Also Known as Rowan Pohi Page 8

  "I better buy my blazer next week."

  She made a sad face. "I was thinking we could hang out this weekend, Rowan, but we're going away to our horse farm."

  "You would choose riding horses over hanging out with me?"

  "Possibly," she admitted with a guilty grin. "But I have a plan."

  "She has a plan," I declared to nobody in particular.

  "On Monday we have early release for a teacher workshop. You want to come over my house? My parents won't be home."

  "Definitely, sure."

  "We've got a pool," she added coyly, "so bring your bathing suit."

  The morning classes went fine. I'd taken Robin's advice and done extra verb work, so I did have an easier time in Spanish. At lunch I wolfed down three tacos. I was the last one left at the table, as before. And once again I became aware of those two kids staring at me. Seth and Brogan, the ones who had snatched french fries off my plate a few days ago. Like jackals in Africa, they moved closer, watching me finish my lunch. But if they were trying to intimidate me, it wasn't working.

  "Why don't you guys go hassle someone else?" I suggested.

  "No hassles," Seth promised with a formal bow. "We come in peace."

  Ignoring them, I took a last leisurely bite of my taco.

  "See, there's a terrible rumor going around," Seth said confidentially. "From what I heard, someone's trying to steal his way into this school."

  My gut tightened.

  "What do you think about that, Rowan Pohi?" Brogan asked.

  I shrugged. "Doesn't concern me."

  Now Seth took the seat directly across the table from me. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  "I know who you are, dude. You're Bobby Steele."

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. "And you're Hannah Montana."

  "Bobby Steele," Seth repeated.

  I gave them a quizzical look. "I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Rowan—"

  "Cut the Rowan crap, okay?" In a split second Seth's face changed, showing a hard side of him I hadn't seen before. "You know how I know who you are? I was in your PE class at Riverview for two weeks before I transferred to Whitestone. You were the fastest kid in class. They had the Pizza Challenge the second week of school. You came in first."

  Stalling, I took a long drink of chocolate milk. Honestly, I wasn't sure what my next move was, or if I even had one.

  "Well?" Seth demanded. "What do you think, Bobby?"

  "You clowns should mind your own business. That's what I think."

  Seth did not take his eyes off me. "I'm making this my business, Bobby boy."

  "You are totally screwed," Brogan interjected.

  "Wait, hold on, maybe not," Seth said, holding his hand up to Brogan. "There's one thing we could do."

  I didn't see any choice but to sit and listen.

  "I have this Aunt Millie," Seth continued. "She's real nice but real poor, you know? I was thinking if you maybe give me ten bucks a week, I could give it to Aunt Millie so she has enough to eat and pay her bills."

  I smiled. "That sounds like blackmail."

  Seth shook his head. "No, no, you got it all wrong. The money wouldn't be for us; it would be for Aunt Millie. To help her out."

  I stared at him. "Let me get this straight. If I pay you ten bucks a week you'll forget all about Bobby Steele, huh? Do I really look that stupid?"

  Now it was Seth's turn to smile. "That's not stupid. That's smart. That's what I call a win-win situation. A win for you and a win for, uh, Aunt Millie."

  "Ten bucks a week is forty bucks a month," I pointed out. "That's four hundred eighty bucks a year."

  "Bobby Steele is a math genius," Seth told Brogan.

  Brogan giggled. Seth turned to me and pointed at the tall stained-glass windows in the lunchroom.

  "Think about it, Bobby," he said. "You wouldn't want to lose all this, would you?"

  Right then Heather appeared at the table.

  "I sneaked out of study hall," she announced.

  "Well, hello, hello," Seth murmured, slowly giving her the once-over.

  Heather flashed him a murderous look. "Don't start with me, Seth." She turned to me. "What gives, Rowan? What did these toads say to you?"

  "Nothing," I mumbled.

  "Rowan!" Brogan cried. "She called him Rowan. Isn't that cute?"

  Heather gave me a puzzled look. "What's going on?"

  "We were just giving Bobby, uh, I mean Rowan, the inside scoop on Whitestone," Seth explained. "Ta-ta!"

  They left. Heather took the adjacent chair and slid in close. I felt the side of her knee press against mine.

