Jake and Lily (12 page)

P
oppy is better at getting a life than I am. He just got a job. Part-time. Mornings. At the rec center. Watching preschool kids. I thought only ladies did that stuff.

He gave me a key to the house so I can still go over in the mornings when I want.

I sat in the house alone today. In the new easy chair. The new TV was right in front of me but I didn’t turn it on. I stared at the deck of cards in the middle of the table. I was feeling lonely, but not because I was alone. I feel lonely even when there’s people around.

When Poppy came home from work we had lunch together. Then we played poker. Long ago I cleaned him out of beetles. Now our money is
pistachio nuts. He lets me cheat all I want, but it’s hardly fun anymore. It’s getting harder and harder for even Poppy to make me happy. As much as I love my grandpa, he can’t replace my twin brother.

Things that never used to be questions are questions now.

What is Jake doing?

What’s he thinking?

How is he feeling?

What’s he writing in the journal today?

The answers keep hitting me like a smack in the face.

I don’t know!

I don’t know!

I’m dreading our birthday. It’s coming up soon. I’m scared it’s going to be different. I’m scared we won’t meet at the train station that night. That’s going to be the test. That’s going to be the final answer. I know it and I’m terrified it’s going to be the wrong answer. Because in spite of everything that’s happened, in spite of the way I talk and the way I feel, there’s still a little crumb of hope somewhere inside me. A little crumb that whispers:
Hey, if he shows up at the station, then you’re still cool, it’s
not so bad after all
. But if he doesn’t show up, it will mean our goombla is gone. Totally.
Fssst
. It will mean I’m right. But I don’t want to be right. I want to be wrong. I’m terrified.

And I’m lost.

For the first time in my life I feel lost. I wasn’t lost that day at the beach. Not this Neverlost Twin. Last year you could have dropped me in the middle of the Amazon jungle and I wouldn’t have been lost. But I am now.

I’m lonely and I’m scared and I’m lost.

E
yes open, eyes shut, makes no difference. I keep seeing it. Pick-up sticks.

I
went up to the Cool-It Room, where I had once been so happy. Joe the gorilla sat on the rocking chair, still grinning at me. I walked around, touched things, remembered. The Monopoly board was on the floor, stopped in the middle of a game we never finished. Jake’s top hat was sitting on Boardwalk. So were red hotels. I guess he was winning. Most of all it was the walls that got to me. Two of them, from the floor to as high as two little kids could reach, were filled with tic-tac-toe games. I cried. I got my pillow and my stuffed watermelon and a blanket to lie on. I’ll sleep here tonight.

I
s it
our
fault? Leaving that 10–0 score in the dirt for Bump to see? Did
that
push him over the edge? What did we think? Did we think Bump was just going to laugh it off?
Bump Stubbins?
Who said, “He’s gonna pay”? Who said, “This is his last day as a happy goober”?
That
Bump Stubbins?

SOOP
in giant letters. The paint jobs. The ripped-out plank. And what did all that do to the goober? Absolutely nothing. The more Bump did, the more Soop laughed, and the more Soop laughed, the madder Bump got. And then he comes home from vacation and sees the score in the dirt in the hideout. What did we expect? Why are we surprised? Which brings me back to the beginning: is it
our
fault?

I
n the Cool-It Room last night, in the dark, I heard a train whistle. So sad and faraway. Like it was lost, calling for its mate….
Where are you?…Where are you?…Wait for me….

I
t feels like I should go over there. But why? What would I say? To him? To his mother? She was nice to us. To me especially. Her name is Heather.

But I’m not going over.

O
ne more day till July 29. The Big B. I’ll be at the station. He won’t. One more day till the end of my life as I know it.

E
rnie. Heather. That’s all. We don’t even know their last name.

I was thinking this when the guys showed up on my porch this morning. Including Bump. “Let’s go, Jake-o,” he said. He seemed like his old self, the same old bold boss of the Death Rays. He held a fist high. He fired a howitzer of black licorice spit. “I’m back and I’m ready to
rrrrumble
!” No sign that he even knew about the situation. I couldn’t help thinking,
Maybe he didn’t do it after all
. Burke and Nacho were staring off into space.

