Free The Last Martin by Jonathan Friesen Page B

sentence? A minute? What?” “Pretty much all fourth and fifth hours. She is something. I think another day and we’d know each other pretty well.”
    “You’d what?” I squint. “Why are my clothes spotted purple?”
    He pulls away. “Probably best to leave that detail alone for now.”
    Minutes of silence drive me crazy. We reach my backyard and Poole sighs. “Okay, particulars about today,” he says. “First off, what’s The Treatment?”
    My eyes widen. “Why?”
    “I went to gym and started to open your locker. Number 120.”
    “Stop.” I exhale hard. “That’s Will’s locker.”
    “Found that out. I’m good with names, not great with numbers. So I turn the lock and the door swings open. Must not have been latched. I put on your uniform.”
    I shake my head. “Will’s uniform.”
    “Right. Will comes in and gets pretty mad, but I tell him the truth. You told me to do it. Seems like first thing tomorrow you need to report to phys ed for your Treatment. Halden said this isn’t the first one you’ve earned.”
    I tongue the inside of my cheek. “Dead. Officially dead.”
    “Then there’s the matter of a small prune fight at lunch. A rather … sizable lunch lady escorted me to the office and the principal wanted to see my schedule, but when I dug for it, your note slipped out and —”
    “Oh … What did you tell him?”
    “The truth. That I was acting under your orders. That you were sunning, with sunblock, on my bench. Hegave us both tickets for some after-school event. Tomorrow, we need to report to reflection, no wait, intention or demention or —”
    “Detention.” I let my head fall back.
    “Yeah! That’s it. Go there tomorrow. Here.” He digs in his pocket and hands me the slip. “I guess your folks need to sign your ticket. I’ll get Frank to sign mine.”
    My mouth hangs open. I’ve never had detention.
    “Oh, and Charley. There’s a small matter with him, but you guys will patch it up. That’s most of the big things, I think.”
    I yank Poole by the shirt and pull him to the boxcar. “In. I want my clothes. You will never go to my school again. Are we clear?”
    “But I told Julia —”
    “Never!”
    He shrugs, and soon purple clothes fly out the boxcar mouth. “This is the way you thank your friend —”
    Silence.
    Poole appears in the opening, drop-jawed and standing in his boxers.
    “Okay, the microwave latch is tricky,” I say.
    “What did you do?” Poole peeks back into the car.
    I frown. “You don’t like it?”
    “It’s just that I haven’t uh … It’s been a long time since …” Poole scratches his head, turns, and leaps. I hearthe beanbag chair crunch.
    “Love it. Love it.” He laughs. “If you ever need another favor, I’m your guy.”
    I nod and stare at my detention slip.
I don’t think so.

    Dad comes home late from the wars. “It was quite a reenactment today.” His eyes gleam and he drops his weapon on the floor. “I forgot it wasn’t real. I mean, there I was, 1820, arrows flying overhead. Son, there’s nothing like it.”
    I wince and kick at the carpet with my boot.
    “Now the tuna is missing. Tuna does not have legs!” Mom’s voice carries out from the kitchen. “The macaroni and cheese doesn’t either. Gavin, are you feeding the regiment again?”
    “Here,” I whisper.
    I peek at the kitchen and hand Dad my detention slip. He studies it, peeks at the kitchen as well, and whispers back, “You got in a prune fight?”
    “A what?” Mom hollers, and slams the fridge. “I assumed that purplage to be the remnants of an art project gone awry. I had already composed a note to Mr. VanSickle. He bears responsibility for the toxic chemicals in those paints. But are you telling me that you … you were involved in prune hurling?”
    “No! Yes. Well, I was really whispering to Dad, not to you.”
    “Gavin!”
    “Your mother deserves to hear the story too.” He turns and cocks his head. From behind, I see his body shake.