  "Seth and Brogan are not nice people," she murmured. "They're evil. They weren't bullying you, were they?"

  "Don't worry," I said. "I can take care of myself."

  ***

  That afternoon I went to the football meeting. Once again I had that what-am-I-doing-here feeling, even more so after the little chat I'd had with Seth and Brogan. As much as I hated to admit it, Brogan was right.

  I was totally and royally screwed.

  I counted fifty-one guys at the meeting. We sat in a cluster on the outdoor bleachers. Throckmorton stood before us, wearing Purdue athletic shorts that showed off his muscular legs.

  "Tuesday is the first official practice, but we might as well get something done, since you're all here." He spoke in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. "Those of you who brought your cleats, we'll get some times on the forty-yard dash." He blew the whistle. "Spread out and start stretching. Don't rush it. I don't want any pulled hamstrings the first day of practice."

  I stretched near Derrick, the kid with frosted hair who sat next to me in English.

  "Throckmorton played middle linebacker at Purdue," Derrick murmured. "From what I hear, the dude was nasty."

  We lined up to get timed for the forty. Throckmorton positioned himself at the starting line, holding a clipboard to record each kid's time. Mr. Dunbar, one of the assistant coaches, stood at the finish line with a stopwatch.

  The first kid weighed well over two hundred pounds. He'd be trying out for guard or tackle, I figured. His time was 6.1—not bad for such a big kid. The next boy, who was clearly out of shape, did a lumbering 7.7. Some kids snickered.

  "That will not cut it," Throckmorton said sharply. "You gotta do better than that, Trey."

  "I will," the poor kid mumbled.

  Other times: 5.95; 6.4; 6.6; 7.8; 6.3.

  "Rowan Pohi." Throckmorton nodded at me. "C'mon, Ro, let's see what you got."

  I stepped up to the starting line and leaned forward.

  "Ready, set—go!"

  I exploded up the track, reminding myself to keep a short, compact stride, knees tucked under my chest. I sprinted all-out, fixing my eyes ten feet beyond the finish line so I wouldn't be tempted to slow down at the end.

  Coach Dunbar stared at his stopwatch. "This can't be right," he muttered. "Four point seven three."

  Throckmorton glanced up from his clipboard. "Four seven three?"

  Dunbar shrugged. "That's what the watch says."

  Throckmorton looked at me. "Sorry, Rowan, but I'm gonna need to see that again. You want to take a break? We can skip you and come back in a few minutes."

  "No, I think I'm ready."

  I lined up again.

  "Ready, set—go!"

  I churned my legs, picturing Seth and Brogan as I burst over the finish line.

  "Four point nine," Dunbar called.

  Throckmorton whistled. "Nice going, Ro."

  "Thanks."

  "I'm not planning to keep many sophomores on varsity," Throckmorton said. "But if you can catch the ball like you run—well, you've got a shot at one of the wide-receiver positions."

  Derrick drifted over. "Four point seven. Yow."

  "Decent," I admitted.

  Derrick laughed. "Usain Bolt ran a four point three seven in the forty in the Olympics. That's the world record. So, yeah, I'd say a four point seven is more than decent."<
br />
  My speed in the forty caught the attention of other kids too; I could see them looking over at me. Which felt good. But that good feeling started melting the moment I walked out of White-stone, and it was gone by the time I stepped onto the cross-town bus.

  I made hamburger stew for supper. I started by cutting up onions and garlic, using the paring knife that had been Mom's favorite. I remembered her small hands, how fast she worked, almost like a blur as she chopped the garlic cloves into perfect little slices. I could imagine her standing in the kitchen, helping me prepare the food.

  Usually making supper calmed me down, but not today. I kept picturing Seth and Brogan, and when I did I could feel tiny tendrils of panic, like icy air bubbles, rising in my gut.

  So what if Heather liked Rowan/me? So what if he/I could run the forty-yard dash in four point seven seconds? None of that mattered. Rowan was a sinking ship.

  No money for tuition.

  No transcript from my previous school.

  Seth and Brogan couldn't wait to blow my cover.

  Not only that, but I was getting marked absent every day at Riverview High School. Any day now the school secretary would pick up the phone and call my father.

