The Last Martin (13 page)

“The track team.” He rubs his face, looks at the skull. “The boy wants to join the track team. What do you think?” He holds Ruthie’s jaw up to his ear. “Uh huh. I’ll ask.” He glances at me. “What event are you interested in?”

“What events are there?”

Coach rolls his eyes. “Sprints. 100 meters. 200 meters. 400 meters. Distance events and hurdles.” He bends over and picks up the pelvic bone.

“I don’t run fast. Do you have anything else?”

Coach waves me over. “Help me find the vertebrae.”

It’s worse than touching a bat — Ruthie and I have too much in common.

Wonder if I’ll hang in a classroom someday.

“Let’s see, we only hold a few field events in middle school. You’ll have to wait until high school for all the choices.”

No, I won’t.

“There’s the long jump and the high jump.” “All jumping, huh?”

Coach points at me with a rib. “Are you sure you want to go out for track?”

“Okay, which event has the fewest athletes?” “Easy. Hurdles. Hand me that femur, would you?” He snaps it into place. “I don’t have a single hurdler at 300 meters. We take an automatic disqualification in that event in every meet. What would you say to that?” “That’s more jumping.”

“And running. Double whammy for you.” Behind us, Coach’s homeroom begins to fill. “What do you think?”

I look at the skeleton, my destiny. “I’ll take it.” Coach smiles, walks me to his desk, and hands me a waiver. “Get this signed by a parent or guardian and show up Monday right after school.”

“I’m experiencing a little detention issue — “ He looks at me hard and then pats my back. “Come to the track. I’ll see if I can’t get you out on parole.”

I don’t see Julia until detention. She comes in quietly; sits beside me quietly; twiddles her fingers quietly. I twiddle mine too.

After a minute of finger exercises, she pounds the desk, turns, and glares. “Well? What did you think of them?”

I bend and gently extract her portfolio from my backpack. I lay it on her desk. “Never seen drawings so good.” I point at my nose, Mom’s facial artwork. “I was staring at them so hard I tripped and smashed my face. They’re awesome.”

“You’re right, they are.” Her glare turns into a grin. “That story is pretty good too.”

“Pretty good? It’s better than that. It’s awesome!”

“You’re right. It is.”

Purse-lips shushes us, and I watch another hour of my life vanish. But Julia is here so I won’t complain.

I’m thankful I’m in detention.

The voice is my own. I hear it in my head, which makes no sense. I already kept my bargain today with the syrup scream. But looking at Julia’s smile, I can’t deny it — I am thankful. Really.

We walk together to the activity bus. “What are you doing after school?” she asks.

“I have an errand to run at Midway Stadium.”

“A family errand or an alone errand?”

“Alone, I guess.”

“Want some company? I told Lucy I’d be home late.”

I frown. “Lucy’s your mom?”

“I wish.” She kicks at the ground.

I shrug and feel butterflies flutter in my gut. They’re wrestling or dancing or doing whatever butterflies do when they have a party. “Yeah, I’d like company.”

Ten minutes later, we hop off near my house. We walk the tracks, our arms outstretched. She’s a good balancer. I’m not. Every three steps I fall off my rail and our hands bump. I don’t mind falling off my rail.

“Who’s Lucy?”

“Foster mom number two.” She falls off and stops. “Way better than foster mom number one.”

I say nothing.

“I was in third grade. The principal called me to his office. There were three adults waiting there and they all wore you-poor-thing faces.” She shakes her head and breathes deeply. “I ran out before they could tell me what I already knew. Motorcycle accident.” She forces a smile. “Whenever I’m back in Creaker’s office I sort of feel close to both of them. Like they’re still here, laughing and smiling. Is that weird?”

“No,” I whisper.

She tosses back her hair. “But who cares, right? It’s history. Where are we going?”

“I don’t think you’ll understand.”

“Try me.”

We squeeze between the outfield fencing and walk the warning track.

“It starts with my name. It’s cursed.” I peek at her.

“Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which name?”

“Oh, my first. But kind of my second too. I’m coming to that part.”

I tell her about the cemetery, the ceremony, the pattern. I tell her all about Poole. I remind her that words have power. Then, I wait — for minutes.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“You don’t believe any of it.”

“Nope.”

We walk into the home field dugout and sit.

“But you have a wild imagination. No wonder you write so well. That’d make a good movie —”

“Yeah, it would. I could star as Poole.” A head pops down from the top of the dugout. “Hey, you two.” The leprechaun flips down onto the field. “Nice to meet you again, Julia.”

She nods slowly. “You don’t really live in a boxcar behind Martin’s house?”

Poole bites his lip. “Is that what Marty told you?”

I flash him my squintiest look, and he raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, yeah, but only during the summer months. I’ve had my eye on some used furniture.
The place needs a girl’s touch, someone with an eye for artistic design. You should come by to see — “

I kick him in the shins. “… Martin. To see Martin. That’s right, just toss Poole the leftovers.” He rubs his leg, scowls, and points. “Here comes your bank.”

Poole hobbles toward the equipment door. An old guy limps out. He looks friendly enough — dirty clothes, work boots, no front teeth.

You know, periodic dental visits could have prevented gingivitis and you might still have those — be quiet, Mom!

