Nothing Special (7 page)

Andrew jumped in. “South Milwaukee. South Division High School.”

“Right,” the girl said. “South Milwaukee. South Division.”

Then Jerri said, “Great! Sounds like you're having a good time. When's the performance?”

“Uh. Five weeks from Saturday, I think,” Andrew said.

“Mind if Felton and I come?” Jerri asked.

“I don't know. We'll find out. I'll ask,” Andrew said.

“South Division High School?” I asked.

“The brochure said the final performance is open to the public!” Jerri sang.

“Okay, well, we have to get going. Night rehearsals are pretty serious.”

“I know people in Milwaukee, Tovi!” I shouted.

“Okay. Bye?” the girl replied.

“Right. Talk to you soon,” Andrew said and hung up.

“She sounds nice,” Jerri said.

“Oh my God! They just looked up a Milwaukee school on the Internet while we were talking. Something's going on, Jerri. He's not at orchestra camp. No way.”

“
What?
” Jerri shouted.

“I'm serious!”

“What?” Jerri laughed.

“Really, Jerri. He's somewhere. He's not there.”

“Felton.” Jerri shook her head.

“What?”

“Crazy,” Jerri nodded.

“No!”

“Really, really crazy,” Jerri nodded.

“Why would you trust Andrew? There is mounting evidence!”

“Evidence? Of what?”

“I don't know. Of him not really being at the camp?”

“Uh-huh. Really?” Jerri was totally sarcastic.

“Yes,” I said. I didn't want to mention drunken Emily.

“Good Lord, Felton. Chill, kid. I signed the camp permission slip. I received confirmation of payment from this camp. Where would he be, if not…”

“Grandma Berba paid for the camp!”

“So?”

“Did she send the camp the money, or did she send it to Andrew?”

“The camp sent a paid-in-full receipt here.”

“Oh.”

“And I received detailed instructions about where, when, how this whole thing would happen. Wouldn't the camp call me if Andrew didn't show up?”

I paused for a moment on that. Uh-huh. Logic. “Good point,” I said.

“Andrew's at camp, Felton. I don't get this at all. You're crazy. Are you weirded out about Michigan? You'll be fine.”

“No, I'm not worried about Michigan.” (Lie.)

“Well, you're clearly the one with the problem.”

“Hmm…That's possible.” I thought about my problem. Give Emily away? I thought I better. “It's not from nowhere, Jerri. Bony Emily got drunk and told Gus's girlfriend that Andrew ran away.”

“She
what
?” Jerri barked. “She got drunk?”

“Oh Christ.” I knew I'd just blown a hole in some code of teen conduct.
Dear
teen
fellow…Do not tell your parent about a minorly misbehaving acquaintance, as you do not know the repercussions.
“I don't know what she did. I'm crazy.”

“I'm calling Emily's mother.”

“I believe she knows. Emily's grounded.”

“Emily loves unicorns!” Jerri shouted.

“I know,” I said. “But Gus thinks she's hot. So she's growing up.”

“Emily Cook?” Jerri shouted.

“I'm a little crazy. Think I'll go for a jog.”

“Andrew can't be friends with Emily if she's going to be a drunk party girl.”

“Right, Jerri. You're going to tell Andrew what he can or can't do?”

“Stupid Andrew.” Jerri shook her head.

“I really don't know anything, Jerri. I highly doubt Bony Emily is a partyer.”

“Stupid Emily.”

“Very dumb.” I stood up and stretched.

“Don't run too fast, Felton,” Jerri said, clearly not thinking about my running.

“Um…okay?” I said. I stared at Jerri.

Jerri shook her head at me, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “Emily Cook.”

“I know,” I said, and clapped my hands and went for a jog up and down the main road, where I tried to make sense of this whole business. I was actually worried for Andrew. Could he possibly be alone some place other than camp?

No. Jerri has receipts. Brochures. Jerri's right…

Wrong.

