The New Kid, page 6
Coop
On Sunday morning as Carson was playing tug-of-war with Genevieve, the phone rang.
Carson heard his dad say, “Yup, he is. Hang on a minute.” His dad handed Carson the receiver, and Carson held on tight to the tug toy, with Genevieve growling on the end.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Patrick. Do you want to come with my mom and me to release Coop?”
Wow!
Did he ever!
“Sure! Can my dad come, too?”
Patrick spoke to his mom for a minute.
“My mom wants to talk to your dad.”
The two parents hatched a plan to meet at the northern entrance to Green Gulch Park.
Carson and his dad drove up and parked. Patrick and his mom had just arrived and were walking to the middle of an open field, not far from where Coop had been found injured. Ms. Tapp was holding the Pet Taxi.
Coop was agitated, ruffled up and calling out.
“He senses freedom is finally near,” Ms. Tapp told Carson and his dad. “Hi, I’m Ella.” She took off one glove and offered her hand.
Carson’s dad shook it. “Nick here. Great to meet you.”
She set the carrier in the grass. “Okay, everyone, stand back a little.” She put her glove back on. “Ready?”
Carson’s dad turned on his camera. “Yup.”
She carefully opened the door of the carrier and lifted Coop out with both hands. He gazed skyward.
Ella launched him into the air. Carson’s dad documented the flight as Coop flew off, flapping his wings and landing in the top of a nearby pine.
Ella looked over at Carson and his dad. “My job never gets old.”
“No, I don’t imagine it would.”
They chatted awhile about the rescue center; Ella wondered if Carson’s dad might like to drop by the center and see what the organization was up to.
Maybe he’d even consider volunteering.
Carson and Patrick played catch with a dried-up pinecone while their parents talked.
They all headed back to the cars.
Carson’s dad offered to treat at the International Yogurt Depot, and they met there for sundaes.
“Patrick is cool, isn’t he, Dad?” Carson said when they got home.
“Yes, he is.”
“And Ella is awesome, isn’t she, Dad?”
“Yes, very.”
“Have you ever seen anyone’s mom order cheesecake yogurt with M&M’s on top?”
“Never.”
“I can’t wait to email those Coop pictures! Do you think you got some good ones?”
Carson’s dad handed the camera to Carson to preview the shots.
“Too bad Patrick got scraped off a horse’s back and stung by a bunch of bees. Otherwise, I’d want to invite him and his mom on the trail ride.”
“Well, you’re supposed to get back on a horse again,” said Carson’s dad. “Once you fall off.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to happen in the near future. But I’m thinking maybe Nancy and her mom might want to come.”
“Who’s Nancy?”
“A girl.”
“Or I suppose there’s always Eva and her aunt,” said Carson’s dad. “They seem nice.”
“Do Eva and her aunt seem ‘horsey’ to you, Dad?”
“You can’t judge by appearances. Does Nancy seem horsey?”
“Totally.”
“What about her mom?”
“You can’t tell by appearances. But I can tell you this much. Definitely an ‘oh no!’ on Weston Walker. Anybody but Wes Walker.”
Carson slapped himself on the forehead. “I can’t believe I fell for the demolition-derby whopper.”
11. HELLO,
Buñuelos
The host at Mi Pueblo said the wait would be ten minutes, but the minutes were passing like hours. “Dad. Would you ever consider babysitting Mr. Nibblenose? He’s a very good boy. He is!”
“No! No rats. No rodents of any kind. No!”
“Sometimes you get a little bit grumpy when you’re hungry, huh, Dad?”
“I’m sorry, son, but you know how I feel about rats. And with those horrible little yellow teeth.” He made rat teeth at Carson.
“They don’t have an opportunity to brush, Dad.”
Carson strolled up to the white cement fountain in the enclosed courtyard and counted up the coins resting on the bottom: four dollars and sixty-eight cents.
From where he was standing, near a large potted palm in a colorful ceramic pot, Carson noticed that— What?! Was that Mrs. Crabbly? It was! Wearing a wide-brimmed pink straw hat decorated with a big, fake purple marguerite daisy.
