Box of Shocks (14 page)

But then I hear, “Shhhh! It's okay, Ollie! Just let go. I've got you!” It's Dad's voice.

Fifteen

O
nce I'm on the ground, I expect Dad to ask me a whole bunch of questions. I expect him to ask, “What in the world were you doing up on the roof?” or “Didn't we say you couldn't go back to your old house?” But the only question he asks is, “Are you okay, Ollie?”

“Sure, Dad, I'm okay,” I reply. He squeezes my shoulder a little harder than usual as he walks me back to our new house. As we cross the street, I'm wondering, How did Dad know I was up on the roof? And how did he get there in time to rescue me?

When we reach our front door, I'm not looking forward to facing Mom. But even though I'm soaking wet, she doesn't yell at me about getting her carpet dirty or dripping on the new hardwood floors. She doesn't say a word, but wraps me up really tightly in a gigantic towel that feels like it's right out of the dryer. Then she gives me a hug that's harder than she's ever hugged me before.

“You run upstairs and get changed,” she says finally, “and I'll put the kettle on for some hot chocolate.”

So Mom didn't fire any tough questions at me either. She doesn't even seem mad at me for doing something really dangerous and stupid. Something's different.

After I've changed into dry clothes, the three of us sit around the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate. Mom asks me for about the hundredth time, “Are you
sure
you're okay, sweetie?”

And as I answer for about the hundredth time, “Yeah, I'm fine, Mom,” I realize that Mom and Dad must have known I was going back to our old house. Normally, they wouldn't let me go. Normally they would have stopped me. I wonder why they didn't?

“We know how difficult the move has been for you,” Mom says. “Dad and I could tell you've had a lot on your mind these past few weeks.”

“You could?” I reply. They both nod and smile in a way that tells me they must know a lot more than I think they do.

That's when I decide to tell them everything. Almost everything.

I tell them all about the kid across the street who only brought crackers for lunch. I tell them how the kid didn't have a pet for Mrs. Franzen's project, and how I was taking Bubbles over for him to borrow.

For once, I decide not to lie. I actually tell my parents the truth.

I tell them how the kid works late at the bottle depot, and how scary his parents are. I tell them how I wanted to leave Bubbles in the kid's room, because his parents would probably not let him have a pet. Then I tell them how the family came home way earlier than normal, and I tell them everything else that happened up in his bedroom until I escaped out the window. Dad knows the rest of the story.

There's something I've just got to know, so I ask, “How did you know I was over at our old house?”

Dad and Mom look at each other, then Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Let's just say taking Bubbles for a walk wasn't one of your better excuses.”

“Then why did you let me go?” I say. “Normally you'd never let me go to a stranger's house. And if you knew I was lying about taking Bubbles for a walk, why did you still let me go?”

“I wasn't at all happy about you going over there,” Mom says. “And you're right. They are strangers. We don't know a thing about them.”

“And we were also disappointed that you felt you had to lie about where you were going,” Dad says.

“So why did you let me go?”

Mom reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. “Your dad and I knew it was important to you. You were giving up your pet fish to help out a boy you barely know. Of course, we never thought it would be
quite
so dangerous.”

“We thought you might just drop Bubbles at the back door, but then we saw you go in the side door of the house,” Dad says. “A few minutes later, the old car pulled in with the family, so we knew there was trouble. That's when I went over there.”

“But how did you know I was out on the roof?” I say.

“Do you know how noisy those squeaky old windows are when you open them?”

Mom squeezes my hand again and says, “You look puzzled, Oliver. What's on your mind?”

I know it's a risk, but I decide to ask them anyway. “Why aren't you mad at me?”

“We're not entirely happy with what you did, Oliver,” Mom says, her voice sounding a little more stern. “You knew that going into someone else's house was wrong, and escaping out the window was terribly dangerous. You could have been seriously hurt.”

