Lump Read online

  Lump

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  Buzz Scanlan, the ten-year-old terror of Titusville, Florida, slammed down the lid of the white metal mailbox on the front of his house. Then he kicked the white siding below it so hard that he left a dent in the vinyl.

  And he kicked it twice more after that. Each time, the dent got deeper and his angry cries got louder.

  "Not there!" He scrubbed his fingers in his jet black rat's nest of hair, then smacked the mailbox with the flat of his hand. "It's not there!"

  He might have been the nastiest kid in the neighborhood, but he was right. Buzz had dug his dirty paw through every square inch of that mailbox and found nothing. The thing he should have found, the thing he'd been expecting, wasn't there.

  It was a good thing Buzz didn't have a grenade launcher just then. He was mad enough to use it.

  Because for the first time in five years, he hadn't gotten his special "present" on Christmas Eve.

  "Where is it?" Buzz clenched his teeth and kicked the siding one more time for bad measure. He thought about pulling the mailbox off the house and stomping it flat.

  But his mom flung open the front door before he could do it. "Buzz! What's going on out here?"

  Buzz spun to face her. "Did you take it? Did you?"

  Mom, who was a good two feet taller than Buzz, frowned down at him. "Take what?"

  "My present," snarled Buzz. "It's Christmas Eve, and it isn't here!"

  Mom nodded, and the frown melted away on her pretty, oval face...only to suddenly return, deeper than ever. "That's why you're mad? Because you didn't get it?"

  Buzz glared at his mom as a fresh wave of anger rolled through him. "If you didn't take it, who did? You know, don't you?"

  "I have no idea, Buzz." Mom rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Even if I did, why would it matter?"

  Buzz felt the urge to drive another kick into the siding, but he held back. "Because I need to know, that's why! I need to know why it didn't come this year."

  Mom raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "You mean to tell me you want a lump of coal for Christmas?"

  Buzz wrinkled up his face in his second-favorite expression--a demonic scowl that had been known to send pit bulls running away with their tails between their legs. "You don't understand."

  Mom shrugged. "We can put one in your stocking, if it'll make you feel better."

  "It wouldn't be the same." Buzz glared down at his sneakers, the ones with the orange flames printed on the sides and the holes in both big toes. Everything he wore had holes--not because his family was poor, but because he beat the living daylights out of all of his clothes.

  "You're right, I don't understand." Mom sighed. "You've been getting a lump of coal in the mailbox every Christmas Eve, with a note attached that says what a naughty kid you are. I'd think you'd be glad it didn't happen this year."

  Buzz snorted and scuffed his sneaker on the brown boards of the porch. "But why? Why would Santa stop giving me a lump?"

  Mom leaned down and smiled at him. "Well, Buzz, did you ever stop and think..." She reached out and ruffled the black rat's nest on his head. "...maybe you finally did something nice this year?"

  Buzz couldn't stop the look of pure horror from clawing its way onto his face. Him? Do something good?

  The thought of it made his stomach churn and his heart burn. It went against everything he lived for and cared about and believed in. It wasn't possible, no way, no how.

  Or

  Was

  It?

  Buzz's heart pounded like houses exploding one after another. He felt cold as a flash-frozen Frankenstein's monster entombed in ice. It wouldn't have surprised him if a black hole had opened up at that moment and sucked him through like an elephant up a drinking straw.

  But then he pulled himself together. There was a way to settle this, after all.

  He gathered himself up and aimed his best square-jawed, narrow-eyed stare at Mom. "You're wrong." He tipped his head to one side and shook a finger in the air. "I deserve that lump, and I'll prove it."

  With that, he whirled on his heel and marched off to get his bike.

  *****

  Buzz rode down the street as fast as he could, standing on the pedals. The bike swung back and forth under him as he pumped the right and left pedals one after the other.

  As soon as he whipped around the corner on Pine Street, he spotted little Squealie playing in his front yard in the bright afternoon sun. Squealie spotted him and took off, tossing super-hero action figures every which way as he ran.

  Buzz didn't waste his breath calling out. Instead, he hopped the curb and churned his bike across the dry brown grass.

