Notorious, p.6
Notorious, page 6
7
Ronnie
I like the new kid. Keenan is pretty cool—and is there a place he hasn’t lived yet? Antarctica? Mars? He’s got skills with a Frisbee. He knows how to put teachers in their place too. I don’t know what he’s thinking hanging out with Zoo-doo, but nobody’s perfect. He just got here. He’ll learn.
Besides, the best thing about the new kid is that he’s new. When you grow up on an island like Centerlight, you get so sick of looking at the same old faces day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. I’d include decade after decade, but I won’t be here that long. There isn’t a single thing that you don’t already know about every solitary soul that you meet on this rock. That’s why somebody new is like Christmas and the Fourth of July all rolled into one.
Like Keenan’s iPhone is a little different from my iPhone since it was made for the Chinese market. That doesn’t sound like much, but I didn’t know that! I’ve spent so much time staring at Joey’s phone that I’ve memorized every spiderweb-like screen crack. Not Keenan’s, which, in addition to being in perfect condition, also has Chinese writing under the Apple logo on the back.
Keenan will be going back to China when he’s done getting better from TB. When that day comes, it’s impossible to say how I’ll feel about it. The last time we had a new kid around here, I was about six. We get summer people on the island, but I’m always away at camp during the summer, so who cares?
Keenan lives with his dad. His mom is still in China. That sounds like a nice deal to me. It means she can’t stick her nose into his life every time the wind blows. My mom could sure learn a thing or two from that.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way with moms. The first time I’m over at Keenan’s house, he gets Skyped all the way from Shanghai.
“Hi, sweetie!” comes a woman’s voice over the computer. “How are you feeling?”
Sweetie? OMG, it’s a good thing Keenan’s going back to China, because I’m never going to let him hear the end of that! What’s next? Snookums? Honey-bunches?
“Fine,” he replies. “Dad and I are getting along great, and I’ve started school here.”
The voice becomes suspicious. “You sound out of breath.”
That’s because he’s trying not to laugh. I’m behind his computer, making faces and lip-synching everything his mom says. He picks up a pen and throws it at me. I duck and it bounces off the wall, leaving a blue mark.
“Don’t worry,” he assures her. “Dr. Sobel says I’m not contagious anymore. I’m going to a trainer to build up my strength. I’m even making a few friends.”
You can tell that’s not what she wants to hear. If Keenan’s having a normal life here, maybe he won’t want to go back to China. That wouldn’t work with me—I’d go to the moon if it would get me off Centerlight!
I get bored with their conversation and begin to rifle through his closet. Using the pen he threw at me, I pick up a pair of tightie-whities and wave them like a flag of surrender. I dangle them over my open mouth like a sword swallower. Man, I hope this isn’t his dirty laundry.
By now, Keenan is snickering, and his mom is getting annoyed. “Well, if you don’t have time for me, sweetie—”
“Sweetie,” I echo in a singsong tone.
“No!” Keenan’s babbling now. “It’s just that, uh, I’ve got this, uh, homework—” And with a few more apologies and sweeties, they’re off the line.
“Get away from my underwear,” he snaps at me.
I drop the briefs but continue to dig through the closet. “What are you, sweetie, one of those monks who renounces all earthly possessions? You’ve got no stuff!”
“I’ve got stuff,” he defends himself. “In Shanghai. This isn’t my room; it’s my dad’s guest room. Remember, when I came here, the only thing I brought with me was TB and a toothbrush.”
I hold up a T-shirt covered in Chinese characters, with the Pepsi logo at the bottom. “What does this say?”
He laughs. “It’s kind of a joke. It was supposed to be ‘Come alive with the Pepsi generation.’ But it actually translates more like ‘Pepsi brings your ancestors back from the grave.’ It’s a big hit in Shanghai. Anyway, how can you say I’ve got nothing? What about this?”
He holds up a cheap souvenir keychain featuring Al Capone on one side and Eliot Ness on the other. It’s one of the top sellers for visitors who come to Centerlight for that gangster garbage. Of all the things I’m sick of about this dumb island, that has to be number one.
