Free Box of Shocks by Chris McMahen Page A

the likelihood of that?
    Of course, I don’t like it one little bit. Yeah, I don’t know much about him, but I do know that I can’t stand him for one big reason. This kid is standing between me and my Box of Shocks.
    Mrs. Franzen likes to talk. As she babbles on and on and on, my mind drifts. Quite often, I catch myself looking over at the kid. It’s hard to tell anything about the kid from watching him. He never says a word in class, not even to the other kids. Even when Mrs. Franzen asks him a question, he doesn’t open his mouth. She tries to get him to talk, but the best she can get out of him is a mumble that no one can understand.
    At lunch, I sit in the lunchroom with Reggie, Karl and Grayson, but I keep glancing over at the new kid while I eat my sandwich. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like he’s the sort of kid I’d ever be friends with.
    There is one thing I do notice about him. Crackers. That’s all he eats for lunch. Just crackers!
    I love crackers. Today I have a ham sandwich with lettuce, mayo and two kinds of mustard on stone-ground rye bread. I’d love to have just crackers for lunch. So here’s this kid, eating crackers! And that’s all! How great is that? Even though I still think the kid is bizarro, I have to admit he is lucky as far as lunch goes. His parents probably let him make his own lunch.
    After he finishes his crackers, he heads outside like the rest of us. While Karl, Grayson, Reggie and I shoot hoops, he leans against the back wall of the school and looks off into space. No one talks to him, and he doesn’t try to talk to anyone else.

    Dad is five minutes late picking me up at the end of the school day. “We’ve got to make a bit of a detour before I drop you at home, Ollie,” he says. “I have to pick up my dry cleaning.”
    As Dad turns the car up Wood Avenue, I spot the kid. He’s walking really fast—almost running—and not in the direction of his house. As we drive past, I see him turn into Wayne’s Bottle Depot. But the kid isn’t carrying any bottles. Very strange.
    As soon as I’m home, I get back to spying. I run upstairs to my room and pull my chair up to the window. The rusty old hulk of a car is in the driveway, so I know at least one of his parents is home.
    I dig around in my desk and find an old notebook. If I’m going to do a proper job spying on this family, I’ll have to keep notes. The first three pages of the old notebook are sketches of superheroes I was going to use for a comic book. The superheroes look like flying cows, so I tear out the pages. On a fresh page at the top, I write the date. Under that, I put:
    3:25 PM Parents home. Not sure about kid.
    I’m about to go downstairs to get a snack when the side door of the house swings open. Out come the man and woman. Just like yesterday, they crawl into the car through the passenger door, start up the rattling rust bucket, and pull off in a cloud of blue smoke.
    I grab my notebook, check my watch, and write:
    3:31 PM Parents leave house in car. No sign of kid.
    I skip my snack and drag my desk over to the window. It’s the first day of school, and I already have homework. But Mrs. Franzen is not going to stop me from spying. As I work on my homework, I glance up every few minutes, keeping an eye on my old house.
    I do math problems, read Chapter One of the socials textbook, write a short essay on “Why Summer Holidays Should Last Until December” and read the first twenty-six pages of my novel. I’m hoping Mrs. Franzen has given us the entire year’s homework on the first day. Otherwise, this year is going to be murder.
    I’m stuffing my books into my backpack when Mom shouts from the kitchen, “Oliver! Supper’s ready!”
    Before heading downstairs, I take one more look across the street. There’s the kid! School got out almost three hours ago, and he’s only getting home