F. Wilson - Secret Histories

She waved, then stood with her jaw hanging open as she watched him go.

“Close your mouth before you start catching flies.”

She turned to him, mouth stil open. “Do you believe that? He spoke to me. He actual y stopped and spoke to me.” She closed her eyes and tilted her

head back. “I can’t believe it!”

“Am I missing something here?”

“Carson Toliver wants to get together with me!” She was talking to the air. Jack could have been miles away.

“So?”

Final y she came back to Earth—or at least into shal ow orbit—and looked at Jack as if he’d just told her he was from the Crab Nebula.

“‘So’? He’s a hunk! He’s more than a hunk, he’s the hunk! And he … he asked me out. Wel , kind of. How cool is that?”

“Too cool for words,” Jack said, letting the sarcasm drip. “Let’s ride.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. She was tugging on her ponytail. “Look at my hair! And how I’m dressed! Lame! And I’m on a bike! A bike! I must look like

a total dweeb!”

“Wel , it’s not as if you can drive yet. You’re only fourteen.”

“I’l be fifteen next month!”

“Stil …”

“If I’d been walking he’d have given me a ride.”

Jack had about al he could take. He started riding back toward 206. If Weezy wanted to come that was up to her, but he wasn’t going to stand there

and listen to any more of her burbling babble.

He didn’t know why he was feeling ticked off. Okay, maybe he did. To see Weezy go al gaga just because some guy stopped and said hel o … it

shouldn’t bother him, but it did. That wasn’t his Weezy—or rather, not the Weezy Jack knew. His Weezy wasn’t like other girls. She was different. Special.

Carson Toliver should be gaga because she’d spoken to him.

“Hey, Jack!” he heard her cal behind him. “Wait up!”

He was tempted to say, Don’tyoumean,‘justJack’? but didn’t want to let her know how that had bothered him, or that he’d even noticed. Talk about

getting dropped like a hot potato.

She’d probably wanted to let Carson know they weren’t going out or anything like that. And … wel … they weren’t. So why had it bothered him?

He didn’t know.

He slowed to let her catch up.

“What’s the hurry?” she said.

“Got an errand to run.”

“Oh. Want me to come along?”

“That’s okay.”

No traffic in sight when they came to 206 so they buzzed straight across. “Is something wrong?” she said when they reached the other side. “No, why?”

“You’re acting weird.”

Yeah, he probably was. He needed a cover.

“My brother’s been hassling me. I want to teach him a lesson and I need a special ingredient for that.”

“And that’s the errand?”

He nodded.

She said, “Anything I can do to help?”

He glanced at her. “This is gonna be pretty much a one-man show, but if I need

a hand, I’l let you know.”

She smiled. “If you need me, I’m there.”

Jack didn’t know why, but suddenly he felt a change. Like a weight had lifted

from his shoulders.

Weird.

4

Mr. Vito Canel i lived on a corner up the street from Jack and was known for having the best lawn in town. An older, retired, white-haired widower, he

wouldn’t let anyone else touch his lawn. He cut it twice a week, watered it by hand every other day, and trimmed its edges so neatly it looked like he’d

used scissors.

Although his lawn was off-limits, he would hire Jack to shovel his walks and driveway in winter.

His front yard was open but he kept his back fenced in to protect his vegetable gardens from rabbits and the Pinelands deer that wandered through

town. Except for the paths between the beds, almost every square inch of his backyard was planted with tomatoes, zucchini, asparagus, and half a dozen

varieties of peppers.

Toward the end of summer—like now—he’d set up a table in the shade and sel the excess from his garden. Jack’s mom was a regular customer for his

huge Jersey beefsteak tomatoes.

But Jack wasn’t in the market for tomatoes.

He leaned his bike against a tree and waved to where Mr. Canel i sat in the middle of his lawn pul ing crabgrass by hand.

Jack inspected the peppers on the table. He saw green, red, and yel ow bel s, and pale green frying peppers. Not what he was looking for.

“Do you have any hot peppers?” he said, walking up to the old man.

Mr. Canel i looked up from under a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“Of course,” he said in his Italian accent. “But I keep for myself. They much too hot for people around here.”

“I’d like to buy the hottest you’ve got.”

He shook his head. “You won’t be able to eat. I can eat habañeros like they candy, but my hottest—no-no-no. I use a tiny, tiny amount in soup or gravy.”

“It’s not for me. This person wil eat them.”

He gave Jack a long stare, then raised his hand. “Help me up and I show you what I got.”

Jack helped pul him to his feet, then fol owed him into the backyard.

“These are jalapeños,” he said, pointing at some dark green oblong peppers maybe two inches long. “They hot.” He moved on and pointed to a shorter

orange pepper. “Even more hot habañeros.” And then he stopped at a bushy plant with little berry-size peppers. “And here the king. The smal est of the lot,

but the most hot. A special breed of tepin I cross with habañero.”

“Tay-peen?” Jack had never heard of it. But then, what did he know about peppers? “How much apiece?”

Mr. Canel i shook his head. “I don’t sel . Too hot.”

“Please? Just a couple?”

The old man stared at him, smiling. “You up to no good, eh?”

Jack fought to keep his expression innocent. How did he know?

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. But you a good kid. I see you with the lawn mower, I watch you shovel snow. You work hard. I give you some.”

“I can pay.”

“I have dried one inside. You wait.”

While Mr. Canel i went inside, Jack wandered through the garden, marveling at the size of the tomatoes and zucchinis. The old guy definitely had a

green thumb.

When he returned a few minutes later he handed Jack a smal white envelope.

“You take.”

Jack peeked inside and saw half a dozen little red peppers.

“Hey, thanks.”

“You be careful. You wash you hands after you touch. Never rub you eyes. If you burn you mouth, take milk. Or maybe butter. Water only make worse.”

“Got it,” Jack said. “Thanks a mil ion.”

He hopped on his bike and stifled himself until he was wel down the street. Then he did the mwah-ha-ha-ha laugh the rest of the way home.

5

As Jack was biking to USED at midday, he heard someone cal his name. He looked around and saw a long-haired, bearded man waving to him from the

front porch of the Bainbridge house.

Weird Walt.

“Hey, Jack! Got a minute?”

Jack had a few. He swung the bike around and coasted into the driveway. Walt was rocking in the shade of the porch. He pointed a gloved hand at an empty rocker beside him.

“C’mon up and set a spel .”

“I gotta get to work.”

“Just a coupla minutes.”

Jack shrugged. “Okay.”

He laid his bike down on the dry lawn that badly needed watering. Walt lived here with his sister and her husband. He took care of the yard, but wasn’t

very good at it.

As Jack hopped up the steps to the porch, Walt patted the seat of the rocker again.