Just Call Me Stupid Read online

Paulette nodded. “That’s exactly what I told him. ‘But, sir,’ I said, ‘without a tortilla, a burrito wouldn’t be much more than a pile of beans.’” She shrugged. “That was what he wanted, though. Billy said we should add it to the menu and call it Lupita’s Pile of Beans. Lupita said the beans should go on top of Billy’s head. Carlos heaped the guy’s plate up three inches high and said, ‘I hope he works outside.’”

  Paulette laughed, and Patrick noticed that when she did, the tiredness left her face. She looked pretty.

  “Oops,” Paulette said, checking her watch again, “I have to get on back. But at least I work with nice people, and you never know who’s going to come in and liven up the day.”

  Patrick nodded. “Yeah.”

  Paulette grabbed her purse and car keys off the counter. “I’ve got nursing class again tonight at the community college. I’ll be home around ten.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Bedtime is at nine. Call if you need anything. You know the number.” Halfway out the back door she turned. “I love you. Dinner is in the fridge.”

  “I love you, too,” Patrick said, but the back door was already closed.

  Chapter 3

  The Kingdom

  Patrick listened as Paulette started the car and drove down the alley toward Nathan Avenue. When the sound of the old Plymouth had faded away, he got up and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator.

  Cold air rushed out at him when he opened the door. Ahhh! He closed his eyes and just stood there for a moment. The air felt so good on his face, so soothing. He imagined it on Mrs. Nagle’s face, soothing her, too. She would probably be easier to get along with when the air conditioner at school got fixed.

  Patrick opened his eyes and surveyed the inside of the fridge: a bowl of leftover spaghetti covered with plastic wrap, jars of this and that, vegetables in plastic bags, cream cheese, pickles, a carton of eggs. Nothing very exciting.

  Then he saw the leftover orange juice. Once a week Paulette splurged and bought a bottle of it fresh-squeezed at the fruit stand over on Fourth Street. Usually the two of them drank every drop for breakfast, but this time there was a little left. Patrick grabbed it, then shut the refrigerator door and took a sip straight from the bottle. The smell of oranges filled his nostrils. The chilled tartness of the juice rolled over his tongue. He thought about how great it would be to chug a whole quart without stopping. Fantastic.

  But there was only this little bit left, so he drank slowly, small sips with time to savor in between, and looked at the photo Paulette kept on the refrigerator door with magnets—her and Dad before the divorce.

  Charlie and Paulette Lowe, dancing, clowning around for the camera. They looked so happy together, Paulette smiling, pretty. It was a good photo. They looked as though they would love each other forever. Patrick smiled, even though he’d seen the photo a thousand times.

  But then his smile faded. Why couldn’t Paulette keep the picture in her room where he wouldn’t have to look at it every time he needed something to eat or drink? Why should he have to remember? It had been two years since Dad had left for Montana or somewhere up north. He’d said he was never coming back, and he hadn’t. He never wrote or called either. There was no chance for them to be a whole family again, as if they ever really had been. They were better off without Charlie Lowe. Why look at an old picture and wish things had been different? Why look at an old picture and dream?

  Patrick turned away from the photo. He held the orange juice bottle up high, and looked inside as the last drops slid toward his mouth. Chug a whole quart without stopping, he thought. Yeah, that would be nice … someday. He put the bottle on the counter and walked out the back door.

  Patrick’s backyard was a small rectangle of packed dirt and dry weeds bordered by a chest-high concrete block wall. A clothesline ran the length of it on one side. The other was crowded by a one-car garage that could be entered from the alley. It was a dry, sunbaked place that made you want to squint … until you caught sight of the oleander bushes. A ten-foot-high hedge of them grew on the far side of the garage, between it and the block wall. The leaves of the oleander were dark green, and despite the hot, dry weather, the branches were still full of large white blossoms. The bushes looked like they belonged in a jungle somewhere, not in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. For Patrick, just looking at them made the harsh midafternoon heat seem less intense.

