Mind If I Read Your Mind? (8 page)

The Hoove couldn't believe his eyes as he watched Billy walk away from him, climb into the truck, and close the door. His heart practically broke when he saw the truck pull away from the curb and head down the street, block after block, until it was just a tiny blue speck disappearing on the horizon.

After all I've done for that kid
, he thought,
this is the thanks I get. He's off to Dodger Stadium and I'm standing here on the lawn like a pink plastic flamingo stuck in the grass.

The Hoove's sadness turned to rage. Even though he knew nobody could hear him, he started to shout.

“All right. You know what? I've had it. I quit. I'm turning in my ghost badge. You hear that, Higher-Ups? You win. Take my report card and shred it. See if I care. Oh, and let me answer that for you … I don't!”

He waited for a response, any response. A flash of lightning, a crow flying, a rock exploding in flames. But all he got was silence.

“Okay, don't answer me,” he shouted into the emptiness. “I don't need your advice anyway. Hoover Porterhouse the Third has always been on his own, and will remain so. Thank you and good-bye.”

He flipped into hyperglide and took off down the street for whereabouts unknown. He flew by Mrs. Pearson, who was climbing off her electric lawn mower after a good mow. It was not easy for her to dismount since each of her thighs was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. Normally, the Hoove might have stopped to help her, giving her leg an invisible lift. But he was in such an emotional tizzy that he could think of nothing but himself and his own anger.

As usual in times of crisis, he found himself heading to the baseball diamond in Live Oak Park. Even though he couldn't actually walk onto the field, it made him feel better just to be close to it. He pulled to a stop at the left field fence and perched on top of it, hanging his legs over the chain link, but being careful that they never touched the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Hoove noticed a wiggling bank of fog appear on the pitcher's mound. As it moved closer and closer to him, he saw that it was the distinctive figure of Yogi Berra walking toward him again. Although he wore a Yankees cap on his head, he wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead, he had on a floral bathing suit and an unbuttoned matching Hawaiian shirt. His knees were covered in thick white sunscreen.

“Not you again,” the Hoove said.

“Oh yes, kiddo. Me again,” Yogi answered. “And I'm not exactly thrilled to be here, either. Ten seconds ago, I was sitting on the beach in Miami spreading suntan lotion around my knee area and lolling around in my swimming trunks.”

“Oh, is that what you call that tropical garden adorning your body?”

“Can you explain something to me, kiddo? Why are you always in such a foul mood?”

“I have every right to be. You know what good old Billy Broccoli just did? Took off and left me in the dust. The kid goes to Dodger Stadium, which happens to be my ninety-nine-year dream, but do I get to go? No, he does. Tell me how that's fair. I have been thinking about visiting baseball stadiums longer than he's been alive.”

“Yeah, everyone knows that.”

“Wait a minute,” the Hoove said, eyeing Yogi suspiciously. “Are you sure you're not one of the Higher-Ups?”

“I already told you I'm not. I'm just a messenger. I hear things through the grapevine.”

“Oh really? Because you seem to know everything about me, which makes me think that either you're one of them or you get a paycheck from them.”

“You got a lot of mouth, kiddo, but not much to back it up.”

“Listen to me, Yogi. First of all, I think you should change your name. You sound like a frog. And second of all, I quit. I'm done with the ghost business. It's busting me in half. I mean, who does that kid think he is? He is nothing without me. Zero. Wait a minute, let's ponder this. What is less than zero?”

“Beats me, kid. The only math I know is batting averages.”

“All right, I'll tell you what it is. Minus zero. Billy Broccoli is a minus zero without me. I do everything for him. Pick his clothes. Show him how to walk without grinning like a two-yearold that just filled up his diapers. I'm working nonstop to put some swagger in his life. And he goes off to live my dream without a second thought.”

“So you're going to quit, just like that? And be confined to this small suburban neighborhood for all eternity? I'd think twice about that, kid. It'd feel mighty awful.”

