Читать книгу Fun in the Yellow Pages - Bobbi MD Groover - Страница 5

"What I did on my summer vacation," recited Pierson to himself, preparing to face the first night of exile. "Against my will I existed in a prison-like cabin, performing hard labor side by side with a fellow inmate who hated me. Adding to my misery was slow starvation. This happened because the guard, alias my mother, could not operate a cast iron stove."

That should be good for an A for originality, thought Pierson, providing I live long enough to write it!

He was hiding out, dreading going up to the loft, the soon-to-be hostile environment he had to share with Will. As primitive as it first appeared, he had to admit the cabin did have a certain coziness. It had only one bedroom and one bathroom, both located off the main room. His parents were lucky; they claimed the bedroom before Pierson found it.

The main room was an ‘L’ shape, part being the kitchen area, part the living area. The loft sported a single window. One reached it by a wooden ladder from the main floor. It housed two platforms, each with a thin mattress. Pierson had gingerly tested his mattress, and it had crunched. He was sure the stuff inside was corn stalks and straw. Will had simply grunted, thrown his duffel bag underneath his bed and flopped down facing the wall. Aunt Maggie had pleaded to sleep on the overstuffed sofa by the big stone fireplace in the main room. She said she enjoyed reading in bed and didn't want to disturb anyone with her light. At the mention of reading, Pierson had rejoiced—there was electricity. He'd had his doubts at first because of the abundance of oil lamps he had seen throughout the room.

Dinner had been an experience. The difficulty in using the cast iron stove clearly shocked Mom. At home she normally nuked everything but, as usual, she took it in stride. However, even her optimism could not help create an edible meal. Unable to adjust the heat properly, she had burned everything. The unrecognizable charcoal pieces found their way into the woods, and dinner had consisted of leftovers in the cooler brought in from the van.

Pierson couldn't believe he was hiding out in the bathroom, but it was the only room with a door other than his parents' bedroom. The alternative was the red shack out back, the one with a small half-moon cut out of the top of its door. Exploration of the shack earlier in the evening proved it had been used for the same purpose as the room he was presently occupying. Thank Heaven Uncle Sam did not consider indoor plumbing too much of a luxury.

He shut the lid on the toilet, sat down, and looked around the tiny room. The tub looked like a soup can cut in half lengthwise, with specially cut blocks of wood placed underneath to keep it from shifting. Two spigots rose from the floor and leaned over the long side. There was no curtain because there was no shower.

"Dad's going to hate this. He's a bear without his morning shower."

A loud bang on the door startled him. He indignantly opened it and stood face to face with Will. The intimidating figure filled the doorway and Pierson felt trapped.

"It's about time you stopped primping," Will said. "Why don't we put a mirror in the outhouse? You could stay there for hours, and no one would care."

"Look, Will, I don't want to fight. I just want to go to bed," Pierson answered.

Will mimicked Pierson in a sticky-sweet voice. "Look, Will, I don't want to fight, I just want to go to bed!” He snorted. “So go to bed. Who's stopping you? But I warn you—if you snore, I'm putting a pillow over your face." He shoved Pierson aside and disappeared into the bathroom.

"And it was nice chatting with you, too!" Pierson said to the closed bathroom door. He turned and saw Aunt Maggie sitting on the sofa. She had obviously heard every word. He smiled and tried to look as if nothing had taken place.

"G'night, Aunt Maggie; I hope you sleep well. G'night, Ma, Dad," he called to his parents, who were in the other half of the L- shaped room, the part jokingly called the kitchen.

"Pierson, would you come here and sit with me for a while?" asked Aunt Maggie quietly. "I want to talk with you."

"Uh...sure," answered Pierson, unable to think of an excuse. He casually walked over to the wooden chair opposite her and sat. Wouldn't do to get too comfortable. He didn't want this to be a long conversation—not with Will coming out of the bathroom any minute.

"Pierson, I'd like to thank you for allowing Will to come this summer. I'm sure it wasn't your idea, even though my sister keeps insisting it was." She leaned closer to him and whispered. "But I'm also sure your mother wouldn't have pressured you if you had had strong objections."

Wrong! Pierson tried not to let his expression change.

"I think," she continued, "this summer will mean a lot to Will, although he doesn't realize it yet. I know it's a gift for me, a time to settle things in order to help and understand Will better." She paused. "You know, Will admires you."

