Read Brass Monkeys Online

Authors: Terry Caszatt

Brass Monkeys (3 page)

“He’s a bit young to be driving, isn’t he?” said Mom.

“Actually, he’s fourteen,” said Harriet, “and he’s got a driver’s permit.”

Alvin came toward us again, hitting the brakes at the last second. He rolled down his window, and I saw a big haystack of a kid with unruly blond hair.

“Alvin,” Mom called out, “thanks so much for doing this.”

He grinned. I could see he had a chipped front tooth. “Nuttin’ to it,” he said.

He glanced over at Harriet. “Howdy, Harriet.”

“Hi, Alvin,” said Harriet. As though it were planned, both of them turned and looked at me. I could tell Alvin was checking me over with a critical eye. All this staring was beginning to drive me nuts, and I wanted to yell out,
“Whaat?”

“So, Alvin,” Mom broke in, “how should we unload? Can I pull straight in?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, “better back that sucker in.”

“Oh gosh, I can’t do that,” said Mom. “Eugene, can you?”

They all turned and looked at me, and again I noticed how closely Harriet and Alvin were watching. “Mom,” I said, like the biggest dolt in the county, “I can’t back this thing, no way.”

“Hey, no problemo,” said Alvin. “I’ll put that fardex in there for you.”

We got out of the car and stood shivering in the cold wind while Alvin climbed in behind the wheel. In seconds he had the trailer backed snugly to the front steps. He jumped out to see if he was close enough. “What do you think?” he asked me.

“Well, as an expert Tonka truck driver,” I said, “I’d say it was perfect.”

Alvin let loose with a great, booming laugh. “Fardex, man! That is hi-larious! The old Tonka driver!”

He gave me a playful punch on the arm that jolted me painfully. I was going to ask him what “fardex” meant, but I began to suspect he used it whenever he felt like it and that it could mean any number of things.

Mom and Harriet were already opening the doors on the trailer, and as I started over to help, I saw a movement in one of the lower windows of the house. It was just a flash of
green
, but it made the hair on my neck prickle with alarm. I turned to the others. “I think someone’s in the house.”

“Is he acting dumb?” Alvin wanted to know as he hoisted a rug to his shoulder. He and Harriet seemed unconcerned.

I looked back at the window and saw a boy in a green winter coat peering out. His head was tilted and he held the curtain under his nose like a huge mustache.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I said with a laugh.

“Oh, my gosh,” said Mom, humor-handicapped as usual. “What
is
he doing?”

The boy was plastering his face against the glass like a giant snail.

“It’s Weeser,” said Harriet. “I mean Walter, Doris’s son. He’s being goofy.”

Alvin grinned. “The little bizarro. He came out with me and he’s supposed to help unload, but he likes to fool around.” Alvin started toward the front door carrying an enormous load consisting of two rugs, a lamp, and a large footstool. When he opened the door I saw the kid jump back out of sight.

“C’mon Weeser,” said Alvin, “get your butt in gear and give us a hand.”

Alvin lumbered inside with his load and Weeser popped into the doorway. He was a pale kid with washed-out brown hair, large glasses, and a wispy mustache. He held up both hands in a “V” for victory signal and said in a gravelly voice, “I am not a criminal.”

“That’s his President Nixon impression,” said Harriet. “He thinks it’s funny.”

“Read my lips. No new taxes!” cried Weeser. “Who said that?”

“George Bush, Sr.,” snapped Harriet. She turned quickly to me. “Whatever you do, don’t encourage him,
please.”
She and Mom headed toward the entrance, carrying some boxes of dishes.

Weeser came down the steps and stood watching me as I pushed more stuff toward the edge of the trailer. His eyes were a startling green.

“So,” he said, “you finally got here.”

I nodded. “I’m here. I’m Eugene Wise.”

“So I’ve heard.” He jumped up beside me. He looked like an overgrown elf. “Never was there a name more disappointing,” he said, grinning slyly.

I gave him a puzzled look. “Yeah, what’s wrong with my name?”

Weeser rolled his eyes as if this was the dumbest question he’d ever heard and said, “Duwang! It’s your
initials
. When we heard it was E.W. we were so depressed. I mean down, glum, butt-on-the-floor grim, man. Harriet and Alvin still have hope, confidence, and great expectations, but obviously I don’t.”

I stared at him. “You know what?” My voice had a snappy edge to it. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.” I took a deep breath. “In fact, none of the stuff this morning has made any sense to me.”

