Milo and the Restart Button Read online

  The bad news about my first day has to do with the girl with the watermelon smell. By the time I got home, there was a purple note taped to our front door that read Nice to meet ya, Milo!! And it was signed with her name.

  i hate leprechauns

  HOUSE #5 ISN’T BAD. IT DOESN’T HAVE the secret stink that House #3 had so already that’s a plus.

  I have my own room this time, which means my sister has less to bug me about. Three houses ago (“The Apartment of Endless Stairs”) we had to share a room, and she actually painted a line down the middle and labelled all the things I could touch, which, seeing as I was further from the door, meant that the trash basket and my own bed were pretty much the only things I could lay a finger on.

  Since the light switch was on her side of the room, I was stuck in the dark a lot more than I would’ve liked, but I used a torch to read and go to the bathroom and one time used it to whack my sister on the knee because she said I had to hold my breath for the rest of the night because I’d accidentally breathed “her air,” and even I knew you can’t divide air. After that I didn’t have a torch anymore, but we moved to House #4 a month later, and then nothing really mattered much and definitely not a stupid torch!

  House #4 is the Fog House because when I think back to that house, that’s what I feel like in my brain. Everything gets all grey and cloudy, and even though it was probably the nicest-looking house, it’ll always be a blurry, fog-filled place to me – the house where everything went from one thing . . . to another.

  In Life that’s what happens: Things start off as ONE THING, then become SOMETHING ELSE.

  • TADPOLES become FROGS.

  • MAGGOTS become FLIES.

  • BICYCLES left out in the rain for two months become FOR SALE items (and you get only ten bucks for yours because of all the rust and because someone stole both tyres!).

  Before the Fog House, I was one thing. But after the Fog House . . . well, I’m still not sure what I’ve become.

  Summer Goodman lives in an awesome house, and I’m sure there isn’t a pinch of fog anywhere even close to it. I don’t know how many times she’s moved because maybe you don’t remember, but I don’t really talk to her that much or actually ever.

  Hillary Alpert, I have to talk to mainly because she lives next door, rides the same school bus, and also likes to eat Lucky Charms cereal without the magical marshmallow bits.

  When I was little, I really believed the leprechaun on TV when he said that the marshmallow charms were magic. That’s when I stopped eating them and would use my spoon to quickly herd the charms all up and scoop them to safety before my mom dumped on the milk. Then I’d run up to my room and add them to my secret stash of clovers, moons, hearts, and that other shape inside my money box, which looked and smelled like it used to be full of cigars.

  I really believed those shapes were magically magic and not just magically delicious (which they weren’t!). Every couple days or so I’d take a few out and try to wish for stuff – like a dog, or a new action figure, or one time I tried to turn my sister into an ant so I could step on her and say, Hey squirt, how does that feel, huh?

  After my mom first got sick, I used them a lot. Every day I’d try a new shape. Or a combination of shapes. And then no shapes at all.

  I found out those charms weren’t magic or lucky. They were just stale candy, and I gave up on magic after flushing my secret box of charms down the toilet. And because I saw through the leprechaun’s lies, I decided from that moment on to eat only the cereal flakes and let those stupid shapes drown in the milk and get all soggy and worthless, which is exactly what they are!

  Hillary Alpert never told me why she doesn’t eat the marshmallow bits. Maybe she has a relative who choked on a clover and had to have an emergency operation, which would definitely explain why someone else would steer clear of the things.

  As next-door neighbours go, Hillary is kind of a pain – except for the fact that she knows where Summer Goodman lives. The way she tells it, one time she went to Summer’s house when they both took gymnastics together a zillion years ago. Hillary says Summer was lousy at gymnastics, but I think Hillary is just saying that to make up for the fact that Summer was probably the best in the class.

  Anyway, Hillary wrote down Summer’s address, and that’s how I know she lives at the very top of this huge hill called Salisbury Street, which is totally impossible to bike all the way up so you push your bike most of the way while walking out of breath behind it. Once at the top of Salisbury Street (and once you catch your breath), it’s so clear that Summer’s house is the one with flowers planted along the whole front yard. And even though I just mainly ride my bike back and forth past her house after school and on the weekends, and sometimes stop across the street and watch the place from behind some bushes just to make sure there aren’t signs of trouble, I can tell it’s a great place to live and I bet Summer has the best bedroom there.

  I can’t wait to tell Summer how fantastic her house is – once we get past the awkward phase of our relationship, which I hope will be before eighth grade or before I have to move again. And just to give that hope an extra little push, I break down and sneak a pink marshmallow heart from my cereal bowl and make the tiniest whisper-wish ever . . .

  . . . that Summer Goodman speaks to me soon.

  one-eyed jacks

  THE PHONE DOESN’T RING MUCH, AND when it does, it’s pretty much a safe bet that it isn’t ringing for me. I don’t believe in text messages or IMs or even e-mail, and if I had a mobile phone, you can be sure I’d never respond back to any of that stuff! If you want to talk to someone, you should just call them up or knock on their door or sit on your bike across the street and wait to just say hi.

