The Snowball Effect Page 3

  “Dylan! It’s for you. It’s a reporter from the paper. Quick. Come to the phone.”

  “Oh, crap!” Yes, I said it out loud.

  “Dylan. Language!” Gran said. “Now hurry up. Get your butt moving.”

  I couldn’t hurry. My whole body felt as if it was buried under an avalanche. I had to try and dig myself out.

  “Tell them I’ll call back,” I told Gran. In a couple of years, I felt like adding.

  The last thing I wanted to do was talk to a reporter.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Get out here right now,” Gran said. She gave my door another hard knuckle rap just to let me know she meant it.

  “I’ve got a sore throat,” I said from under my covers. “Leave me alone.” I didn’t feel like facing the day. I had to come up with an excuse. A sore throat seemed like a good one. Gran always worried that a sore throat was strep, and I’d die or something.

  “What?” She opened my door a crack, peered in and frowned. “Just a sec, Dylan.” Then she went back out to the kitchen. “Would you mind calling back later? Dylan is indisposed at the moment.” Pause. “Okay, thanks. Bye now.”

  She came back with a thermometer in her hand.

  “Let’s see if you have a fever,” she said.

  “Mmmmow,” I said, letting out a phony groan. Then I opened my mouth, and she popped the thermometer under my tongue. She stood there tapping her foot and humming a Christmas song, checking her watch every few seconds. When she took it out, she squinted as she tried to read the numbers.

  “Where are your reading glasses, Gran?” I asked her. Mom and I were always asking her the same question. And Gran always gave the same answer.

  “Not sure. I left them somewhere, I guess.” She shrugged. “Careful where you’re sitting till I find them, okay? I don’t want to snap the arms off again. Can you read what it says there, Dylan?”

  Perfect. “Maybe a little bit higher than normal,” I fibbed. “It’s hard to swallow.” I gulped hard to show her what I meant. And it was actually true.

  The latest fib was stuck in my throat with the rest of them.

  I got to lie low for the rest of the day, faking my illness. Gran made me tea and toast and brought me the Saturday comics to read in bed. After lunch when Mom got up, she tried to talk to me about the accident. I just pointed at my throat and shook my head.

  “Poor Dylan,” she said, ruffling my hair and kissing my forehead. “He does a good deed and then winds up getting sick. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Hmm. Your forehead doesn’t feel hot. Maybe you’re just shook up from last night.”

  “Maybe,” I whispered in a hoarse voice.

  “How about we get the Christmas tree tomorrow like I promised?” Mom said. “If you’re feeling better. We can have a little tree-trimming celebration, with eggnog. There’s something I need to talk to you about tomorrow at dinnertime too.”

  Mom’s eyes strayed to my bedroom window, where fat lazy snowflakes were drifting to the ground. She sighed and closed her eyes like she was stuck in a dream. Then her lips curled into a mysterious smile.

  I knew that smile. I’d seen it before. Whenever she met a new guy, she floated around smiling like that. I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. These things never turned out well for my mom, yet for some reason she kept trying. She was forever hunting for Prince Valiant and winding up with the Big Bad Wolf— not my idea of a good stepdad.

  “Sounds good, Mom,” I said in my best “sick” voice. I wriggled deeper under my covers and gave her a weak smile.

  “Cool. After my shift tonight I’ll bring you home something yummy for your lunch tomorrow, okay?” She patted my leg. “Some of those sweet potato fries that you like. And maybe if you’re feeling better later this afternoon, you can go down to the storage room and haul out the Christmas boxes.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said. Then I pulled the covers over my head, wishing I could hibernate in my bed like a bear, safe and warm until spring.

  Chapter Seven

  I finally dragged myself out of bed around midafternoon. The reporter called twice more that day. I managed to avoid both calls. The first time I was in the shower, and the second time I was in the storage room digging out the Christmas boxes for Mom. Gran was thrilled that I was feeling better already. I let on that I still felt a bit lousy in case my “illness” had to get worse for some reason.

