Maps (2 page)

Maps tried to close his umbrella, but it seemed to be stuck open. He decided to make the best of it and use it to create some sort of barrier between him and the monster child. He left his room and went straight back to his parents’ bedroom and stood in the doorway where he last heard the sound.

He tried his best to be silent, so he left the umbrella in the hallway and crept into the bedroom. Maps peered around either side of the bed, finding nothing. Next, he went into the adjacent bathroom and looked behind the door and under the counter—thankfully finding nothing. He opened both closest doors, looked in the mostly empty corners of the closest and behind all the clothing. Still nothing. He wished he had his umbrella with him.

Maps stood at the end of the bed and looked around the room. What had he missed? He looked at the bed. He looked lower. His eyes narrowed.

He was the bravest person he’d ever met. Braver even than Joan of Arc or a soccer-hater in Europe. So damn brave.

Crouching to his knees, he crawled to the side of the bed. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, and his hands were even clammier than clams. He took a deep breath, reached out and quickly pulled the bed skirt up and shoved his face under the bed.

“Ah hah!” he yelled out loud.

But nothing was there. Nothing but his parents’ shoeboxes and one of his dad’s missing ties. He let the breath out of his lungs and closed his eyes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice whispered right in his ear.

Maps jumped out of his skin, and his skeleton hit the ceiling. When it eventually fell back down into his body, he screamed. Well, it was more of a manly holler, but whatever.

Sitting next to him on the floor was a little girl, probably around five years old, dressed in a little pink dress, barrettes in her hair, and little white frilly socks on her feet. Her dark brown hair was long and curly, and her bright brown eyes stared at him. Stared at him hard. Perhaps even into his soul.

“How did you get in here?” Maps croaked, grabbing at his chest with his hand.

“The door,” the little girl replied.

“Which one?”
So I can nail planks of wood to it.

“The glass one.”

“We don’t have any glass doors.”

“Yes you do.”

It took him a few moments to realize what she meant. “The window?”

“Yes.”

“I am not cut out for this.” Maps leaned back against his parents’ bed, took off his glasses, and scrubbed his hands against his eyes. Something got stuck on his eyelashes. He tried to blink it away, but it was awfully annoying. Then he remembered that it was ketchup. He was still covered from head to toe in ketchup and had basically just spread it around the bed and the carpet. Fantastic. His mom would love that.

“Where are you from?” Maps asked.

She blinked at him. “Mississippi.”

“I mean around here.”

“I watched you talk to your boyfriend on the phone.”

Maps choked. “That’s not my boyfriend. That’s my best friend.”

“Right, your boyfriend.”

“No, my best friend, Benji.”

“Boyfriend Benji.”

Maps threw his hands up in the air. She watched him with big eyes and her little mouth in an ‘o’ shape. Sighing, he stood and motioned for her to follow him.

“Come on,” Maps told her, “we have to get you home.”

She trailed along behind him, stopping when they got out into the hallway. “Don’t forget that,” she said, pointing to the open umbrella.

“Oh, yes,” Maps replied absentmindedly, and picked up the umbrella.

Maps and the little girl walked down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen. He stood and turned to her. “What’s your name?”

“Princess Madame Sprinkle.”

Maps made a pained noise. “Your real name.”

She gave it a moment or two of thought, looking up at the ceiling as though she was thinking terribly hard. “I guess you can call me Sprinkle.”

“Oh god. I’m going to have to call the cops and explain how you got here. They’re going to think I kidnapped you, and haul me off to jail.” Maps ran his fingers frantically through his hair.

“Where do babies come from?” Sprinkle asked.

“The ground,” Maps replied. Since this child had managed to escape from whatever gate of hell had been left open and had managed to ruin Maps’ day, he was going to ruin her parents’ day right back. “Yep, the ground. That’s where they’re grown.”

“Grown?” she asked him with wide eyes. She sat down on the eat-in breakfast bench near the window in the dining room and watched him lean against the kitchen counter.