Weeser grinned. “Knew it wouldn’t. Kept telling Harriet and Alvin that. I told them E.W. doesn’t fit, so you can’t be the one. I said we should listen to the Prince of Words. He’s smart, alert, intuitive, and he knows a thing or two.”

“Oh yeah, great. So who’s the Prince of Words?”

“Me, of course,” said Weeser. “Duu-wang!”

He opened his eyes wide and made such a crazy face I had to laugh. He joined me and he had the funniest, wheeziest laugh. But then it ended in a coughing fit that turned his face scarlet. Alarmed, I started to pat him on the back.

“It’s okay,” he gasped. “I’m fine.” He sat down and began fanning himself. “I’m robust, lusty, and feelin’ my oats. Not.”

Harriet came out then. “Oh no, Weese, what happened?” She turned to me. “He’s got asthma real bad and he’s supposed to stay calm.”

“He was talking about my initials,” I said boldly, “and how they don’t fit.” I figured it was time to hit this crazy stuff head on and get some answers.

Instantly Harriet looked worried. She gave Weeser a sharp look and was about to say something, but we could hear Mom and Alvin talking and then Alvin burst out, coming for another load.

Harriet bent over, straightened Weeser’s glasses, and said quietly, “Quit messing around. We’ll talk to Eugene later.”

“I’m not messing around,” Weeser said, indignantly. “I resemble that.”

“And don’t get goofy with the words,” added Harriet. “We don’t have time.”

Weeser turned and gave me a sly grin. “I like pithy words,” he said.

“Ew, watch your language,” cried Alvin, as he bounded up onto the trailer.

“I like pungent words,” Weeser continued, “like protean, pristine, and pulchritudinous.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a word-nerd,” said Alvin, giving me a big wink.

“Look, guys, this is funny and all,” I began, “but the truth is I’m starting to feel a little weird here. I need to know what’s going on.” Seeing Harriet’s alarmed look, I lowered my voice. “I mean, just tell me. Mom can’t hear us.”

Alvin nodded at Harriet. “So what the fardex, tell him. Just blab it out real quick. We’ll get to the details later.”

Harriet chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then gave me that intense, golden-eyed look of hers. “It’s kind of hard just to blurt it out,” she began. “But we thought, all three of us at first, that you were coming here to help us.”

“Sort of like a madman rebel,” said Alvin. “You know, a wild kid who wouldn’t be afraid of stuff.”

“Like a crusader,” added Weeser, “a wandering warrior.”

“Like a salmon on rye,” said Alvin.

Weeser rolled his eyes.
“Samurai.”

“Samurai?” I stared at them. “To do what?”

Harriet took a deep breath and gave me such a look of desperation I could barely meet her eyes. “To help change our horrible, rotten school.”

4
my secret cult me

When I heard this, I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or fall down and begin bawling like the true wimp I am. One thing was for sure: when the word “school” hit me, I could feel my stomach tying itself into the world’s biggest square knot.

“For crying out loud,” said Weeser, “don’t faint.”

“Faint?” I snorted sarcastically. “I’m not going to faint.” More like topple over and die, I thought. I forced myself to inhale. “Why in the heck would you think I was some kind of warrior and all that? I mean, I don’t understand any of this. And
school
?”

“There’s a good reason for it all,” said Harriet. “The note.”

“What note?” I asked. I sounded so baffled, it was like I had said, “What foot growing out of my head?”

Just then Mom reappeared at the front door, waving cheerfully. “Table and chairs, guys. C’mon, hop hop.”

Mom kept us hard at work for the next hour, and I went around feeling like I was caught in a bad dream. I desperately wanted to know more, but at the same time I wanted to avoid any talk about me being some kind of caped crusader with an “S” for Samurai embroidered on my briefs. Who in their right mind would move to Grindsville just to reform their “horrible, rotten school”?

I expected the house to fit right in with my depressed mood, I was totally wrong about it. It was a pleasant surprise. It may have looked gloomy from the outside, but inside it was cheery. There were hardwood floors, lots of windows, and a small fireplace in the living room. And my eyes lit up immediately when I saw all the bookcases. For the first time in my life, I’d have a place for my books.

It was nearly five o’clock and growing dark outside when I found myself alone with Harriet. We had just finished putting the bed together in my room, and Mom had dragged Alvin and Weeser downstairs to help unload some boxes of canned goods. Harriet tiptoed to the landing and listened a moment, then came back to me. Her eyes had that deep golden look.