  While Mom was at work, Gran and I spent the afternoon putting up decorations and lights in the windows. She loved Christmas and was really getting into the spirit. Ever since my Gramps passed away and Gran moved in, the three of us had become a team. Sure, it was annoying to live with two women sometimes. But I sucked it up, because where else was I supposed to live? And besides, Gran baked great bread, cakes and cookies!

  Gran made us tortellini in cream sauce for dinner, and then we watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. She laughed all the way through it, the way she does every year. And, as usual, she reminded me that it was Gramps’s favorite Christmas flick too. But he used to cry during some parts, she added, and her eyes welled up with tears when she told me that. I wasn’t sure she’d ever get over losing him.

  Garrett called a couple of times that day too. I asked Gran to tell him I was sick and couldn’t come to the phone. I didn’t feel like talking to him, or to any of my friends. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about facing them at school on Monday either.

  I figured my fake illness might come in handy next week if I still wanted to avoid facing the guys.

  That night I zonked out on the sofa after the movie. Gran woke me at some point and steered me to bed. I didn’t even hear Mom come home from work. The next time I opened my eyes, bright light was pouring in, and what looked like a solid sheet of snow was brushing up against the window. Another snow-globe day!

  I reheated the sweet potato fries for breakfast and ate them dipped in mayo. Mom and Gran never showed their faces that early, so nobody bugged me about my lousy breakfast. Then I sat in front of the tv and watched old cartoons all morning.

  Just before noon Mom stumbled out in her tattered robe, rubbing her eyes.

  “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Dylan,” she said, pressing a palm against my forehead. “And that you got the Christmas stuff out. Excellent. We can go buy the tree as soon as I get my act together here.”

  She scratched her shoulder and shuffled into the bathroom. Poor Mom. It had to be a drag working in a bar, but she never complained. She said she liked talking to people, so what better job than being a bartender? But I knew that deep down she wished she could be something more, like maybe a social worker. That was her “someday dream,” as she called it. She even read books about psychology in her rare spare time.

  By the time we were ready to go pick out a tree, a few inches of new snow had already fallen. Mom, Gran and I bundled up and set out on foot for the Boy Scout Christmas tree lot. We planned to drag the tree back on an old wooden toboggan. I felt like a flashing neon sign walking around in that stupid orange jacket, but I didn’t have anything else to wear. My other coat was way too small.

  All the way to the lot I kept glancing over my shoulder in case someone was following me. Paranoid or what! I was afraid a police car would come screeching up beside us and I’d get cuffed and tossed in the backseat.

  But only my friends and I knew the truth about Friday night. And they wouldn’t be blabbing. I just wanted to avoid any more attention. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, to anyone!

  With only a couple of weeks left until Christmas, the tree lot was busy with shoppers. It was hard choosing a tree, because so much snow had fallen that they were all buried and looked like a bunch of white mounds. The Boy Scout dads who were supervising sales were busy bouncing tree trunks on the ground to shake off the snow. Mom and Gran and I were trying to decide between a pine and a balsam fir tree when Nicole came walking up to us with her husband and little girl.

  “Hey, you guys,” she said, then gave my mom a quick hug. “I
see we all have the same idea today. How about that kid of yours anyway, Steph? I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now. Isn’t he amazing?”

  “Sure is,” Mom said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “He never ceases to amaze me!”

  Nicole was looking at me in a weird way. Or maybe it was just my imagination. It was as though she knew more than she was saying. I could feel myself sweating under my heavy clothes.

  “We think we might know what caused the accident,” she said, still watching me. “Kids pitching snowballs from the bridge. Probably had rocks in them.”

  Uh-oh, not good! I looked down and started crunching chunks of ice with the heel of my boot.

  “No kidding?” Mom said. “Who would even think of doing such a lousy thing?” She stood there shaking her head. “So you got all your Christmas shopping done, Nic?”

  “Almost,” Nicole said.

  “I’m freezing, Mom,” I said. “Let’s hurry up and pick out a tree.”

