Six Kids and a Stuffed Cat (2 page)

“I wish Devon was playing an actual guitar,” Taylor snarled. “Then at least I could smash it in a million pieces.”

And tell me the brand name if you happened to notice it among the splintered pieces of guitar. But that's not really the point, I reminded myself, and decided that a six-string connoisseur like Devon would go Fender all the way.

Mason had entered the room behind Taylor and Devon and been watching Taylor disapprovingly. “Some people have no appreciation for the musical arts. It's sad. Hey, Jordan.” I nodded my hello and then gestured to Avery who was still crouched behind me. Mason leaned over, peeked behind my legs, and waved. “Hi, we haven't met—I'm Mason. I like the stuffed cat.”

“You're not supposed to see it,” I said helpfully.

“That's cool,” Mason casually brushed off the not-really-there stuffed cat like it was the kind of thing someone was asked to ignore every day and, therefore, too trite to waste words mentioning. “I got you covered on the not-seeing-the-cat deal. Very metaphysical; I like it. Have you met Taylor and Devon yet?”

I looked over my shoulder at Avery and said, again very helpfully, “Taylor's hostile and Devon's mellow so they make a nice matched set. An ideally balanced subset of the collection of people to be stuck with in the bathroom during a storm.”

Avery didn't know who to watch, the furious Taylor who was glaring at Devon or Devon who was playing so hard the strumming arm was windmilling. I noticed that Avery started anxiously twisting the cat's ears, which were poking out of the bag.

Clearly, an introduction to the Land o' Devon was in order for our new friend. The rest of us have gotten used to Devon's musical obsession and disdain for engaging on the plane of mutual reality, but, to the uninitiated, Devon might be a tiny bit crazy and, perhaps, a whole lot scary.

“Devon's the best musician in school,” I said with a little pride even though I had nothing to do with Devon's talent. “The only problem is Dev's never so much as touched a real guitar. But look at that showmanship! A forward-thinking entrepreneur would send that act on the road, charge a modest admission at small clubs. Who knows? Maybe even work Dev up to an international major stadium tour gig, opening for world renowned rock gods.”

And then
maybe
said agent/manager/promoter would notice the droll, and, I think, extremely marketable, humor that is mine and book me a job or series of jobs warming up the in-studio audience for one of the bazillion late-night talk shows. After Cary and I worked through my stage fright, that is. Maybe Devon's bizarre enough to land both of us at the top of the heap, entertainment career–wise. I'm not counting on it, but I'm not ruling it out, either. Devon might be my ticket to international fame and obscene fortune, or at least widespread social acceptance in this school. Again, if Cary and I can work on getting me able to talk to people without resorting to acerbic commentary that masks my discomfort.

“Your faith in Devon has always been very touching, Jordy,” Mason said with an approving smile.

“It's your fault Devon's still wandering around like this, Jordan; you encourage bad behavior to take the focus off of yourself.” Leave it to Taylor to ruin the warm bonding moment we were all sharing. Taylor is exactly like the prank no one sees coming in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom—unpleasant, abrasive, and shocking.

“Taylor, that was uncharacteristically aware of you,” Mason said, and, bitter though I was about the point, I had to agree. “A little mean, but good eye: Jordan, no offense,
does
throw others under the bus to avoid the consequences of having a smart mouth and an all-around disrespectful attitude.”

Before I could say, “Well, yeah, sure, who doesn't,” or even bust Mason's chops for being hyperintellectual enough to make condescending comments like that in the first place, the door flew open again. My eardrums reverberated painfully from the noise. No wonder Devon likes to play guitar in the restroom—great sound quality and a nice echo.

“Can you believe we're stuck in the john because of a little rain? Coach canceled practice because of
drizzle
and a
light breeze
.” Regan would practice in a hurricane if necessary and doesn't take kindly to any changes in what has got to be the world's most carefully mapped out weekly schedule. Regan's the most active kid in this school. Between sports, student government, editing both the yearbook and the newspaper, participating in the plays and musicals, rehearsing for the orchestra and band concerts, serving on numerous school committees, volunteering in the community, and whatever else I'm sure I've forgotten, Regan has every spare moment of the day accounted for until high school graduation and that includes summer vacation and winter and spring breaks.

