[5.4] The Appening

Theo

Jan’s the quiet, disinterested type, the guy who stands nondescript at the edge of a crowd gathered around a seizing shopping mall Santa. He’s not shy or introverted or an asshole or anything (he’ll wait to take pictures with his cell phone until after he’s called 911). He just doesn’t overreact like everyone else. That’s why it bothers me to hear him talking like he’s talking. It’s not what he’s said, it’s how he’s said it. He’s concerned, maybe even worried. “I’m kind of in bad trouble.” That could mean, “I lost my legs in a bet.” Or, “I’ve killed someone.” Or even, “I got lost in the Boca Linda stacks and read from this really old book and I think I’ve accidentally opened the gates of hell.”

The next words out of his mouth could deliver an awful truth—so, naturally, my first instinct isn’t to ask what’s wrong, but to stall for as long as possible. “How come I don’t recognize your number?”

“Oh, I dropped my phone down a storm drain while waiting for the bus,” Jan says. “I’m…borrowing someone else’s.”

“Whose?” What’s the make? The model? Does it run Android? Have you ever played Angry Birds?

“Do you remember Ernie’s sugar daddy?”

“You mean that time he stuck a celery stalk in a mixing bowl full of caramel and brought it to school as health food?”

“No, I’m talking about the…wait, Ernie made his own Sugar Daddy?”

“It was more of an edible heart attack.”

“He really does work hard at his snacks, doesn’t he?”

“If only he put as much effort into his homework. You were saying about his sugar daddy?”

“Oh, yeah. The pervert he chainmailed into buying him all that junk food.”

“Blackmailed.”

“Yes, blackmailed. He’s here in town.”

I cringe. “He is?”

“I sort of hitched a ride with him. And borrowed his phone.”

“Dude. Why in the world would you hitchhike with Robbie the Friendly Pedophile?”

“I didn’t know it was him when I got in the car.”

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

“He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and his backseat was filled with honey buns, and he had the Justin Bieber album in his CD player, and Ernie’s picture on his dashboard.”

“That’s…hilarious.”

“It is?”

“Totally.”

Jan pauses for a moment. “Why?”

“Because,” I say, “this is the only time in Ernie’s life that anyone’s actually driven from two states over to make a love connection with him—and it’s a grown man.”

“Hm. It definitely looked like he’s driven down here to, er, see Ernie. If you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what he gets for fucking around on the Internet.”

“Anyway, he stopped at a gas station, and I sneaked away. I know it’s last minute and all, but…” Jan trails off. It sounds like he’s arguing with a very small child. He sighs.“I was wondering if I could possibly stay at your place tonight.”

I glance around the ruins of my bedroom. At the moment, it’s the last place you’d ever want to invite anybody. But if Jan needs somewhere to crash, I’m not about to turn him away. And besides, his being here will provide insurance should Mom or Dad discover what’s happened to my room before I can clean it up (parents won’t yell at you if there’s a house guest in the same room). “Um…sure. As long as you don’t mind the mess.”

(Beta chuckles.)

“Mess?”

“The, uh, neighbor’s dog got loose in my room,” I lie. “It’s no big deal. You’re welcome to stay here.”

“Thanks, Theo. You’re a life preserver.”

“Life saver.”

“Yes, that.”

“Just out of curiosity, is there any reason in particular you can’t go home tonight?”

Jan sounds embarrassed. “You know how Ernie’s always joking about how my parents’ apartment is so crappy that one day the city’s just going to tow it away? Well, it’s actually happened.”

“Wait—when you say ‘towed,’ do you mean as in what happens to cars left overnight at Boomers?”

“I don’t know what Boomers is, but yeah.”

“I thought you lived in an apartment.”

“I do. Did.”

I experience a twinge of bewilderment—before reason kicks in and assures me that Jan’s simply gotten his English messed up again. The city doesn’t tow entire apartment buildings. That’s just crazy.

I get to my feet, nearly losing my footing as one of the skulls becomes dislodged and tumbles to the bottom of the pile. “Where are you? Maybe I can get my mom to pick you up.”

“Um…I’m not exactly sure. One of those outdoor shopping plazas. There’s a Rite Aid, and a pizza place—and a cell phone shop.”

“Do you see any street signs?”

“No, but there’s a Vons across the street, if that helps.”

“Not really.” I think for a moment, wondering if I can hack Jan’s GPS signal—but then it occurs to me there might be a simpler way of getting him here. Putting him on speaker, I search Google Play. Sure enough, there it is: the official SuperMegaNet app. Beta. “Are you using a smartphone?”

“How smart does it have to be?”

“Smart enough to run Google Play.”

“Let me check.” Jan goes quiet for a sec. Then: “Found it.”

“Okay. Do a search for ‘SuperMegaNet’ and install it. I’ll do the same on my end.”

“There’s a SuperMegaNet mobile app now?”

“Apparently so.” I skim the description. The SMN app is free, and is totally compatible with the version of Android I’m running. But here’s the thing: I’m having major trouble installing it. It’s not a technical issue; it’s a mental one. My thumb hovers over the “install” button, twitching, trembling. Of course, I want to save Jan from destitution—but I do not want to install SuperMegaNet on my phone. It’s bad enough that I got into this whole “ultimate collaboration” thing in the first place; it’s even worse that I let Ernie bully me into installing SMN on my work laptop by fornicating with a table in the school library; it’ll be the ultimate inconvenience having SMN on my phone. Everywhere I go, my buddy list will go, too. Assuming the SMN app works similarly to the desktop client, I’ll no longer be able to shut my phone off when I don’t want to see or talk to anyone. I’ll have to start leaving it behind whenever I go to the library, or the bathroom…or the bathroom in the library. I really, really don’t want to install SMN on my phone. Why did I even think about it in the first place? Worst idea ever. I don’t need SMN. I’ll figure something else out. Jan will understand—

“What’s the matter, little dude?” Beta asks.

I look up, realizing that he’s been watching me wrestle with my own thumbs for the past thirty seconds. Embarrassed, I quickly hit the “install” button. A moment later, the familiar SMN window pops up. With a heavy heart, I sign in to my account.

So much for weaning myself off this darned program.

Jan logs in as well. When his video feed pops up, I become aware of two things. One, the video quality is excellent. Two (and this creates a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball), Mini is sitting perched on his shoulder.

W. T. F.

Mini waves at me.

I swallow, pretending not to see him. “Ready when you are, Jan.”

“I know you can see me,” Mini says.

I continue ignoring him.

“Come on. Drop the poop face. It’s cool. Jan knows all about you and me.”

Jan pauses, looks like he wants to start uploading, but is obviously intrigued by the boy-puppet interaction.

(Indeed, Beta has come to stand behind me, and is watching expectantly over my shoulder.)

I grit my teeth. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping out the kid here,” Mini replies. “Did you know his apartment was towed?”

I take a deep breath, ruffle my own hair. In my most insinuating tone: “Did you know my bedroom was trashed?”

Mini wags one of his mitts at me. “Hey, I didn’t do anything to your room that you yourself haven’t been secretly wanting to do ever since you read online that Asia Afrodesia digs ‘geeky bad boys who never clean their room.’ But we can talk tits later. First Jan and I have to take care of a little business.”

Jan raises an eyebrow. “We do?"

Mini scrambles down his arm. His plush face fills the screen as he embraces Robbie’s phone. “This’ll only take a minute.”

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[5.3] Bedroom Apocalypse

Theo

My first thought is that Beta’s flipped out and gone all Michael-Douglas-in-Falling-Down. After all, his laptop setup is the only untouched, recognizable part of what used to be my bedroom, and he is just standing there with a totally shell-shocked expression on his face. But then I see the opened closet door—the closet where Mini should be locked away for safe keeping—and I know what’s happened: he’s escaped. Mini’s escaped, and now he’s on the loose, unsupervised, unrestrained. And my room’s been turned into a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I’m not even kidding. There’s actual rubble scattered across the floor, a pile of human skulls stacked between the bed and the desk.

