The Last Martin (11 page)

I walk up to the sour-faced woman behind the desk. I don’t know her.

“Hm,” she grunts “A newbie. Let’s see the pass.” She reaches for my wadded admission slip. Her nostrils flare. “You are the prune child. Do you know that your little stunt ruined my daughter’s hundred-dollar jeans?”

“No, I uh …”

“Zip it and sit, Prune Boy.”

I scan my options and choose a rickety desk toward the back. Words etched on its surface prove this isn’t a room for happy, well-adjusted kids. It’s a room for the other kind, those who growl through life and don’t cover their mouths when they sneeze.

Five minutes later, it’s still just Purse-lips and me. I check the clock. Early. I am probably the first kid in history to report early for detention.

May as well work on
The White Knight
while I wait. Let’s see … broken arm. White Knight and Alia finally together.

The White Knight grasped Alia’s hand and they fled the enchanted fort.

An hour later, convinced they were out of the Black Knight’s grasp, the White Knight ducked into a cave and lit a small fire.

“We could go back to the king, your father. He’ll help us.”

The knight grimaced. “The citadel is all but empty. He and his army are out fighting in the wars. He won’t return for some time.”

Alia moved nearer. “Let me look at your arm.”

The knight hesitated. “It is not my arm that worries me.”

He slowly removed his foot from his boot. Alia gasped.

“What is the meaning of —”

“I do not know.” He held his foot nearer the fire’s light. “As a baby, it was just a spot, a birthmark on my toe. But the
gray rot has spread. The skin is now foul to the thigh, and each day the disease spreads more.”

Alia cleared her throat and nodded. “Well then, we will heal what we can. Show me the arm.”

Outside the cave mouth, the thunder of hooves.

“Quick, douse the flame. Move deeper in.” The White Knight grabbed his sword and rose. “A hoard approaches …”

Behind me, the door bursts open and fifteen kids jostle in.

“Assigned seats, everyone!” Purse-lips is hot, but these kids don’t seem to care. I look at their faces. These
are
the hard kids. The Tough Kids. The ones who slink around corners of the school where I dare not go. I hear a sneeze and feel droplets of germ-infested spittle coat my neck.

“Hey, Martin!”

Good heavens. A Tough Kid knows my name. He drops down on a knee beside my desk, wipes his drippy nose with his shirt. I’m dead. And that’s not supposed to happen yet.

“Way to purple the world, man!” Sniffles flashes the peace sign. “That was art.” He grins and stands.

Art? Who are these people?

My bladder throbs. Tough Kid pushes me to an instant bathroom emergency. I stand and walk toward Purse-lips.

“Sit down, Prune Boy.”

“But I really need to —”

The door slams behind me. “You made it, Martin. Welcome to my other life.”

Julia. I turn toward the door and watch her come nearer.

“Sit over here, Julia.”

“Hey, Julia. Saved you a seat.”

The Tough Kids know my princess, but she doesn’t break stride. She reaches me, grabs my shirt, and stares through me. “We need to talk.” She yanks me to an open seat, pushes me into it, digs in her pocket, takes out my story, and slams it down on my desk.

“This story. You wrote it.”

I pound my chest and grin.

“So lying to me didn’t bother you.”

“Uh …”

“This dumb story has been in my mind for weeks. I have illustrated the entire stupid thing. I have spent hours and hours talking to they-both-said-ouch Charley … about something he knows nothing about.”

“Sit down, Julia.” Purse-lips thumps her desk.

Julia drops into her desk. She sits, folds her arms, and seethes.

Think, Dandingo.

The door flies open and the prisoners’ heads swivel.

“Where’s my Martin?” Mom scans the room, locks
in on me, and scurries to my desk. “Are they treating you well? You look red-faced. Is there fever?”

“Can I help you?” Purse-lips sets down her book and approaches my desk.

“I came to see that my son is treated properly. Can he not be placed in a more healthful setting?”

“No, he can’t.”

This is an epic clash, two true champions of lip-pursing battling over my desk. Nobody messes with Mom. Nobody can resist that face. I peek up at the detention lady. Her lips quiver. Mom has her on the ropes. One more glare-nostril-flare combination from the Barn Owl and it will be all over.

My defeated captor drops her gaze and slinks back to her desk up front. I try to slump lower but can’t.
Show your strength, Dandingo!

“In that case, I’ll be taking him home. He is falsely accused. This whole situation is unfathomable. Come along, Martin.”

I close my eyes. I imagine a furious Julia near me, but I don’t want to go home. I want to sit right here in solitary confinement because it feels right. I’d rather be close to an angry Julia than coddled by a paranoid mom.

“No, Mom. I want to stay.”

Mom leans down. “The air in here is bad. Did you notice there are no vents? I didn’t bring the portable air — “

“I want to stay. See you at home.” I lay my head on my desk.

She leans over and whispers, “Who has brainwashed you?”

I say nothing. The room is quiet except for that sick-fly buzzing. Finally, my mom’s steps shuffle for the door. She gently shuts the latch behind her, and the room comes alive. Laughter. Mocking laughter. I lift my head.

“Knock it off. She’s my mom, all right? Just … knock it off.”

I peek at Julia. She shoots me a little smile.

The rest of the hour passes quickly. Purse-lips releases us, and I hurry out the door and down the hall toward the activity buses.

“Martin! Hey.” Julia catches up to me, sets down her backpack, and yanks out a portfolio. She pushes it into my chest and hurries away. I don’t know what it means and I can’t figure her out. But we’ll call the exchange progress.

