Going Nowhere Faster (14 page)

It took me an hour to walk home. My mother was downstairs, laughing. I could hear Prarash’s voice. Olivia was taking a nap and my father was somewhere in the bowels of the house banging metal together. I made a peanut butter (organic and hard as a rock) sandwich and carried it up to my room, where it sat on the bookshelf until I fell asleep.

In the morning, my mother popped her head in the door. It was early, not even six. I sat up, mentally preparing to wash yams.

“Let me guess. Prarash is late?”

Her face was ashy and scared. For a second I was positive there was something wrong with Olivia.

“No, Stan,” my mother said. “I just got a call from Sheriff Conner. Roberto was arrested last night.”

“Arrested
? Which one?”

“Dos.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, and left the door open, as if there were nothing else to ask. I sat up and quickly got dressed. I was going to have to walk into town. Or wheel my bike, which was the same thing as walking, except with a bike next to you. I couldn’t call Miles. I couldn’t talk to Ellen. Keith hated my guts. Olivia was too small to understand. I considered talking to myself in the mirror, but it was just too much like
Risky Business.
Chopper nosed his way in and watched me tie my shoes. He wagged his little nub tail and drooled on my carpet.

“What should I do, buddy?”

“Woof,” he answered, which was really no answer at all.

Treatment for the feature-length film entitled

GOING NOWHERE FASTER
^©

Written by Stan “Kid Savage” Smith

This is a movie about a superhero named Roy. In real life he’s a mild-mannered race starter. Yup, Roy’s the guy who shoots the cap gun and then all the guys bounce out of their crouches and start zooming toward the hurdles, or whatever. Nobody notices Roy unless he screws up, like shoots his cap gun too soon, and then everyone boos. Anyway, one night Roy is walking home from the racetrack and falls into a pile of radioactive waste. Or no, he sees a lost puppy out on the test range, and runs out to rescue him just before the Evil General okays a strontium bomb experiment. Either way, it gives Roy special powers. He wakes up that night feeling strong. He climbs the walls and walks on the ceiling and does an uneven-bar routine on his shower rod. Then he sews himself a really tight lycra suit and becomes Marginally Effective Deterrent Man. See, the blast at the test range gave him powers, just not enough powers. He keeps trying to stop crime, but never stops it quite enough. He shows up at the bank robbery and manages to turn off the alarm that’s hurting everyone’s ears, but the robbers still get away with the cash. He stops a couple from being mugged on their way home from the theatre, but only manages to recover one diamond earring, and not the wallet or tie pin or pocketbook the mugger ran off with. He manages to give the city’s crime boss a whole lot to worry about, like spamming his computer and breaking the windshield wipers off his Hummer and sticking a potato in his drainpipe so his basement floods, but really doesn’t do much about the crime boss’s citywide reign of terror. Also, the red-headed intrepid female reporter that Roy is in love with thinks he’s kind of a jerk. And ignores him. And then the credits roll. And the whole thing about the huge meteor that’s about to crash into Earth is never really addressed. Or maybe Roy is like “Run! Run!” and some people do, but, on the other hand, others don’t. And it’s ironic he’s telling people to run, being a racetrack starter guy and all.

Sigh.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE really not all that BAD, okay, maybe that bad SEED

Sheriff Conner had bright red bangs and a huge potbelly. He had bright red sideburns and a bright red mustache and bright red hair on his arms. He looked up from his desk when I walked in the door and smiled. He’d been really nice to me about the whole burning-locker thing.

“Stan! Hey, buddy.”

“Hi, Sheriff.”

He was also a big chess fan. We’d played a game or two while waiting for my mother to pick me up. Or maybe we’d been waiting for Chad Chilton to decline to press charges. Either way, he kicked out a plastic chair, so I sat on the other side of his desk.

“Game?”

“Why not?”

He pulled out a chessboard, the kind that folded in half and had Chinese checkers on the back. There were two pieces missing, a bottle-cap rook and a lighter-knight. Sheriff Conner held out his hands and I picked the left one. It opened to reveal a white pawn. He set it in front of me and started arranging his black pieces. I moved my queen’s pawn ahead two spaces.

“Listen, Sheriff, you need to let Dos go.”

“Who?” he asked, countering with his own queen’s pawn. I pushed ahead my bishop’s pawn two spaces, attacking it.

