Masterminds (5 page)

Tori doesn't get great grades in school, but she's really smart in a common sense way. Not that it helps me feel any better. Nothing will—except Randy announcing that he isn't moving after all.

The party fizzles. Randy has no appetite, which saddles us with a lot of uneaten chips.

Dad has a solution. “You can each have one more bag. We trust you not to take more than your fair share.” He escorts Mrs. Laska out of the room.

Amber scowls at Malik, who already has a huge armload. “We're on the honor system!”

Malik stuffs a fistful into his mouth. “Guess that makes me the most honorable guy in town.”

I look over at Randy. His expression never changes.

The next day is Saturday—departure day—although in my mind, Randy's already gone. I'm done banging my head against the wall. Numbness has begun to set in.

Still, I get up early to watch them load the car, which doesn't even appear so full after all that packing. In a way, everything seems totally normal. The Hardaways are going for a drive, something they do occasionally. The only difference is that, this time, when they come back, Randy won't be with them.

He looks pale, and there's no life in his eyes. His parents seem none too happy themselves, and his little sister is crying. I'm trying to swallow a lump in my throat the size of a bowling ball.

It's so awkward. There's no hugging or handshakes. Instead, I give him a piece of paper with my email address on it. “In case you forget.” He probably never knew it. We live a grand total of a hundred yards away from each other.

Correction: we used to.

“Let's go, Randy,” his father announces. “It's getting late.”

They get in the car. He hasn't even said good-bye. The car pulls away from the curb.

Suddenly, he rolls his window down. “I'll write.”

I point to the paper in his fist. “Don't lose my email address.”

“I'll write,” he repeats as if it's the most urgent thing in the world, and I was too stupid to understand the first time. “Think of it as our newest challenge.”

Like a few messages back and forth can replace nearly fourteen years of friendship.

As the car makes the turn onto Old County Six, I wave. I couldn't have said anything if I wanted to.

Now that Randy's gone, it's like the counter on my whole life has been reset. Everything is measured by the moment the Hardaways' car disappeared. There's the first night without Randy; the first weekend without Randy. I can't remember the last time I walked to school alone. It's less than a quarter mile, but it feels longer without the company, the shared yawns and jokes about Purple People Eaters driving by in their pickups. The rapid-fire plop of a fistful of cottonwood seeds splashing into somebody's pool isn't nearly as satisfying when there's no one to hear it with you.

When you spend thirteen years with the same two-and-a-half-dozen kids, losing somebody is like cutting off a finger. Especially when it's your best friend.

At lunch, Amber and Tori are eating together, and Malik, Hector, and Stanley are at one of the picnic tables. Just beyond them are Melanie Brandt and the Fowler twins.

It's probably been like this for years, but I never noticed because I was always paired up myself.

After school comes the first water polo practice without Randy. The pool feels empty somehow, which makes no sense because the same number of us are in the water at any given time.

I'm not the only one missing Randy. He was Team Community's best player.

Mrs. Delaney makes me his replacement, which means I have to go up against Malik, who plays the game like a great white shark with elbows. If you want to be on the winning side on Serenity Day this year, root for Solidarity.

Everyone's already in the locker rooms. I linger poolside, dripping on the towel in my lap. I can't seem to work up the enthusiasm to wrap it around me. Randy and I always used to race a couple of lengths after practice. I'm not about to do it alone, but old habits die hard.

I'm aware of a shifting of weight on the bench and I see that Mrs. Delaney has sat down beside me. “This must be hard for you,” she says sympathetically.

I nod. “Malik's really good. Strong.”

“And when he can't score on you, he just aims the ball at your face.” I guess I look surprised, because she grins. “You think I miss that? I played in college, you know. Division One.”

Two things about Mrs. Delaney: she's a lot younger than most of the parents in town, so she remembers what it's like to be a kid. And she's new, so the way things are
done in Serenity isn't the whole world to her.

“But that's not what I meant,” she goes on. “You must be missing Randy.”

“Does it show?”

“Not really,” she says. It's a lie, but she's doing it to be nice. “You know, in most places, people pick up and move constantly. It's the normal thing to do. I lost friends that way half a dozen times—either their families moved or mine did. You get used to it.”

“Not here you don't.”

“True,” she admits. “Of course, Serenity's not so easy to get used to either. I'm from Philadelphia, so I never dreamed I'd live in such an isolated place. But then I married Bryan, so I found a way.”

Bryan.
It amazes me every time I hear it.
There's a Purple People Eater named Bryan. Just like they're human or something.
For the millionth time I think of Randy.

It's hard enough to imagine your teacher having a life outside of school. Throw one of the Surety into the mix, and it's really through the looking glass. Mrs. Delaney once told the class that she met her husband on vacation in Cancún. I'll never shake the picture of this beautiful beach with people swimming and sunbathing, and in the
middle of everything there's this Purple People Eater in full-dress uniform, complete with boots and beret. Maybe he double-parked his helicopter by the tiki bar.

I have to ask. “What are the Surety guys like when they're not on duty?”

She gives me a mischievous grin, which makes her appear even younger. “That's classified, mister.”

“Classified?”

“You know,” she explains, “like government secrets.” She stares at me, puzzled that I don't understand.

“It's not honest to keep secrets,” I say.

“Sometimes things have to be kept from us for our own good. Like national security. If the president told everybody his plan for that, he'd also be telling the enemy.”

I'm even more confused. “Who's the enemy?”

She looks flustered. “Well, there isn't one now. I'm just explaining why certain information has to be classified.” She manages to regain her composure a little. “Like your teacher's private life, for example. Your need for honesty stops at my front door.”

I can feel my face burning red. “Sorry.” But I'm more confused than embarrassed. Dad says the need for honesty
never
stops. I stand up. “I should go change.” I start for the locker room.