  Anyway, when the phone rings and it is a person calling me, it’s one of two people.

  IT’S EITHER:

  Hillary Alpert, who wants to know what homework there is or if maybe I want to walk next door and watch a TV show at her house, which is dumb because she knows I have a TV in my house.

  OR IT’S:

  Marshall Hickler, who calls pretty much because he wants to, not because his mother is whispering in the background, “Because he’s new here and he’s had a tough time and you’re going to be nice to him.”

  If friends were playing cards, Marshall Hickler would be a Jack. No. Not just a Jack – he’d be a One-Eyed Jack because those are cooler and much more special than regular Jacks. Marshall isn’t an Ace or a King or a Queen because Aces don’t have a face, and Kings think they’re too good for the room, and Queens . . . well, come on, they’re girls!

  “One-Eyed Jack” is what I call him sometimes, and even though he doesn’t know why I do that, he doesn’t even care because “One-Eyed Jack” is way better than what other kids call him: “Marsh Mouth,” “Hickey Hickler” and a few other names that are really mean and nowhere near as super-great as “One-Eyed Jack.”

  Marshall doesn’t live next door like Hillary, but he does ride the same bus as me, which is how we met the day we both had to sit in the same seat – the one that some girl named Martha Vidwicki kinda barfed on. I mean, the barf was long gone but it was still the last seat left (due to the leftover smell), and since Marshall gets on a few stops before me, he had already bitten the bullet and decided to sit there. That’s why when I got on and saw that the only empty seat was next to the kid with the funny teeth, I didn’t care one bit if it reeked a little because he gave me the head nod, and even I know that meant it was okay to sit there.

  Sitting side by side on the smelly seat, I noticed he was wearing a Space Gizmoid T-shirt, which is probably the best video game in the history of forever. And right then I knew here was a kid who just might pass my friend test.

  To be honest, the only question that matters is the last one because it would be pretty hard for me to hang out with a real-life criminal, even if he had his own satellite TV in his bedroom or a swimming pool. Luckily, Marshall’s never been to prison, and he answered all the quest
ions without laughing or punching my shoulder, which I’m pretty sure is slightly deformed probably from being punched so often by kids who didn’t make the cut.

  So now when the phone rings and it isn’t for my sister and it isn’t my aunt checking up on my dad and it’s not Hillary Alpert wanting to know what channel her favourite TV show is on (like I care), it’s Marshall Hickler, and it’s a call just for me.

  Here’s how Marshall and I talk:

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  (Pause.)

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Not much. You?”

  (Pause.)

  “Nothin’.”

  (The pauses are okay because neither Marshall nor I worry that the other one is using the blank spaces to think of a way to tell the other one what a loser he is.)

  “You wanna meet at the Pit Stop? Grab a Freezie?”

  “I guess.”

  We go our different ways to arrive at the Pit Stop, and one of us or the other buys two Freezies, and hopefully the lime syrup is not empty because when it is, I suffer through the cherry, which to be honest, just tastes like old cough medicine. Then we sit outside and sip the icy drinks and talk about pretty much anything that pops into our heads or nothing at all, whichever comes first.

  Marshall never asks anything that might make me feel bad, and I do my best not to bring up certain stuff too. For instance, his dad doesn’t have a job and is hard at work trying to come up with quick ways to get rich. Marshall once had me over to his house, and his dad made us both try this electric pen thing he created using some idea he said he found on the Internet. According to Marshall’s dad, his electro-ink invention was going to put them straight on easy street, but all it really did was give my hand a wicked shock and ruin one of my favourite pair of jeans when the thing exploded.

  So I don’t ask him How’s your dad? and in return Marshall doesn’t ask me anything, which we both agree is pretty much safe territory.

  We don’t have many classes together (just gym and lunch) but that’s okay because no matter what happens between bus rides to and from school, I know I have a friend in One-Eyed Jack.

  stuff

  I’VE MEMORISED SUMMER GOODMAN’S SCHOOL schedule and do my best to casually linger near the places she might happen to be. Through careful planning, my goal is to be in the “vicinity” of Summer but not next to her or even within direct eye shot. I also ride my bike past her house as often as possible.

  Even though we’ve been in school only a few weeks, I’ve mapped our whole relationship out and see exactly how Summer and I are going to celebrate our monthly anniversaries. Of course, all this depends on my talking to her, which I have faith will definitely happen sooner rather than later because I’m practising every night in the mirror.

  Dabney St Claire says that “timing is everything,” which is why I make sure to wear a watch every day so I’m always ready just in case. I figure it’s like when you go to a baseball game and bring your glove because it’s possible a foul ball will come right at you. And even though you’re sitting under the grandstand roof where no balls ever go, you wear that baseball glove through the whole game, which makes the popcorn you buy taste like dirt and oil and other stuff you can’t even put a finger on – but probably already did – and all that matters is you feel ready for the slimmest-ever chance that the first stray ball in the history of baseball is going to be hit right at your impossible seats.

  Marshall tells me I’m dreaming, but what does he know? He’s never been in love with anyone but his dog, and dogs don’t know any better than to love you back – so where’s the effort there?

