The Fingertips of Duncan Dorfman (25 page)

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mike?” Aunt Djuna said. “Duncan doesn’t know what it means, and neither do I.”

Duncan had almost forgotten that his great-aunt was standing there. For the past few minutes it had just been him and his father. Michael Scobee reached into his top desk drawer and took something out. He stretched his arm over to Duncan and nodded. At first, Duncan kept his own arm by his side. Then, reluctantly, he put out his arm and opened his fingers and felt something fall into his palm. It was a key.

“Safe-deposit box number eighty-five at the Drilling Falls Savings Bank,” said his father. “Eight-five.”

“Eight-five,” said Duncan, thinking for a moment. “Like August fifth, my birthday.”

“Exactly. When you’re ready, you can go down to the bank with your mother and open it. I understand she may not approve, but you’ll have to work that out with her. Maybe Djuna can help. At any rate, you are now the holder of the key.”

“I don’t get it,” said Duncan. “You never once tried to see me all this time. You never even let me know that you still
existed.
”

His father shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve got no excuse in the world. Twelve years ago I was given a big test, and I totally failed it. And I’ve been failing it ever since.” He paused. “But for what it’s worth, and I know it’s not worth much, every year on August fifth I’ve done a big display here in the store. All the employees prepare for weeks in advance. I have toy trains running through the place, and confetti, and a giant cake; the works. Kids love it. I’ve always pretended that it’s the store’s birthday, but that isn’t true. It’s yours.”

 

 

For most of the drive back to the house, Duncan and his great-aunt didn’t say much. It was understood that they would keep this nighttime visit to themselves. Soon enough they would tell his mother what they had done; just not yet. As they neared the house, Aunt Djuna said, “I always thought your mother should let him share some of the financial burden. I still say she should. Maybe that can happen now. Unless that safe-deposit box is like one of those big bins in his store. Filled with—”

“—flip-flops,” said Duncan.

“Or spatulas,” said his great-aunt.

“Or cans of jalapeño Cheezy Chips!” Duncan said, and they both laughed a little, then yawned in synchrony.

“And while she’s at it,” Aunt Djuna continued, “your mother ought to let you pick out your own shirts by now. I bet you’d pick different ones if you had your way; am I right? I’ll bring up the subject with her, if you don’t feel you can do it yourself. Also,” she said, “I see that there’s a new migraine pill on the market. It’s called Throbbex. I saw a commercial for it while I was watching you on TV, Duncan. They say it works wonders. At least the actors on the commercial say that. Maybe your mother could try it. Again, just a thought.”

The banging little car pulled into the driveway of the unlit house at just past two in the morning. Duncan thanked his great-aunt and said he didn’t know what he would have done without her. Once inside, he watched as she walked off to her room down the hall, moving very slowly, her shoulders stooped inside the green sweater that she had been wearing for more years than he had been alive.

Duncan put the key his father had given him into the pencil holder on his desk. It dropped in with a metallic click. It would stay there until he decided it was time to tell his mother about it. He looked around his little room before getting into bed, and he saw the certificate from the YST on the wall. For just a moment, something made him close his eyes and place the fingers of his left hand carefully over the document. He willed his so-called power to life, and immediately his fingertips warmed up to a comfortable and then an uncomfortable temperature.

Duncan read aloud, “THIS CERTIFIES THAT DUNCAN DORF . . .” Then the heat lowered and the words were muddied. He tried harder, but he was very sleepy, so it didn’t happen as fast as usual, but it did happen. “THIS CERTIFIES THAT DUNCAN DORFMAN HAS BEEN A PARTICIPANT IN THE YST . . .”

The sensitivity in his fingertips was still in place. Who knew where it had come from originally—whether it had been inherited, or was a quirk that had come out of nowhere. Who knew whether he and his father had more in common than the love of a word game. Other kids had other talents, too. Duncan thought of the kids he’d gotten to know in Yakamee, and how they each probably had some secret little thing about them that none of the others had. Something that made them different, quietly powerful, even if no one else knew it.

At school the following week, a girl named Emily Bean would show everyone that she could sing backward—“Any song, just try me!” she’d say—and the other kids would gather around her, the same way they had gathered around Duncan. “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” someone would call out. And she would agreeably sing,
“Wor, Wor, Wor ruoy taob . . .”

But even though Duncan’s skill, his strange and unusual power, was probably no longer of enormous interest to very many people, it was still
his
. Not that he had any plans ever to use it again, but, of course, you never knew.

 

 

First thing in the morning at school, Duncan Dorfman and Carl Slater were greeted like heroes. An assembly was held in the auditorium in their honor, and the a cappella group, The Drilltones, sang, and the orchestra played a piece with a squeaky-clarinet solo that seemed to go on forever. Principal Gloam said, “You boys have brought glory to Drilling Falls Middle School. And for this, we honor you.”

“You’d think we were astronauts,” Carl whispered to Duncan out of the side of his mouth as they sat together on the stage.

Duncan and Carl weren’t really friends, and they didn’t have much to say to each other. They could continue to discuss their triumph, of course, but that would get boring fast. At 10:45 A.M. on his first day back, Duncan entered the school cafeteria, where the lunch-lady giantess was screaming, like always.

“PUT DOWN THAT KETCHUP RIGHT THIS MINUTE, OR I AM GOING TO CALL PRINCIPAL GLOAM!” she thundered at a girl who held a tiny ketchup packet, and who seemed bewildered that she was being screamed at because of it.

The Scrabble Club was sitting where they always sat, and today they were much friendlier than usual. They immediately made a place for Duncan, a spot where his tray would fit. At the table across the way sat Andrew Tanizaki. He didn’t look at all miserable or lonely sitting by himself. He sat with his red tray in front of him, one hand pushing French fries into his mouth, the other hand holding up a new video-game booklet, which he seemed deeply absorbed in reading.

“Hey,” said Duncan, walking over.

Andrew Tanizaki looked up in surprise. “Hey,” he said.

Duncan sat down across from him. “Listen, thanks for everything,” he said. “The good-luck drawing you gave me. And, of course, the way you covered my face up on that poster. That was amazing.”

“Oh, you saw,” Tanizaki said, pleased. “Which one did you see? I did it on five of them. All over town.”

“Five? You
did
? I only saw the one on the bus shelter at Oakdale and Main. And I just want to say that I really, really appreciate it,” Duncan said. “I mean, you have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Andrew Tanizaki.

Today Duncan had his backpack with him. He placed it on the bench, and then he pulled something out that had barely fit inside. It was the old maroon Scrabble set that had been in the closet. The set that his mother and father used to play on when they were very young, the set that now belonged to him.

Duncan would need a new partner if he was going to go to the YST again next year. Since he’d gotten home the day before, he’d already received three e-mails from kids at the tournament, telling him he
had
to come back. But Duncan would also need a new partner just for casual games after school, or on weekends.

“You play?” he asked.

Andrew Tanizaki shook his head. “Only video games. Terra Firma and Avengicon III. Not Scrabble. Not yet.”

Duncan Dorfman opened the box.