I didn’t even have time to wish we weren’t heading for Meeker Street because that’s exactly where Bump led us.
Okay
, I thought,
at least have it be cleared away by now. Just an empty yard
. No luck.
From a couple blocks away I could see not a thing had changed. The bright rubble of colors. Pick-up sticks.

“Hey—what happened?” said Bump.

Nobody said anything. Nobody knew exactly what game we were playing. Was Bump acting? Was he innocent?

Bump hit the brakes. He said it again. “What happened?” It was obvious we weren’t going another inch till he got an answer. He was looking at me.

“Looks like somebody trashed the shack,” I garfed out.

Bump gazed down the street. His eyes, his voice got all wondery: “Wow…really?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Who did it?” he said.

Maybe the same person who did the paint job and tore out the plank
, I thought. “Beats me,” I said.

He blinked. Some of the most innocent blinks I ever saw. He leaned into a pedal. “Let’s go see,” he said.

We pulled up to the curb. No sign of anyone.

“Nobody home,” said Nacho. “Let’s motor.”

“Wait a sec,” said Bump. “Wait a sec.” He
leaned on his handlebars, staring at the heap. The only thing I could read on his face was curiosity. As I was praying,
Please don’t let her be looking out the window
, the back screen door creaked and Soop came out. And in that split instant I knew:
goobers are
not
invincible
.

For the first time ever he was not smiling. He was not waving
hi, guys!
He wasn’t even wearing his orange hat. He came to us. He looked in our eyes. “See what somebody did,” he said.

In his face I saw massive sadness. And yet there wasn’t a clue of a tear on his cheek, not a quiver on his lip.
Goobers are brave
, I thought.

“Wow,” said Bump, wagging his head. “And it was such an awesome clubhouse too. What’re you gonna do now?”

Soop didn’t hesitate. “Rebuild.”

Bump scoffed. “Rebuild? That’s dumb. They’ll just do it again. You should go find who did it and beat him up.” He said this with a totally straight face.

“I don’t beat up people,” said Soop.

Bump boggled. “
Really?
You
don’t
? Not
ever
?”

“Not ever,” said Soop, all serious, as if he
could
beat up somebody if he wanted to. His arms were the size of straws (like mine). And of course, goobers don’t fight anyway.

“Well, maybe you should,” said Bump, whose body is the opposite of Soop’s, thick and chesty. “Catch that guy and teach him a lesson.”

I noticed that Soop was no longer paying attention to Bump. He was staring at the heap. When he turned back to us, his eyes were glittery. “
Why?
” he said.

This took Bump by surprise. “Huh?”

“Why?” said Soop.

“Why what?” said Bump.

“Why would somebody do this?”

The worst part about the question was that he was looking at all of us, asking us all. The answer finally came from Bump, and it practically blew me off my bike. “Maybe because somebody can’t stand goobers.”

The world stopped. Soop’s eyes were big as bike tires. You could see them coming into focus. He blinked. “Bump?” He pointed.
“You.”
His voice was flat and hard as a two-by-four. “
You
did it.”

“Ha!” Bump laughed. Then his face went
blank. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes,” said Soop. “You did.” He took a step forward. I was amazed. This was not the Soop I knew.

Bump rolled his bike into the curb. They were inches apart. “You calling me a liar—
Soop
?”

Soop nodded, all serious, as if he were answering a question in class. “Yes.”

Bump opened his mouth and let his licorice wad drop onto Soop’s sneaker. While Soop was looking down at the sneaker, Bump sucker-shoved him. Shoved him hard. Soop went lurching backward, skinny arms windmilling. He landed on his butt halfway into the yard. He popped up and came charging, fury in his eyes, his hands balled into bony little fists. He was screaming. Just before he got to Bump, I threw out my hands. “Stop!” I yelled. “
I
did it!”

