Peters squinted, titled his head, crossed his eyes like he was trying to cope with an optical illusion.
“I can … sorta see,” he whispered.
“Just sorta?”
“He’s like a mirage.”
What Denton Peters saw next was a sort of prismatic blur, and then Scott jerked back his arm, yelping with pain. Scott pushed past him and scowled into the distance.
Denton followed his gaze to the men’s room door.
“Uh … what just happened?”
Scott unhooked his backpack. “Your mirage bit my hand.”
Oh Huck! seemed like kind of a lousy musical, but Scott supposed he might have been in the wrong mood.
His migraine vanished shortly after leaving the bus terminal, but on the way to the theater Denton staunchly denied having seen anything unusual in the men’s room apart from the new kid hiding from imaginary elves. Denton had by this time already forgotten Scott’s name, however, and most of the other kids didn’t know who he was talking about, and Scott had hidden behind Carla Owens until it all blew over.
Scott was quiet as they returned to the bus terminal through the toy store dazzle of Times Square.
“I just don’t think they should have made the raft a separate character,” said Emily.
“Riff-Raft?” said Erno. “But she’s the narrator. She told you what was going on.”
“Mark Twain didn’t need a talking raft in the book. Or a rapping scarecrow.”
“Scott, tell my sister that everything doesn’t have to be exactly like the precious book.”
Scott started. “What?”
“You’re still upset,” Emily told him. “About Denton teasing you.”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“Forget about it,” said Erno. “Everyone else has.”
The thing is, they probably had. Scott was nothing if not forgettable.
Back at the Port Authority there was some sort of situation. Two flashing police cruisers were up on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, grille to grille. A crowd had formed, and three uniformed officers attempted to push back these people with outstretched arms and patently false claims that there was nothing to see. Another officer, on horseback, paced the street. And in the center of it all, two more policemen squared off against each other like big dogs.
“Let’s not do this here, man,” one of these officers was saying in soothing tones. “We can talk about it at the station.”
The other man took a step back, took a step forward, his boyish face tangled with fear and anger. “We’ll go back to the station when you admit I’ve apprehended a suspect !” he said, pointing to the backseat of one of the cop cars. “This is not cool, guys! I know I’m the rookie and all, but—”
“Not in front of the juveniles,” said the first officer, glancing at Scott’s class.
“We’re not juveniles,” Erno muttered.
“It just means kids ,” said Emily. “Nothing bad.”
An electronic red news crawl on an adjoining building declared the DOW DOWN and REGGIE DWIGHT PUNCHESQUEEN and then POLICE DISRUPTION AT PORT AUTHORITY BUS TERMINAL . It flashed like a marquee for the weird bit of drama playing out in front of them.
Scott craned his neck to look at the rookie’s car. There was someone in the backseat, but the suspect was very small. Smaller than a toddler. He wondered….
If Scott Doe had a talent, it was his ability to walk about unnoticed. When not actually calling attention to himself in bus station bathrooms or by defending his indefensible given name, he was one of those kids who could practically disappear in a crowded room. Inconspicuous. Unremarkable. It had always been that way.
So now when Scott shuffled away from his class and approached the police car, Ms. Egami did not notice. Even Erno and Emily didn’t notice, transfixed as they were by the police and the strobing lights. Scott stepped up to the cruiser on the street side, away from the cops, and looked in the rear window.
It was the little man again. He was slumped in the backseat, his round fists ringed by
“I can … sorta see,” he whispered.
“Just sorta?”
“He’s like a mirage.”
What Denton Peters saw next was a sort of prismatic blur, and then Scott jerked back his arm, yelping with pain. Scott pushed past him and scowled into the distance.
Denton followed his gaze to the men’s room door.
“Uh … what just happened?”
Scott unhooked his backpack. “Your mirage bit my hand.”
Oh Huck! seemed like kind of a lousy musical, but Scott supposed he might have been in the wrong mood.
His migraine vanished shortly after leaving the bus terminal, but on the way to the theater Denton staunchly denied having seen anything unusual in the men’s room apart from the new kid hiding from imaginary elves. Denton had by this time already forgotten Scott’s name, however, and most of the other kids didn’t know who he was talking about, and Scott had hidden behind Carla Owens until it all blew over.
Scott was quiet as they returned to the bus terminal through the toy store dazzle of Times Square.
“I just don’t think they should have made the raft a separate character,” said Emily.
“Riff-Raft?” said Erno. “But she’s the narrator. She told you what was going on.”
“Mark Twain didn’t need a talking raft in the book. Or a rapping scarecrow.”
“Scott, tell my sister that everything doesn’t have to be exactly like the precious book.”
Scott started. “What?”
“You’re still upset,” Emily told him. “About Denton teasing you.”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“Forget about it,” said Erno. “Everyone else has.”
The thing is, they probably had. Scott was nothing if not forgettable.
Back at the Port Authority there was some sort of situation. Two flashing police cruisers were up on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, grille to grille. A crowd had formed, and three uniformed officers attempted to push back these people with outstretched arms and patently false claims that there was nothing to see. Another officer, on horseback, paced the street. And in the center of it all, two more policemen squared off against each other like big dogs.
“Let’s not do this here, man,” one of these officers was saying in soothing tones. “We can talk about it at the station.”
The other man took a step back, took a step forward, his boyish face tangled with fear and anger. “We’ll go back to the station when you admit I’ve apprehended a suspect !” he said, pointing to the backseat of one of the cop cars. “This is not cool, guys! I know I’m the rookie and all, but—”
“Not in front of the juveniles,” said the first officer, glancing at Scott’s class.
“We’re not juveniles,” Erno muttered.
“It just means kids ,” said Emily. “Nothing bad.”
An electronic red news crawl on an adjoining building declared the DOW DOWN and REGGIE DWIGHT PUNCHESQUEEN and then POLICE DISRUPTION AT PORT AUTHORITY BUS TERMINAL . It flashed like a marquee for the weird bit of drama playing out in front of them.
Scott craned his neck to look at the rookie’s car. There was someone in the backseat, but the suspect was very small. Smaller than a toddler. He wondered….
If Scott Doe had a talent, it was his ability to walk about unnoticed. When not actually calling attention to himself in bus station bathrooms or by defending his indefensible given name, he was one of those kids who could practically disappear in a crowded room. Inconspicuous. Unremarkable. It had always been that way.
So now when Scott shuffled away from his class and approached the police car, Ms. Egami did not notice. Even Erno and Emily didn’t notice, transfixed as they were by the police and the strobing lights. Scott stepped up to the cruiser on the street side, away from the cops, and looked in the rear window.
It was the little man again. He was slumped in the backseat, his round fists ringed by
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