Regan noticed Devon flailing around on air guitar, studied the fingers on the frets and the rhythm, and then guessed, “Santana?” Mason and I nodded—good guess. Taylor snorted and turned away because that's Taylor's response to everything. Avery kept nervously twisting the cat's ears. Apparently neither Avery nor the stuffed cat wanted to weigh in on Devon's instrumental inspiration today.

“Better than pretending to be Hendrix, pretending to set the pretend ax on fire,” Regan held up a flat palm in a
don't-go-there
gesture. “Now
that's
crazy. Speaking of crazy, what's with the kid petting the stuffed cat in the bag?”

“That's Avery,” Mason said. “First day here. Seems a little more anxious than crazy.”

“And we're not supposed to call attention to the cat. It's the exact opposite of Devon's guitar,” I once again helpfully pointed out. Man! I have got to get a job being helpful; it comes so naturally to me, I may as well start getting paid for it.

“Which we're not supposed to
see
so much as
hear
,” Mason commented on Devon's guitar, head tipped, eyes closed, face scrunched in a look of intense concentration, trying really hard, I guessed, to listen for the chords.

“There's a lot of existential reality in this school,” I told Avery, and hoped I seemed French and intellectual and maybe a little brooding.

“I'm okay with that non-cat and the non-guitar,” Regan said, looking back and forth between Avery and Taylor. “Maybe we can get a picture for the yearbook of Avery and Devon and the nonentities; as editor-in-chief this year, I'm freaking out about how to fill up all the pages. I'll take anything. Even pictures of invisible felines and imaginary stringed instruments.”

“Everyone in this school except me is nuts,” Taylor sneered.

“And yet you're the only one in this room failing,” Mason broke the seal on that secret. “C'mon, Taylor, get your books out, let's finish that book report so we can be one step closer to being free of each other once and for all.”

“Mason is tutoring Taylor,” Regan explained to Avery.

“Taylor's resisting,” I clarified, because I didn't think Regan's commentary gave Avery the full picture. “If Mason were a germ and Taylor were an open wound, Taylor would be studied by the worldwide medical community as the future hope of preventing the spread of infectious disease.”

“Mason's only working with Taylor to get a recommendation from the principal to attend the mock congress in Boston this summer,” Regan told the one person in this entire school who didn't already know about Mason's academic pursuits and extracurricular goals. The rest of us hate Mason for wrecking grade curves, for making all of us look like dopes with the constant extra credit assignments, for always taking all of the honors courses that are offered, and for having a study room in the library on permanent hold for whatever small-group project Mason has once again volunteered to head.

“They can't stand each other. Two people who loathe each other more do not exist in this world or any universe known to mankind or yet to be discovered. It's awesome entertainment for the rest of us that they have to work together. We've placed bets on how long it'll take one to smack the other with a thesaurus, and who'll take the first swing.” I wondered what the current over-under was on Taylor drawing first blood.

“Our school policy is zero tolerance for bullying, so if I should personally witness such behavior, in my role as student body president, I'd have to report it. Was it
r
eport it
or
step in
? Hmm, can't remember.” Regan tried to look as anti-bullying and pro-getting-along as possible. Which just meant trying out a few different kinds of weird and eager smiles in the mirror combined with a furrowed brow for seriousness.

Mason looked up at the ceiling in disgust. “Taylor's failing English. Our mother tongue. My whole future depends on teaching someone the difference between
I-T-S
and
I-T
-apostrophe-
S
.”

“I'm not failing,” Taylor said. “I'm just not passing by as much as I should be. And you said ‘it' was an imprecise and meaningless word that takes up space and should be avoided as much as possible. So what's the big difference if there's an apostrophe or not if I'm not supposed to use the word in the first place? Geez.”

For a second I thought I was going to lose money when Mason grabbed a book. But the swing never came; instead of whacking the side of Taylor's head with a good solid backhand, Mason placed the book in Taylor's hand with a heavy sigh. “Focus.”

