Trashed!, page 4
While he walked, he made a plan to tell Veda about Watson. He didn’t know how she’d react, if she’d think he’d lost it, if she’d refer him to the school counselor, or want to talk to his mom or something.
Still, he usually did tell Veda stuff, and it would be weird not to tell her about how a mouse had decided to haunt him. Being haunted by a mouse was unusual.
Arthur also looked out for prairie dogs and other critters—birds, rabbits, squirrels. And he worried about mountain lions. Everyone knew you shouldn’t run if you saw one. You should make yourself as big as possible, raise your arms over your head, stomp and shout, and act like you were the boss.
Arthur did not like to fight. Not with the guys at lunch or his mom or even Ramona. Faced with a mountain lion, he would probably run.
Back at the store Arthur opened the entrance door, heard the sound of chimes, and saw there were lots of customers.
“Oh, Arthur! Good!” Dad said when he saw him. “Randolph’s not feeling well, so I sent him home. Then, naturally, Jennifer and I got slammed. How about helping this nice lady with some crystal? She’s a brand-new customer.”
“Sure thing,” Arthur said, and smiled brightly. The lady was mom-aged or a little older, fit-looking and wearing the Boulder uniform of jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt.
“I need a wedding present,” she said. “Very traditional wedding, and I heard that ad you’ve got going. I mean, I want to save the earth. Who doesn’t?”
“Happy to help, ma’am,” Arthur said. “We have an amazing selection.”
The brand-new customer examined a dozen possibilities before choosing a cut-crystal bowl.
“You’ve made a fine choice,” Arthur said. “It’s not only pretty, it’s useful. And a fraction of the price of buying new.”
Back at the cash counter he learned the brand-new customer’s name—Susana Malarky—from her credit card.
“The bride will never know it’s used, right?” Susana said. “Or, more important, her mother won’t know?”
“Get a nice box and plenty of tissue,” Arthur advised. “The only people likely to recognize something from our stock are our regular customers.”
“I don’t think the mother of the bride would ever shop here,” Susana said. “No offense or anything, but some people, people like her, they think it’s… tacky? To buy stuff used?”
“We prefer the word ‘vintage,’ ” Arthur said.
Susana nodded. “That’s a good way to say it,” she said. “There’s a woman in my book club, older lady, I think maybe she used to own this store?”
“I bet you mean my grandmother,” Arthur said. “And my mom’s Jeri. She’s in the same book group too.”
Susana Malarky had a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She reached in, dug around, pulled out a library book. Arthur read the title: Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck.
“I haven’t started it yet,” she said. “Do you know if your mom has? Or your grandmother? It’s pretty short, so I think I can finish it in time.”
Arthur finished with the receipt and wrapped the bowl in paper to protect it. “My grandmother’s away, so I don’t know about her,” he said. “My mom’s always busy.”
Susana Malarky looked around one last time, a little awestruck the way first-time customers often were. “Ha—that’s funny,” she said, and took a step toward the jewelry case at the right of the register.
“May I get something out for you?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, no. Not necessary.” She shook her head. “It’s just that those earrings”—she nodded at some gold pendants—“remind me of some I got from my mother. I never wear them. They just sit around in my jewelry box.”
Arthur imagined earrings sitting around, and smiled. Then he put the wrapped bowl into a bag and handed it across the counter. “Receipt’s inside. I hope the happy couple enjoy their present. And thank you for shopping at Universal Trash.”
When Susana Malarky had said goodbye, Arthur placed the crystal bowl’s price tag in a box with the others from that day. Later someone—Dad, Grandpa, or Laura the bookkeeper—would credit fifteen dollars to the consigner and move the card to another box in the UUI system, the one for items recently sold.
Universal Trash was open till six p.m. on weekdays. By six fifteen Jennifer had left and Dad had hung the closed sign in the window. “Pizza? Or tacos?” he asked Arthur.
“Pizza,” Arthur said. “Can we get it from Locale? I know it’s more expensive, but—”
“We deserve Locale,” Dad said. “Maybe your mom can pick it up. And a salad, too, for good health.”
