Dunk (6 page)

“Cool. You've got the Bozo living with you. Maybe he can teach you how to be mean and nasty. I understand it's a great way to pick up girls. ‘Hey, you with the big nose, wanna dance?' I can see where that would be a real turn-on.”

“You don't understand.” I explained how the jerk had sat on the bench and not done a thing to help me while I was getting into trouble with the cops.

“They didn't arrest you,” Jason said. “It's over with. So what's the problem?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Come on.” I turned my back on the tank and headed away from the pier. “Let's go to your place, okay?”

“Sure.”

Jason lived on Sea Crest, too, three blocks past my house. He had his own room upstairs. No tenants. His dad owned a roofing business, and his mom did some kind of accounting for the township. It's funny—Jason worked all year except for the summer, and his dad worked all year except for the winter.

Mike's folks were off schedule, too. Mike's dad worked the night shift at a factory and his mom worked days as a receptionist, so they didn't see each other much. Sometimes work really got in the way of life.

I thought of another pair that didn't match up. My mom worked day and night. She seemed to need to keep busy. When he was around, my dad couldn't hold a job. I pushed that memory out of my mind. I was angry enough already.

We hung out in Jason's room for a while listening to CDs. The volume was cranked, but after hours wading through the jumble of noises from the boardwalk, the music seemed almost peaceful.

Around midnight I headed home. Mom was already in bed, so I was careful not to make any noise. As I fell asleep, I could hear the idiot pacing around upstairs. Maybe he spent his nights inventing stuff to say in the tank. Whatever was going on up there, I wanted nothing to do with him. I couldn't believe I'd wasted so much time watching the freak. If I'd known who it was behind the makeup, I'd have walked right by the first time. Now that I thought about it, he really wasn't all that great. I'd bet a lot of people could have done the same thing. The makeup was a big part of it. So was the tank. And the microphone. Anyone would sound cool shouting through those speakers.

But I still wanted a shot at being the Bozo. I knew, deep in my gut, that I'd be good. Better than him. A lot better. Sitting there, behind the bars, behind the face paint, I could let loose at anyone I felt like nailing. Snobs, nasty teachers, people who didn't care about their kids—I'd get them all.

In my mind, nobody ever hit the target.

Finally, counting marks the way other people might have counted sheep, I drifted off.

I woke early enough to make breakfast for me and Mom. She could get a meal at the diner, but I knew she wouldn't have time to eat once the rush started.

“Delicious,” she said as we finished our eggs. “So what'd you do last night?”

“The usual. Hit the boardwalk with Jason. Robbed a couple banks. Got my eyeball pierced. If I had a job, I could avoid all sorts of danger.”

“Don't start. It's too early in the day.”

“Sorry.” I glared out the window as I heard the clump of footsteps on the apartment stairs.

Mom opened the front door. “Mr. Vale,” she called.

The clown from the tank came to the doorway. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Mom pointed at me. “This is my son, Chad.”

He nodded and smiled. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Chad, this is Mr. Vale.” She glanced back at him. “Or is it Professor?” The touch of respect in her voice made me sick. She'd dropped out of school as soon as she was old enough—thanks mostly to Dad. She'd made up for it later, studying and taking that test where you get the same thing as a diploma. Since then she'd been signing up for one kind of course or another for as long as I could remember. None of it had gotten us anywhere. She'd studied how to cut hair, but that hadn't worked out. The one time she cut mine, it looked pretty bad. Some kid at school had made a joke about it and we'd gotten into a fight. He didn't look too good after that, either.

Next she'd started a course in helping people do their taxes, but numbers weren't her best thing. Then she'd tried dental assistant. And other stuff. She'd stuck with the latest class longer than any of the others. During all that time in all those schools, she'd developed this extreme respect for instructors.

“Just call me Malcolm,” the Bozo said. His voice was nowhere near the rasping snarl he used in the tank. To tell the truth, he sounded like a college professor. All that was missing was one of those tweed jackets they wear. He stepped inside and held out his hand toward me, acting like we'd never met before.

