The Last Martin (12 page)

“$22,000 available? I don’t need that much. I’ll just take two thousand.”

“Don’t be stupid. Like Dad won’t be suspicious if the bank sends him a check for two thousand dollars.”

I dig in my pocket and yank out the series of numbers Poole gave me.

“He won’t know. I’m transferring to a friend of Poole’s who works at the stadium.”

“The vagrant? That crazy who came to school? What if his friend keeps it?”

“Wouldn’t matter much. What do I need it for anyway?”

Lani leans back. “What’s going on?”

I want to tell her about the curse. I want to let her in because she feels more like my sister than she ever has before. She’s now my partner in crime and she deserves to know. But I can’t. Don’t know why, but I can’t. If she believed me, she might cry, and I couldn’t take that.

“I’m changing life plans, Lani. This may come in handy.” I push my hand through my hair and push back from the computer. “College isn’t in my future.”

“Mom will kill you.”

“She can’t. It’s not possible.” I slap my hand over my mouth.

Lani stands and walks toward the door. “You’re a different brother. I don’t think I know you. I like you, don’t get me wrong.” She squints. “You’re not into D-R-U-G-S?”

I laugh. “No.”

She nods, big and slow. “Well, I just wanted to tell you I thought it was great how you answered Mom. Definitely not a loser-answer.”

Lani opens the door, peers out, and slips into the
hall. Her head pops back inside. “You didn’t hear the P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D from me … Martin!”

I jump and yank Lani inside, slam the door.

“It’s really important that Mom doesn’t come in here right now.”

She jumps behind me and vice-grips my gut. “The window.”

I peer out. A face stares back and I dive to the floor, bringing Lani with me.

Slowly, the window opens and a grimy leg pokes in.

“Hey gang, Marty, Lani. Looks like I got here in time for the fun. What are you playing?”

Lani scrambles to her feet and reaches for the door. I lunge, perform a perfect tackle/hand-slap-over-the-face combination, and again Lani thumps to the ground.

“Don’t think I want to tackle Lani all night.” Poole tests the firmness of the bed with his hand. “Do you have any other games?”

“Listen,” I hiss into Lani’s ear. “Poole is over for a sleepover. I’m not sure why he chose …” — I dagger eye Poole — “the
window
entrance.”

Poole jumps on the bed and lands flat on his back. “Thought there’d be less commotion.”

I point at Lani. “Yes, this is far less. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“So sis, I’m going to let your mouth free and I need it to be quiet. It’s a miracle the Owl isn’t here already. Can
you promise not to make any normal, sisterly, shrieky noises?”

“Mm-hm.” She nods, and I slowly remove my palm.

Lani stands and glances from Poole to the open window. “I’m going to my bedroom now. Where doors
and windows
are always locked. I have no valuables except for a clarinet.” She peeks at Poole. “You don’t play clarinet, do you?”

Poole shakes his head, and Lani tries my doorknob for the third time. “So you’d better stay in
this
room.” She slips out the door.

“Well, Poole,” I let my arms flop to my sides. “Welcome to my home.”

Y
OU’VE NEVER HAD A SLEEPOVER?”

I bite my lip and shake my head. I flip through Julia’s art. “Nope. Kids less concerned with hygiene …” I quote Mom and peek at the dusty kid stretched out on my bed. If any kid ever qualified. “… are the carrier pigeons of disease.”

“I used to have sleepovers. Eight, nine of us running around my house.” Poole grins. “We’re probably pushin’ the sleepover age limit, but hey, we’re making up for lost time. Hand that art over here again.”

I hand over a few sheets, stretch out on the floor, and stare at the look on the White Knight’s face. He kind of looks like me. “So what now?”

“Typical sleepover? Food. Stupid conversations. Too-loud music. Maybe a movie that scares the wits out of you.”

“I haven’t done real well here. No cake. Can’t play music. No horror flicks.” I close my eyes. “Sorry, Poole.”

“No friend, you did great. Tackle-the-Lani was fun to watch, and I’m guessing’ that there must be something in your fridge.” He bounces on the mattress. “And this bed is worth the price of admission.”

I sit up. “It’s yours for the night. I’ll, uh, take the floor.”
The germ-infested floor.

We lie in silence for a minute.

“Say, Marty. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Might be a strange time to mention this, but Julia, she’s —”

“Nobody you need to be thinking about.” I stand and snatch back her pictures from his hands.

“I’m not. But if … And don’t get this wrong, friend. We’ll beat this curse thing.” He turns. “But if we don’t and you aren’t around … you know what? Forget it.”

“No.” I say quietly. “You and Julia have that wild side in common. Sounds cool to me. But nothing until I’m —”

“'Course not. Wouldn’t think of it.”

More silence.

I exhale. “I’ll, uh, check the kitchen.”

I sneak down the steps and open the fridge. “No lasagna. There. Meatloaf is close.”

A quick preheat later, I re-enter my room. “Here, I brought you some …”

Snore.

“Meatloaf.”

Poole sleeps with a smile on his face. No way I’ll take that away from him. Probably his first nice bed in years.

I enjoy the late-night snack, shut down the computer, and stretch out on the floor.

Why’d it take a death sentence to get me a sleepover? Why is the only person at my only sleepover a vagrant? Why did said vagrant ask me for his blessing to steal my princess? Nothing in my life makes sense. Not my newfound sister. Not the words I said at the family meeting. Not Poole’s disgusting microbials dancing on my sanitized bedsheets.

But I feel good. Having Poole here feels good.

As long as I get him out before 5 a.m.