“Is Grandpa B coming?” Arthur asked. “I mean, I’m just wondering. I love Grandpa and everything, but—”
This conversation took place while Arthur and his dad climbed the stairs. “Not tonight,” Dad said, tugging off his shoes in the mudroom. “And I love him too—in theory.”
Upstairs in his room, Arthur considered his homework.
“I can do it in half an hour,” he said out loud. “Less, probably.”
“Do what?” Watson asked.
Caught talking to himself, Arthur must have blushed, because Watson continued, “Don’t be embarrassed, Arthur! It’s a waste of energy! I, for one, talk to myself all the time. I find I am a good conversationalist too.”
Arthur looked around, saw that Watson was lying on her back in her teacup, her tail draped over the rim.
“You are,” Arthur agreed.
“Now tell me,” Watson went on, “what did you learn today? A creature should learn something every day, you know.”
Arthur thought for a moment. In social studies there’d been a quiz about the countries of South America, but he still wasn’t sure which was the long skinny one, Bolivia or Chile, so he didn’t want to say that. Also, would Watson care about the countries of South America?
“Well,” Arthur said, “recently I learned that when prairie dogs chirp, they communicate complicated stuff to each other, like ‘Coyote coming!’ or ‘That human with a hat won’t hurt you.’ ”
Watson rubbed her whiskers. “Interesting,” she said. “Not surprising, though. In general people don’t give rodents enough credit.”
Arthur thought that was probably true.
“So have you thought any more about that mystery of ours?” Watson asked. “Where did my teacup come from?”
“I haven’t really,” Arthur said. “It’s only been a day, and I had school, and then I helped out in the store.” He shrugged. In fact he was pretty busy, but at the same time he felt bad. If he wanted that glowing sense of accomplishment, he would have to work harder. “What about you?” he asked Watson. “Have you thought about it?”
Watson admitted she had not. “You’re the mystery fan,” she said, “which means you’re the one who needs to investigate!”
Arthur wasn’t sure he liked being ordered around by a mouse. Still, he had asked for help. “Sure, Watson,” he said.
“Watson?” Ramona was standing in the doorway. “Who’s Watson? And why are you talking to a teacup?”
Arthur felt embarrassed and took it out on his sister. “Never mind,” he snapped.
“Fine!” Ramona snapped back. “So I won’t tell you that Mom is home with the pizza.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dinner was almost over when Ramona announced, “Arthur talks to teacups.”
“No, I don’t,” Arthur said truthfully.
“Then who’s Watson?” Ramona asked.
Arthur’s dad took a sip of beer. “Your brother can talk to teacups if he wants to, Ramona. And he can have an imaginary friend, too.”
“But I don’t—” Arthur began.
“So I can have an imaginary friend?” Ramona interrupted.
“Yes,” Dad said.
“Do you have an imaginary friend, Daddy?” Ramona asked.
“I have your mother.” Dad dabbed his lips with his napkin.
Ramona looked at her mother.
Her mother shook her head. “I am not imaginary, Ramona. In case you were going to ask.”
Arthur cracked up. “Good one, Mom.”
Ramona didn’t seem to be listening. “My imaginary friend is named Bluebell,” she said.
“There’s one more piece of pizza,” Mom said.
Arthur and his dad both reached for it.
“Split it or fight?” Dad asked Arthur.
“Fight,” Arthur said, and they pumped their fists and spoke in unison. “Rock! Paper! Scissors! Shoot!”
Dad’s scissors beat Arthur’s paper. “Better luck next time, kid.” Dad took the pizza, opened his mouth to take a bite, caught Mom’s look.
“One of you is still growing,” Mom said.
Dad set the pizza on his plate, cut it in two, gave half to Arthur. Arthur ate it in three bites.
“Bluebell is a cow,” Ramona said. “And she’s blue. In case that isn’t obvious.”
“Does her milk taste like blueberries?” Dad asked.
Ramona’s eyebrows made a V. “Eww,” she said. “No.”
