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Overview
Eddie McCall is a good kid. He does his homework, picks up around the house, and cooks dinner for his single mom when she has to work late at a Chicago hotel. Then Eddie's best friend, Whip, shows him a printout from the Internet- a picture of an honest-to-gosh naked woman-and suddenly Eddie can't seem to think about anything else. He knows his mom will be upset if she sees the sites he's visiting. Still, he doesn't expect her to ship him off to her hometown of Sheldon, Indiana, to live with his great-uncle Peavey for an entire month. Peavey isn't exactly the father figure thirteen-year-old Eddie's been looking for. He spits tobacco juice into a can, calls a toilet a "commode," and certainly doesn't own a computer.
As it turns out, however, both Peavey McCall and Sheldon, Indiana, hold some very surprising secrets . . .
The author captures two worlds in this tender and funny look at a boy learning what it really means to be a man.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466893610 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 04/28/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 162 |
| File size: | 224 KB |
| Age Range: | 10 - 14 Years |
About the Author
Chris Woodworth is the author of Double-Click for Trouble, Georgie’s Moon, and When Ratboy Lived Next Door. Georgie’s Moon has received both the award and honor for the Best Book of Indiana for Children’s Literature. Her other books have also been chosen for several state reading lists. She has lived in Indiana for most of her life, and now resides in Mooresville, North Carolina with her husband and children. Like Ivy, Chris learned at an early age not to repeat anything she wasn't supposed to hear.
Read an Excerpt
Double-Click for Trouble
By Chris Woodworth
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2008 Christina WoodworthAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9361-0
CHAPTER 1
At night I pull my blanket over my head. It blocks out the clickety sound of Mom's computer, as well as the light that sneaks in around the window blind. It was my favorite way to fall asleep until Mr. Black, my science teacher, taught us about how expelling carbon dioxide can make you sleepy. He says that too much can kill you. I didn't die from it before I learned that, but now, no matter how good I feel under that blanket, I start thinking about breathing used-up air. Next thing I know, I'm yanking off the covers, gasping.
Mr. Black ruined one of my joys in life, is how I see it.
Like tonight. I almost drift off, then remember that I'm breathing poison. I throw back the blanket, and cool air fans across my face, getting me good and awake. I open the door and look out into the living room. Mom is bent over her computer keyboard. Her long hair, blond like mine, is pulled back into a ponytail.
Mom works at the Chicago Hilltop Hotel, at their coffee bar called Riverside Room. She has to get up super early and take a bus across town so she can smile and make sure the guests' days get off to a good start with a cappuccino or latte. All they have to do is roll out of bed and take an elevator downstairs, no smiles required. Then Mom takes a college class in the afternoons, comes home, and takes more online. She always stays up late working on her homework.
Homework is another joy-killer in my life. But I don't just hate my own. I hate seeing Mom so stressed out over hers. Like now, hunched over the computer when she should be resting.
I ease my door open and our cat, Princess, slinks around the corner and jumps onto the windowsill. I walk Comanche-style, toe-heel-toeheel, so Mom won't hear me. Princess watches my every move but sits like a statue. For once I'm glad she's a cat, and not the dog I'd rather have. Sidestepping the loose floorboard beside the end table, I sneak up behind Mom, gently take the tip of her ponytail, and tickle the back of her neck. She jumps a foot.
"Eddie McCall! You know that annoys me!" She spins around in her desk chair. "Why aren't you asleep?"
"It's Mr. Black's fault," I say.
Her frown changes into that look of concern she gets. "Oh, Eddie, don't tell me you're having trouble in science."
I grab the Rubik's Cube she's had since the eighties off her desk and twist it. "Mom, please. Not the 'school is important' lecture again. And, no, I'm not having trouble."
She takes the puzzle from my hand. "Are you sure?"
Then I remember that progress reports come out soon.
"Not that I know of," I add, just in case. I go to the fridge, pull the handle, and grab the carton of milk.
"Then what is it?"