Carson decided to hide from her. To spy on her, truthfully. He slipped behind the potted palm, close to the wall. Then he parted two palm fronds and peered out. He saw two tiny LED lights blinking on her collar.
Carson observed Mrs. Crabbly buy a bag of buñuelos. She whirled around and looked directly at him. “I had a funny feeling I was being watched. What are you doing behind that tree?”
“Waiting for a booth,” said Carson quietly.
Carson’s dad offered his hand. “Nicholas Blum.”
She shook it. “Abby Crabbly. Sorry about that darn crow incident.”
“Oh well. That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” said Carson’s dad.
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” said Mrs. Crabbly.
“But it did take me an hour to barbecue that tri-tip,” he admitted.
“What’s your marinade?”
“It’s posted on my blog, Gourmet Grub.”
“Have you blogged your way to Buster’s Barbecue? It’s just around the corner.”
“In fact, we have.”
“How ’bout them ranch beans, huh?”
Mrs. Crabbly untwisted the tie on the buñuelos bag. “Ever tried these?” She offered them to Carson and his dad and they each took one. “Bon appétit. See you at school, Carson.” She lifted her hat from her head, put it back on again, and walked out.
“She seems like something of a character,” Carson’s dad said.
“You can say that again,” said Carson.
“She seems like something of a character,” Carson’s dad said. “And what an unusual alien brooch,” he added.
“What’s a brooch?”
“A pin.”
“She got that one from the Mystery Lights of Marfa gift shop in Marfa, Texas. She has a cuckoo clock from Switzerland also. And a legendary dog I’ve heard about, but haven’t seen. She’s funny! She reminds me of Grandma.”
Through the glass door, Carson watched Mrs. Crabbly cross the street and head down the sidewalk. He liked Mrs. Crabbly and everything about her. He liked how grouchy she was with Wes.
He deserved it, the liar!
Carson savored the crispy, cinnamony, sugary buñuelo. He watched Mrs. Crabbly peer over a fence, then open a gate and stroll through. Maybe that’s where Mrs. Crabbly lived. Maybe they were neighbors. In fact, of course they were neighbors because they had all walked to Mi Pueblo!
Carson dug into his pocket for a coin to throw in the fountain. This will make it four seventy-eight, he told himself. He wasn’t great at math but he added money well. He threw a dime into the water and wished they could hurry up and sit down.
Bingo! It worked! Carson and his dad were seated in a bright blue-green booth by the window. Carson would have what he had last time: the carne asada burrito supreme. He’d eat half and ask the server to wrap the other half up in aluminum foil for tomorrow’s lunch.
Yum!
His dad was examining the menu with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Carson slid his dad’s shirt cuff up and looked at his watch. “It’s six-forty-five, Dad. Let’s order.”
“Okay, okay. Let me think.”
Carson watched a cop car pull to the curb. A very big, very wide, very tall officer in a dark blue uniform got out. He took off his sunglasses and gazed down the sidewalk.
“Have you signed up yet to come for Career Day and talk to the class about being a tax lawyer?” Carson asked his dad.
“I think so. I checked every box there was.”
A server put a basket of warm tortilla chips in the middle of the table, and a small bowl of salsa. They ordered guacamole to go with the chips.
“I’ll ask Mr. Lipman about setting a date.”
A guy wearing a beautiful fancy black velvet sombrero and pants with silver buttons on the sides strolled around the room, playing a guitar and singing.
“Is there a Wannabe Day?” asked Carson’s dad. “Maybe I could come in and play my guitar and sing some oldies but goodies. Like ‘La Bamba.’ ”
“La Bamba” was his dad’s ringtone.
“I think Career Days are for actual jobs only. Time’s a-tickin’, Dad.”
His dad looked at his watch and dabbed a small blob of guacamole off the face with one corner of his napkin.
Before long, Carson was staring at a white oval plate filled with creamy refried beans, crisp shredded lettuce, and a huge steamy burrito topped with sour cream. His dad had settled on arroz con pollo—a generous pile of chicken and tender mushrooms stuck together with melted white cheese on a bed of fluffy pink rice.