“Yep, they’re grown. See, you start with a carrot, or a potato, or any other vegetable. Then you add the
special formula,
and bam! Just like that a baby pops out nine months later. Your parents tell you to eat your vegetables to make you grow big and strong because you’re pretty much a vegetable anyway, and you’re adding back vital vegetable nutrients that you’ve lost over the years.”

“Wow,” she squeaked, dragging out the vowel. “You’re so smart.”

“I know. And I know that you, are for certain, corn.”

“What’s corn?”

“You know. It’s yellow and grows in stalks and is delicious when lathered with butter.”

She was starting to look afraid, like she feared Maps might try to eat her. Maps just sighed and walked around to the pantry. He rustled around in it for a few moments then walked over to her and held out his hand with a cob of corn in it.

“Here,” Maps said, “is your evil corn brother.”

“This is my brother?”

“Yes. What are you going to call him?”

“Lane.” She held the cob of corn in her tiny little hands so gently, turning it slowly and examining it as though it really were her relative.

“Right. Lane the cob of corn. Perfectly logical name for a cob of corn.”

“I’m hungry,” Sprinkle said.

Maps sighed. He couldn’t let the kid starve. He’d make her something to snack on and then call the cops. Or at least Benji to see what Benji would do.

He went back to the kitchen, still carrying around the open umbrella over his ketchup-stained head, and began rummaging through the fridge. His mom had stocked up on apples, which was perfect, because kids in commercial were always eating apples, which obviously meant it was their favorite food ever. Maps took out an apple and set it on the cutting board.

In the distance, someone yelled, but he was again distracted by Sprinkle croaking about hunger pains.

“Fine. One snack, but then I’m calling the cops.” Maps got out a cutting knife from the block of knives on the counter and started to chop the apple into slices.

Sprinkle’s eyes soon whipped to Maps, the large knife in his hand, the cut-up apple on the counter, then slowly to the cob of corn in her hands. She instinctively clutched the cob of corn for dear life, hugging it close to her chest, and looked upon Maps with the face of someone beholding their worst nightmare.

A knock came at the back door, somewhat frantic. Maps was nearing the very end of his already short string of patience.

He whipped the door open and said to the annoying knocker, “What?”

Of course, just then, Sprinkle began screaming bloody murder. “No! No, no, no! You can’t cut up Lane and eat him!”

She threw herself to the floor, shielding the cob of corn with her body. “He’s my corn brother! Don’t cut him up!”

Standing in his doorway, a startled guy looked back and forth between Maps and Sprinkle. “Oh my god,” the knocker said hoarsely.

The stranger looked to be around Maps’ own age, but much, much bigger. He was taller and broader, and looked like he could eat Maps for breakfast. He had the palest blond hair Maps had ever seen, a jaw that was
far
too linear on someone his age, a perfectly straight nose, and high cheekbones that Maps chastised himself for noticing.

“Who are you?” Maps asked.

“Lane.”

Well this didn’t look good. Not only was he covered head to toe in dried ketchup, but he was holding an umbrella and a very large knife. To ice the cake, Sprinkle screamed at the top of her lungs, “Maps wants to eat Lane!”

Lane’s brow furrowed as he took in the situation. “What the . . . Shit. Put down the knife, man.”

Oh god. Oh god, this was terrible. If Maps didn’t die of embarrassment, he’d die from the sniper that S.W.A.T. was about to send to his house.

“He’s my corn brother!” came another scream from the kitchen floor.

“This looks bad,” Maps said and shrugged, accidentally waving the umbrella and the knife at Lane.

“My corn!” screamed Sprinkle, rolling on the floor.

The phone rang, but Maps stayed put, hands held up in front of his chest. Lane skirted around through the back door and around him, eyes narrowed on Maps. As if ready to lunge at him if he had to.

The answering machine picked up the call, and the sound of Benji’s voice started playing on the answering machine. “Dude, I know I dragged you into that, but listen, you’ve got to face your demons, you have to get rid of them once and for all. If these corn kids are what are haunting you, I’ll help you get rid of ‘em, okay? Call me back.”

Beep.

An extended silence. Everyone paused, even Princess Madame Sprinkle.

Then she said, pointing to Maps, “That was his boyfriend, Benji. Is he coming over too?”

