Tangerine

Harcourt, Inc.

Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

Novels by Edward Bloor

Story Time

Crusader

Copyright © 1997 by Edward Bloor
Introduction copyright © 2007 by Danny DeVito

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bloor, Edward, 1950–
Tangerine/Edward Bloor.
p. cm.
Summary: Twelve-year-old Paul, who lives in the shadow of his football hero brother Erik, fights for the right to play soccer despite his near blindness and slowly begins to remember the incident that damaged his eyesight. [1. Soccer—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Fiction. 3. Florida—Fiction. 4. Visually handicapped—Fiction. 5. Physically handicapped—Fiction. 6. Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B6236Tan 1997
[Fic]—dc20 96-34182
ISBN 978-0-15-201246-5

Text set in Adobe Garamond
Designed by April Ward

Printed in the United States of America
V U T S R Q P O

Dedicated to

JUDY BLOOR BONFIELD

The rites of passage for a fourteen-year-old boy can be unsettling, frightening, and even dangerous. There's little comfort for him facing challenges that often seem insurmountable, especially when he feels misunderstood by his parents and threatened by his older brother. This is the case with Paul Fisher, the protagonist of
Tangerine.
Does he crumble in his difficult journey to become a young adult? It would be unfair of me to reveal any part of this engrossing story. Why spoil the reader's fun in discovering for himself the striking originality and cumulative power of this unforgettable novel?

As a parent, I find
Tangerine
inspiring and uplifting because it presents issues relevant to our times: race relations, sibling rivalry, competitive sports, environmental concerns, and more. But most importantly, it deals with human values—values essential to a boy's growth into a mature and insightful young man. Paul may be visually impaired, but it's never disabled him. If anything, his so-called handicap has enhanced his powers of perception, especially where his parents are concerned: "But I
can
see. I can see everything. I can see things that Mom and Dad can't. Or won't."

"Or won't" are key words in Paul's parents' relationship with his older brother, Erik, a relationship that verges on the dark side—as does Paul's own relationship with Erik. Both athletes, both born of the same parents, Paul and Erik are as different as night and day. The interaction of their individual personalities is what I found compelling, not only as a reader but also as a parent. Erik lurks in shadows. Paul strives for the light. Never has sibling rivalry been portrayed in such an exciting, yet menacing way.

Although
Tangerine
interweaves important themes, it never bogs down in a stodgy seriousness, but always manages to be consistently entertaining. To try to describe the particular nature of
Tangerine
as a novel would not do it justice. It shouldn't be pigeonholed. It's totally unto itself. Unique! But enough of my pontificating on the virtues of
Tangerine.
Dear reader, please do yourself a favor: Turn this page and immerse yourself in a wondrous story that will haunt you long after you've read it.

—Danny DeVito

The house looked strange. It was completely empty now, and the door was flung wide open, like something wild had just escaped from it. Like it was the empty, two-story tomb of some runaway zombie.

Mom called out to me, "Take the bag, Paul. I want to have one last look around."

I said, "I just did. I didn't see anything."

"Well, maybe you didn't look everywhere. I'll just be a minute."

"I looked everywhere."

"Wait for me out by the car, please. We can't have the new owners thinking we left a mess behind."

I picked up the garbage bag and hauled it out to the curb. We'd already packed up our sleeping bags, suitcases, and two folding chairs—all neatly wedged into the back of Mom's Volvo wagon. Now only this ten-gallon, self-tying, lemon-scented garbage bag remained, and we planned to toss it into the Dumpster behind the 7-Eleven. But first Mom had to make sure that I didn't overlook anything. She was worried that the people who bought our house, people who we've never met, would find a McDonald's swizzle stick and think less of us.

Once we dump this garbage bag, that will be it. That will be the last evidence that the Fisher family ever lived in Houston. Dad and my brother, Erik, are already gone. They've been living in Florida for a week now, with the sleeping bags, suitcases, and chairs that they stuffed into Dad's Range Rover. The rest of our furniture left yesterday, professionally packed by two guys who came to really hate Mom. By now it should be over halfway to our new address—a place called Lake Windsor Downs in Tangerine County, Florida.

I set the garbage bag down and leaned against the station wagon, staring east, directly into the rising sun. I'm not supposed to do that because my glasses are so thick. My brother, Erik, once told me that if I ever look directly into the sun with these glasses, my eyeballs will burst into flame, like dry leaves under a magnifying glass.

I don't believe that. But I turned back around anyway, and I looked west down our street at the receding line of black mailboxes. Something about them fascinated me. I leaned my chin against the top of the station wagon and continued to stare. An old familiar feeling came over me, like I had forgotten something. What was it? What did I need to remember?

Somewhere behind me a car engine started up, and a scene came back to me:

I remembered a black metal mailbox,
on a black metal pole.

