Free The Last Martin by Jonathan Friesen

all your important duties. Find Julia. Make contact and engage. Look for her table in the lunchroom; it’s a good place to get something started. Etcetera.”
    A distant yellow speck grows. “I’m counting on you, Poole. Find Julia and I’ll … I’ll … be very thankful.”
    “For what?”
    “This favor,” I mutter.
    “Yell it!”
    “I’m thankful that you’re doing this for me.”
    “Scream it, friend!” Poole smacks my arm. “I’mthankful for Poole the Magnificent and his willingness to do in one day what I’ve been unable to do in thirteen years! Scream it!”
    “I’m thankful that I don’t need to endure you today!” I peek at him and grin.
    Poole smiles and jumps. “Close enough. I’m gettin’ excited, Marty. I’m going to school!” He jukes and spins.
    I stare at the bus. “Calm down. I don’t need psycho help. I need
cool
help.”
    I turn and race back toward my house, slip behind a telephone pole and eye the bus stop. Poole still jukes. I slap my face, shake my head.
    What have I done?
    The bus door opens, and Poole hollers at Father Gooly. “Wow, you’re a man of tremendous proportions! How are you today? Do you know a Julia? ‘Cause that’s my job. See, the name is Poole, and I’m going to school, and there’s only one rule, I gotta stay cool, and find the most attractive Julia on behalf of my friend.” He spins and does a backflip. “Oh hey, Charley! You ride the same bus? That’s helpful because you can help me find —”
    The door slams on his voice and the bus pulls away.
    I step out from behind the pole, and scuff the sidewalk with my tennis shoe. This seemed like a good idea yesterday, but now my stomach thinks otherwise.
I have unleashed a monster.

CHAPTER 9
    O PERATION IMPRESS JULIA. PHASE TWO UNDERWAY.”
    I’m confident — anxious, but confident. If anyone can change Julia’s opinion of me, it’s Poole.
    I shuffle home, my house rising in the distance. My huge, bed-filled, three-shower, toasty-warm house. My empty house. Dad never came home from last night’s battle, and Mom was called in to the library.
    I glance from my summer home to Poole’s. I know Poole said that Frank and the depot guys take care of him, but making a kid sleep on wet wood in a dark boxcar is a strange kind of care.
    Think, Marty. What would Poole be thankful for?
    The thought comes in so quickly, my head aches.
    I run to the back door, lift the fieldstone, and grab the baggied house hide-a-key. I slip inside.
    “Mom?”
    Silence. Good.
    I suit up. Elbow-length rubber gloves, protective goggles, and a ski mask. I grab a table knife and walk to the backyard.
    Okay, Poole. Let’s see what we can do about making life a little more comfortable.
    I squeeze behind the evergreen shrub that hides the outside outlet, lower myself into the infested bluegrass, and slice. An hour later, I’ve dug a two-inch channel from my house to the boxcar. My hands are raw and I’m a mess, but as I search for the fifty foot extension cord, I feel good.
    I dash out of the garden shed and press the cord into the channel. I thread one end between a rotted seam in the bottom of the boxcar, plug the other end into our house outlet, and replace the grass on top. Then I tromp it down.
    Poole has power. Invisible, beautiful power.
    I race inside and check my filthy look in the mirror. I laugh. It doesn’t matter —
    I’m on a mission. I duck into the main floor storeroom, our personal cemetery for outdated and unwanted appliances.
    “Mini fridge … old microwave … lamp. And beanbag chair.”
    I haul out the goods and plug them in, careful to set things far from the visible mouth. A low hum of electricityfills the boxcar.
    “Hmm. One more thing.”
    Back in the house, I grab a laundry basket and head to our fridge. “Apples, oranges, can opener, cans of soup, Spaghettios, ravioli … hot pad.”
    Soon, Poole’s summer cabin is stocked. I smile. It’s a start.

    I stare at a blank sheet and feel the wind on