I close and lock the door, pressing my back up against it. “Beta?”

Beta shakes his head, as if coming out of a trance, and looks at me. “Oh. Hey, little dude.”

“What the heck happened to my room?”

A coyote howls in the distance.

Beta says, “You’re not going to believe me.”

I pay the mountain of skulls another glance. “There’s a pile of human skulls now occupying my bedroom. I don’t think anything you say can be more unbelievable than that.”

“All right, then. It was the strangest thing—this little toy doll started doing cartwheels and screaming about being on some kind of mission to get you laid.” Beta shakes his head. “At least, that’s what I thought I saw.”

My brain conveniently discards the part about me getting laid. “And you didn’t stop him?”

“Well, to be honest, by the time I’d decided I wasn’t on some kind of virtual acid trip, the little guy had already done a pretty good job of tearing the place apart. Besides, I know better than to step between a boy and his dolls.”

“Har-har.” I squat to pick up a copy of Glass Hammer’s Perilous. Luckily the CD’s still intact, though the booklet has pictures of stick-figure couples having sex in a variety of exotic positions scribbled in permanent marker throughout. This is getting out of hand. Mini’s always been ornery, but he’s never trashed a room or destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of manga, Wii games, programming manuals, and progressive rock CDs. I’m not being materialistic; I just think it’s wasteful. China. Starving kids. And all that.

Clutching Perilous to my chest, I pick my way through the debris. My desk chair is MIA, and my bed’s been flipped upside down, so I sit on the pile of skulls—which is more comfortable than it looks. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and ponder the impossibility of trying to get things cleaned up before my parents discover there’s now a post-apocalyptic wasteland in their house.

Beta clears his throat. “So, uh…care to explain how or why you’ve got a plush doll version of yourself running around and causing trouble on your behalf?”

No, not really. “Ever see ‘The Enemy Within?’ You know, the Star Trek episode?”

“Was Captain Kirk born on March 22?” Beta waits for me to answer. When I merely scowl at him, he says, “Of course.”

“I think Mini’s sort of like Party Kirk,” I continue, “and I’m supposed to be, er, Stay-at-Home Kirk.”

“Except you never went through a transporter clogged up with magnetic ore.”

“I’m sure the proliferation of cell phone towers and Wi-Fi hot-spots is a present-day equivalent.”

Beta looks unconvinced. “Then why aren’t all phone-wearing, laptop-carrying twelve-year-olds getting plush cancer?”

“He says he’s my, um, inner voice or libido or something.”

“Yeah, yeah. A physical manifestation of your subconscious, your ego, your competitive edge, your, uh, jism, as the cool kids say. I know.”

“You do?” Oh, God.

“We chatted briefly before he bummed bus fare from one of your pants pockets and booked out.” Beta points to where a makeshift rope comprised of tied-together T-shirts and boxer shorts trails out the open window. “I’m telling you, I try to keep an open mind, but this whole thing is weirder than that Joe Salter dude who did an entire triathlon while juggling.”

I give Beta a look.

He shrugs. “What? I like to apply what I read in the Weird News section of the Huffington Post to the real world. Don’t change the subject. You have a mini-me. There’s got to be a reason why.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He just sort of…happened one day.” And now he’s on the loose and doing God-knows-what to who-knows-who. “What am I going to do?”

Beta waves his hand dismissively. “It could be worse: you could have multiple sclerosis and be living on a server.”

“Not to be a jerk, but you say that about everything.”

Beta blinks. “Not everything.”

“The other night when I was working on that band Web site and you were playing Wii, I mentioned what a bitch it was getting the merchant code integrated, and you told me to mellow out because at least I didn’t have MS.”

“Okay, that was one time—”

“And the night before, when I mentioned that I’d lost my cell phone charger. ‘At least you don’t have MS and aren’t living on a server.’”

“You’re a hurtful little bugger sometimes, aren’t you?”

I’m really not, though I realize I’m being pretty childish at the moment—and I hate myself for it. I hate Mini for it. He’s always telling me that he’s my inner self, my mover and shaker. But the more I get to know him, the more I’m convinced he’s all plush. I’m not a pot waiting to boil over, and I don’t think about sex all the time. Even so, I’d be lying if I said a small part of me wasn’t entertaining the possibility of his being right. What if he really is Party Kirk to my Lame Kirk? It’s not the fight I’m afraid of, it’s, well…what if he wins?

My cell phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket, not recognizing the number but answering it anyway as a means of escaping the moment. “Hello?”

“Theo? Oh, thank goodness. It’s me, Jan. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“I’m kind of in bad trouble.”

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[5.2] The Nakayoshi Factor

Theo

It’s rough having a mother who looks not a day over twenty-one. Other moms hate my mom for being able to juggle a husband, son, and home-based business with nary a wrinkle or jowl to show for it. Other dads hate my dad for snagging a wife who’s managed to maintain her impeccable figure and youthful looks well past the altar. On weeknights, at the gym, strange men whom she’s never met come up to her and flirt with tidal force, completely ignoring the fact that she’s wearing a wedding ring, and that her twelve-year-old son is doing cardio right beside her.

Then there’s the Nakayoshi Factor: inserting yourself into someone’s life and lingering desperately in the hope that you’ll be there on that chance day when everything in my mom’s life might possibly turn to shit, and she might possibly decide to get with you out of some life-affirming need for a random fling. The gym bodies come and go with weight machine availability; Mr. Nakayoshi, he comes over for dinner nearly every week. “You should know your boss,” he always says, “and he should know you.” From what I can tell, about the only thing he wants to know is my mom’s chest.

I feel like I’ve been trapped here in the dining room for a year and a half. I hate when Mr. Nakayoshi comes over. I hate watching him hit on Mom while Dad and I (seated together at the far end of a dinner table that’s suddenly become forty feet long) pretend we either don’t notice or don’t care.

Fidgeting, I glance at Dad. His plate’s been clean for the last thirty minutes, yet he’s still poking and scraping with his fork, desperate to keep his attention anywhere but where it matters.

“Dad?” I murmur. (My voice echoes, as the dining room has, of course, also stretched itself out somehow in order to accommodate the table.)

“Yeah?”

“Has our dining room always been this, er, big?”

He scrutinizes the table a moment. “Huh. It does look a little…off, doesn’t it?”

Across the way, Mr. Nakayoshi compliments Mom’s figure and starts a conversation about nude acupuncture.

(The table lengthens a few more inches, rattling our plates.)

Ugh. Dad shouldn’t have to watch this. Mr. Nakayoshi should know better than to hit on women to whom he isn’t married—and Mom should get her head out of the clouds and realize a smile isn’t always just a smile, a friendly comment regarding the firmness of her behind isn’t always just a friendly comment. Our table shouldn’t be lengthening. But this is how adults work. It’s a lot of flirting and drinking and silent suffering and pretending things are what they’re not.

And I’ve fallen for it.

Mom had told me that Mr. Nakayoshi had expressed an interest in having me design a Web site for him. So, I’d cleaned myself up after we’d gotten home from the gym, put on a nice shirt, and come down to dinner—because as much as I want Mr. Nakayoshi to lose his car keys down a storm drain, he does pay well. But now I’m beginning to think the Web site thing was just an excuse to get his foot in the door. Sort of like how a vampire has to ask permission to enter your home before he’ll try to suck your blood. Allegedly.

I suppose there’s a silver lining to all of this: Mr. Nakayoshi’s presence tonight has afforded me a certain level of anonymity. No one’s fussing over me, no one’s hovering over my shoulder and waiting for one of my contacts to fall out so that they can swoop in and catch it before it hits the floor—which is pretty much all Mom and Dad have been doing since finding out about the New Eyes incident. In the mornings, Mom now waits with the car idling until she’s satisfied I’ve made it inside the Boca Linda locker hall in one piece. The worst, though, is if I forget to lock my bedroom door at bedtime, and she happens to walk in on me while I have my contacts out. “Oh,” she says, her tone quick, clipped—as if she’s walked in on me naked, or masturbating—or masturbating naked with my contacts out. Oh.