  Adrenaline sizzled through Buzz's bloodstream as he charged after the fleeing eight-year-old. It was one of the things he lived for, the thrill of the chase, like a lion on a quad running down an antelope on a Big Wheel.

  Squealie (real name Ellis Fingerling) bolted straight for the front door of his family's little red brick house. For a skinny kid, he sure was a lousy runner; by the time he'd wobbled half the twenty feet to the door, Buzz was already hot on his heels.

  Buzz ditched his bike and leaped on top of Squealie in one smooth flying tackle. The bony kid crumpled under him like a fistful of pretzel sticks in a crushing contest.

  Which was when Squealie did what he did best in such situations. He squealed to the high heavens, letting loose a piercing cry that was music to Buzz's ears.

  It seemed a shame to cut it short, but the last thing Buzz wanted was for a stray parent to come a-running. "Squealie!" He pushed the kid's face down and yelled in his ear. "Cut it out! I'm not gonna whale on you!"

  Squealie's screeches weren't as loud with his face jammed in the dirt, but he still kept them coming. Buzz couldn't blame him for calling for help; he had a pretty crummy track record when it came to telling the truth about not whaling on people.

  And honestly, it was way too easy to fall back on bad butt-kicking habits. "Seriously! I just want to talk!" Even as he said it, Buzz had to fight the urge to beat the squealing out of Squealie. "Come on! I want to ask you something!"

  Squealie paused in his shrieking. Then he sucked in a breath and started up the fire siren all over again.

  Buzz hated what he was about to say so much, he half-wished he could punch himself in the mouth to keep from saying it. But he knew drastic measures were necessary to get through to a guy like Squealie. "Listen! I need your help." He let up the pressure on Squealie's head. "Please, just talk to me, Squealie."

  Suddenly, the squealing ended. The only sounds from Squealie were the gasps of his labored breathing.

  "Thanks." Buzz sat up and patted Squealie's shoulder. "Now if I get off you, will you promise not to run away till I'm done talking?"

  Squealie's eye as he stared up at Buzz looked like a rabbit's, glazed with fear. "Okay." He nodded, brushing the side of his face against the crackling brown grass. "Unless you hurt me."

  Another person might have felt sad that Squealie was so scared of him...but Buzz just felt satisfied. He worked hard to keep up his reputation; if anyone deserved an award for being a neighborhood bully, it was him.

  Which, actually, was why the missing coal lump gave him such a brain-ache. To Buzz, it was the Pulitzer Prize, the Academy Award, and the Grammy wrapped up in one, with America's Most Wanted like a cherry on top.

  It went against his grain, but he got up and let Squealie roll over. He figured it was the first time he'd let Squealie off the hook in the four years he'd known him.

  "So...Ellis." Buzz threw in Squealie's real name to sweeten the deal, but he could barely resist changing it to Smellis. "Here's what I want to know. Have you seen me do anything nice this year?"

  Squealie slowly sat up,
never taking his dark brown eyes off Buzz. "Nice? You?" His high-pitched voice chimed with disbelief. "I've never seen you do anything nice."

  Buzz grinned, and his cheeks grew warm. He didn't blush too often, but he was doing it now. "Seriously?"

  Squealie's eyes widened, and he nodded. "I've never even heard of you doing something nice."

  Suddenly, Buzz's grin switched to a scowl. "You're not just saying that, are you? Because you're scared I'll rip your guts out and feed 'em to you or something?"

  Squealie shook his head fast. "Why? Is that what you're planning to do?"

  Buzz laughed. "Heck no." He leaned down and socked Squealie in the arm, making him flinch. "Relax, Squeals."

  "Okay, that's good then." Squealie's attempt at a smile was pretty weak.

  "I mean, I can't promise I'll never do that." Buzz shrugged and chuckled.

  "Oh, sure."

  "Unless maybe you're lying," said Buzz. "About how I haven't done anything nice."

  That was when Squealie took a deep breath and sat up straighter. His face darkened, and he locked eyes with Buzz. "I can honestly say, you are by far the meanest person I know. Some days, I'm so scared of what you'll do to me, I can't get out of bed. I don't think you could do anything nice if your life depended on it."