  Patrick jumped from his back stoop and walked toward the oleander hedge. Once there he stopped, then checked over the wall on both sides of his yard to see if anyone was watching. Mr. Osman lived on the far side, but as usual seemed to be gone. The house on this near side had been vacant for a long time, ever since that old lady—Patrick couldn’t remember her name—died. Nothing there but the big saguaro cactus, a prickly twenty-foot column of green, its one small limb near the top poking out like a fat nose. There was no sound other than a mourning dove cooing from its perch on a power line, songbirds in Mr. Osman’s grapefruit tree, a distant truck on Verde Road. The coast was clear.

  Satisfied, Patrick let his mind drift. He was the White Knight again, returning from battle, riding triumphantly across the sunlit meadow toward the castle gate. “The Kingdom,” he whispered, parting some of the branches and ducking out of sight.

  Between the bushes and the garage, Patrick had propped up an old piece of plywood at an angle, resting the high side on the sill of the garage window, the lower side on three stacks of concrete blocks he had found in the alley one day. He knelt and crawled under this roof.

  The ground beneath was swept clear of twigs and leaves. Patrick moved over to an orange crate he’d laid on its side to serve as shelves. Miniature knights on horseback, drawn on cardboard and cut out to stand up, lined the bottom. Above them was a partially built model castle, also made of cardboard.

  Patrick picked up one of the knights and inspected it carefully. He fished a pencil out of a coffee can kept behind the castle and added some shading along one side of the knight’s shield. Carefully, he put the knight inside the castle walls, got another knight from its spot on the lower shelf, and placed it facing the first knight. Sitting back, he eyed the two, then made a slight adjustment in the first knight’s position. Just right. He smiled.

  Next, Patrick turned to a short table he’d made by placing boards on top of two concrete blocks. It stood in the middle of The Kingdom, and on it was a chess set, the white and black pieces already engaged in battle.

  Sitting down cross-legged by the board, Patrick leaned close and examined the game. “So,” he said to one of the black knights, “ready to fight, huh?”

  He studied the board for a moment longer, considering. Think before you move, he told himself. Imagine the possibilities as far ahead as you can. It was what his father had taught him to do. For some reason there had been no pressure to always get everything right with chess. “There are a million possibilities,” Charlie Lowe had said many times, smiling as he’d studied the board. “Chess is a huge puzzle!” They had played often, back before the really heavy drinking began. Patrick eliminated one move in his mind, thought some more about the possibilities, then made a decision.

  “All right, you!” he sneered at the black knight. He moved his queen’s white knight into a position that threatened the black one. It was a good move. “It’s war!” In his mind he led his troops out of his castle toward the enemy, lance held high, the sun glinting off his armor and dragon-crest shield. Trumpets blared. Swords clanked as they were drawn from their scabbards. Horses whinnied. The battle cry sounded. Warrior voices rose to a roar. Patrick was there. He was the White Knight, and he was there.

  “Hey, a saguaro!”

  Patrick jumped, knocking over the chessboard and spilling all the pieces. A dog barked. The shout came again.

  “A saguaro! My saguaro!”

  Patrick gritted his teeth as he looked at the wrecked chessboard. Just what was some loudmouth doing trespassing on the vacant-house lot? And who? He crawled angrily over the spilled g
ame and out of the oleander bushes.

  Patrick stomped over to the concrete block wall and glared over the top, just as a tall, thin brown-skinned girl threw back her head, sending her long, shiny black hair flying, and shouted again. “My saguaro!” She grabbed the front paws of a little dog, and danced with it around the big saguaro cactus, her dark eyes sparkling with delight. “¡Esta casa es mia también!”

  Patrick stood dumbfounded. He had picked up enough Spanish from the kids at school who spoke it to know what the girl was saying. Her house, too? What did she mean her house?

  “We’re finally back in Arizona!” the girl continued, now in English again, singing out her joy. She reached down and gave the little dog a hug. “And we’ve got a new family member, too! You, Pellinore! You!”

  Patrick’s frown grew even deeper. Pellinore? What kind of an idiot would name their dog Pellinore?

  Chapter 4

  Hey, Stupid!

  The next morning at school, before the bell rang, Patrick turned the corner by the boys’ bathroom and almost walked into Andy Wilkinson. Patrick started to sidestep around. But Andy sidestepped, too. “Hey, Patrick, read any good books lately?” he asked, his question lined with sharp teeth.

