Waylon! One Awesome Thing Page 5

  “For my Community Safety idea,” Waylon prompted, loud enough to be sure that Arlo, at the end of the line, heard. “Z-A-K—”

  “Zakowski. I think I can figure it out.”

  “Well, my suggestion is really going to improve safety,” Waylon went on. “You should probably call the TV station now so they can send someone over.”

  The dispatcher looked bored again. “Next,” she said.

  Next was Baxter. He held out his hand. “Want to fingerprint me?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Boylen,” the dispatcher told him. “We already have yours on file, now, don’t we?”

  All the 4B kids gasped at that, and when Mrs. Fernman herded them into a meeting room for the presentations, their jaws were still hanging open.

  The chief made a speech about Community This and Safety That—Waylon was too excited to catch the details. His moment was almost here. Arlo would see how smart he was and invite him back to his team.

  Then everyone lined up at the podium. Most of the suggestions were pretty disappointing. Kids mumbled promises to follow bike rules, holding up posters of accidents. A lot of red paint had been used. After each, a bald-headed officer ushered them off the podium with a fake cheerful comment about how much safer Boston’s streets were going to be.

  Even the suggestions that weren’t about bike safety were pretty lame. Marco’s was about doubling up on potholders when taking really hot things out of the oven, and Willy’s was about staying close to your sister on outings. Kayley-Anne stuck to her idea about TEACHER ON BOARD signs, and nobody, not even Mrs. Fernman, could muster more than a single clap. As she left the podium she added, “And I meant to say also, Police Officer On Board signs, too. Because police officers are the second-most important people in our community!” But even that didn’t get a hand.

  At each dull suggestion, Waylon got more and more excited—his contribution was going to blow everyone else’s away. At last it was his turn.

  He held his poster high, turning it so everyone could see: a smiling woman rolling a baby carriage. A piano hovered above her. The rays shooting out of the woman’s hat left no doubt about how powerful they were.

  “Things above us are especially dangerous,” Waylon began. “My suggestion is a gravity-counteracting hat that—”

  “Heh-heh, thanks for that, young man,” the fake-cheerful officer interrupted. “Science fiction certainly is fun.”

  “It’s not science fiction,” Waylon said. “It could be done with magnets if the falling objects were magnetically charged. Or with jet propulsion, if you factored recoil into the hat. Or—”

  “Young man, do you have a real suggestion?”

  Waylon felt his cheeks burning. It was only the veins in his face dilating, he knew from The Science of Being Human, Chapter Four, “It Happens to Everyone.” Blushing was one of the few design flaws in the human body—when you were embarrassed, wouldn’t it be better for your cells to become transparent, so you could disappear?

  Waylon pulled out his journal. But before he could jot down this excellent idea, the bald officer called, “Next, please!” not even bothering to act cheerful.

  Waylon’s cheeks flared hotter. As he stepped away, he suddenly saw himself from the outside again. Is that a boy, the mean kids in his imagination asked with nasty smirks, or a roasted tomato?

  At least the real kids, the ones from his class, didn’t smirk. But some looked as if they might have if they weren’t in a police station.

  Not Baxter. Baxter shot him a thumbs-up as he stepped up.

  “There’s a stop sign near my house,” he began. “I tracked which cars came to a full stop and which didn’t. I thought maybe sports cars would ignore the sign more often than minivans. But it didn’t matter. All kinds were the same. Except for one.”

  “Yes, young fella?” the bald officer asked with a fake chuckle. “There’s a certain kind of vehicle we should keep an eye on?”

  Baxter nodded. “Police cruisers. Not a single one of them came to a full stop. In three hours I saw nine cruisers only slow down and roll through. Our community would be a lot safer if our cops obeyed the stop signs. And so would our cops!”

  “Thanks so much,” the officer said, his head shining with sweat. “We’ll have to wrap up now.”

  But Baxter wasn’t through. “That’s a zero percent cooperation rate,” he said, and anyone who didn’t know him would have sworn he was trying to be helpful. “Or you could call it a one hundred percent failure-to-stop rate. Either one.”