“Mom's right,” Dad says. “You made some bad decisions. But Mom and I know that your intentions were good. You took a big risk trying to help out that boy across the street.”

“So things didn't exactly work out. Sometimes the best plans go really wrong,” Mom says. “It happens to everyone. When I was your age, I nearly drove Grandpa Golley's car into the lake.”

“And when I was your age, I nearly burned the house down when a science experiment caught fire in the bathroom,” Dad says.

“That's part of growing up,” Mom says. I'd never heard those stories before. Maybe Mom and Dad weren't ready to tell them to me—until now.

While I take a sip of hot chocolate, I think about the kid across the street and his yelling, screaming, crazy parents. I look at my mom and dad and can only think of one thing to say to them.

“Thanks.”

The next morning, Dad and I stop at Grandpa Golley's on the way to school to pick up the parrot.

“I'm sorry to say the birdbrain still hasn't said a word,” Grandpa Golley says, as he helps me put the cage in the back of Dad's car. “Keep the blanket over the cage until the last minute. That way, it might calm him down, and who knows? Maybe you'll even get him to talk. But I wouldn't count on it.”

When I walk into the classroom with the birdcage, the place is wild. A chihuahua has a chicken cornered over by the teacher's desk. Brett's running around the room with a blanket trying to catch his budgie, while Sarah's coaxing her cat down from the top of a bookshelf. Greg is crouched on the floor, reaching under a supply cabinet, grabbing at something hiding underneath. Mom would call this
pandemonium
. Mrs. Franzen is sitting at her desk, smiling nervously, probably because her brilliant teaching idea has backfired in a spectacular way.

I keep the blanket over the birdcage. The last thing I want to do is give Grandpa Golley's parrot a heart attack.

By the time the second bell goes, the chihuahua is back on its leash, the chicken's in its cage, and Greg has his gecko out from under the supply cabinet. When I look over at Sarah with her cat curled up in her lap, I notice an empty desk. The kid's desk.

After all the trouble I went through to get him a pet, he doesn't even show up! Maybe he ate Bubbles. He probably thought I gave the fish to him as a snack. Now, instead of having my own pet fish, I'm stuck with this stupid parrot that won't talk.

I fold my arms and slump down in my seat while Mrs. Franzen rambles on.

“As you know, your oral presentation should be no longer than five minutes, but no less than…” she says.

The oral presentation! I've spent so much time worrying about the kid and my fish, I haven't even thought about my presentation! This is not good.

“Remember, you are to talk to us about the life of your pet. Unless, of course, your pet wants to talk for themselves,” Mrs. Franzen says, smiling.

I could tell her my parrot doesn't talk. But I don't. I scowl. Instead of laughing or smiling, I scowl. I scowl because I haven't planned anything. Nothing. Not one single word. I have no idea what I'm going to say. I scowl because I've tried to help this kid, and all he does is eat my fish! I scowl because I'm stuck with the only parrot in the world that doesn't talk. I have plenty of reasons to scowl. So I scowl.

Mrs. Franzen picks up a pottery bowl from her desk. Inside are slips of paper with everyone's names on them. If she draws your name, you have to do your presentation whether you're ready or not. My only hope is that she forgot to put my name on a slip of paper. Maybe she'll go through the whole class and forget that she missed me.

Not likely.

She reaches into the pottery bowl and swirls the slips of paper around. “We'd better get on with our presentations before our special guests get restless!” she says.

Everyone leans forward, waiting for the first name to be drawn, hoping it won't be them.

“The first person to present is…” Mrs. Franzen closes her eyes and picks out a slip of paper. Everyone holds their breath. She slowly unfolds the paper, and says, “Kiki!”

Yes! I can breathe again!

“Can't we have a redo, Mrs. Franzen?” Kiki says. “I can't do my presentation because Fuzzy's taking a nap.”

“I'm afraid not, Kiki,” Mrs. Franzen says. “Fair is fair. I'm sure you could wake Fuzzy up for your special presentation.”