"It's hard to sleep with all that typing. Besides, you're always tired, Mom. Why don't you give it a rest?"
She reaches for her ponytail, pulls off the thing that looks like a scrunched-up snake, and runs her hands through her hair. You'd think her hair is her favorite toy, the way she puts it up and takes it down about a gazillion times a day.
"Eddie, I'm sorry." She comes over and takes two glasses out of the cabinet. "But when am I supposed to do my homework?"
"You could let me type it for you." Typing is the only thing Mom allows me to do on the computer. And only when she's home.
"Or let me do research for you on the Internet." I smile at her, trying to copy the picture she framed of me as a kindergartner, even though I've had seven more school pictures taken since. It's the one with the smile that she says melts her heart.
"Nice try," she says, heart frozen solid.
I sigh. There's no competing with a wide-eyed, toothless smile when your permanent teeth came in three sizes too big.
I don't think Mom's typing at night would bother me nearly as much if she would let me surf the Net. I have computer-envy. Now, there's an expanded vocabulary word. I'll have to use it on Mrs. Cabot, my English teacher.
I try again. "Mom, other kids go online. It's not like I'd go to any Web sites you wouldn't want me to." I don't make eye contact on that one.
"It's not just that, young man. With two of my classes online, I don't know how I'd keep up my schedule if the computer got a virus."
"Haven't you heard of antivirus software?"
"I have that, Eddie. Still, you can't be too careful. The computer is a gift from Uncle Peavey. A very generous gift that I could never replace."
Mom's uncle, Peavey, is the only relative she has now besides me. He comes at Christmastime bearing gifts, but that's his only resemblance to Santa. Thin and short, he looks more like a shy elf. Still, I want to say if he can afford one computer, he can probably afford another, but I don't think I'd score any points with that.
Mom pours milk into the glasses. "You think the computer drives you crazy? You should see what it does to me. If I don't have my work done, it's almost like a person sitting there glaring at me. It won't let me go to sleep until my work is finished."
I take the glass she offers and feel bad. We live in a small apartment. Mom gave me the only bedroom, which means she sleeps on the pull-out sofa. The milk doesn't taste so good, but I make myself drink it. I don't want it to go to waste, because bedrooms aren't the only thing we're short on. We don't have a lot of money, either.
"Sorry, Mom," I say as I head back to bed. Tomorrow I'm going to look up sorry in the thesaurus during English class. It's the word that I need to expand in my vocabulary, since it's definitely the one I use the most.
* * *
Next morning the buzzing from the alarm clock feels like a drill working its way through my brain. I hit the top of the clock to shut it off and throw back the covers. If I stay warm, I know I'll go back to sleep.
I step into my jeans and pull on my orange T-shirt that says PROPERTY OF CHICAGO CORRECTIONAL FACILITIES. I saved my allowance for three weeks to buy it at one of the stores on Navy Pier. When Mom saw it, she rolled her eyes and said, "Please, God, let this not be a sign of things to come." It's my favorite.
Every morning Mom hangs a note on the medicine cabinet before she goes to work: it says "Brush teeth and use deodorant!" I rip it off, wad it, and shoot it into the trash. She treats me like a baby, but I don't say anything because I know she feels bad that she isn't here when I get ready for school.
Mom used to work as a hostess for a restaurant. When dinner was ready at home, she'd pretend I was a customer. "This way, sir. Please watch your step, sir." Then she'd put a folded paper in my hand like a menu. Inside she'd have drawn a burger or whatever we were going to eat, because I wasn't old enough to read. But that was when Mrs. McIntosh lived upstairs and babysat me. Now our neighbors are the Sweeneys, and Mom changed jobs so she could be home with me after school.
I check Princess's water dish, snatch a Pop-Tart, and lock up. In the hall I grab my basketball. Nothing gets my day off to a better start than to shoot a few before the bus comes. I pull down the basketball hoop that's attached to the front of the building, stash my book bag, and lose myself to the rhythm. Just the ball, the rim, and me. Perfect.
