The Last Martin Page 9
“Don’t think I want to tackle Lani all night.” Poole tests the firmness of the bed with his hand. “Do you have any other games?”
“Listen,” I hiss into Lani’s ear. “Poole is over for a sleepover. I’m not sure why he chose …” — I dagger eye Poole — “the window entrance.”
Poole jumps on the bed and lands flat on his back. “Thought there’d be less commotion.”
I point at Lani. “Yes, this is far less. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“So sis, I’m going to let your mouth free and I need it to be quiet. It’s a miracle the Owl isn’t here already. Can you promise not to make any normal, sisterly, shrieky noises?”
“Mm-hm.” She nods, and I slowly remove my palm.
Lani stands and glances from Poole to the open window. “I’m going to my bedroom now. Where doors and windows are always locked. I have no valuables except for a clarinet.” She peeks at Poole. “You don’t play clarinet, do you?”
Poole shakes his head, and Lani tries my doorknob for the third time. “So you’d better stay in this room.” She slips out the door.
“Well, Poole,” I let my arms flop to my sides. “Welcome to my home.”
CHAPTER 13
YOU’VE NEVER HAD A SLEEPOVER?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. I flip through Julia’s art. “Nope. Kids less concerned with hygiene …” I quote Mom and peek at the dusty kid stretched out on my bed. If any kid ever qualified. “… are the carrier pigeons of disease.”
“I used to have sleepovers. Eight, nine of us running around my house.” Poole grins. “We’re probably pushin’ the sleepover age limit, but hey, we’re making up for lost time. Hand that art over here again.”
I hand over a few sheets, stretch out on the floor, and stare at the look on the White Knight’s face. He kind of looks like me. “So what now?”
“Typical sleepover? Food. Stupid conversations. Too-loud music. Maybe a movie that scares the wits out of you.”
“I haven’t done real well here. No cake. Can’t play music. No horror flicks.” I close my eyes. “Sorry, Poole.”
“No friend, you did great. Tackle-the-Lani was fun to watch, and I’m guessing’ that there must be something in your fridge.” He bounces on the mattress. “And this bed is worth the price of admission.”
I sit up. “It’s yours for the night. I’ll, uh, take the floor.” The germ-infested floor.
We lie in silence for a minute.
“Say, Marty. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Might be a strange time to mention this, but Julia, she’s —”
“Nobody you need to be thinking about.” I stand and snatch back her pictures from his hands.
“I’m not. But if … And don’t get this wrong, friend. We’ll beat this curse thing.” He turns. “But if we don’t and you aren’t around … you know what? Forget it.”
“No.” I say quietly. “You and Julia have that wild side in common. Sounds cool to me. But nothing until I’m —”
“'Course not. Wouldn’t think of it.”
More silence.
I exhale. “I’ll, uh, check the kitchen.”
I sneak down the steps and open the fridge. “No lasagna. There. Meatloaf is close.”
A quick preheat later, I re-enter my room. “Here, I brought you some …”
Snore.
“Meatloaf.”
Poole sleeps with a smile on his face. No way I’ll take that away from him. Probably his first nice bed in years.
I enjoy the late-night snack, shut down the computer, and stretch out on the floor.
Why’d it take a death sentence to get me a sleepover? Why is the only person at my only sleepover a vagrant? Why did said vagrant ask me for his blessing to steal my princess? Nothing in my life makes sense. Not my newfound sister. Not the words I said at the family meeting. Not Poole’s disgusting microbials dancing on my sanitized bedsheets.
But I feel good. Having Poole here feels good.
As long as I get him out before 5 a.m.
Sleep doesn’t come. Poole, Julia, Death, and barn owls float through my mind’s middle world — a land where I’m not quite unconscious, but definitely not awake. It’s a place where dreams run free, and at 4:45 I stagger up, exhausted from my adventures.
A shower. Something to wash off the night.
Poole’s snore rumbles from beneath the sheets. Least somebody slept well.
