The New Kid (8 page)

Bingo! It worked! Carson and his dad were seated in a bright blue-green booth by the window. Carson
would have what he had last time: the
carne asada
burrito supreme. He’d eat half and ask the server to wrap the other half up in aluminum foil for tomorrow’s lunch.

Yum!

His dad was examining the menu with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Carson slid his dad’s shirt cuff up and looked at his watch. “It’s six-forty-five, Dad. Let’s order.”

“Okay, okay. Let me think.”

Carson watched a cop car pull to the curb. A very big, very wide, very tall officer in a dark blue uniform got out. He took off his sunglasses and gazed down the sidewalk.

“Have you signed up yet to come for Career Day and talk to the class about being a tax lawyer?” Carson asked his dad.

“I think so. I checked every box there was.”

A server put a basket of warm tortilla chips in the middle of the table, and a small bowl of salsa. They ordered guacamole to go with the chips.

“I’ll ask Mr. Lipman about setting a date.”

A guy wearing a beautiful fancy black velvet
sombrero and pants with silver buttons on the sides strolled around the room, playing a guitar and singing.

“Is there a Wannabe Day?” asked Carson’s dad. “Maybe I could come in and play my guitar and sing some oldies but goodies. Like ‘La Bamba.’ ”

“La Bamba” was his dad’s ringtone.

“I think Career Days are for actual jobs only. Time’s a-tickin’, Dad.”

His dad looked at his watch and dabbed a small blob of guacamole off the face with one corner of his napkin.

Before long, Carson was staring at a white oval plate filled with creamy refried beans, crisp shredded lettuce, and a huge steamy burrito topped with sour cream. His dad had settled on
arroz con pollo
—a generous pile of chicken and tender mushrooms stuck together with melted white cheese on a bed of fluffy pink rice.

His dad shoveled a large bite in, held up five fingers, and said, “Five stars.”

With his spoon, Carson cleaned off the sour cream he had plopped on the front of his hoodie. “I agree.”

“I’ll wash it, Carson. Ain’t no biggie. Like father, like son, eh?”

“Thanks, Dad. It keeps shrinking in the dryer!”

“Well, maybe it’s you getting bigger. Ever thought of that?”

Carson hadn’t.

Eventually, Carson’s dad sat back and suggested taking a breather.

“Want another Whiz Quiz clue?” Carson asked him.

“Okay, shoot.”

Carson looked at his dad. “Braves caves.”

“Braves caves? A bat?”

“No. Next: Air in its hair.”

“Lion! Lion, king of beasts, standing on a ridge, in front of a cave, with its mane blowing in the wind.”

Carson’s dad waved to the musician and politely asked, “Do you know ‘La Bamba’?”

They both loudly sang the song in Spanish.

Carson looked out the window. The patrol car was gone.

The next morning Carson sat quietly while Mr. Lipman took attendance and lunch count and read the announcements:

No worries. Carson’s half a burrito supreme was in his new canvas lunch bag, along with an orange, a juice drink, and a few
buñuelos
.

Zipped up safe and sound.

Wes tipped sideways in his chair almost to the point of falling off. “I like the Nuisance Bird,” he told Carson. “Do you? I’m not mad at him for dive-bombing me. He was just protecting his territory. FYI: I wasn’t aiming to hit him with the pen—just scaring him off. It’s my territory, too!”

Carson said nothing. He wanted to ask Wes where the heck he was on Saturday at six p.m. but didn’t. He didn’t want Wes to know they fell for his big fat whopper!

Wes continued: “Bob is a hungry old crow who has a botched-up beak and busted tail feathers and
only one skinny, crooked leg to hop around on. He can’t hop into a Porsche and drive down to the store to buy himself some candy bears.”

“They’re not candy bears. They’re fruit bears.”

“Well, whatever they are, that’s what you get for leaving food out around wild animals. Never do that, and if you do—expect consequences.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Well, whose fault was it then?”

Carson didn’t know the answer to that one.

“What’s in your lunch today?” Wes asked.

“A burrito.”

“No way! I love burritos! Anything else?”

“No!” Carson did not have a duty to divulge the contents of his lunch to Weston “the Whopper” Walker.