The rest of the conversation goes something like this:

“Can I get you anything, honey?”

“No thanks, Mom.”

“Water?”

“No.”

“Tea?”

“No.”

“Are you getting enough air? Do you need me to open the window?” Or, if it’s cold: “Are you chilly? Do you need me to close the window?”

“I’m fine, Mom. You worry too much.”

“Okay, then. Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight.”

Of course, it’s not “goodnight.” Rather, it’s me lying awake and blinking into the darker-than-dark for the next hour as I listen to my parents talk about me in the next room. Dad’s on a Google quest to find me a nano-surgeon willing to restore my natural eyesight; Mom wants to start a support group for victims of illegal eye drops; the two of them argue over which parenting methods are more likely to get me to age eighteen with the majority of my body parts intact.

They’re losing sleep these days, and it’s my fault.

“So, young Master Smole,” Mr. Nakayoshi says, jolting me out of my reverie and back into the dining room of the damned. “No more glasses for you, eh?”

Dad chokes on a bite of food.

Mom looks like someone’s just stepped on her toe.

They talk over each other:

“His new glasses haven’t come in yet.”

“He’s switched to contacts.”

A moment of awkward silence.

Mr. Nakayoshi looks amused and confused. “Well, which is it, Theo, my man?”

I swallow. It’s a simple question. The answer is, of course, “I’ve switched to contacts.” That’s what I’ve rehearsed. That’s what Mom and Dad have rehearsed—yet Mom’s already flubbed her line and I just know I’ll do the same if Mr. Nakayoshi doesn’t let the matter drop and Jesus why are people interested in stupid things like whether or not I’m wearing glasses anymore—

“Ice cream!” Mom yells, smiling insanely.

Another moment of awkward silence, broken by the sound of something gooey hitting the floor beneath the table—Mr. Nakayoshi’s sense of amusement, I’m guessing.

“Theo, darling,” Mom says, clearing her throat, subduing her tone. “Why don’t you get us all some green tea ice cream for dessert?”

“Er, okay, Mom.” I push my chair back and leave the table, glad for an excuse to get away from the heat.

In the kitchen, I fetch bowls from the cupboard, spoons from the cutlery drawer. I’m scooping green tea ice cream out of a carton from the freezer when Dad walks in with everyone’s dirty dishes.

As he sets them in the sink and turns on the hot water, I ask, “Why do you have Mr. Nakayoshi over so often?”

He sighs and says, “I don’t have him over so much as he has himself over.” He shakes his head, makes a half-hearted attempt at scraping excess food from the plates. After a moment, he turns the water off, noticing that I’ve only set out three bowls. “Aren’t you having ice cream?”

“I’m kind of full.”

“I know what you mean.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about ice cream.

“All right, then,” he says. “Take care of the dishes, then get on upstairs and make sure all your homework’s done. I’ll bring the ice cream in.”

I nod, handing Dad the scoop and smiling inwardly. This is his way of excusing me from the table, of giving me a reason not to go back into the dining room. I’ll take it. Nuts to Nakayoshi’s Web site.

I get the dishwasher going. Then I go upstairs, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my dress shirt on my way down the hall, breathing a sigh of relief as I open my bedroom door and—

—holy shit.

My room! It’s been ransacked!

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[5.1] Grand Theft Cell Phone

Jan

Mini darts back under the seat.

I start feeling around for him with my foot, suddenly worried that he might try to ditch me—even though he’s just a plush doll and wouldn’t be able to do much in the event of an unexpected perv-pounce.

Muj bože, why did I get into this car?

Oh, but I already know the answer: because it was cold. Because I had no bus fare. Because I thought that I’d be one of the lucky ones, that not every grown man wants to molest every boy he picks up off the street. Maybe Robbie just likes to watch—or maybe he’s only into fat kids. No sick will toward any fat kids out there, but please, God, let him be into fat kids only.

“So,” he says, offhandedly, “am I alone in thinking Dakota Fanning’s sex appeal went to shit after War of the Worlds?”

Compromise, then. Let him be into fat kids and Dakota Fanning only.

“But I guess them’s the breaks, you know? Ever see what happened to that Dewey kid from Malcolm in the Middle? Grotesque.”

Okay, it’s settled: Robbie reads JCPenney kids’ catalogs, listens to Justin Bieber, eats Kinder Chocolate, and thinks Dakota Fanning and some kid named Dewey were sexier before they hit puberty. I’m officially nailed. I’m in it bad—and still my brain refuses to acknowledge the obvious. “Maybe it’s mere coincidence,” reads a small thought bubble that’s just appeared beside my head. “Maybe he’s a dad and the Bieber CD is his daughter’s, the catalog his wife’s. You don’t know. And if he’s into boys and girls and kiddie chocolate, well, look on the sunny side: there are worse things than riding in the passenger seat of a honey bun-stuffed Geo Metro that’s being driven by a Hawaiian shirt-wearing pervert who once masturbated at the foot of Ernie’s bed…aren’t there? Falling down a well and discovering that you’ve used up all your cell phone minutes, for example. Or contracting leprosy from a toilet seat.”

I shake my head.

The thought bubble vanishes.

I look out the window and wonder how seriously I’d be injured if I throw myself from the car while it’s still moving. It feels like I’ve been stuck here since December of 2011 even though it’s only been five or ten minutes. Hitchhiking with a pedophile has that effect on the passage of time, particularly if you’re twelve years old and homeless.

(It doesn’t help that Justin Bieber keeps panting “baby, baby” over and over again.)

Robbie goes on to lament the loss of Logan Lerman to adulthood. I nod and mutter an obligatory “uh-huh” every few minutes, only vaguely paying attention. I just want the car to stop at a red light long enough for me to grab Mini and do a dive roll out the door. Speaking of Mini, he’s been busy gathering the most horrific evidence from beneath the passenger seat: a bottle of Jergens, a box of condoms, a camcorder, some kind of giant toy shaped like a man’s—

—that’s it. I’m jumping. I’d rather take my chances face-surfing the asphalt than sitting here waiting for Ernie’s boy-stalker to make his move. I reach for the door handle, then pause, noticing that we’re pulling into a gas station.

“Just a little pit stop,” Robbie says, parking the car and turning off the engine. “You want anything from the mini mart? My treat.”

I start to politely decline his offer when Mini tugs on my jeans. “Ask for something!”

I pay him a questioning look.

“If you say you don’t want anything, he might just turn the car back on and drive off to the nearest sleazy motel, with you as his very own personal body pillow. Ask him for a fountain drink and a microwaved burrito. That’ll give us time to skedaddle.”

I glance awkwardly at Robbie. “Uh…I’ll have a drink from the fountain and a microwaved burrito.”

“What kind?” he asks.

“Um…beef. And cola.”

A moment passes between us.

Robbie’s eyes do a quick dart-and-dodge.

“Dude,” Mini says. “Is he checking you out?”

Robbie smiles. “Right on. Back in a jiffy, stud.” He gets out of the car.

I watch him cross the parking lot and enter the mini-mart. As soon as he’s inside, I start unbuckling my seat belt.

“Dude, he totally just undressed you with his eyes.”

“Don’t tell me about it.” I fumble with the door lock. I’ve had enough of riding in cars with strangers—

“Wait,” Mini says, and crawls onto the driver’s seat, where Robbie’s left his cell phone. He hefts it in his mitts. “Take this. We can use it to call Theo.”

“But that’s stealing,” I say, frowning.

“It’s also illegal for grown men to scarf on underage boy-muff.”

“Boy-muff?”

Mini rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Muff. Pubescence. Your burgeoning bedroom superpowers as embodied by the parts of you that start to blossom the night after you stumble upon your dad’s Playboy collection for the first time. Your short and curlies—”

“You think about sex a lot, don’t you?”