The next couple of days I worked out a ton and did what I was supposed to do, but I couldn't concentrate for crap. (Cody actually hit me in the face with a pass once because I wasn't paying attention.) I could only think about Andrew, and my fear about him grew and grew. I felt pains in my chest, Aleah.

The following is a mantra I repeated in my brain for like seventy-two hours straight:
This
is
a
well-known and reputable camp! They wouldn't just forget a kid is supposed to be there! They'd get sued!

Then, in the middle of the week, I couldn't take it anymore. I was supposed to meet Cody and Karpinski to run routes, but I hadn't slept the night before and was seriously obsessing on Andrew's whereabouts, so I called Andrew's phone.

He didn't answer. His voice mail message sang (Andrew's crazy-high canary voice singing “Leave a Message!” instead of “Hallelujah!”).

I left a voice mail.
Andrew, I have a weird feeling. I have a weird, weird feeling that you're not where you say you are. Please call me. Jerri needs to know if you're doing something weird or unsafe, okay? Are you at camp? If so, prove it. God damn it, Andrew. I don't need this crap! I have things to do!

Yes, I got angry while I spoke to his stupid phone.

Andrew didn't call me back. I could barely run routes. Cody shouted at me, “What the hell, Rein Stone? Do you have a brain disorder?”

“Maybe,” I said.

After Andrew didn't respond for like ten hours, I sent him a few angry texts and left one more message:
You
are
messing
with
me!

Then, finally, Thursday morning of that week, things began to come into focus.

I woke after not sleeping again. I checked for messages on my phone. There were none. I called Andrew. He didn't answer. I opened my email and here is what I found: A message from Randy Stone, but from a different email: [email protected].

Dear Sir,

The underestimated child detective, Randy Stone, knows a few things all too well. First, those who assume tiny Andrew Reinstein to be somebody other than what he purports to be are correct. He is not a percussionist. Second, those who find Andrew's older brother to be remotely intelligent have been utterly fooled and are obviously not terribly intelligent themselves. Felton has refused to figure out that which is directly in front of his face, though he has been prompted. He has refused to listen to that which has been placed directly in his ears and eyeballs again and again so that he might figure the world out by himself. He learned nothing. Now, when it is too late, the dull Felton Reinstein has an inkling something is off. He should not be proud.

I stopped reading. My mouth, I'm sure, was hanging open, my eyeballs likely popped out of my head. Wait…Wait…Who is
Randy
Stone
?

I read on…

In his second missive, the detective mentioned Fiddlesticks, Florida. In his third missive, the detective alluded to three non-Felton “Reinstein” hits on the Internet provided by his Google Alert. Felton failed to follow up on either clue and is thus a complete dunderhead with no brain to speak of.

I stopped. I hadn't received a third missive. Then I thought and realized that—holy balls, Aleah—I'd marked Randy Stone email as spam because I didn't want to get bad stuff from Gus, but this wasn't Gus and I didn't receive the third email at all. I went back into my trash folder and—holy balls—I found it.

It was dated April 15th. I'd never, never read it. I didn't see it. This is it:

The brilliant child detective Randy Stone has pursued Felton Reinstein in the following ways: He has established a Google Alert on the word “Reinstein,” which returns each day a list of places on the Internet where Felton Reinstein has been mentioned. These sites describe Mr. Reinstein's prowess on both field and track. They herald his “motor” and his “competitive spirit.” They detail his future prospects as a collegiate athlete and suggest collegiate athletic programs where Mr. Reinstein's particular and peculiar skills would best be put to use. The good detective then compiled these articles on a website, feltonreinstein.com, in order for all fans of Mr. Reinstein to find the news they want in one place. Along with the web links, Randy Stone uploaded pictures and nice biographical information regarding Felton Reinstein and his family.

Let it be known: Randy Stone enjoyed doing so.

Here is a bit that may not be known:

By placing a Google Alert on “Reinstein” without attaching the name Felton, Randy Stone hoped to capture any other information about the worldwide Reinstein clan that might shed light on the detective's inability to smoke cigarettes adequately. Only three times did other information show up on the Net.

