ONE



TAKING A BREAK behind Grandma's House I run into Moze Gooch. He's got his head off and he's smoking. He knows he's not supposed to smoke in the suit. It gets in the fur and makes it stink worse than usual.

"You're not supposed to smoke in the suit," I say.

"My, what a big mouth you have," he says.

"No, really," I say pointing to the cigarette.

He takes a drag. "My, what big eyes you have," he says. He thinks this is funny on account of he's playing the Big Bad Wolf. I've heard him use these lines before. I want to say something clever but he'd easily beat the clever out of me. He's older than me and big. His nose is crooked. His left ear looks like my cousin Ida's scrunchie.

"Shove off or I'll huff and puff..." He takes a deep breath like he's going to blow someone's house down but the smoke catches in his throat and he just spazzes out coughing. Idiot.

He checks his watch then puts his wolf head back on. He glares at me. Five seconds. Ten. His painted-on mouth is laughing but I can guarantee you he is not laughing behind there. Fifteen seconds. The last of the cigarette smoke escapes through the vent holes in his cartoon eyes. I snap his picture, then run as he chases me into the park.

The Park: Fairy Tale Place. Built in 1967. Bypassed since 2009. That's when the new water park with the Aqua Loop opened off Route 8. We're no longer what you call a destination spot, but we still get some locals, grown-ups who were tortured here as kids and now have kids of their own to torture.

But I'm the one being tortured today. About a million degrees on the thermometer and I'm sweating like a pig. A real pig, not a smiley concrete pig like at the straw, stick, and brick houses over on Pork Avenue. Most days I do custodial work, sweeping up ticket stubs and popcorn, but today Dad's got me painting the toadstools, polka-dotted carved toads with seats on their heads. There's like a hundred dots on each one and I have to touch up all of them. I told Dad if he wanted to punish me with extra work I would drive the Storybook Train or helm the Jolly Roger Boat. Dad's just being ornery for some reason.

Okay, there was this:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hobble,

I regret to inform you that Augie has failed his Creative Arts final project. He may however redo his project for a remake grade, a course of action I strongly recommend.

IDEAS due: July 1

FINAL due: August 28

Much luck, much inspiration,

-Mr. Tindall

R. L. Tindall

Creative Arts, Room 12-B

Gerald R. Ford Middle School

"Creativity is contagious, pass it on" -ALBERT EINSTEIN

Who fails Creative Arts?

That was exactly what Mom was wondering last night.

"Who fails Creative Arts?" she said.

"I know. It was stupid," I said.

"What did the other kids do for their projects? What did Britt do?"

"Britt made a self-portrait with papier mâché that, if I have to be totally honest, looked more monkey than Britt."

"So, you go to summer school?" said Dad. "I was really counting on you to help out around the park." By "help out" he meant help him. He's the manager of Fairy Tale Place.

"No, I just need to make up the one project. I can still work at the park."

"Well, you better make it a good one," said Mom. "No Elmer's glue and macaroni."

"No Mom."

"Nothing with Popsicle sticks."

"No Mom."

Later in my bedroom I tossed the Popsicle sticks I was going to use on my project into the trash and took out a blank notebook.

I sharpened a pencil.

I opened the book to page one.

I sharpened another pencil.

I closed the book.

The cover said RETURN TO with blank lines for a name and address. I wrote in my name, AUGIE HOBBLE, and my address.

I opened the book again.

I stared at the blank page.

I closed the book.

I watched cat videos on YouTube.



Text and illustrations copyright © 2015 by Lane Smith