“Blame Theo! He’s the one who’s suppressing his spunk, ignoring his muff! You can’t keep the cover on a pot of boiling water and expect it not to blow up in your face sooner or later!”

I don’t exactly know what Mini is talking about, though it does stand to reason that if I want to call Theo (or anyone else) for help, I’ll need a phone, and since mine fell into a storm drain, well, Robbie’s will have to do.

I grab Mini and the phone; I start to get out of the car.

“Wait!” Mini says again.

“What now?” I ask, half in, half out.

“Grab a box of honey buns.”

“What for?”

“Food. Bargaining power. I don’t recognize this part of town—we may end up camping out under some smelly bridge for the night.”

I hop the rest of the way out of the car. “But…but Theo can come pick us up, right? I mean, we just call him and…”

Mini pats my arm reassuringly, a solemn look on his face. “When did Noah build the ark?”

I shrug.

“Before the rain.” He holds his expression a moment longer, then relaxes, cracks a smile. “Robert Redford. Spy Game. Ever see it?”

I glare at him.

“Sorry,” he says, hanging his head. “I quote movies when I’m nervous.”

At least he’s not talking about muff anymore. With my free arm, I reach into the backseat of Robbie’s car and grab a box of honey buns. Then, hefting the buns, Theo’s doll, and the stolen cell phone, I dart into the night.

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[4.20] Kinder Chocolate

Jan – I’m sitting slightly apart from Mini on a bus bench in front of Carl’s Jr. and trying very hard not to notice how good the food smells every time someone picks up their order from the drive-through window. The fact that I’m not dressed for the cold doesn’t help.

“I thought you were from Brno,” Mini says.

“I am,” I reply, shivering.

“Isn’t it cold there?”

“In the winter, yes.”

“Shouldn’t you be accustomed to the cold, then?”

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. “Cold is cold. Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I like it.”

Mini looks at me with that same “I knew that” expression Theo gets whenever he asks an obvious question. After a moment: “You have a cell phone?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Oh. I just assumed…I mean, no offense, but I didn’t think you could afford one.”

In fact, I can’t afford a cell phone. That’s why this is a prepaid. That’s why it took me two weeks of saving my lunch money to buy a cheap Tracfone from Wal-Mart. When my parents asked me where I’d gotten it from, I told them Theo bought it for me. When they insisted that I reimburse him, I took the money and bought more minutes. That’s how you do it when you’re poor and you don’t want to resort to out and out theft. Like, ski mask and crowbar theft.

I try calling my parents. Neither of them answers. Maybe they’ve turned their phones off, or forgotten to charge them, or simply left them inside our apartment before uploading to another of their all-day poker parties at Uncle Martin’s.

“Well?” Mini asks expectantly.

“They’re not answering,” I tell him.

“Call Theo, then.”

I scroll down my contact list, highlighting Theo’s number, hesitating. I know we’re friends, but that doesn’t make it any easier to admit to destitution.

Mini climbs onto my leg, tries to peek at my cell phone. “What’s the matter? Ran out of minutes? Low battery? Don’t tell me you don’t have his number stored—”

“I have his number,” I say, shooing Mini away. “It’s just…”

“What?”

I sigh. “It’s embarrassing, you know?”

Mini shakes his head. “Dude, now is not the time to be grappling with your pride.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Your nickname isn’t ‘The Poor Kid.’”

“Your only other option is to ask someone for bus fare.”

“I’m not begging for change.”

“Fine. Ask for it. Borrow it. But whatever you do, make it quick—the next bus gets here in five minutes.”

I fret, looking up and down the sidewalk for prospective contributors, but there’s no one else walking about—everyone’s in their cars and headed home for the night. At least, on my side of the street. Across the way, next to the flower shop, a homeless man has just convinced someone to drop a dollar into a tattered hat resting at his feet. He thanks the guy, then looks over at me. He smiles and gets to his feet, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a giant magic marker, which he uses to draw an equally giant scoreboard on the wall of the vacant suite behind him. When he’s done, the scoreboard reads:

ME: 1

YOU: 0

“What a dick,” Mini murmurs. “Come on, Jan. You can totally earn more than that threadbare jerk-off in the next five minutes.” He glances down the sidewalk; an attractive-looking woman has exited the nearby drug store and is walking our way. “Quick, take off your shirt and flex for the lady.”

“I don’t think she’s going to give me money just for taking my shirt off.”

“Wait till she sees those heaving pecs!”

“Mini, no.”

“Well, at least offer to help her cross the street or something.”

“She’s perfectly able to cross the street on her own.”

Mini goes quiet as the woman passes the bus stop. For a moment I think he’s let the matter drop—that is, until I spot him toddling directly in front of her. Not expecting to cross paths with a doll, she trips, stumbles.

“Ma’am!” I shout, instinctively darting forward, catching her in mid-fall. Her momentum takes us both down onto the sidewalk where, for a brief but utterly embarrassing instant, I’m lying on top of her, my front pressed against her backside, my hand inadvertently (I swear!) wedged beneath one of her breasts. Worse, in the midst of my unplanned assault from behind, I drop my cell phone. It slides across the sidewalk and goes tumbling into the storm drain.

“Oh, my God!” screams the woman, beating at me with her elbows and fists as she wriggles free. “Help! Rape!”

I quickly roll off her. “Ma’am, I’m sorry—”

“Creep!” she yells, getting to her feet, adjusting her skirt, her bra strap. She gives me the finger, then turns and stalks away.

“You big lug,” Mini says.

I prop myself on all fours, gaze wistfully in the direction of the storm drain. “My phone…”

“When I threw myself in harm’s way, I meant for you to help her regain her balance, not get your babies up inside her from behind.”

“Quiet. You’ve caused enough trouble.” I pick myself up off the ground and glare at Mini as I take my seat on the bench once again.

Across the street, the homeless guy updates his scoreboard:

ME: 1

YOU: -1

Mini joins me on the bench. We sit together in silence and watch as the homeless guy makes ten dollars in five minutes, updating his scoreboard along the way. I’m considering finding a less-competitive bus stop to wait at when a Geo Metro with Oregon license plates pulls up on my side of the street. The window rolls down and a fortyish guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt leans over from the driver’s side, smiles at me.

“You need a ride?” he asks.

Hm. Geo Metro; unshaven stranger wearing a Hawaiian shirt; unsolicited offer for transportation—this is everything they warn you about in stranger danger class. But it’s late, it’s cold, and I’m hungry. My brain is absolutely willing to loosen the rules by providing me with plenty of positive hypotheticals. I start thinking about the statistics and whether or not I actually know anyone who’s ever been kidnapped. Not that kidnappings don’t happen all the time. It’s just…cold. And late.

I look down at Mini, who shrugs and mouths, “It’s your call.”

Across the way, the homeless guy looks a little disappointed that I’ve got a ride.

That settles it.

I scoop Mini up and get into the car.

On settling into the passenger seat, I notice three things. One, the entire backseat is piled high with honey bun boxes and what look like camping supplies; two, Justin Bieber is playing on the stereo; three, a printout of Ernie’s SuperMegaNet profile pic is taped to the dashboard.

Whew. That’s a load over my shoulders. I pay Hawaiian Shirt Guy another glance, and though I don’t recognize him, I assume he must be a relative of Ernie’s—an uncle or something. That would explain the honey buns and total lack of fashion sense (though not necessarily the Justin Bieber thing). And maybe that’s why he stopped to pick me up: he knows I’m a friend of Ernie’s.

“So, where are you headed?” he asks, pulling away from the curb and easing into traffic.

I freeze up, realizing that I don’t know exactly where Theo lives.

“San Joaquin,” Mini offers, scooting off my lap and lowering himself onto the floor. “Take the twenty-two to the fifty-five to the five and get off at Buckaroo.”

I look over at Hawaiian Shirt Guy; he’s still waiting for me to answer.

“You’ll have to do the talking,” Mini says. “I don’t think he can see or hear me.” He disappears beneath the passenger seat.

I repeat Mini’s directions.