I make a face at him. “Tourist junk.”
“I didn’t buy it,” he tells me. “ZeeBee got it for me.”
I shake my head in disgust. “Figures. Zoo-doo sees a gangster under every rock.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Fine—Zarabeth.”
“Don’t call her that either.”
“It’s her name, isn’t it?” I challenge.
“I mean don’t say it that way. She’s smart. Funny. And she hung out with me when I couldn’t do anything more than lie like a rock on a lounge chair.”
“I never said she’s a bad person,” I point out. “I just said she’s weird. You’ve got to give me that. And that dog—”
“The dog’s out of the picture,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, I know. Murdered.”
“Okay, that part is weird,” he concedes. “But you barely know ZeeBee—”
“Are you kidding?” I cut him off. “I’ve known her since we were babies.”
“Fine, then you should give her a second chance. Everybody should.”
“Yeah, whatever.” That annoys me. Who does he think he is, my parents? He’s got to learn how things work around here.
Which gives me an idea . . .
“Hey, drop by my place tonight. I’ll invite a few friends over.”
He brightens. “You mean like a party?”
“More like a hangout. My dad’s away on business, so it should be a blast. Everything’s better when he’s not around.”
“What about your mom?”
“She won’t bother us,” I assure him. “She’s not too big on confrontation.”
“I’ll ask my father,” he promises.
Just because we live in the most boring place on earth doesn’t mean we don’t know how to have a good time. Just the opposite—we have to try twice as hard as everybody else, since Centerlight is so lame.
Once Keenan has some fun in a non-Zoo-doo setting, he’ll get the picture.
8
Keenan
Ronnie Lindahl’s house is a pretty good hike from mine—clear on the other side of downtown, on the opposite shore of the river. I could probably make it on my own, but Dad insists on driving.
“You know, two months ago, I was riding the Shanghai Metro on my own,” I inform him from the passenger seat. “I took trains to visit friends all around a city with more people than New York and Chicago combined.”
His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“It’s totally cool,” I insist. “Everyone uses public transportation over there. It’s the best way to get around.”
He sighs. “Fair enough. But here, a man’s allowed to give his own son a ride without being overprotective, okay?” He turns onto Shore Road. “I spoke to Bryce over at the gym. He said you’re doing amazing, but you tend to push yourself too hard. Something about a karate kick?”
“Tae kwon do,” I correct. “If I could land it when I was nine, why am I having so much trouble with it now if I’m supposed to be so ‘amazing’?”
“Have some patience,” he advises. “You were really sick, Keenan. I know you feel better now, and that’s good news. But it’s going to take a long time before you’re a hundred percent again.” He pulls up in front of the Lindahl house and whistles. “Nice place.”
It isn’t a mansion, exactly, but the house is impressive, at the center of a large, well-landscaped property. You can see the water beyond a fenced-in yard, and, across the river, the wooded shoreline of Michigan, shrouded in dusk.
I thank Dad for the ride and jump out. Nobody answers the door, so I head out around to the back. As I make my way, I start to hear hip-hop music and notice the glow of what might be a bonfire. There’s no small amount of noise, but I can’t see over the fence, which is six feet high. I’m searching for a gate when I come to a section where the wooden slats are smashed and missing. There’s plenty of room for me to duck right through into the yard.
The first person I meet is Joey, who greets me with, “Hey, look who decided to show up!”
I survey the property. There are at least twenty kids here already, hanging out in groups, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the firepit, and dancing on a stone patio. I guess this is what Ronnie means by inviting “a few friends over.”
Ronnie appears. “Sweetie—glad you could make it!”
I grimace. “Next time my mom Skypes in, remind me to kick you out.”
Joey indicates the hole in the fence. “Keenan found the secret entrance.”
“Yeah, what happened?” I ask.
Ronnie shrugs. “What do you think? Zoo-doo’s dog.”
“Barney did that?” I’m blown away. “A rhino, maybe. But a dog?”
