off our mom-approved route—I’m thinking she’ll be really mad, grounding mad, no-TV-for-a-month mad, if she finds out about this. Better keep on the alert.
“Corporal Kyler, take point and keep your eyes peeled. We may be watched,” I say in my walkie-talkie voice, adding a bit of static for effect. “Kechhhhh. The target could be anywhere. He may be armed and dangerous. Kechhhhh. Out.”
“Roger,” Kyler says. “Kechhhh. Out.” Kyler steps ahead of me to become the lookout, while I spin to cover our rear.
We walk the whole way like this, Kyler checking the map at every cross street, me walking backwards to make sure we aren’t ambushed. We’re pretty much there when I hear Kyler say, “Butt.”
This is one of our games. I’m not sure it fits into Operation Getaceltorix, but I go along with it and say, “Butt cheek.” I wait for Kyler’s reply. He’s supposed to say, “Butt cheek cooties,” or something like that. The aim is to keep adding words until the other guy laughs, but Kyler doesn’t add anything. I shout, “Butt cheek,” again as loud as I can and run into Kyler’s back. I look around to see what’s stopped him in his tracks.
Ryan O’Driscoll is coming out of the park right in front of us. Kyler tugs at my sleeve, but it’s too late. I’ve just shouted, “Butt cheek,” at Ryan O’Driscoll.
Ryan’s the biggest guy in fourth grade. It’s not just that he’s tall. He’s the kid version of a muscle car. He always wears long basketball shorts, and his calves bulge like the turkey legs they sell at county fairs. Fog is still hanging in damp pockets in the hollows of the road, but Ryan is in a short-sleeved basketball shirt, and he hasn’t got one goose bump. He’s carrying a camouflage backpack like mine and has stars and stripes shaved into his crew cut. Mom always tuts disapprovingly when she sees this. “When you’re ten years old, you should be a kid not a fashion statement,” she says, but Kyler and I think his haircut is cool. Our moms would never let us have a cut like that in a million years.
“What did you say?” Ryan asks, blocking our way. I’m never putting Kyler on point again. He’s supposed to look out for danger not walk into it. “What’re you doing here?”
Oh man, this is Ryan all over. In second grade he was fun. We were never good enough friends to go play at his house, but Ryan was a building-brick genius and recess champion at “Squash the Tofu,” a game I made up. Now he just gets mean and moody. I’m not saying Ryan’s a bully. He doesn’t normally pick on people. It’s just that you never know nowadays when he’s going to lose it. Like, he drops the ball in Squash the Tofu, or someone piles on his head, which is half the fun, and he gets red-faced mad really quickly. Just like he’s doing right this minute.
“What’re you doing in my park?” he says again.
It’s a direct question darn it, and I can feel the words forming on the end of my tongue.
“Looking for a—”
Kyler cuts in for once. “It’s not your park. It’s everyone’s. What are you doing?”
Ryan looks surprised then says, “Going for a run, Turtle.”
I groan a double groan. Kyler hates being called “Turtle,” even though he does look like one because he’s so small and his backpack is so big. And I’m so not surprised Ryan O’Driscoll is running while wearing a backpack. He’s probably doing pull-ups every morning and a hundred one-armed push-ups, too.
“You’re jogging?” Kyler says. “Jogging what? Your brains into jelly?”
“Kyler!” I go to pull him away, but it’s too late. Ryan takes a swing. Kyler ducks. I step to one side. Ryan swings at me, too. I run. “Come on!”
Kyler follows me back up the street with Ryan thumping along behind us.
“You’ve done it now,” I shout, wondering if we can outrun him, and, even if we do, what he’ll be like at school after this. Calling Ryan “Butt Cheek” and insulting his brainpower is not a good way to start the day.
Maybe we slow down around the corner without realizing it, because one minute we’re sprinting away from Ryan, up a small street with a laundromat and a grocery store, and the next minute he’s right up close. “Are you spying on me, Turtle?”
I glance over my shoulder to see Ryan yanking at a loose strap hanging from Kyler’s backpack. Kyler spins around on the sidewalk. His arms flail above his head as he wobbles into the gutter. Ryan loosens his grip for a second. I shout, “Run!” like Kyler doesn’t know that already, and then Ryan clamps down on Kyler’s arm.
It all happens so quickly. Ryan wrestles Kyler to the ground. I see panic on Kyler’s face and I wade in to help just as there’s a roar from the alley between the store and the laundromat. All the garbage cans rattle. A cloud of warm steam streams out of the dryer exhausts. A black cat runs down the street hissing. And a man, as big as a bear, leaps out of the fog yelling, “Cuckoolaaand!”
It’s my warrior with his clumpy red hair and his mustache dripping fog. Spit sprays out of his mouth in a big arc like a lawn sprinkler. Whoa. He’s every bit as amazing as in the VA, but more scary. Way more scary because he’s outside, on his own, with no adults around to help, and he’s mad at us. Like really mad. And suddenly, even though we came looking for him, I am terrified.
Ryan launches forward as if he’s going to attack the guy. I can’t believe it. What’s he thinking? Fighting a Celt? He’ll be torn apart!
“Stop!” I thrust my whole body sideways into Ryan, pushing him out of the way, so I can put myself in front of the Celt. I hold both my hands out as if I’m stopping traffic. “I was at the VA. I’m a friend.” Crud, I hope he remembers or he’s going to cream me.
The Celt staggers back as if he’s more surprised than I am. Then Ryan’s stumbling over to the wall of the laundromat, sobbing, “No! Just go!” His nose is running snot. I don’t know whether he’s talking to us or to the Celt, but I don’t get the chance to find out because Kyler’s dragging me along the sidewalk, yelling, “Come on!”
“Wait!” I try to shake Kyler’s grip, all the while twisting to keep the Celt in sight. “It’s OK, he’s a friend,” I cry, but Kyler’s got momentum and, although he’s small, he’s impossible to fight off.
“Geez,” he keeps saying, over and over, “geez.” He’s already pulled me past the laundromat when I finally decide to sit down in the gutter. That stops him. Kyler loses his balance and falls back into me.
“Quit pulling me. That’s him!” I say.
“What?”
“We found him, on the very first day!” I slap the sidewalk with my hand.
“Oh man! I was so freaked, and now we’re gonna lose him again—where did he go?”
“Down the—”
I don’t have time to finish my sentence. Kyler’s on his feet and we’re both running toward the laundromat and its clouds of steam. Ryan’s collapsed against the wall by the front door, one shoulder leaning against it, his legs spaghetti twisted, as he stares down the alley. He’s weirded