Hawaiian Shirt Guy nods. “That’s a good half hour drive. What are you doing all the way out here without a ride? I’m Rob, by the way.”

Rob. Why does that sound familiar? “I, er, my ride canceled at the last minute.”

“Well, lucky for you I pulled up when I did, huh?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Rob…Rob. I don’t know any Robs, but I feel like I should know this Rob somehow. I glance at him sideways.

He starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “So, how about that Justin Bieber? ‘Your lips, my biggest weakness…’”

Mini tugs on my pant leg. He’s crawled out from underneath the seat, and is holding something in his hands—a JCPenney kids’ catalog.

I frown, using my foot to shove him back under the seat. I don’t need to see that—I don’t want to see that.

“You into movies?” Rob asks.

“Um…sure.”

“Have you seen Super 8?”

“No.”

“Great flick. I have the Ultimate Edition on Blu-ray. That Riley Griffiths is hilarious. Best thing since Jeff Cohen from The Goonies. Well, before he lost all that weight. I tell you, twelve to fourteen—that’s the age to be.”

Mini reappears, this time with what looks like a candy wrapper—

—it’s Kinder Chocolate.

And blackjack. Geo Metro, Hawaiian shirt, the incessant talk of boy singers and overweight child actors, the piles of honey buns in the backseat, Ernie’s profile pic, the irrefutable Kinder Chocolate—I now know why Rob is so familiar to me: this is Robbie, Ernie’s Robbie, the pervert dude who used to supply him with junk food. Milý Bože na nebesích—

—I’m hitchhiking with Robbie the Friendly Pedophile.

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[4.19] There’s a first time for everything…except this.

Mini-Theo – And on down the societal totem we go.

Despite having been tossed through a window and left for dead on Eva’s lawn, the soldier in me is determined to keep on keeping on. A little after nine o’clock, the bus deposits me on the corner of Main and La Veta. From there it’s a four or five block toddle to Jan’s apartment, which is in a lower-middle-class neighborhood comprised of single-story, well-kept houses sandwiched between a chain of fast food joints and the freeway. Ernie’s always ratting on Jan for being poor, but I’m thinking this actually doesn’t look at all like the crumbling, crime-infested poverty zone Theo had imagined—that is, until I reach the Kounicovas’ apartment complex, with its faded fudge exterior, three-quarters-dead lawn, and high-voltage power lines running directly overhead. The whole place looks like someone dropped a gigantic trailer into a muddy lot, and then it rained and the trailer took root and started growing more trailers over time. At some point, the cable company must have done a hurried splice job, because there’s a low-hanging cable running from the main line to the side of Jan’s building; it’s tied off on the end of an overhanging wood beam like a length of rope for a tire swing. If I was looking at a Highlights “What’s Wrong?” picture, this would totally be the item that doesn’t belong. The building’s owner must get routine death threats from neighboring homeowners furious over their plummeting property values. I mean, this is the physical manifestation of a real estate black hole.

I cross the event horizon, ascend and descend the waterlogged modesty mound in front of the Kounicovas’ door. There’s no doorbell, but as luck would have it, I don’t need one: momentarily, Jan, sporting his usual scruffy tank top and jeans combo, steps out, his bulging arms hefting a pair of swollen garbage bags. It looks like I’ve caught him in the middle of his chores.

“Hey!” I yell, dodging out of the way when he almost steps on me. “Watch where you’re going!”

Jan stops, looks left, right, up, and, finally, down.

I glare at him, continuing: “That’s right! I’ve been riding the bus all day and I have grass stains on my penis! I don’t need a split seam to add to the list, thank you very much!”

Jan raises an eyebrow; something in one of his garbage bags goes glop! “You’re that doll Theo brings with him to school, aren’t you?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

Jan shrugs. “Not many twelve-year-olds carry dolls with them wherever they go. Well, unless they’re girls. Possibly.”

Huh. Ernie was delirious with fever; Eva’s into dolls…but Jan, well, it seems he can see me just because. I guess I always assumed he doesn’t notice anything unless it’s female and made of rock hard muscle. Maybe it’s his foreign blood—maybe Czechs just see things differently.

“So…you’re not going to throw a disbelief tantrum?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.” Jan starts walking again, around the corner of the building and down a narrow alley, toward the dumpster.

I follow.

“I mean, if UFOs are real,” he continues, “then I guess talking dolls can be real, too.”

“You believe in UFOs?”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“Funny,” Jan says, chuckling. “That’s like a ghost saying he doesn’t believe in other ghosts.” He reaches the dumpster, chucks the garbage bags inside, first one, then the other.

“Dude, just so you know,” I say, “Theo’s not effeminate or anything.”

“He’s not a what?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What’s important now is that you wash your hands—preferably with some sort of antibacterial soap—and come with me.”

“Come with you where?”

“Ernie’s dying. Eva’s gone all girlie. Theo wants to pound pelvises with her, but, ironically, he’s being too much of a dick.”

Jan looks horrified—about Ernie’s impending death, I think, and not the pounding pelvises thing. “Ernie’s dying?”

“Well, maybe not dying,” I reply. “But he’s in some kind of anti-spunk-induced funk—possibly caused by food and porn withdrawal. I tried talking to him, but he won’t listen to a doll. He needs a good friend, someone who can reach him.”

“Er, wouldn’t that be Theo, then?”

“In another age, on another world.”

“But I thought between the four of us, Theo and Ernie were the closest.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes and meh. The two of them are like brothers: stubborn, pig-headed, impossible to work with. They need some kind of intervention. You.”

Jan sighs, glances down the alleyway. “I don’t know how helpful I can be. Ever since my parents became addicted to SuperMegaNet—”

“Your parents are SuperMegaAddicts?”

“—I’ve had my hands full. I like the guys—and Eva—I really do. But times are thick. I have to manage my priorities. I have enough time for school, homework, cooking, cleaning, and a few reps with my weight set before bedtime. But that’s it.” He starts back toward his parents’ apartment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to steal twenty dollars from my mom’s purse so that I can buy groceries for the week.”

I chase him down, tugging on an unintentional tear in his jeans. “You’re turning your back on your friends!”

Jan spreads his arms wide. “What am I supposed to do? Drop everything? Forget about my family and run off with you?”

“Your family forgot about you.”

Jan slows, bites his lip. “I know. But two lefts don’t make a right.”

“I think you mean ‘two wrongs don’t make a right.’ And before, when you mentioned that times were ‘thick’—”

“Můj bože, you sound like Theo now.”

I’m about to point out that duh, I’m part of Theo’s conscience and so, naturally, I share many of his annoying tendencies when a rumbling and rattling knocks me off my feet. For a brief instant I’m positive the Big One has finally hit southern California, and is now in the process of shuffling us sun-loving, latte-drinking, 24 Hour Fitness members into the Pacific once and for all. But then I spot the source of the mini-quake: a fleet of tow-trucks has pulled up in front of Jan’s apartment, bringing with it several dozen city public service goons wielding an assortment of hooks, chains, pulleys, and jacks—

—which they start fastening to the Kounicovas’ building.

I clear my throat (yes, figuratively). “Jan?”

“Yeah?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say those city workers are about to tow your apartment.”

“Naw, they’re just…that’s not…” He trails off, watching in bewilderment as several helmeted workers start jacking up the side of the building—at which point he sprints ahead of me, waving his arms in the air to get the city goons’ attention. “Pro Krista pána! What are you doing? Stop!”

The head goon glances over his shoulder. “Eh?”

“You can’t tow a building!” Jan shouts.

“We’re city public service,” the goon replies. “We can do whatever we want. Besides, you’re clearly parked in a red zone.” He points at the curb.

“But this is where I live!”

“I’m sure it’s where a lot of people live. Regardless, we have our instructions.”

Reaching where Jan and the goon are arguing, I bellow, “‘Instructions?’ Who in the world gives instructions to tow away an entire apartment building?”

The goon looks down at me, seeing me, not seeing me, mouthing “what the fuck?” before addressing Jan once again: “Look, it’s nothing personal. We’re just doing our job.”