“Roberto.”

Sheriff Conner frowned. He concentrated by squeezing one of his ears, which had little red hairs coming out of it. He let out a long sigh before deciding to take my pawn, which was a mistake, then looked up and said, “Sorry, Stan, no can do. We caught him red-handed. Found traces of rutabaga seed all over the video store. Same seed your mom says you use in planting. Only farm in a hundred miles uses that seed. Found those seeds in Roberto’s shoes. Slam dunk.”

“Why were you looking at his shoes? Isn’t that kind of random?”

“Anonymous tipster.”

I slid my knight in front of his pawn, blocking it, a simple ruse. Make him think he was ahead and waste time protecting a piece out of place to begin with. His hand hovered over the board, unsure. It was weird how obvious it was, and that, somehow, it wasn’t clear to him. I almost wanted to yell,
Don’t!
He took the bait and sat back, satisfied.

“But that’s crazy. Dos would never do anything like that.”

“No one ever thinks so, but people keep doing crazy things. Plus, it took me three tries to arrest the right one. Who knew there were three Robertos? Not big on names in that family, huh?”

“True,” I said, “but I practically almost know who really did it.”

Sheriff Conner raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“It was Chad Chilton. He’s been chasing me around, doing weird stuff. I know it was him.”

“Chilton, huh?” Sheriff Conner snorted. “Young guy? Muscle car? I think I played football with his father.”

“Anyway, since now you know who it was, can you let Roberto go?”

“Isn’t this Chilton the one whose locker you lit up?”

I gulped, doomed. “Um, yeah, but this has nothing to do with that. Or maybe everything. I dunno. But there was a red doll on my doorstep! And then my bike tires? And the spray-painting? And then, the last day of school he’s like ‘I’ll get you.’ Or whatever.”

Sheriff Conner nodded, stroking his leg and staring at the board. “Is it my move?”

“Yes. So are you going to arrest Chad Chilton?”

“No, I’m not, Stan. Doesn’t sound like any real solid evidence to me. Sounds like a movie, actually. And not a very good one.”

He was right. I sounded like an idiot.

FIVE GREAT TITLES FOR A PRISON MOVIE:

1. The Heartburn Motel

2. Digging to Mexico One Spork at a Time

3. Each Dawn Stan Cries

4. Escape from Millville Correctional

5. Why the Caged Dos Sings

“Well, can I at least go see Roberto?”

Sheriff Conner didn’t answer, coming to terms with the hopelessness of his position. Finally, he conceded the game. “I lasted longer than the last one though, huh?”

I nodded. “Can I see Dos, Sheriff?”

He rubbed his beard. “I’m not supposed to let you, Stan.”

I looked at him but didn’t say anything, waiting. I already knew he would let me, just like I knew he would take my baited pawn. He finally nodded and said, “Okay, five minutes. And
no
telling your mother.”

“Deal,” I said.

The cell was like something from the
Dukes of Hazzard.
I kept expecting Cletus to pop out and ask me for a swig of rye. Dos was in a cell with one other man who appeared to be sleeping. Or passed out. Or dead.

“
Dios mio,
Stan, I so glad to see you.”

“Me, too, buddy,” I said, gripping Dos’s shoulders through the bars. “Are you okay?”

“
Sí, sí.
No problem.” He stuck out his tongue. “But the food? She is terrible.”

“I’m gonna get you out of here.”

“Okay. Good.”

“But listen, I have to ask you something, okay? Don’t get mad.”

Dos nodded.

“You didn’t do it, did you? The store?”

“Qué?”

“Tu no estás
the robber? No?”

Dos’s eyes widened. He looked at me with disbelief. “NO!”

I studied him for a moment and then smiled. I couldn‘t believe I’d actually considered, even for a second, that he might have robbed Happy Video. Dos laughed, and I laughed with him. It was so completely stupid. “I’ll see if Mrs. Dos can bring some food in,” I said. “The sheriff’s a nice guy, but I still kinda doubt it.”

Dos reached through the bars and shook my hand solemnly.

“Another game?” Sheriff Conner asked, as I walked past his desk.

“Sorry, Sheriff, I gotta go.”

He looked disappointed and began putting the pieces away.

“Listen, Sheriff, can Dos’s wife bring some food in? He says the food here’s terrible.”

