The Snowball Effect Read online

  “Okay, and thanks again, Dylan. I can’t wait to see you at school tomorrow. You and that bright orange coat of yours.” Her laugh was like bells. I guess she didn’t hate the coat as much as I did!

  “Yeah right, me and my neon coat,” I said, stuttering out a laugh myself. “Bye.”

  When I hung up, Mom and Gran were staring at me.

  “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?” Mom said, frowning.

  Oh, if she only knew.

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday morning when I climbed aboard the school bus, everyone clapped. Except for Cory, Matt and Garrett. They were sitting there stone-faced.

  “Stop it, you guys,” I told everyone on the bus. “It’s no big deal.”

  I felt like a total fake. There was no way I deserved this much attention, but it didn’t seem to be going away. Monica had saved the seat beside her and patted it as I walked down the aisle to my usual spot beside Cory.

  “Sit here, Dylan,” she said.

  “Are you sure, Monica?” I asked. Her best friend Callie always sat beside her on the bus, but today Callie was sitting one row back.

  “Reserved for the hero,” Callie told me as she patted the back of the seat. “Sit down right here, orange coat.”

  “Okay,” I said, shrugging. Stupid coat!

  “Hey, Dillweed,” Garrett called from the back. “How come you’re not sitting with us? Too good for us now that you’re a hero?”

  A few of the kids laughed nervously. Monica stood up and glowered at Garrett.

  “Do you always have to be such a jerk?” she asked him.

  I’d been wondering that myself for ages, but never had the guts to ask. Garrett let out a bark of laughter, and then the driver told everyone to be quiet. The roads weren’t great today after yesterday’s snow dump, and the driver was taking his time on the winding highway.

  “How’s your mom today?” was all I could think of to say to Monica.

  “Pretty good,” Monica told me. “Way better today than she was on Saturday. She’s actually planning to bake some Christmas cookies today for our skating party next Saturday. We have one every year. I was wondering…would you like to come, maybe? You can bring your mom and grandma too.”

  “Skating?” Nuts! “Um…my skates are too small,” I told her.

  “That’s okay. You can borrow a pair from one of my brothers. We have all kinds of spares hanging around, since they’re in hockey.”

  Nuts! “Well, we might have some sort of family function going on, but I’ll check and let you know,” I told her. Family function? How had I even come up with that? I was getting way too good at lying lately, which probably wasn’t a good thing!

  “Great,” she said. Then the two of us sat beside each other in squirming silence the rest of the way to school.

  My so-called heroics even made it to the morning announcements. Our principal, Mrs. Hardy, said how proud the staff and students were of what I had done. Then she asked the school for a round of applause. I could hear the clapping and cheering from all the classrooms as the din echoed through the hallways. I felt like hiding under my desk, but instead I sat there grinning sheepishly and staring at my clammy hands. My lie was so big now, it had a life of its own.

  At lunch Cory cornered me in the washroom. And he didn’t look calm, the way he and Matt and Garrett had looked on the bus. No, he looked absolutely sick, his face pale and his mouth a gloomy line. That was weird for a kid who was usually smiling.

  “This is killing me, Dylan,” he said. “I can’t stand it. What we did was horrible.”

  “What about me?” I told him. “They’re doing a feature about me in the paper on Wednesday. I’m a huge fake!”

  “Yeah, I heard about it,” Cory said. Of course he had. Everyone had! “That really sucks. But I feel guilty like crazy too.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “At least you called nine-one-one. At least you’re not a phony hero.”

  “Garrett says we can’t let on that anything happened. That if we shut up about it, it will all blow over soon,” he told me. “He says you’re a knob for talking to the paper. And I’m supposed to tell you that if our names come up, you’re doomed.”

  “Doomed? He said that? But I didn’t go to the paper! They came to me,” I said, a little too loudly.

  “Well, he doesn’t believe that,” Cory said. “He thinks you love all the attention.”