  I veered toward Gran and led her away while Mom and Nicole finished their little chat.

  “The balsams have a nicer shape,” Gran said. “There are more branches for ornaments. They’re so pretty and old-fashioned-looking.”

  “But they’re fifteen bucks more than the pine trees,” Mom said as she sidled up to us. “I could buy a couple of nice roasts with that.”

  “I’ll kick in the extra fifteen,” Gran told her. “I don’t mind. It’s worth it. What do you think, Dylan?”

  At that point, I wasn’t thinking about anything other than how I might make a run for it without attracting attention, because someone with a huge camera was on the Boy Scout lot, taking photos of the families buying trees. And a smiling rosy-cheeked woman with a notepad was scribbling down the names of the people they were photographing. They were from the local paper, the Bridgewood Weekly.

  I tried to hide behind some trees, behind my mom, behind a husky dad who was shaking snow off a pine. But I was wearing that ridiculous jacket, and the photographer spotted me. I saw him nudge the other reporter, and suddenly they were both staring at me.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” the woman said as she approached me. “Everyone in town is talking about you!”

  I looked over my shoulder as if I didn’t know who she was talking to.

  “Yeah, you,” the guy with the camera said. “Dylan O’Connor, the local hero! We’ve been trying to get ahold of you. He snapped a couple of shots before I could duck out of the way.

  “Can you tell us what happened on Friday night?” the woman said. “How you comforted the victim at the accident scene? This is such a great Christmas human-interest story.” By then Mom and Gran were beside me with huge grins plastered across their faces. Behind them I spotted Nicole. Watching me?

  “Dylan, this is your big moment,” Mom said, pushing me toward the reporters. “Go for it. Tell them what happened on Friday night.”

  By then a crowd had gathered. Everyone was curious. Probably everyone in town had heard about the kid in the orange coat. Everyone wanted to hear about how I’d helped Sarah Buckley at the accident. Everyone wanted a piece of me.

  And I didn’t want any part of it!

  Chapter Eight

  By the time I’d finished babbling to the reporter, I really did feel sick. She told me that the story would be on the front page of the next edition of the Bridgewood Weekly. It was a small-town paper and came out only once a week. That meant I had until next Wednesday to worry myself even sicker about everyone’s reactions to the story.

  I kept it simple and managed to avoid any huge lies. I said I happened to be nearby when the accident occurred. True. I told them I felt I had to check and make sure the victim wasn’t too badly hurt. True. I told them I didn’t place the phone call. True. I told them that I was getting Cheezies at the station for Gran. True.

  The whole time I was talking, the reporter was scribbling and the photographer was clicking his shutter. And everyone was watching. There were so many familiar faces in the crowd. I tried my best to avoid them all, especially Nicole’s probing eyes. The photographer took one final shot of me, Mom and Gran with the tree we chose. By then the Boy Scout leaders insisted we have the tree for free because I was an example of a good Scout.

  We thanked the scout leaders and loaded the tree onto the sled. As we walked away, everyone behind us was clapping. I felt like throwing up.

  “I almost feel guilty for choosing the more expensive tree,” Mom said as we were walking home. “We’re cutting into the scouting profits. But really, I’m so proud of you, Dylan. You did a great job explaining things back there. I can’t believe what you did on Friday night!”

  I cringed when Mom put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed me. I didn’t deserve that hug from her.

  “Just think,” Gran said. “If I hadn’t had that craving for Cheezies, you might not have even been on the scene at all.”

  “If you say so, Ma,” Mom said, laughing. “I guess you’re a hero too.”

  But I was there, and I would have been there anyway, I felt like telling them, because of the stupid snow bombs. I had no clue why everyone was making such a big deal out of it either. I mean, it wasn’t as if I’d saved her life. But, like the reporter said, it was a good Christmas news story. And in a small town, they were hard to come by.

  I only wished that I wasn’t one of the main characters in the story.

