Trouble with a Tiny t Read online

  My eyes widen. “Really? Gram, you’re the best!” That’s the greatest trade ever. I love sketching. It’s the absolute only thing I’m good at. Except maybe baseball, which I’m not allowed to play anymore on account of a bat-throwing/nose-breaking incident.

  I set the case by the door. “Don’t let anyone touch this.” Then I walk over to give her a hug.

  “Ooh, I’ve got to get these hugs while I can.” Gram pulls me in and squeezes me into her soft chest.

  I squeeze her back. Gram is like a giant squooshy marshmallow. She even smells like sugar, probably from all those cookies. I don’t mind hugging her, especially since Uncle Marty’s gone, and she’s sad a lot, even though I’m a little old for hugs.

  Gram kisses my cheek and leads me into the living room, where Dad and Pops are. I’ll draw something fast, I decide, then Dad and I can leave so I can get back to the magic pouch.

  “Sit here. Draw while I finish folding.” Gram eases onto the sofa next to a pile of sheets.

  “Do you need help?” I sit cross-legged at the coffee table in front of my sketchpad and pencils, hoping she’ll say no.

  “No, sweetie, you just draw.”

  “Where have you been, buddy? You missed a great game.” Dad’s in a chair next to Pops, both of them up close to the TV. His phone pings, and he glances down at it.

  “Nowhere,” I answer. “Who’s winning?” I start drawing, but mostly I’m thinking about the fact that a mini croc just munched on a turtle and then disappeared before my eyes.

  “Thirty-four to seventeen, Patriots.” Dad types into his phone.

  Pops snorts out of his nap. “You were sitting there the whole time. Pay attention. Just like Marty, I swear.”

  Pops is always in a bad mood lately, especially where I’m concerned. He thinks I mess up a lot, make too much noise, squirm too much, break things. Which I basically do. I generally try to stay away from him.

  “Oh, Pops, be nice.” Gram winks at me. “It’s not a bad thing to be like Marty, Westin. He was adventurous, artistic, and imaginative.”

  Uncle Marty was extremely cool. Whenever he’d return from one of his trips, it felt like Christmas and a trip to Disneyland rolled into one. He always had all these photos, stories, and awesomely cool things from countries I’d never heard of. He became a bush pilot and a spelunker—which is a fancy word for cave explorer—and he even summited Mt. Everest.

  Then, about three months ago, Uncle Marty kissed Gram goodbye and said he was going on another trip. But he never called her and Pops, which he usually did every Sunday night, no matter where he was. He just sort of disappeared. No one knows where he went.

  After a while, Dad and Pops packed up Uncle Marty’s stuff. I overheard Dad say he thinks Marty must be dead, but I know Gram hopes he’ll pop back and surprise us. I hope so too because I super miss him. Uncle Marty always laughed at my zany noises and tousled my hair and said my mind is creative. He got me in a way no one else ever does. Definitely not my dad or Pops.

  Anyway, now I totally see how he led such an amazing life. The dude had magic.

  And now, so do I.

  This pouch is going to change my life. I can’t wait to show my friends. How the heck am I supposed to sit here and sketch as if the most incredible thing in the world did not just happen?

  “Dad, can we go soon? Isn’t it getting late?” I rush to finish the red-flamed fire monster I started earlier in my sketchpad, picking another pencil from the box on the table.

  “Is that a monster made of fire?” Gram looks over my shoulder. “So real! Like he could leap off the paper and burn down a whole building.” She chuckles. “Show that to your father.”

  I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.” I hold out the drawing to show Dad. “Dad, can we go?”

  His phone pings again, and he looks down to read the text.

  “Philip.” Gram scowls.

  Dad looks up. “Huh? Oh, right. Looks good, bud.” He glances back down at his phone.

  Gram casts a knowing smile my way and offers me a pillowcase. “Here, sweetie. You can help me fold this if you’re done drawing.”

  I take the pillowcase and set it in my lap. “Dad. Time to go?”

  He ignores me and continues typing. I sigh and fiddle with the scissors from the pencil box, snapping them open and shut like the crocodile’s jaws. I can’t stop thinking about what happened downstairs. What made that croc come out of the pouch? What started the magic? The painting? Maybe if I—

  “Westin Hopper!” Gram shouts.