“But my parents are still inside!” Jan says.

The goon shrugs, scribbles something on his clipboard, hands Jan a piece of paper. “Sorry, kid. If you want ’em, you’ll have to come down to the impound lot to get ’em.” Turning back to his cohorts: “All right, boys! Take it away!”

The trucks hoist their hooks, rev their engines, and start down the street, unearthing Jan’s building from its foundation and dragging it behind. Across the way, several neighbors have stepped outside to witness the spectacle, and are standing with mouths agape, cell phones extended, camera lenses twinkling.

Satisfied with the job, the head goon nods at Jan, gives me another dose of WTF, and climbs into his car. He speeds away, leaving us to literally bite his dust.

“I don’t believe it,” Jan mutters, watching him go.

Neither do I.

Jan looks down at the paper. “It’s the address for the impound lot.”

I mean…what just happened?

“My apartment building had been impounded.”

This is unreal.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

Can plush dolls hallucinate? “I think I believe in UFOs.”

“Huh?”

I shrug. “If someone’s entire apartment building can be towed for being parked in a red zone, then I’m convinced little green men from Epsilon Eridani can and do visit excitable farmers in the deep south. But there is a silver lining here.”

“What’s that?” Jan asks, unenthusiastic.

I smile up at him. “I know the perfect place for you to crash tonight.”

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[4.18] Theo Likes Me?

Eva – I’m lying sprawled on my bed, muscles aching from wrestling practice, brain reeling from too much schoolwork, when I hear Theo calling to me:

“Eva, we need to talk.”

Totally disturbing—for three reasons: one, I’m not expecting visitors; two, I didn’t see the door open; three, since it’s almost bedtime, I’m kind of in my underwear.

Doing this sort of improvised, awkward back roll, I shift into a defensive crouch. “Theo? What are you…?” I pause, glancing down at the floor. The cutest little plush Theo doll has just squeezed its way through the crack beneath the door, and is now toddling toward my bed. Halfway to the point, it stops in its tracks and gawks at my non-existent breasts.

Ugh. Boys. Even in doll form they only have one thing on their minds.

I scowl and quickly put on a T-shirt.

The doll shakes its head, freed from the Siren-like effects of my chest. “Theo and Ernie are in trouble.”

“Okay…” I reply, slowly, uncertainly, half-amused as my brain jumps to the nearest conclusion. I know my birthday’s coming up at the end of the month; my parents are aware of my affinity for dolls, and, for some reason, have decided to gift me early with, er, a motorized doll. Of Theo.

“You’re a doll,” I say, “and you’re talking.”

“You’re a gurl, and you wrestle,” the doll shoots back.

I narrow my eyes, getting out of bed and cautiously padding over to where the Theo doll’s standing. I sit after a moment, reaching toward it. “Do you mind?”

The doll shakes its head, and I pick it up with both hands, poking, squeezing, feeling for batteries.

“Oh, baby,” the doll sighs. “You don’t know how long Theo’s been waiting for you to touch him like this. I’m Mini, by the way.”

I frown, quickly removing my finger from between the doll’s legs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Really? You don’t know?”

I shake my head.

Mini shakes his head harder. “He likes you.”

I let Mini go, setting him back onto the floor and folding my arms. “He does not like me.”

“Babe, he stares at you like you’re a steak dinner with all the trimmings.”

“Theo’s a vegetarian—he doesn’t eat meat.”

“Well, he wants to eat yours.”

Oh, yuck. “I didn’t need to hear that.”

“No, really. Remember the New Eyes thing? That was all for you.”

“Whatever.”

“Mm-hm. He thought that by getting rid of his glasses he’d stand a better chance against Jan at, er, hacking your GirlSpace page, so to speak.”

“You’re making this up.”

“You don’t even know! You’ve been too busy fantasizing over the impossibility of ever handling Jan’s honey buns to notice that all along Theo’s worshiped and adored you.”

“I thought he was being attentive, sure, but I…” Huh. Now that I think about it, Theo does tend to look a little dazed whenever he’s around me. I always assumed it was because he was the shy, introverted type—now I don’t know what to think. I mean, Theo’s nice and all, but he’s not the kind of boy you really, er, want. If you know what I mean. Glasses or not, he just looks like someone’s little brother. And at times he can be a little—a lot—smart-alecky. Not like Jan. Jan who hates me, but Jan whose bulging biceps and darling accent make me want to play hookey and snuggle with him all day. I try to imagine Theo snuggling with me, and it just seems wrong—like one of those perverted babysitters you hear about on the news who’s hired to watch someone’s kid, but instead ends up getting pregnant with his child.

Ew, ew, ew. “That’s gross, Mini. He’s nine.”

“He’s twelve. Like you.”

“Not where it matters.”

“I happen to have it on good authority that Theo’s hiding the body of an Olympic god underneath all those geeky clothes.” Mini winks at me conspiratorially. “And you know he’s a health nut, so no zits once puberty gets into full swing—and with all the ginseng he drinks, you know he’s got, well, stamina. Wink-wink. Get my drift?”

I want anything but to get his drift! “Why are you telling me this? I thought you came here because Ernie and Theo are in some kind of trouble?”

Mini nods. “Theo’s got a bad case of virginitis, and Ernie’s dying.”

“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes and purposely ignoring the part about Theo’s supposed virginitis. “Whatever Ernie’s doing, he’s not dying. He’s…exaggerating. Remember the time he imagined an evil cassette tape of banda music was downloading into girls’ bedrooms and getting them pregnant?”

“This is different. He’s really, really sick.”

“He probably just ate too many Sara Lee cheesecakes at dinnertime—why am I having a conversation with a plush doll?”

“Because you’re bored!” Mini insists. “Your mom and dad have locked you down so that between school and wrestling you only have a measly hour to yourself at the end of each day. You’d jump at the chance to fill that hour with something meaningful. Make this hour matter, Eva. Come with me—you’ll be sticking it to your parents and saving someone’s life in the process.”

Okay, that’s creepy. This doll shaped like a miniature Theo just confirmed one of my deepest, most carefully-hidden secrets, something no one but Mom could possibly know. “How did you…?”

Mini shrugs. “I’m a terrific judge of character. So’s Theo, by the way. You should talk to him sometime, confide in him, share a bubble bath…” He trails off, catching the Evil Eye I send hurtling his way. “Uh…too far too soon?”

I shake my head. “Are you some sort of programmable spybot? Did Dad buy you to check on me? Make sure I’m being a good little girl?”

“Look,” Mini says, lifting his shirt, dropping his pants, and standing spread-eagle. “No cameras, no mics. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

I sigh, getting to my feet. I’ve had enough. Mini’s touched a nerve—and he’s anatomically correct. This is crazy. “I’m obviously suffering some kind of psychotic breakdown. I’m going to bed. But first…” I reach down and pick up Mini. I carry him over to the window; I open it and toss him through.

He lands on the grass with a soft thud.

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[4.17] Spunk-Related Illness

Mini-Theo – “I’m on restriction,” Ernie says, letting me in and closing the door. “My computer’s been impounded. There’s a lock on the fridge. Grams picks out my clothes each and every morning. That’s what the fuh’s happened to me.”

I glance around the bedroom. Mrs. Goodale’s mutant tirade attack has left the place a barren wasteland. Where once there were posters on the walls, there are now only dust outlines, remnants of Scotch tape; the shag carpeting is intact, but is wilted, like a once-mighty lawn of grass that’s gone for too long between waterings; the desk…well, let’s just say the 1970s called, and they want their pre-Commodore era panel desk back.

Ernie coughs loudly, clears his throat. He sounds like he’s catching a cold. “So…am I having a hunger hallucination or something?”

“Probably,” I say. “But that’s a good thing at the moment. It’s left you more open to the state of perceptive flux in which I exist.”

Ernie snorts, sits at the edge of his neatly-made bed, and coughs some more. “You sound just like Brainiac. Like nerd, like doll, I guess.”