I was riding my bike home at dinnertime, heading east down this street, with the sun setting behind me. I heard a loud roar like an animal's, like a predator snarling. I swiveled my head around, still pedaling, and looked back. All I could see was the red sun, huge now, setting right over the middle of the street. I couldn't see anything else. But I could hear the roar, even louder now, and I recognized it: the roar of an engine revved up to full throttle.

I tilted up my sports goggles to unfog them. Then I turned back and saw it—a black car—just an outline at first, then clear and detailed. It came right out of the sun. I saw a man hanging out of the passenger window, hanging way out. He had something pulled over his face, some kind of ski mask, and he was holding a long metal baseball bat in both hands, like a murder weapon.

Then the gears ground, the tires squealed, and the car leaped forward at an impossible speed. I swiveled back, terrified, and pedaled as hard as I could. I heard the roar of the car closing in on me, louder and louder, like it had smelled its prey. I shot a glance into my bike mirror, and there it was—half a block behind, then ten yards, then one yard. The man in the ski mask leaned farther out the window. He pulled the bat back and up. Then he brought it forward in a mighty swing, right at my head. I dove to the right, landing on my face in the grass, just as the baseball bat smashed into the mailbox, exploding it right off its pole. Voices inside the car screamed—animal-fury screams—as the crushed black metal clattered across the street.

I scrambled back up. I left my bike there, its wheels spinning, and ran for home. I ran in absolute terror, listening for the sound of the car squealing back around to come after me again.

I burst through the front door, crying hysterically. My goggles were twisted back around my head. I spun around and around looking for Mom. Then Mom and Dad were both in front of me, holding on to my shoulders, trying to calm me down, trying to understand the word that I was saying over and over.

It was "Erik." I was saying "Erik."

Dad finally understood. He looked right into my eyes and asked. "What do you mean by 'Erik'? Erik what, Paul?"

I stammered out, "Erik. He tried to kill me."

Mom and Dad let go of my shoulders and stepped back. They looked at each other, puzzled. Then Dad raised his arm up and pointed to the right, into the dining room. There was Erik. He was sitting at the dining-room table. He was doing his homework.

Dad eyeballed me for a few seconds, then he went out front to look for my bike.

Erik called over, "There he goes. Blaming me again."

Mom took me into the kitchen and got me a glass of water. She ran her finger under the strap of my goggles and slipped them off. Then she said, "Honey, you know how it is with your eyesight. You know you can't see very well." And that was that.

But I
can
see. I can see everything. I can see things that Mom and Dad can't. Or won't.

Mom's voice broke into my remembrance. "Paul?"

My chin was still pressed against the car. She was standing next to me. "Paul? Are you with us?" I leaned back as she beeped the auto alarm and opened the tailgate. "You're remembering all the good times you had here. Aren't you?"

I shook my head to clear it. I reached to pick up the garbage bag. My arms felt weak. I muttered, "I was remembering. I was remembering something that happened."

She held up a white cigarette butt and said, "You don't know anything about this, do you?"

"No."

"I found it in the garage, behind the water heater."

I opened up the garbage bag enough for her to slip it inside. I said, "Good work, Mom." She walked quickly back up to the house, laid her keys inside the foyer, and pulled the door firmly closed.

And that was that. The keys were locked in. The zombie was locked out. And we were on our way.

For Mom the move from Texas to Florida was a military operation, like the many moves she had made as a child. We had our orders. We had our supplies. We had a timetable. If it had been necessary to do so, we would have driven the eight hundred miles from our old house to our new house straight through, without stopping at all. We would have refueled the Volvo while hurtling along at seventy-five miles per hour next to a moving convoy-refueling truck.

Fortunately this wasn't necessary. Mom had calculated that we could leave at 6:00
A.M.
central daylight time, stop three times at twenty minutes per stop, and still arrive at our destination at 9:00
P.M.
eastern daylight time.

I guess that's challenging if you're the driver. It's pretty boring if you're just sitting there, so I slept on and off until, in the early evening, we turned off Interstate 10 somewhere in western Florida.

This scenery was not what I had expected at all, and I stared out the window, fascinated by it. We passed mile after mile of green fields overflowing with tomatoes and onions and watermelons. I suddenly had this crazy feeling like I wanted to bolt from the car and run through the fields until I couldn't run anymore. I said to Mom, "This is Florida? This is what it looks like?"

Mom laughed. "Yeah. What did you think it looked like?"

"I don't know. A beach with a fifty-story condo on it."

"Well, it looks like that, too. Florida's a huge place. We'll be living in an area that's more like this one. There are still a lot of farms around."

"What do they grow? I bet they grow tangerines."

"No. Not too many. Not anymore. This is too far north for citrus trees. Every few years they get a deep freeze that wipes them all out. Most of the citrus growers here have sold off their land to developers."

"Yeah? And what do the developers do with it?"

"Well ... they develop it. They plan communities with nice houses, and schools, and industrial parks. They create jobs—construction jobs, teaching jobs, civil engineering jobs—like your father's."