  I flinch. What I do? What?

  I look down at the scissors in my hand. Then I look at the hole I made in Gram’s pillowcase.

  Dang it.

  “Gosh dern it!” Pops grunts. “What’d you do that for?”

  I slowly put the scissors back on the table. Why did I do that? “Sorry, Gram.”

  “Seriously?” Dad looks up from his phone and sighs. “Can’t keep doing stuff like that, West. You’re eleven. Use your brain.”

  My brain. Ha! A normal kid’s brain might have been like, “Dude, bad idea to mess with scissors and a pillowcase you’re supposed to be folding while daydreaming about disappearing crocodiles.” Then that kid would’ve said, “Brain, you are so right. Good thing you stop me from doing dopey stuff.”

  But no, not my brain. My brain is worthless. He’s Vacation Brain. In Hawaii half the time. Or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Or canoeing the Amazon.

  Wherever he is, he’s not in my head doing his job.

  “Gonna have to pay for some new sheets.” Pops settles back into his brown lump of a chair. His wiry gray eyebrows close in on each other. “Teach you to appreciate the value of a dollar.”

  “I’m really sorry, Gram.” I sigh, my face hot with embarrassment.

  Dad stands and stretches. “Yeah, Ma, sorry. West will use allowance money for the sheets. Right, bud?”

  “I guess.” Hopefully the standing and stretching means we’re getting out of here before I do any more damage.

  “That was a good game, huh, Pops?” Dad pats him on the shoulder. “Gotta get going, now.”

  Finally!

  Dad pulls his keys from his pants pocket. “Ma, thanks for lunch. See you next Sunday, okay?” He leans down to kiss her. “Bud, your mom’ll be here soon. Can you stay out of trouble till then?” He leans over and messes my hair.

  “Wait? What?”

  “Don’t forget your clothes and stuff. Tell your mom I’m going to email information on the private school I mentioned to her yesterday. We need to start the application soon if you’re going to transfer. I’ll see you next Sunday.”

  I bounce up and follow him to the kitchen. “Wait, Dad, I’m supposed to go to dinner with you. And what private school? Transfer?”

  Dad’s phone pings with another text, and suddenly I get what’s happening—or rather, who. Cindy, Dad’s girlfriend.

  Dad grabs his coat off a kitchen chair. “We talked about the school, remember? This not paying attention is exactly why I want you to go there.” He starts toward the door.

  “Wait. I don’t remember. And I thought we were going out for pizza, just you and me,” I protest. If Dad leaves, I’m stuck here until who knows when. All the magic might be pouring out of that pouch in the meantime, spilling into nothingness forever.

  “Next time. But tell Mom to check her email, okay? We need to get on that application.” Dad doesn’t look back as he heads to the door, moving smoothly, like an octopus gliding through water.

  “But…” I say, except he’s already gone. I watch through the kitchen window as he peels out of the driveway in the Evidence, which is what Mom calls his bright red sports car. She says that it’s proof he could pay more child support.

  I wish I were in that car right now.

  I turn away from the window and eye the case containing th
e magic pouch. Maybe Mom will be here soon, and I can go home and mess around with it. My insides jump just thinking about it.

  In the meantime, I grab another soda from Gram’s fridge. Mom never lets me drink soda because she says it’s like setting a Tasmanian devil on fire, whatever that means. So I always load up at Gram’s. When I shut the fridge, one of my sketches—a hulky warrior fighting a dragon—falls from its magnet and floats to the floor. I gave that one to Dad last Sunday, but I guess he forgot it.

  I pull my phone out and text Josh: Dude, you will never believe what I found in Gram’s basement

  I watch the screen for a few minutes, waiting for him to ask what, but he doesn’t reply. Maybe his mom took his phone away. I go back into the living room to wait. Pops has fallen back asleep, and Gram is sporting a TV coma-glaze watching some goopy kissing movie.

  This is so boring.

  Come on, Mom. Where are you?