Aunt Maggie caught Pierson off guard with that statement. He had to stifle a laugh and pretended to cough. I'm sure he does. He shows it in so many little ways! Pierson rose, thinking she might end this conversation, but she leaned over and took his hand. "Honey, I'll be leaving tomorrow. I told Will he was here to act as a companion to you, to be with you when your parents went out. He grumbled a bit, but Will has never refused to help when he thought he was needed." She pulled Pierson closer and whispered again. "In truth, it's Will who is in need. He needs a part of family life I can't give him right now." She put her hand on his arm. "I know the time spent with you and your family will make a difference. You know, you might find you have lots in common."

Pierson figured there wasn't a chance. But he simply said, "We'll do our best to make Will feel at home, Aunt Maggie. And I hope you enjoy yourself this summer, too." He kissed her cheek just as Will opened the bathroom door. Pierson was gripped by a momentary shadow of anger on Will's face, the shadow abruptly replaced by a sneering smile.

"Ahhh, what a touching scene," Will said sarcastically. "It's so cute to see the little boy kissing his auntie. Don't forget to kiss your mommy and daddy, too!"

"Will!" Aunt Maggie looked more embarrassed than angry.

"Leave me alone," he flung back at her. He started toward the ladder.

"That's enough," came Dad's deep voice.

Will looked ready with a comeback but cowered at Dad's presence. He clamped his lips shut and climbed the ladder in silence.

"I think it's time you went to bed, too," said Dad to Pierson, who was wide-eyed at what he had witnessed.

"Now?" Wild horses couldn't make him go up there with that guy.

His father jerked his head toward the ladder. "Now!"

But then again, what were wild horses compared to an edict from Dad? Hoping Will would be facing the wall when he got up there, Pierson climbed the ladder slowly. No such luck. Will was lying on the bed, face up, arms folded under his head. He seemed to be waiting for Pierson.

"Get into bed but don't fall asleep," he whispered, looking intently at Pierson. “When everything is quiet, you and I are going to set a few things straight." It was a command, not a request.

Why do I get the feeling this is not good news? Pierson asked himself. He nodded and readied for bed. I'm sorry, Aunt Maggie, he mentally told her. I know I promised you I'd be kind to Will, but if he decks me, and I'm still alive, I'm going to scream as loudly as I can. Pierson crawled into bed and waited.

* * *

The flame in the oil lamp burned steadily, causing tiny shadows to dance on the ceiling. Dear Uncle Sam hadn't seen fit to electrify the loft. What did he care? thought Pierson miserably. He wasn't planning to sleep up here. Pierson knew exactly how many knotholes there were in the ceiling of the loft because he had counted them. He knew precisely how many planks there were in the walls; he had counted them, too. He watched a hairy spider weave almost an entire web in the corner above his bed. He tried to concentrate on the chirping of the crickets outside the window–anything to keep his mind active so he wouldn't fall asleep. Finally he couldn't take the suspense any longer. "Okay, Will, I haven't heard a sound in ages. I'm tired, and I'm falling asleep. What do you want to talk about?"

"I didn't give you permission to speak," growled Will.

Drunk with fatigue, Pierson grew brave. “Who said I needed your permission?"

Will flew from his bed with amazing speed and stood over Pierson. One hand leaned into the splayed ceiling above them, the other hand was clenched threateningly. His widely set eyes glared with knife-edged coldness. "Listen, you pompous little twerp! I don't like this arrangement any better than you, but as long as I'm stuck with you for a while, you'd better know the rules. You don't speak to me unless I speak to you first. For the sake of appearances you can tag along with me, but when we're out of sight, you beat it. I'll do my thing, and you can do whatever it is that little twerps do. Got it?" When Pierson didn't answer, Will leaned closer and slowly repeated himself. "I said–got it, twerp?"

Pierson was more than a little afraid, but his pride wouldn't let him show that fear to Will. He hiked himself to his elbows. "I've got it, you big ox. But just so you know, it goes double for me," he spat in the bravest voice he could muster.

Still staring, Will stepped back a pace, and his right cheek twitched. Pierson couldn't tell whether it was from surprise or anger. He defiantly returned Will's stare, but he could feel his heart pounding and his breath coming in short spurts.

"Good," Will said with an abrupt nod. "At least we understand each other." He crossed the loft in two of his giant steps and crawled into bed. "Blow out that oil lamp, twerp. The smell of it is making me sick."

Giddy with relief, Pierson turned down the wick. The shadows in the room grew dimmer and when the flame died, the loft was black because Will had closed the shutters, preventing even a glimmer of moonlight.

The loft was really spooky. He wondered if he should ask Will to tell a ghost story. Nah! Will was a ghost story! Chuckling at his joke, Pierson pulled up the covers and dropped off to sleep.