was an April Fools’ joke
to rival them all!
It’s not April first for another day, Georgia says, looking
skeptical.
Exactly! That’s the brilliant part about it!
The element of surprise was critical.
Right, dude?
It takes me one two maybe three full minutes
to understand
what Liam thinks he saw.
Yeah, I say,
stuck between relief
and a totally bizarre sort of
disappointment.
Georgia crosses her arms.
Why didn’t you mention this to us?
It’s a weird prank, but we could have helped.
It was a spur of the moment thing, I mumble.
Georgia studies me,
scrunching her freckles.
You must’ve been working on that
for hours after you got home from practice.
Liam sighs. Man, I would’ve paid money
to see your dad’s face last night!
I bet he used some seriously big words
to describe that mess.
I shrug awkwardly.
Can we come over today to check it out? Georgia asks.
Not today, I say, my voice still shaky.
Ugh. Why are you always such an excusenator? Liam stomps.
That should be your new nickname: the Excusenator.
It’s like you don’t want us around.
That’s not true.
Georgia says, You do have a lot of excuses lately.
The thing is…I’m grounded.
Dad wasn’t amused by my prank. At. All.
Oh, snap, Liam says. Been there, done that.
With great pranks come great risks.
Listen, I really do want to have you over,
I say earnestly.
Another day. Okay? I promise.
They agree but I feel awful.
Queasy, embarrassed, angry
that the Hoard is turning me
into a crummy friend,
forcing me to lie and push away
the people I need
more than ever.
ESCAPE PLAN
Dad’s not home
when I get off the bus
that afternoon.
It feels empty here.
Which is a weird thing to say
when I look at all the stuff
surrounding me.
My chest tightens; my teeth clench.
My hand reaches into my backpack.
I read one last chapter, and then
I chuck my orange book
to the hungry
Hoard
like a zookeeper
tossing a T-bone
to a tiger.
From now on
I’ll write my own
escape plan.
∞ ∞ ∞
I ride my bike to the library,
dash inside
ten minutes before it closes.
I log on to a computer
and send Aunt Lydia
a decisive email.
∞ ∞ ∞
When I get back home,
Dad’s scribbling notes in one of his binders.
Hey, bud, he says without looking up.
I know I should
talk to him
about talking to
Aunt Lydia.
I sift and sort piles of words.
I can’t seem to gather
the right ones.
Even if I did,
I wonder
if he would listen.
I’m starting to wonder
if he would care.
CONSTRUCTION
Late at night
when Dad is sound asleep,
I carefully, quietly
exhume and deep-clean
the guest bathroom
that’s been blocked off for months.
The hallway leading to the bathroom
can be accessed from the back door,
which makes it easier
to sneak bags of garbage out,
unbeknownst to Dad.
Finally, I reclaim a small but important sliver of living space.
The whole ordeal takes hours
and it’s seriously gross at times,
but I feel a sense of relief.
Finally, I can take a proper shower.
I construct a wall of cardboard boxes
with strategically draped sheets
which obstruct all views of the Hoard
from the guest bathroom and back door.
For a finishing touch,
I plug in some potent lavender-scented air fresheners
that I picked up at the Henny Penny
on my way home from the library.
Finally, I can invite Liam and Georgia over.
Finally, I can be a normal friend again.
T-MINUS 33
To celebrate the end of the swim season,
our team has a cannonball competition
off the highest diving platform.
Georgia wins for best form, of course.
Liam wins for biggest belly flop.
I win some bogus award for most cautious
ladder climbing.
The whole time
my mind keeps wandering
toward summer,
wondering
how it’ll feel
to dive into cold, salty ocean waves
instead of pee-warmed chlorine.
And my mouth keeps twitching into a smile,
because I think I sort of understand
what Georgia meant
about gravity
and choices.
Falling
versus
diving.
DIVERSIONS
As soon as we towel off,
Liam says, So, dudes, what now?
No more swim practice means
more free time each afternoon.
This time I’m prepared.
I volunteer the tree in our backyard.
A project we can do together.
A diversion to keep my friends
from calling me an excusenator
and annoying me to death
until summer vacation.
They love the idea!
Georgia sketches out a design.
Liam says he’ll bring
wood and tools from his garage,
which is great because
I’ve been stashing all the trash
from my cleanup in ours
and it’s an utter disaster.
We’ll stop at the Henny Penny
to pick up snacks and drinks
so no one will need to use the kitchen.
In a stroke of good luck,
I even found extra hard hats
lying around the vacant lot.
BUILDING
We work all afternoon,
hammering,
laughing,
building.
After Liam and Georgia
go home for dinner,
I stay outside
to shore up a few rickety boards.
The tree isn’t that tall,
but even a fall from ten feet up
could cause serious injury.
I’m putting away our tools
when I hear something
rustling in the branches
of a nearby tree
in the small community park
that our yard abuts.
It’s probably just a bird
building a nest.
Harmless,
I hope.
YARD SALE
We’re having a yard sale this weekend, Georgia says.
My parents said you guys can bring stuff to sell.
It might be a good way to raise money
for more tree house supplies.
Can I sell my sister? Liam asks.
Uh, no. You cannot sell Lindsay.
You sure? Because she and her boyfriend
have been extra annoying lately.
Who? Catastrophe?
Yup. Although she calls him Stud Muffin. He gags.
Maybe I could sell him?
I’m ignoring you now.
Georgia turns to me.
How about you, Stud Muffin? She giggles.
I mean, Worst-Case Collin…
My cheeks flush.
Got anything?
If they only knew.
Yeah, actually.
Lots of leftover stuff
from that prank I pulled.
Great!
LOGISTICS
At home
stacks of cardboard boxes
and plastic bins
teeter toward
the ceiling.