His dad shoveled a large bite in, held up five fingers, and said, “Five stars.”
With his spoon, Carson cleaned off the sour cream he had plopped on the front of his hoodie. “I agree.”
“I’ll wash it, Carson. Ain’t no biggie. Like father, like son, eh?”
“Thanks, Dad. It keeps shrinking in the dryer!”
“Well, maybe it’s you getting bigger. Ever thought of that?”
Carson hadn’t.
Eventually, Carson’s dad sat back and suggested taking a breather.
“Want another Whiz Quiz clue?” Carson asked him.
“Okay, shoot.”
Carson looked at his dad. “Braves caves.”
“Braves caves? A bat?”
“No. Next: Air in its hair.”
“Lion! Lion, king of beasts, standing on a ridge, in front of a cave, with its mane blowing in the wind.”
Carson’s dad waved to the musician and politely asked, “Do you know ‘La Bamba’?”
They both loudly sang the song in Spanish.
Carson looked out the window. The patrol car was gone.
12. HELLO,
Star Jar
The next morning Carson sat quietly while Mr. Lipman took attendance and lunch count and read the announcements:
Principal’s Update: Nuisance Bird
A large great horned owl decoy has been temporarily removed from the kindergarten garden and situated in the pine tree to discourage the Nuisance Bird from remaining in the area.
If problems persist, there will be an immediate attempt by the Wildlife Rescue Center to capture and relocate this unpleasant and aggressive bird to a more appropriate environment. Thank you to Patrick Tapp’s mother for the offer.
Reminder: no food is to be left unsupervised unless appropriately contained.
No worries. Carson’s half a burrito supreme was in his new canvas lunch bag, along with an orange, a juice drink, and a few buñuelos.
Zipped up safe and sound.
Wes tipped sideways in his chair almost to the point of falling off. “I like the Nuisance Bird,” he told Carson. “Do you? I’m not mad at him for dive-bombing me. He was just protecting his territory. FYI: I wasn’t aiming to hit him with the pen—just scaring him off. It’s my territory, too!”
Carson said nothing. He wanted to ask Wes where the heck he was on Saturday at six p.m. but didn’t. He didn’t want Wes to know they fell for his big fat whopper!
Wes continued: “Bob is a hungry old crow who has a botched-up beak and busted tail feathers and only one skinny, crooked leg to hop around on. He can’t hop into a Porsche and drive down to the store to buy himself some candy bears.”
“They’re not candy bears. They’re fruit bears.”
“Well, whatever they are, that’s what you get for leaving food out around wild animals. Never do that, and if you do—expect consequences.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, whose fault was it then?”
Carson didn’t know the answer to that one.
“What’s in your lunch today?” Wes asked.
“A burrito.”
“No way! I love burritos! Anything else?”
“No!” Carson did not have a duty to divulge the contents of his lunch to Weston “the Whopper” Walker.
“Remember when I shared my sandwich with you the other day?” Wes asked.
“Wes?” said Mr. Lipman. “Shh!”
Wes whispered, “Want to trade hoodies?”
Carson ignored him.
“Squirrels give me the whim-whams. All rodents do.” Then he whispered behind his hand, “That’s why I hate Mr. Dribblenose.”
A moment later he poked Carson’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait for Star Jar. I hope my number gets picked because, oh boy, have I ever got a good story to share!”
Cody leaned close to Carson and said, “Whopper alert!”
“Mr. Lipman!” Wes called. “What about the New Kid’s Star Jar stick? The New Kid doesn’t have a number. And he probably wants to tell everybody about his dad’s orange Porsche.”
Matthew turned to him. “How would you know what Carson would talk about?”
“Well, duh. His name is Car-son. Isn’t it?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You like math, don’t you, Matth-ew?”
Wes called to Mr. Lipman, “Do you like to skip?”
“I did when I was younger.”
“I knew it. How old are you?” Wes asked.
“I’m thirty-eight, just about to turn thirty-nine.”