  So until my perfect plan gets the chance to be executed, and by “executed,” I mean “activated,” not “killed off” – though when you think about it, maybe that would be a better use of the word – anyway, until that moment arrives when Summer Goodman and I hold actual hands and not ones that I draw on an empty page in my notebook . . . until then I keep busy and do what I always do. Stuff.

  STUFF #1:

  When my mom was sick, I got to watch as much TV as I wanted as long as I didn’t have homework, which is so stupid because even if I did have homework, I would never tell anyone and they were all too busy and worried to notice that all I did was come home from school and turn on the TV and grab a bowl of ice cream.

  These days my dad doesn’t care what I watch or how much or when. So I make sure to keep the remote by my side at all times, and if I were a cowboy, it would be TV remotes in my holsters and not guns, which are dangerous in the real way and not in the “TV rots your brain” way.

  STUFF #2:

  Sometimes when there’s nothing on TV, I walk to the end of my street and sit on top of the red and blue mailbox and watch cars. It’s a pretty busy street – the kind with traffic lights and a bus route – so there’s always some traffic to look at. Marshall comes with me sometimes, and sometimes I just do it alone, but either way I do it because of the game I made up, which is pretty simple once you hear the rules:

  The Rules: I give myself a limited number of cars, like ten, and then I watch as they drive past me in either direction, and the object of my made-up game is to see if I can pick a car with a perfect family inside that I can have as my own.

  It’s not as easy as it sounds because (a) sometimes it’s just old people or taxicabs or a mom or dad screaming at their kids, so right away you don’t want to be in that family! And (b) even when you see a car with the right appearance inside, you only have a second to sum up if they are the family that will make you feel like you belong and tuck you in at night and go to the beach in the summer, where you all bury your dad in the sand and make him look like a mermaid.

  And if you can find the perfect family in one of the ten cars (or whatever number you pick), then you WIN and your life can be happy. But if you can’t, you go back home and do STUFF #1 until it’s time for bed.

  whack–a–mole

  SEPTEMBER IS ALMOST OVER. DABNEY St Claire says we should celebrate with a cake, but that would mean making one, and I’ve been banned from baking stuff since the time I thought double-chocolate brownies meant doubling the recipe and the stove kind of erupted.

  September used to mean waiting for the leaves to change colours, but now September is the month of new schools and new houses, where old feelings seem to be everywhere. But this September is different because this September includes Summer Goodman. Here is what I know about her so far:

  Those are the reasons that add up to why surviving this September is a piece of cake (one that I will not be baking anytime soon), and if you don’t believe me, just look back at my last couple of Summer-less Septembers to see how terrible they both were.

  Last September: Well, let’s face it – sixth grade and I never quite got along. I stopped counting how many times I went home sick. I stopped doing homework too.

  And the September before that was the September right after the fog swooped in and nothing was all right and time felt crooked. It was the first school year I had to start without “her,” and I was late a lot and stayed home a lot, and most of the year was a blur because the fog was really thick and there wasn’t a single thing that could make it clearer. But this September just feels different and I’m getting to be almost okay, and October is so close I can smell it. Dabney St Claire reminds me: One school month almost down – only nine more to go!

  The cool thing about September is it whizzes by thanks to all the time-wasting activities the school thinks help us kids have a “successful academic year”. Unfortunately, the one time-waster I don’t like is the “anti-bullying” assembly. It’s all so fake. The head-teacher will talk about how awful it is to get picked on and then get really serious and announce, as if it’s the end of World War III, “This school is a No-Bully Zone!” And then everyone cheers and hoot-hoots and all the kids who clearly are the kids who get bullied sit a little taller, and all the kids who do the bullying sit a little lower, and it kind of reminds me of one of tho
se Whack-A-Mole games, only the moles are the kids popping up in their seats, because everyone knows the bullies are just waiting until the assembly is over to whack each mole kid back into feeling scared and lousy.

  I don’t like bullies, and so it’s no surprise that they don’t like me. Even after almost one month I know my school has lots of them, and they usually stick out because they are the ones dunking kids’ heads in toilets or kicking lockers shut just when you finally figure out how to use your locker combination to get it open.

  Anyway, like I said before, September is nearly over, and I accomplished two amazing things: I am in love with Summer Goodman; and I have a real friend named One-Eyed Jack. Also, I am pretty sure I am already failing two subjects, but everyone knows you never need maths and who cares about gym?

  Lucky for me, there are plenty of things a kid can become without excellent maths skills, and that’s exactly what I say to my dad when the letter shows up telling him I really need extra help or else I’ll flunk.

  “I need this like I need a hole in my head,” my dad says as he puts the letter down on the table and then puts his own head in his hands, and I feel really sorry I am so much of a mess-up.

  “I can do better,” I lie. “I’ll do hypnosis.”

  Hypnosis worked before when he wanted to quit smoking, so why wouldn’t it help me figure out if x = 10, what is y? Besides, I secretly want to let some hypno-guy, who probably has a glass eye and a pet monkey, put me into a trance with his swinging watch.