  As Baxter was dragged away from the podium, Waylon returned his thumbs-up. When the new kid talked, Waylon realized, he didn’t seem that scary. In fact, he seemed kind of normal. And he had to admit, Baxter’s suggestion would actually improve community safety.

  Apparently, the police didn’t see it that way. They gave Arlo Brody the prize, which was only a certificate. Probably his hair looked like a peaked police hat to the judges, Waylon thought.

  As the class filed out, a tall policeman crooked his finger and called Baxter aside. The whispering started immediately.

  “I bet he stole something while nobody was watching.”

  “They have his fingerprints on file!”

  “He’s probably been in jail there already.”

  “I heard one of them ask about his father. Maybe his father’s in jail!”

  That would explain a lot, everyone agreed.

  Waylon drifted away and took the same seat at the back of the bus.

  In physics, an “isolated system” was one so far removed from others that it wasn’t affected by any external forces. That was him, Waylon realized—an isolated system. Destined to be alone. Doomed unfairly, like Louise Pembleton from Lonelyville, to a friendless life. Just as he was almost starting to enjoy the dramatic misery of this thought, an external force affected him.

  “Waylon Jennings?” Baxter asked as he dropped to the seat. “Like the outlaw?”

  For a minute, Waylon thought about changing his seat. Then he realized that it didn’t matter. His situation was hopeless now—the episode in the police station had doomed his chances to be a Shark-Puncher for sure.

  “Waylon Jennings wasn’t an outlaw,” he said. “He was a country music star. See, my father named my sister after a hero of his. When I was born, it was my mother’s turn,” he recited. “Copernicus was her first choice, but my father said no to torturing any kid of his with a name like Copernicus Zakowski. He said the same thing about Galileo and Eratosthenes. Finally my mother threw up her hands and said, ‘Fine, how about Waylon Jennings?’ She listens to his music when she’s working.”

  “So your mother is an outlaw?” Baxter asked.

  “No! She’s a medical robotics scientist!”

  “Then it’s your father who’s the outlaw?” Baxter asked hopefully.

  “No. Nobody in my family is an outlaw.”

  “Too bad,” Baxter said, shaking his head. “It sure sounds like an outlaw’s name.”

  In front of them, the pinecone-stuffing started up again. If he were an outlaw, Waylon thought, the very first thing he’d steal would be those stupid muddy pinecones.

  The instant his eyes opened Thursday morning, Waylon sensed something was wrong.

  His journal!

  It wasn’t on the bedside table.

  Panic seized him. Panic, according to The Science of Being Human, Chapter Four, “It Happens to Everyone,” was only a chemical reaction. The neurotransmitter adrenaline was preparing his body for Fight or Flight. Waylon understood the Flight response—he’d fly across the world if it would recover his journal. But Fighting always seemed dumb.

  He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and searched the pockets. It wasn’t there.

  He raced into the kitchen and checked his jacket and backpack. No journal.

  He grabbed a muffin and ran out the door. It wasn’t in the lobby and it wasn’t on the bus and it wasn’t in his locker and it wasn’t in his desk.

  All the way through Geogr
aphy, Waylon kept patting his pocket. Its emptiness was a fresh loss every time. He gave Willy a silent nod of brotherhood. Phantom Anything Syndrome was no fun.

  When recess came, Waylon tore around the playground, asking everybody if they’d seen it.

  “No,” everybody said. “Sorry.”

  At lunch, everything the cafeteria ladies slapped on his plate made him feel worse. The chicken patty had the same fake-leather look as his journal. The potato puffs were the same gray color. The string beans were grayish, too, and they all seemed to be pointing at him like fingers, blaming him for being careless.

  He felt a tray poke his ribs from behind. “What’s the big deal with this journal, anyway?” Clementine asked.

  Waylon set his tray on a table and slumped onto the bench. “It was for recording my scientific life’s work in. I was going to send it to Neil deGrasse Tyson when it was full. But now it’s gone.”

  Clementine straddled the bench across from him. “You should write your important stuff on your arm, like I do. I never lose my arm.” She rolled up her sleeve.