  Patrick decided not to answer. It was what Paulette had advised him to do. She said that people like Andy said hurtful things to make themselves feel better; it was their problem, not his. He shouldn’t pay any attention. So now he didn’t. He tried to walk on past again.

  But Andy wasn’t in the mood to give up easily. There were two fifth-grade girls from another class standing nearby, watching—Jenny Armstrong and Tracy Webber. Everyone knew Andy liked Jenny. He was always showing off in front of her, trying to impress her with how smart or athletic he was. Andy smiled at Jenny now, then stepped in front of Patrick once more, blocking his way. “Didn’t you hear what I asked you?” he said. “Or did you forget how to listen like you forgot how to play soccer?”

  Tracy giggled, but Patrick noticed that Jenny didn’t. Maybe she thought Andy was the stupid one, not him. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  Andy saw the smile and turned red with anger. He grabbed Patrick’s shirt and got right up in his face. “What are you smiling at, Stupid? Stupid! HEY, STUPID!”

  The words hit Patrick like a fist. His mind filled with the memory of being shoved in the closet, the door slamming shut in his face. The school walls seemed to close in around him. He felt a suffocating weight on his chest. Panic shot up his spine.

  Andy tightened his grip and pushed Patrick back, pinning him against the wall. “Anybody who can’t read in fifth grade has got to be stupid.”

  Patrick gasped for air, trying to fight his way free. But he couldn’t. The walls closed farther in. The closet door rushed at him, only to be stopped at the last second by an angry voice.

  “Hey, leave him alone!”

  Patrick, Andy, Tracy, and Jenny all looked down the hall. “Who’s that?” Jenny whispered.

  It took Patrick a moment to realize who was coming toward them. Her look was very different from the day before. Her mouth was set in a thin line rather than a playful smile, and there was fire in her dark eyes. But there was no doubt. It was his noisy new neighbor.

  “Let go, you hear!” she said, aiming her demand straight at Andy.

  Andy stared at this strange intruder, half questions dribbling out of his mouth. “Huh? … What? …” His grip on Patrick’s shirt loosened slightly. It was all Patrick needed. He broke Andy’s hold and shoved him away as hard as he could. Andy stumbled and fell to the floor.

  “Whoa!” said Jenny, backing up. Tracy let out a nervous laugh. Patrick’s new neighbor stopped short, looking back and forth between the two boys.

  The look in Andy’s eyes went from surprised to embarrassed to furious in less than a second. He sprang to his feet and attacked Patrick.

  Patrick met Andy halfway. He didn’t need a girl to defend him, especially not that loudmouthed one. The two boys grabbed wildly at each other, locked arms, and crashed to the floor, rolling into Jenny and Tracy. Both girls screamed and tried to jump out of the way. Patrick’s new neighbor yelled, “Stop it, you guys!”

  They didn’t. Andy swung at Patrick’s face, hitting him on the ear. Patrick’s head rang. He swung at Andy, then again and again, finally connecting to his shoulder. Andy clawed at Patrick’s back.

  The next thing Patrick knew, he was being pulled apart from Andy and up off the floor. Mrs. Romero’s voice was sharp and clear in his ears.

  “Stop this fighting right now!”

  Patrick and Andy stood back from each other, gasping for breath. Mrs. Romero stepped between them. Usually, she was all smiles, her dark eyes sparkling, her words soft and full of encouragement. Not today.

  “I will not tolerate violence as a way of settling disputes. Andy, this kind of behavior has got to stop. And Patrick, I’m surprised at you!”

  Patrick looked away. Mrs. Romero was the nicest teacher he had ever had. She had a gentle way of making him feel OK. He didn’t want her to be angry at him. He wanted her to know that Andy had started all of this. She would listen. Mrs. Romero always had time to listen.

  But just then the bell rang. Everyone looked up as the doors flew open at the end of the hall, and kids began streaming in from the playground, talking, laughing, filling the corridor with echoing sounds.

  Mrs. Romero took in a deep breath and calmed herself. When she turned back to the boys, her voice was firm, but even. “Get to class, you two. We’ll discuss this during morning recess.”