T
HIS ONE’S A BEAUTY. CHECK IT OUT.”

I gently take the sketch from Poole’s hands. The explosion of sword on stone and the expression on the Black Knight’s face look so real, I blink.

“She’s unbelievable,” I say.

Poole places the other ten drawings back in the portfolio and leans against the inside of our boxcar. “How you doin'?”

The question feels funny. “With her? I don’t know. We’re so different. She’s always getting in trouble, and I —”

“Go on.”

“I never get into trouble, at least I didn’t until the cemetery. It’s weird now, you know? Days sort of mean more now that I don’t have many.”

Poole squints and counts the sidewalk-chalk tally on the wall. “You still have plenty, unless the baby comes early, then shoot, you might be living your last.”

I feel hot. “Thanks, Poole.”

He straightens and brushes off his overalls. “Thing is, this is your chance. What do you want, Marty? More than anything, what do you want?”

“I want Julia to like me.”

He points at the pictures. “Done. But what else?”

“I really want to go on a hot air balloon.”

“Keep going.”

“And I want to join the track team. I always wanted to try that.”

“And …”

From inside the house, Mom’s bell sounds.

“And I’m so tired of being afraid and freaked out every time Mom yells ‘germ.’ I’m sick of that, you know? It makes me feel so … alone.”

Poole jumps out and I follow.

“Alone, huh?” asks Poole. “You have me and Julia and shoot, you keep yelling them prayers, I’d say your alone days are over. And you can blow the germ one off too. You won’t be alive to get sick.” He grins. “Dying does have its silver lining.”

“Funny.” I march toward the house and for the second time it hits — a lightness because Poole’s right. I have two months and my life has changed and nothing I’ve
feared holds me. It’s strange to feel good even though I’ll kick soon, but at this moment I do. I might be
depressed tonight or tomorrow. But I feel free now, and my steps quicken … and stop.

“Say, Poole. I know you say you’re all comfy out here.”

“'Specially since I got me a beanbag.” He grins.

“Right. But I mean, would you ever want to come over? Like a real kid? Like a normal kid, who sort of comes
from
somewhere and hangs for a while? Or a whole night, if you’re sleeping over. Would you ever want to do that?”

Poole stares hard at me. “You’re inviting me over.”

“I think that’s kind of what I did.”

He nods. “Your mom —”

“Would see you in the house and die. Yes, she would.” I tap my temple. “This is why I’m thinking an overnight. Come really late. Grab a hot shower. Load up on leftovers. Fall asleep on a soft mattress —”

“Sold.”

“Then why not tonight?” I ask. “Give me a few hours to work out the details.”

Poole tucks in his shirt and flattens the wrinkles. “Better be presentable.”

Yes, Mom would die.

I burst in my door.

“Family meeting, son.”

I feel good, then bam. Family.

Dad motions me to the couch. Lani and Mom have already assumed their positions in the living room.

Dad cracks his knuckles, sending Mom’s eyes a-rollin'.

“I’ve called this family meeting so we can all voice the concerns —”

“Oh, Gavin, let’s get right to the heart of the matter.” Mom stands and points at me. “You defied …”

Dad gently takes hold of her arm and gentles her down into the La-Z-Boy. “Where was I? Concerns. I want us to voice any concerns we may have. And I want to hear from you kids first. Lani?”

My sister glances at me. “I’m good. Martin’s a little weird. Everyone at school is talking about him and asking me what it’s like to be his sister. But that’s okay.”

Dad nods. “Martin? Any concerns? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints?”

“I —”

“Go on, son. We’re family. You can say anything.”

“And you won’t get mad?”

He shakes his head.

I look at my seething mom. “I don’t want to live like that. All upset and worried. I don’t have the time.”

Mom licks her lips. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t have said it. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to rip you, I’m just tired of it.”

Dad’s eyes sparkle. He walks over to me, gently shakes his head, and turns to Mom.

“Honey? Do you have a response?”

Mom leaps to her feet. “I will not sit here while the family rises up in mutiny against my good care.” She stares at me. “From your first breath I have watched over you and loved you, and of course, I know those efforts mean nothing to you now that you know it all, now that you no longer need my protective wisdom.” She breaks into tears. “But it should. Martin, it should!” Mom scurries toward the stairs.

“Wait!” I dash after her. “I wasn’t saying I don’t appreciate —”

Her steps quicken and she disappears upstairs.

I descend slowly, look from Dad to my sister.

Lani chews on her lip. “That went well.”

“Martin.”

Lani’s whisper squeezes into my room. I leave my computer and throw open the door to the hallway. “Get up.” Sis lifts her head off the floor and crawls inside. I shut the latch behind her.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

I roll my eyes and return to the keyboard. “Let’s
see. Midway Regional Bank. Password, password. What would be Dad’s password?”

“Prune fights. Detention. Stealing from Dad?” She scoots a chair beside mine. “Mom would say you are moving in a negative direction.”

“Mom will not know what I’m doing, will she?” I exhale. “And no, I wouldn’t steal from Dad. I’m robbing myself. My college fund.” I squint hard. “Any idea about Dad’s password?”

“I don’t want any part of this.”

“Then you should leave.”

She folds her hands and her voice drops. “Old soldier.”

I glance at her.

“Saw him punch it in one time. It’s Old soldier. Capitalize the O.”

I enter the account number found in Dad’s office and type in the password. Bingo.

“He has six accounts. Oh, here.” Martin-Education. I click on the balance tab.