“So this is Martin. Name’s Frank.” It’s a gravelly introduction, as if he just swallowed a mouthful of infield. “Transferring all that cash? You’re a very trusting kid.”

“There aren’t many options,” I say.

Frank digs in his pocket, retrieves a bank envelope, and slaps it in my palm. “Better count ‘em.”

I set the hundreds on the bench and Julia’s eyes grow big.

“$1,800. $1,900 … Hey, I’m short!”

Frank laughs and reaches into his shirt pocket, extracts one last bill. “Just toying with you, kid.” He glances around the ballpark all nervous-like. “I’m leaving before someone sees this little transaction. Looks mighty illegal.”

Frank totters away; Poole winks at Julia and follows. Finally we’re alone, and silence lands heavy. I don’t want to move. I want to sit right here with Julia and my two
thousand dollars. But the quiet gets all weird, so I stuff the money in the envelope and into my pocket.

“What are you into?” Julia asks.

“I told you. I’m cursed and — “ I face her square. “Let me prove it.”

I lie in bed awake.
How do you convince someone you’re dying?

I throw off the covers. She needs proof. Evidence.

The White Knight
rests on my bedstand. I reach over, flick on the lamp, and grab the notebook.

Beneath me, I hear pounding in the kitchen. Mom and Dad must be having a Discussion. Strange, their talks used to make me wince. But Poole’s parents are gone. Julia’s parents are gone. I guess just hearing your parent’s voices is a reason to be thankful.

“Back to the cave. Okay, a hoard approaches.”

The White Knight crept to the cave mouth, his sword at the ready.

Outside, the sound of dismounting and the clink of approaching armor.

The knight stepped out of the shadows. Twenty knights bearing the Aurel crest, the crest of Alia’s family, bowed low to the ground.

“Rise, friends.” The White Knight exhaled. “How did you find us? Do you have news?”

Lonelyn, the Aurelian commander, slowly rose. “Dire, sir. May I speak to the princess?”

The White Knight stared into the commander’s unblinking eyes. “Alia? Come out.”

Alia came forward, her jaw fixed. “Speak, man.”

Lonelyn bowed low to the ground. “Your parents, the Aurelian king and queen, have been murdered.”

Alia grabbed the White Knight’s hand. Her voice quavered. “By whose hand?”

“It is not known. But we have been sent to find you. The king and queen will be laid to rest tomorrow.” Lonelyn rose and grabbed the reins of two horses. “You must come. Aurel needs a leader, princess. That position now falls to you.”

Alia looked to the White Knight.

“The decision is yours, my lady.”

Tears streamed down her face. “I will come to the cemetery, but only if the White Knight accompanies me.”

“Of course, princess, thus the two horses …”

I set down the pad. Of course. The proof Julia needs. It’s in the cemetery. But the getting there.

I look around my room.

Two horses short.

D
AD, THIS IS JULIA.”

Dad peers over the newspaper, raises his eyebrows at me, and extends a hand to my guest. “Hello, young lady. I take it you’re a student at Midway.”

She nods and looks around our living room. I make a frantic search for photos of bruised body parts. Looks clear.

“Whose voice is that? Have they been offered antibacterial handsoap?” Mom comes out from the kitchen and pauses. “I’ve seen you somewhere. I never forget a face.”

“She’s right,” I whisper. “Like a barn —”

“If you’ve something to say, speak up. Whispering in front of others is the first step toward delinquen — That’s it!” She walks to Dad’s side and hisses, “This girl is a delinquent. She was in detention.”

“So was your son,” says Dad.

“That was
your
son. My son is careful and considerate and has, apparently, vacated the premises. I thought, perhaps, our family meeting was an aberration. But I’ve not received a single thank-you for saving his life from the I-N-T-R-U-D-E-R. See …” She points at my nose. “Proof of my love.”

“Like I was saying, this is Julia, and I need a favor. Now that I think of it, two favors.” I glance from Mom to Dad. “Probably from Dad.”

Mom stomps back to the kitchen. Julia leans over. “If this is trouble for you, I don’t need to go. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal. You believing me
is
a big deal.” I face Dad and take a deep breath. “Tomorrow is Saturday and you don’t work and I don’t work so we’re both free. And Julia doesn’t live with her parents but she does live with a foster parent who is trying to get her to meet nice kids at school. And I’m a nice kid and you’re a nice dad so we qualify. And Julia loves to four-wheel, and we don’t have a four-wheeler, but Uncle Landis does. And I kind of got the bug for them last time I was there, and so I was wondering if tomorrow you would drive Julia and me to Uncle Landis’s place and we could ride and you two could talk or kill stuff.”

I gasp for air and peek at Dad. He’s staring hard at me, a trying-to-figure-me-out stare.

“Oh, and this.” I dig in my pocket and pull out the
crumpled waiver from my track coach. “If you could sign, that would be great.”

“More detention, eh?” Dad grabs the sheet and a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbles without reading. “You
want
to go to Landis’s?”

I snatch back my waiver and wait. He rubs his face. “Absolutely. If you want to go, and it’s fine with Julia’s foster parent, then absolutely.” Crash. Crash.

Pots hit the floor in the kitchen.

Dad smiles at Julia. “Don’t worry about Martin’s mom. She’s getting used to having a teenage boy.”