Rebel's Tag (5 page)

Henry gets to his feet and says, “I must go now.” Then he reaches into his pocket again and withdraws an envelope. “One thing more. A letter for you.”

I don't know why, but I feel different about this letter. Henry is barely out of sight when I sit down on the bench, open the envelope and start reading.

Dear Samuel,

Do you like the watch? It was given to me by my wife, your grandmother Bess Connor, on our wedding day. You'll find a beautiful picture of her underneath the one of us and your dad. I'm sorry it doesn't work. It stopped just after she passed away, and I never had the heart to fix it. Now, it's time it was repaired. Please take it to Eli Jones at his shop, Space and Time, on Robson Street. He already figured out what's wrong with it and I've paid him too, so don't worry about the cost.

I hope it was sunny in the garden today and that you had a good visit with
Henry. He's a great friend. We met right there on that bench by the pond and have spent many hours swapping stories. The first time I visited the garden, I wasn't too happy, but the place gave me some peace. Might be the same for you? It wasn't long after that I took up studying the ancient land of Sumer. I guess I thought the past might give me some answers. Over four thousand years ago, the Sumerians became the first people to write down their thoughts. The interesting part is people haven't changed much in all that time. Here's another quote from them—this one suits my visits to the garden:

I looked into the water. My destiny was drifting past.

Your Grandpa Max

I get up and walk back over to the bridge. I look into the water. I see myself with the soft gold of the watch shining in my hand. I don't know if my destiny is drifting there. I've never thought much about destiny. I'm not even sure what
it is. Something to do with the future? Grandpa saw his future drifting past? And he was all alone? I open the watch and turn it so that the photograph is reflected beside my watery image. I feel something on the back of my neck, a soft touch, like a breath. When I turn, no one is there. And I really wish someone was.

The whole way home on the bus, I stare at Grandpa's watch. It's probably worth a lot, maybe enough to buy a car. But it fits in the palm of my hand perfectly, and I know I won't be selling it. I want to show it to Indi, and tell her how I changed my mind. I figure that by telling her, I might even understand why I changed my mind. Maybe the watch is like that bridge at the garden, only this bridge goes from the
past to now. Grandpa Max is getting to me. And maybe I want to see him too? But what if he's disappointed in me? He tells his friends about me like I'm someone special, and I'm not. I'm just an average fourteen-year-old kid who isn't really good at anything.

The bus drives past the house with the ruby red paint on the roof, and I look the other way. But it's there. I feel it the way you feel someone's stare from across a crowded room. It makes me feel way less than average, more like a screw up. I don't want to be a screw up. Not for Indi, not for my mom, not even for Grandpa Max. And just like that, I know what I have to do. Tonight. By myself.

It's strange going out for a roof without Indi. I usually feel like I'm just about to open a birthday present, but not this time. There's no vibe of magic in the air; there's just cold darkness. It doesn't matter. I'm doing this so the magic can happen next time, and the time after that. I know for
certain that unless I get rid of the bloody mess, make it right, Indi and the magic could be gone for good.

Once again, the house is dark and silent. I don't bother to check for a dog. I just climb straight up the fence. I make my way across the garage roof and up to the peak without pausing. I pull out a spray can of pale gray paint and start looking for the dark splotches of red. I decided this is the best way to fix it. I thought about scrubbing the roof with some kind of cleaner but chances are that wouldn't work. I had a hard enough time just washing the paint off my hands. Then I thought about that stuff that dissolves paint, but what if it ate into the shingles and wrecked them?

The first few spatters are easy enough to spray over, but some of them are farther down the roof. I have to slide along on my butt, bracing myself with my feet to get to them. I don't want to miss any. The last one is very close to the edge, and I lie sideways, stretching out my arm
to spray. But as I press the button on the can, I lose my grip, and the can shoots free. It rolls, bounces off the gutter and disappears into darkness. The clatter it makes when it hits the pavement below is unbelievable. It sounds like somebody banging a pot with a metal spoon, the way people do at midnight on New Year's Eve. I've got to get out of here. Fast.

I scramble across the roof, not even trying to muffle my steps. My heart is pounding so hard, it seems as loud as the clattering can. I sprint across the garage roof and jump onto the fence. My shin slides and scrapes along the top of the fence, but I get a handhold and keep it just long enough to steady myself. Then I drop to the ground and start running. And I run right into the old man.

He grunts when I hit him and staggers backward. He starts to fall, his eyes wide and frightened. I reach for him, catch his shirt, catch his arm. We teeter for a long slow second and then tip back upright. We stand there, panting, face-to-face.

“You!” he says. His voice is no more than a hoarse whisper. Anger replaces the fear in his eyes. He coughs a bit, and in a stronger voice he calls, “Mary, I've got him. Call the police!”

The old man doesn't have me. I could push past him right now and run. He'd never catch me. But I want to explain. I want to erase everything. “Wait! Look, I'm sorry! Really sorry. I was trying to fix it...”

“You've got no right being on my property. No right! Damn hooligan!” He shakes his head, points a finger at me. “Didn't your father teach you anything?”

I stare at him, at his disgust, and then a terrible thing happens. My eyes start stinging with tears.

