Parts & Labor

 

 

The Adventures of Max Dugan

- Book One -

A novel for middle-grade children

MARK GIMENEZ

&

COLE GIMENEZ

Navarchus Press

Copyright © 2011 by Mark Gimenez and Cole Gimenez

Published by Navarchus Press, LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the
product of the authors' imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of Navarchus Press, LLC. Published in the
United States of America.

ISBN 978-0-9839875-5-0

Epub Edition: 1.00 (11/8/2011)
Ebook conversion:
Fowler Digital Services
Formatted by: Ray Fowler

Cover design: Brion Sausser at Book Creatives

Acknowledgments
Dedication

one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four

Coming soon

 

 

Our sincere thanks to our early readers who shared their thoughts: Jeanne Green, children's librarian at Bedford Public Library; Kara Cuellar Sowards, fourth-grade teacher; and Emma Grace Foreman, sixth-grader. And special thanks to Joel Tarver at T Squared Design in Houston for the website and email blasts to our readers, Ray Fowler for the e-book conversion, and Brion Sausser at Book Creatives for the fantastic cover.

 

 

To Ashley Broadus, Cole's fourth-grade teacher, who understands that boys do read.

 

 

It
was three-thirty, so I was running. I always ran at that time, as soon as the
school bell rang. It was my daily run, like the lady who lives across the
street jogs every morning at seven. I don't think I'd like to run that early.
Of course, I didn't really like to run at this time either. But I had no
choice.

I
was being chased.

I
cut the corner hard at Mrs. Baker's hedgerow on Fourth Street and turned north on
Drake Avenue. Two more blocks, and I'd be home and safe. I was halfway down
the block, and there was only silence behind me.

Hey,
maybe they turned back!

But
then I heard the high-pitched engines that powered their scooters buzzing
behind me like a pack of angry bees.

Dang,
they hadn't turned back.

I glanced back just as the school bullies rounded the
corner riding their scooters like a motorcycle gang. Push, Shove, Punch, and
Trip. Not their names. Their
modus operandi
. (I heard that on TV.) Biff,
Bud, Rod, and … where was Vic? They were the biggest kids in fourth grade
because they should be in fifth grade. Their parents had held them back in kindergarten
so they'd be bigger for football when they got to high school. They were
athletes. I was not. I struggled with my weight.

"Hey,
fat boy!" Bud yelled. "You might as well stop and take it like a
man!"

Take
it like a man? I'm only ten.

I crossed Third Street at the stop sign without
stopping and ran past Mrs. Cushing's purple house—
oh, wow, her pansies had
bloomed.
She had gotten the house in the divorce, I heard Mom say, and she had been way too young for Mr. Cushing anyway, another mom had said. Mrs.
Cushing was a favorite topic of discussion among the neighborhood moms, and not
because she had painted her house purple after the divorce, but because she
always tended her garden in snug short-shorts, like now, which for some reason
really annoyed the other moms. I think they were just jealous of her garden. I
waved at her—"Hi, Mrs. Cushing!" She was bent over so she waved back
between her legs—"Hi, Max!" Boy, she had a really nice garden. All
the dads in the neighborhood thought so too; they walked their dogs by her
house whenever she was outside just to admire her garden.

"We're
coming for you, four-eyes!" Rod yelled.

I
wore my rec specs (secured to my head by a wide elastic band) for PE and the
chase home each day. I took a quick check back—they were gaining on me fast. But
I only had one more block. My house stood at the corner of Drake and Second Street.

At
the bottom of the hill.

Just
past Mrs. Cushing's house, the sidewalk turned downward. We called it a hill
although it was really just a gentle slope, but enough that I had to run faster
to keep from falling over forward and tumbling down the sidewalk. My big
backpack bounced on my shoulders, my baggy cargo shorts flapped in the breeze
like sails, and my red high-topped Legend Jones sneakers slapped the pavement.
Sweat trickled down my face—September in Texas was still hot—and my T-shirt
stuck to my chest. I could hear myself sucking air like a vacuum cleaner, and my
stomach was feeling really nauseous, but it always did by this point in the
chase, especially when it was pizza day at lunch. But the heat made it worse
today. A lot worse.

"You
can run, but you can't hide!" Biff shouted.

I'm
sure as heck gonna try!

The
last hedgerow before my house was now in sight. If I could get around those
hedges I would be in my own driveway and then in my own yard. Even these guys
wouldn't try anything in my yard … at least I didn't think they would. I
focused on the hedgerow and pumped my arms and legs even harder. I glanced
back at them one last time and then I—

"Uggghhhh."

—ran
into a brick wall and collapsed to the concrete.

I lay face down on the sidewalk, and my backpack sat on
top of my head. The sun had baked the sidewalk all day, so the concrete was
pretty hot, which made my stomach feel even worse. I pushed my backpack off
and sat up. My right knee burned with pain, and blood oozed from a nasty road
rash.

I
looked up.

The
brick wall was named Vic. He was almost twelve and the biggest of the bullies,
and he was standing over me with his fists on his hips. He had come up Second Street and cut me off at the hedgerow. I now sat on the sidewalk in front of the
house next door, invisible to anyone at my house. Of course, no one was at my
house. I was alone and surrounded by Vic and his posse.

Again.