“How do you know how I feel?” The Hoove was shouting now. “You get to go to steak restaurants and sit on the beach and travel across the country whenever they call you. I'm stuck on this one little ranchero in Southern California. And the only way I can get out is by helping a kid who refuses to take the sweet nuggets of advice that I drop in his lap like candy.”

“That's not what's eating you,” Yogi said.

“You're jealous because Broccoli got to go to Dodger Stadium and you were left behind. That hurt you. I understand that.”

“What are you, the world authority on emotions?”

“That's exactly what I am. A manager has to know each player's personality and figure out what's going on in his messed-up head. You keep taking your eye off the ball. The goal here is to help Billy move on. That's the only way you're going to help yourself move on and realize your own dreams. And you can't stick to the plan.”

“Easier said than done.”

“It's not all that complicated, kid. Nothing comes for free in this world. The energy you put in is the energy you get back.”

“That sounds like something my grandma Gertrude embroidered on a pillow.”

“Good for her. She knew something you haven't learned yet. See, you're thinking about giving up on Billy, but what you're really doing is giving up on yourself. That's what people do when they're afraid.”

“Oh really? And what exactly am I afraid of? Let me answer that for you. Nothing.”

“You don't fool me, Mr. Ghost with an Attitude. You're afraid that you're never going to get to all those stadiums you dream about because you don't believe you've got the stuff to help Billy be the best he can be. So you figure that giving up is easier than failing.”

Hoover Porterhouse was silent for a long minute, and Yogi saw that his point had finally hit home.

“Giving up is not the only way, Hoover,” he said quietly. “You're at a fork in the road. And I say, when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Before Hoover could ask what that meant, Yogi took a few steps back and began to disappear into the fog.

“So now you're going, just like that?” Hoover shouted after him. “Fine. And in case you haven't noticed, you're leaving globs of suntan lotion all over the infield.”

“Remember what I said, kiddo.” Yogi's voice echoed across center field as his body disappeared into the swirl of fog. “It ain't over 'til it's over.”

“Thanks for the tip,” the Hoove shouted into the distance. “Maybe someday I'll figure out what that means.”

The Hoove sat in the darkness, not moving from the chain-link fence. He didn't feel like flying or floating or gliding. He didn't feel like cruising around looking for fun. He just felt like thinking. And thinking was something he was not at all accustomed to.

The next morning, Billy burst into his bedroom full of enthusiasm. He couldn't wait to tell the Hoove all about his trip to Dodger Stadium. He had taken about a hundred pictures with his cell phone, and had even brought the Hoove a surprise souvenir that almost no one else in the world could possibly have.

“Hey, Hoove!” he called out. “Where are you? Make yourself visible. Come on. I want to hear you whistle ‘I've Been Working on the Railroad.'”

But instead of whistling, he heard only silence.

“Okay,” Billy said, picking up the corner of his bedspread and glancing under it. “I get it. You're still mad that I had to leave you behind. Who wouldn't be? But you're not going to be mad anymore when you see what I've got for you. I promise.”

More silence.

“So you're playing hard to get,” Billy said with a knowing smile. “No problem. If you won't come to me, I'll come to you.”

Billy tiptoed over to the closet and flung open the door. He sniffed for the aroma of fresh oranges, but all he smelled was the gym shoes that he had forgotten to leave on the porch to air out.

“So Mr. Porterhouse is hiding,” he said, closing the closet door. “Hmmm, I wonder where a ghost would hide in my room.”

Billy crept over to his chest of drawers, bent down quietly, then with a sudden motion, pulled the bottom drawer open.

“Gotcha!”

But the Hoove was not inside. In fact, the only things in that drawer were his three hooded sweatshirts and a whole lot of mismatched socks. From his crouched position, Billy glanced around the room, checking under the bed and behind the desk. Still nothing. He got up and went to the window. Pressing his face against the glass, he looked for the Hoove, expecting to see him hovering outside Rod Brownstone's house with a prank in mind. But no one was there.

“Please don't tell me you're licking the glass clean?” came Breeze's voice from the doorway. “They have products for that, you know.”