“I can tell you one thing about the Surety,” she calls after me.

I turn around.

“They know you kids call them Purple People Eaters. I think they kind of like it.”

I know what everybody says: Malik's not really my friend. He's using me so I'll help him with his homework.

I don't care. They don't know the real Malik. They don't see how he treats me when nobody's looking. Like the time I skateboarded into the truck from the Plastics Works. I said I was fine, but Malik dragged me to the doctor's office so his dad could check out my nose. Malik cares about me, and that's more than I can say about a lot of the people who warn me against him.

Or when I got in trouble for losing my dad's favorite toilet snake, and I couldn't watch TV for three months, Malik let me come over to his house to watch
I Love Lucy
, even though he hates
I Love Lucy
. He only punched me twice, and even those times were because I laughed too
loud at the funny parts.

We seem really different, but the truth is, Malik and I have a ton in common. Neither of us has brothers or sisters, and our dads don't work in the plastics factory, which is pretty rare for around here. We're not ordinary size—Malik's the biggest kid in town, and I'm small for my age. We both love hot dogs, although he can eat three to my one.

The main similarity between Malik and me is we don't love Serenity that much, and everybody else thinks it's the best place on earth. Malik doesn't hide the fact that, as soon as he's old enough, he's leaving. We
all
have to leave if we want to go to college—there's no university in Serenity. But I assume what he means is that once he's gone, he's never coming back. Strange that a guy who relies on 24/7 room service from his mom is so anxious to get away. Maybe he expects Mrs. Bruder to come to NYC with him to cook his food and look after his laundry. She might even do it—she's that kind of mother. He complains that she smothers him, but he also complains when the chip bowl gets low. That's how their relationship works. She's constantly nagging; he's constantly yelling, yet they're closer than close. There's this word I heard once:
codependent
. I'm not sure if it comes under honesty,
harmony, contentment, or a little of all three.

I don't say anything, but when moving day comes, I'm going to beg Malik to take me with him—to college and beyond. I don't want to stay in this town forever, even though the outside world scares me. It's just too different and unknown.

Until that day, though, we're stuck here, and we're best friends, whether anyone believes it or not. He's my partner for the Serenity Day project. We're making amazing progress, and it's probably going to go even faster once Malik starts helping. It was his idea to build a scale model of Serenity Park using Legos and the crate that the Bruders' new pool table came in. I've been spending all my spare time in the park, mapping and measuring, to make sure we get it exactly right. Malik doesn't get good grades, so most people don't realize what a perfectionist he is. He understands all the schoolwork he gets out of doing. If he tried, he'd probably be the third-best student in town, after Amber and me.

Then again, if Malik was a good student, what would he need me for?

Yesterday, I'm in the park, measuring the display case for the Serenity Cup and hoping it matches the dimensions of the clear plastic Tic Tac container we're using
for our project when I spy Stanley Cole and his family. They're picnicking on the lawn by Serenity Square—Stanley, his parents, his kid brother, and their dog, Ortiz. I watch from a distance, but they don't notice me. They're too wrapped up in each other. It kind of makes me uncomfortable. They laugh a lot, like everything's hilarious to them. The dad drops a sandwich and the dog eats it. Hilarious! Stanley wipes out on an exposed tree root. Hilarious! The little kid buries his trucks in the sand, and then cries because he can't find them. Hilarious! Even cleaning up after the dog is a fun family activity. What's the matter with these people? I can't understand why they seem to think that everything in the world has been put there for their amusement.

I can just picture
my
father throwing a Frisbee, or giving me a piggyback ride. Or my mother picking up dog poop—and liking it! It would never happen. Not in this life. When I was eight, I asked my parents for a puppy. They said no, the dog food would be too expensive. I even offered to eat less to save money. No dice. I'm too skinny as it is; it'll stunt my growth. Looking back on it, we live in just as nice a house as anybody in town; we have the same cars and pools and grand pianos. If the Coles can afford dog food, why can't we?

My mom is an executive at the plastics factory, and my dad is the only handyman for eighty miles. If something breaks, it's him or nobody. I know how people look at my parents when we go out. You can feel the respect. They would never waste time having a picnic in the park, or laughing like hyenas about nothing. You won't catch them with their arms around each other. And I can assure you that I've never had a piggyback ride in my life.

Honestly, I don't know how Stanley lives with the humiliation. I see his face, laughing, smiling, grinning, and I know for certain that I never looked like that.

I wonder what it feels like.

“Losers,” is Malik's opinion when he finally arrives. “And the biggest loser is you for spying on these idiots when you should be working.”

“Poor Stanley,” I say. “His parents treat him like he's two years old.”

“You don't pick your parents,” he tells me. “You get what you get.”

I'm surprised. “Your folks are the best!”

He makes a face. “If you like bad jokes and chicken soup.”

“I love your mom's chicken soup! And your dad's jokes—” How can I describe it? Dr. Bruder's humor may
be corny, but it's comfortable, like an old shirt you don't want to throw out. “Well, I love your mom's chicken soup. Seriously, I wish I had your parents.” I'm surprised I said that out loud.

Malik takes it in stride. “You got a roof over your head, same as everybody else. Not that your mother feeds you very much.”

“She feeds me plenty. I just don't grow. It isn't anybody's fault.”

“Relax,” he advises me. “I'm pulling your chain. Your folks are fine. How good can parents be, anyway? It's not like cars, where you can be a Kia or a Bugatti. They're parents.”

What he's trying
not
to say is what everybody else in town thinks—that Mom and Dad are bad parents, or at least that they love me less than all the other parents love their kids.

But that's just wrong.

Maybe my folks don't show it, like Malik's mom, or the Pritels, or even Mr. Frieden, who's super-strict because Eli is his whole life. But my parents care about me, and I can prove it.