“Be right back,” I whisper, and stumble out toward the bathroom.
Hot water on a cool morning. There’s nothing better, and I smile.
Bang. Bang. Distant clangs and a shout.
I shut off the water, poke my head out of the curtain, and reach for the towel.
Poole throws open the door to the hallway, leaps in, and slams it shut behind him.
“We have other bathrooms,” I say.
Bang. Bang! The sound nears, and Poole stares at me with wild eyes.
“Barn Owl!” He opens the linen closet, frowns, and throws open the window. “Marty, my friend. Thanks for the sleepover.”
“What is going —”
Poole eases himself out, drops silently onto porch shingles. He turns, salutes, and jumps out of sight.
“Can’t be good on the ankles,” I whisper, and shut the window and wrap with a towel. I open the hallway door.
Smack!
A saucepan smashes my nose, and I crumple to the ground. Mom shrieks. I groan. Lani dashes toward us.
“Oh, Lani. Get me a towel. I mashed Martin!”
A pool of nasal blood forms around my head. I wriggle my nose.
“I’m okay, Mom.” I sit and pinch my nostrils together. “If you would’ve used the Crock-Pot, that’d be different.” Mom gapes, and I continue. “If you need the bathroom, next time maybe just knock?”
I smile. Mom purses her lips.
“You have no idea what I saved you from,” she hisses. “In your bed, waiting to commit a heinous act, was a ruffian the likes of which you’ve not encountered.”
Lani bursts out laughing. “You were chasing Poo — “ She clears her throat. “I mean a ruffian? Catch him?”
“Your levity does not amuse. And yes.” Mom glares into the bathroom, lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s hiding in that bathroom. Do not worry children …” Mom rises, steps quietly — cat-like — then screams toward the linen closet.
I stand and walk back down the hall with Lani. We turn to see Mom slump to the floor, all a mutter. “In the bed. He was in Martin’s bed. Then down the stairs, into the study. He hopped Gavin’s desk. Into the kitchen. Back upstairs. Into this bathroom. I saw it …”
My face throbs, and I draw my towel tighter around myself.
Lani bumps my shoulder. “One sleepover is probably all you need.”
CHAPTER 14
HALLELUJAH! THANK YOU FOR THIS MELTY BUTTER dripping down my pancakes!”
Lani jumps and drops the Aunt Jemima onto the floor. I should have warned her, but I wanted to get my primal thankfulness yell out of the way early.
“What was that for?” She swallows hard.
I shrug and stuff a bite in my mouth. “I was just — I mean, pancakes without melty butter?” I lift the butter dish and inspect it closely. “What good are they, right?”
“Right,” she says slowly.
I finish and carry my dish to the sink. “Where’s Mom?”
“Back in bed.” Lani yawns. “She called in sick to the library. The locksmith is on his way to change all the locks.”
I chuckle, drop my dish with a clank, grab Julia’s pictures, and race out toward the bus stop.
“Top of the mornin', Martin.” Father Gooly squints. “Appears you took a blow to the face, lad.”
I shrug at Father Gooly and hop up the steps. He grabs my arm and I lean in.
“What might be going on with Charley? He bears the look of dead veal, don’t cha know. Won’t say a word to me.”
“Don’t!” Veal springs to life and shoves me back into the aisle. “Don’t even think about planting that ugly face there. Take the seat behind me.”
“But there isn’t a seat — “ I plop down again, and the bus clunks forward. “What’s up?”
“It would be nice if we could just pretend that everything was an accident. But it’s no good, Marty. My old best friend Marty. Snake-in-the-grass Marty. Weasel Marty.”
I sigh and let my head fall back against the seat. “For my sake, humor me. Make believe I know nothing, okay?”
“'I wrote a song so the world will know, how Martin’s friend feels about Julia Snow.’ Do I need to go on?”
“You wrote her a song?” My face scrunches. “You can’t sing.”