A thin voice comes from the direction of the front door. “Norman? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mary,” he says. “I'm fine. Did you call the police?”

“What's that, dear?” she calls back.

“Oh for Pete's sake!” Norman mutters. “That woman can't hear a darn thing. Kid, come with me.”

“No.”

“Eh?” he says.

“I'm not coming with you. I fixed the mess. And I'm sorry.” I take a deep breath. “But if you're calling the cops, I'm out of here.”

His bushy eyebrows draw together and he clears his throat. Then he barks, “What's your name young man?”

“Sam.”

“Sam who?”

I start to tell him but then stop. Maybe Norman was a cop himself once; he sure
seems like someone I'm expected to obey. I mutter, “Never mind.”

We look at each other. Me, with my mouth shut tight, and him, with his head tipped to one side. In a quieter voice he says, “Well, Sam Never Mind, maybe I can give you a chance to explain yourself. But I'd like to go inside because I'm freezing my heinie off out here. Think we can talk about it?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Good. Let's go.” He turns and walks toward the front door. Part of me still wants to run, but my feet follow him, right through the door, past a startled Mary, straight on into the kitchen.

Mary follows us and without saying a word, she fills a kettle with water. Norman points to a chair. “Have a seat.”

I sit on the edge of a chair and wait.

Norman paces back and forth a few times, and then he lowers himself into the chair across from mine. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police. No, wait. First I want to know what the hell
you were doing on my roof. What's the big idea?”

“Magic,” I blurt.

Mary almost drops a teacup. “Magic? Some sort of witchcraft on our roof?” She puts a hand over her heart. “That awful red...!”

“No! Not like that. It's red paint. And it was an accident! I didn't mean for it to go all over the place. I had a faulty can and it just sort of spewed.” They're staring at me like I'm talking another language, friggin' Sumerian or something.

I look down at the table. I start again, from the beginning. I tell them about Indi and me playing hide-and-seek. I tell them about loving the feeling of being up on a roof. I tell them about wanting to keep that feeling alive and about the symbol for Uranus. The whole time I talk, they stay quiet. I keep wondering why I'm telling them, but since I started, I keep going. Right up until tonight.

When I'm done, Mary sets a cup of tea in front of each of us and sits down.
I sneak a glance at her, and I swear she's almost smiling. Maybe she didn't really hear what I said?

Norman slurps his tea for a minute. Drums his fingers on the table. Finally he says, “Do your parents know about this?”

“No,” I say.

“Well, maybe we don't need to involve the police. But your parents have to know. That's a foolish thing, climbing around on roofs in the dark. You and your friend are lucky you haven't been hurt.”

“Listen, Mr., um, Norman. I don't want my mom to find out. And I sure don't want to get Indi in trouble.”

“That may be,” he says. “But I wouldn't feel right about not telling your folks.”

“You can't tell my dad,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Cuz he's dead.”

Mary clicks her tongue and Norman shakes his head. “I'm sorry about that,” he says.

He goes quiet again. I take a sip of tea and Mary gets up. She comes back with
a plate of cookies. This is too weird. I'm sitting here at one in the morning on a school night, having tea and cookies with this old couple.

Then Mary says, “I used to love sitting on a roof.”

Norman gives her a sharp look, and she takes a cookie and munches. She pushes the plate toward me.

“Mary,” Norman says.

“Yes, dear?” Mary says.

“Oh, for Pete's sake! Listen here, if we don't call the police and we don't tell his mother, what the heck are we supposed to do? Shoot him?”

Mary glares at Norman. “Honestly!” she huffs. “You know I can't stand it when you talk like an old redneck. Shame on you. You used to like sitting on the roof too!”

“Well that didn't mean I went sneaking around like a thief, lobbing paint on other folks' houses! Sam here needs to learn a lesson.” He looks to me for support. “Don't you, Sam?”

Jeez. I don't think these two ever had kids. They don't have a clue. On the other hand, Norman looks pretty mad again. I nod.

“You see that?” Norman thumps his fist on the table. “Even Sam has the sense to know he's an idiot.”

The sense to know I'm an idiot? That's hilarious. Man, I wish Indi was here.

“Fine, then. Have it your way. Shoot him.” Mary crosses her arms and looks away, like she's done with this.

“Mary,” Norman says.

“Yes, dear?” Mary says.

“You're a difficult woman.”

“Yes, dear.”

I'm starting to get nervous. What if they're really whackos and Norman does pull out a gun? I point my feet toward the door. Norman holds his head in his hands the way Mom does when she's thinking. But who knows what he's thinking about?

Mary looks at me. “You enjoy painting do you, Sam?”

“Um. Yeah. Sure,” I say.

She grins. “Then it's all settled. Our shed needs painting something terrible. You can start tomorrow. Mind you now, I don't want red. I want white and gray to match the house.”

Norman's head comes up, and then his arms spread wide. “Why didn't I think of that?” he asks.

“You would have, dear,” Mary assures him. “You would have. Now, Sam, you'd best run along. Norman will have everything ready for you after school tomorrow. Isn't that right, Norman?”

Norman nods. I go while the going is good.