Lane scooped Sprinkle up in his big arms, then whipped around and glared at Maps as he sauntered out the back door.

Maps stood there, hands near his chest, watching Lane as he charged across to the house next door. Benji’s house. Old house.

Lane carried his sister in through the back door and slammed it closed.

Maps sighed and dropped his hands back down to his sides. “Welcome to the neighborhood?”

“What were you thinking, Mattie?” Maps’ mother squawked at him. She was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa that Maps sat on with his head bowed. His father was standing off to the side, behind his mother, trying his best not to laugh.

“I don’t think I did anything wrong,” Maps replied.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” his mother said. “You scared a five year old to death. Their mother came over to me, completely frantic, talking about how her son claimed you were walking around with a butcher knife in your hand, covered in blood, and their little girl was screaming for you not to kill her brother. When I tried to assure Claire that her son must’ve been mistaken, she pointed to the mess on our front lawn. It looks like you slaughtered a chicken!”

“I guess that would look quite compromising,” Maps said quietly.

“You’re going to apologize to them tomorrow. We’ve been invited over for dinner— surprisingly, given your behavior—and I want you to smooth things over.”

“Apologize?” Maps guffawed. “That little terror almost gave me a heart attack! She broke in!”

“Mattie Wilson, you will apologize to their entire family for the distress you’ve caused them, or so help me,” his mother snapped. She turned, gave her husband an expectant look, then took off upstairs.

Maps remained sitting on the sofa, looking down at the carpet. His father came and sat down next to him and wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulder. “Your mother won’t rest until you apologize. You embarrassed her.”

His dad had light brown hair that was graying slightly above his ears, and the same dull blue eyes as Maps’ had. They even the same brand of glasses. His father’s slim frame and average height were reflected perfectly in Maps. There was no mistaking that they were related.

“I refuse. I’ve done nothing wrong.” Maps leaned back and folded his arms over his chest.

His father scrubbed his hands over his face. “Can’t you do it as a favor to me? I’ll never hear the end of it, Mattie.”

Maps sighed and threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. But you owe me.”

“That’s my son,” his father said, patting him on the knee. “Now go clean up your sacrificial chicken.”

* * * *

“When are you heading over?” Benji asked from the other end of the phone.

“Any minute now. I’d rather eat an entire ant colony than go.” Maps stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and adjusted his navy button-up shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows because it was still warm outside, despite the late autumn weather. His mother had insisted he wear something
presentable
as though he were a prize poodle about to be run around the obstacle course and be put on a table for judging.

“It can’t be that bad,” Benji said.

“If Lane had smelled my shirt, he’d have known it was ketchup, not blood.”

“Yes, come closer serial killer—let me be sure you’re not a chef.”

Maps sighed. “Exactly. Some people are so irrational.”

“You’re not going to replace me, I hope,” Benji joked. “This Lane guy sounds like he’s got all the makings for a new best friend.”

“Oh, please. You know you’re irreplaceable. Until one day I get a robot, of course. Then you’re out of the picture for sure.”

“Of course.”

“Until that time comes, you’ll remain my Watson. Plus, I don’t think this Lane character is too smart. He looks like one of those big jocks that eats food off the floor and wears his shirt inside out if it smells dirty.”

Benji laughed. It brought a small smile to Maps’ lips.

“Mattie, time to go!” his mother hollered from downstairs.

Maps sighed into the receiver. “Will you sound me off?”

“A moment.” There was rustling in the background and a few clicking noises. Then Taps, played on a gloriously crisp trumpet, sounded through the phone.

Maps waited a few moments, did a mock salute, and then hung up the receiver. He double-checked his shirt was tucked into his pants and marched down the stairs. His mother and father were waiting for him by the front door, his father with a wine bottle in his hand.

“Behave yourself,” his mother said. Maps nodded. “No experiments at their house. And no making trouble.”

Maps gaped. “Me? Trouble?”

The three of them walked over to their neighbors’ front door, cutting across their lawns. Maps had cleaned up the ketchup and feathers that he’d left out, but the wind had carried a few of the reddened feathers across their new neighbors’ grass.