Dad shrugged one shoulder. “Just asking.” By now his half slice of pizza was gone too. “My turn to do dishes. Arthur, what’s the homework sitch?”
“Hardly anything,” Arthur said.
“Which means math,” Mom said. “Get to it, then. And, Ramona, maybe you’d like to draw a picture of Bluebell before bed?”
Ramona sighed. “I’d rather draw Watson,” she said. “Only, I don’t know what Watson is.”
* * *
Ramona had a lot more after-school activities than Arthur did—soccer, swimming, chess club, and story camp. Arthur was glad about this because on the rare occasions when she was home and he was not, Ramona had been known to invade Arthur’s space. Now he was afraid she might decide to investigate the mysterious Watson when he wasn’t home, so for the next few days he was extra vigilant about his room.
As far as he could tell, though, no Ramona invasion took place. There was never a telltale girly smell, never a drawer left half-open or a colored pencil missing from the mug on the windowsill.
Maybe Ramona was busier than usual? Or maybe she had lost interest in his “imaginary friend.”
* * *
Friday was Cinco de Mayo, and Carpenter Elementary celebrated with free churros at lunch. Walking to social studies, Veda told Arthur that Juan was coming over to celebrate with her family, which meant her mom would be seeing him two days in a row, and didn’t that seem like a lot?
“Do the niños like him okay?” Arthur asked.
“They laugh at his jokes,” Veda said.
“Do you laugh?” Arthur asked.
Veda shrugged. “He’s kind of funny.”
Arthur thought in that case maybe Juan was not so bad, even if he did spend too much money on tattoos. But Arthur didn’t say so. “Can you come over early on Sunday?” he asked. “I know you have swimming, but there’s, uh… stuff I want to talk about.”
“Are you okay?” Veda could turn mom-like in an instant.
“Nothing bad,” Arthur said. “Just something I’m thinking about, is all.”
“My hair’ll be wet,” Veda said.
“And you’ll smell like chlorine.” Arthur wrinkled his nose. “But that’s okay.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dad asked Arthur to help out in the store again that day. It wasn’t super busy, but both Grandpa and Jennifer were taking the afternoon off. Grandpa wasn’t feeling well, and Jen was a trail runner, a serious one, with a hundred-mile race in the mountains coming up. Today she had to run some ridiculous distance like thirty-five miles.
Even if you were fast and tough like Jen, it took hours to run so far.
“With so much business, we’ve gotten behind on cleaning,” Dad told Arthur. “Randolph is over in Toys, if you want to join him.”
Arthur said, “Sure.” He liked working in the store. It wasn’t only that he was good at customer service. He also liked that he’d been doing it a long time, which made the tasks familiar and comfortable.
Arthur liked the familiar and the comfortable.
If you had asked him what he admired about Veda, he would have told you he admired her for being a loyal friend and interesting to talk to. He would not have told you that he admired her for being brave and trying new things, but actually he did.
In short, Veda was adventurous, and Arthur worried that he was not. If that was true, would there be only the familiar and the comfortable forever? Maybe he’d be working in the store forever.
He knew that was what his family expected. His dad had told him so often enough, and his grandpa, too.
Arthur found Randolph dusting, one by one, the tiny airplanes from a Fisher-Price airport, priced at fifteen dollars.
“Hey,” Arthur said. “What can I do?”
“Take some o’ that vinegar spray.” Randolph nodded at the dolls on a lower shelf. “I think they could use a wipe-down.”
Arthur picked up a rag and squirt bottle, grabbed a baby doll with a smudged face, and went to work.
“It’s cool what Jennifer Y’s doing, huh?” he said. “I can’t imagine running that far.”
“I wouldn’t run that far,” Randolph said, “not unless I was being chased.”
“In the war were you chased?” Arthur knew Randolph had been a soldier. “Like, by the enemy?”
“I did some running sometimes, me and the guys in my platoon, uh-huh. It’s not clear if we were really being chased, or just thought we were. The sitch on the ground got confusing.”
“That sounds bad,” Arthur said.
Randolph said, “It was,” but he didn’t say more, and the quiet got uncomfortable.
