Нил Шустерман - The Shadow Club

My hair is blond, and easy to see, so as I got closer, I pulled the black hood of my sweat jacket over my head.

As I approached Tyson’s house, I began to get a bit frightened, thinking about all the things I had heard in the three years that Tyson had lived in town. Some said that Tyson lived with his aunt and uncle—that’s what Tyson said—but we weren’t quite sure. Someone heard that they were actually foster parents. But whatever they were, one thing was certain: Tyson didn’t live with his real parents, and no one knew why. There were dozens of rumors about that. Some said that they had abandoned Tyson on a street corner, some said that they were dead, and some said they beat Tyson, and were in jail. Ralphy Sherman said that they were a family of ax murderers and hid out in the woods somewhere, but then, Ralphy Sherman also said that he went skydiving without a parachute on Sundays, so no one put much faith in the ax-murderer story—still, you never know.

Anyway, those were the thoughts that were toying with my mind as I got closer to Tyson’s remodeled lighthouse.

It wasn’t much of a house. It was like a small shack, built right up on the edge of the cliff, attached to the lighthouse. It was small but well kept.

Keeping myself low, I made my way to the side of the house, and peered into a window. Two people who seemed on the verge of being elderly sat on a couch watching TV. I stood there for a few minutes. Tyson was not there, and these people—who must have been Tyson’s “aunt and uncle,” or whatever—did not move from the couch at all.

They’re dead, said a voice in my brain that sounded a bit like Ralphy Sherman. They’re dead, and they’ve been stuffed!

Just then, the woman mumbled something about how many commercials were on the tube nowadays. So much for them being stuffed.

I ducked again and made my way around the side, just by the edge of the cliff. Again I looked into a window. This time I had found Tyson’s room. It was small, with just enough room for a bed and a desk, and Tyson was sitting at his desk, working on something. For some reason, I sort of expected Tyson’s room to be like that. There was a second window, overlooking the ocean, and the far wall was bare except for a single picture, smack in the middle. The framed photo was of a kid who looked an awful lot like Tyson, but younger, standing with a man and a woman—definitely not the people who now sat in the living room. This must have been Tyson with his real parents.

What I saw on the other wall seemed completely out of place. Hanging from hooks on the wall were puppets—or not puppets, but marionettes—little dolls with carved hands and feet and drawn faces, hanging by dozens of strings. I knew for a fact that those kinds of things were expensive, but Tyson had lots of them. Then I saw another one, sitting on Tyson’s desk next to a mess of wood, plastic, fabric, and knives that Tyson was fiddling with. That’s when it hit me that Tyson had made these! I looked back at the ones hanging by the wall. Each had a different face and wore different clothes. There was one with loud clothes, wild hair, and big breasts that kind of looked like Abbie. One with red hair and white shoes that kind of looked like Austin, and one with blond hair that I swear looked kind of like me. I mean, I knew it was all a coincidence, right? Still it was creepy all the same.

So, Tyson made puppets. Could that be a big enough secret, I thought? Naah. I needed something bigger. Something that would shut Tyson’s mouth up like a clam. I stood there outside, peeping into Tyson’s window, then the living room window, then the kitchen window, waiting for something. I knew spying like that was a low-down thing to do, but I had to do it for the good of the club. I tried to think of myself as 007, instead of as a Peeping Tom.

After twenty minutes, I began to worry that perhaps this was not going to work. Maybe Tyson’s secrets were so well hidden I would never find them.

And then Tyson’s “aunt” said something.

“Ty,” she said, “did you make your bed this morning?”

“There weren’t any clean sheets,” said Tyson from the other room.

“There are now. Make your bed.”

Now, this might seem strange to you, but I had a feeling about this one, a really good feeling. Quickly I made my way around to Tyson’s room. He was gone, but in a moment, he came in with a sheet. He put it on the chair and pulled back his bedspread to make the bed.

In one instant, I knew everything I needed to know about Tyson McGaw.

“How ya doin’, Gopher?” said L’Austin. He had just done his morning laps and was ready to do his sprint on the grass, when I crossed the field toward school on Monday. The “Gopher” business was getting way out of hand, and we both knew it. Not only had the entire team decided my new name was Gopher, but half the school was now calling me that, and it was getting worse. Some kids didn’t even know my real name; I was just the Gopher. It was enough to make me want to quit the team, but that was just what Austin wanted, and I wasn’t about to let him get the better of me.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Austin. “Get faster over the weekend?”

“Maybe,” I said, smiling.

“You better be on time for practice today,” he said, “or else I’ll make you do extra laps.”

“What are you, coach now?” I asked, still smiling.

“Coach, captain, what’s the difference? The point is, you gotta listen to what I say, right?”

The smile was leaving my face quickly.

“See you later, Gopher.” He blasted off barefoot across the grass, moving faster than any ninth grader in the world except for me should be able to run.

“Watch that you don’t run into any friendly spiders, Austin!” I yelled after him. He stumbled for a moment, but kept on running.

As I left the field I passed his stupid white Aeropeds resting in the grass. A month into school, and they were still as white as snow. Stupid shoes. Well, who cared about Austin? I had a mission that morning, and I was not about to let old Tarantula-head spoil it.

Off I marched into the building and waited by my locker for a sign of Tyson McGaw.

“Get out of my face!” said Tyson. I was standing right next to him as he opened his locker. The second the door opened I pushed it shut.

“That’s no way to talk, Tyson.”

“All right,” said Tyson. “Get out of my face, moron.”

“I’m not in your face, I’m standing next to you. Do you have problems judging distance? Is that it?”

“Just leave me alone.” Tyson opened his locker and put his books in.

“I just wanted to tell you something, Tyson.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“I just wanted to say that I like the puppets on your wall.” Tyson snapped his head to me. That crazy look in his eyes became fuller.

“What do you know about it?”

“I saw them. I looked through your window one night, and I saw them.”

“You’re lying!”

“Why would I lie, Tyson? Besides, how else would I know about them?”

Tyson said nothing. He just stared at me.

“Is that what you do all the time, make puppets?” I asked.

“Is that all you do, look in people’s windows?” he said. “Anyway, it’s none of your business, and you’d better not look in my window anymore!”

“Why not? Got something to hide, Tyson?”

“You just better not, that’s all.”

“You spied on us, so I just spied back on you. There’s also something else I know about you, Tyson.”

“What?”

And staring straight at him I said, “I know that you’re a bed wetter.”

Suddenly that crazy look in his eyes became even more frightening than I thought it could. It was as if Tyson’s eyes were a window to some dark, horrible place that only he knew about. It was like his eyes could have turned me to stone.