Hokey Pokey Read Free Page B

a weak pat. A posse of Snotsippers crosses their path. They’re pedaling trikes furiously, chasing a rider in front of them, jabbing, firing cap pistols, some shouting along with the cap-pop:
“Pow! Pow! Pow!”
    Dusty lunges, holds the last kid by the trike seat. “Hey, you seen Jack’s bike around? Scramjet? It was stole by that girl. Jubilee. Huh?”
    The Snotsipper tries to pedal but goes nowhere. He tries to smack Dusty’s hand away. “Hey,” he whines, “lemme go!” His arms are flailing.
    “Let him go,” says LaJo.
    Dusty lets him go.
    They walk some more.
    LaJo scans the horizon. “You talk too much.”
    Dusty stops, shocked. “Huh? What’s that s’pose to mean?”
    LaJo shrugs. “What it says.”
    Dusty stays behind, talks louder as LaJo continues to walk. “Where’d
that
come from? What’s
that
got to do with anything? Huh?” Louder.
“Huh?”
    All he sees is LaJo’s back, LaJo’s shrug. And now he’s glad LaJo isn’t turning, because he’s feeling his eyes sting, his lip quiver. He snatches at a blue chicoryflower, chews it, chews away the tears, the quiver, tells himself LaJo doesn’t know, Jack doesn’t know, nobody knows that he still cries—of all the Big Kids in Hokey Pokey, him, still.
    He trots to catch up, says with a blithe, sobless flip, “Hey. I almost forgot. What did you mean back there—
he’s different
?”
    LaJo shrugs, looks ahead, thankfully doesn’t check his face for tear tracks. “Just that. He’s different.”
    “OK,” Dusty persists, “but how?
How’s
he different?”
    LaJo rolls his eyes. He’s tempted to say it again—
You talk too much
—get that chin quivering, but a Newbie, littlest of the little, bolts from nearby Tattooer screaming, “I’m a kid!” The Newbie trips over his own feet, belly flops, picks himself up, lurches suddenly sideways and runs smack into LaJo’s legs. LaJo, fright on his face, backs up, but it’s too late. The tiny galoot is already yanking up his shirt and showing off to LaJo his brand-new, barely dry tattoo. His skin is chalk-white. His hair is the color of a cherry hokey pokey. He yips it again: “I’m a kid!”
    LaJo stares down, freezes.
    Dusty laughs a whopper. This is LaJo’s nightmare come true. When a first-day Newbie pops out ofTattooer, he goes to the first Big Kid he sees and shows off his tattoo. It’s instinct for the Newbie—duty for the Big Kid. It’s his job to spend the first day with the Newbie, get him squared away, tell him what he needs to know about life on Hokey Pokey. Dusty has done it many times. He hangs around Tattooer just for the chance. Not LaJo. LaJo isn’t good with little kids. He’s always managed to avoid first-day Newbies. Until now.
    Dusty stops laughing long enough to call, “Go, big bro!”
    The Newbie looks straight up into LaJo’s stern eyes. He says it again: “I’m a kid!”
    “Congratulations,” LaJo replies dryly.
    It tickles Dusty to see the Newbie take LaJo’s hand—finger, actually. The tiny white hand curls around the giant brown finger. “My name is William!” the Newbie chirps. “What’s yours?”
    LaJo doesn’t answer.

LAJO
    C ANNOT BELIEVE this is happening. How did he get stuck with this runt? What was he doing anywhere near Tattooer anyway? He’s losing it. He’s off his game. And he knows why. It’s Jack. But not what Dusty thinks. Dusty can’t see farther than the snot at the end of his nose. It’s not the stolen-bike-and-girl thing. It’s something else. Something he saw back at the tracks. But what he saw wasn’t the thing itself. What he saw was like a rustle in the bushes, a hint of something. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t understand it. He can’t see it. He doesn’t
want
to see it. He only knowsthis: it’s bad. Way worse than a stolen bike. Way,
way
worse.
    William the runt keeps pulling LaJo’s finger. “What’s
your
name?” the runt whines. “What’s
your
name? What’s
your
name?”
    “LaJo!” he