The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (15 page)

And so, when I said it would be okay for Charlotte to help pick out my new clothes, it was because I wanted to get to know her a little better, if only to find something I could use to my advantage. Something that would help me leave Snowflake Falls behind as soon as possible.

If you think this is a terrible thing to do, you will be happy to know that I was well and truly punished for it. Shopping with Charlotte gave me the worst headache of my entire life. We got to Wingate's, and she made me try on a whole rack of clothes, all the while saying things like, “Notice how this sweater matches your eyes?”

In between wardrobe advice, she began to talk about a dog in the neighborhood named Popcorn. “Popcorn is this little terrier who looks like he should be on the front of a Christmas card,” she said. “But he hates strangers. He'll just keep harassing you no matter how fast you pedal.”

“Pedal? What are you talking about?”

“I promised I'd let my father explain,” said Charlotte. Then she went off to get more shirts.

The one thing I had going for me was that the store was practically deserted. The only person I met was a weird skinny guy who came up to me when Charlotte ran off to see if she could find a pink polo shirt in my size. He was about my age, with a mop of muddy brown hair that stuck out all over the place. His long wrists hung from the sleeves of a cheap red windbreaker that had race-car patches sewn all over it. And his pants were short enough to reveal a pair of sagging, mismatched socks.

“Do I look paler than average?” he asked. “Because I've just donated blood at the blood bank. When the nurse hooks me up, I like to imagine I'm in a war movie, donating rare blood to my best buddy because he's been all critically wounded.” He shot me a big grin before adding, “Man, there's so much you can do with a sidekick that you can only pretend to do on your own.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you.” He leaned closer. “You're the guy who steals, right?”

I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.

He stuck out his hand for me to shake so that his long wrist pushed out from his sleeve even farther. “I'm George Dial,” he said. “My friends call me Speed.”

“Speed Dial?” I said, thinking maybe I heard wrong.

“Cool, huh?” he replied. “It's a nickname I gave to myself. Of course, I don't own an actual vehicle yet. But I am saving up for driving lessons.”

“Look, George…” I said, trying to slow down the conversation.

But George Dial did not slow down. “Did you know that Snowflake Falls doesn't even have an actual waterfall?” he asked. “It got its name because of a record-breaking snowfall that took place way back in the olden days. I only mention this because there is many a newcomer who asks, ‘Where the heck are the Falls?'”

Then he went on about how cool it would be to go over the Falls in a barrel. If we had a Falls, which we definitely did not. “Nothing exciting ever happens here,” he said. “Except for the Monster Truck Extravaganza, of course.”

The guy's eyes lit up, and he began to talk lovingly about something called the Devil's Dumpster. He described it as “the world's most totally awesome dump truck.” He told me that his gramma's “long-distance boyfriend” was none other than Lloyd “Digger” Finster, who not only owned the Devil's Dumpster but also toured with it all over North America with the Monster Truck Extravaganza.

“Lloyd parks the Devil's Dumpster in my gramma's garage when he visits,” said George. “But he never lets me get near the keys because he thinks I would try to drive it.” George Dial looked at me gravely and added, “Which I totally would.”

Then he did an impression of the Monster Truck Extravaganza announcer. Making his voice go superdeep, he proclaimed, “And now here's Lloyd ‘Digger' Finster driving the Devil's Dumpster! So powerful that it could dig a tunnel to the pit of hell!”

After that, he got a tattered magazine clipping about the Devil's Dumpster out of his wallet. It was a huge fire-engine-red truck on gigantic tires with a massive dirt shoveler on the front. There was a trail of bright yellow flame painted on both sides. Lloyd Finster was standing beside the truck wearing a red jacket with yellow flames shooting up the sleeves. “I don't show this to everyone,” George said, “but I can tell you're the kind of guy who likes all major forms of transport. Not that I'm psychic or anything,” he continued, “but I can see you're staring at my racing patches. Pretty cool, huh? My gramma sewed them on.”

