce Lee?”

“He’s cool.”

“Good, ’cause all this BS needs to end. Like, right now.”

I ran out into the yard first, Miles behind me, but there was nothing on the roof. Had we been imagining it? Just another case of hallucinatory beef overload? Then I saw my bike. In the middle of the yard. Half-buried, with the other half stuck out of the ground, handlebars bent like sculpture. It looked like a deer. In pain. Plus, the whole thing was painted. Bright red.

“Ohmygod,” I said, my body hot and cold at the same time.

“Really, really weird,” Miles said. “Seriously twisted.”

I wanted to run. It was so far past a joke. I needed ten eyes, to see in every direction instead of swiveling my head and panting. There was someone seriously and majorly bent. Like jail and injection bent. Jason in Millville. It was Wednesday the twelfth. Close enough. Miles and I squatted, looking around. Were we being watched? It was quiet, just crickets and the occasional bird, no movement or sound.

“You know what this is just like?”

“What?” I hissed.

“So Scooby-Doo.”

“Shh . . . ,” I said.

“Except there’s no hot Velma,” Miles whispered. “Or a cool crime-fighting van. Or a talking dog. Or snacks.”

“Will you shut up?”

“I have to pee.”

“Go ahead.”

“Too late,” Miles said, then grabbed my hand and stuck it in a puddle near his foot. I almost yelled, then saw it was just water.

“Got ya,” he said.

The yard was still quiet. The cricket sounds were gone and the bird sounds were gone. Maybe we were just freaking each other out.

“Maybe we should go,” I said.

“Good idea,” Miles said, standing up.

“Hang on.” I grabbed his arm. “Do you smell something?”

He sniffed. “Actually . . .”

I sniffed. “It smells like —”

Prarash ran out from behind an old tractor wheel and grabbed Miles from behind. We both screamed. Really and truly like little girls. It was almost funny, except it wasn’t. Prarash was naked from the waist up, just a sheet wrapped around his midsection. He had a big red dot painted on his forehead and was covered with hair, like an ape. A fat ape. He glistened, even under the stars. He also smelled like very, very old beer. It was a smell I could not mistake. It smelled like Keith after his worst night, times a thousand. Times twenty thousand.

“
You’re
the one, Fred?” I said, in disbelief. “You’re the one with the tires and the car and the notes?”

Prarash gripped Miles tighter. “What did you call me?”

“Umm . . . sorry,” I said. “Prarash.”

His grip relaxed a little, but not enough for Miles to pull away. Prarash held him against his sheet.

“But you don’t even
own
a car,” I said stupidly. “Cars are bad for the ozone.”

“What is owning?” he snarled. “None of us owns anything.”

“Okay . . . but why were you on the roof? And what’s with the dolls?”

“What’s with the dolls?”
he mimicked, in a baby voice.

“You want a beer, dude?” Miles offered. “Just let go of me and I’ll grab you one from the car.”

Prarash yanked his hair, and Miles cried out. I heard a bark. It could have been any dog, really. But then I heard a fart and there was no mistaking it.

“Chopper?” I said.

“Scooby?” Miles guessed.

“Stanny?” came a small voice, from inside the store.

“Olivia?”

“Don’t move,” Prarash said. Miles cried out.

“I swear,“ I said, trying to feel tough, but on the verge of tears. “I swear, if you
hurt
her?”

“The question the young bee should be asking itself,” Prarash said, “is what you’re going to do when I hurt
you.
”

Prarash hit Miles on the back of the head. Miles made an “oof” sound and fell to the grass. Then Prarash walked toward me. “Your sister and I and the disgusting animal took a walk because everyone knows wherever Olivia goes, the young bee is sure to follow.”

I backed toward the door. Chopper was barking loudly now, working himself into a frenzy.

“What is it you want? What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Prarash sneered. “You, Stan-lee, have
always
been my problem.”

It was like a German movie that had started weird and had just gotten weirder. People dancing in black turtlenecks and close-ups of earlobes and Adam’s apples. This was now officially a video you’d pull out of your VCR and toss on the lawn. I reached around on the ground for a weapon, for anything, and came up with a petrified yam. Prarash laughed, his eyes wide, the size of manholes. “The young bee is all out of options.”

I threw the yam, missing badly. He didn’t bother to duck, and swung in a wide arc. I did bother to duck, and his big, fat, dangerous (who knew) hippie fist slammed into a plank behind me. I circled left, as he moved in again. I clenched my fists, back pressed against a tomato bin. There was no room to slide, either right or left. Olivia yelled again. I cocked my arm, trying to remember the improbable way I’d connected with Miles’s nose.