“My folks had a barbecue,” Ronnie explains. “Big mistake. The monster had a thing for porterhouse.” He nods in the direction of the breach.
It’s an eye-opener for me. I’ve already heard a lot from ZeeBee about the damage Barney did around the island. This is a solid wooden fence and he came through it like a bulldozer, snapping the slats like they were uncooked spaghetti.
“Well, at least it can’t happen again,” I point out. “Barney’s gone now.”
“Gone but not forgotten,” Ronnie agrees. “My dad’ll have it fixed. You know, when golf season’s over.”
“Well, anyway,” I say, “great party.”
Ronnie skewers me with a sharp glance. “It’s not a party, sweetie.”
I look around. More kids are arriving every minute. “What else would you call it?”
“Ronnie’s banned from having parties,” Joey supplies. “Call it what you like—call it Harold. But if the P-word comes up, things are going to get ugly when Mr. Lindahl gets back from his trip.”
Ronnie runs off to play host, so Joey drags me to the firepit. We roast hot dogs over the flames. By the time I put away two of them, I’m having a pretty good night. I recognize just about everybody from some class or other. But meeting them here, in a non-school setting, kind of cements the fact that I’m fitting in.
I’ve been to parties before—excuse me, Harolds—but nothing quite like this. For one thing, most international schools are in big cities. People live in apartments, and not even the rich kids have this much space. But mostly, when you’re overseas, there’s always a feeling that you’re a guest in someone else’s country. You can have fun, maybe even break the occasional rule, but you’re sort of on your best behavior. Not here. On Centerlight, everybody’s home. Everybody knows everybody else. And you don’t let anything get in the way of having a great time.
Pretty soon, Carla and Gabrielle, two girls from school, bring me down to the waterfront. There are a bunch of kids wading in the river, some of them up to their knees. Believe it or not, my dad already anticipated this. As soon as he heard Ronnie’s address, he went into a lecture about how I was not to dip any body part into the mighty St. Clair.
“You can freeze your butt off in the water” were his exact words. “You can also lower your resistance and get sick again. Don’t be an idiot.”
The girls kick off their shoes and start splashing around, but I hang back. For some reason, I can’t help thinking about something else ZeeBee told me about Centerlight’s gangster past: When there were too many government agents watching the town, the rumrunners would deliver their shipments via the river to private beaches. They used those flat-bottomed Higgins boats—the ones that would become legendary as landing craft on D-Day during World War Two. I could never quite picture it before, but this would be the perfect place for it. For all I know, Tommy-Gun Ferguson once stood on this very spot, watching his guys unload crates of illegal booze from Canada.
The thought of ZeeBee sours my mood a little. Practically every kid in town our age must be here, but not her. A lot of what she says may be pure baloney, but her complaints about being left out are 100 percent real.
I feel a twinge of guilt. I actually considered asking Ronnie if I could bring ZeeBee along tonight. What better way to reintroduce her to the kids who should have been her friends all along? But in the end, I wimped out. I just got to Centerlight. Who am I to issue invitations to Ronnie’s party-that-isn’t-a-party? I’m probably on the thin ice of the guest list myself.
I shake my head to clear it. Even though ZeeBee isn’t with me tonight, she’s here just the same—on this beach and in the hole Barney made in the fence. In a weird way, she’s like tuberculosis. Even when she’s not physically present, her influence is still around.
A faint spray strikes me full in the face. Carla and Gabrielle are splashing and waving.
“Get over here, Keenan!” Carla orders. “Water’s great!”
I kick off my shoes and roll up my jeans. Sorry, Dad. It’s not that I didn’t get your message. I’m just choosing to ignore it.
The water is chilly, although not as cold as I expect. Even at ankle depth I can feel the river current. Farther out, a boy who’s in up to his chest suddenly disappears. I’m terrified he’s a goner and his corpse will wash up downstream in Detroit. But a few seconds later, his friends yank him to the surface and haul him ashore, choking and sputtering. Everybody’s laughing and cheering, even the almost-victim, who’s punching the air in celebration between coughs.
