Remember Dippy. Shirley Reva Vernick
finished decapitating his Twinkie before he answered. “Picking shells. I told you I was.”
“Didn’t you hear me calling?”
“Nope. You mad?”
“Yes—I mean, no—I mean…” I didn’t know what I meant. “Where’re your shells anyway?”
He pointed somewhere behind him. “In my special place.”
“Well, your special place almost gave me a heart attack.” I put my shirt back on and packed up my towel. “Let’s go.” My throat was so tense, the words came out in spurts.
“You are mad,” he moaned and started drawing a picture in the sand with his toes. “You are too, aren’t you?”
“Look, from now on, try to stay where I can see you, all right?”
“Where I can see you. All right. Where I can see you. See you.”
Mem must have been tired or bored because he didn’t put up a fuss about leaving. We didn’t talk during the walk back, and then I marched straight into the shower. I must’ve taken a pound of the beach home with me, plus I was hot, so the water felt good. When my blood pressure finally returned to normal, I got out and went to my room for some peace. But instead of finding privacy, I found Mem on my bed playing with the ferrets.
I coughed loudly to make him notice me. He glanced up. Whatever he saw on my face made him jump to his feet, rush Linguini back into the cage, and slip off to his own room with Jambalaya, all without a word. I think he was scared of me. He probably thought I was still angry, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t angry, I was just…I don’t know…glad I wasn’t him.
• • •
It seemed like forever until Aunt Collette got home and another eternity until she and Mem went to bed. Sometime after midnight they finally turned in, freeing me to take care of my business with Dirk.
The decals had gotten a little wet from the towels in my backpack, but not too bad. I snuck a flashlight out of the kitchen and peeked out the living room window to make sure the Dempster’s house was dark. Everything was a go, so I opened the front door, closed it gently behind me, and sneaked down the front steps in my bare feet.
Slinking along the grass, I realized I was smiling. It’s not that I loved the idea of messing with someone else’s stuff, but still, I felt like Tom Sawyer or something, doing mischief for a good cause. If only I had Mo or Reed along as my Huck Finn, this might be downright fun.
When I got to the Dempster’s mailbox, I turned on the flashlight long enough to peel off the first E and the P, changing A. DEMPSTER into A. D_M_STER. Then I took my time applying the U and the B I’d bought from Mr. Wizzly. I wanted the letters to be neat and straight, as if they had always spelled A. DUMBSTER. That way, it would take Dirk some time to get it. He’d have to look at the mailbox for an extra second and wonder if it were really any different at all. Then he’d stand there, humiliated, trying to figure out exactly which letters had changed. I only hoped I’d get to see his face when all that happened.
Perfect, I thought, stepping back to admire my handiwork. This was perfect. With those two little letters I was getting Dirk back for all the names he ever called me and all the pranks he ever framed me for. I should’ve thought of this ages ago. Before going back inside, I ripped the D off Aunt Collette’s mailbox. I’d forgotten to get new letters for DIPPY, but OPE was better than DOPE. Now nothing stood between me and a good night’s sleep.
Nothing except Mem, who appeared without warning on the porch. “Hi, Johnny,” he called in his too-loud voice, tying his bathrobe around his scrawny waist. “Whatcha do—”
“Shhhhh! Mem, what’re you doing here?”
“Watching you,” he whispered cheerfully.
I opened the front door and motioned him inside. “Look, Mem, out there, I was just…”
“Mailing a letter?”
“Yeah, right, I was mailing a letter.” Two letters, to be exact.
“Why don’t you talk to him instead? He lives right across the street.”
Talk to Dirk the Jerk? That’d be the day. But I told Mem I’d think about it for next time. “Why are you up, anyway?” I asked.
“Up, anyway? I heard Jambalaya crying, so I went to be with her. You weren’t there, so I came downstairs to look for you. Up, anyway?”
Great, now he was monitoring my every move. Didn’t he ever hear of personal space? “Hey, how’d you know it was Jambalaya crying and not Linguini?” I asked.
“Easy. Linguini never cries, only Jambalaya.”
“Yeah, but Mem…” I began, then stopped myself. I didn’t really want to get into a late-night debate with him over ferrets or anything else. I wanted to relish my mailbox master stroke, maybe gloat a little to myself, alone. So I told Mem I’d keep an ear out for the ferrets, and we both headed upstairs. I was going to sleep like a log.
Chapter 4
Early—too early—the next morning, Aunt Collette and Mem dropped me off at my house to mow the lawn. Mr. Boots’ old dog Millie was roaming around out front, and she started barking her muzzle off when we pulled into the driveway. She hates everyone except cranky old Mr. Boots, so she yowls at anyone who walks by.
As soon as I got out of the car, Millie stiffened, bared her teeth, and growled viciously. I’m used to it, but I was sure Mem would freak. Then the strangest thing happened. Mem got out of the car, and Millie started wagging herself in circles. When Mem held out his hand, she bounced straight over to him and let him pet her—let him actually touch her. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Wow, Mem, this never happens,” I remarked.
“Well, it’s not like Mem’s a stranger here,” said Aunt Collette.
“Neither am I,” I said, “but you don’t see Millie doing her happy dance on me.” No, Mem had a special touch with animals, especially the crying ferret and yapping mutt varieties.
After giving Millie a final squeeze, Mem got back in the car. Aunt Collette said she’d pick me up after her hair appointment. “In about an hour,” she said. “That enough time?”
“Yeah, sure.” Millie whined softly as the car backed out of the driveway, then she turned around and started barking at me all over again. “Go on, get,” I scolded as I climbed the porch steps. “I’ve got work to do.”
Mr. Boots took his time answering the door. Finally, he appeared at the screen, pulling on his bathrobe and reading glasses. “Yes?” he grunted through his grey-white stubble of beard.
“I came to mow the lawn.”
He couldn’t hear me over the dog’s racket. “What’s that you say?”
“I’m here to mow the lawn. The lawn.”
He opened the door long enough to let Millie in. “I’ll open the garage,” he said, and before I could say thanks, he let the door slam. That figures. Mr. Boots is about as social as a prune pit. He’s probably what kids like Dirk Dempster turn into when they grow old.
As I pushed the mower on laps across the yard, I started wondering if Dirk the Jerk had gone out to shoot hoops yet this morning. I didn’t want to miss the look on his face when he noticed his mailbox. Hopefully he was still in bed, like any normal person would be at this hour; it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
When I finished the lawn, I put the mower back in the garage and waited for Aunt Collette under our willow tree, thinking how good a glass of my mom’s black-cherry iced tea would taste about now. Sweat was swimming down my face, and my stomach was growling louder than Millie—which was too bad for me because Aunt Collette was late.
It’s