“No kidding. That was a nice touch. You outdid yourself. But did you have to play it in the girls’ locker room? Why, Martin?”
My jaw drops. “I didn’t write a song. I didn’t sing a song. I don’t know who wrote … I do know who wrote it. Poole.”
“Boxcar boy?”
Charley puts on his thinking face. That’s tough for Charley so it takes a while, but two minutes later his eyes light up. “He’s the friend. Poole was talking about himself.”
“He’s the friend.”
“But I’ll never be able to speak to Julia again. I knew that kid was trouble the first time I saw him.”
I look away from Charley and grin. Poole messed up my life, but the more I think about it, his visit was pretty effective.
I get to school and weave toward the health department. Same kids. Same halls. But today I’m the zoo animal. Martin, Treatment, Psycho Mom, Julia — the words are everywhere. But I can’t slow down. I’m on a mission to find the health teacher, Coach Murphey. I gently open his classroom door and peek inside.
“Coach?”
The big man jumps, and his life-sized skeleton rattles and clanks to the floor, its bones piling in a plaster heap. Coach turns, a skull left in his hands.
“You don’t want to know how long it took to piece Old Ruthie together.”
“No, I don’t.” I slip in and the door slams behind me. The pelvis jiggles off its pole and clatters to the floor with the rest of the bones.
Coach tongues the inside of his cheek. “Now that you have my undivided attention, what can I do for you?”
I breathe deeply. “I want to join the track team.”
“The track team.” He rubs his face, looks at the skull. “The boy wants to join the track team. What do you think?” He holds Ruthie’s jaw up to his ear. “Uh huh. I’ll ask.” He glances at me. “What event are you interested in?”
“What events are there?”
Coach rolls his eyes. “Sprints. 100 meters. 200 meters. 400 meters. Distance events and hurdles.” He bends over and picks up the pelvic bone.
“I don’t run fast. Do you have anything else?”
Coach waves me over. “Help me find the vertebrae.”
It’s worse than touching a bat — Ruthie and I have too much in common.
Wonder if I’ll hang in a classroom someday.
“Let’s see, we only hold a few field events in middle school. You’ll have to wait until high school for all the choices.”
No, I won’t.
“There’s the long jump and the high jump.” “All jumping, huh?”
Coach points at me with a rib. “Are you sure you want to go out for track?”
“Okay, which event has the fewest athletes?” “Easy. Hurdles. Hand me that femur, would you?” He snaps it into place. “I don’t have a single hurdler at 300 meters. We take an automatic disqualification in that event in every meet. What would you say to that?” “That’s more jumping.”
“And running. Double whammy for you.” Behind us, Coach’s homeroom begins to fill. “What do you think?”
I look at the skeleton, my destiny. “I’ll take it.” Coach smiles, walks me to his desk, and hands me a waiver. “Get this signed by a parent or guardian and show up Monday right after school.”
“I’m experiencing a little detention issue — “ He looks at me hard and then pats my back. “Come to the track. I’ll see if I can’t get you out on parole.”
I don’t see Julia until detention. She comes in quietly; sits beside me quietly; twiddles her fingers quietly. I twiddle mine too.
After a minute of finger exercises, she pounds the desk, turns, and glares. “Well? What did you think of them?”
I bend and gently extract her portfolio from my backpack. I lay it on her desk. “Never seen drawings so good.” I point at my nose, Mom’s facial artwork. “I was staring at them so hard I tripped and smashed my face. They’re awesome.”
“You’re right, they are.” Her glare turns into a grin. “That story is pretty good too.”
“Pretty good? It’s better than that. It’s awesome!”
“You’re right. It is.”
Purse-lips shushes us, and I watch another hour of my life vanish. But Julia is here so I won’t complain.
I’m thankful I’m in detention.
The voice is my own. I hear it in my head, which makes no sense. I already kept my bargain today with the syrup scream. But looking at Julia’s smile, I can’t deny it — I am thankful. Really.