At least he didn't say anything about my problem with the cops. That was a break. Whenever I'd gotten in trouble, Mom had overreacted. She was kind of spooked about cops because of the couple times way back when they'd showed up at the house looking for Dad. Still, no matter what this freak could tell her about me, I wanted to spit in his hand. But Mom would really flip if I did that. Nice boys don't go spitting on professors. So I gritted my teeth and shook hands with him.

Mom glanced over at the clock. “I'd better run,” she said. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Be good. I'll see you after work.”

“Bye.”

“So long, Mrs. Turner,” Malcolm said.

She smiled at him. “Call me Annie.”

I watched her dash out. Malcolm was still there, standing by the table.

“Professor?” I asked. “Of what? Dunkology? Insultosophy?”

“Very clever.” He smiled at me like we were old friends. “Amusing as it may seem, it's the truth. I'll be teaching theater arts at Baldwin Community College in the fall. Right now I'm working at my summer job.”

“I know. I saw you.” I searched his face carefully and spotted a small dab of clown makeup at the edge of his jaw under his right ear.

“And I saw you. With your large blond friend.”

“Jason,” I said. I was about to tell him more when I caught myself. He wasn't going to sucker me into a friendly conversation. I didn't have any plans to become buddies with this clown. Not after the way he'd tried to screw me with the cops. “Look, I've got to get going. Okay?”

“Something wrong?” he asked. “Have I offended you?”

I didn't answer. It was none of his business. I could tell he was trying to get on my good side. That wasn't going to happen. I figured he was like an adult version of Anthony—all slick and charming when he wanted something.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Yesterday. With the sunglasses and that rather angry gentleman from the shop. Is that what you're sulking about?” He pushed out his lower lip like a pouting child.

“No.” I was going to turn away from him, but the words tumbled from my mouth. “Yeah. You're right, I'm angry.” Now that I'd let it out, I couldn't stop. “You should have said something. You know I didn't steal anything. But you just sat there. You didn't help me. That really stinks.” I felt my face grow hot, flamed by the memories.

“You were doing fine on your own. You didn't need any help from me. They let you go, right?”

I glared at him.

“Right?” he asked again.

“You still could have helped me.”

He shook his head. “No way. It was too good a scene to break up.”

Now I was completely lost. “You really suck. You know that,
Professor?
And it wasn't any kind of scene, whatever that means.”

“Sure it was. Everything's a scene. As the Bard once said, ‘All the world's a stage.'” He turned his head to the side for a moment, then snapped it back in my direction. His eyes flashed with fear. “I didn't take anything.” He spread out his arms and looked around in terror. Then he pointed a shaking finger in the direction of an empty chair. “You saw it, didn't you? I was here the whole time.”

Oh, man. That was me, when I was grabbed by the cops. My words. My motions. I felt like I'd been cloned. It made me sick. I remember once, in the mall, I'd glanced across the corridor and my eyes had locked on a person who looked just like me. It had taken me a moment to realize I was staring at a mirror, but in the instant before everything fell back into place, I'd been filled with the weirdest sense that there was something wrong with reality. This was just as bad. Maybe worse. “Stop that!” I yelled. “You think it's some kind of joke?”

“You think it's some kind of joke?” he shouted back, his face reflecting my anger like a mirror made of flesh.

I wanted to smash that face. I wanted to slam my fist into his mouth and shut it forever. The crazy thought shot through my mind that if I hit him, I'd hurt myself—like he was some sort of life-size voodoo doll. “What kind of freak are you?” I asked.

The angry kid melted away. “The saddest kind,” he said, sounding like a normal man again.

“You're crazy.”

“Crazy?” His eyes flashed with madness. “They all said I was crazy, but I'll have the last laugh.”

I took a step away from him, afraid he was about to totally lose control.

“Pretty good, huh?” he asked. Just like that, the crazy face faded. The professor face was back. “Crazy is easy. Try it. Come on. My gut tells me you can do it. Dig into your experiences and show me crazy.”

