Hero-Type Part 2

So she became our unofficial mascot, and then one day Flip got this brilliant idea: we would start dressing her up in outrageous outfits and pose her places and take pictures and then Flip would hack the pictures into people's e-mail accounts and websites.

It's a blast! Honest! The lovely and wooden OSP has done time as a call girl (in front of the First Baptist Church), a French maid (bending over a grave marker at the cemetery), and-my personal favorite-a very naughty Mrs. Claus on Christmas Eve.

On the mayor's roof.

Doing something very jolly with the mayor's Santa statue that put the "X" in "Xmas."

And let me tell you, it was a b.i.t.c.h getting that thing up to the roof and back down before the mayor and his wife got home from church, but it was worth every sore muscle on Christmas morning.

These are the things we do, we Council of Fools. We're bored a lot.

Chapter 6.

A Big Moment (Oh, Joy)

Before leaving the janitors' office, I secure another promise from Flip not to mess around today.

He looks at me like I just kicked him in the s.h.i.+n. "Kross. I'm hurt. How could you think I would embarra.s.s a fellow Fool like that?"

His expression is so sad and forlorn that I almost feel bad for bringing it up. But then his face splits into the grin I know so well. "Besides," he says, "it'll be much more fun watching you go through the whole thing. If I pranked it, you'd get a break."

Fam slaps his shoulder. "Be nice."

I go to my last two cla.s.ses and try to focus, but when the day ends, I feel no relief because there's more to come.

The ceremony takes place on the football field. I can't say "football stadium" because that would imply that South Brook High has, well, a stadium. And the truth of the matter is that all we have is a field with a bunch of hard-on-your-a.s.s bleachers and two goalposts and a scoreboard that isn't even digital-it still has those numbers cut in half horizontally that flip over themselves to update.

So, this is how Brookdale treats its hero-types: it tortures them.

They've put up some kind of stage at one end of the field, and that's where I stand, along with the mayor, Dr. Goethe, and a bunch of other people I don't know. I think they're aldermen or councilors or something. I guess if I cared, I'd ask to be introduced.

All I know is that the entire town of Brookdale is sitting on the field on folding chairs or on the bleachers. Or at least that's how it feels. There's a whole h.e.l.l of a lot of people out there, and I squirm every time I think about it, which is all the time at the moment because they're right in front of me, so I'm basically one big ball of squirm.

Leah is up here, too, standing near me. She smells nice-like lilacs. I guess. I don't really know what lilacs smell like, so it's tough to say. But in poems and stuff, people are always talking about the smell of lilacs and they say it with this sort of emotion that makes me think lilacs must be just about the best thing in the world, and that's what Leah smells like right now-the best thing in the world.

OK, settle down, Kross.

I don't even want to think about what I smell like. I think my deodorant gave up a couple of hours ago and it's hot out here and I really hope that some of the funk I'm detecting is just radiating from the crowd.

Flip was right: If he suddenly overloaded the speakers with feedback or had the Council set off firecrackers over by the parking lot, I'd at least get a minute without everyone staring at me.

But there's no break in sight, so I have to stand here the whole time, while Dr. Goethe introduces me and talks about what I did and how I'm Brookdale's new TV star, which gets some laughs-Ha ha, the ugly kid is a TV star. Then the mayor takes the mike and babbles for a while about Civic Pride and Lending a Hand and how I am, apparently, the New Face of Today's Youth, which, let me tell you, does not bode well for Today's Youth's chances of ever getting laid.

Thankfully, I'm not asked to speak. Because I would probably puke.

Unbelievably, it turns out there's a key to the town-the key to Brookdale. This makes me think of a big dome over the town, with a little door and a teeny, tiny keyhole. Now that would be cool.

Leah is the one who gives me the key. Of course. She's wearing a cream dress with green trim. She wears it at least once a month, usually for something special. She wore it today for me.

She hands the key to me and she's smiling and she's beautiful and she's lilacs and I think-no, no, wait, I'm pretty sure-I'm going to pa.s.s out here and now, which would just be perfect, wouldn't it? Right there in front of Leah, in front of the entire town of Brookdale and probably half of Canterstown, too.

