Candy Shop War (3 page)

He unwrapped the biggest trophy, earned last year by his first-place soccer team, the Hornets. He had been stuck at fullback all season, and had seen less action than ever. The forwards and halfbacks had generally kept the ball at the other end of the field as the team paraded unchallenged to their undefeated season. The coach, a black guy from Brazil whose son was the star forward, had spent the season yelling at Nate to stand up and stop picking grass. As if he couldn’t just hop to his feet on those rare occasions when the ball visited his side of the field. Picking grass was far more entertaining than watching his teammates score goals off in the distance. They should have equipped him with binoculars instead of shin guards.

Soon the trophies were aligned on a shelf, and the newspapers were wadded on the floor. Beneath the trophies, Nate found a bunch of his books, along with a broad assortment of comics. He loaded them into the bookshelf, then heaped the wadded newspapers back inside the box.

He walked out into the hall, weaving around boxes to get to the bathroom and wash the newspaper ink off his palms. There were even boxes in the bathroom. He lived in a warehouse.

Inspiration struck while he was rinsing his hands. If they saved all the boxes, he could construct an awesome fort. He stood at the sink considering the possibilities, staring into the mirror without seeing anything. It would need a drawbridge, and secret passages, and a rope swing. How many stories tall? Where could he get barbed wire? What if the fort ended up bigger than the house, and his family chose to live there instead? He would have to weatherproof it.

“You all right, Nate?”

He turned to face his dad. “Could I have the boxes when we’re done with them?”

“I’m sure we could spare a few. How come?”

“I want to build a fort.”

“We’ll see.”

“Maybe you can glue milk cartons under it and sail to Hawaii.” This comment came from his older sister, Cheryl, poking her head into the bathroom. She was referring to his failed attempt to assemble a raft out of milk cartons. He had insisted that the family store empty cartons in the garage for months after he had seen a guy on the news piloting a milk-carton barge. Eventually, overwhelmed by the logistics of joining milk cartons to form a seaworthy vessel, he had abandoned the project.

“Maybe you can go polish your braces,” he retorted. “They look rusty.”

His dad stuck out an arm to hold Cheryl back. “None of that,” he said, suppressing a grin. “Nate, why don’t you go outside for a while? I saw some kids playing out there.”

“But I don’t know them.”

“Then go get acquainted. When I was your age, I was friends with whoever happened to be out roaming the neighborhood.”

“Sounds like a good way to get stabbed by a hobo,” Nate grumbled.

“You know what I mean.”

“I guess. Is my bike in the garage?”

“It’s buried in there somewhere. I’ll dig it out for you.”

*****

Summer pedaled furiously up the street on her stupid pink bicycle with the white basket between the handlebars. She could hear Trevor closing in behind her. He always gained a little when they went uphill. At the top of the street, she coasted around the corner, then pumped her legs hard. She would pull farther ahead now that the road was flat, then make the lead embarrassing when they headed back down Monroe.

She rounded the last corner.

“Car!” Trevor screamed from behind her.

She hit her brakes before realizing the warning was a desperate trick. Grunting, she pedaled wildly to recover her lost momentum. Trevor almost pulled alongside her. She glimpsed his front tire out of the corner of her eye. Then it was gone, and she was stretching her lead. A kid standing on a driveway beside a bike watched her race past. The downward slope of the road was working to her advantage. Wind whistled in her ears and made her hair flutter. She passed the mailbox that served as the finish line and coasted to the bottom of the circle.

Glancing back, she saw Trevor reach the mailbox a few seconds behind her. Poor Pigeon had barely passed the kid standing in his driveway. The kid mounted his bike and followed Pigeon down the street. He looked about her age, with reddish-blond hair and a blue T-shirt. His bike looked new.

Summer stood straddling her bike. Trevor and Pigeon pulled up near her, turning to watch the new kid skid to a stop.

“What are you guys doing?” the kid asked Trevor.

“Playing water polo,” Summer said.

“You’re pretty funny,” the kid said. “You should join the circus.”

Trevor and Pigeon laughed. The kid smiled.

“Are you new here?” Trevor asked.

“My family just moved in from Southern California.”

“What area?” Pigeon asked.

“Mission Viejo. Between San Diego and L.A. My name’s Nate.”

“I’m Trevor.”

“Summer.”

“Pigeon.”

“Like the bird?” Nate asked.

“Yep.”

“How come?”

Pigeon shrugged. “Everybody just started calling me that in second grade.” He shot Trevor and Summer a meaningful glance, silently imploring them to keep the rest of the story secret.

“How long have you had that bike?” Summer asked.

“Since Christmas.”

“Have you ridden it before?”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks brand-new.”

“I wash it sometimes. I’ll teach you how if you want.”

Pigeon and Trevor chuckled. Summer glanced down at her dirty bicycle frame, groping for a comeback. She had nothing. “What grade are you in?”

“I’m going into fifth.”

“So are we,” Trevor said.

“What’s the school again?”

“Mt. Diablo,” Pigeon said. “It means Devil’s Mountain.”

“Sounds like a roller coaster. Have you guys always lived here?”

“I moved down here from Redding three years ago,” Trevor said. “Summer and Pidge have always lived in Colson.”

“Where are your houses?”

“I’m right there,” Trevor said, twisting and pointing at the last house on the street. “Pigeon lives on the other side of the circle.”

“And I live across the creek,” Summer said.

The bottom curve of Monroe Circle had no houses. Instead there was a paved jogging path, beyond which a brushy slope descended to a creek lined with trees and shrubs. From where they were standing, Summer could see the roof of her home.