I pull one out,
then another and
another,
like a wooden plank
in the game of Jenga.
Wait—
how the heck
am I supposed to get
this stuff over to Georgia’s house
before Dad gets home from work?
I check the clock.
I have one hour.
I need to move fast.
∞ ∞ ∞
The chain
click
click-clicks.
I shift gears,
pump my legs.
The wheels whir in the warm air.
A baseball card flutters
between rusty spokes.
Fwap-a-wappa.
Fwap-a-wappa.
Three more blocks to go.
Click.
Whirrrrr.
Fwap-a-wappa.
Two more.
One.
Almost
there.
∞ ∞ ∞
How are you, babe? Sharon asks,
opening the door.
I need some help.
Her face goes yoga-calm,
despite the fact that
dinner is burning,
the smoke alarm is beeping,
and Lindsay is screaming.
Tell me, babe.
I’m always here for you.
I’ve never seen her so zen.
It’s sort of freaking me out.
Is your dad all right?
Is that Tyson boy bothering you again?
No, no. I wave my hand.
Georgia’s having this yard sale
and I’ve got a bunch of boxes
to bring over to her house.
Except I can’t carry them on my bike.
My dad’s at work,
and I need to do this tonight.
Now, actually.
She takes a breath, nods,
like she was expecting me
to say something else
but she’s relieved I didn’t.
No problem at all.
∞ ∞ ∞
I carry the boxes
to the curb,
making sure
to close the front door
quickly
behind me.
Liam helps me lift everything
into the minivan.
Hang on, punks!
Lindsay pops her chewing gum
and hits the gas pedal.
Ten minutes later
we screech to a stop
in front of Georgia’s house.
A broom rests in the crook of Mr. Wolcott’s arm.
Georgia said you boys might be bringing a few things over.
Liam and I leap out of the car,
hauling the first load onto
the freshly swept stoop.
Holy moly!
This is just Collin’s stuff, Liam says.
Interesting assortment, Mr. Wolcott replies,
which is a polite way to say
random junk.
VALUE
We spend Saturday morning
helping Georgia’s parents
set up tables,
hang signs on telephone poles,
stick price tags on trinkets.
I stare at each object,
wondering how to determine its value.
Georgia tells Liam
that no one will ever pay twenty bucks
for his stinky hockey pads.
Then some person
with severely malfunctioning nostrils
proves us wrong,
and Liam becomes
twenty times more obnoxious,
waving Mrs. Wolcott’s brass candlesticks
over his head like trophies.
At three o’clock
the yard sale winds down.
Mrs. Wolcott packs up the unsold items.
In thick black ink she writes,
Last chance! FREE!
We push the boxes to the curb.
If no one grabs these,
I’ll drop them at the donation center tomorrow, she says.
How’d you kids fare? Mr. Wolcott asks.
Georgia’s gray eyes
are wider than usual
as she counts our earnings.
Seventy-one dollars,
twenty-nine cents!
Twenty-nine cents?
Blame Collin.
He made his prices prime numbers.
Nicely done, Mr. Wolcott says.
Can we really keep it all? Georgia asks.
Let’s get ice cream! Liam suggests.
But we need to buy more plywood for the tree house.
What tastes better, Georgia?
Strawberry swirl, caramel crunch, or wood-chip chunk?
I think we have enough for all of the above, I say.
I rattle off some quick calculations.
Well, I’m convinced, Georgia says. And hungry.
Liam cheers. Cremation, here we come!
Georgia and I just roll our eyes.
LAST CHANCE!
Maybe it’s because
my belly is full of ice cream,
but back at home,
I barely fit
through the front door.
I angle my shoulders
just like the orange book described
in that chapter about breaking down a door.
I make my body a battering ram—SLAM!
Hey, bud!
You won’t believe what I found
passing by Georgia’s house, Dad hollers happily
when I tumble inside.
No one was home,
but her folks left these on the curb.
Can you believe it?
A spectacular deal
too good to pass up!
I stare past him.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
More?
Cardboard boxes scream,
Last chance! FREE!
NOT A BIRD
My brain feels like a teakettle
left on the stove too long.
Steaming hot,
about to whistle,
screech,
explode!
I go outside
to cool off,
even though the temperature is
creeping toward the high eighties.
Tears sting my eyes.
I wipe them away
but more keep coming.
All I want to do
is smash something!
I pick up a hammer
and a box of nails.
I finish an entire wall panel
in record time,
channeling my energy
into the tree house construction.
With each Ping!
Whack!
Slam!
I feel calmer.
Until I hear that rustling
in the trees nearby again.
This time
I snap my head
quickly enough
to spot a streak of color
behind a clump of quaking leaves.
Definitely not a bird.
There’s more movement in the tree.
I recognize the bright blue
of Tyson’s sneakers.
He’s climbing down,
slinking away, darting
through the park
toward his own house
a few blocks east.
How long has he been spying on me?
Was he watching the other night
when I carried bag after bag
from the house into the garage?
Did he see me crying just now?
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
VOCABULARY
Reckless: acting with total disregard for safety, logic, or common sense;
AKA the way I’m feeling lately.
See also: a very cool-sounding nickname.
SEARCHING
The construction site at the vacant lot
may have shut down,
but the diggers and bulldozers
are still there,
locked up
like oversize mechanical creatures
at some freak show zoo.
I check to make sure
I’m alone—
no protesters,
no construction workers,
no archaeologists named Charles.
If anyone asks,
I’m just a kid
with an interest
in local entomology.
I pull out an empty pickle jar
recovered from the Hoard
and unscrew the top,
punctured with holes.
My hands shake
as I tug on a pair of rubber gardening gloves.