Grasshopper Jungle - Andrew Smith

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desperately wished they’d stop talking about the penis in the jar, but Grant and his friends were like lonely parakeets in front of a mirror.

      Finally, after they’d exhausted all speculation and conversational rhetoric on the topic of penises in jars, the boys stood there numbly for a moment, apparently unable to detach their eyes. I heard the sound of something heavy and solid sliding on one of the shelves.

      The blue shadows in the room swirled.

      Tyler had lifted the globe.

      It was not a good idea.

      “Let’s go. I’m thirsty,” he said.

      They left the door to Johnny’s office standing open.

      The blue light danced away into the darkness of the back room, and then faded entirely.

      I grabbed Robby’s wrist and pulled him out from our hiding place. Then I led him back through the shop and up the ladder to the roof.

      ROBBY BREES AND I had our priorities.

      As soon as we closed the hatch and were outside on the roof again, we lit cigarettes.

      Smoking dynamos.

      “Shit,” Robby said.

      “Shit,” I agreed.

      Shit, like the word okay, can mean any number of things. In fact, in the history I recorded in my book for that one Friday in Ealing, Iowa, I believe I used the word shit in every possible context.

      I will have to go back through the history and check.

      Robby and I said shit—nothing else—approximately eleven more times as we smoked our cigarettes up on the roof.

      “What do you think that shit in the ball was?” Robby said.

      “I don’t know. You read the nameplate on it. It said Contained Plague .”

      “Nothing good is ever called Plague,” Robby said.

      “Maybe it was just some glow-in-the-dark experimental stuff,” I said.

      “I’ve done an experiment. We made a battery out of a lemon. Remember that?” Robby asked.

      “Yes. It was a good experiment,” I agreed. I nodded like a scientist would. “We knew what was supposed to happen before we even started it. And it worked.”

      “But I don’t think things called Plague are the subject of the kinds of experiments we do in the lab at Curtis Crane,” Robby said.

      That’s what it was—what Robby and I had done up there on the roof at Grasshopper Jungle—I thought.

      An experiment.

      It is perfectly normal for boys to experiment. I read it somewhere that was definitely not in a book at Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy. Or if it was in a book, it would certainly no longer be part of Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy’s library collection. Not after the shit I did in eighth grade.

      Maybe I heard some psychologist who specialized in Teen Sexuality say shit about things like Boys experimenting on one of those afternoon talk shows that are only on television for the fulfillment of depressed and lonely women.

      Depressed and lonely women need to know about Teen Sexuality and how it’s normal for boys to experiment. Normal. That’s what the psychologist would say. The psychologist also would have been a slim woman with nicely trimmed hair, a sincere and calming smile, and modest jewelry.

      That was bullshit.

      History shows that real experiments, like the one we did with the lemon, always involve some reasonable expectation ahead of time about the outcome. About how things will work out.

      Robby slid the pack of cigarettes into the back pocket on his sagging jeans and we gathered up our flamingo, wine, grimacing lemur, and skateboards. We made our way down the ladder and onto the dumpster we’d rolled across Grasshopper Jungle.

      “Don’t say anything to Shann,” I cautioned.

      I didn’t need to tell Robby that. It was just one of those things boys do sometimes to confirm that there are secrets that shall be protected.

      Robby said, “You mean about what we saw in her stepdad’s office, or what we did up on the roof ?”

      I said, “Shit.”

      I imagined I had two arguing and confused heads sprouting up from my shoulders.

      I felt sadness for that other boy inside the jar in Johnny McKeon’s office.

      SHANN WAS SLEEPING soundly in the backseat of Robby’s Ford Explorer when we came back to the car. She stretched out comfortably, with her head lying on some crumpled socks and a pair of Robby’s boxers that had fire trucks and Dalmatians on them.

      Watching Shann sleep made me horny.

      I was all messed up.

      I thought I probably needed to talk to someone about how sexually confused I felt. I couldn’t talk to Robby about it, not after what we did on the roof. I thought, but only for half a second, about talking to Pastor Roland Duff. But I already felt guilty as it was.

      I thought I could talk to my father.

      It scared me to think about doing that, but my father would know what to tell me. He could help me sort things out. I just needed to work up the courage to start the conversation. Then everything would fall into place.

      Everything always falls into place that way.

      “Shann?” I whispered.

      I ran my hand up her leg to wake her.

      Shann opened her eyes slowly. She smiled at me.

      I felt guilty and sad.

      “Did you and Robby already go?” she asked.

      I said yes, but didn’t tell her we’d been gone for over an hour. It was nearly 2:00 a.m.

      Robby opened the Explorer’s rear gate and deposited our flamingo, the grimacing lemur head, skateboards, and wine bottles.

      He already held an unlit cigarette in his mouth when he got behind the wheel.

      Robby passed the pack to me and started the engine. We lit both our cigarettes on the same orange coiled moon burning at the end of the car’s lighter. Our faces were so close our cheeks touched. I looked Robby straight in the eye as we leaned in to get the cigarettes going. It was awkward. I felt sad for Robby.

      I turned around and reached back between the seats. I held Shann’s hand.

      Behind her, I saw a glowing blue ball floating down the steps in back of the vacant podiatrist’s office. Grant and the Hoover Boys were coming out from the mall.

      I glanced at Robby.

      I was certain he saw the same thing in the rearview mirror. We both knew better than to say anything and have Shann turn around. She would only start asking questions. Maybe she’d want to confront those punks.

      In a lot of ways, Shann was tougher than Robby and me.

      Maybe the boys were already drunk. I can’t be certain of it. But something happened to cause Tyler to let go of the glass globe. I watched the circle of blue light drop like a falling moon.

      Robby coughed.

      Back in Grasshopper Jungle, blue light splattered everywhere.

      “I’m ready to go home,” I said.

      “Um. Yeah,” Robby agreed.

      Robby’s hands gripped the wheel,

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