But I manage not to pa.s.s out. Leah gives me a little hug that sends sparks all along my body and makes me rigid with fear that I'm going to pop a b.o.n.e.r right here on stage. oh, man, that would suck.

Fortunately, Little Kross decides to behave. Leah steps away from me, leaving a fog of lilac confusion in her wake. There's applause as I perform the supremely heroic act of standing there with a dumb look on my face, holding the key in one sweaty hand. Looking out at the crowd, I see Dad and Leah's parents and t.i.t's mom and the Council, everyone applauding except for Flip, way in the back, his arm around Fam's shoulders. She's clapping and cheering, but Flip just looks sort of bored and isn't applauding at all, which is cool because this is so not a big deal.

Now what do I do with the key? I feel like everyone expects me to hold it up over my head like a trophy or something, but it's sort of small, only a little bigger than a real key, so no one would even be able to see it. It's sort of a bra.s.sy color, but it doesn't feel all that heavy, so that's probably just paint. It has a little red stone set in it, and it's engraved Brookdale, MARYLAND with the date.

G.o.d, this is stupid.

And, sadly, it's not over yet. Because now there's more speech-making. People saying incredibly stupid things about me, going back to the whole hero thing, making me sound like I tracked the Surgeon from his lair with my trusty bloodhound and a sniper rifle before besting him in hand-to-hand combat on top of a speeding bus filled with orphans and nuns. And ninjas. Ninjas are involved somehow, too.

I zone out long enough to imagine all of that and snap out of it to more applause. I have, apparently, just been offered free manicures for life at a local salon. Why would I want a single manicure, much less a lifetime's supply? (And how many manicures are there in a lifetime's supply?) It gets better: free DVD rentals (I don't have a DVD player!) and free meals at some local restaurants (yeah, because I love eating alone in public) and a bunch of other c.r.a.p.

By the time it's over, there's sweat soaking through the back of my s.h.i.+rt. My armpits are a swamp. I imagine my zit cream running down my face like melted makeup.

"We have one last surprise for you, Kevin," the mayor says, and beckons for me to join him at the microphone. oh, Lord.

"You turned sixteen last week, didn't you, Kevin?"

I lean into the microphone. "Yeah." Oops. I'm supposed to say, "Yes, sir," or something like that, right?

"Don't have a car yet, do you?"

"Nah." Oops. Again.

"Well, stop by the lot. We'll take care of you."

The crowd goes crazy with more applause.

And then it's all done, thank G.o.d. The final round of applause dies out and the mayor thanks everyone for coming and that's that, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Dad starts to make his way toward me while the mayor makes sure to get one last picture with me.

"Are you serious?" I ask the mayor. "About the car?"

"Of course! We'll help you spend a little of that reward money, huh?" He slaps me on the back and laughs like it's a joke, but it's not. "I'll get you a great deal, don't worry. Give you my cost on the whole thing. I've got the perfect car in mind already."

Being mayor of Brookdale is not exactly a high-paying gig. We learned that in an elementary school unit on local government. I think he gets like ten grand a year, which-if you ask me-is probably ten grand too much to run this place. So he has to have a regular job, too, and this particular mayor owns a car dealers.h.i.+p.

This is actually a pretty sweet deal, all things considered. Dad wasn't going to be buying me a car any time soon, after all. I wouldn't need Flip to drive me everywhere all the time. I could have some freedom.

Even though I don't really deserve it.

Because...

And then Dad's on the stage, shaking the mayor's hand, and he puts his other hand on my shoulder and the mayor says, "You must be so proud of Kevin."

And it kills me when Dad says, "Yes. I am."

SELF-LOATHING #1.

My dad-now there's a hero, I guess. He carried a gun. He served his country. He walked the desert sands, never knowing which step might be the last he would take.

And me? Yeah, I saved Leah's life.

But I did something else, too. Something no one knows about.

I don't know which would be worse-the world learning the truth, or the world never learning. Because if people find out, my entire world would crumble.

But worse than that is this: if no one ever knows, I think this secret is going to eat me alive from the inside out.

Chapter 7.

Smart People

Dad always said that Mom was the smartest person in the family, and I agree with him. She proved it the day she left us.