Breeze had busted in without knocking, as usual. They had only been brother and sister for less than a month, but Billy had already learned that the word
privacy
was not in her vocabulary.

“Listen, Breeze,” Billy said. “You didn't happen to smell orange juice going down the hall or in your room, did you?”

“You know what, Billy? If I didn't need a favor from you, I would nail a sign to your door that says BEWARE! CRAZY DUDE INSIDE, and run away screaming. However, I need to borrow your iPod charger, so I'm not at liberty to do that. Oh, look, there it is.”

She grabbed Billy's charger from the night-stand next to his bed.

“I'll return it as soon as I can. And in the meantime, keep your tongue off the glass. It leaves streaks.”

Billy could hear her laughing as she padded back down the hall to her room. She certainly got a kick out of herself, which was a quality Billy admired and resented at the same time.

The Hoove must be out in his oak tree
, Billy thought.
It's the place he goes when he's upset.

Billy hurried down the hall into the kitchen. He was hoping his mom and stepdad weren't there so he could head right into the backyard without pausing to tell them all about the sleepover. He wanted to apologize to the Hoove because he truly did feel bad that his friend had missed out on going to Dodger Stadium. But before he could get out the back door, he ran smack into his mother and Bennett sitting at the kitchen table.

“Good morning, sweetie,” his mom chirped. “Tell us all about the sleepover.”

“I can't now, Mom. I got stuff to do in the backyard.”

“Maybe I'll join you, Bill,” Bennett said.

“Have a little man-to-man time. I'll show you the new sprinkler system I'm installing. I went for the brass valves. Nothing plastic for me. No, sir, I don't believe in skimping on sprinklers.”

“Bennett, you have such an eye for quality products,” Billy's mom said.

“Wait until I tell you about the new drill I ordered for the office. It's vibration free.”

“Your patients are lucky to have such an innovative dentist,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding commented, taking her new husband's hand. That was all the encouragement Bennett needed to launch into a long-winded description of dental drills, with more details than anyone would ever want to hear in a lifetime. Billy didn't mind, though, because Bennett's lecture gave him the opportunity to slip out the back door unnoticed and run over to Hoover's tree.

He stood at the base and looked up, but there was no Hoove in sight. That didn't mean he wasn't there — it just meant he wasn't
visible
. Billy started to whistle “I've Been Working on the Railroad.” He figured if the Hoove was there, he'd join in and then poof, he'd materialize. He got through the whole song, all the way up to “Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah,” and still he didn't hear even the tiniest whistle from the Hoove.

Suddenly, he heard leaves rustling from the top branches.

“Hoove? Is that you? Please let that be you.”

Another rustle.

“Don't be cute, man. Listen, I'm sorry about everything. I shouldn't have ditched you. I didn't know how to say no to Ricardo because he's just starting to be my friend. Let's forget it and get back to normal. We have work to do before Monday.”

Another rustle. Billy's eyes followed the sound until he noticed a bushy-tailed squirrel darting from branch to branch. His heart sank.

“I don't suppose you can shape-shift into a squirrel,” Billy called out. “But if you could, I would say to you that I'm really sorry. And if you don't forgive me, I understand. I wouldn't want to be treated the way I treated you.”

The squirrel stopped, stared at him inquisitively, and then tossed a rotting acorn at his head.

“Okay, I deserve that,” Billy called out. “And I just want to say one more thing. You're my friend, and not just because of the SOC competition. I like hanging out with you.”

The squirrel twitched his nose and cocked his head, then jumped onto a telephone wire and scampered off to Mrs. Pearson's yard.

“Wow, I can't believe I just had a conversation with a squirrel.”

Billy turned to walk back into the house, never knowing that Hoover had been in the tree the whole time, hanging on the branch above the squirrel and hearing every word Billy had said. He could have made himself visible, but his anger won out over his ability to forgive. What the Hoove couldn't have known was that the Higher-Ups were watching him the whole time, jotting down notes in their gigantic parchment ledger about his need to learn forgiveness.

