The Schwa Was Here

I gotta admit, that one stumped me for a second—but only for a second. "Which half?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"Which half of the neighborhood? Could you make it the people on the other side of Avenue T, because I never really liked them anyway."

I could see him trying to force down a grin. "You're not funny."

"So you gonna tell me why you trashed my game?"

"You said I'd be a legend."

"What?"

"Going into Old Man Crawley's—surviving to talk about it. 'You'll be a legend,' you said. But I'm not. Not even Tiggor and the Tiggorhoids care. They've already forgotten I exist."

"Why do you even care about those boneheads?"

"It's not just them," he says. "It's everyone. I'm sick of being looked over. Shut out. And now even Crawley's forgetting about me, and picking you for granddaughter duty."

"So what? It doesn't look like it's gonna be much fun."

He took a deep breath. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I'm just afraid I'll end up like ..."

But he refused to finish the thought. He left and I didn't follow him, because I knew he didn't want me to. Instead I just went back home. Dump the board. End the game. Nobody loses.

When I got back home, Howie and Ira were playing another video game.

"That guy's one egg short of a full deck,"

Howie says."You should sue," says Ira.

I tried to say something, but words failed me. I understood why the Schwa did what he did. He had stood in front of them, and still he wasn't visible. He broke the game, and even then it didn't change anything. By tomorrow Howie and Ira will have forgotten about it.

Sometimes I'm afraid I'll end up just like . ..

Just like who? And suddenly I could hear the Schwa's voice in my head. Just like my mother. That's what he was going to say!

"Are you gonna play, Antsy, or just stand there?"

I wanted to talk to them about what the Schwa had said, but I knew it was pointless. It was like Howie and Ira were now on the other side of thick soundproof glass.

"I'm not feeling too good," I told them. "Maybe you guys should go."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Maybe I feel a case of leprosy coming on."

They stood and said their good-byes. It took a bit longer and was a bit more awkward than the usual "see ya." Maybe be­cause somewhere deep down we all knew that this wasn't "see ya." This was more like "so long."

8 Are Those Your Fingers in My Mouth, or Are You Just Happy to Not See Me?

I put the Schwa out of my mind, which is not hard to do, as you already know. Even with his meltdown, even with the broken game disc, I woke up in the morning without him crossing my mind once. My thoughts were occupied with the mystery of Lexie Crawley. She was fourteen, not four. I wish Crawley would have told me that up front. It put a whole new spin on the situation.

"What are you all dressed up for?" my mother asked as she peered into my bedroom that morning.

"Funeral," I told her.

She studied me, trying to decide if I was telling the truth or just being my normal nuisance. "Who died?" she asked.

"Your sense of humor," I told her.

She frowned at me, and made like she was going to match wisecracks, but instead she just came into my room and straightened the knot on my tie. "You got someone to impress at nine in the morning?" she asked.

"Ten," I told her. I lifted my neck so she could get the tie just right.

"Is she pretty?"

I just hope she's human, I wanted to say, but instead I just shrugged.

Mom stepped back to admire me. "You look handsome," she said. "Just don't make an idiot of yourself."

***

Unless I wanted to climb on the roof again, the only way into Crawley's apartment was through the restaurant, which was closed this time of the morning. After knocking a few times on the front entrance, I went around back, where a custodian let me in. The restaurant was creepy in the off-hours. Chairs were stacked on top of tables, the floor was still wet from the custo­dian's mop.

I climbed the stairs to the old, unused part of the restaurant and the big wooden door of the apartment toward the back. Even before I got to the door, the dogs began to bark.

"Get out of the way, you mutts," I could hear Crawley gripe on the other side of the door. "Get back, or I swear I'll put you in the gumbo!" Then I heard all the dead bolts snap open and he pulled the door just wide enough for me to squeeze in with­out letting the dogs out. I was attacked by fourteen tongues be­fore Crawley grabbed a handful of treats from his vest pocket and hurled them back toward the living room. The dogs, who knew the drill well, took off.

"Who's there, Grandpa?" I heard a girl's voice call from deeper in the apartment.

"Just the dog walker," Crawley said.

"Dog walker?" I said. "But I thought—" Crawley rapped me hard in the arm to shut me up. "Owl"

"It's the dog walker," Crawley said again. "He's here to walk the dogs." Then he turned to me. "Where's your friend?"