Sleep doesn’t come. Poole, Julia, Death, and barn owls float through my mind’s middle world — a land where I’m not quite unconscious, but definitely not awake. It’s a place where dreams run free, and at 4:45 I stagger up, exhausted from my adventures.

A shower. Something to wash off the night.

Poole’s snore rumbles from beneath the sheets.
Least somebody slept well.

“Be right back,” I whisper, and stumble out toward the bathroom.

Hot water on a cool morning. There’s nothing better, and I smile.

Bang. Bang. Distant clangs and a shout.

I shut off the water, poke my head out of the curtain, and reach for the towel.

Poole throws open the door to the hallway, leaps in, and slams it shut behind him.

“We have other bathrooms,” I say.

Bang. Bang! The sound nears, and Poole stares at me with wild eyes.

“Barn Owl!” He opens the linen closet, frowns, and throws open the window. “Marty, my friend. Thanks for the sleepover.”

“What is going —”

Poole eases himself out, drops silently onto porch shingles. He turns, salutes, and jumps out of sight.

“Can’t be good on the ankles,” I whisper, and shut the window and wrap with a towel. I open the hallway door.

Smack!

A saucepan smashes my nose, and I crumple to the ground. Mom shrieks. I groan. Lani dashes toward us.

“Oh, Lani. Get me a towel. I mashed Martin!”

A pool of nasal blood forms around my head. I wriggle my nose.

“I’m okay, Mom.” I sit and pinch my nostrils together. “If you would’ve used the Crock-Pot, that’d be different.” Mom gapes, and I continue. “If you need the bathroom, next time maybe just knock?”

I smile. Mom purses her lips.

“You have no idea what I saved you from,” she hisses. “In your bed, waiting to commit a heinous act, was a ruffian the likes of which you’ve not encountered.”

Lani bursts out laughing. “You were chasing Poo — “ She clears her throat. “I mean a ruffian? Catch him?”

“Your levity does not amuse. And yes.” Mom glares into the bathroom, lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s hiding in that bathroom. Do not worry children …” Mom rises, steps quietly — cat-like — then screams toward the linen closet.

I stand and walk back down the hall with Lani. We turn to see Mom slump to the floor, all a mutter. “In the bed. He was in Martin’s bed. Then down the stairs, into the study. He hopped Gavin’s desk. Into the kitchen. Back upstairs. Into this bathroom. I saw it …”

My face throbs, and I draw my towel tighter around myself.

Lani bumps my shoulder. “One sleepover is probably all you need.”

H
ALLELUJAH! THANK YOU FOR THIS MELTY BUTTER dripping down my pancakes!”

Lani jumps and drops the Aunt Jemima onto the floor. I should have warned her, but I wanted to get my primal thankfulness yell out of the way early.

“What was that for?” She swallows hard.

I shrug and stuff a bite in my mouth. “I was just — I mean, pancakes without melty butter?” I lift the butter dish and inspect it closely. “What good are they, right?”

“Right,” she says slowly.

I finish and carry my dish to the sink. “Where’s Mom?”

“Back in bed.” Lani yawns. “She called in sick to the library. The locksmith is on his way to change all the locks.”

I chuckle, drop my dish with a clank, grab Julia’s pictures, and race out toward the bus stop.

“Top of the mornin', Martin.” Father Gooly squints. “Appears you took a blow to the face, lad.”

I shrug at Father Gooly and hop up the steps. He grabs my arm and I lean in.

“What might be going on with Charley? He bears the look of dead veal, don’t cha know. Won’t say a word to me.”

I pull free and hobble down the aisle. Sure enough, there’s a sickly looking veal slumped in the backseat. I ease down beside him.

“Don’t!” Veal springs to life and shoves me back into the aisle. “Don’t even think about planting that ugly face there. Take the seat behind me.”

“But there isn’t a seat — “ I plop down again, and the bus clunks forward. “What’s up?”

“It would be nice if we could just pretend that everything was an accident. But it’s no good, Marty. My old best friend Marty. Snake-in-the-grass Marty. Weasel Marty.”

I sigh and let my head fall back against the seat. “For my sake, humor me. Make believe I know nothing, okay?”

“'I wrote a song so the world will know, how Martin’s friend feels about Julia Snow.’
Do I need to go on?”

“You wrote her a song?” My face scrunches. “You can’t sing.”

“No kidding. That was a nice touch. You outdid
yourself. But did you have to play it in the girls’ locker room? Why, Martin?”

My jaw drops. “I didn’t write a song. I didn’t sing a song. I don’t know who wrote … I do know who wrote it. Poole.”

“Boxcar boy?”

Charley puts on his thinking face. That’s tough for Charley so it takes a while, but two minutes later his eyes light up. “He’s the friend. Poole was talking about himself.”

“He’s the friend.”

“But I’ll never be able to speak to Julia again. I knew that kid was trouble the first time I saw him.”

I look away from Charley and grin. Poole messed up my life, but the more I think about it, his visit was pretty effective.

I get to school and weave toward the health department. Same kids. Same halls. But today I’m the zoo animal. Martin, Treatment, Psycho Mom, Julia — the words are everywhere. But I can’t slow down. I’m on a mission to find the health teacher, Coach Murphey. I gently open his classroom door and peek inside.

“Coach?”

The big man jumps, and his life-sized skeleton rattles
and clanks to the floor, its bones piling in a plaster heap. Coach turns, a skull left in his hands.

“You don’t want to know how long it took to piece Old Ruthie together.”

“No, I don’t.” I slip in and the door slams behind me. The pelvis jiggles off its pole and clatters to the floor with the rest of the bones.

Coach tongues the inside of his cheek. “Now that you have my undivided attention, what can I do for you?”

I breathe deeply. “I want to join the track team.”