For the rest of the day, Billy waited for the Hoove to show up. He couldn't concentrate on anything. He tried playing video games, doing homework, and making grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato slices. He even tried matching up the socks in his bottom drawer. Nothing could distract him from the fact that Hoover had left him.

Sunday came and went without the appearance of any ghostly signs. Before dinner, Billy got a call from Ruby.

“You all set for tomorrow?” she asked.

“No problem,” he answered. “I'm throwing my mind-reading vibes into high gear. I can feel the win already.”

Of course, that was all a lie. The call made Billy even more frantic. The SOC competition was only sixteen hours away. He couldn't believe that the Hoove would abandon him now without even giving him a chance to apologize. Was he really that selfish? Had Billy hurt his feelings that much or was the Hoove just being his usual irresponsible self?

By the time the family sat down to Sunday night family dinner, Billy was beside himself with anxiety. He didn't have a backup plan. Without the Hoove's participation in the mind-reading stunt, he was going to let Ruby and Ricardo down with a thud, not to mention embarrass himself beyond repair.

“Here's your plate, just the way you like it,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding said to Billy, putting down a heaping serving of scrambled eggs and fresh, crispy bacon.

Billy and his mom had a Sunday night dinner tradition. Ever since he was little, she made breakfast for dinner — bacon and sausages and scrambled eggs and sometimes even French toast with cinnamon and sugar. When they moved in with Bennett and Breeze, Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding suggested they continue the tradition.

“Pass the ketchup, please,” Billy said morosely. Even breakfast for dinner couldn't cheer him up.

Billy's mom slid the ketchup bottle closer to his plate before she went back to the stove to make Breeze's plate.

“Breeze, tell me again if you like soft scrambled eggs or the more well-done ones,” she said, examining the remaining eggs in the skillet. “There are plenty of both.”

“Definitely well-done,” Breeze answered.

“The runny part makes me gag. And speaking of gagging, can I ask you, Billy, what are you thinking? Seriously?”

Billy looked at her blankly. “What's the problem?”

“You're drowning your scrambled eggs in ketchup. Who eats like that?”

“I do.”

“Has anyone ever told you it's gross?”

“No.”

“Well, then, let me be the first. It's stomach-churningly gross.”

“Breeze, let Billy enjoy his meal the way he likes it,” Bennett said. “Dinner isn't a time for us to judge one another. It's a time to share. Now who wants to go first and tell us what you're looking forward to in the coming week?”

There was no response from Billy or Breeze.

“Why don't you start, Bennett?” Billy's mom suggested as she brought the last two plates to the table and slid into her chair.

“Don't mind if I do. I have a lot to look forward to this week — two root canals on Tuesday. And on Wednesday, I'm putting a gold filling in Mr. Schneider's back molar. It will be a real challenge to get my drill bit back there, but I always enjoy a good a dental challenge.”

“Dad, that's almost as repulsive as Billy's red eggs,” Breeze commented.

“Fine, Breeze. Then you go next. What are you looking forward to this week?”

“The Dark Cloud plays its first concert this coming Friday afternoon. We're going to rock the house.”

“That's if you call playing for the chess club a concert,” Billy said, his mouth full of bacon.

“I do. Besides, what do you have this week that's any better?”

“Oh, Billy has something very, very exciting happening tomorrow,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding said. “Tell them, Billy.”

Billy stopped mid-chew and felt his stomach do a backflip. He had momentarily put the SOC competition out of his mind so that he could enjoy the crunch of his bacon.

“It's no big deal, Mom.”

“Why yes it is. Tomorrow, Billy is representing Mr. Wallwetter's class in the SOC competition.” Billy could tell that his mom was really proud of him. He didn't usually get singled out for special honors.

Billy's appetite had completely vanished. His mother's words, meant to make him feel good, had actually had the opposite effect. Bennett reached out, picked up his glass of orange juice, and held it in the air.

“I'd like to propose a toast,” he said. “To Billy. May the words flow from your mouth like the water from my dental hose.”

The family clinked their glasses. Everyone except Billy. He couldn't join in the toast. He was too busy thinking that he
was
toast!