Читать книгу Remember Dippy - Shirley Reva Vernick - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Early—too early—the next morning, Aunt Collette and Mem dropped me off at my house to mow the lawn. Mr. Boots’ old dog Millie was roaming around out front, and she started barking her muzzle off when we pulled into the driveway. She hates everyone except cranky old Mr. Boots, so she yowls at anyone who walks by.

As soon as I got out of the car, Millie stiffened, bared her teeth, and growled viciously. I’m used to it, but I was sure Mem would freak. Then the strangest thing happened. Mem got out of the car, and Millie started wagging herself in circles. When Mem held out his hand, she bounced straight over to him and let him pet her—let him actually touch her. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Wow, Mem, this never happens,” I remarked.

“Well, it’s not like Mem’s a stranger here,” said Aunt Collette.

“Neither am I,” I said, “but you don’t see Millie doing her happy dance on me.” No, Mem had a special touch with animals, especially the crying ferret and yapping mutt varieties.

After giving Millie a final squeeze, Mem got back in the car. Aunt Collette said she’d pick me up after her hair appointment. “In about an hour,” she said. “That enough time?”

“Yeah, sure.” Millie whined softly as the car backed out of the driveway, then she turned around and started barking at me all over again. “Go on, get,” I scolded as I climbed the porch steps. “I’ve got work to do.”

Mr. Boots took his time answering the door. Finally, he appeared at the screen, pulling on his bathrobe and reading glasses. “Yes?” he grunted through his grey-white stubble of beard.

“I came to mow the lawn.”

He couldn’t hear me over the dog’s racket. “What’s that you say?”

“I’m here to mow the lawn. The lawn.”

He opened the door long enough to let Millie in. “I’ll open the garage,” he said, and before I could say thanks, he let the door slam. That figures. Mr. Boots is about as social as a prune pit. He’s probably what kids like Dirk Dempster turn into when they grow old.

As I pushed the mower on laps across the yard, I started wondering if Dirk the Jerk had gone out to shoot hoops yet this morning. I didn’t want to miss the look on his face when he noticed his mailbox. Hopefully he was still in bed, like any normal person would be at this hour; it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.

When I finished the lawn, I put the mower back in the garage and waited for Aunt Collette under our willow tree, thinking how good a glass of my mom’s black-cherry iced tea would taste about now. Sweat was swimming down my face, and my stomach was growling louder than Millie—which was too bad for me because Aunt Collette was late.

It’s a good thing I recognized my aunt’s car when she finally showed up, because I’d never have recognized my aunt. In the space of one morning she’d gone from long brown hair to short blond locks with a streak of purple in the front. She was a cross between Tinkerbell and Cruella de Vil—a real hack job.

“What do you think?” she asked as I piled in.

“It’s…”

“Quite a change, huh?”

“That’s for sure.”

“My friend Holly—she does my hair—well, her niece was there, and she talked me into it. Cost me another parking ticket too,” she laughed, pointing to the fresh violation notice that joined the old ones under her windshield wiper. Aunt Collette always lets a stack of tickets collect there, announcing her bad parking karma to the world, until she gets around to paying them. “You like my new ’do, don’t you, Remember?”

“Nope.” It must be nice to be able to say what-ever you want and not have people get mad at you.

“Well, you know what they say about hair,” she said.

“You’ve gotta comb it every day?” Mem guessed.

“It’ll always grow back,” she said, eying herself in the rear-view mirror as she drove. “And I sure hope it’s true. Now, I’m gonna drop you boys off and run. I’m working late tonight—that darn punk again. But don’t you worry—I’ve got tomorrow off.”

“Yay, tomorrow off!” Mem shouted. “Tomorrow off off!” I wanted to jump for joy too, but I kept quiet.

“Everybody out,” Aunt Collette announced, grinding her wheels against the curb as she pulled up to the house. “You’re on your own for supper, but if you want to stop by the store later, there might be a snack in it for you.”

Mem headed straight inside for The Weather Channel. I planted myself on the porch with my Gameboy and a bag of whole wheat pretzels. There was no sign of Dirk yet, not even a telltale basketball in the driveway, so I figured I could still catch the show. He’d probably be coming out any minute now, and I’d have my moment of glory.

But he didn’t show, not after half an hour, not after a full hour. Maybe it was still too early, or maybe he was out of town. Of course, there was also the possibility that he’d already seen his mailbox and was busy plotting some terrible revenge. I decided to think this over from the safety of the living room.

“It’s gonna be a hot one,” Mem said, pointing to Martin the Meteorologist.

“I know.”

“Wanna go swimming?”