L
ast night I had a dream. I was falling. I wasn’t scared. But I had two other feelings. Surprise and disappointment. Because I expected somebody to catch me and it wasn’t happening. So I kept falling.

Tonight is the night. I’m afraid to go to sleep.

W
hy did I do it?

As he was landing on his butt, popping up and charging, there wasn’t a thought in my head. It’s like I was somebody else. Somebody else’s arms were pushing out and somebody else’s voice was yelling, “Stop!
I
did it!”

The best answer I can come up with is that I must have taken pity on him because he was about to get destroyed. Maybe I figured the only way to save the stupid goober from himself was to take the heat off Bump. But really, what would Bump have done? He’d have bopped the goober once in the nose, and the goober would have gone crying and running into the house and we’d never ride back to Meeker Street again and that would be that.

So if I had it to do over, would I?

No way.

Because the worst that would have happened would have been one bloody nose. And that would have been cheap compared to the price I started to pay as soon as I said those words.

I’ll never forget that face. It turned from Bump to me. What I remember most is how slow it turned. And then the eyes. The fury drained out of them. What took its place was something I hope I never have to see again. It was shock. Pure shock. It came with a terrible one-word question:
“Jake?”
That word, that look punched a hole right through me. At that moment I hated my own name. And since he said it with a question mark, I guess that was my test, my chance to laugh and say, “Just kidding—you’re right, it was Bump.” But time ran out—
pencils up!
—and the shock on his face was changing to something even worse: hurt. I’ve seen hurt before—who hasn’t?—but this was a whole other kind of hurt. This was somebody else’s hurt aimed at
me
.

No other words were said. The Death Rays were just gawking at me, like
huh?
As for the kid,
he just seemed to slump away to nothingness. I mean, it wasn’t just a shoulder slump. His whole body slumped. In fact, if he had a glass chest I think I would have seen his heart and his lungs and his kidneys slumping too. Pretty soon nothing was left but those eyes.
Stop looking at me like that!
I wanted to scream. And then he turned and went into the house, and we rode away.

The only one who asked me about it was Nacho: “Why’d you do it, man?” I just shrugged. Nobody mentioned it again.

I
woke up at the train station. But that was all. No blinding-light, train-through-me dream. No smell of pickles. No Jake.

Like always, I was in my pajamas. The cement platform was cool under my bare feet.

The platform and the tracks were lit from high lamps above both ends of the station. The shadow of the roof edge split the platform into day and night. I could hardly see the benches. The station windows were black. I squinted into the shadows. I whispered, “Jake?…You there?”

I went to the edge of the platform. The night swallowed up the tracks, left and right. My toes hung over the cool, hard edge. “Jake!” I yelled. “Jake!”

I don’t know how long I stood there. I kept thinking,
Maybe he’s just late
.

I heard something behind me. I turned. The station door was opening. A shadow moving through the shadows.

“Jake?” I said.

The shadow spoke. “The things I do for my grandkids.”

Poppy?

He came into the light. He was groggy, slumpy. He looked at his watch. He mumbled something. I think it was, “Three o’clock…” The only awake part of him was his eyes. They stared at me. He reached out and poked me in the shoulder. Twice.

What was going on? I was getting worried. “Poppy,” I said, “why are you here? Did something bad happen?”

“You could say that,” he mumbled. “I fell asleep.” He looked around. “He’s not here?”

“No,” I said.

He looked down at me. “No.” He palmed the top of my head. “Sorry, kid.”

“Poppy,” I screeched, “why are
you
here?”

He took a deep breath. “In case this was going
to happen, I thought somebody oughta be here. You shouldn’t be alone.” He looked around again. He looked at his watch again. “Maybe he’s just late.”

I screamed, “There is no late!” I lost it. “My life is over!” I wailed. I crumpled to the ground.

He picked me up. I’m too old to be carried now, but I didn’t fight it. He took me to his bike. He helped seat me on the bar in front of him and pedaled off. He grumbled: “Gotta get a car.” The last thing I remember is clinging like an octopus to him as he lugged me up the stairs to my bedroom. I had the falling dream again. Nobody was catching me.