I frown, watching him wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. “Are you always this phlegmy?”

“Blech. I think one of the lunch ladies peed in my food. I’m coming down with something. And also going insane.”

“You’re not going insane. See, I’m Theo’s psychic apparatus in physical form, and I’m quite real. And I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to help me rescue Theo’s spunk.”

Ernie wrinkles his nose. “His spunk?”

“Yes.”

“Like, his splooge? His baby juice? His rich, potent—”

I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Spare me the adjectives, Leviathan. We’re not talking biology here. Well, we kind of are, but it’s more important than that. What you’re talking about is just a biological manifestation of the procreative essence; spunk is what powers that pure essence, your heart and soul. Without his spunk, Theo will grow up shooting blanks, emotionally, socially, romantically. You need to help me help him get back in the game. We need to get him back on SuperMegaNet, meeting people, exchanging favorites lists, uploading to house parties—”

“Wait a minute,” Ernie says. “I thought Theo said he wants to stop using SMN because it makes him go all Sam Winchester, sans the demon blood.”

“Sam Winchester?”

“The bitchy younger brother from Supernatural.”

“You watch that show?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Well, I did before my TV got taken away.”

I smirk. “No offense, but Supernatural is kind of a chick show, isn’t it?”

“Um, wrong! It’s about a pair of bad-ass demon hunters—”

“Who look like Calvin Klein models.”

Ernie narrows his eyes at me. “Theo’s a neat freak. By extension, you of all people should appreciate a couple of guys combing their hair and brushing their teeth more than once a week.”

“Oh, I do. But that doesn’t change the fact that a real hunter would be all grizzled and leathery, with an eye patch, or a wooden leg—someone like Mickey Rourke in Sin City.”

“Sure—if you’re a shitty hunter. A good hunter would know better than to let some random monster-of-the-week get close enough to hack off his leg.”

“I disagree. That’s like saying a carpenter can have soft, un-calloused hands and still be a good carpenter. Dean and Sam aren’t good hunters. They’re merely hunters who look good.”

“They’d kick your ass if they saw you.”

I frown, an ominous thought suddenly occurring to me. “You’re not on Team Edward or anything, are you?”

Ernie jabs his finger at me. “Twilight is relevant. Relevant!”

“Fine. Whatever. Are you going to help me?”

“I don’t know.” Ernie sighs, slowly and carefully lying on his side. “Even if I knew something about other dudes’ spunk—and I definitely don’t—why’s it so important for me to be the one to do it? Why not Jan or Eva?”

“Because Theo’s closer to you than he is to the others.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really. He’d never admit it, but you’re like a brother to him.”

“Cock fat.”

“Think about it. Jan’s merely a classmate with a funny accent; Eva’s just some girl who’s too good for him. But you, you’re his friend.”

“Double cock fat. He told me so the night after he went blind and I ate his apology pizza. He said that we were never meant to be friends, that if it hadn’t been for SMN we never would’ve kept in touch after meeting in Thrill-Kill’s office—despite the fact that we live in the same town and go to the same school.”

“He didn’t mean that. He was upset, confused.”

“Yeah, well, judging by the desolation you see before you, he was right.” Ernie closes his eyes. “We used SuperMegaNet behind our parents’ backs, and it’s ruined our lives.”

“What’s with you, dude?” I ask, toddling over to him. “Just last week the most important thing in the world to you was ‘defending the pact.’”

“Last week my food and porn collection wasn’t locked inside an impenetrable safe.”

I’m about to stomp my plush foot on the floor and demand that Ernie stop putting food and porn before his friends when a vicious revelation sucker-punches me right in the gut:

Ernie’s lost his spunk.

He’s lost his spunk and it’s making him physically sick.

I gawk at him, not wanting to believe it’s true.

Feeling my stare, Ernie opens one of his eyes a crack. “What?” he wheezes.

“You’ve lost your spunk,” I murmur.

“Load,” Ernie says, scowling—or, rather, wincing.

“No, it’s true—don’t you see? Theo’s merely suppressing his spunk, but you’ve had yours taken away. It’s like…it’s like your grandparents are withholding your daily protein, calcium, and vitamin C.” I climb up onto the bed; I lean against Ernie’s cheek, gently stroking his forehead. “It’s killing you.”

In response, Ernie shifts his head so that he’s facing me. He opens his mouth as if to say something—and sneezes on me. A long, viscous rope of green snot shoots out of his nose and splatters against my torso in horrific slow-motion.

“Ugh,” he groans, wiping his nose and rolling onto his side facing away from me. “I don’t feel so good. I need to rest up for dinner. Tonight we’re having steamed brussel sprouts. Fuck off, little talking doll hallucination.”

Well. This is super. Ernie’s eating brussel sprouts, I’m soaked in fowl-smelling mucus, and not only do I have to save Theo’s spunk—

—it would seem I have to save Ernie’s as well.

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[4.16] Old Paperback Smell

Mini-Theo – So, this is where Ernie lives. I’ve never seen the place from the outside (and have only felt it from inside Ernie’s room, thanks to the New Eyes fiasco). Not that there’s much to see. The Goodales live in your typical suburbial environment: all the compact, single-story houses are variations on a cookie-cutter theme, right down to the obligatory yard gnomes standing watch over cost-effective concrete lawns.

I toddle up to the front door. I knock. After a moment, Ernie’s grandmother—in human form, thank goodness—answers, frowning, looking up twice, down twice, left, then right, then left again, then right again—her own inadvertent rendition of the Konami Code, I realize. On the bus ride over, I’d been preparing a variety of stranger-danger techniques to get me into Casa Goodale, but I don’t think any of that will be necessary. Ernie’s grandmother is looking too hard to see me, perhaps because of my perceptive probability qualities, or perhaps because she simply doesn’t have her glasses on. Either way, I take advantage of the situation, quickly darting between her legs and into the house.

“Listen up!” she shouts at a nonexistent gaggle of punk teenagers. “If I ever find out which one of you crazy kids keeps ringing my doorbell and running away I’ll chase you down and clobber you myself! In fact…”

I glance over my shoulder. Mrs. Goodale has stepped outside, and is now rapidly erecting a seven-story scaffolding made of crooked girders and ladders. Nearby, a small pile of barrels has appeared out of nowhere.

Wow.

I face forward once again, making my way past the parlor, down the hall, and into the living room. There’s a faded sofa, two fragile-looking rocking chairs, a pair of rickety end tables (both smothered in flowery doilies), and a large glass display showcasing a collection of plates, statuettes, and figurines. No TV. The place looks like an antique shop—and I start to get it, I start to get what Ernie’s all about. Everything here’s old and brittle and boring. It even smells old. Like when you open a paperback that was printed in 1988. Everything here has begun to yellow at the edges. Growing up in such an environment would drive anyone to Internet porn and excessive eating the first chance they got.

At the far end of the living room is the entrance to another hallway, this one giving access to the bedrooms and bathroom. Through the process of elimination, I find Ernie’s door. I bang on it a couple of times, and Ernie eventually answers. He’s wearing a stuffy-looking sweater over a collared shirt, khakis, and his hair is nicely combed. He looks like he just got back from Harvard…or a golf tournament. He’s no longer the same Ernie whom Theo was forced to meet on the first day of school—he’s an unreasonable facsimile thereof.

We share a moment of mutual bewilderment.

Then I find my voice: “What the fuh happened to you?”

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[4.15] Riding Public Transit for Plush Dummies®

Mini-Theo – Unbelievable. We’re living in the digital age, an age of cell phones, wireless Internet, HDTV, Super-fucking-MegaNet, and here I am riding the bus like it’s 1982 because the gang’s gone AWOL, because Beta can’t drive (well, he probably can, but he’s afraid of being hassled by the feds, or by a gang of rogue programmers from one of Taurus Labs’ competitors, or by human rights activists looking to string him up as an example of the dangers of modern-day technology)—because little Theo’s growing up and getting his spunk, and he’s being a total dick about it. Or not being a dick, as the case may be. And here I am, perched precariously on a smelly, slightly moist seat inside this moving purgatory on wheels as it ambles in the general direction of Ernie’s neighborhood. Because if I don’t do anything about Theo’s spunk, no one will.

