“Someone grew about a foot and a half since the last time I saw him!” Bartleby said.
Even though the last time Bartleby had seen me was about nine months before, near the beginning of my eighth-grade year at Dick Dowling Middle School, and there was no way I could have grown that much, I didn’t bother pointing out Bartleby’s obvious exaggeration.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“Ha! Is that any way to say hello to your best nonhuman friend, Sam?”
Bartleby tugged at the whiskers under his chin with a curled and yellowed armadillo claw. Then Bartleby’s eyes shifted from side to side like a lawyer preparing to argue for an obviously guilty client’s innocence. “Uh. You don’t have any pets, by any chance, do you?”
Mom was allergic to cats and dogs. At least, that’s what she always said.
“No,” I said.
“So like I said, is that any way to say hello to your better-than-best nonhuman friend? Anyway, I dug a tunnel,” Bartleby said.
“It’s fifteen miles from Blue Creek to the Uniontown Mall,” I said.
Bartleby pursed his armadillo lips and nodded. “Yeah. And I would have been here sooner, but I ran into a bunch of rocks and a buried Cadillac under the old graveyard. But that doesn’t matter now, because you’ve got some important things to do, Sam!”
“Like what?” I said.
“Well, for starters, you’ve got to snap out of this being-afraid-of-going-to-school thing.”
“I don’t know. It’s not the going-to-school thing that’s bothering me; it’s the going thing. I think I’m too small to leave Blue Creek. Thinking about being at school in Oregon with a bunch of kids who are all practically grown-up is really scary. I don’t think I’m smart enough or good enough. I feel like I’m not ready.”
Bartleby snorted a disgusted hiss. “That is not the Sam Abernathy I’ve known for… for…”
Then Bartleby clicked his armadillo claws together like he was counting.
“For…”
Bartleby sighed and said, “Help me out, Sam. I think I ran out of claws.”
“Eight years,” I said.
Bartleby’s lips stretched wide in a toothy armadillo grin. Also, he had very bad breath. “Eight years! Yes, sir! The Sam I met while I was digging around eight years ago—he was no quitter! He would have left Blue Creek on the spot! And what you’re about to do—going to school and learning how to be a great chef—this is exactly what that Sam Abernathy would have wanted more than anything else! So, kid, tell me this: Who are you, and what did you do with the real Sam Abernathy?”
And when Bartleby said “real Sam Abernathy,” his eyes got big and dark, like he was confronting a swindler at his front door.31
But, as always, Bartleby was right.
I sighed.
Bartleby continued, “And another thing. No. Two more things, Sam. First—and this is very important—if you go inside that house, it would be nice if you’d look for Ishmael. Everyone misses him. Just tell him we’re all down in the basement if you see him. Not the regular basement, the one that’s way down below. You know, the one you’ve been to before.”
I had no idea who Ishmael was or what Bartleby was even talking about.
“What house?” I said.
Bartleby shook his head. Little bits of dirt fell from his whiskers. “You know, Ethan Pixler’s place. Well, his wife’s house, technically. I mean, it’s not her house anymore, right? Because she’s dead and everything.”
“The Purdy House?”
“Yeah. Whatever. The one with the secret hideout down there. And the other thing is… is…”
“Is what?”
“I forgot,” Bartleby said. “Hang on. Give me a minute.”
I looked at Bartleby.
Bartleby looked at me.
Lots of time passed, but I knew Bartleby was not someone I could push.
Bartleby scratched his armadillo chin.
“Dang,” he said.
Bartleby had forgotten.
“It must not have been very important,” I said.
“Of course it was important!” Bartleby said, obviously a little ticked-off. “Just because something’s important doesn’t mean you can’t forget it! I mean, just look at you! Someone whose name happens to be ‘Sam Abernathy’ obviously forgot to put on pants, right? Isn’t putting on pants kind of important?”
And when Bartleby said “important,” he jabbed his armadillo claws in the air at my bare legs.
I looked down and noticed that Bartleby was right.
I didn’t have pants on.
I felt myself turning red, and then I wondered if this was one of those kinds of dreams where I’m at school or cooking dinner for company in my underwear.32 I was so embarrassed. I must have been trying on my school clothes for Mom when the claustrophobia happened and Bartleby showed up.
And then I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, which was also about the same time that Bartleby remembered what else he wanted to tell me.
He clicked his armadillo castanet-claws together. “Now I remember what I was going to say! It’s about your girlfriend—the one you have a crush on and take walks with and have iced tea with—”
“I so do not have a crush on her!” I protested.
“Aww. Now, Sam—” Bartleby began, in that tone of his where I could tell he was about to explain something to me that I already knew but didn’t want to admit. And at the exact moment when Bartleby said “Sam,” another voice came from behind me:
“Sam?”
I half jumped.
“Sam?”
It was Karim, standing in the wide-open doorway of my dressing-coffin.
Apparently, I’d neglected to shut the door too.
I turned back around, but Bartleby was nowhere to be seen.
“Sam? Why is your door wide open, and why are you standing there in your underwear? We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, so your mom sent me in to see if you’re okay.… And, Sam, WHY IS THIS EVEN HAPPENING TO ME RIGHT NOW?”
Karim, never one to miss an opportunity to overdramatize a non-event, covered his eyes and turned around.
I felt myself turning even redder (if that was possible), and getting mad at the same time too. I was mad at Bartleby for saying I had a crush on Bahar and then disappearing; I was mad at my dumb33 claustrophobia; I was mad at Karim for walking into my dressing room34 when I didn’t have any pants on; I was mad at my mom for taking me—and everyone else—shopping in the first place; and I was mad at Blue Creek for just being so Blue Creek.
I dug around in the pile of loose clothes I’d placed (and forgotten about) on the bench inside my dressing room, and found the old Sam-shorts I’d worn for the Uniontown Mall shopping expedition, and pulled them on.
“You can turn around now, Karim,” I said. “Just do one thing for me. Tell my mom that everything fits perfectly fine. I just want to get out of this—excuse me—stupid store.”
Karim said, “Oh. You had that thing happen again, didn’t you?”
I was so mad, I felt my voice shake and crack. “I don’t want her to know that I’m scared about leaving, Karim. Everyone’s expecting me to do this, and I’m going to do it. Just don’t say anything about it, okay?”
“Nobody wouldn’t think you’d be scared about going away, Sam. Anyone would be scared to leave home.”
“Would you be scared?” I asked.
Karim rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I’d be terrified, Sam.”
Sometimes—on rare occasions—Karim could actually let his guard down and show people he truly cared about things in ways he was usually too sarcastic to be honest about. That’s why everyone liked him as much as they did.
Karim helped me gather up all the school things I was supposed to be trying on for Mom.
He said, “Just leave it to me, Sam. I’ll take care of everything.”
31. If armadillos had front doors, that is.
32. (excuse me)
33. (excuse me)
34. Even if the door was wide open.