They
had thick bodies for eleven-year-old boys—knowing them, they might already be
on steroids—and looked especially menacing in their black Under Armour
sleeveless compression shirts, long black Nike shorts, and black Legend Jones
All-Pro "1" signature competition sneakers with the cool Velcro ankle
flaps, the $150 style that we couldn't afford.
Their sharp flattops made
them look like young action-figures. They wanted to get barbed-wire tattoos
around their biceps like pro football players, but the school district's code
of conduct prohibited tattoos until middle school.

"Hiya,
Max," Vic said. "Did you really think we were gonna let you get past
the hedge? We ain't stupid."

"That's
not what your report card says," I said before I knew it.

Vic
was the oldest but not the brightest kid in fourth grade so it took a moment
for that remark to register. When it did, his flat face turned dark. Which
meant he was going to do something bad. He did. He snatched my backpack. I held
onto the straps, but the other guys yanked my hair from behind and pulled me
back. I wore my curly reddish-brown hair long and wild, which Mom said was a statement of my personal individuality but which definitely was not an advantage
in moments like this—it made for an easy handhold. Vic finally ripped the backpack
from my hands then stood straight and searched the pockets.

"Where's
that iPod I saw at lunch?"

"Don't
you dare touch it, Vic! My dad gave it to me for my birthday!"

"And
that means what to me?"

He
found my iPod.

"You
steal it, Vic, I'm gonna report you to the police! For grand theft iPod!"

Vic's
face changed. He was obviously trying to think things out—a criminal record
might affect his chances for a football scholarship … well, maybe at some
colleges in Texas—which explained his pained expression.

"Oh
… well … then I guess I won't steal it."

Ha.
The threat to his football scholarship had worked. I held up an open hand. I
always tried to project an outward appearance of confidence even though inside
I was so scared I thought I might pee my pants. Like now. Basically, I had
learned to survive on my wits, like most kids who struggled with their weight.
But sometimes, I should just shut up. This was one of those times.

"Hand
it over, Vic, and no one gets hurt."

Vic's
face changed again, like a thunderstorm had blown across his brain. His eyes
turned two shades darker. He didn't put the iPod in my hand. He dropped it on
the sidewalk then stomped on it like Mom that time she saw a cockroach in the
kitchen. He pounded my iPod into pieces.

"How's
that for hurt?" Vic said.

I
stared at my busted iPod and felt the anger rising inside me again and the heat
wash over my body. My fists clenched. I wanted so badly to stand up and punch
Vic right in his big fat nose. Sometimes when the anger got the best of me I
punched the walls in my room, but difference was, the walls didn't punch back.
Vic did. Hard. Then the others would join in. Push, Shove, Punch, and Trip.
I had been there and done that before, and I was too scared to go there again.
Too weak to stand up to the bullies. Max Dugan had always been the weak kid in
school. I felt tears coming into my eyes, but I fought them. I bit my lower
lip and clenched my jaws and squeezed my eyes shut … but nothing worked.
Hot tears squirted out of my eyes and burned my cheeks.

"Oh,
look, we made Max cry again."

They
stood over me and laughed. Their laughter hurt as much as their fists. They ganged
up on me and pushed my head down and grabbed at my rec specs, and they were
getting really rough with me now so I tried to stand and run but Vic punched me
right in the gut, and I sank down to my knees and grabbed my stomach, and I felt
a bad rumbling deep inside, and that nasty burning taste suddenly filled the
back of my throat and then a terrible hot sensation washed over me like a big
wave, that awful feeling that happens right before you … throw up.

I
threw up.

Pepperoni-and-sausage
pizza. Two … no, three pieces from lunch. Two cartons of chocolate milk.
An ice cream sandwich. Salted peanuts from the vending machine. A bag of
regular M&Ms. A Butterfinger bar in the restroom before recess, a Reese's
peanut butter cup during recess, and a bag of Cheetos after recess. Half a pop
tart during English. Three cheese crackers during History. Four yogurt
pretzels during art class. And … oh, yeah, a chewy granola bar during
study hall … and maybe even some scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast lingering
from breakfast. All partially digested and mixed together in one hot stinking
blob that exploded from my belly and erupted out of my mouth like a volcano and
spewed all over—

The
bullies' $150 sneakers.

They
shrieked and jumped back. "You moron!" Vic yelled. "You puked
on my Legends! They're brand new!"

Wow,
that was a lot of hurl.
The last five months, I'd been eating a lot more
than normal, and I had gained almost ten pounds. The therapist said I was
seeking solace—whatever that was—in food. But still, that was a lot of hurl.

"Man,
what'd you eat?" Bud said.

"How
much did you eat?" Rod said.

"What's
that yellow stuff?" Biff said.

Must
be the Cheetos. I tried to spit out the throw-up taste, but it stuck to my
mouth like Elmer's Glue (which I used to eat as a kid).

"You're
gonna pay for my shoes!" Vic said.

"You're
gonna pay for my iPod."

"Difference
is, Max, I can beat you up. You can't beat me up."

He
took a step toward me as if to hit me again, but I felt a second wave coming so
I grabbed my stomach and gagging noises came from somewhere deep inside me. It
turned out to be a false alarm, but Vic backed away just the same. He jabbed
the air in front of my face instead.