  Tracy said, “But I thought it was a school rule that anyone caught fighting has to go to the principal’s office and be sent home.”

  Jenny Armstrong scowled. “Shhhh, Tracy!”

  Andy glared at Tracy as if he were ready to take a swing at her. Patrick looked at Mrs. Romero. It was true. That was the rule.

  Mrs. Romero looked at Tracy and said, “Sometimes there are better ways to handle things.” She turned and motioned for the boys to go on.

  Andy and Patrick both let out sighs of relief, and Andy hustled down the hall. Patrick started to follow, but stopped when he saw his new neighbor walk up to Mrs. Romero. Just who did she think she was, butting into his business? He hadn’t needed her help with Andy. What was she going to do now? What did she want with Mrs. Romero?

  “I’m Celina Ortiz,” the girl said, holding out a pink slip of paper. “Mr. Gordon gave me this note to give to you.”

  Mrs. Romero took the note and read it. “Another student,” she sighed. “I’ve already got more than—”

  “I’m glad I’m going to be in your class,” Celina beamed. “Mr. Gordon said you love books.”

  Mrs. Romero looked up from the note at Celina’s broad smile. She laughed softly. “Yes, I do love books.” Then she motioned toward her classroom door. “Bienvenidos, Celina. Glad to have you with us.”

  Patrick couldn’t believe it when Mrs. Romero squeezed another desk into the back of the class, right next to his. He ignored Mrs. Romero’s formal introduction: “Patrick, this is Celina Ortiz. Celina, this is Patrick Lowe.” He ignored the new girl’s friendly smile also, even after she tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I think we’re neighbors at home, too.”

  He already knew that. He also knew she had a loud mouth, and a stupid new dog named Pellinore, and didn’t know when to mind her own business.

  Patrick also ignored Celina later in the day when she read aloud from a thick paperback to Mrs. Romero, and Mrs. Romero said, “You read so well, with such feeling!”

  Everybody stopped and listened, except Patrick. He figured they all thought Celina was really great, especially compared to him. He was almost glad when it was time to go to the Reading Resource Room. He was almost glad to see Mrs. Nagle, and worked hard for her on a new worksheet and with the drills. Mrs. Nagle smiled as if nothing had happened the day before, as if the air conditioner had been fixed, and told him, “Nice job!”

  Back in the classroom
Celina asked Patrick, “Where’d you go?”

  But Patrick didn’t answer. None of your business! he thought. He pulled out a piece of notebook paper and busied himself drawing another picture—the White Knight charging. Keep your nose in your own backyard! This time, the sharp point of the knight’s lance was aimed straight at Celina.

  Chapter 5

  Keep Out!

  Patrick walked to Lupita’s Mexican Café that afternoon, even though the school rule was that if you weren’t going to ride the bus, you needed a note saying you were getting home a different way. Patrick didn’t have a note, but decided that he didn’t care. He didn’t feel like riding in the same vehicle with Andy, even though Mrs. Romero had made Andy apologize and Andy had even sounded as if he meant it. Celina would be on the bus, too. He’d had enough of her already. So he took off down Verde Road as soon as the bell rang at 3:10.

  The afternoon was hot, the sidewalk like a furnace pumping heat up at Patrick’s face. The busy traffic on Verde Road made it seem worse, mixing in the smell of car exhaust. Patrick’s mouth quickly became dry, his lips chapped. The sun was white bright, and he had to squint. He walked along feeling miserable, wishing he could move to Alaska, trying to imagine big piles of snow.

  But when he walked in the door of the café, Paulette beamed, and he instantly felt better. “Perfect timing!” she said. “Things are slow right now. I can take a break. Sit at that booth by the window.” She didn’t ask why he was there instead of on the bus, just quickly got him a large glass of lemonade. “It’s so hot out there!”

  “Any weird customers today?” Patrick asked between big gulps of the lemonade. It tasted so cold and good—maybe like melted snow from Alaska.

  Paulette slid in the booth across from him. She smiled. “Just you.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and took another long drink. He liked it when Paulette teased. It made him feel like teasing back. “Weird customer for a weird waitress,” he said.