I make my third basket out of three when the door opens and out blasts my best friend, Jared Sweeney. His brown hair looks black because it's still wet. Jared's motto is "Dad can force me to wash, but he can't force me to be neat." And it's true. He shampoos but draws the line at combing.
"Yo!" I yell, but he doesn't hear me with earbuds glued to his head. I chuck the ball at him to get his attention. He must have seen it out of the corner of his eye and catches it. He has great reflexes.
"Nice try," he says about my aborted attempt to hit him with the ball. He dribbles it to the beat of his iPod back to the front door, tosses it into our building, then stands beside me to wait for the bus.
It's great living in the same apartment building as my best friend. Jared's the kind of guy I'd like to be. He's funny, awesome at sports, and has so much. Mom says his divorced parents are both trying to buy his love. I wish she could afford to buy mine.
The only thing I have that Jared doesn't is a full-time mom. He lives with his dad. His mom lives in another state, so she just visits. At least Jared has a dad; I don't.
Well, I suppose I have a dad, but I've never seen him. I must have his eyes, though, because mine are blue and Mom's and Uncle Peavey's are brown. Mom gets agitated when I ask about him, so I back off. Sometimes I think she doesn't let me have access to the Internet because she's afraid I'll find him. You read about that stuff all the time. People who are adopted find their birth parents online. And I'm not saying that thought hasn't crossed my mind, but how can you find a person when you don't even know his name?
Maybe someday she'll tell me. I think she worries I might care that she never married my dad, but that's not the problem. I wish there was a man around to answer the kind of questions I can't ask Mom. She doesn't have any brothers or sisters. My grandma died before I was born, and my grandpa passed away when I was four. That leaves just my great-uncle Peavey, my grandpa's brother. I guess I know him a little, but we're not what you'd call tight. Plus, he's so shy he doesn't exactly invite questions.
"Only three more days, Eddie," Jared says to me.
"Three days, Whip." I call him by his nickname. We both go to Randolph Middle School, a year-round school, which isn't as bad as it sounds. We go to school on a twelve-week track, get four off for vacation, go twelve, get off four, and so on for the whole year. We only have three more days until the next vacation. Whip counts down every day, even if it's the first day of the track.
Although we've both just been promoted to eighth grade, we don't share the same classes. Two years ago, the school did testing and put me into the Advanced Placement Program. When I got bumped up, Jared called me "The Professor." I loved it. Not the name, especially, but you feel like you belong when someone gives you a nickname. Jared puts Miracle Whip on everything he eats, so I call him Whip. He soon lost interest and went back to my name, but I still call him Whip, secretly wishing he cared enough to call me by a nickname, too.
Mom was thrilled when the teachers told her they thought I was so smart I'd get bored, and they wanted me to be challenged. All that means is I have to work twice as hard now, while Whip gets to sing jingles like "Verbs are something you do-do-do." I have DragonBreath Mrs. Cabot urging me to "expand my vocabulary," and I don't get to be in any classes with Whip.
"It's good to get a little distance, Eddie," Mom said. "You live in the same building and can see him all the time, anyway."
What she really meant was she doesn't like him. I can tell by the way her voice gets sharper and her answers shorter when I talk about him. Kind of like she gets when I ask about my dad. If I question why she doesn't like Whip, she says things like "I like him, it's just that he's unsupervised." It's no more Whip's fault he doesn't have a mom than it's my fault I don't have a dad. I don't tell her that, though, because I value my life.
The school bus pulls up and Whip thump-thumps his way up the steps, dragging his book bag. It's his second one this year — barely used. Mine is the same one I've had since sixth grade and it's on my back.
Whip and I have sat in different rows on the bus since the driver went nutso on us. Who would have thought shooting jellybeans from our noses would be that big a deal? But we figured out that if we wait for two more stops, the bus is packed enough that Whip can sneak into his old seat next to me, which he does today.
"Last night I was looking up Inca ruins on the computer," he says.
"Just last night?" I say. "You said it's due today, you moron."