George paused briefly for breath before launching into a long speech about how he couldn't decide whether to be a motorcycle daredevil, a stunt pilot for the movies or a rodeo clown who races dirt bikes on the side. “I guess you could say I feel the need for speed!” He broke into an even bigger grin, like I was supposed to know what he was talking about. But I guess he figured out that I didn't.

“Haven't you seen that totally cool movie about the jet pilots?” he asked. “It's about these two guys who are like best friends forever, but in a very cool way. They watch each other's backs and are totally loyal no matter what. That's the way Speed Dial rolls. That's my personal code. You know what I'm saying? I have the
DVD
at home and we could—”

I could tell he was going to go on for a while, so I interrupted him. “George,” I said, a little too loudly. “How do you know I steal?”

George seemed very happy that all I wanted to do was change the subject. “News travels very fast around here,” he said. “And you're the hottest thing to happen in town since our neighbor's basement flooded and nearly drowned their cat.” Suddenly he switched gears. “Hey, man,” he asked, “has Charlotte told you all that junk about finding her soul mate while butchering his hair?”

When I didn't answer, George plunged ahead. “What a talker!” he exclaimed. “Trust me, after a while everything the Headache Queen says burrows into your brain like a giant power drill.”

“The Headache Queen?”

“Charlotte, man,” said George. “I'm the one who came up with the nickname, and it stuck. Just you wait. I'm gonna come up with exactly the right nickname for you.”

I could feel my own headache getting worse. And Charlotte wasn't even around. “Why would you want to do that?” I asked.

“Because it's what friends do for each other,” he replied.

Even though it was starting to hurt my head to speak, I said, “George…”

“Call me Speed, man. All my friends do.”

I told him there was no way I could do that. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because I'm not your friend.”

“That's cool,” said George, like it wasn't really cool at all. “I just wanted to save you from hanging out with the Headache Queen.”

“Look, George, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I just don't see us being like jet-pilot-type sidekicks or anything.”

George started to tug on the sleeves of his jacket, as if he could make them longer. “Save it, man,” he said. “You go your way, and I'll go mine.”

But before George could go his way, Charlotte came up to me with a fresh batch of pink shirts. “There's one here that's the exact same color as my bike helmet,” she said excitedly. Then she noticed George. “Are you going to buy anything?” she asked.

“Hey, I'm a browser,” said George. “Browsers have rights.”

I asked Charlotte if she had an Aspirin, and George made one last desperate attempt at everlasting friendship.

“You should go to Biggie's for aspirin,” he said. “You can buy like a hundred tablets for less than a pack of gum!”

“In case you haven't noticed, Henry and I are in a private consultation about the color pink,” said Charlotte.

“No guy should wear pink,” said George. “End of story.”

Charlotte just glared at him. “I will call Security.”

George gave Charlotte a sarcastic little salute. But there wasn't much life in it. It was just to preserve a bit of dignity before he turned and walked away in his mismatched socks. Charlotte's glasses had slid down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them up with her forefinger and said, “You have just met the biggest nerd in Snowflake Falls.”

“Is that right?” I said, as I spied my distorted reflection in Charlotte's oversized glasses. I looked like a guy whose head was about to explode.

TEN

W
hen I got to the house for my meeting with Harrison Wingate, I was fifteen minutes late. It was all because Charlotte spent those fifteen minutes making me try on more clothes. Along the way, she got all wound up about the many things she “absolutely adored.” She did this at a very fast pace. It was almost as if nobody ever allowed her to speak at home and she was trying to get as much talk in before we hit her doorstep. By the time she started giving me the highlights of her academic career, I was beginning to rethink my plan about getting to know her better.

“Most girls my age think dissecting a cow's eye is gross,” she said of her all-time favorite science experiment. “But I found it udderly fascinating.” Charlotte paused. For a second, I thought she was just stopping for air. But it turned out that I had annoyed her without even saying a word. “Did you notice I said ‘udderly' instead of ‘utterly?'” she inquired. “You know, like the udder on a cow?”

“Yes, I noticed,” I said.