“I'm not showing you anything.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, crazy is too easy. Anyone can do that. You want a challenge? Try something subtle, like curiosity mixed with revulsion. Or slightly jealous with a tinge of hate. Now, those take some skill. Or a community college professor. Talk about a challenging role.”

“How about screaming insults from inside a cage?” I asked. “Does that take skill?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on what gifts you're born with. Sadly, my fellow Bozo, Waldo, to take a rather obvious example, has very little skill. He tries his best. I'm sure you've seen him at work. That's beside the point. Mock the job if you will—you're not fooling me. I saw you last night. You liked the show. You liked it a whole lot. The eyes don't lie.” He glanced at the clock. “Well, I'll leave you to whatever you were doing.” He opened the door.

“Yeah, get out of here,” I muttered. I couldn't believe it. What a stuck-up lunatic. He was like some kind of vampire, except instead of sucking blood, he sucked up people's emotions for his own use. That was really sick.

Right then Jason showed up, his volleyball tucked under his right arm. He and Malcolm exchanged glances and nodded the way strangers do when they suspect they have something in common. Then Malcolm left, but when he reached the sidewalk, he spun back and said, “Hey, does either of you have a van?”

I didn't answer. I wouldn't even turn sixteen until the end of August. I was just about the youngest kid in my class. And all we had was Mom's third-hand Civic. Even if I had a truck and a license, I wouldn't do this creep any favors.

“My dad needs the van for work, but my folks let me use the Blazer,” Jason said. “Except I just have my permit. I can't drive unless there's someone along with a license. At least, I'm not supposed to.” He winked at me.

Jason and I had taken a couple midnight spins around the block. That stopped one night when his dad caught us pulling up to the curb. I'd expected Jason to get grounded for life, but his dad just held his hand out for the keys and said, “It might be a good idea for you to wait until that's legal.”

“Perfect,” Malcolm said. “I have a license. Listen, I need to get my things. They're just up the Parkway at that U-Store place off the next exit. I'll pay you to help. Ten dollars each? How's that sound?”

“You've got a deal,” Jason said before I could turn down the offer. “I don't live far from here. We can walk over and get the Blazer whenever you want.”

“Meet you here around two?” Malcolm asked.

Jason nodded, and Malcolm walked off.

The mention of money reminded me of something. “What about the rent?” I called after him.

His answer drifted over his shoulder. “I'll have it tomorrow.”

“A
LL RIGHT
,” J
ASON SAID AS
I
CLOSED THE DOOR
. “T
EN EASY
bucks each. I like this guy.”

“You haven't even met the real him,” I said.

“What are you talking about? He was right here.”

“Never mind.” I didn't feel like going into it.

Jason switched topics. “Beach?” he asked, tossing the volleyball up like he was getting ready to serve. He swatted at it, and I flinched, imagining the destructive path the ball would take through the room. But he swung wide and let the ball drop into his open hand. “Well?”

“Sure. For a bit.”

We went down to the closest nets, right off the boardwalk by Ninth Street. There were games at two of the three courts. A group of vacationers was playing a clumsy but enthusiastic battle with six people on one side and seven on the other. No passing, no setups, no teamwork—just whapping the ball back and forth. It was more like gang tennis than anything else. The serious players, mostly college-age, were running two-man teams in a round robin. Jason fit right in. He was an awesome player. He hooked up with one of the college guys he knew, Franco, and they took on every challenger.

I plunked down off to the side of the courts, where I watched the action and thought about using Malcolm's head for a volleyball.

Eventually, a voice broke into my fantasies. “Getting a nice workout?”

I looked over my shoulder. It was Ellie, in her lifeguard suit, with her whistle around her neck. “I'm pacing myself,” I said. “You on a break?”

She nodded and squatted down next to me. “Figured you guys might be here. How's he playing?”

“Better than ever,” I said.

We watched for a while, making occasional comments about Jason's performance on the court. Ellie was one of those friends I could hang out with in comfortable silence—we didn't need to talk. It was just nice having her around.