“Maybe later. Hold on, I need to use the phone.” I went to the kitchen and called Reed’s house but only got his voicemail. Mo wasn’t home either, but Jo answered, so at least I got to talk to her. She said Mo was at the lumberyard with their father picking out wood for their new deck. Jo had her friend Patsy over, and they were on their way to Hair by Holly to get their nails painted.

“You just missed my aunt there,” I told her. “Got a hatchet job. Her hair’s short as mine now, plus two shades of weird.”

“Really?” Jo sounded fascinated. “Maybe we’ll stop by the 7-11 on our way. Well, see ya.”

“See ya.” I hung up and ran into the living room. “C’mon, Mem, let’s go visit your mom.” I couldn’t wait around for Dirk the Jerk any longer, not when there might be a chance to “bump into” Jo.

• • •

We were halfway through our 7-11 slushies when Jo and Patsy arrived. Jo looked like she’d walked off the cover of a tennis magazine, with her white skirt, white polo t-shirt and gold skin sizzling in the shafts of sunlight that poured through the windows. This was definitely worth missing Dirk’s face at the mailbox. I opened my mouth to say hi, but Jo and Patsy flew past me and ran straight to the counter.

“Ms. Dippy? Is that you?” Jo gasped.

“In the flesh. You like?”

“It’s outrageous—I love it!”

Patsy said she agreed, and the three of them started rattling on about hair color and how a little change is good for everyone. It was like I wasn’t even there. Not a wave, not a hello, nothing. I might as well have been one of the floor tiles they were standing on.

After a while Mem said, “Hi, Jo!” and she finally tossed us a glance.

“Hey Mem,” she smiled. “How are ya, buddy?”

“How are ya, buddy? Good! How are ya, buddy?”

“Remember, you know these girls?” Aunt Collette asked.

“Nope,” he said. “Just Jo.”

“Well, this is Patsy,” Jo said. “Now you know both of us. So, you guys hanging out?”

“Mem wanted to visit his mom,” I said, and it was true, sort of. He did want to visit her once I suggested it.

“Cool,” she said. “Well, gotta split. See you around?”

“Yeah, I have tomorrow off, so…yeah.” I wanted to say more, but words abandoned me.

“Wishing you blue skies and starry nights,” Mem said, which they apparently thought was adorable. They gave him big waves and cooed, “Same to you,” and said good-bye to him about ten more times before they finally bounced out of the store.

“Nice girls,” commented Aunt Collette.

“Yup, real nice,” Mem agreed, which made Aunt Collette crack up. Then all of a sudden she started acting like she was in a hurry to get back to work.

“Uh, Johnny,” she said, talking fast, “I see Remember has taken over your flip flops. Here, here’s a five spot. Why don’t you two go over to the drugstore and see if you can find yourself a new pair?” She set the money on the counter and started putting on her lipstick, even though she already had a coat of it on. “Go on now, both of you. Shoo.”

She obviously wanted to get rid of us, so I pocketed the money and turned toward the door, which is where I saw The Man for the first time. He was thumbing through the magazines near the cold drink case, sporting a cowboy hat and a flowery Bermuda shirt. He looked around my dad’s age but in better shape, and I think he was trying to grow a mustache. For a minute I thought he might be my old gym teacher, but no, for the life of me, I couldn’t place him.

The Man strolled up to the counter, and Aunt Collette instantly burst into a massive smile. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Aunt Collette looked pretty happy to see him—happy and a little nervous. I started to step closer, but Mem, who didn’t seem to notice The Man at all, was pulling on my arm and begging to go. I stole one last glance at Aunt Collette and gave up.

Mem kept running ahead of me on the sidewalk. “Why’re you so excited about helping me pick out a lousy pair of flip flops?” I asked.

“Cuz. Cuz when you get the new ones, these old ones are definitely mine. Forever.” Talk about simple wants.

When we were opposite Hair By Holly, I said, “Let’s cross the street now.” Mr. Literal instantly darted into the road without looking. I had to yank him back before he got pancaked by a minivan. “Mem, when I say let’s cross now, I mean let’s stop, check for traffic, and go when it’s clear. Get it?”

“Get it?” he said blankly.

“Never mind. Just be careful, will you?”

As we passed Hair by Holly, I could see Jo through the window, sitting at a small table opposite Holly. I wanted to stay and watch, but I’d have died if they spotted me, so I ran to catch up with Mem. Three dollars and twenty-one cents later, I was wearing a pair of lime green flip flops and carrying my sneakers. This time, Patsy was at the manicure table when we walked by, and across the street The Man was unlocking his pick-up truck. I slowed down, trying to get a look at this guy’s license plate—New Jersey—and the sign painted on his truck—Cappellucci Property and something. He took off down the street before I could read the rest.

“Hey Johnny,” Mem said as we drifted along, “let’s go back to the hardware store.”