  Buzz ruffled his black rat's nest and nodded. "Thanks, Squealie. That means a lot, coming from you."

  "No problem."

  Smiling, Buzz reached out with both hands. "Here. Let me help you up."

  Squealie stared at the hands, then stared at Buzz's face, then back at the hands. For a moment, Buzz thought Squealie might take those hands, expecting Buzz to help him get up off the ground.

  But instead, Squealie scrambled backward. He clambered to his feet, spun around like a beer can winged by a BB gun, and stumbled off crippled-antelope style.

  Which was a real shame. Not that poor defenseless Squealie was so scared of Buzz that he'd rather run away than trust his helping hands.

  The real shame of it was, he'd robbed Buzz of a perfectly good opportunity to make a fresh start. A fresh start at making Squealie's life more miserable than ever, that is.

  Because the whole reaching-for-Squealie bit had had nothing at all to do with helping him to his feet.

  *****

  Buzz's next stop was a yellow house on Lime Street, three blocks up and two blocks over. He felt funny coasting up to it in broad daylight; most of his previous visits had been in the darkest depths of night.

  Before he'd even stopped his bike at the curb, the white front door swung open and crashed against the siding. What he saw next almost made him turn around and leave.

  Mrs. Clementine, his math teacher from school, barged out of the house with a cell phone in one hand...and a double-barreled shotgun in the other. Her bright green eyes were wide, her mountain of red hair twitching, her features twisted in a look of pure murderous rage. She slammed the door shut behind her like she was trying to smash the frame into matchsticks.

  Buzz had never seen her so angry, and that was really saying something. After all, he'd made it his personal mission in the fifth grade to get a rise out of her as often as possible.

  Buzz stopped his bike at the end of the walk and swallowed hard. The sight of Mrs. Clementine charging forward with her shotgun at the ready kicked up two conflicting feelings: on the one hand, Buzz thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea to try to talk to her; then again, if he was looking for proof of his lack of niceness, he figured he'd come to the right place.

  "Keep moving!" Mrs. Clementine got to within ten feet of Buzz, then stopped. "You're not welcome here!"

  "Hello, Mrs. Clementine." Buzz had to work a little to keep his voice and smile steady. That big gun of hers was making him nervous.

  "Don't you 'hello' me." She held up the phone. "I've got the cops on speed-dial. So help me God, I'll hit that button if you're not gone in thirty seconds."

  "I'm just here to talk, Mrs. Clementine." Buzz nodded with priestly sincerity. "Scout's honor."

  "You're no scout." Mrs. Clementine narrowed her eyes. "Unless the antichrist has started up a troop."

  Buzz was half-scared, half-proud of himself. Her crazed anger was all his doing. She'd started out the school year as sweet and level-headed as an angel in the classroom...an angel he'd put through a shredder, then a chipper, then a blender, then a nuclear bomb.

  Now was that the work of a kid who didn't deserve a lump of coal?

  "Please, Mrs. Clementine." Buzz tried harder to look and sound sincere. "I just want to ask you a question."

  "How about if I ask the questions?" snapped Mrs. Clementine. "Like, how many more times do you think you can vandalize my home and get away with it?"

  Buzz shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, though of course he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  "Oh, of course you don't." Mrs. Clementine sneered. "I can't imagine what gave me that idea."

  "That makes two of us."

  "It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the fact that you're the wickedest student in the fifth grade?" Mrs. Clementine tossed her head, making her mountain of hair jiggle like a Jell-O mold. "In any grade, for that matter."

  Buzz felt a rush of pride but kept it to himself. "You really think so?" He frowned as if she'd hurt his tender feelings.

  "It couldn't have anything to do with the veiled threats you've made, could it?" Mrs. Clementine snorted. "All the things you've said might 'accidentally happen' if I don't give you passing grades?"

  "Threats?" Buzz raised his eyebrows, looking innocent as a lamb denying a fart. "Are you sure you're not thinking of some other kid?"

