I Am (Not) the Walrus (21 page)

36

Wednesday

The next morning I'm woken by a soft tap on the door. Mom pokes her head around the corner.

“I thought I'd find you in here,” she says as she comes in, carrying two cups of tea.

For a second I'm a little confused. Shawn's room looks entirely different without all the musical equipment strewn across it.

Then I get my bearings.

“I think this is yours.” She plonks one of the teacups on my bedside table, then sits down on the end of the bed. “I have some good news and some bad news.” She slurps her tea, then pulls a face. “Yuck. I think this is yours.” She leans over to the bedside table and switches the cups, then returns to her seat at the end of the bed. “Which would you like first, the good or the bad?”

“The bad, I suppose.” I scoot myself up into a semi-upright position. “It's probably not worth breaking the steady flow of badness, midstream.” I turn the cup around so that I don't drink from the same side, then take a sip. It's pretty decent.

Mom yawns and covers her mouth. “You're going to have to go to school today, young fellow-me-lad.”

A number of questions filter through my sleep-addled brain, but I let them flit away. “Okay,” I say. “I can just about live with that. What's the good news?”

Mom scratches her cheek just under her eye. “I've been offered a job,” she says. “A real job. With real pay.”

I sit fully upright in about a second. “Wow,” I say, and blow out a long breath. “That's pretty amazing.”

“It is, rather,” says Mom. She takes a sip of tea. “Disgusting. I must have put sugar in both of them.”

“You don't look too happy,” I say. “If it was me I'd be jumping up and down with delight.”

Mom nods. “This is my version of jumping for joy,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “Your jumping for joy looks deceptively like you sitting down in a thoughtful mood.”

“I'd still have to do the job.” She sips her tea and pulls a face again. “It's not an easy job, or a fun job, but it's well paid.”

“What are you going to do?” I say. “Mud wrestling with alligators or something?”

“Ooh. That is uncanny.” Mom sips her tea again. “How did you know?” She takes the cup away and pulls a face. “Actually, it's not quite mud wrestling. I'd be a bookkeeper for a big firm of architects.”

“So, you haven't accepted it yet?” I say.

“I thought I'd run it by you first,” she says.

“Who? Me?” I say.

“No, the table,” she says. “It means we wouldn't go back to London. We'd stay here. You could stay in the band. Keep your friends.”

“What about Shawn?” I say.

“Sod him.” Mom sips her tea. “No. I'm kidding.” Sip. “I'd get the car fixed.” Sip. “We could go up and see him a couple of times a month. He does actually have two parents. I forget that sometimes.”

“If that works for you, then it works for me,” I say. “I'm finished with the band, though.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. “Oh. Thanks for the check. But I don't really need it now. That was bad timing. My fault. If I'd known about the job earlier, then I would have stopped you selling Shawn's stuff. Can you go and get it back? Tell the bloke it was a mistake.”

“Maybe.” I think about the p-bass. I wonder if it's still in the water in Brunswick, or if someone's found it. Harry might give me my stuff back, but the p-bass is gone. I don't want to spoil Mom's moment so I just say, “Yeah. He's a nice bloke.”

“So, I'll call the architects and tell them yes,” says Mom.

“If there aren't any jobs working with alligators,” I say.

“You, my friend,” says Mom as she stands up, “had better get your skates on.”

I pull my feet out from under the covers, and sit cross-legged.

“Let's throw a little light on the subject.” Mom goes over to the window, takes hold of the curtain, and pulls it back.

I jump several inches off the mattress. There, on the other side of the glass, silhouetted against the rising sun, is the falcon. It glares at me with its amber eyes, spreads its wings, then dives down toward the ocean.

“That was a very grumpy-looking pigeon,” says Mom. “I hope it's not a bad sign.”

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for all their help, support, and inspiration while writing this book:

Lisa Jahn Clough, Joanna, Stefan, and Danny Marcus, Mike Bishop, John and Jackie Batten, and Brian Farrey-Latz.

Especial thanks to Rachel Briant of the New York Aquarium for her advice on sharks.

The book is affectionately dedicated to my friend and guitarist, Martin May (1957–2009).

About the Author

Ed Briant grew up in England, but now lives just outside Philadelphia, where he writes, illustrates, and creates the popular comic strip “Tales from the Slushpile.” He has two daughters, teaches creative writing, and occasionally plays keyboards with a punk rock band.

Check out his artwork and blog at www.edbriant.com.