The Fight for Kidsboro (35 page)

“What are we gonna do?”

“Just keep your eyes open. If you see your dad anywhere, you call the police immediately. Here,” she said, handing me a cell phone. “You take this wherever you go—to school, to Kidsboro—everywhere. The speed dial is set. If you see him, you just press this button, and you'll get Mr. Henson. Okay?”

I nodded and stared at the cell phone. My eyes watered, and Mom noticed.

“It's gonna be okay,” she said and hugged me.

We knelt on the floor and prayed together, a defense we never had when we were in California. But now that we were Christians, we had a God who was bigger than any danger we might face. I was calmer when I stood up, and so was my mom.

On my way to Kidsboro, I wanted to stop by Whit's End to tell Mr. Whittaker about everything. He Was the only person in Odyssey besides my mom and me who knew the truth about our situation. He had helped us through painful times before, and I wanted to talk to him now.

I walked up to the door of Whit's End, but couldn't bring my self to walk through it. I was still angry with him.

I made it to Kidsboro after lunch and immediately noticed a crowd on the shore of the creek. Nelson had created a game out of the Water Moccasin trips. Every team of two had 10 minutes to get as far as they could. At the 10-minute mark, Nelson blew his whistle, and the team had to retreat. So far, only one team, two boys with muscular legs, had made it beyond the borders of the tall fence upstream. Eventually, when the crowds waned, I imagined that Nelson would let somebody explore for a while and go as far as they wanted. But for now, with the crowds lined up, there had to be a limit.

Everyone was having a good time, except for the people and business owners of Bettertown. The bowling alley was empty. Scott was standing around with no pins to reset.

Max was talking to Rodney Rathbone, a school bully who had, for a short time, been a citizen of Kidsboro. Rodney was a pretty tough guy, and I wondered if Max was having him perform a little bouncer duty—though I couldn't imagine who he would be kicking out of what. There was no one in the whole town.

Suddenly, they both turned and walked purposefully toward the bridge. Nelson looked up and caught Max's gaze. Everyone must have wondered what Max was up to.

There Was a noticeable smirk on Max's face as he crossed the bridge and stormed toward Nelson. He had a manila folder in his hand. A team had just parked so the vessel was halfway on the shore.

“Okay,” Max said loudly. “Everybody off my property.”

“What?” Nelson said.

“I own this land, and I want everyone off of it.”

“This is Kidsboro, not Bettertown.”

“I still own part of Kidsboro, and this deed proves it.” Max pulled a contract out of his folder. I wove through the crowd to see what he was talking about. “As you can read here, I bought this land two months ago and built these houses on it.” He pointed to four houses, the ones with cardboard siding, the “Creek view Estates.”

I looked at the deed. My signature was on the bottom, along with the other four members of city council. We had, indeed, sold him the land.

“Take it,” Max said, pointing to Rodney. Rodney grabbed the Moccasin and pulled it out of the water. He dragged it across the grass toward Nelson's house.

“You can't do this,” Nelson said. “You don't even live here any more.”

“Sir, you need to hush up and get off my property,” Max said, pointing a finger in Nelson's face.

This was the only place in Kidsboro where Nelson could launch his boat. There was a drop-off everywhere else. Max had successfully ruined the Moccasin business, and there was nothing we could do about it.

Later that afternoon, Nelson walked into my office without knocking. “He's imposing tariffs on all goods made in Kidsboro,” he stated. Tariffs, in the real world, are taxes placed on things made in another country. For example, if you import something from France, you have to pay extra—a tariff. It encourages people to buy things from their own country, instead of a foreign country.

“If anyone from Bettertown buys something over here, they have to pay a tax on it before they can go back over the bridge. Max even stationed a guard there to make sure they're not smuggling anything in.”

I walked out my door and saw a boy standing on the bridge, checking the jacket pockets of an innocent pedestrian just trying to get across the creek.

“This means,” Nelson continued, as if I didn't understand what it meant, “that we'll be buying stuff over there, but they'll probably stop buying stuff over here because of the tax.” I knew this affected Nelson more than anyone, because he sold his inventions every day.

The city council met with in an hour to discuss our strategy for dealing with Max's scheme. He had already dismantled our best industry, and he had chiseled little holes in the rest of them. We had to do something, or Bettertown would overtake us.

Nelson had an idea. “Why is Kidsboro better than Bettertown?” This was a fair question, and it was a little disconcerting how long it took us to come up with an answer.

“We don't have Max,” Jill said.

“Exactly. And what is Max doing over there?”

“He's putting everything under his control.”

“Precisely. Bettertown is run by a power-hungry dictator, but in Kidsboro, there's freedom. We can do whatever we want. We have the freedom to make a life for ourselves. We can follow the American dream, get an education, create a business, and own a home,” Nelson said proudly.

“What're you getting at?” Jill asked, having heard enough of the patriotic speech.

“Let's make those people realize that there's a better life over here. That there's more to life than feeding and pampering tourists.”

“How?”

“We offer them a chance to follow the American dream.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” Jill said, glancing at her watch for effect.

“We go over to Bettertown and tell them what they're missing.”

By the end of the meeting, Nelson had explained his strategy. Kidsboro would offer a “Starting Your Own Business” course. We had a fantastic teacher, Nelson, so we just needed students.

We headed out, just like a group of army recruiters. All we needed was a few good men.

We all watched as Nelson gave an incredible sales pitch to a boy named Jerry, the Bettertown garbageman. Then, trying to imitate the master we had just seen at work, we went out on our own.

The first person I ran into, unfortunately, was Scott. There was one person bowling, and Scott was setting up the pins for him. When he stood back up, he saw me and immediately looked the other way. I approached him.

I knew that the best way for me to open up to him would be to apologize. But I still thought he was making a big mistake, and I think my ego got in the way of my brain when I started off with the sarcastic remark, “Looks like you're having a blast.”

“Why don't you go home?” he rolled his eyes.

“You're being stubborn.”

“You still think you own me.”

“I can understand you being mad at me, but how can you pick this place over Kidsboro?”

“Pardon me for taking up space, but I hope Kidsboro goes down the toilet. I really do. I think you guys need to be taken down a few notches.”

“Why are you talking like that? This is not you. It's like … you've been brainwashed.”

“Why? Because Max has told me that I can have a better life
here
than over there? Sounds familiar. Who's really doing the brainwashing, Ryan?”

I stared at him for a few seconds, and then put my head down and turned away.

Nelson and Jill had recruited one Bettertownian (or “Maxite” as many liked to call them) each to come to our seminar. I had struck out on my three tries. Max had penetrated their brains with too much propaganda, so there was no hope in getting them to come to the seminar. Alice bullied two kids into coming. I'm sure they were there for fear of their very lives.

Nelson and I, along with the four potential recruits, arrived in the meeting hall. Nelson would handle the presentation, and I would offer my two cents, though Nelson had much more experience than I did in starting a business.

Nelson was well prepared, in spite of having come up with this idea only the day before. He presented a strong case for owning your own business, as opposed to working for someone else. Then he offered some ideas for possible business ventures in Kidsboro. Two of the heads in the group nodded vigorously, as if they were seriously considering every word Nelson spoke. Jerry the garbageman looked especially interested.

Near the end of the meeting, when Jerry was practically ready to jump out of his chair and start building his new office, the door suddenly burst open. It was Max.

He looked at the Maxites. “What are you guys doing here?”

Jerry looked up innocently, apparently unaware that he was doing something wrong. “We were learning how to start our own business.”

“Your own business?” Max asked in utter disbelief. “Did you ask permission to do this?”