1. Once when Andrew Reinstein made the honor roll in February.

2. Once when the combination of Robert Rein was pressed accidentally against Stein, Gertrude in a bibliographic catalog. It looked like this: “…authored by Robert Rein; Stein, Gertrude,
Collected Works
…”

3. And, finally, two weeks ago, when there was one other very significant non-Felton mention.

The talented child detective tried to speak with Felton Reinstein about this third mention. But, Felton would not talk and told the detective he should “shake it off.”

That is it. That is the end. No more feltonreinstein.

The detective is on his own.

“Holy shit!” I shouted. It was only at that moment that the full truth of the matter came into my brain. Andrew. Andrew was Randy Stone. Andrew had warned me about what he was doing, but I'd paid no attention. Andrew had closed himself in his bedroom to get away from me and to plan…whatever the hell he was up to.

I went back to look at the second email Randy Stone had sent. It was totally whacked out and talked about Florida, but was mostly about a special carpet and delicious cigarettes. I'm supposed to follow any of that? I'm supposed to think someone with some kind of superior intelligence is leading me through a series of clues?

Seriously, Randy Stone did not help communicate anything for Andrew. He just made me mad and what he said was pretty much unintelligible. For instance, that Fiddlesticks clue would be totally meaningless to anybody (not just dumb me). Fiddlesticks? A real place? How would I know?

Then I read his third email again.

I focused on this:

3. And, finally, two weeks ago, when there was one other very significant non-Felton mention.

What the hell did that mean?

So, I did it myself. I Googled Reinstein, which I hate doing because there's so much crap about me. And, yes, up popped a giant wad about me. A tremendous, ridiculous, confusing wad. Also, up popped a tiny little bit about my dad, which detailed how Steven Reinstein was an All-American tennis player at Northwestern University in the 1980s. But, really, mostly all of it was about me. There were like 75,000 hits. Was I really supposed to wade through these to figure out the tiny few that weren't about me or my dad (or maybe Andrew on the honor roll)?

Then I became very, very mad. Picture me shaking my fist in the air, crying out,
“Andrewwwww!”

He spent all his time gathering Google crap. When whatever website went up that had the non-Felton info on it, he received that alert that day. For me, finding that odd Reinstein mention was like searching for an ant with a weird-shaped thorax, but still just a single ant, in a giant freaking Mexican ant hill. Impossible!

I almost called Jerri at her job. She was already gone for the day. She was at the Edward Jones office, where she works part-time. I wanted to yell at her for having created the terrible monster Andrew. I wanted to tell her that she'd been duped, and, according to Randy Stone, Andrew wasn't even a percussionist (whatever that means). I picked up the phone, then stopped myself, because freaking out on Jerri did not appeal to me in the slightest.
Repercussions? Crazy Jerri?

I went back to Randy Stone's new message.

The outlook is not “rosy.” A rose of another name would not be named “Rose” Reinstein.

With this, the child detective Randy Stone lights another cigarette, which catches fire and nearly burns his hands off. He hacks out his totally sick lungs, watches the smoke trail up into the tropical sky, and wonders if Andrew and Felton could even possibly be related, because Felton is so sadly dumb.

That Felton figured out the lack of percussion instruction in Andrew's present is a near-on miracle that should be taken to the Pope.

Good day.

P.S. Randy Stone knows not to tell Jerri because she might go crazy like last summer.

Jerk, Andrew!

What about his P.S.?

Here's me:
Can't tell. Can't tell. Whatever Andrew is into might be bad enough to knock Jerri off her solid rock. What if Andrew is part of an apocalypse cult? What if he's wearing long burlap robes and is taking hallucinogenic magical mushrooms that make him think his name is Randy Stone? What if he's decided to grow roses in Florida? Wouldn't that freak Jerri out, because he refuses to help in the garden ever?
What
does
a
rose
of
another
name
would
not
be
named
“Rose” Reinstein mean?

ANDREW!

I stood up. I looked toward the door, toward the freedom of the road where I might run…