  “Tell him I hate it,” I said as I dried off my hands and headed for the door. “And tell him that I’m not feeling so good about him lately either. No, leave that part out.”

  “Neither am I,” Cory admitted as he trailed behind me along the hallway. “Want to hang out Friday night? They’re playing pool at Matt’s again, but I don’t feel like it.”

  “I have to go to Rocky’s and meet someone that night,” I told him. “Why don’t you come with me? I don’t really feel like going over to Matt’s place either.”

  I didn’t mention that those Friday nights at Matt’s hanging out with his cool dad would be hard for me to give up.

  “Sounds good,” Cory said. “God, I wish we hadn’t done that. But at least we didn’t have rocks in our snowballs.”

  “That doesn’t make it much better, does it?” I told him. “Because we were still there, and we were still doing it, and we’ve done it before too.”

  “Well, I’m never doing it again,” Cory said.

  “Me neither,” I said. Then we high-fived each other and headed for the cafeteria.

  By the time school let out that day, I’d had enough. All my teachers had given me pats on the back, and I got bright smiles from everyone in the hallways.

  Somehow I’d managed to avoid coming face-to-face with Garrett. But every time he looked my way, I could read the expression on his face: Keep your mouth shut, Dillweed. I was starting to get a sore throat too. It felt as if my fake illness was turning into a real one.

  When the school bus rolled into town around 4:00, I had made up my mind. I asked the driver to let me off midtown.

  I headed straight for the Bridgewood Weekly office, a little hole-in-the-wall storefront on the main drag.

  Both the photographer and the reporter were sitting at shabby desks staring at their computers when I walked in.

  “Hey, Dylan,” the photographer said. “How’s it going? Got any more heroics to report?”

  “I’d like to speak to the editor,” I told them.

  “You’re looking at her,” the reporter told me. “We both wear a few hats around here.” Then she frowned. “You look upset. Why don’t you sit down?”

  I sat on a hard plastic chair and stared at them. I didn’t even know where to begin. I cleared my throat and tapped my fingers on the desk.

  “So it’s like this,” I said, then started to explain.

  As I talked, their faces morphed into expressions of disbelief and surprise. But they didn’t interrupt. They just let me babble.

  I didn’t even tell them the true version of the story. I left a lot out, especially the part about who was involved with the snow-bombing, because who knew what Garrett would do if I ratted him out?

  So I said I was the only one there. I told them I snow-bombed cars for kicks on Friday nights. I said that after the car crashed, guilt got the best of me, and I went to check on the driver before running off into the night. My story wound down, and then I sat in silence staring at the floor.

  “Really? You actually caused the accident in the first place?” the photographer said. “Hmm. The plot thickens.” He looked over at the reporter and raised his eyebrows.

  “And,” I added, “I don’t want you to print the story. It’s not fair to Sarah Buckley, or to all the people in town. I feel like a big fake.”

  “Maybe so,” the reporter said. “But you know something, Dylan? This is the story now. We can’t not print it!” She shrugged and smiled at me. “Thanks for being so honest. Terrific tale, bud!”

  That was the absolute last thing I wanted to hear.<
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  Chapter Ten

  As I stumbled along the snowy streets on the way home from the newspaper office, my sore throat got worse. What had started out as a scratchy feeling was quickly turning into a knife-sharp pain that made me wince when I swallowed.

  It looked as if I really was getting sick. Maybe I was just sick of the crazy stuff that was going on in my life. I couldn’t believe that the Bridgewood Weekly was planning to print the story anyway.

  Gran was knitting in her favorite chair, watching the Weather Channel, when I got home. The tree and the window lights were on, and she was basking in the rainbow glow. But she frowned as soon as she saw my face.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “Something happened today. I can tell.”

  “It’s nothing, Gran,” I said as I hung up my coat. “I just have a sore throat, that’s all. I think I’ll go lie down till dinner.”

  “Come over and let me feel your forehead,” Gran said.