“Whoa! You’re pushin’ forty!”
Mr. Lipman looked at him.
Then he pointed at the deputy list. “Numbers Deputy?”
“Yes?” said Nancy.
“Carson’s number will be twenty.”
“Okay.”
Mr. Lipman took a large brown mug with a sunflower on it down from the shelf near his desk. It was filled with tongue depressors, one for each student in the class. He opened the bottom door of the cupboard near his desk and took a new tongue depressor from a package. He gave it to Nancy.
“Thank you. Now, where’s the fine-point felt-tip marker?” Nancy asked.
Mr. Lipman looked in his top desk drawer. “Anybody seen it?” He opened the other drawers and rummaged through them.
Wes called to Cody, “Pssst! Cody! Do you like coats?”
“How about you shut your trap, Wes,” Cody suggested.
Whoa! Good thing Mr. Lipman didn’t hear that!
Shelly looked thoughtful. “Maybe there’s something to Wes’s theory. I like shells. I have a shell collection.”
She asked Wes, “Do you like the Wild West, Weston?”
“Yup, I plan to be a rodeo clown.”
“Oh wow,” Cody mumbled. He turned to Matthew and held his fist with his thumb sticking up like a microphone. “Good afternoon, ladies and gents! Welcome to Weston’s Wild West Whopper Show!”
When Cody and Matthew smirked, Carson looked away.
“Quick Writes,” Mr. Lipman told the class. “Hop to it.”
The topic of the day was “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.”
Mr. Lipman read over Carson’s shoulder as he wrote, and so Carson wrote s-l-o-w-l-y and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y and did the best possible job he could.
When I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian. I hope to attend the University of California, Davis. I hope to learn how to do surgeries such as removing foreign objects from the digestive systems of puppies. I would also like to be trained to deal with injured large wild animals such as moose and antelope and injured small wild animals such as gophers—on a volunteer basis.
Mr. Lipman asked Carson if he wanted to read his out loud, and Carson didn’t, but he did anyway.
“Good job, Carson.”
He turned to Wes and sighed. “Weston? I’ve told you this many, many times. Do not grunt and wave your hand in the air when someone else is reading or speaking unless it’s an emergency.”
“Sorry.”
“Read.”
Wes loudly read about wanting to be a rodeo clown and save bull riders who got tossed off a bull’s back by distracting the bull and then jumping into a barrel and hiding.
“Good job, Weston. Next. Nancy?”
Nancy read, “ ‘There are many things I am interested in, such as math and marine biology, and problem solving. I would possibly like to grow up to be a research scientist like my dad. However, I am not ruling out being a surgeon like my mom, a baseball player, or a detective like, you guessed it, Nancy Drew.’ ”
“Well done, Nancy.”
“When’s Star Jar?” Wes asked.
“Wes? Raise your hand before speaking.”
Wes raised his hand. “When’s Star Jar?”
“Look at the schedule.”
At 9:28, Nancy handed Mr. Lipman a brand-new tongue depressor with 20 neatly written on it in fine-point felt-tip pen.
“Chloe and Zoe located your felt-tip pen. In the box in the cupboard along with the plastic eating utensils.”
“Hmmm. What was it doing there?”
Chloe shrugged.
He stuck the number 20 in between the other sticks.
“Mix ’em up,” Wes told him.
“Okay. Give us an intro, Wes.”
Wes made a drumroll sound. Then a loud crash of cymbals, which Mr. Lipman hadn’t requested.
“N-u-m-b-e-r …”
The class waited.
“Fourteen!” called Mr. Lipman.
“Eeeeee-yes!” Wes shouted. He jumped to his feet and ran to the front of the room, his arms extended and his fists in the air.
“Brother,” grumbled Sydney. “Him again. That guy got picked twice last week and now again. Some people never get picked. And Wes always seems to get picked.”
“Sydney? The Complaint Department is closed.”
“She’s right, though. Zoe never gets picked,” said Chloe. “She’s never been picked once.”
“Never? Not once?”
Zoe made a sad face and shook her head.