  While the chicken was roasting, we decorated the Christmas tree. It was just the right size. Gran kept stepping back to admire it as we added lights, shiny balls and tinsel. Mom was always sure to hang the goofy little felt and pinecone ornaments that I’d crafted at school from kindergarten to sixth grade. She was the proudest of those and hung each one in a place of honor, at the top near the star.

  “Looks great,” Mom said, sipping eggnog.

  “Perfect,” Gran said, sinking into an armchair and sighing.

  We had turned off all the lights, and the tree was a rainbow blur against the window in our cramped little apartment. Outside, the snow was still falling in a thick, heavy curtain, backlit by the streetlights. It looked pretty festive in that room.

  “So…,” Mom said. I knew what was coming next. She probably felt better discussing it in a dark room so she wouldn’t have to see the look on my face. “So I met this guy at the bar a couple of weeks ago.” She paused.

  “And…?” I said, tapping my foot.

  “Be patient, Dylan,” Gran said.

  “And,” Mom said, drawing the word out. She took a slurp of eggnog, as if she was stalling. “And I think I really like him,” she blurted out.

  I sighed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Dylan?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Is he a creep like the other ones?”

  “Dylan!” Gran said.

  “It’s okay, Ma,” my mom said. “He has a right to ask valid questions. It’s not like my past choices were always good ones. But I think you both might approve of this guy. He has a great job with a law firm down in the city.”

  “Well, that sounds promising,” Gran said.

  “I know! Yay! He just came up here to sled with a friend a couple of weekends ago, and we hit it off. He came back this weekend to see me again. And he wants me to go down to the city to visit him some time.” I heard her sigh. It was a happy sigh.

  “So is he married?” I said.

  “Dylan!” Gran reached over and swatted my knee. “Watch your talk!”

  “Hope not,” Mom said. “And that’s a valid question too. But I trust this guy. He has honest eyes and a really sweet smile. He told me he’s divorced, and I believe him.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Brent,” she told me. “Brent Sinclair. He’s a real sweetie.”

  “Whatever you say, Mom,” I said.

  “He’s coming again next weekend,” Mom said. “I’d like you to meet him, Dylan. Next Friday evening at the bar. Okay? Will you do that for me
? It’s not like I need your approval or anything. But I really, really want you to like him!”

  It was my turn to sigh again. “Okay, Mom. I’ll show up,” I told her.

  “A toast to Christmas and new beginnings,” Gran said with joy in her voice.

  And we all clinked together our eggnog glasses in the tree-lit darkness.

  While we were cleaning up after dinner, the phone rang and Gran grabbed it.

  “It’s for you, Dylan,” Gran whispered. “It’s a girl!”

  “A girl?” I said, wide-eyed.

  “Is this someone we should know about?” Mom asked, winking.

  I rolled my eyes and took the phone from Gran. A girl?

  “Hello?”

  “Dylan? It’s Monica.” Crap.

  “Oh, hi, Monica. What’s up?” I said, playing dumb about her call.

  “What’s up?” She laughed. “As if you don’t know! I heard about what you did for my mom on Friday night. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “You heard…you heard about it?” I said.

  “Everyone in town has heard about it. But my friend was at the Christmas tree lot this afternoon, and she told me what happened. About the reporters and everything. And how people were clapping.”

  “It was no big deal, really,” I said.

  “But it was, Dylan. You checked on her, you gave her ice and put the blanket on her shoulders when she was shivering. My mom has a fractured cheekbone, you know. And her neck is really sore now, whiplash or something. But otherwise she’s fine.”

  “I was glad to help, Monica. I really was. I couldn’t just walk away from something like that. I had to check on her. Anyone would have done the same thing.”

  I thought of my three friends running away, and I winced.

  “I wonder who those rats were, anyway, the ones who were throwing the snowballs. Sergeant Vance said they had rocks in them.” Now she sounded close to tears. And I felt like puking.

  “I dunno,” I muttered. “Look, I’m just helping with the dinner dishes. I’ve gotta go now, Monica.”