It's a Little Haywire (5 page)

My brain finally reboots as my legs
scoot me out of the way as fast as they can. I’m puffing by the
time I get to Don Chan’s and it’s only when I have my hand on the
handle that I turn around and look.

The guy in the box stares right back at
me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Owen True – The Nervous Ned

I SWEAT MORE THAN I USED TO. Mom gave me
a deodorant stick while I was packing and I was kind of embarrassed
when she handed it to me. Did I stink? Mom just said I was at that
age when I should start using it. I’d tossed it in my suitcase.

I think she’s right and I regret not
putting it on this morning. My armpits are wet and I don’t smell
that great right now. Makes me glad Mikala took off after all.

I hope the guy in the box didn’t mind,
not that he smelled that awesome, either. Which is understandable
for a guy who doesn’t have a shower handy. Or a house for that
matter.

I lick my ice cream bar, runny melted
vanilla ice cream dripping down my hands, and just walk. Cars kick
up dust as they putt by.

I wander past the hair salon, big
windows facing the road, the sills painted an ugly purple. I can
see Mrs. Pershishnick inside. She’s rolling up another old lady’s
hair in curlers. Her mouth is moving like if she doesn’t get all
her words out before the last curler is pinned she’s gonna die.

Then the lady in the chair laughs. Mrs.
Pershishnick must’ve told a funny story. Made the lady in the
chair’s day.

I turn back in the direction I’d come.
Why am I so fascinated with the homeless man? I can’t stop myself
from meandering past the alley to take another peek.

The guy in the box is sitting on a strip
of grass next to his box. There are a couple tents set up farther
down that weren’t there before. What would they do if I just went
in and sat down? It’s public property, right? And even if the man
in the box was a murderous maniac, there are witnesses here.

This is what happens when you’re so
bored you could puke. I stand on a patch of grass next to the guy
in the box. And even though my pulse dances erratically like Parker
Gibson at the sixth grade end-of-year sock-hop, I spit out, “Is
this a camp site?”

A burly man crawls out of the nearest
tent. He has the reddest hair I’ve ever seen. He eye-balls me. I
guess you can’t hide much through thin tent walls, because he
answers.

“Not officially.”

Mr. Red has a broad smile that takes up
half his face and makes his eyes disappear. I take it that he’ll
not end my life if I sit on the grass, so I do. The guy in the
box’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t tell me to get
lost.

“So, do you live here, then?” I say to
them both.

Mr. Red answers, “For now.” He sits on
the grass opposite me.

“Did you used to work at the mill?” I
say. “Is that why you live here now, because it closed down?”

“That’s a fact. And that’s why the
others are here now too.”

“So, how do you guys live? How do you
get food and stuff?”

They stare at me like I’m being nosy and
it occurs to me that I am. “I’m sorry, I’m just curious. I’ve never
met anyone who didn’t live in a house or condo before.”

“No harm,” Mr. Red says. “We manage.
Nothing for your young head to worry about.”

Mr. Red leaves and I’m alone with the
guy in the box. I hear his stomach growl and we both grow rosy with
embarrassment. I feel especially bad because I have money in my
pocket.

“Do you need some money?”

The guy in the box gets that hard cold
look again. “I don’t need your charity, boy.”

Those are the first words I’ve heard him
speak.

“I just thought...” The guy in the box’s
eyes flit away from my face. He focuses on something down the
alley, something that’s not me, and I get the message that our
little visit is over. I stand up and brush the dead grass off my
legs. “Okay, well, I should go now. Bye.” He nods and I bolt.

I’m halfway home before I stop jogging.
I feel bad for the guy in the box and Mr. Red, but what can I do?
I’m just a kid. But someone has to do something, don’t they? I
decide to talk to Gramps about it as soon as I see him.

Except that he’s not alone. Mrs.
Pershishnick is here. It didn’t seem that long ago since I’d spied
on her at her shop. Is it possible that time actually sped up for a
change?

Mrs. Pershishnick waits at the kitchen
table, her hands folded in her lap. She’s wearing a green dress and
has a flower attached to her perm.

“Hello, Owen,” she says when she sees
me.

“Hi, Mrs. Pershishnick.” The last thing
I want is to be sucked into a conversation with her. “Um, I’m just
going to go find Gramps.”

Gramps is coming out of his bedroom.
He’s all dressed up too. A tie and everything.

“What’s going on?” I can hear the
accusation in my voice but if Gramps heard it, he’s acting like he
didn’t.

“There’s a dance going on in Edson,”
Gramps says while he messes with a shoehorn to get his dancing
shoes on.

“What kind of dance?” I’m picturing
something like the lame dances we have at our middle school, with a
DJ and stuff. I can’t picture Gramps shaking his bootie like that.
At least I hope not.

“Ballroom. I haven’t danced in ages, not
since...” He doesn’t finish, but I know the ending. Not since Gran
died.

“But, what about me?” Suddenly I wish I
were six. I don’t want Gramps to go out with Annabelle
Pershishnick. Is it like a date? Isn’t he a little old for that? I
mean, is Annabelle his girlfriend? I haven’t even had a girlfriend
yet, and now my Gramps does? That’s just weird.

Gramps does this tricky double step when
he sees Mrs. Pershishnick in her green dress.

He sings, “
A white sport coat and a pink carnation, I’m on my way to the
dance.”

Mrs. Pershishnick giggles like a seventh
grader.

“Gramps?” I didn’t like him singing to
her.

“You’re okay for a little while, right?
We won’t be late. Just watch TV or read a book?” Man, everyone is
ditching me. I really must stink.

“Ah, sure, but can you wait until I’ve
had my shower before you go?” No way did I want to go to the
dungeon with no one else in the house.

