The Saturday Boy [David Fleming] (fb2) читать постранично

David Fleming THE SATURDAY BOY

For a mouse,

a monkey,

and a bear.

1

IT WAS A RAINY and cold morning and the bus was late and so was Budgie.

I tried not to think about how cold and wet I was so I thought about superheroes instead. One of them had a cape and could fly. The other had mutant superstrength. There was a burning city and people fleeing in the background and everything.

* * *

“Your reign of terror ends here, Richter!”

“That’s what you think, Captain Glory! See how you like my earthquake strike!”

Richter clenches his hands over his head and brings them down, striking the ground with enough force to fling Captain Glory into the side of a building like a rag doll. The building shudders and bits of brick and mortar shake loose and fall to the ground. A fire hydrant breaks free from the asphalt, rocketing skyward on a great jet of water, and is lost in a haze of dust and smoke. In seconds, everything is drenched. The fire hydrant lands a block away with a loud CLANG!

Richter advances on the fallen Captain Glory, trapping him in the shadow cast by a city in flames. Captain Glory struggles beneath the rubble but can’t free himself. Water from the broken pipe rains down as Richter raises his fists a second time and… and…

Sneezed.

Then he noisily wiped his nose on his sleeve while Captain Glory just lay there shivering in a puddle.

* * *

After that all I could think about were wet superheroes. And then cold ones. So I stopped thinking about superheroes altogether.

Budgie usually wasn’t late because Budgie’s dad dropped him off every morning on his way to work. Budgie’s dad drove a big, silver spy car with leather seats that heated up when you pressed a button and on days like this he’d let me and Budgie sit in the back until the bus came if we promised not to touch anything. It was hard though because there were a ton of buttons in the back of Budgie’s dad’s spy car. One time Budgie said it had an ejector seat but when I asked him where it was he wouldn’t tell me. Not even after I offered him the crumble cake from my lunch box. Not even after I gave him the crumble cake from my lunch box. Now I don’t believe there was ever an ejector seat. I bet there wasn’t a button for a smoke screen, either. Or an oil slick. Sometimes I don’t like Budgie that much. Sometimes I’d just like to punch him one.

I looked off down the street through the rain. No bus. Then I looked off down the street in the other direction. No Budgie’s dad. Man, I could really go for some heated spy car seats, even if it wasn’t a real spy car. I could go for heated spy car seats even if I had to sit with Budgie, who always smelled like eggs and sometimes punched me in the leg for no reason. I could go for heated spy car seats because I was cold and starting to shiver.

A car pulled up next to me but it wasn’t a spy car. It was a minivan—a boring old minivan with boring, old, nonheated, regular backseats. It beeped at me so I moved over and stepped right into a puddle and now my sneakers were filling up with water. Now I’d have to dry my socks and shoes on the radiator and sit at my desk with cold pruney-raisin feet and probably miss recess. The window rolled down and I heard someone say my name.

“Derek?”

It was Budgie’s mom. Budgie was in the backseat laughing and holding his belly as if his guts were about to pop out all over the car. His face was red and wobbly. He looked like a big tomato.

Budgie’s mom got out of the car with an umbrella and came around and opened the door and I got in. I was dripping water everyplace like I was melting and my book bag was soaked and probably my books were, too.

Budgie laughed so hard he farted.

“Derek?” Budgie’s mom asked.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing in the rain?”

“Waiting for the bus,” I said.

“Derek?” Budgie’s mom asked.

“Yes?”

“It’s Saturday.”

2

INSTEAD OF TAKING ME home right away, Budgie’s mom drove to the ice rink to drop Budgie off for hockey practice because they were already running late. On the way, Budgie’s mom called my mom on her cell phone and told her about me and the bus stop and said she didn’t see how I could have gotten ready for school and left the house and been standing at the bus stop in the rain for so long without anybody noticing and that she wasn’t judging, she was just saying.

“I know it must be difficult, Annie,” she said, “given your, well, you know—your circumstances.”

But Budgie’s mom didn’t know. She was just one of those people who said they did. I got the feeling that sometimes the people who said they knew everything actually knew way less than everybody else. If that was true, then Budgie’s mom was some kind of reverse genius.

Budgie laughed at me all the way to the ice rink. Weird squeaking noises came out of him as he held his belly and I kinda wished his guts would pop out all over the car. He was going to tell everyone at school, I just knew it. By recess time on Monday, they’d be calling me “ducky-boy” or “puddle-duck” and they’d quack at me when I passed them in the hall or something. Monday was going to be bad. Maybe I could get a cold before then.

At my house, my mom waved to Budgie’s mom from the doorway but Budgie’s mom drove away without waving back. Because she had to drive me home she was going to be late for her hair appointment and if she was late for her hair appointment they might cancel it altogether and if that happened then her whole day would be ruined and it would be the end of the world. I might have left something out but that’s mostly what she told me.

Mom leaned against the washing machine in the mudroom and tucked her hair back. Normally her frizzy curls were tied back in a ponytail or a braid because of work, but this morning they were wild and free. When she asked what she was going to do with me, I suggested she give me a dollar. She smiled at that, which made me happy. Mom didn’t smile much anymore. Well, she did but most of the time it was like something was missing. You could tell.

“What happened this morning?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s stupid,” I said. “I—it’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s me.”

“You won’t laugh?”

“Why would I—of course not!”

“I thought it was Friday.”

“When?”

“When I woke up this morning. I—hey! You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not!”

“You are! You’re totally laughing at me!”

“I am not. I’m… snickering.”

“Well stop.”

“Sorry.”

“Because it’s not like it never happened to you.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“When I woke up you were still sleeping and I didn’t want to bother you because I know you’ve been working a lot lately. So I got myself ready. And I went. By myself. So you could sleep. It was really very thoughtful of me.”

“Yes, it was, Piggy, very thoughtful. And I’m sorry.” She poked my belly and tweaked my nose—a thing she used to do when I was little. “I’m sorry it rained on you, and I’m sorry you caught Budgie’s mom in a bad mood when you were just trying to do something nice for me.”

“Apology accepted,” I said, tweaking her nose in return.

“And you shouldn’t worry about me like that when I’m sure you have big, important eleven-year-old things to think about instead, right?”

I shrugged. She was right. I did have important eleven-year-old things to think about. Lots of them. But they weren’t going to stop me from worrying about her sometimes. I didn’t tell her that, though, because as much as she didn’t want me to worry about her—I didn’t want her to worry about me.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Buttloads.”

“Really? Buttloads? You’re going with that?”

I told her I was.

She hugged me tight, told me she loved me and to run upstairs and towel off and put on some dry clothes so I