You may be wondering how a walking, talking, preadolescent plush doll made it out of the bedroom, down the street, and onto a public bus without being confiscated by some random brat or tossed into a lost and found box. Allow me to explain. It’s simple, really: utter astonishment. See, the general population is a hopelessly complicated mess of bumbling idiots stumbling over one another on the way to and from the office, the supermarket, the DMV. It functions because everyone is too beside themselves to do anything whenever something extraordinary happens. Watch any of Roland Emmerich’s doomsday movies and you’ll get it. When someone sees an uprooted tree tumbling toward them do they stop and stare dumbly, or do they turn and run? The former, of course. That’s utter astonishment. That’s them thinking, “I don’t believe it!” or, “This can’t be!” when clearly something can be without you believing in it. Someone gets his wallet lifted in an alleyway, and he doesn’t go running after the thief; he merely stands there dumbfounded and yells the obvious to passersby: “He took my wallet!” Thieves are aware of this social flaw and exploit it on a daily basis.

The flaw’s what keeps people who see me from doing anything about me. They don’t believe in me. They assume my toddling is a trick of the light. Anything I say is disregarded as a misfiring of the ol’ eardrum. And so I have leeway as long as I don’t exceed the threshold by drawing undue attention to myself. That means no flirting, no picking fights, no interpretive dancing.

But enough about all that. The nuts and bolts of my existence within the societal paradigm are unimportant. I need to focus on the job at hand: reinstating Theo’s spunk.

I know what you’re thinking: He’s only twelve, he doesn’t need to be thinking about girls and their various intriguing parts, and my obsession with his lack of obsession regarding the subject will only serve to rob him of what’s left of his childhood, his innocence, right? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m not instigating anything here. Theo was already thinking about girls when I came onto the scene. He was already thinking about girls when, during a morning shower back in June, he discovered a handful of wispy secondary sex characteristics sprouting at the base of his kickstand. That’s why—consciously or subconsciously—he personified me: as an outlet, a means of self-expression, an exploratory aide. He’s nipple-high in his own adolescence, and he needs to learn how to swim before the current pulls him under, before he goes and gets himself caught up in something worse than New Eyes.

Take a look at the nerdy college kid sitting across from me. As careful as he’s been to make it look like he’s engrossed in a copy of Megatokyo, Vol. 6, he’s not really reading at all. Nor is there any sound coming from his earbuds. No, see his eyes? See how he keeps looking over at that leggy blond in the tight-fitting T-shirt? He’s reading her, listening to her—he’s hanging on her every word as she jabbers cheerfully on her cell phone. Not in any kind of creepy stalker/rapist way. Rapists smile and stare you down with that twisted, fucked up look that says, Oh, yeah. I’m going to rape you. Nerd Boy here just wants the privilege of being in the same room as T-shirt Girl for any length of time, maybe share a table at Starbucks and talk Big Bang Theory or C++ programming with her as a more realistic alternative to dropping to his knees and begging for permission to spend a couple of days buried alive between her fabulous thighs. He wants her more than anything in the world—but he’ll never have her, because he doesn’t have the spunk to speak up. He probably rides the bus with her to and from the university every day; he can probably tell you what her favorite Coldplay song is, what classes she’s taking, what she likes to put on her frozen yogurt. And yet he probably doesn’t even know her name.

How do I know this? I’ve seen the same look on Theo’s face a thousand times since the start of the school year. To illustrate, why don’t I replace Nerd Boy with a six-years-from-now version of Theo—

Pop! Nerd Boy disappears, replaced by an older, taller, ganglier version of Theo.

—and a six-years-from-now version of Eva.

Pop! T-shirt Girl gets swapped out with an older, bustier, leggier, less bug-eyed version of Eva.

Now do you see what kind of trouble Theo’s in? Look at him: eighteen, thick-framed glasses (for effect, as I’m well aware he doesn’t need them anymore), oversized “Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe” T-shirt, unintentionally baggy jeans, bare feet in flip-flops. Shudder.

Eva, on the other hand, has blossomed, grown some gentle curves, lost her boyish, compact, flat-chested wrestler’s build. She’s become teh hotness.

The two of them sit shoulder to shoulder. Theo’s pretending to be occupied with Megatokyo and his iPod, flipping pages and scrolling through his playlist with ADD-like intensity; Eva simply stares straight ahead, looking bored, waiting it out.

After a while, her cell phone rings.

Answering it: “Hi, Summer. Yeah, I just got out of class. Heading home. Weekend plans? Hm…studying, laundry, church. How about you? Uh-huh. Tonight? Let me see…” She nudges Theo in the ribs. “Hey. Summer’s having a clothing-optional slumber party tonight. It’s girls-only, but she says you can come if you bring your Wii.”

Theo’s eyes very literally bulge out of their sockets, and he drops his iPod. It slides across the floor, disappearing under one of the seats toward the rear of the bus.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, swallowing, wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow. “I’ve got homework, and a couple of Web sites to work on—”

“If you don’t want to go, just say so.”

“No, really, I’m all about getting naked and playing Wii Fit with you and the girls all night…but, well, duty calls. You know?”

Eva looks disappointed and starts talking to Summer again as Theo leaves his seat, gets down on all fours, and crawls down the aisle, searching for his iPod and muttering an embarrassed “excuse me” whenever he bumps into someone’s feet. By the time he finds it and returns to his seat, Eva’s gotten off at her stop.

Theo stuffs his earbuds back into his ears, and is once again jogging blissfully through his playlist when a middle-aged guy sitting a few seats over very casually moves into the seat beside him, leans over, and slaps him across the forehead.

“Ow!” Theo exclaims, his iPod tumbling out of his hands and down the aisle again. “What was that for?”

“Come on!” the middle-aged guy exclaims. “Friday night? Naked slumber party with your sexy girlfriend? And you want to stay home doing homework?”

“Girlfriend?” Theo blinks, clueless—then he smiles, laughs nervously. “Oh, you mean the girl who was sitting next to me? Naw, we’re just friends.”

Narrowing his eyes, the older dude slaps Theo again. “I can see why.”

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“The ‘Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe’ T-shirt. That and the fact that you’ve blown it again.”

Theo massages his forehead and looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not fooling anybody!”

“I don’t understand—”

“Junior, you’ve been riding this line for two years, morning and night—so have I—and the way you stare at that girl you’d think she was the proverbial Siren.”

Theo blushes.

“Most guys look at a girl like that for long enough and they figure out a way to get her. You, why, you just pretend you’re her sister.”

“I don’t pretend I’m her…just because we aren’t…what’s wrong with just being friends?”

“It’s not healthy.”

“Who says that just because she’s a girl and I’m a guy that she has to be my girlfriend and I her boyfriend?”

“Who says you don’t?”

Theo sighs. “We’re really good friends. I wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

“It may spoil things, it may not. That’s not the point. The point is that you won’t even try.”

“Again, who says I have to?”

“You do! Everything you say, everything you do revolves around that girl. Look, if you were gay, or truly disinterested it wouldn’t be an issue. But you want to be more than just friends.”

Theo gathers his things, stands up. “Okay, um, thanks for the advice, but I’m going to stand for the rest of the trip.”

The middle-aged dude shakes his head. “No one ever fixed a problem by running away from it. Remember that when you’re home alone waiting for your Netflix to cue up.”

Theo ignores him. On his way to the front of the bus, his cell phone rings. He answers it. “Hi, Mom. No, I’m not doing anything tonight. Bingo? Sure, I’ll swing by the Dollar Tree on the way in and pick up some magic markers…”

Pop!

Fuck that temporal nightmare. It’s made me sick to my stomach. But it doesn’t have to happen.

I won’t let it happen.

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