  “What’s with you and Mom and your forehead fixations?” I asked in a thick gravelly voice. But I submitted to her cool palm. Her eyes grew wide.

  “You’re burning up,” she said. “Go to bed right now. I’ll bring you Tylenol and a glass of juice. I made chicken noodle soup for dinner. Talk about good timing.”

  It felt great to lie down. By then I had chills, all my joints were starting to ache and my head was throbbing. Gran brought me the Tylenol and juice, and a steaming mug of soup. I could barely swallow the gel cap. There was no way I could handle that soup.

  I’m pretty sure I fell asleep in seconds. A while later I heard two voices, and my eyes fluttered open. In the smudgy darkness Mom and Gran hovered over my bed, looking down at me. Gran took away the soup, and Mom sat on my bed and put her hand on my forehead.

  “Gran called me at work and I came home early,” she said. “I’m taking you to the health clinic in the morning, okay? I’m borrowing a car so we don’t have to walk. You’re a mess, Dylan. I’m worried.”

  I couldn’t answer her, couldn’t even keep my eyes open. I fell asleep with her cool hand on my scorching forehead.

  The doctor at the clinic said it was strep throat. Mine was the third case he’d seen that morning, he told us. He said it seemed to be going around the school. He prescribed some antibiotics and recommended that I stay home from school for the next day or two. That was the best news I’d heard in ages.

  “You won’t be contagious after about twenty-four hours on these meds,” he explained. “But you won’t feel one hundred percent for a while. Probably be feeling great by the weekend though.”

  “Gee, Dylan, don’t look so sad about missing school,” Mom said when she saw my smile. “Oh well, I guess they don’t do much the week before Christmas break. You don’t even have classes on Friday, huh?”

  I shook my head and smiled even wider. This was going to work out just fine.

  For the rest of Tuesday I was buried under blankets on the sofa. I read and played cards with Gran and watched the odd tv show. Gran waited on me, bringing tea and soup and ginger ale whenever I needed it. It was almost like a “stay of execution,” that peaceful day at home before the newspaper came out. Wednesday was doomsday, as far as I was concerned. By the end of the day the whole town would know what a jerk I really was.

  Wednesday after lunch my sore throat was nearly gone, but I still felt achy and tired. I hoped I’d feel lousy for the rest of the week so I wouldn’t have to face anyone until the New Year. Maybe by then the whole thing would have blown over.

  The first phone call came late in the afternoon. Luckily Mom was at work. Midweek she worked the noon until eight shift, so she wasn’t there to see Gran’s eyes bug out of her head while she listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

  Gran’s face went slack as she hung up the phone. I knew what was happening. Gran was the first person to be disappointed with me today—the first of many.

  “I’m going down to the lobby to get a copy of today’s paper,” she said. Then she hurried out of the apartment. I burrowed under the blankets on the sofa and waited.

  I was still buried under there when she came back up. And I stayed under those blankets while she sat down, turned on a lamp and read the article. I was peeking out, trying to gauge her feelings by watching her face. I was so nervous I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.

  “So, Dylan,” she finally said. “What on earth were you and Cory thinking? How could you do something as ridiculously dangerous as that? Pitching snowballs with rocks in them? Honestly, I thought you were smarter than that. This is so disappointing.”

  “I know, Gran,” I said. Then I kicked off the blankets and sat upright. Huh?

  “What do you mean Cory? What about Cory? Why is he mentioned in the article? I didn’t say anything about him.”

  “Well, it says here that you both contacted the newspaper office to tell your stories. Cory said he was on the scene too. He told them you were the real hero for going to check on the victim, and that he was a coward for running away. He does say he called nine-one-one though. I can’t believe you were both up on that bridge in the first place. Why?”

  “Wow,” I said. “He told them. He actually went to the newspaper office and told them.”

  Gran wasn’t hearing me. She was still studying the article and shaking her head. “I wonder what your mom will have to say about this, Dylan. She’s going to be so disappointed. Honestly, what were you thinking?”