“You want to see the note, right?

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Sort of. Maybe.”

“I know you do.” She grinned at me. “It’s written all over your face.” Eagerly, she reached into her shirt pocket, brought out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Take a look at this and then you’ll see why we thought it might be you.” She hesitated, then added, “And why I still haven’t given up hope.”

I started to unfold the note when, I heard voices on the stairs. It was Alvin and Weeser. Impatiently, Harriet waved them in and then motioned to me to hurry up. I opened the note and read the hastily printed message:

Dear Harriet Grove,
Must write fast! Danger is close!
I know school is horrible, but trust me, help is
Watch for B.B., Dec. 19. He’s an eighth grader,
a brave resourceful kid and a reader of books.
Be careful
WHO
you show this to; could be dangerous.
PS. You will be contacted soon.

When I handed the note back to Harriet I realized my hand was shaking.

“Wow, that’s crazy stuff,” I began, “but I don’t understand any of it. I mean, did you guys actually think I was this B.B. kid and that I was sent here to help you with school?”

Harriet gave me a level look. “I did, absolutely.”

“Hoped, prayed, and yearned for it,” said Weeser.

“Would have made me a happy pooperoodie,” muttered Alvin.

“We don’t know who wrote the note,” Harriet went on, “but just two days after I got it, Doris told me
you
were coming to Grindsville. And then we found out you were in the
eighth grade
. And
when
were you arriving?
On the nineteenth
. Plus, she said you liked to read books. It all fits, except for the initials.”

“Exactly, the initials,” I said. “On top of that, I don’t know a thing about any of it.” I felt flushed and hot. “So maybe somebody wrote the note as a joke.”

Harriet gave me a piercing look. “The note isn’t a joke, believe me. Somebody knows exactly what’s wrong with our school and they’re trying to help.”

“So what exactly is wrong with your school?” I said. I tried to keep my voice under control, sort of Samurai cool. “You make it sound pretty terrible.”

Weeser let out a wheezy breath. “It’s conborfear.”

“Conborfear?” I said, imitating his accent on the second syllable.

“It’s Weesey’s made-up word,” said Alvin. “It’s short for confusion, boredom, and fear. And that pretty much sums up education at Grindsville Middle.”

“Except that it’s gotten a lot worse,” added Harriet, “especially lately.”

“Yeah, but c’mon, you guys.” I tried to laugh it off. “I mean, conborfear? That describes the last school I was in, and probably ninety-nine percent of—”

Harriet shook her head fiercely. “You don’t understand, Eugene. But you will.”

Alvin gave me a gloomy look. “So this really means you don’t know a thing about our school. And no one sent you, right?”

“Nobody,” I said.

“But you’d tell us if they had, right?” said Harriet. She had grown pale.

“Absolutely I would. Truly.”

“Okay, wait a minute. What about this?” Weeser frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ve got another name you never knew about—a secret cult name like Bernie Blavatski, or something. Or maybe an Indian tribe adopted you when you were little and you’ve got a tribal name like Buffalo—”

“Booger,” said Alvin helpfully.

I laughed, but then stopped because I could see how desperate they were.

“Guys, listen,” I said, “there’s no cult or Indian tribe. I’m just simple old Eugene Wise. That’s been my name forever.”

Harriet’s eyes filled suddenly and she looked away.

“Rats,” mumbled Alvin.

“I told you guys it wasn’t him,” said Weeser. “And anyway, whoever this B.B. is, he’d have to be one rowdy boy.”

Alvin sighed. “Yeah, he’d have to be a major fardex.”

“What? Just to fight off some stupid boredom and stuff?” I was irritated by the way they were comparing me to the great B.B. What was I—a minor fardex?

Harriet shook her head grimly. “It’s a lot more serious than just boredom.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Alvin. “First of all, last week little dufus here”—he jabbed a big hand at Weeser—”told one of his buddies that a day at Grindsville Middle was like having your brain sucked out. Duwang! Not too bright, ‘cause the kid ran straight to Ming the Merciless and told her.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the real problem now,” said Weeser, glancing at Harriet. “After last Friday, I’m not even a pop-up ad on her computer.”

Harriet shuddered. “It’s true, I’m the problem now. And I know she’s just waiting for me tomorrow.”

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