“Bet your stomach is hurting pretty bad,” she said when we were walking home.
“Is not,” I insisted. Then we both got quiet, and she started laughing because I was practically running, I had to get home to the bathroom so bad.
Or the other time we decided to order slices with all the gross things on them we never usually eat, like mushrooms and pineapple and Alfredo sauce. We each got to pick the other person’s toppings, and Jairo was willing to make it, so I ended up with artichokes, which are gross enough, but pineapple with Alfredo sauce is more disgusting. Joy laughed so hard trying to eat that, the pineapple-flavored white sauce came shooting out her nose.
But mostly what hits me right now is how hungry I am.
Jairo is working today, so I could ask him to spot me a slice, and he would. He’s Justin’s friend Neco’s older brother, and he’s, like, twenty already, and way more responsible than Neco. Pretty much the nicest guy in the world. He’s worked at Vincent’s since high school, so now he’s a manager and could do it, but since I’m about to “deface the property,” like the sign over the garbage pail says not to do, it doesn’t feel right accepting a slice of pizza for free.
It’s lunchtime, so at least the place is busy enough to take the attention off me, but not so busy that I can’t get the table I wanted by myself, which is also good luck. I head toward it, our table, the one we sit at most, whenever it’s free. The one where I ate the whole pizza and she ate the pineapple and Alfredo. That’s the exact table I need.
I slide into the side facing out to the water and open the newspaper someone left here. I pretend I’m reading and waiting for food.
I turn pages importantly, then twist to see the counter. Jairo is back there, yelling orders. He doesn’t see me, and there are, like, seven people lined up, so I slip my pocketknife out, the one Dad bought Justin when he was in fifth grade, and then Justin gave me for Christmas last year, because now he has a new one, a deluxe, with twelve different things on it, including pliers, a screwdriver, and a bottle opener.
I look up out at the water in the distance, my brain thinking about the best way to carve the clue. But then I wonder about Justin and Chance, and if they’re already out on the Angler. And suddenly I’m thinking about Rand and the first time he took us out, right after he moved in with us.
* * *
Crack of dawn, Saturday, Rand, Justin, and me pile into Rand’s truck. We have a cooler full of sandwiches and fresh-baked cookies with us, because last night Mom was making a whole big deal about it, like we weren’t just heading to the Point. Now, since there’s no back seat for us kids, she stands at the truck window saying goodbye all anxious and stuff, making Rand promise to drive careful and slow and to please not drink any beer.
Just as we’re about to pull out, we notice how the sun is coming up, slashing the deep blue horizon with pink, and lavender, and gold. So Mom puts her hand on Rand’s on the wheel, and he turns off the engine, and we all get out and sit on the hood, because it’s way too pretty not to watch. “Like God himself is painting it,” Mom whispers, holding tight to Rand’s hand, but I wonder if she’s thinking about Dad.
Later, on the Angler in the middle of the bay, we choose our sandwiches and sodas, and we’re eating and talking and having fun. And then Rand has a beer in his hand, I don’t even know where from. And he’s drinking it, so him and Justin are fighting, then Justin and me are fighting, because Justin says he’s gonna tell Mom, and I’m saying, “Let’s don’t tell her, because she has enough problems without having to deal with that.”
* * *
Right on this table, there’s stuff carved everywhere, so I don’t feel too bad, even if there is a NO DEFACING sign. Dumb stuff and funny stuff and rude stuff, and lots of names and initials carved inside of hearts.
I trace my finger along one of those, mad that my brain is thinking about doing that instead—carving L.B. + J.F. inside some dopey heart just to see what it might look like there, all permanent like that. But what if she saw it? So I’d have to just scratch it right away. Besides, I have to get this clue done, so I pull the newspaper over my hand and dig in. The wood of the table gives easily under the blade, but the curves of the 3 are still hard to get smooth so small, and with my face bent over what I’m doing, I nearly nick myself in the nose, trying.
“How you doing, Lukas?”
I have a heart attack, drop the knife on the table, and flatten my palm. The newspaper drifts and settles over my hand. Jairo stands over me. “You here alone, kid? Eating anything?” He puts a container of red pepper flakes down on my table. A lemony-smelling rag is squeezed in his other hand.
“No, just waiting,” I stammer, then add some more information because I don’t like to lie, so I need to prop it up with a little truth. “It’s Joy’s birthday tomorrow….And we do this thing. Like a treasure hunt, kind of. I know that sounds dumb. But I came here to hide one of the clues.” Leaving the knife under the newspaper, I slide my hand out, reach in my pocket, and hold out the folded next clue to him. “I was going to tape this here, under the table, if it’s okay? It’ll be gone by tomorrow, promise. She’ll know to come in here and find it.”
He unfolds the paper, leaving the black 2 in my chicken scrawl staring down at me like the mark of Zorro.
“ ‘Half up half down what’s old,’ ” he reads aloud, with no breaks or pauses where he needs to, which messes with the rhythm and the rhyme scheme, making my words, the whole clue, sound really stupid. “ ‘Is now new. Ask for her by name, eight-four-three-two.’ ” He hands the paper back to me. “I don’t get it.”
“Yeah,” I say, my ears reddening. “You didn’t exactly read it right. But she will.”
“Suit yourself,” Jairo says. “So, you want a slice?”
I nod, feeling bad. “Sure, I would. But I don’t have any money today.”
“Ah, gotcha. No worries. It’s on me. Just pay it forward,” he says.
When he goes back to put my slice in the oven, I pull the small roll of tape from my pocket and seal the clue under the table, then finish carving the rest of the numbers in:
Find the table with the other kind of PIe.
Pi—3.14.
There.
No way Joy will miss them.
Still, I gouge the oval around them deeper, just to be sure.
The air conditioner sounds exactly the same as I remember, and I don’t know if I ever noticed it before, but now I do. It hisses and spits. It rattles, or maybe that’s my heart pounding. In either case, I am afraid to open my eyes as I push open the door and walk into Vincent’s Pizza. Instead, I squeeze them shut and I take a long second to wish as hard as I can that Lukas’s clue is still here, somewhere. And that I’ll be able to find it.