  What the hell was I thinking? Why couldn't I have shut my mouth and gone to Riverview with Marcus and Poobs? As I sliced the onions, a stinging odor rose up from the cutting board, making my eyes smart and tear.

  What should I do, Mom?

  Cody came into the kitchen and looked at me curiously.

  "Are you crying, Bobby?"

  "It's just the onions," I said. "Set the table."

  That night I made a goal for myself to read twenty pages of To Kill a Mockingbird, but I couldn't get beyond three pages. So I closed that book and picked up One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Twenty minutes later I had finished it. I thought it was a great book, though I didn't know what to think about the ending. It was mixed, sad but also hopeful. A book like that pulls you out of yourself, zaps you into another world.

  I was glad to escape my life, even for only a half-hour or so. But the moment I switched off the light, all my problems came flooding back in. I felt that panic again. I couldn't shut it off.

  I had no idea what to do. There was no way I would pay Seth any money. Not ten bucks; not even ten cents. That was not an option. Given that fact, and given the evil gleam in Seth's eyes, it was hard to imagine how my Whitestone story could have a happy ending.

  TWENTY

  SATURDAY MORNING MY FATHER COOKED PANCAKES. HE stood at the stove wearing a T-shirt that said STILL PLAYS WITH CARS. I remembered Mom giving him that shirt for his birthday. We had all laughed, like a happy family; even Cody got the joke.

  My father whistled as he flipped the pancakes; he always looked relaxed when he had a day off, which wasn't very often. The radio was playing classic rock, Gregg Allman, "I'm No Angel." Cody sat at the table holding a Spider-Man action figure, wearing two feathers in his hair.

  "A two-feather day, huh?" I said. "What's the occasion, Code-ster?"

  "I'm going to a birthday party!" he cried. "We're going to Chuck E. Cheese!"

  I poured a tall glass of OJ and sat down at the table. "I used to love Chuck E. Cheese when I was a little squirt like you."

  He looked indignant. "I'm not a little squirt!"

  "Okay, calm down," I told him.

  "I got a loose tooth." Opening his mouth, Cody touched one of the fang teeth on top, moving it slightly with his thumb.

  "Cool." I nodded. "When it falls out, you might get a visit from the tooth fairy."

  "Yeah!"

  "Pancakes?" my father offered.

  "All right, sure."

  "Wanna hear a joke, Bobby?" Cody asked.

  Do I have a choice? I thought.

  "What's a ghost's favorite kind of pancakes?"

  "I dunno know. What?"

  "Boo-berry!" He let out a huge horse laugh. My brother adored his own jokes. He was forever cracking himself up.

  "What are you doing today?" my father asked.

  "Going to CarWorks," I told him. "How many oil changes do you have for me?"

  "Six."

  "Okay, good." I really needed the money.

  "Vacuum them cars out real good," he told me. "You should be done by one o'clock, maybe sooner if you hustle."

  "Where's the key?"

  "On the table." He flipped my pancakes. "Don't lose it. And, Bobby, be real careful when you pull those cars into the garage."

  "I've done it before."

  "Yeah, but you aren't supposed to drive at all," he reminded me. "If my insurance guy ever found out, he'd have a royal shit fit."

  Cody grinned. "Shit fit!"

  I swatted Cody on the arm. "Don't say that word!"

  "Hey!" He swatted me back.

  After breakfast I caught the downtown bus to Fifteenth Street and walked three blocks to Remington, where CarWorks was located. It took several tries before I found the right key and unlocked the door. Inside it was eerily quiet. Mechanics typically don't work on Saturday, and it did feel weird to be working alone in such a large space. But it was nice too. I had worked on Saturdays a few times before, and I could get a lot done when there was nobody else around.

  The car keys hung on hooks on a board inside my father's office. When I pressed a button, the large doors began to lift on service bay number 1. The first car was a green Subaru. I got into the car, started it, and drove about fifty feet into the first bay. It wasn't much of a drive, but for me it was a blast because I didn't have a driver's license and wouldn't get one for at least a year. It was surprising that my father let me drive at all. He wasn't the kind of person who looked the other way.