  My whole body was starting to quake. It was the way Gran was staring at me with disapproval in her eyes. And maybe even a bit of sadness. I couldn’t handle it.

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking, Gran,” I told her, my voice strained. “It was dumb, okay? I admit it. Don’t you think I feel guilty enough already? Don’t you think I know how mad Mom will be? Crap.”

  “Dylan! Language!” Gran said.

  “Oh, just leave me alone, will you!” I said.

  I jumped up and stomped down the hall to my bedroom, then slammed the door so hard behind me that the windows rattled. Poor Gran. She had no idea why I was being such a jerk to her. But I just couldn’t help it.

  All that guilt was making me feel like a lit firecracker—any second I might explode!

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t even turn the light on in my room. I just flopped down on my bed and lay in the twilight. I watched the reflection of headlights on the ceiling as cars drove past the apartment on the street below.

  What was I thinking? A valid question, as Mom liked to say. And the only answer I could come up with was something that nobody would ever understand. And it was something that I was too embarrassed to actually admit.

  I did it so I could hang out with Matt’s dad on Friday nights. Garrett and Matt were best friends. That was why I put up with Garrett and all his stupid ideas. How lame was that? But I couldn’t resist, because it felt as though Matt’s dad was my surrogate dad. He treated us all like one of his own kids.

  I loved the relationship Matt had with his dad. They were so close, and I totally envied that. I could never admit that to my mom and grandmother. Mom had a hard enough time as it was. The last thing she needed was a guilt trip from me, the poor kid who was deprived of a dad.

  Gran left me alone. The phone kept ringing, and I could hear her talking in a low distressed tone. She kept telling people that she didn’t know what had gotten into me, and that I was “a good kid deep down.” What was that supposed to mean? I hated how I’d gone from hero to zero overnight.

  That great rolling snowball of a lie had broken to bits at the bottom of the hill.

  Gran didn’t talk to me all through our omelet dinner. Her face was twisted in thought. She chewed slowly and stared into space. She glanced at me now and again and shook her head. It was making me crazy.

  “Well, say something,” I finally said. “Don’t just sit there staring at me. I know you have a million questions.”

  “You told me not to talk to you, Dylan,” she said into her plate.r />
  I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Okay, I’m sorry,” I said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why you did it,” she said.

  “I can’t even explain that to myself,” I told her. I pushed a hunk of green pepper around the plate with my fork. It was hard to meet her eyes. “It’s just something I did. So I could be one of the guys, I guess.”

  “Bad choice, Dylan,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” I said, slamming down my fork.

  When the phone rang a second later, I launched myself across the room to answer, just so I could get away from Gran.

  “Dylan, we saw the newspaper, and I need to tell you something.” It was Monica’s voice, flat and dull. Not good.

  “Go ahead,” I told her. By then I was ready for anything.

  “You’d better not come to our party Saturday night. I don’t think my mom wants to see you.” And then she said it too. “We were so disappointed when we read what really happened that night.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I totally understand, Monica. And tell her I’m really sorry for letting everyone down.” I hung up the phone before she could say another word.

  When Mom walked through the door at eight, I could tell by the stressed look on her face that she knew.

  “It’s snowing again,” she said, kicking off her boots. “Like we need more snow.”

  “Stephanie, did you see the…?” Gran said, shaking the newspaper at Mom.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Mom said. “And I’ve talked about it with everyone who walked into the bar today. I’m sick of talking about it. I think I’ll take a long hot bath. I’m exhausted.”

  As she walked down the hallway, I looked over at Gran and shrugged.

  “This isn’t over yet, Dylan,” Gran said.

  As if I didn’t know that.

  I avoided my mom by going to bed before she finished her bath. And I stayed in bed on Thursday until she left for work. I didn’t bother going to school that day either. It was the last day of class before the holidays, so it didn’t really matter.