“Remember when I shared my sandwich with you the other day?” Wes asked.

“Wes?” said Mr. Lipman. “Shh!”

Wes whispered, “Want to trade hoodies?”

Carson ignored him.

“Squirrels give me the whim-whams. All rodents do.” Then he whispered behind his hand, “That’s why I hate Mr. Dribblenose.”

A moment later he poked Carson’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait for Star Jar. I hope my number gets picked because, oh boy, have I ever got a good story to share!”

Cody leaned close to Carson and said, “Whopper alert!”

“Mr. Lipman!” Wes called. “What about the New Kid’s Star Jar stick? The New Kid doesn’t have a number. And he probably wants to tell everybody about his dad’s orange Porsche.”

Matthew turned to him. “How would you know what Carson would talk about?”

“Well,
duh
. His name is Car-son. Isn’t it?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You like math, don’t you, Matth-ew?”

Wes called to Mr. Lipman, “Do you like to skip?”

“I did when I was younger.”

“I knew it. How old are you?” Wes asked.

“I’m thirty-eight, just about to turn thirty-nine.”

“Whoa! You’re pushin’ forty!”

Mr. Lipman looked at him.

Then he pointed at the deputy list. “Numbers Deputy?”

“Yes?” said Nancy.

“Carson’s number will be twenty.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Lipman took a large brown mug with a sunflower on it down from the shelf near his desk. It was filled with tongue depressors, one for each student in the class. He opened the bottom door of the cupboard near his desk and took a new tongue depressor from a package. He gave it to Nancy.

“Thank you. Now, where’s the fine-point felt-tip marker?” Nancy asked.

Mr. Lipman looked in his top desk drawer. “Anybody seen it?” He opened the other drawers and rummaged through them.

Wes called to Cody, “Pssst! Cody! Do you like coats?”

“How about you shut your trap, Wes,” Cody suggested.

Whoa! Good thing Mr. Lipman didn’t hear
that
!

Shelly looked thoughtful. “Maybe there’s something to Wes’s theory. I like shells. I have a shell collection.”

She asked Wes, “Do you like the Wild West, Weston?”

“Yup, I plan to be a rodeo clown.”

“Oh wow,” Cody mumbled. He turned to Matthew and held his fist with his thumb sticking up like a microphone. “Good afternoon, ladies and gents! Welcome to Weston’s Wild West Whopper Show!”

When Cody and Matthew smirked, Carson looked away.

“Quick Writes,” Mr. Lipman told the class. “Hop to it.”

The topic of the day was “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.”

Mr. Lipman read over Carson’s shoulder as he wrote, and so Carson wrote s-l-o-w-l-y and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y and did the best possible job he could.

Mr. Lipman asked Carson if he wanted to read his out loud, and Carson didn’t, but he did anyway.

“Good job, Carson.”

He turned to Wes and sighed. “Weston? I’ve told you this many, many times. Do not grunt and wave your hand in the air when someone else is reading or speaking unless it’s an emergency.”

“Sorry.”

“Read.”

Wes loudly read about wanting to be a rodeo clown and save bull riders who got tossed off a bull’s back by distracting the bull and then jumping into a barrel and hiding.

“Good job, Weston. Next. Nancy?”

Nancy read, “ ‘There are many things I am interested in, such as math and marine biology, and problem solving. I would possibly like to grow up to be a research scientist like my dad. However, I am not ruling out being a surgeon like my mom, a baseball player, or a detective like, you guessed it, Nancy Drew.’ ”

“Well done, Nancy.”

“When’s Star Jar?” Wes asked.

“Wes? Raise your hand before speaking.”

Wes raised his hand. “When’s Star Jar?”

“Look at the schedule.”

At 9:28, Nancy handed Mr. Lipman a brand-new tongue depressor with 20 neatly written on it in fine-point felt-tip pen.

“Chloe and Zoe located your felt-tip pen. In the box in the cupboard along with the plastic eating utensils.”

“Hmmm. What was it doing
there
?”

Chloe shrugged.

He stuck the number 20 in between the other sticks.

“Mix ’em up,” Wes told him.

“Okay. Give us an intro, Wes.”