“What for?”

“What for?” He scanned the sidewalk like he was afraid someone would overhear. “I want to buy something,” he whispered.

“Mem, you don’t need any—” But wait, what else did we have to do all day? “Okay, fine, but you have to use your own money.”

“Yup.” He took off around the corner, and by the time I got to the store, he was busy poring over the letter decals.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

“I need letters. The small ones are okay, and they’re only a quarter. I can get a lot.” With that, he started collecting a stack of them.

Was he going to wallpaper Dirk’s mailbox? “No, don’t,” I said. “This is a bad idea, Mem.”

He stopped what he was doing. “You don’t even know what my idea is,” he said, looking off over my shoulder. His cheeks got red and his eyebrows squashed together, and I could tell he was breathing fast—the surefire signs that a hissy fit was brewing. Then Mem did something pretty unexpected: he talked himself down. “Use your words,” he muttered to himself, his fists clenched. “Mrs. Potts says use your words instead of your lungs. Try, don’t cry. Talk, don’t walk. Breathe, don’t seethe. Flow, don’t throw.” Then he lifted his chin and said to me, “You can’t tell me what to do with my own money, Johnny.”

Impressive. He actually held it together. No screeching or stomping off or any of his other usual tricks. Plus, I had to admit it, he was right: I couldn’t tell him how to spend his own money. Besides, there was no sense pressing my luck with his temper.

“Okay, Mem, fine,” I said. “You do what you’re doing, and I’ll stand over here and look at the paint chips.” I decided to amuse myself by counting how many shades of white there were. I was at 68 when Mem brought a mound of decals to the counter. I joined him just in time to hear Mr. Wizzly remark, “Seems to be a run on these things this week.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, but what I really wanted to know was whether Dirk Dempster had been buying them.

“Selling like hotcakes,” Mr. Wizzly answered. “Isn’t that what you were here for the other day? You and some other folks. A regular hot item. That’ll be five dollars and thirty-five cents…thank you, young man. He handed Mem his change, which didn’t include any state quarters. Have fun.”

“Have fun,” Mem said.

“Always do,” Mr. Wizzly winked.

Mem winked back.

When we got home, Mem stashed the decals in his room before parking himself and Jambalaya in front of the TV. Okay, no immediate decal danger, I decided. Maybe he’ll forget all about them. Still, he was in an especially good mood—he even let me change the channel—so I wasn’t done being suspicious. He was a man with a plan, and I had the feeling I was going to be the one to pay for it. Thankfully, he didn’t carry out his scheme that day. He seemed happy to hang out in front of the tube, and all I had to do was make sure the Twinkies didn’t run out.

One other weird thing did happen though toward evening, and I mean it was totally bizarre. I’d been in my room listening to tunes and lounging with Linguini, and then I went downstairs to call Mo. But I never made it to the phone. I was too amazed by the scene in the living room: Mem was playing my GameCube, and he’d gotten StarBender all the way to level 10! No one I know has ever gotten that video game beyond level 8, and I’ve never made it past 7.

“Mem? What—how—”

He jumped at the sound of my voice. “I was being careful with it, honest, Johnny,” he pleaded.

“It’s all right,” I said. “But how do you know how to play?”

He shrugged. “My friend Chip. And school.” Now that he sensed I wasn’t going to holler at him, he turned his attention back to the game.

“You have video games at school?”

“Yup. This one’s my favorite.” With that, he advanced to level 11. “I like Olympiad too.”

I sat down next to him on the floor. “Sounds like a pretty cool school.”

“It’s all right. I like summer better.”

“Yeah, me too. You want to try a two-player round?”

“Yup,” he said, handing me the other controller.

Mem won three straight games before I top-scored him once. Then we switched to Air Angler, and he got my guy every time.

“You should open your second parachute when I get that close,” he said at one point.

“These guys have extra parachutes?” I asked.

“Yup. And the plane’ll drop you a ladder if you go under the escape hatch.”

Whoa. This was awesome. Not just the game, but being able to play it with Mem—I mean, really play it. In my whole life, Mem and I had never played a legitimate, regulation game together. Mom always made me play cards and checkers with him, and then she made me let him win. Aunt Collette would try to let me off the hook, but Mom would insist, or she’d pressure me into playing stupid games like hide-and-seek or Marco Polo with him. Mem never “got” hide-and-seek because he was never willing to come out of his hiding place, even when he got caught. And he wouldn’t keep his eyes closed for Marco Polo, so I always had to be It. Talk about lame. And boring.

But this—this was a real competition. I was free to try my hardest, and I wasn’t guaranteed to win, not by a long shot. It was kind of like having Mo or Reed here. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it was definitely better than being by myself, and that was a first. We played until Aunt Collette got home.