His mother called, “Palmer, hurry. They’re coming.”
The doorbell rang.
“Palmer!”
He flew down the stairs.
His mother waved him on. “Go, go. It’s your birthday. You invited them.”
At the door he turned, suddenly afraid to open it. He did not want to be disappointed. “You sure it’s them?”
His mother’s eyes rolled. “No, it’s my Aunt Millie. Open it.”
He opened the door—and there they were! Beans. Mutto. Henry. Three grinning faces. Shoving wrapped gifts into his chest. Storming past him into his house, Beans bellowing, “Where’s the grub?”
Palmer stayed in the doorway, fighting back tears. They were tears of relief and joy. He had been sure they would not come. But they did. He wondered if they would give him a nickname. What would it possibly be? But that was asking too much. This was plenty. They were here. With presents! They liked him. He was one of them. At last.
Arms full of gifts, he pushed the door shut with his foot and joined them in the dining room. Beans was scooping chocolate icing from the birthday cake onto his finger. With the drama of a sword-swallower, he threw back his head and sank his finger into his mouth. When it came out, it was clean. Mutto cackled and did likewise. Henry stared at Palmer’s mother, who was glaring at Beans.
Palmer’s mother did not like Beans. She wasn’t crazy about Mutto or Henry either, but she especially did not like Beans. “He’s a sneak and a troublemaker,” she had said. “He’s got a mean streak.” And she was right. But he was also leader of all the kids on the street, at least the ones under ten years old. It had always been that way. Beans was boss as surely and naturally as any king who ever sat upon a throne.
“But he’s the boss,” Palmer would explain to his mother.
“Boss, my foot,” she would snort and turn away.
Some things mothers just did not understand.
“Open the presents!” Beans barked. He rapped on the table with a spoon. Mutto rapped a spoon also.
Palmer dumped the gifts onto the table and for the first time took a good look at them. They were wrapped in newspaper, sloppily fitted and closed with black tape. No ribbons, no bows, no bright paper.
He tore open the first. It was an apple core, brown and rotting. “It’s from me!” piped Mutto. “You like it?” Mutto howled.
Palmer giggled. “It’s great. Thanks.” What a guy, that Mutto.
The other gifts were a crusty, holey, once-white sock from Henry, and from Beans a thumb-size, brown something that Palmer finally recognized as an ancient cigar butt.
Silverware hopped as Beans and Mutto pounded the dining room table, laughing.
Palmer’s mother, still glaring, came with more gifts. These had ribbons and bows and beautiful paper. “Gee,” she said, “after those nice presents you just got, I feel really cheesy giving you this junk.”
Palmer opened them: a soccer ball, a book, a pair of sneakers, a Monopoly game.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said. It was pointless to say more, pointless to say, I like their presents just as much as yours, because they did it themselves. That means something. It means: We came into your house. We gave you a cigar butt. You are one of us.
Palmer’s mother lit the candles, nine of them on the chocolate cake with chocolate icing. She started off the “Happy Birthday” song but soon was drowned out by the boys, who screamed it rather than sang. When they came to the line “Happy birthday, dear”—they glanced at each other and belted out—“Sno-ots! Happy birthday to you!”
So they had done it after all, given him a nickname. Snots. He moved his tongue silently over the name, feeling its shape.
For a moment he wondered if he would be getting The Treatment, but he pushed that thought aside. He was getting greedy. He had already been blessed enough for one day.
“Make a wish,” said his mother, “and blow out the candles.”
He stared into the ring of candles—nine yellow flames, plump and liquidlike, perched on their wicks—and suddenly he felt the old fear, launching itself from his shoulder and brushing a wingtip across his cheek. And just as suddenly it was gone and Beans was croaking, “Hey, we ain’t got all day. I got lotsa wishes if you don’t.” Beans leaned across the table, took a deep breath and blasted away. The flames vanished. Wick tips glowed orange for a second, then turned black.
Let Beans blow away, Palmer didn’t care. Nothing could blow out the candleglow he felt inside. Palmer LaRue—Snots—the world’s newest nine-year-old—was one of the guys.