Weird Kid by Greg Van Eekhout

Author:Greg Van Eekhout
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-05-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

MY STOMACH RUMBLES WITH WOLL’S tablet inside. I talk to the twins to cover the noise. We’re in the back of the van with Tami and Leonard in the front.

“When you said Woll was your monkey, that’s not really what you meant, is it?”

“She is definitely our monkey,” Gravy says. “And we love her very much.”

“Do you mean mother?”

“Bake is correct,” says Dairy. “Woll is our beloved mother.”

I don’t even bother to correct her about my name.

“Does that mean she’s also a goo alien? Does that mean . . .” I have a hard time actually getting the words out. “Does that mean, she’s my mother, too?”

Dairy laughs. “No, Bake. You are funny.”

The van finally pulls into the alley behind Dale’s.

Tami unlocks the door. “We’ll be in touch about your next visit.”

“Okay, good, great,” I say, getting out.

Dashing through the back door of the guitar shop, I wave at a confused and befuddled Dale, who’s still absorbed in diagnosing Stringy’s neck, and I make a straight line out the front door.

Mom stands down the street beside our parked car. And with her is Agnes on her bike.

I stroll up casually. Am I overdoing it? Should I have aimed for jaunty instead of casual?

“Hi?” I say.

“Hey, Jake,” Mom says. “Where’s your guitar?”

“I left it with Dale. There’s a buzz on the seventh fret.”

That sounded normal. I think.

“I was just telling your mom how I wanted to check out the guitar shop,” says Agnes. She’s out of breath, red-faced, sweating.

“You never told me Agnes plays guitar,” Mom says, as if I’ve been keeping a secret.

“That is right. I never did tell you that.”

Does Agnes play guitar? I don’t think so. But she could probably learn it in a couple of hours while doing push-ups.

“Ms. Wind, I need to talk to Jake for a second.” Agnes begins to walk off. When I don’t follow, she pinches my shirtsleeve and leads me away.

At the corner, a little too close to Big Blue Biter the mailbox, she says, “The tracker I planted on the hazmat creeps went off and led me here. I tried to reach you, but your phone must be broken—”

“I turned it off.” My voice drips with ice.

Her mouth hangs open. “Okay. Well, I raced here because I knew you had a guitar lesson, but by the time I got here, you were gone. And then the tracker said the van was heading back to the dead mall. I put two and two together, and . . . did they kidnap you? Are you okay? What did they do to you? How did you escape?”

“The twins visited me at home on Friday, and I went with them today voluntarily. I met Dr. Woll there. She knew who I was. She knew what I was. She knows all about me. And it’s your fault.”

Agnes closes her eyes. When she opens them, she looks at the sidewalk, at the mailbox, anywhere but at me. This, from a person whose stare is usually so direct it could burn holes in concrete.

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