  I look down at the hole I cut in Gram’s pillowcase. Sigh. I’m such an idiot sometimes. I should probably get out of here before I wreck something else. “I’m going to wait outside.”

  Pops sits up suddenly and starts to push himself out of the sinkhole that is his armchair. “I’m gonna keep my eye on you out the window,” he says. “Make sure you don’t pop the blossoms off Mrs. Schauble’s roses like that one time.”

  I flash a look to Gram, tapping my foot nervously. What if Pops sees the case and takes it away? I have to get the pouch home. I have to figure out how the magic works. I have to show it to the guys.

  “Sit back down before you hurt yourself, Pops,” Gram scolds him. “Go play outside, Westin.”

  I don’t wait for Pops to argue. I scoop my sketchpad off the table, turn, and bolt out of the room. “Love you!” I yell over my shoulder.

  “Don’t forget your cookies,” Gram calls after me. “And my drawing!”

  In the kitchen, I pluck a drawing of a vampire-unicorn from my sketches and leave it on the table for Gram, then stuff the sketchpad into my backpack, which is spewing torn homework and old drawings from its opening. I sling it over my shoulder, practically holding my breath in case Pops manages to get himself out of that chair. I grab a grease-stained paper bag of cookies from the kitchen counter in one hand and the blue suitcase in another.

  My duffle bag, filled with clothes and other things I carry between Mom’s and Dad’s houses each week, is on a kitchen chair. I knock it off with my foot and shove it down the back stairs. No sign of Pops, but depending on how bad his arthritis is, sometimes it can take him ten minutes to shuffle to the kitchen.

  Slamming the door behind me, I race to the driveway, my feet barely touching down. I take a giant breath and glance at the back door and the kitchen window. All clear so far.

  Come on, Mom.

  I pull out a chewy, gooey cookie from the paper bag while I wait. Green and pink sprinkles go all over my shirt as I shovel the cookie into my mouth. Mmm, these are good.

  After a bajillion light-years, I see a red Toyota slow in front of the house. Yes! Mom finally, finally pulls into the driveway and beeps her horn.

  Time to get home and make some magic!

  STILL SUNDAY—ABOUT TO GET IN THE CAR

  Mom gets out of the car and opens the back door to help me load my stuff. “Hey, squirt, Gram made you wait out in the cold?” She lifts an eyebrow. “What’d you do wrong?”

  “Nothing. I swear.” I gently place the case on the floor, and Mom hands me my duffle. “I just wanted to wait out here.”

  “What’s that little suitcase?”

  “Nothing. Cookie?” I hold the bag out to her, hoping to distract her.

  She doesn’t take one. “Did your father give it to you?”

  “No. It’s mostly empty,” I say, which is the truth. “Gonna organize my room a bit. Maybe put my baseball cards inside.”

  This is a good explanation for two reasons:

  After I figure out the magic, maybe I will put my baseball cards in the case. Maybe I can even get mini baseball players to come alive from the pouch!

  Anything about organizing my room will shock Mom into silence, and she won’t ask me anything else about what’s in the case.

  Mom gets in the car.

  Bingo.

  “Is your father still in with Gram? Or did he go see Cindy?” she asks, clicking her seat belt.

  I don’t like to talk to Mom about Cindy. Whenever we do, Mom’s voice gets high and tinny. Sometimes, she calls Cindy the nanny, which is a little weird. I guess because some days Cindy stays with me if Dad has to work. Cindy’s okay. Mostly we just eat chips, watch TV, and don’t talk.

  “He had to go,” I say as we drive off.

  Mom makes a hmmf noise. “Did you get all your homework done before you and Dad came to Gram’s today?”

  I shrug.

  “West? Did your father go through your planner with you?”

  “I guess.”

  “You ‘guess’? Hon, is that a yes or a no?”

  “Sure. He did.”

  I know Mom thinks she’s helping me, but most days she’s like a question factory with the conveyer belt stuck on overdrive: Do you have homework? Who did you eat lunch with? Did you turn in your math? Do you have plans after school? Did you bring your PE uniform home?

  Sometimes I imagine she’s a human helicopter, hovering over me. The pilot’s cockpit is her head as she whirs about me, spitting questions, making sure I remember stuff. Whir, whir, whir.