If Dad thought Mom was the smartest in the family, she always returned the favor: "Your father is too brilliant for his own good," she would say. I never believed it because I never saw it. Dad was just ... Dad. One day I was feeling particularly snarky, so I asked him why he didn't do something more with his life, something important. I didn't put it that way, but that's what I was getting at.

He leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and thought for a while. Then he said, "I had to opt out of the opt-in society."

Which to this day still makes no sense at all. Not even to Flip.

So maybe he's just the smartest garbage man in the world. Doing all that physical work is good for him, he says. It lets the brain shut down and the body take over and maybe that's kind of like his own personal safety valve.

Isn't that what Mrs. Sawyer called it in history cla.s.s-the safety valve? When America was young and things would get rough and then everyone would just move west and things would calm down because everyone was spread out and not getting on each other's nerves anymore?

Yeah, that's what they called it-the safety valve. That's what my dad has. That's what everyone needs.

Dad has to get up at like two in the morning for his job, so he goes to sleep at four or five in the afternoon most days, which is why he gets the apartment's only bedroom. I don't have a room of my own-I have the foldout sofa in the living room. See, when Mom left, Dad couldn't afford to keep the townhouse anymore, so we moved into this little apartment on Main Street.

The apartment is basically a bas.e.m.e.nt with "delusions of grandeur." (That's one of Flip's pet phrases and I stole it because I like the way it sounds.) Mrs. Mac is our landlady-she lives in the house above us. She's like ten million years old and even though she's supposed to make sure everything is running right in the apartment, she usually ends up calling Dad when her pipes are acting up and stuff. She makes these really lousy blueberry m.u.f.fins that are as dry as sand and half as tasty, and she's always bringing bunches of them to Dad and me.

So we've got one bedroom and one bathroom and a tiny living room and this little hallway with appliances that counts as a kitchen. There's junk piled just about everywhere because Dad goes off to work and comes home with all kinds of c.r.a.p. I mean, sometimes I wonder if anything actually ends up in the truck. It all seems to make its way to our place instead.

Dad's all like, "We live in a disposable society. It's reprehensible." (He uses that word a lot.) And, "People throw away perfectly good things." And things like that.

He's got all of this old sporting equipment, like dented baseball bats ("I can pound that out") and rusting barbells ("They just need to be cleaned up") and other junk. At last count, there were ten broken VCRs stacked up in a corner. ("I just need to take 'em apart and get them working again," Dad says.) I used to fold up the sofa every morning and unfold it every night, but eventually it hit me that no one visits us anyway, so now I just leave it open all the time. Fortunately, Dad has gotten used to this because now I hide my video camera and my tapes under there. I should toss all of it now. I really should. Can't bring myself to do it, though.

Not that I would throw it away here, anyway. I'd have to go to a Dumpster or something. I never toss anything incriminating at home. You never throw away anything that could prove you guilty when you live with a garbage man. Trust me on that one.

I mean, it's bad enough he digs c.r.a.p out of other people's garbage. "Rescuing," he calls it. Which is why we have stacks and piles of "rescued" junk all over the apartment, so that there's barely enough room for us to move around. Bad enough he does that. But he totally checks out our garbage, too. I threw away a tube of toothpaste once that hadn't been rolled all the way up and he just about freaked on me. "Do you realize how wasteful this is?"

And heaven forbid I toss a piece of paper! As long as it's blank on one side, he'll cut it up into quarters and use it for note paper or shopping lists or whatever.

"We live in a limited world, Kevin," he told me once. "Everything runs out at some point. People need to realize that. I'm not going to have my son contributing to the problem."

I said something smart-alecky at that point about recycling bread crusts ... and he just launched into a tirade about how bread crusts could be ground up to make bread crumbs, which could be used in recipes (because he totally cooks all the time), and I realized-then and there-that there's just no point arguing with my dad.

Chapter 8.

Two Sparrows

The cool thing about a dad who sleeps in the evening (the only cool thing) is that I get to do what I want most nights, as long as I'm in bed by two a.m., when Dad gets up. So tonight, like so many others, I meet the Council at SAMMPark.