“I’m off at two,” Jimmy says. “You gonna bring Scout to see the flies?”
Jimmy really likes flies. He knows a lot of unusual facts about them too. Flies puke when they land. Flies taste with their feet. Apparently they puke, then they lick the vomit up with their toes.
“Sure,” I say. “But Scout’s gonna want to play ball.”
In the last few weeks, Jimmy has become my best friend on Alcatraz, despite the fact that he stinks at baseball. If a baseball flew into Jimmy’s glove he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He’d probably use it to brush his teeth. Maybe he’d plant it in the ground to grow a big old baseball tree. The kid has no idea.
Jimmy’s nose lifts in the air-ah, ah, ah choo. He sprays me with snot and knocks his glasses off.
I wipe off my arm. “Thanks a lot, Jimmy,” I say.
Ah, ah, ah choo. He sneezes again, but this time he turns his head away and gives the ants a bath instead of me. “You want me to play?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “I always want you to play.”
Jim cocks his head as if he doesn’t quite believe this. “But Scout plays all the time. He’s good, right?”
“He’s not great or anything.”
Jimmy grins. “Oh, okay. Me neither.”
I don’t know what to say to this. Even in our secret place it seems better not to tell Jimmy that Scout’s “not great” is so much better than his “not great” that it isn’t fair to compare.
“C’mon, let’s go. I want to find Annie and get my arm warmed up before Scout gets here,” I say.
Crawling back, Jimmy picks his way slowly and carefully, stopping every time he has a question. “Think Scout’ll like my fly project?”
Jimmy’s latest project is to teach flies tricks. He wants to hold a circus and charge admission.
“Course,” I say.
Jimmy starts moving forward, then he stops again. “Think Scout will like me?”
“Sure. I told him all about you.”
Jimmy considers this. “Good, because I’ve got a new idea. I’m thinking the problem is quantity. I don’t have enough flies.”
I sit back on my haunches and wait while Jimmy launches into a technical explanation of his breeding plans. There is no stopping Jimmy Mattaman when he gets talking about his flies.
When he finally gets to the door, I scamper after him, covering the same ground in one-third the time. “You’re fast,” he observes.
“You’re slow,” I tell him as we press our ears against the frame to listen for unusual sounds, but it’s all quiet. We crack open the door a few inches; still nothing. We push it the rest of the way and Jimmy-because he’s smaller-pokes his head out.
“All clear,” he whispers, and we jump down.
Just as Jimmy finishes replacing the screws in the hinge, we hear footsteps on the old cement stairwell. “Uh-oh,” I whisper as I spot shiny black guard shoes coming down.
“Thought you was working this morning, Jimmy?” Darby bellows through his ever present bullhorn.
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy says.
Darby peers over the railing, but he can’t see me because I’m getting the baseball gear I stashed in one of the storage rooms. “What you doing down there?” he asks Jimmy.
“Nothing, sir,” Jimmy answers.
“Nothing, huh? Do I look like I was born yesterday, Jimmy?” Darby asks.
“No sir,” Jimmy replies, skedaddling up the stairs. Jimmy doesn’t say anything about me. He knows it’s better if Darby doesn’t see me. Darby hates me on account of I’m Natalie’s brother. Natalie really bugs him.
I stand quietly, waiting for them to leave. When they’re gone, I climb up to apartment 3 H, Annie Bomini’s place. Annie’s the only kid on the whole island who’s any good at baseball. What a shame she’s a girl.
I peer through the screen door, focusing on the wooden table in the Bominis’ living room. It was made by the cons in the furniture shop that Annie’s father runs. The Bominis have a lot of wood stuff plus needlepoint everywhere. Needlepoint pillows, tablecloths, tissue holders, seat covers. Mrs. Bomini has a needlepoint toilet cover for every day of the week. I don’t know why you need a Monday toilet seat cover on Mondays. Is it that important to know what day it is when you do your business?
“Annie, c’mon,” I call, hoping Mrs. Bomini isn’t around. Mrs. Bomini is a one-woman talking machine. Once she gets you cornered you pretty much have to have a heart attack and be carried away on a stretcher before she’ll stop.
Annie’s skin is pale, and her hair is so blond it’s almost white. She looks twelve but kind of old too, like forty-two. She’s squarish from head to foot, like God used a T-square to assemble her.
Annie props open the screen door with her foot. “Moose.” She gulps, her big flat face looking pinched today. “You won’t believe what happened.”
Uh-oh, what if she doesn’t want to play? That’s the trouble with girls. They have to actually feel like playing.
“What happened?” I ask.
“We got the wrong laundry. We got yours,” she whispers.
Laundry… that is the one word I don’t feel like hearing right now. Ever since I got that note from Al Capone, I’ve been very careful to be the first person to get my laundry in case he decides to send another note. My mom has even noticed. “Why, you’re taking care of your own laundry now, Moose, isn’t that nice,” my mom said.
“So? Just give it back.” I try to keep my voice from sounding as panicky as I feel.
“I didn’t realize it was your laundry. I started putting it away and… Moose, there was a note in the pocket of your shirt.”
“A-a note?” My voice breaks high like a girl’s.
My hands shake as she gives me a scrap of paper folded twice. My mind floods with things I don’t want to think about. Al Capone, the warden’s office, Natalie being thrown out of school.
The note is written on the same paper in the same handwriting as the other one. Your turn, it says.
My face feels hot and sweaty, then cold and clammy. I check the back and then the front again for any other words and stuff the note in my pocket.
Annie’s blue eyes bulge. “Your turn? What’s it your turn for, Moose?”
“I dunno,” I mutter, my mind scrambling to make sense of this.
Her eyes won’t let go of me. She seems to sense there’s more to the note than I’m saying. “Who is it from?” she asks, her face pained like she just swallowed a jawbreaker.
I hunker down away from her. “It must be a mistake,” I say, but my voice feels distant, like the words are coming out of a cave in my chest.
“A mistake?” she asks. “That’s what Darby Trixle said when the laundry cons sewed his fly shut.”
“That wasn’t a mistake, but this is,” I say louder than I mean to. “Just like you getting our laundry was a mistake.” I’m proud of myself for making this connection. It sounds so reasonable.
Annie bites her lip. She’s watching me.
“Did you tell anyone?” I ask her.
“Haven’t had time to tell anyone. It just happened.”
I breathe out a big burst of relief. “Are you going to tell anyone?”
“Depends.” She squints at me. “Are you gonna level with me?”
“Look, I don’t know that much about this,” I say, but my words sound flimsy, like they need a paperweight to keep from floating away.
Annie is looking at me intently. “I thought we were best friends.”
I stare back at her relentless blue eyes. “We are best friends.”
Annie is tough. She won’t let up.
I bite my lip. “You better swear swear, double swear, hope to die if you lie.”
“C’mon, Moose. You know I keep my word. I always do.” She’s right. She always does. But this is something else again. It’s not like keeping quiet about when we saw Associate Warden Chudley relieve himself in Bea Trixle’s pickle barrel. This could get me kicked off the island. But if I don’t explain what’s happening, she’ll tell for sure. I don’t have much choice here.