“So why didn't you laugh?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess I don't find the parts of a cow all that funny.”

“But it has nothing to do with the parts of a cow!” she exclaimed. “It's a pun.” She squinted at me from behind her glasses. “You do know what a pun is, don't you, Henry?”

“Yes, I know what a pun is.”

“Well, then you know that a pun is a universally accepted form of humor.” She continued, “All the books I've consulted say so.”

“You read books to try and be funny?” I asked. I couldn't help laughing a little at this. Charlotte looked both puzzled and offended.

“I consult books on virtually all subjects,” she said. “As a result, I can fix a flat tire on my bike and do minor plumbing repairs.” She stuck out her chin as if she were challenging me to make a big deal out of it. “I have read several different texts on cutting hair,” she added. “All I need is someone else to practice on.”

I was about to answer her as calmly as possible when she started staring at my face. “Are you drinking enough water, Henry?” she asked. “Because your skin tone suggests that you are not properly hydrated.”

“I don't know,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that Charlotte was paying attention to my skin. “I only drink water when I'm thirsty.”

“But don't you see?” said Charlotte. “By the time you're thirsty, it's too late! The dehydration process has already started!” She gave a sigh that sounded way too big for her size. “I suppose I'll just have to monitor your fluid intake,” she said, sounding like some very short nurse on a medical tv show.

“You're going to watch me to see how much I drink?”

“Oh, it's no problem,” explained Charlotte. “I always drink more than enough water. We just have to make sure we drink our water at the same time.”

“You want us to drink water together?”

Charlotte blushed slightly. “Don't think of it as a commitment to me,” she said. “Think of it as a commitment to good health.”

“Why don't you drink water with George Dial?” I asked. “He's very pale, and he likes to talk at least as much as you do. You could have a contest to see who would run out of breath first.”

“George is a lost cause,” said Charlotte. “But there's still some hope for you.” Then she began to talk about the stock market, whale migration and the beauty of the Dewey Decimal System. I was a nervous wreck by the time I got to my meeting with Harrison Wingate.

I could tell Mr. Wingate wasn't too pleased to see me. “Henry,” he said, “I am very disappointed at your tardiness.”

I did my best to explain that trying on a hundred different shirts while Charlotte provided color commentary was very time consuming, but Mr. Wingate went into this long speech about how my behavior cried out for discipline.

I didn't argue, mostly because I knew Mr. Wingate had read Judge Barnaby's full report on everything leading up to my current incarceration in Snowflake Falls. “I can see that Judge Barnaby was right,” sighed Mr. Wingate. “You are going to be our toughest case yet.” Then he got out a bunch of papers. “I thought maybe your work schedule was a little ambitious. But a little extra work may be just what you need.”

“Work schedule?” I asked nervously. “But it's still summer!”

“Surely the judge discussed this with you,” said Mr. Wingate, as if I was trying to get away with something. “Your program includes regular employment in the form of part-time work.” Mr. Wingate handed me a sheet of paper. “I've taken the liberty of drawing up your schedule.”

I looked at the sheet of paper. ”It says here that I have to get up at five thirty in the morning!”

“That's correct,” said. Mr. Wingate. “Starting next week, you'll have your own paper route.”

“A paper route!” I exclaimed. “I'm fifteen years old—not ten!”

“Why, I had a paper route when I was fifteen,” said Mr. Wingate, sounding deeply offended. “In fact, I had the very same one.”

“But I don't even have a bike,” I pointed out. “You can't have a paper route without a bike.”

“Charlotte has generously offered to lend you hers,” explained Mr. Wingate, as if Gwenivere was not actually a total insult to the concept of transportation.

“But even Charlotte's too old to ride that bike!” I protested. “Plus, she's a girl.”

I tried to imagine myself pedaling a pink bike with whitewall tires and pink streamers on the handlebars. But it was just too much for a guy who has driven a 1957 Thunderbird convertible to accept. “Do you not realize that you are asking me to get up at five thirty in the morning to ride a girl's bike down public streets?”