“Do you surf?” Pigeon asked.

Summer rolled her eyes. “Just because he’s from Southern California doesn’t make him a surfer.”

“I tried it once,” Nate said. “I kept wiping out. My uncle surfs a lot. What do you guys do for fun besides ride bikes?”

“We’ve got a club,” Pigeon said.

Summer glared at him.

“What kind of club?” Nate asked.

Pigeon squinted uncertainly at Trevor. “We’re still working on that,” Trevor said.

“We started as a detective agency,” Summer explained. “We sent out flyers, but nobody wanted to hire us, except for Pigeon’s mom who sent us to buy groceries. So we became a treasure-hunting society. We didn’t have much success with that either. Now we’re mainly a trespassing club.”

“Trespassing club?”

“We sneak into places,” Summer said.

“Like where?”

“We broke into a water-processing plant,” Trevor said.

“And a rich guy’s barn,” Pigeon added.

“Do you take stuff?” Nate asked.

“No way!” Summer said. “We don’t harm anything. We just sneak in, check things out, and take off.”

“And keep an eye out for treasure,” Pigeon added.

“That sounds really cool,” Nate said. “How do I join?”

“I don’t know,” Summer said. “We’re pretty selective.”

“Let me guess,” Nate said. “Nobody has ever tried to join.”

“Something like that,” Summer admitted. “We need to figure out the specifics. We can’t just let any random kid become a member. Why don’t you go back to your house for a while and let us talk things over.”

“For how long?” Nate asked.

Summer shrugged. “Come back in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.”

*****

“Back so soon?” his mom asked when Nate entered the kitchen from the garage. She was loading dishes from a box into the dishwasher.

“Yeah.”

“Did you talk to those kids?”

“They have some club, but they’re not sure if I can join.”

His mom put her hands on her hips. “Do you want me to go talk with them?”

“No!” Nate exclaimed, feeling a surge of genuine alarm. Then he saw that his mom was grinning. She was teasing. “I think they’re trying to make up an initiation.”

“Don’t eat anything unsanitary. What sort of club is it?”

“Mainly bike riding,” Nate said, plopping down in a chair at the kitchen table. He pushed aside a box and began flicking a quarter to spin it, periodically checking the digital clock on the microwave.

“Are the kids nice?” his mom asked, closing the dishwasher.

“I guess. One is called Pigeon. He seems like a wuss. There’s also a kid named Trevor who seems all right, and a girl named Summer who’s a real comedian.”

“Don’t tell me she was giving you competition.” His mom pressed a couple of buttons and started the dishwasher. “So why are you in here?”

“They said they need time. I’m supposed to go back after I give them a few minutes to decide what I need to do to join.”

“Does the club have a name?”

“I forgot to ask.”

*****

After about ten minutes, Nate rode down the street to the end of the circle where the kids stood by their bikes. Summer had short brown hair and scabs on one knee. Trevor had olive skin, dark hair, and a slim build. And Pigeon was chubby with his hair buzzed short. How could such an obvious doofus be part of a club
he
was having trouble joining?

“You still want to join?” Summer asked.

“What are you guys called?”

“The Blue Falcons,” Summer said.

“Come on, that sounds like a soccer team.”

“You want in or not?”

“I guess.”

“Follow us.”

They hopped the curb and rode a short distance down the jogging path, stopping at the top of a steep slope covered in dry brush. Near the bottom of the slope, just before the ground leveled out, a ramp had been constructed. “You have to take that jump going full speed,” Summer said.

“Whatever!” Nate exclaimed. “I’m not a stunt man. What are you planning to do, rob my corpse?”

“I’ve done it,” Summer said. “We need to know you’re serious about joining. If you do the jump, we’ll believe you.”

“You just want a free show at my expense. That has got to be the most rickety ramp I’ve ever seen!”

“The ramp is fine,” Summer assured him. “It’s wood propped up on bricks. And I jump it just for fun.”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Sure you do.”

“She’s done it more than once,” Trevor said.

“And I’m supposed to believe Pigeon jumped it?”

“He doesn’t need to,” Summer said. “He got in on the ground floor.”

“Lucky for the ramp. Fine. You say you jump it for fun, go ahead and do it again so I can see. If you land it, I’ll do it too.”

They all looked at Summer. She pressed her lips together. “Okay. But if I do it and you wimp out, you’re never in our club.”

“Deal.”

She turned her bike to face downhill. Showing no hesitation, Summer started pedaling. Nate frowned. He had dug himself into a serious hole. If he wussed out after a girl did the jump on her goofy pink bike, he would look like the biggest chicken in the world.

She gained speed, approaching the ramp in a rush as her bicycle rattled over the uneven terrain. Just before the ramp, her front wheel jagged sharply to the left, and the bike flipped over, catapulting her into an awkward flight. Summer tumbled through the brush until she came to a rest beside the splintery ramp.

Dropping their bikes, the boys dashed down the hill. Nate and Trevor reached Summer together. She stared up at them, flat on her back with her head pointed downhill. Her white shirt was torn and covered in stickers, her face was smudged with dirt, and her elbow was scraped and bleeding. But there were no tears in her brown eyes.

“You okay?” Trevor asked.

“I’m just trying to get a tan.”

“That was a crazy crash!” Trevor gushed. “I wish we had a video camera. You flew like ten feet!”

She sat up, picking at some burrs in her shirt. “It knocked the wind out of me for a minute. I don’t think I broke anything.”

“You never break anything,” Pigeon said.

She looked up at Nate. “Your turn.”

“Well, you didn’t actually go off the—”