LOUDSPEAKER ANNOUNCEMENT:
“This is a weather update: The severe weather alert for the county immediately adjacent to ours is in effect until four thirty p.m. We are advised that strong winds are moving westward and that occasional rain or thundershowers are forecast with possible street flooding in low-lying areas. Total rainfall amounts are projected to vary between one to two inches.”

“Isn't that, like, a miniscule amount of precipitation that's hardly even noticeable?” I asked. “I swear, this school is the drama queen of the entire district—always making a big deal out of nothing. It's not like anyone just reported seeing animals walking two by two to get on a big boat; it's not
that
kind of storm.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Regan probably sat on the student-faculty committee that came up with these dipsy-doodle rules in the first place. “I hope they let us out soon, though; I've got to get over to the senior center by dinnertime because I'm volunteering today. Speaking of dinner: I'm starving. Anyone got anything to eat?”

“You're going to eat in the bathroom? Next to a stall? Eww.” But I had to admit: My stomach was rumbling too. I dug in my backpack and came up with some trail mix that I threw over to Regan.

“It's not like I was planning to suck water out of the toilet.” Regan tossed a raisin in my mouth like I was a one of the seals at the zoo. Eating and throwing things pass time when you're bored. It's a scientific fact. Or at least universally accepted. Throwing things you can catch in your mouth and then eat adds to the fun.

Avery looked across the room and made a small squawk of alarm. “Devon is lying down on the floor. Why is Devon lying down on the floor like that?”

Regan, Mason, Taylor, and I glanced over at Devon and, in one voice, replied, “Acoustic set.”

Avery looked blank. Well, sure, first time at this rodeo, who wouldn't be a little confused?

“Devon's resting while the lead vocalist takes the spotlight; it's only for one song. See!” I reassured Avery as Devon jumped up and started playing again.

“Oh. Okay,” Avery said, looking neither comforted by nor comfortable with the fact that Devon is a generous band member who gives everyone onstage equal opportunity to shine.

In fact, Avery was starting to look more and more uncomfortable. Regan and I were gobbling trail mix and balancing peanuts on our noses when we weren't catching things in our mouths, Mason and Taylor were elbow-jabbing each other into slightly cracked or at least permanently bruised ribs while they huddled over a notebook and tried to hammer out a book report for a novel I'm pretty sure Taylor didn't read all the way through, and Devon was off riffing in the corner.

But Avery was restlessly shifting back and forth from one foot to the next and compulsively checking the time every forty-five seconds. And just when I'd thought we'd broken through the nerve thing and Avery was starting to feel comfortable with us. Bummer. Maybe it was just me who was starting to feel comfortable. Avery should try to be more like me. I'd have to set a good example for coping with the storm lockdown.

“So, that's it? We're stuck in the bathroom?” Avery sounded about ready to explode. I hoped that wasn't going to happen because a) I was starting to like Avery and b) I wasn't going to clean it up. Not enough toilet paper in the universe.

“Yup,” I said, nodding, trying to role-model acceptance and patience with my relaxed attitude.

“For who-knows-how-long?” Avery wasn't following my lead and was, in fact, looking increasingly agitated.

“Looks that way,” I said, again in a great-attitude-to-emulate way. I wished Cary could see how mature and easygoing I was, things I am never accused of outside of this lavatory.

“Pull up some floor, relax,” Regan urged.

“And none of you are worried about the storm?” Avery asked, casting a panicked glance at the really small glass brick window above the sink.

“This school is known for overreacting about bad weather. Someone sees one teeny tiny bolt of lightning in the sky and the whole place is on lockdown. It's nothing.” I remembered the Great Storm That Wasn't of seventh grade, when the entire student body had spent ages either sitting on the floor, lined up facing the wall, our arms over our heads, or crammed under our desks with faces tucked down, waiting for the building to collapse on top of us. Final tally: One branch was knocked off an ancient tree. Probably due to a fat squirrel rather than a dangerous gust of wind.