  I stare out the window, thinking about my next steps. I don’t know how this magic pouch works, but it made the turtle and crocodile come alive, so maybe it brings paintings to life? That feels like a good guess. I’m hoping it works on posters too. I have one of a white tiger with red eyes in my room, which would be awesome.

  Oh, wait. That could be bad.

  Maybe my poster of the Boston Red Sox, the most awesome-est baseball team ever. (My friends think that’s weird because they all like the San Francisco Giants.) But a live, tiny baseball team? They’ll think that’s awesome no matter which team it is.

  I wish Uncle Marty were around to tell me how the magic works.

  “Do you think Uncle Marty’s dead?” I ask.

  Mom flinches and glances sideways at me. “Oh, West. Why would you ask that?”

  “Dad thinks so,” I say quietly. “He said Marty hasn’t paid rent or used his credit cards or touched his bank account.”

  Mom’s forehead crinkles. “He told you that?”

  I shrug. “Overheard him.”

  She waits a beat, then says, “You miss him, huh?”

  I nod, and Mom reaches over to run a hand down the back of my hair.

  “Dad never wants to talk about him,” I say.

  Mom tilts her head. “Marty and your dad—well, they didn’t always get along. But they both love you.” She pauses again. “The truth is, I don’t know what happened to Marty. I hope he’s okay, though. Maybe he’s off on one of his big adventures. That’s what I like to imagine.”

  I like to imagine that too, but here’s what I don’t get: If Uncle Marty is off on one of his big adventures, why would he take off without his magic pouch? Maybe there’s a reason he left it behind. Maybe it’s a bad idea to mess with it. Maybe I should put it back. (After I make something come alive to show the guys, that is. Then I’ll put it back.)

  …a conference on Friday that I need to prepare for. Will you be okay alone for a couple of hours after school if I’m late this week? West… ?” Mom takes a hand off the steering wheel and nudges my side. “Are you listening?”

  I turn to Mom. I’m not sure how long she’s been talking. “Oh. Sorry. Yes, sure.”

  I do feel bad for not listening. Except for when she’s talking about Dad—or asking her seven thousandth question—Mom is pretty cool. She’s forty, but people always say she looks way youn
ger. What do I know, though? Most grown-ups look old. All I know is there are way more lines on her face since Dad left.

  “You could use the time to start the essay for that charter school,” Mom continues.

  “Huh?” I whip my gaze up.

  She sighs. “I’m sorry, West, but I can’t keep paying the mortgage alone. It’s just too much. We have to move to a more affordable neighborhood.”

  I hate when Mom says stuff like that. I know what she really means is that Dad doesn’t give her enough money.

  “And unfortunately, that means you’ll have to change schools.”

  “Move? I don’t want to move.”

  “There’s a charter school, all about nature. You could transfer mid-year.”

  “Nature? Mom.”

  “It could be really good for you, West. Trust me. But you have to be accepted. I know they’ll be very impressed by your artwork, but your grades need to be reasonable too. And you have to write an essay about why you want to attend.”

  Well, that solves that. I don’t want to attend.

  “Is this the same school Dad was talking about? I don’t get why we can’t just stay here.”

  Mom chews her top lip, which is what she does so she won’t say something bad about Dad. “Uh, no. Your father doesn’t… he thinks if we move, you should go to a different school—a very strict private one. Of course he’s happy to pay for that but not to help with the mortgage.”

  I guess she wasn’t chewing her lip hard enough. I don’t know what to say. I’d way rather go to nature school than a strict school, but mostly I’d rather Mom and Dad didn’t fight about it.

  Truthfully, school isn’t really my thing. Last year, after like a million self-management cards, Mom brought me to a doctor who said I have ADHD. That stands for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It’s a really long name that basically means Brain is on vacation when I need him, so I do stuff that I can’t control, forget to do my homework, space out when I should be focusing…

  My best friend, Josh, usually thinks the screwy stuff I do is really funny—or at least he used to. But after basketball camp last year, he started hanging out with these new guys—Snake and Alex and Frankie. And lately things have been different.