  Get fake intestines for Halloween costume. Or real.

  “I’m going to have too many discoveries for that,” Waylon said. “I wouldn’t have enough skin. Besides, they need to be more private.”

  “A journal’s not private.”

  “Mine is.” From under his shirt, he pulled out the key on its string.

  Clementine looked impressed. “You have discoveries that need to be locked up? Like what?”

  “Well, like controlling gravity, for one thing.”

  “You got something?” a new voice broke in. “On gravity?”

  Waylon spun around. Baxter set his tray down beside him.

  “Well, um…no. Not yet.”

  “He’s going to,” Clementine said.

  Waylon kicked her under the table, but she didn’t take the hint. “Waylon’s the scienciest kid in the whole school,” she went on. “Let me tell you, if anyone is going to be able to control gravity, it’s him.”

  Baxter popped open his milk. “Would you be able to, say, jump over prison walls?”

  Waylon exchanged a nervous look with Clementine at that. “Well…sure. You could jump over all kinds of high things.”

  Baxter nodded. “Think you’re going to be able to do it soon? Like by Saturday?”

  “Probably not,” Waylon admitted. And then, although he had no intention of prolonging any discussion with Disaster Boiling, his mouth opened and said, “But if it’s high jumping you need, controlling gravity’s not the only way.”

  Baxter cocked his head, a carrot stick in mid-air. “You got something else?”

  “I don’t. Fleas do.”

  “Fleas?”

  Waylon nodded. “A flea can jump one hundred and thirty times its own height. It’s so amazing. If you were five feet tall, that would mean you could jump six hundred and fifty feet straight up and barely notice it. So the trick is to figure out flea mechanics and apply them to human legs.”

  “Huh. Science,” Baxter mused. “Go figure.”

  “He’s got lots of stuff like that,” Clementine said. “His journal’s full of it. But he lost it.”

  “That gray one? The one with nothing in it?” Baxter asked. “It’s not lost.” He picked up his grilled cheese and took a bite.

  Waylon gaped at him. “You know where my journal is?”

  Baxter took another bite. “Yep. You left it on the podium at the police station.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  Baxter shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  Waylon looked down at his tray. And then away, because the string beans were pointing at him again, accusing him of something else. He’d asked every single boy on Arlo’s team, every single boy on the Other team, and all the girls. The only person he hadn’t asked was Baxter Boylen. He hoped Baxter didn’t know this.

  “You asked everyone else,” Baxter said. “How come you didn’t ask me?”

  Waylon didn’t answer. His silence sounded guilty.

  Baxter got up and stuffed his chicken patty into his pocket. “I’ll get it for you. I’m going there after school anyway, to visit my dad,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

  “Wow,” Clementine said. “That was lucky.”

  Waylon’s head sank to his hands. “It would be lucky if it weren’t Baxter,” he groaned. He flashed his journal key again. “Remember his Teach-a-Skill presentation last year? Picking locks!”

  “So go with him if you’re worried.”

  “Are you kidding? You heard him. He’s going there to visit his father. Sounds like he’s trying to bust him out of jail.”

  Clementine shrugged as if busting a criminal out of jail was no big deal. For Waylon, though, it was. He tugged on his hair, but no solution came. He scraped his tray and then went to the office to call home for permission to walk.

  “See you this afternoon,” Mr. Zakowski said.

  I sure hope so, thought Waylon as he hung up.

  If Baxter was surprised to find Waylon following him after school, he didn’t show it. After a few blocks, though, Baxter suddenly jumped up and slapped the sign by the Lucky Horseshoe Tavern. “Dutch Henry Borne was the biggest horse thief in the West,” he said over his shoulder. “He once sold a sheriff his own horse.”

  Waylon jumped to slap the sign too. “Horses can’t burp. A horse’s digestive system is one-way only.”

  On the next block was a wall covered in graffiti. Baxter went over and traced one of the words. “Jesse James never swore,” he said. “When he was mad, he made up his own words. Dingus was his favorite.”