"Whatever. Listen." He leans closer. "Dad was online before me and had turned off the parental controls. He forgot to turn them back on."
"So?"
"So, a pop-up ad came on. One of those asking if you're a good kisser. Not that I care about that, you know."
"No," I say. "Who would?"
"But I figured it might lead to something else, so I clicked it."
"Yeah?" I'm wondering why he's telling me this.
"I didn't find out how to kiss," he says, "but I found something worth kissing, if you know what I mean."
I don't.
He looks around, unzips the front pocket of his book bag, and pulls out a printout of a full-grown, honest-to-gosh buck-naked woman.
"Meet Jessica," he says.
When Whip shows me the picture, my mouth goes dry and my eyeballs hurt. He's looking at me and I know I have to say something but I don't know what, because:
Number one, I've never seen a naked girl before.
And number two, Whip looks happy! Whip, the guy who hates girls, is holding up a picture of this Jessica like he caught a prize fish.
Before I can think of an answer, the bus driver slams on the brakes. I get knocked forward into the back of the seat in front of me. The driver yells, "Stupid dog! You kids okay?"
Mom talks a lot about divine intervention. It's when something unexpected happens that changes your plans. For instance, if we decide to go to the movies but there's suddenly a plumbing problem and we have to wait for the super, Mom'll say, "It's divine intervention," meaning we weren't meant to go out that afternoon. I hate it when she says that.
When the bus stops moving, Whip shoves the picture back into his book bag. I gain a few extra seconds to let the hot feeling in my face cool off.
Divine intervention, definitely.
As soon as the driver sees we're all right, he hits the road again.
"So, what were we talking about?" I say to Whip, acting calm, as if seeing a naked girl for the first time is no big deal.
"Didn't you even see the picture?" he asks in a whisper that is louder than his regular voice.
"Oh, that. Yeah." I hope he doesn't ask what I think because I'm still not sure.
"So, what do you think?"
Man.
I mentally run through what I call my Oprah Archives. Mom watches The Oprah Winfrey Show every day. It's filmed here in Chicago and a friend took her to see it once. Now she's an Oprah fanatic. I don't get it, but I've found if I listen in I can mentally file away some good stuff to use on Mom later. Like the time I got out of going to Boy Scout meetings by telling her they were "crushing my spirit."
"How did it make you feel?" I say, turning the question around to Whip. It's one of Oprah's better ones.
The bus pulls up in front of school. He grabs his bag handle and stands up. "How'd you think I felt, freak?"
It works better when Oprah says it.
But now I know exactly why Mom doesn't want me on the Internet.
CHAPTER 2It takes until second period for my heart to stop knocking against my chest, pumping blood so hard I hear it roaring past my eardrums.
During gym class I concentrate on the basketball and the net. Ball. Net. Ball. Net. Skin. No!
I try to push the picture of "Jessica" out of my mind. Jessica. Cool name. No! Ball. Net. Ball. Net.
It isn't working.
In fourth-period art class, I sit leaning over my still-life charcoal sketch of fruit. I study the bowl with apples, grapes, and a tangerine. Then I notice the girl sitting next to it as she stretches and arches her back. I see the twin bumps under her shirt. I cough like a maniac to account for my red face.
"You okay?" the kid next to me asks.
I clear my throat. "Yeah." I get back to my drawing, too embarrassed to look again.
"There's only one tangerine." His voice pierces my thoughts.
"Huh?" I raise my head. He points to my picture with his piece of charcoal.
"We're supposed to draw the fruit that's on the table, not improvise."
I'm surprised to see I've drawn two tangerines, all right. Side by side, looking just like ...
I could murder Whip. Only last year we made a pact never to date girls. Not even when we're old, like, thirty. We said girls were gross. The grossest of the gross. Spending time with them was worse than eating brussels sprouts, we said. Now he had to go and ruin it all with a picture that should make me gag instead of wanting to sneak another peek at a girl's shirt like a pervert.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Double-Click for Trouble by Chris Woodworth. Copyright © 2008 Christina Woodworth. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
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