Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"What?"

"His mom sent him off to military school," Roy explained, "and now she doesn't want him back. She said so herself, in front of Beatrice."

Roy's mother cocked her head, as if she wasn't sure that she'd heard him correctly. "His mom doesn't want him?"

Roy saw something flash in her eyes. He wasn't certain if it was sorrow or anger-or both.

"She doesn't want him?" his mother repeated.

Roy nodded somberly.

"Oh, my," she said.

The words came out so softly that Roy was startled. He heard pain in his mother's voice, and he felt bad for telling her that part of Mullet Fingers' story.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Roy said. "I love you."

"I love you, too, honey."

She kissed his cheek and tucked in the sheets one more time. As she was shutting his door, he saw her hesitate and turn back to look at him.

"We're proud of you, Roy. You need to know that. Your father and I are both extremely proud."

"Did Dad tell you about the owls?"

"Yes, he told me. It's too bad."

"What should I do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Roy said, sinking into his pillow. "G'night, Mom."

She'd already answered the question, anyway. All he had to do was settle the argument between his heart and his brain.

Luckily the next day was Saturday, so Roy didn't have to get up early to catch the school bus.

As he sat down for breakfast, the phone rang. It was Garrett. He'd never before called Roy, but now he wanted him to go skateboarding at the outlet mall.

"I don't have a skateboard, remember?" Roy said.

"That's okay. I got an extra."

"No thanks. I can't make it today."

The true reason that Garrett had called was, of course, to find out what had happened to Dana Matherson at Trace Middle.

"Dude, somebody tied him to a flagpole!"

"Wasn't me," said Roy. On this topic he couldn't talk freely in front of his parents.

"Then who? And how?" Garrett demanded.

"No comment," said Roy, echoing Mullet Fingers.

"Aw, come on, Eberhardt!"

"See you Monday."

After breakfast his father drove him to the bicycle shop to pick up his new tire, and by noon Roy was fully mobile again. An address for "L. B. Leep" was listed in the phone book, and Roy had no difficulty locating the house. It was on West Oriole Avenue, the same street as the bus stop where he'd first spotted the running boy.

In the Leep driveway sat a dented old Suburban and a shiny new Camaro convertible. Roy leaned his bike against the mailbox post and hurried up the sidewalk. He heard voices bickering inside the house, and he hoped it was only a TV show with the volume turned up.

After three firm knocks, the door swung open and there stood Leon Leep, all six feet nine inches of him. He wore baggy red gym shorts and a sleeveless mesh jersey that exposed a pale kettle-sized belly. Leon looked as if he hadn't spent five minutes in the exercise room since retiring from pro basketball; all that remained of his NBA physique was his height.

Roy tilted back on his heels in order to see Leon's face. His expression was perturbed and preoccupied.

"Beatrice home?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, but she's kinda busy right now."

"Only take a minute," Roy said. "It's about school."

"Oh. School," said Leon, as if he'd forgotten where his daughter went five days a week. With a curious grunt, he lumbered off.

A moment later, Beatrice appeared. She looked stressed.

"Can I come in?" Roy asked.

"No," she whispered. "It's a bad time."

"Then can you come out?"

"Nuh-uh." Beatrice glanced anxiously behind her.

"You heard what happened at the hospital?"

She nodded. "Sorry I didn't get back in time to help."

"Is your brother okay?" Roy asked.

"Better than he was," said Beatrice.

"Who's there? Who is that?" demanded a chilly voice from the hallway.

"Just a friend."

"A boy?"

"Yeah, a boy," Beatrice said, rolling her eyes for Roy's benefit.

A woman not much taller than Beatrice materialized in the doorway behind her. She had a sharp nose, beady, suspicious eyes, and a wild fountain of curly auburn hair. Blue smoke curled from a cigarette poised in glittering fingertips.

It could only be Lonna, the mother of Mullet Fingers.

"Who're you?" she asked.

"My name's Roy."

"What do you want, Roy?" Lonna took a noisy drag off the cigarette.

"It's about school," Beatrice said.

"Yeah, well, it's Saturday," said Lonna.

Roy gave it a try. "I'm really sorry to bother you, Mrs. Leep. Beatrice and I are doing a science project together-"

"Not today, you're not," Lonna cut him off. "Miz Beatrice here will be busy cleanin' the house. And the kitchen. And the bathrooms. And anything else I can think of."

Roy believed Lonna was skating on thin ice. Beatrice was obviously the stronger of the two, and she was seething mad. Lonna might have softened her tone had she seen what her stepdaughter's teeth had done to Roy's bicycle tire.

"Maybe tomorrow," Beatrice said to Roy, her jaw set grimly.

"Sure. Whatever." He backed down the steps.

"We'll see about 'tomorrow.'" Lonna's voice was snide and croaky. "Next time, call first," she grumped at Roy. "Ever heard of a telephone?"

As Roy rode away on his bike, he pondered the possibility that Mullet Fingers was better off roaming the woods than living at home with a witch for a mother. Roy wondered what made a grownup turn out so ill-tempered and obnoxious. It wouldn't have surprised him if one day Beatrice literally chewed Lonna's head off.

His next stop was Dana Matherson's house, where another shaky example of motherhood lived. Roy had a feeling that Dana's father was no prize, either, and it was he who answered the door. Roy had expected another Neanderthal hulk, but Mr. Matherson was thin and jittery and unhealthy-looking.

"Hi. My name's Roy."

"Sorry, we're not interested," Dana's father said politely, and began to shut the door.

"But I'm not selling anything," Roy said through the crack. "I'm here to see Dana."

"Uh-oh. Not again." Mr. Matherson reopened the door and lowered his voice. "Let me guess. He's hired you to do his homework for him."

"No, sir. I'm just a friend from school."

"A 'friend'?"

Dana didn't have many friends, Roy knew, and the few he had were all much larger and meaner-looking than Roy.

"I ride the bus with him," Roy said, and decided to recycle Beatrice's line one more time: "We're doing a science project together."

Mr. Matherson's brow furrowed. "Is this some kind of joke? Who are you, really?"

"I told you."

Dana's father took out his wallet. "All right, young man, no more kidding around. How much do I owe you?"

"For what?"

"For my son's homework." Mr. Matherson held up a five-dollar bill. "The usual?"

He looked defeated and ashamed. Roy felt sorry for him. Clearly it was an ordeal, raising a goon like Dana.

"You don't owe me a dime," Roy said. "Is he home?"

Mr. Matherson asked Roy to wait at the door. Moments later, Dana appeared, wearing droopy boxer shorts and a grimy pair of sweat socks.

"You!" he snarled.

"Yup," said Roy. "It's me."

"What are you starin' at, cowgirl?"

Not much, Roy thought. He noticed that Dana's lisp had disappeared, along with the swelling in his upper lip.

"You must be nuts to ride all the way over here," Dana said, "just so you can get stomped to a pulp."

"Come on outside. I haven't got all day."

"What did you say?"

Dana stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him, presumably so that his father wouldn't be a witness to the bloodshed. He wound up and swung fiercely at Roy's head, but Roy saw it coming. He ducked, and Dana's fist connected solidly with a fiberglass bird feeder.