  Mrs. Clementine's top lip curled up in disgust. "Fourteen incidents in less than four months. That's what I've had to deal with. Garbage dumped in my pool...eggs pitched at my siding...garden gnomes smashed to pieces...lawn furniture set on fire...M-80s blowing up my downspouts...vulgarities spray-painted on my car...mud pies splattered on my windows..."

  Buzz grinned inside. Those pies weren't mud...

  "And after every incident, there you were, sitting in class with a look on your face like the cat who'd swallowed the canary." Mrs. Clementine's face was as red as her mountain of hair by now, flushed from her breathless rant. "And every single time, whenever my back was turned, I'd hear you say it...I'd hear you say the word."

  "What word was that?" said Buzz.

  "You know what word," hissed Mrs. Clementine. "I knew it was you, though I could never prove it. I'd hear it in class, in the hall, over and over. Just that one word." Quivering with rage, she took a step toward him. "Vandalism."

  For a moment, Buzz thought about denying it. But honestly, he wasn't sure he could keep a straight face.

  A confession was out of the question, too. Not with that shotgun staring him in the guilty-as-sin kisser.

  Better maybe to try his favorite tactic when it came to the ugly truth: skate around it. Use it to get what he wanted. "So you really think I'm the one who's doing the vandalism? You really think I'm that bad?"

  "You're the worst student I've ever taught." A look of undisguised hatred coiled onto Mrs. Clementine's face. "You've only been in my class for three and a half months, and already I can tell."

  Mrs. Clementine hated him. She thought he was the scum of the Earth. It was enough to make a kid feel ashamed and take a hard look at the way he was living. It was enough to make a kid want to turn over a new leaf.

  But that kid was nowhere to be found, and if he had been, Buzz would have beaten the crap out of him.

  As for Buzz, he just reveled in the trash talk and kept digging for answers. "Do you mean to tell me you've never seen me do anything nice?"

  Mrs. Clementine sneered. "Are you joking?"

  "Not even once?" Buzz stuck up an index finger. "In all the time you've known me?"

  "I've never seen you do a single nice thing. I don't think you're capable of it." Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. "Why do you care? What difference does i
t make?"

  Buzz shrugged. "I'm just curious."

  Just then, a knowing smirk curled over Mrs. Clementine's face like an oil slick seeping over a blue sea. "You're worried about Santa Claus, aren't you? You're worried he'll leave a lump of coal in your stocking."

  She couldn't have been more wrong, but Buzz had no interest in setting her straight. "I've gotta go now." He hopped up on the pedals of his bike and rode in a circle on the street. "See you in school, Roberta."

  He knew she hated it when he called her by her first name...but this time, she didn't mention it. "You know what I want for Christmas this year, Buzz?"

  Buzz rode another circle on the street. "What's that, Roberta?"

  "For you to set one foot on my property, so I can give you the lumps you deserve." She shook the shotgun in the air. "Lumps of lead."

  "Okay then, Roberta." Buzz spun out of his latest circle and biked off down the street. "Good luck with that," he called back over his shoulder. "Good luck with the vandalism."

  *****

  The sun was high and hot as Buzz rode to his next stop. It was lunchtime, or close enough to make his stomach growl. Luckily, there was plenty of food at his destination, the Full Throttle convenience store.

  All he had to do was steal it.

  Of course, there was the small problem of being banned for life from the place...but Buzz thought he had it licked. As he rolled his bike into the Full Throttle lot, he saw several cars parked there, meaning the store had customers. Meaning he had cover.

  Buzz dismounted his bike around the corner of the building and tipped it against the stucco wall. Then, he scooted back out front and waited.

  When another car pulled up, and a new customer headed for the door, Buzz zipped over and followed her inside. He immediately dashed into his special "sweet spot"--a hiding place between the coffee counter and doughnut case that was in a blind spot on the owner's security mirrors.

  Buzz hunkered down behind the coffee pots and peered at the front of the store. As always, the owner stood at the front counter in his checkered-flag "Full Throttle" polo shirt. His name was Owen Throttle, and Buzz knew him well...but not in a good way. To say they'd had a few run-ins was like saying Buzz had egged a few houses.