“Wait!” I said.

“Wait?”
he said.

“Wait,” my mother said, and then strode into the circle of moonlight and decked Prarash with a right cross so powerful three teeth went flying into the air, fluttering for a second like moths, before falling to the dirt. Prarash made a slobbery sound before collapsing like a sock full of pudding.

“Wow, Mom,” I said.

She adjusted her big hoop earrings and smoothed her skirt, looking down at Prarash in a heap at her feet. “Wow, yourself.” She blew on her knuckles and shook her hand up and down like a rag. “Funny how much that hurts.”

I stood there in awe. My mother the hero. Joan of Bark. The Vegan Avenger. Muhammad Yam-li.

Miles stood wobbily and walked over, rubbing his scalp like it was just another day. “Hey there, Mrs. S.”

My mother pulled at the lock of Smith’s Natural Foods. “Well, don’t just stand there, young man. Run over to Roberto’s and call Sheriff Conner while I let your sister out of the store.”

Sheriff Conner drove up twenty minutes later, lights flashing as the cruiser bounced across my mother’s arugula patch. I held Olivia in my arms while Miles fed her little pieces of beef jerky every time my mother turned her head. Olivia was remarkably relaxed, like she was locked into a yam hut by crazy fat yogis three days a week.

“Stan! Hi, buddy!”

“Hi, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Conner cinched his belt and pushed up his hat with the tip of his shotgun. “So what exactly is going on here?”

I pointed with my foot at Prarash. “Completely excellent question.”

Sheriff Conner crouched over, examining Fred. “Whoa, Mrs. Smith, that’s quite a knotting-up you’ve done here.”

Prarash rolled in the mud. My mother had roped him like a calf. He rolled to say something, but it mostly sounded like “Mmmmffrreeempfh,” since my mother had also shoved a rotted lettuce head into his mouth.

Sheriff Conner looked in Prarash’s face. “Now, why don’t you calm down so I can loosen this rig and get you in a nice pair of handcuffs, huh? Or are we gonna have to do this the hard way?”

Prarash stopped struggling and Sheriff Conner yanked the lettuce head from his teeth.

“Has it come to this, Sirena?” Prarash cried, spitting lettuce juice. “Are you ready to forsake me?”

We all looked at one another. Sirena?

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“I think he’s been smoking that lettuce, too,” Miles said.

“No,” my mother said, blushing. “I’m afraid that’s me.”

“What?”

“Little dove, now is the time to prove yourself! Do you not remember our walks down the paths of Veda? Our strolls through fields of Chi and Longing?”

“Mom?” I said. “This is getting weird.”

“Getting?” Miles said.

“He smells,” Olivia said.

Chopper picked up the cue, raised his leg, and peed on Prarash’s neck.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” my mother apologized.

“No problemo,” Sheriff Conner said. “I believe that’s the closest thing to a shower this character’s had in months.”

My mother sighed. “I’ve known for some time that Frederick here had developed some . . . feelings for me. I just didn’t realize to what extent.”

“But the dolls? And the flats? And a
nickname
?”

“YOU!” Prarash yelled, his eyes crazy, staring at me. “You were poisoning me to her! Always with your smart comments and your little jokes.”

My father walked up and shined the flashlight he’d invented in Prarash’s face, Smith’s E-Z Beam. Prarash didn’t even squint. It wasn’t very bright. In fact, it may not have made any light at all. My father took my mother’s hand. “It finally happened, huh?”

My mother nodded.

My father scratched his head. “I know I promised the day we were married I’d never say ‘I told you so,’ but . . .”

“Keep the streak alive,” my mother suggested.

Sheriff Conner got Prarash unknotted and on his feet and into a pair of cuffs. Fred began to weep. I couldn’t believe it, but I actually felt a little bad for him. He pointed at me with his runny nose. “Why wouldn’t you just
go away
? Could you not see what your mother and I were about to
share
?”

“Hoo boy,” my father said.

“Hoo boy,” my mother said.

Maybe Prarash was right. Maybe
that’s
why I’d stayed around. Why I’d gotten bad grades and hadn’t applied to colleges. Maybe subconsciously I’d known all along this would happen. And I’d be needed.

I turned toward my parents. “You know what? Maybe subconsciously . . .”

“Forget it,” my mother said.

“No one’s buying it,” my father said.

“Nice try, though,” Miles said.

“I am leaving, though,” I told Prarash. It felt good to say. Better every time. “I’m going to California.”

My mother raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Olivia raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Prarash wiped his beard on his shoulder and moaned. “I’ve always had lousy timing.”