“Mr. Charles said…Oh, never mind.” It isn’t worth telling him more if he isn’t going to believe me.
“You don’t have to worry about him, anyway. He and Mr. Rock and Ms. Bird are going back to Oklahoma today.”
“They are?” That’s unexpected. Why would they give up so easily?
No, I don’t believe it. They’re up to something.
“You worry too much, Z,” Mac says. “Always seeing things that nobody else does. I think it makes you a little…” He widens his eyes and twirls a finger next to his temple.
I was about to describe my dream about Mr. Yazzie, but now I don’t want to. If Mac already thinks I’m nuts, what would he say about a stuffed horned toad that came to life?
School comes into view and Mac speeds up. “I want to make it to class before Cuttlebush gets here,” he explains as he fast-walks to the front doors. “Catch you later. And don’t worry about being cray-cray. All the best people are!”
“Thanks,” I mutter as I watch him go off to wherever sixth-graders go. Part of me is shocked that Mac doesn’t believe me anymore, but the other part suspects it has something to do with his being around Mr. Charles last night. The monster must have some powers of his own.
I head straight for the school library. Davery is already there, setting up a display on the big table in the middle of the room. He’s putting out little cardboard cutouts of a hogan and a Popsicle-stick corral full of cotton-ball sheep. In front of his display is a sign that says: TRADITIONAL DINé (AKA NAVAJO) HOUSE. He steps back, admiring his crafty work.
“We need to talk,” I say, grabbing his bicep.
“Whoa!” he protests. “I’m working here.” He shakes me off and does an arm flourish like a talk show host. “Ta-da! What do you think?”
“It’s important.”
“No, no.” He flourishes again. “This is important.” He holds a hand to his chin and squints. “Do you think I got the sheep right? Are they too fluffy?”
“There’s no such thing as too fluffy.”
“Nizhoni…”
“Fine.” My eyes want to glaze over, but Davery is my best friend, so I take a moment to look more closely at his display. “It’s actually pretty cool,” I admit. “It kinda looks like my shimásání’s place on the rez. The sheep camp, anyway.”
He beams.
“Okay, now can we focus on my problem?”
“Fine, fine.” He reaches over one last time to adjust the sheep wool. “No such thing as too fluffy…” he mutters.
“I have something important to tell you,” I say. “But it’s a secret, and you can’t tell anyone else. Do you promise?”
I’ve been thinking about this all night and all morning, and I decided that spilling the whole truth to him is my only option. I could really use some backup. I need someone who can strategize with me, and clearly I can’t count on Mac anymore.
Davery turns his full attention to me. He truly is the best. If anyone will believe me, it’ll be him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and say, “I see monsters.”
Silence.
I wait for Davery to say something. When he doesn’t, I pry one eye open and take a peek.
He’s got his thoughtful face on. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to the right like he isn’t sure if I just spoke English or another language.
“Like, right now?” he asks in a worried whisper.
“No, silly,” I say. “In general. They’re disguised as real people. It’s the reason I messed up in the basketball game yesterday,” I rush on. “Well, not the whole reason, because honestly, I’m sort of a lousy shot. Anyway, the point is, I was totally distracted by this monster in the stands. And then, even worse, he showed up at my house last night, and guess what? He’s my dad’s new boss! He pulled a knife on me, so I used the elbow bash Coach taught us in self-defense class last year—the one I could never do—but this time I was like something out of Street Fighter! But nobody cared, and everyone thought I had lost my mind, andIdidn’tgetogotoPastaPalace!!!” I take another breath. “It was awful.”
His thoughtful face has changed to his slightly disturbed face, which is essentially the same thing but with way bigger eyes.
“You don’t believe me,” I say, deflated. I knew it. I should never have said anything. Better to keep my imagination to myself.
“On the contrary,” Davery says. “I do believe you. I know how much you love that restaurant.”
“You really believe me?!” I shout.
“Shh!” We both turn. The librarian is staring at us, finger to her lips.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“My apologies,” Davery adds. “No matter the emergency, there’s no excuse to disturb the sanctity of the library.”
The librarian beams.
“Suck-up,” I mutter, only loud enough for his ears.
He looks slightly offended, because the truth hurts.
“Come with me,” Davery says, marching to the reference section.
This part of my middle school library is nothing to write home about. Two long shelves of outdated encyclopedias, a few dusty donated tomes, and three aging desktop computers. Budget crisis or something, and ICCS is a charter school, so we don’t always get the greatest supplies. Davery sits down at one of the computers and starts typing in a password.
“This is the password for adults,” he explains in a whisper. “It’ll let us access more sites.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?” I ask.
Davery doesn’t even look up. “My dad gave it to me. He’s proud that I like to research stuff outside of homework. It’s like I’m doing an extra-credit assignment.”
“Good point. So what are you going to look up?” I ask.
“Stories about people who have seen monsters.”
“You’re gonna find a lot of wild stuff, I bet. How will you tell the truth from the fake news?”
“Leave it to me,” he says, as he tap-tap-taps on the old keyboard.
“Can’t your dad convince the school to invest in some iPads or laptops for the library?” I observe. “This is sad.”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” he says. “Here we go!” And he pulls up the front page to the National Inquisitor. The headlines scream out at me:
Woman Abducted by Cat-Headed Alien; Says His Name Was Marty
“Fake news,” I murmur. Davery keeps scrolling.
Man Spots Bigfoot at the Laundromat
“Wait!” I say. I lean over Davery’s shoulder, reading. He leans in, too.
The man claimed that Mr. Sasquatch, as he insisted on calling him, was washing some Spider-Man pajamas as well as a very nice pair of satin boxers.
“Well, that one’s definitely true,” I observe.
“Yeah,” Davery agrees. “Everyone knows Bigfoot is real.”
“But Mr. Charles is not a Sasquatch, so keep looking.”
Davery scrolls some more, but none of the stories are helping. “Maybe we should try something else.”
“Try googling his name: Mr. Charles. And the name of his company: Landrush Oil and Gas.”