  Waylon pulled up beside Baxter, and without really meaning to, traced over one of the swears also. “People with Tourette’s syndrome can’t help swearing,” he offered.

  Rosie’s Bakery was on the next block. Waylon’s mouth watered as they passed it. Seven weeks, no cupcake. Maybe this weekend.

  Next to Rosie’s was a bank. Baxter pressed his face to a window. “Pretty Boy Floyd once robbed the same bank twice.”

  Waylon looked in the window too. He tried, but he couldn’t come up with a scientific fact about banks. “I give up,” he said. “How come you know so much criminal stuff? Is it because your dad’s in jail?”

  Baxter’s eyebrows nearly shot out of his forehead. “My dad’s not in jail! He’s a cop! And I know all that stuff because I helped him study criminal behavior.”

  “Oh.” Waylon was quiet for a whole block as he sorted out this new information. “Everyone thinks you’re a criminal. The way you act. Not talking. The scar, the beard.”

  “I know. I want them to.”

  “How come?”

  Baxter shrugged. “It keeps people away. I have something really important to do. I can’t be bothered with all that stupid team stuff right now.”

  “Huh.” Waylon thought about his sister and smiled. “Batesian mimicry.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. But wait—why did you ask about jumping over prison walls if you don’t know anyone in jail?”

  “Oh, I do. Dumpster Eddy. I’m going to visit him today too. Here we are.”

  Baxter was right. The police station loomed up beside them, looking ominous now, like something from a horror film. “Dumpster Eddy?” Waylon gulped. “You’re visiting a guy in jail named Dumpster Eddy?”

  “Well, that’s what I call him. He was nabbed in a Dumpster.” Baxter smiled as if he admired the guy. “Bones all around.”

  Waylon shuddered. “What if your father finds out?”

  “Oh, he knows. He’s the one who put him behind bars.”

  “Wait. Your father is a policeman, and he lets you visit a criminal he arrested?”

  “Dumpster Eddy’s not a criminal. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Well, then, what’s he in jail for?”

  Baxter threw his hands up and shook his head sadly. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it gets worse. He’s on Death Row.”


  “You’re visiting a guy who’s going to be executed?” Waylon gasped.

  Baxter nodded. “His time’s up on Saturday. Except”—Baxter ducked his head and lowered his voice—“this part my father doesn’t know. I’m going to bust him out. You can help me.”

  “Oh, no. Nope. Nope.” Waylon waved his hands and backed away. “I can’t help bust a criminal out of jail!”

  “I told you, he’s not a criminal. He’s a runner, is what he is. Long-distance, sprints—you name it, he was born to do it. It’s his destiny. It just kills me to see him locked in a cell where he can’t run.”

  For an instant, Waylon felt a flash of sympathy—sometimes at the end of a long day stuck behind his desk at school, his legs wanted to jump right off his body—but it was just a flash.

  “Please,” Baxter asked. “Just come scope out the place, then tell me some science to get him out. That’s all, I swear.”

  Waylon looked up at the station’s big front doors. He felt too divisible again, right down the middle. On the one hand, he really didn’t want to meet anyone called Dumpster Eddy. On the other hand, he really wanted his journal back.

  He patted his empty pocket. And then followed Baxter up the steps.

  Inside the lobby, Baxter asked for Officer Boylen. Right away, a tall man with Baxter’s same curly hair came out from the back, grinning. His uniform was new and his badge was gleaming. “Hey, Bax!” the tall policeman said. “Who have you got with you?”

  “Waylon. Jennings, like the outlaw. He left a notebook in the meeting room yesterday.”

  Officer Boylen left and was back in a minute with the journal. When Waylon curled his fingers around it, the lock still securely intact, his whole body relaxed. He tucked it deep into his pocket.

  “Can we visit Dumpster Eddy?” Baxter asked.

  Officer Boylen walked over to a steel door with a big padlock. He took a key from his chain and clicked the lock open. Waylon froze, but Baxter sauntered right in.

  And the inmates went berserk, leaping into the air, pressing their faces through the bars…and barking.