We walk together to the activity bus. “What are you doing after school?” she asks.
“I have an errand to run at Midway Stadium.”
“A family errand or an alone errand?”
“Alone, I guess.”
“Want some company? I told Lucy I’d be home late.”
I frown. “Lucy’s your mom?”
“I wish.” She kicks at the ground.
I shrug and feel butterflies flutter in my gut. They’re wrestling or dancing or doing whatever butterflies do when they have a party. “Yeah, I’d like company.”
Ten minutes later, we hop off near my house. We walk the tracks, our arms outstretched. She’s a good balancer. I’m not. Every three steps I fall off my rail and our hands bump. I don’t mind falling off my rail.
“Who’s Lucy?”
“Foster mom number two.” She falls off and stops. “Way better than foster mom number one.”
I say nothing.
“I was in third grade. The principal called me to his office. There were three adults waiting there and they all wore you-poor-thing faces.” She shakes her head and breathes deeply. “I ran out before they could tell me what I already knew. Motorcycle accident.” She forces a smile. “Whenever I’m back in Creaker’s office I sort of feel close to both of them. Like they’re still here, laughing and smiling. Is that weird?”
“No,” I whisper.
She tosses back her hair. “But who cares, right? It’s history. Where are we going?”
“I don’t think you’ll understand.”
“Try me.”
We squeeze between the outfield fencing and walk the warning track.
“It starts with my name. It’s cursed.” I peek at her.
“Which one?”
“Which what?”
“Which name?”
“Oh, my first. But kind of my second too. I’m coming to that part.”
I tell her about the cemetery, the ceremony, the pattern. I tell her all about Poole. I remind her that words have power. Then, I wait — for minutes.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“You don’t believe any of it.”
“Nope.”
We walk into the home field dugout and sit.
“But you have a wild imagination. No wonder you write so well. That’d make a good movie —”
“Yeah, it would. I could star as Poole.” A head pops down from the top of the dugout. “Hey, you two.” The leprechaun flips down onto the field. “Nice to meet you again, Julia.”
She nods slowly. “Yo
u don’t really live in a boxcar behind Martin’s house?”
Poole bites his lip. “Is that what Marty told you?”
I flash him my squintiest look, and he raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, yeah, but only during the summer months. I’ve had my eye on some used furniture. The place needs a girl’s touch, someone with an eye for artistic design. You should come by to see — “
I kick him in the shins. “… Martin. To see Martin. That’s right, just toss Poole the leftovers.” He rubs his leg, scowls, and points. “Here comes your bank.”
Poole hobbles toward the equipment door. An old guy limps out. He looks friendly enough — dirty clothes, work boots, no front teeth.
You know, periodic dental visits could have prevented gingivitis and you might still have those — be quiet, Mom!
“So this is Martin. Name’s Frank.” It’s a gravelly introduction, as if he just swallowed a mouthful of infield. “Transferring all that cash? You’re a very trusting kid.”
“There aren’t many options,” I say.
Frank digs in his pocket, retrieves a bank envelope, and slaps it in my palm. “Better count ‘em.”
I set the hundreds on the bench and Julia’s eyes grow big.
“$1,800. $1,900 … Hey, I’m short!”
Frank laughs and reaches into his shirt pocket, extracts one last bill. “Just toying with you, kid.” He glances around the ballpark all nervous-like. “I’m leaving before someone sees this little transaction. Looks mighty illegal.”
Frank totters away; Poole winks at Julia and follows. Finally we’re alone, and silence lands heavy. I don’t want to move. I want to sit right here with Julia and my two thousand dollars. But the quiet gets all weird, so I stuff the money in the envelope and into my pocket.
“What are you into?” Julia asks.
“I told you. I’m cursed and — “ I face her square. “Let me prove it.”
I lie in bed awake. How do you convince someone you’re dying?
I throw off the covers. She needs proof. Evidence.