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by Floris M. Kleijne
Mainstream, 11 pages.
Originally Published in Sniplits.com, 2009
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Toby found his twelfth Trophy in the dumpster behind the Movierama, exactly where he’d found all the others. It was long, thin and strong, like a branch, but with a big knob on one end and a fat bit on the other. It was hidden under a big garbage bag with a plastic arm sticking out the side, an arm like his little sister’s dolls had. The trophy was a lot bigger than the others and wouldn’t fit into his old Scooby-Doo backpack, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to picture himself walking down Main Street with the knob sticking out of his pack, like a spaceman’s antenna, but he just knew that would get him into Trouble.
It wouldn’t fit into the basket behind the seat of his bike either. Some of the smaller trophies had fit there, hidden among the empty bottles and soda cans he collected. Not this one; it fell out when he tried to shove it in, spilling cans and bottles, one big bottle breaking into a million shiny pieces. It looked like he couldn’t take the new Trophy with him.
The thought of leaving it behind really hurt. He felt his eyes sting and knew he was about to Bawl like a Baby. This big, it had to be a really important piece, though he would have to look at his Big Chart to know for sure. Putting it back in the dumpster would be a Disappointment, like the time they wouldn’t let him into the Movierama even though he was already twenty-one, that’s a two and a one.
Out of nowhere, he had an Idea. He was wearing his overalls, and the Trophy was about the same size as his thigh. He could lift up his sweatshirt and slide the Trophy into his overall leg. The first time he tried this, it just kept on sliding until the knob came out at his foot. When he tried to pull it out again, the knob got stuck on the cuff and wouldn’t come back up. Toby was limping and cussing around the alley; it was a good thing no Townspeople walked by. They were plenty mean to him already without seeing him making a fool of himself. But it was Sunday morning, and they were all in Church, Toby knew.
He finally got the Trophy out of his overalls, turned it around and slid it back in. This way, the knob hooked over the side of the overall pants, and couldn’t slide any further down. Toby took a few experimental steps. It felt weird and he had to limp a little, but he could walk. And with his sweatshirt back in place, nobody could see what he was carrying around. Pretty darn clever for a Dumb Son!
Toby hated his nickname. When someone shouted “Dumb Son” at him, he often got so mad he didn’t know what he was doing. A few times he’d taken one of the pretty Coke bottles and thrown it at them. Once he’d even hit someone that way, and then he’d been in real Trouble. He’d had to go to the Sherriff’s office, and the Sherriff had shouted at him, and his mom had picked him up and had shouted at him some more after they’d come home.
He knew how he’d gotten the nickname. He liked the little dumpling things you could get at the Chinese place, and one day he’d saved enough coins from the bottles and cans to go get some. Only he’d forgotten how they were called, so when the little man with the black hair and the weird eyes asked him what he wanted, he’d said, “Dum son”. The little man had started laughing and calling out, “Dumb son! Dumb son!” Toby had run out of the Chinese place with burning cheeks. But all the other people in the Chinese place had heard it, and the next day someone had shouted it at him in the park.
He knew he really was dumb, and often wished he wasn’t.
Toby walked out onto Main Street, pushing his bike by the handlebars, limping a little, feeling hot and flushed and a little scared. He hoped no one would shout his nickname. At every corner, he looked carefully for traffic before crossing. He passed the ice cream place, the bookstore where he’d gotten the Big Chart, the bright shop with the big windows where Mr. Daniels cut his hair every month. Across the street was the Sherriff’s office, and Toby hurried along, though he wasn’t sure he was doing anything wrong.
He slowed down a little when he got closer to the little park. In the middle of the park was his Secret Place, where he could sit for a really long time and no one would know where he was. His Secret Place was sort of in the basement of the music porch, the funny round house in the middle of the park that was all porch and no inside. Toby remembered when there used to be music there sometimes, with real instruments, but not for a long time now. Jonah, the man who played the really big horn, had been Toby’s friend for a while. But when the band had stopped playing together, Toby hadn’t seen Jonah around much anymore.
The music porch looked like old Mrs. Winston’s house now, with the paint all gone bad and rot in the wood. The wind had made big piles of leaves against the side of the music porch, and there were bushes on one side that had grown all crazy-like.
Toby had crawled in -- [End of Preview.]