Gramps waits and when I’m done they get
up to leave. “I’ll be home before you know it. Annabelle has one of
them cell phones. I’ve left the number on the counter if you need
to get me.”

I make myself a peanut butter and jam
sandwich and then I sit at the table with my plate and glass of
milk and eat in the silence. Daisy is lying by the front door, but
is sleeping like usual. The house feels really quiet and strange.
Suddenly I just need to get outside. I don’t even finish my
dinner.

I find myself in the back yard
with a strong itch to chuck rocks at something. I head for the log
and before I know it I’m pitching stones into the creek as hard as
I can.
Pitch
. I can’t help the
guy in the box.
Pitch
. I can’t
stop Gramps from dancing with Annabelle Pershishnick.
Pitch.
I can’t make Mikala hang out
with me.
Pitch
. I can’t get my
own mother to call.

I wear myself out with all my worries
and whipping my arm half way out of my socket. I have nothing left
to do but sit down on the log and prop my chin in my hand. There
may not be much to do in Haywire, but it gives me loads of time to
feel sorry for myself.

I’m so busy moping, at first I don’t
notice the whistle. When it sounds again, my head pops up and my
heart starts thumping. I search the tracks and sure enough the fog
is forming again. I wish I had time to fetch Mikala, but like last
time, my legs get weak with nerves. I can’t move. I can feel my
heart pulsing in my neck.

The fog swirls into a roll and takes the
form of a train. It’s more defined this time. At least, my eyes are
seeing it more clearly than before. It’s a definite train, with car
after car, each with a bunch of windows.

At first the windows are just dark
squares, but then foggy limbs, like arms, poke out. I’m ready to
sprint back to the house but my butt feels glued to the log.

The limbs form hands and then heads pop
out, one out of each window. The faces are more than just fog
swirls with dots for eyes. They have actual features like people.
Noses and mouths, eyes with eyelids and eyebrows.

And the beings are huge. This is the
biggest train, with the largest occupants I’ve ever seen.

Even though they don’t appear to be
dangerous or want to cause me any harm, I’m terrified. So scared,
I’m afraid I’ll crap my pants. Why am I seeing them? What do they
want from me?

Car after foggy car shoot by and I feel
like ducking, afraid one of those creatures’ arms would grow long
enough to grab me. Then it chugs out of sight, evaporating into the
distance.

My legs finally listen to my head and
sprint back to the house. This time I lock the door. If feels like
an eternity before Gramps gets home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Owen True – The Scrapper

GRAMPS ANSWERS THE PHONE and then calls
to me. “It’s your mom.”

Fine-al-lee
!

“Hey Mom,” I say casually. If she’s not
gonna miss me, I’m not gonna miss her.

“Oh Wenny, I miss you so much!”

“Yeah?” A space in my chest
squeezes into a ball. I feel a tingle behind my eyes, and I realize
that I do miss her, but I’m too old to cry over it. I choke it
back. “So, how’s the Bahamas?” No way I’m going to ask her
about
Ar-throw-up
. I don’t
wanna know.

“It’s beautiful, and we’re having a good
time. How are things?”

In Haywire? She’s gotta be kidding. “Uh,
fine.”

“I can’t talk long, honey, long distance
from here is so expensive, but I just needed to hear your voice. So
glad you’re doing fine. Give your gramps a big hug for me,
okay?”

Short and sweet. Well, at least she
misses me. She promises to call me every week and then Dad calls
right after promising the same thing. So I’m not forgotten. Just
abandoned. Cool.

It’s the second Sunday I’ve been at
Gramps’ and I’m aware of another change in him, other than the
silent radio. He hasn’t dragged me to church. I’m almost afraid to
mention it. In case he actually did forget, I didn’t want to
accidentally remind him.

But it bothers me. Gramps and church go
hand in hand. What gives?

So, I ask him.

“Well,” Gramps holds the word out, and
rubs the bristle that grew overnight on his chin. “The pastor left
for a bigger church shortly after your gran passed away. Meant I
had to go into Edson to go church. I just didn’t have the heart to
go alone.”

He pauses and looks at me like he is
getting the big idea I was afraid I might give him. I don’t mind
thanking God for my food, seems like a good and right thing to do,
but no way do I want to dress up just to sit in a room full of grey
hairs for two hours.

“Uh, I gotta go, Gramps. Told Mikala I’d
come over.” The screen door squeak follows me out and I make a dash
for it.

“My parents finally called,” I say to
Mikala as I climb the ladder to our fort. We spend most afternoons
here now, unless we feel like hiking along the creek. It’s shady
and the breeze through the trees keeps us cool. Mikala usually
scribbles the story she’s writing in her notebook, while I read one
of her library books or daydream.

Mikala scribbles a bit more, then looks
up. “That’s good. How are they?”

“Fine.”

“Have you been back to the log, Owen
True?”

I don’t go to the log at the creek
behind Gramps’ house anymore. Just the thought of it makes the hair
on my neck stand up.

“Uh, why do you ask?”

Mikala throws her pen to the floor.
“This stupid story. It’s not working out. I’m just not a good
writer.”

I sit up. “You can’t give up, Mikala.
All good writers hate what they write.”

“They do?”

“Yeah.” I don’t know this for a fact,
but I remember hearing my mom talk about a famous guy named
Hemingway and that he thought his writing sucked sometimes.

“I need more ideas. Did you go back to
the log?”

“Why? Is that what you’re writing
about?” I don’t know, because Mikala refuses to let me read
anything.

“Maybe. It’s interesting, Owen True, so
tell me.”

So, I do. Even the part where I nearly
peed my pants in fear.

Mikala’s eyebrows squish together. “What
do you think it means?”

“How the heck should I know? I’m not
even sure if it’s real.”

“You think you’re seeing things?”

“Maybe.”

“Too much sun?”