Kiki leans toward her hamster cage and shouts, “Fuzzy! Wake up!” She looks up at Mrs. Franzen and says, “To be honest with you, Mrs. Franzen, I don't really like hamsters. I don't really like any animals. I had to borrow Fuzzy from my cousin. She warned me that Fuzzy sleeps a lot. He's been sleeping ever since I picked him up last night.”

“Now, Kiki,” Mrs. Franzen says. “No more stalling. You'd better…”

Mrs. Franzen pauses as everyone turns toward the door as the kid shuffles in with both arms wrapped around an old metal bucket. I recognize that bucket. Mom and Dad must have left it behind when they moved. The kid staggers over to his desk near the back of the room, puts the bucket down with a thud and sits.

“Eyes front, everyone!” Mrs. Franzen says. “Kiki, get on with your presentation, please.”

Kiki trudges to the front of the room carrying the hamster cage. She sets it down on a table, unfolds a crumpled piece of paper and begins to read.

“Hello, everyone,” Kiki says. “This hamster's name is Fuzzy, and he's a sleepy, smelly, ugly little rodent…”

I want to see what the kid is up to at the back of the room, but Mrs. Franzen is strict about good audience behavior. That means keeping your eyes glued to the front.

“He spends most of his life sleeping, and the rest of the time he runs on this little wheel, but he doesn't go anywhere. That doesn't seem to matter to him. He also likes to chew up newspaper…”

I don't listen to the rest of Kiki's presentation. I'm too busy thinking about the kid and the bucket. I'm also wondering what happened to Bubbles, and what the kid will do for a presentation. It's tough to do a presentation when you never talk.

Instead of worrying about the kid and Bubbles, I should have been thinking about my own presentation. The next thing I know, Mrs. Franzen pulls another slip of paper out of her pottery bowl and says, “Next to go is Oliver!”

I bury my head in my arms on my desk, hoping that I'll magically become invisible. If I disappeared, she'd have to pick someone else.

“Oliver,” she says again. “It's your turn!”

Okay, so I'm not magically invisible. Instead I'm in trouble. Big trouble. I don't have anything prepared and I have no idea what to say. What would a mute parrot be thinking anyway? If this parrot had anything going on in that birdbrain of his, he'd tell us about it. But no. He doesn't say a word because his brain is totally empty! Mrs. Franzen's assignment is so dumb!

There's no point in arguing with Mrs. Franzen. Even my parents are on her side. I try to come up with some excuse for not doing my presentation. Maybe I should tell her that I have to leave this minute for an emergency orthodontist appointment. The only problem is, I don't have braces. I don't think she'll buy that one.

Maybe I should pretend to faint. That's it! I'll hold my hand to my forehead, stagger around, knocking against desks and running into the wall as I walk up to the front of the room. When I reach the front of the room—
BOOM!
—I'm down on the floor, out cold. They'll call the school nurse, and I'll get to spend the rest of the day in the sick room. The only problem is, Vijay tried the very same thing last week, and Mrs. Franzen didn't buy it. Not only that, I'm a terrible actor. Mrs. Franzen would know in about half a second that I was faking it.

“Please, Oliver. Don't dawdle. We have a whole class of presentations to get through,” she says.

I take a deep breath, grab the handle of the parrot's cage and lug it to the front of the room. As I stand there, I try to think of what to say, but not one single part of my brain is working. My brain is completely shut down! Lights out! No one's home! I spend a couple of minutes clearing my throat, hoping something might suddenly happen to save me—like an earthquake or a meteorite crashing into the school. Or maybe the school will go into lockdown mode because a moose is marauding through the halls. When I don't feel the floor shake, hear a meteorite hit the school or see any moose antlers on the horizon, I reach for the birdcage. Very slowly, I lift the blanket off the cage. There are a few
oohs
and
ahhs
when the class finally sees the parrot.