Wes made a drumroll sound. Then a loud crash of cymbals, which Mr. Lipman hadn’t requested.

“N-u-m-b-e-r …”

The class waited.

“Fourteen!” called Mr. Lipman.

“
Eeeeee-yes
!” Wes shouted. He jumped to his feet
and ran to the front of the room, his arms extended and his fists in the air.

“Brother,” grumbled Sydney. “Him again. That guy got picked twice last week and now again. Some people never get picked. And Wes always seems to get picked.”

“Sydney? The Complaint Department is closed.”

“She’s right, though. Zoe never gets picked,” said Chloe. “She’s never been picked once.”

“Never? Not once?”

Zoe made a sad face and shook her head.

“That’s strange …,” said Mr. Lipman.

“And actually, neither have I,” said Chloe. She slyly looked at Zoe.

“You haven’t?”

“Not recently.”

Wes loudly sighed. “Can I start?”

Cody whispered to Carson, “Brace yourself for the biggest lie you’ve ever heard. Or one of ’em.”

“O-kay, Wes. Let’s hear it,” said Mr. Lipman. “Remember: details. Build it up. Don’t just tell the punch line.”

“Last night …,” began Wes.

“Last night—when?” asked Mr. Lipman.

“About seven o’clock …”

“Where?”

“When we were driving on the freeway …”

“Who’s we?” Mr. Lipman smiled at Wes. “I’m sorry, Wes. I’m sorry to interrupt. But I just want to make my point. Give plenty of details and build the story up. Go slowly. Capture the interest of your audience.”

“O-kay,” said Wes. “O-kay, here I go. Nice and slow. Last night … at about seven o’clock … when me and my grandma were driving on the freeway … I saw …”

His eyes got really big. “
Abby Crabbly riding in the back of a police car!
”

“What?”

“
Abby Crabbly riding in the back of a police car!
”

“You did not, and her name is
Mrs
. Crabbly.”

“Yes I did! Mrs. Crabbly was riding in the back of a police car on the freeway in the fast lane.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Lipman. “You saw an individual who looked like Mrs. Crabbly—not the actual Mrs. Crabbly. End of story. Sit down.”

“See what I mean?” Cody whispered to Carson.

Wes rambled on: “She was riding in the back of a police car and looking down. Looking guilty as anything. Like this.” He looked down at the floor. “And I said, ‘Gram! That’s my computer teacher! Speed up!’ I rolled down my window and yelled and waved. My grandma drove up close, right next to the patrol car, and blasted her horn!”

Mr. Lipman frowned. “Your grandmother blasted her horn at a police officer in a patrol car?”

“Yup, but Mrs. Crabbly just kept looking down at her lap.”

“Wes?” said Mr. Lipman. “Sorry to say it: you’re full of beans.”

“Were her glasses on top of her head?” Eva asked. “With hair poking out?”

“Look. Enough is enough,” said Mr. Lipman. “It may have been somebody who looked like Mrs. Crabbly, but was not Mrs. Abby Crabbly herself. Time’s up. Have a seat. I mean it.”

“Maybe Mrs. Crabbly has a sister,” said Zach. “Who looks just like her. A twin. And maybe her twin sister embezzled money from a bank and was being carted off to the slammer.”

“Zachary? Enough!”

Mr. Lipman pointed to the empty seat and Wes sat down.

He chose another tongue depressor from the Star Jar. “Number … fourteen?”

“Wahooo!” shouted Wes. “Me again!”

Mr. Lipman looked into the Star Jar. “How come there are two sticks with number fourteen on them?”

Wes said nothing.

“This calls for a stick check,” announced Mr. Lipman.

He shook all of the tongue depressors out of the Star Jar. “Nancy?”

“Yes?”

“Take charge.”

Nancy lined up the tongue depressors along the counter.

Mr. Lipman called Wes up to his desk and quietly talked to him.

Carson could hear the conversation.

“For some strange reason, there are two number fourteens in that jar. You know anything about this, mister?”

“Actually, three!” Nancy called out.

A moment later she added, “But no number one, and no number four.”

“Who is number four?” asked Mr. Lipman.

Zoe raised her hand.

“No number four? None?” said Mr. Lipman.