“What did you do after you were a soldier?” Arthur finally asked.
“Janitorial. Window washing,” Randolph said. “I never had what you’d call a career. Like your family, I enjoyed the flea market thing, going to yard sales and looking for treasure, reselling it.”
“Did you ever find it?” Arthur asked. “Treasure?”
“Uh-huh,” Randolph said. “That’s a funny story.”
“Tell me,” Arthur said, “if you want, I mean.”
Randolph climbed onto a step stool to dust the high shelves across the aisle. “It was a ring, woman’s ring, with a pale blue stone,” he said. “Not turquoise. An aquamarine.”
“So it was real?” Arthur asked.
Randolph grinned. “Now you’re getting ahead of my story.”
“Sorry,” Arthur said.
“The ring had a gold band and a couple o’ white stones, diamonds maybe? Saw it at a yard sale over on Pine. They had a ton of stuff, ninety-nine percent junk. You know.”
Arthur did know.
“So I bought the ring. Marked two dollars, and I paid one. Then, lacking a lady friend, I brought it here. Except Universal Trash was closed that day. Can you guess why?”
Arthur shook his head. “We hardly ever close. I mean, it wasn’t Christmas, was it?”
“Nah. It was a Saturday in October, right around seven years ago.”
Arthur thought a second but still couldn’t figure it out.
“A certain new family member? Your dad gave everyone the day off to celebrate.”
“Oh.” Arthur caught on. “Ramona.”
“Uh-huh,” Randolph said. “Your one and only sibling, Arthur. But to continue—since I didn’t have what you’d call cash to spare, I chose not to wait for your dad to open up. Instead I moseyed on over to Jumper Jewelers on Pearl Street. They’re picky about what they’ll take, but I had a good feeling about that ring.”
Arthur had moved from baby dolls to Barbies, straightening their hair, wiping their limbs, sitting them up against their Barbie cars and backpacks. “Was it worth a lot?” Arthur asked.
“You’re really determined to spoil my story, aren’t you?” Randolph said.
“Sorry,” Arthur said again. “So what happened?”
Randolph bobbed his head. “Well you might ask! Because as quick as a wink, I was in the slammer!”
It took Arthur a moment to understand “slammer.” “You had to go to jail?”
“Escorted by none other than your friend Officer Len Bernstein,” Randolph said. “Now, what do you think of that?”
What Arthur thought was that he must have missed something. “But I don’t get it. Why?”
Done with the shelves, Randolph stepped off the ladder, went to get a broom, returned, swept up a dust bunny, explained. The ring, it turned out, matched the description of one that was stolen. The jeweler recognized it and called the Boulder Police Department—the BPD.
“Officer Bernstein didn’t ask too many questions,” Randolph recalled. “Shady-looking character such as myself? I was presumed guilty.”
“But—” Arthur was confused.
“Maybe I should mention that at the time I was what they call ‘unhoused,’ ” Randolph continued. “I may have been a bit raggedy, an annoyance to the customers. It’s possible the folks at Jumper Jewelers were not so keen on having me there.”
Arthur didn’t know what to say to that. There were a lot of unhoused people around, especially along the Boulder Creek Path. Seeing them made Arthur feel bad but also a little scared. They weren’t like other people, right? What if one of them acted crazy, did something dangerous?
Now here it turned out his friend Randolph had been homeless—unhoused—himself.
“But you have a place to live now, right?” Arthur asked. He’d gotten away from the story of the ring, but this seemed more important.
“I do, yeah,” Randolph said. “Your family helped me out, in fact. I bet you never knew that, did you?”
Arthur shook his head.
“The best people don’t need to crow about it. As for the ring—”
“Oh, right.” Arthur had almost forgotten. “So what happened?”
“The stones were real,” Randolph said, “and so was the gold, worth around six hundred dollars all told. So, if my math is right, that’d make a sixty thousand percent return on my one-dollar investment.”
Arthur thought Randolph sounded like Officer Bernstein, but he didn’t say so. “That’s amazing. But wait—I thought the ring was stolen?”