  I opened the hood and unscrewed the oil filter cap. Then I climbed into the bay below the Subaru, located the oil pan, and used a wrench to unscrew the drain plug, making sure I had the large plastic bucket in place to catch the old oil. Doing an oil change was a cinch. I often thought that if regular people knew how easy it was, they would all start doing it themselves. (And I'd be out of a job.)

  After I got done changing the oil, I vacuumed out the car. CarWorks had an industrial-size vacuum with three times the suction power of an ordinary vacuum, so it was fun to use. Vacuuming was a "value-added service" my father provided for the cars he worked on. I found $1.62 in coins on the floor and between the seats of the Subaru. I always found tons of lost coins when I vacuumed—my all-time record was $4.86. My father had directed me to put all the change in a paper cup and leave it in the cup holder, which is what I did.

  "Leaving that cup of coins may seem like a little thing," my father said, "but if it builds the customer's trust, even a little, it's worth it."

  I whistled as I worked, happy to have a job that would keep my mind off the train wreck that was my life. Plus I was happy to be making money. I needed to pay back what I'd borrowed from Marcus and Big Poobs. I hated having any debt hanging over me. But before I paid them back, I needed to buy the White-stone blazer.

  Later that afternoon I took Cody to the Jamaican festival at People's Park. I thought I smelled ganja, but couldn't be 100 percent sure. A tall guy in dreads was handing out samples of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. You could buy all kinds of Jamaican food: jerk chicken, green bananas, even curried goat. There were games, a steel-drum band, and face-painting for the little kids. A chubby clown made a dog out of balloons and gave it to my brother. It was good to see him smile.

  Everybody seemed to be in a good mood—except me. I was wound tight inside. I kept seeing the faces of Seth and Brogan. I couldn't get them out of my head.

  We were just about to leave when a familiar voice rang out.

  "Rowan!"

  It was Derrick, the tall kid in my English class who was also trying out for the football team. He was standing by the fence with a group of Whitestone kids. I waved but kept moving.

  Cody squinted up quizzically in the afternoon sun.

  "Hey, Bobby! He called you Rowan!"

  "He's
silly," I said, and pulled a glob of blue cotton candy off his chin.

  Later that day I decided to text Marcus and Big Poobs.

  Meet IHOP?

  IL B der, Poobs texted back.

  Nothing from Marcus.

  At the IHOP four senior citizen types had set up a command post in the booth where we usually sat. Across the room I spotted Big Poobs taking up one entire side of a booth, a bench meant for two. I was really glad to see him. We each ordered root beer and waited in silence until the waitress brought them to the table.

  "Power straws?" Poobs suggested uncertainly.

  "No." I shook my head. "How's school?"

  Poobs groaned. "Riverview is the pits this year. Some kid brought a knife into school—you heard about that, right? The administration freaked. They totally overreacted, installed metal detectors at both entrances. It sucks. Now we have to show up twenty minutes early."

  "Or late."

  It was Marcus!

  "Shove over," he told Poobs, flopping down next to him.

  "Hey, Marcus," I said carefully.

  "Bobby." Marcus's face was expressionless. "Or is it Rowan? I can't remember which."

  "I told you I was sorry."

  "It's cool." Marcus picked up the menu. "I'm not pissed off anymore."

  "So we're good?" I persisted.

  "Good enough." He studied the menu without looking at me. "So. How is life with the Stonys?"

  "Great," I said sarcastically "Couldn't be better."

  Marcus looked up from the menu. "What's wrong?"

  Sighing, I told them all about Seth and Brogan.

  "Seth is going to rat me out unless I pay him," I concluded. "What am I going to do? He's got me by the balls."

  "I think I remember that twerp," Marcus said slowly.

  "Maybe you should pay them," Poobs suggested.

  I lifted one eyebrow. "Maybe you should eat my sweaty jock. I'm not going to pay anyone."

  "Then try to talk to him," Poobs said.

  I glared at him. "Don't you think I already have?"

  "Guys like that don't listen to reason, ever," Marcus put in. "Trust me, I know from experience. What's this moron's name? Seth? We may need to break Seth's face. I'm serious."

  "I thought of that," I admitted. "But, c'mon, let's be real. We're not the face-breaking type. We're not face-breakers."