Got it. Near-death experiences are just part of the fun.
Carla and Gabrielle wade farther to join some guys who are playing monkey-in-the-middle with a football. I retreat to the shore and kick back into my shoes. The sun is all the way down now. The temperature is dropping, and the last thing I need is to get drenched. See, Dad? I’m not being an idiot.
I retrace my steps to the warmth of the firepit, which seems to be the center of things.
“En garde!” barks a voice, and a flaming wooden stick whizzes past my face, missing my nose by about half an inch. What is it with these kids and swordplay?
His opponent parries the blow with a hot dog bun, which instantly breaks in half. Stick and bread hit the grass, both burning. I stub out the fire with the toe of my sneaker, since neither combatant bothers to. Either that or they’re both laughing too hard to notice.
I catch a glimpse of a dark-haired woman peering nervously out a second-story window at the mayhem below. Mrs. Lindahl, I conclude. Ronnie’s right; she doesn’t like confrontation. She’d rather risk setting her property on fire than tell her son something he doesn’t want to hear. Our eyes meet, and she quickly turns away, shutting the curtain behind her.
Now that it’s fully dark, the yard has gotten a lot more crowded. We’re almost belly-to-belly, so in order to move around, you kind of have to part the sea of people in front of you. I don’t recognize a lot of the new faces. I get the feeling that they’re older—eighth graders, or maybe even kids from the high school.
The patio serves as the dance floor, if you can call it that. There’s more jumping than dancing going on. The music is cranked up pretty loud. You can feel the pounding of the bass in your belly.
The door to the Lindahls’ garden shed is open, and there are kids play-fighting with hoes and rakes. Someone has torn into a fifty-pound bag of grass seed, and there’s a full-fledged battle going on, as handfuls are flung in all directions. I catch a face-full, which starts me coughing and spitting. It scares the daylights out of me—I’ve spent the whole summer trying to stop coughing. I’m not anxious to go back to the bad old days.
As I stagger around in search of breathing space, I’m nearly plowed down by a wheelbarrow pushed by a burly eighth grader. Riding in the payload are Carla and Gabrielle, both soaked to the skin and coated with grass seed. I dive out of the way and the barrow smacks full force into the fence, dumping the girls onto the grass. The fence holds strong, which makes me wonder how hard Barney must have hit it to blast right through.
Lying on the grass, I catch a glimpse of Ronnie. He hasn’t entirely lost his host-with-the-most grin, but it’s starting to sag around the edges. He’s standing with a couple of adults—probably neighbors—who are shouting at him, not out of anger, but because there’s no other way to be heard over the roar in the backyard. I catch a word here and there: “Too crowded . . .” “Noise complaint . . .” And “Calling the cops . . .”
I get the picture. Maybe Ronnie’s mother wants to pretend that the P-word isn’t happening tonight. But if the police get involved, it’s hard to imagine that the news won’t find its way to his father.
Ronnie disappears into the crowd and, a few minutes later, the music dies suddenly. Over the rising cry of outrage, Ronnie is calling, “Come on, you guys! We’ve got to quiet down . . .”
A chorus of boos greets this announcement. People throw grass seed, marshmallows, soda, and the occasional hot dog in Ronnie’s direction.
The music comes back on at half volume, but the gathering is never the same. The dancers disperse, and the crowd thins out, most of them exiting through the Barney hole in the fence. The complaining neighbors leave too, still miffed, but satisfied that order has been restored.
I don’t think Ronnie is ready for the condition of his lawn now that we can see it again. It looks like someone ran a cattle drive through here. Mashed hot dogs, buns, marshmallows, and potato chips are strewn to the four winds. Grass seed is everywhere, but that might be a good thing. The lawn is so torn up that planting a new one can’t be a bad idea.
Joey runs onto the scene, a toilet seat around his neck like a garland of flowers. “Ronnie, man, what happened? Where’s everybody going?”
“My buzz-kill neighbors threatened to call the cops on us,” Ronnie gripes. “They made me turn down the music.”