Sheriff Conner gave me a dour look. “You know my wife makes the food here, right?”

“Oh,” I said, “sorry.”

“You better be,” he said. “Betty’s a great cook.”

I had to think of something quick.

“So how’s Officer Dave working out?”

Sheriff Conner rolled his eyes and then cleared his throat.

“I thought so,” I said, walking to the door.

“Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

I opened my mouth. It just stayed there. Open.

“I hope not, Stan, ‘cause if you did, we’ll find out.”

To be honest, I hadn’t really considered that before. Had I done it? Was I losing my mind? Did I spray-paint “NATS” all over the wall as a pathetic cry for help? I reached up and closed my mouth with two fingers, like Daffy after Bugs had given him a face full of shotgun.

“No, Sheriff, I did not rob Happy Video.”

“Good,” he said. “By the way, heard anything about college?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Smart kid like you?”

“Smart kid like me.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Anyone plays chess like you do? There’s always a career in criminal justice.”

Next to the police station was a bakery. As I wheeled my bike through the lot (cut tires going
flop flop flop
), Prarash backed out the door with an enormous box of pastries in his arms, different kinds, all of them with some variant of frosting or cream or Boston whip. Not a single one vegan. Or organic.

“Stanley, my friend,” he said, managing to smile through his beard and at the same time be completely unfriendly. It was actually a pretty impressive skill.

“How you doing, Fred?” I asked. I’d decided I was never going to call him “Prarash” again. He was a Fred, completely and thoroughly.

Fred showed me his gums. His robe billowed in the breeze. “A young bee without manners is like a thin leaf upon which no rain can collect.”

“I’ve been called worse things than a thin leaf,” I said. “Or a young bee.”

Prarash grabbed me by the wrist, hard, and squeezed. It hurt. Bad. He leaned close, eyes bloodshot and breath like tobacco, and hissed, “You still want to call me Fred? Are you sure? Or maybe are you suddenly
very
sorry?”

I tried to pull away, but couldn’t. Prarash sneered. I looked around. The police station door was closed. Women talked and laughed inside the bakery, waiting in line, twenty feet away. All the cars in the lot were empty. I was scared. Prarash smelled like a wet dog.

“Yes,” I said.

He shook his head. His long hair wavered. It was the closest I’d ever been to him. I noticed, for the first time, that he had hair plugs.

“Not good enough, Stanley.” He grinned. “The young bee must say he’s sorry.”

I gritted my teeth, trying to hold out. He squeezed harder. My wrist felt like the bones were fusing together, white hot. I felt a tear in the corner of my eye.

WRIST PAIN EQUIVALENT TO:

1. Nose on fire

2. Snapped in three pieces

3. Bit by rabid lizard

4. Revenge of cranky Buddha

5. Ate three times too much ham

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

Prarash let go. He smiled again. “That’s better.” He picked up the pastry box and held it toward me. “Want one?”

I stared at him, rubbing my wrist. “No.”

“In the end, we must all suit ourselves,” he said, as Mrs. Thompson, the librarian, came out of the bakery. “Well, hello!” Prarash said, walking over. The two started chatting. I got on my bike and after two pedals almost crashed. Were the tires still flat? You bet. Moron. I got off and walked the bike beside me, like a wounded lamb.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE MAN actually “man” might be a slight exaggeration WHO KNEW actually very little TOO MUCH

I
flop flop flopped
over to Dr. Felder’s office, about to knock, but his door was already open. He had his loafers up on the desk, eating a sandwich and reading a Superboy comic. Simon and Garfunkel played softly in the background.

“Doc?”

“Stan!” he said, surprised, abruptly lowering his feet and wiping his mouth. He snapped off the radio, causing the sandwich to roll across his chest and onto the carpet, landing face-first. Dr. Felder picked it up carefully, dabbing at the stain with an already mustardy napkin, which just made it worse.

“I know I don’t have an appointment, Doc, but my mother said you called, so I decided to drop in.”

“Glad you did, there, Stan,” he said, sliding the comic into a drawer. “Hecka glad.”

I plopped onto the couch. “Hella.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s wrong with your wrist?” he asked, trying with the corner of a lined yellow pad to get at a piece of sandwich stuck between his teeth.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, pointing, “it looks swollen. And also, you’ve been rubbing it ever since you got here.”