Chapter 8

chapter eight Every single day now, I drive around town, blaring Big Mama's horn. I do it in the morning, alone, before Quint and Dirk are awake. And every few blocks I whip out the big bullhorn— "June Del Toro! Are you out there? June Del Toro! Can you hear me?" No luck. It's starting to feel like a wild-goose chase. Or a wild-June chase. Today I drive past 12th Street. Which reminds me—it's almost August 12th. Quint's birthday! I've never planned a birthday party before. That's what moms and dads and girls are for. So, a lot of pressure here. Can't junk this up. A party should be big and crowded, so that the birthday person feels admired, appreciated, and accepted. I mean, that's how I always see them in the movies and on TV and stuff.

So... I was thinking about trying to catch a bunch of the zombies and do something like this... Eh, scratch that. I'll continue thinking...

Rover is awesome. I always wanted a dog, but when you're a foster kid who's always bounced around, you don't get things like dogs. You might land with a family that has a dog, but you start playing with it and having a blast and next thing you know—off to a new family and no more dog. But now I've got my own dog—a monster dog. I'm trying to teach it tricks. It's going so-so. pover, fetch! Gulp!

Hmm. "How about play dead! Quint shuffles over and interrupts our games. His eyes are bloodshot and there are big bags beneath them. I don't think he's slept in days. He hands me a piece of paper. "It's a shopping list. We need everything on this list, OK?" The list is full of bungee cords and metal tubes and rope and all sorts of junk. "What's all this for?" I ask. Quint grins his weirdo grin. "Inventive purposes. But trust me, Jack, you'll like it." I'll need to go to Home Depot for this. That's a journey. I climb up into the tree house. Dirk is

sitting in the corner, reading a Hulk comic. "Let me know if you need help with any of the big words," I say. Dirk scowls. "What do you want?" "We've got stuff to get," I say. "C'mon." Dirk shakes his head, groans—but he gets up. He throws on his old gray sweatshirt, pulls on his monster-bashing gloves, and follows me down out of the tree house. He stomps over to Quint, who's sitting at the picnic table, going over some blueprints. "Hey, goober," Dirk barks. "How come we gotta go get all this stuff for you? Why don't you go get it?" Quint says matter-of-factly, "Because I'm more valuable here." "You think you're more valuable than me, huh?" Dirk says. "No, I said I'm more valuable here. Similar sentences, but they mean very different—" "I'll show you mean—" Dirk starts. Quint holds up his hand. "Dirk, you have no reason to be angry at me. You clearly have some

sort of chip on your shoulder, and—" "Wait, he does?" I look at Dirk. "Is it a chocolate chip?" Quint rolls his eyes. "Jack..." I stand on my tippy-toes and examine Dirk's shoulder. "Or is it a sour cream and onion chip? Either way, I'll eat the chip. I mean, even if it's salt and vinegar." "IT'S NOT AN EDIBLE CHIP ON HIS SHOULDER, JACK! It's just a dumb saying." "Well, Quint, your dumb saying now has me hungry for chips. That's your fault. Soooo... I think you should cook dinner tonight." Quint glares at me, hard, like he's trying to laser beam his way through my eyeballs. "And if you cook us dinner," I say, "Dirk will agree not to be a jerk. Right, Dirk?" You see how I did that? I'm kind of a master of mediation. Dirk glares at me for a moment, then he looks to Quint. "Just tell me the real reason you won't go out there." Quint shrugs. "I'm scared."