The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle Read online

  A swish and thud come from behind the bookcase where Ms. Blinny is. Happens a lot. I don’t worry too much. She usually says what has happened right after it happens. Things like, “Oh, spilled my purse.” “Oops, knocked over the pothos plant.”

  Today she says, “Uh-oh, my planner . . . and my papers.” I can hear her sweep them off the floor. She pops her head around the bookcase. She says, “Done with lunch, Mason? Good! Come on back here. I have something for you to try.”

  She sits me at a small desk that is pushed up against a wall opposite her bigger desk. My knees come up tall underneath it. Lift it some. The small desk is new this year. She opens a laptop in front of me. That’s new too. She brings up a program. I think this: Is she going to ask me to read?

  But then I know she won’t. She knows how it is with me. Ms. Blinny untangles a headset and puts it on. There’s a little mic on a wire at her mouth. Her eyes are wide. She says, “Watch this, Mason.” She speaks. She says, “Wake up.” Then she says, “Hello, Dragon. Meet Mason.”

  I think, Dragon? I am not a third grader. I watch. But only because I like Ms. Blinny.

  Then I see it. Words type themselves on the screen. Ms. Blinny points at them. She tells the Dragon, “Stop listening.” She brings her hands together with a clap. She says, “See that? I tell it to stop listening so it won’t think I’m still writing when I’m talking to you.” She says, “You’ll learn the commands. But look!” She points at the screen again.

  I look at the words. They go all floaty. Like always. But I see one word that I know by the shape of it. My name. On the end. Letter M. That’s right. I heard Ms. Blinny say it: Meet Mason.

  She gives me the headset. She says, “Your turn. Talk to the Dragon! Start by telling it to wake up.”

  So I put on that headset. I gulp. Two times. I tug at the wires. Stare at the screen. Finally, I say, “Wake up.” Then I say, “Y-you don’t look like a dragon.”

  I hear tiny clicks. Typing sounds. The words line up across the screen. My eyes open wide. I think I see my sentence. Maybe even spelled right.

  Ms. Blinny tells me, “Now say play back and listen.”

  I do that. A lady-voice comes through the earphones: “You-you don’t look like a dragon.”

  I say, “Holy cow!”

  The Dragon types two words. So then I say, “Play back.”

  The lady-voice says, “Holy cow.”

  Ms. Blinny takes tiny running steps in place. Happy boots. She twirls around. She says, “Is that cool or what? You can pick a font. And a color if you want to.”

  I think this: Best part is, I don’t have to look at the screen at all. I don’t have to read it. Don’t have to think about letter sounds. No wishing for pincher eyes to hold the letters in place. No blinking to clear a mess.

  Ms. Blinny says, “Those are your words. You’re writing, Mason! Come do it every day. This can be your journal. It’s the story of you. You can use it to dump all the stuff that’s on your mind.” She makes her voice gruff. “Feed it to the Dragon,” she says. She pumps her arms over her head. “Yay!”

  In my head I remember what one teacher told me: If you can talk, you can write.

  I told that teacher, No. If you can talk, you can tell a story. But you still might not be able to write it.

  It was no wisecrack. It was a true thing. I can start the writing. But it is not as fast as talking. I get lost. There is only one way to get back on track and that is to read what I already wrote. But for me, the reading is the trouble.

  Now I know Ms. Blinny is right. The Dragon will let me talk out a story. This should be good. Easier. But here I sit. Frozen at the Dragon.

  Ms. Blinny sees me being stuck. She says, “Whatever you were thinking about while you were eating your lunch, start there.”

  I think this: Well. Maybe some of it.

  She says, “Just be yourself while you are at the Dragon.”

  So I do that. The Dragon types. And then I know it. If I have a story this is the way for me to tell it. As best I can.

  chapter 6

  MORNINGS

  I start my story from home. I tell this to the Dragon:

  Umm. Okay. I umm. I get on the bus. I have a seat to myself. Most mornings. More kids use the bus in the afternoon. Depends on the day. But in the morning most get a ride. So umm yeah. The day starts quiet. And I like being up high. Looking out the window. On my own. Then I don’t worry that I’m sweating against someone. I just watch outside. I have checkpoints along the loop through town.

  I stop. I think. How do I tell this? Is this even a real story? Then I remember sequence. That is the order. The order of how things happen. I rest my head on my hands. I don’t look at the screen. I tell the Dragon:

  First. Umm. Umm. Okay I know. First comes the commuter lot. That’s at Town Hall. I watch for the men. Saw four or five this morning. Work boots on. Paper-cup coffees in their hands. I wish Uncle Drum would wait with them instead of heading to the diner every morning like he does. See those guys they do get work. The contractors from the new neighborhoods pick them up. Pay them to dig or lift. Help out. Not every day I guess but some days. I bet the pay is enough to make a difference at their places. I hear Grandma say it to Uncle Drum. The money from selling our land is enough to live on now. But it won’t last forever if we keep picking from it.

  I stop to think. I know I have been talking that blue streak. The Dragon is writing. Everything. This is important. All the words are going to be somewhere. I think about what to say. Then I speak again.

  So. Umm. I love Uncle Drum. Maybe even extra since I had a walk-away daddy. That’s from before I can remember. What I know is my mom moved us in to live with my grandma and grandpa after that. Uncle Drum had never left the place. So he was there for me. He used to bring me to the diner in the mornings. Let me draw circles in the syrup on his plate. Then lick my fingers. When I was big enough and umm I did get big pretty quick he took me all through our orchard on the tractor. He fixed a wooden box right behind the driver’s seat for me. That’s still on there. If I tried to sit in it now I’d break it. Or get my butt stuck in it. Umm. So. I think it is not all his fault that he gave up on the orchard. We had the bad year. I was six. Yeah. Six years old. Gramps died. Then Mom died. Bing. Bang. That’s how Uncle Drum tells that. He ran the orchard alone. It is a big job and then tell you what. The crop was bad. Two years in a row. It can happen. Uncle Drum knows it. But when he talks about it now he says the place was burying him. The orchard sits now. What is left of it. And pretty much is still left.

  The trees still make apples. Just keep on doing what they always did. It’s apple season now. We have ripe ones. I’ll do some picking. But not much will come of it. Not this year.

  So. Yeah. I think about the crumbledown house. We need to do some work. Or use some of that money from the developers. And hire someone else to help fix things up. Seems like Uncle Drum doesn’t want to do that. Costs a lot. I know. I think of it when I see the men at the commuter lot.

  So. It’s still warm now. But we had one winter. Maybe two years ago. And you wouldn’t believe it could happen but it snowed right into our living room. White stripe on the rug. Just the one. And I still had my best friend Benny. Then. So his dad Andy came. To help. Put up some shingles. Patched it. But tell you what. Another crack could open in that old roof. Anytime.

  So. Uncle Drum hangs out at the diner. He gets his coffee poured by Irene in her hairnet. Stewart makes him a stack of corn cakes. I get that. I like to eat too. But Uncle Drum stays there for hours. Every day. All his clothes smell like bacon and maple syrup. Cab of his truck too. He doesn’t take me with. Not anymore. But I see his truck parked in front when the bus takes me through. If the light is right I can see him inside. Sitting at the counter.

  I have some idea about Uncle Drum’s life being not quite filled up. Eating corn cakes is not a job. More like it’s something to do if you don’t want to do anything else. Like what you need to do. Uncle Drum doesn’t say but I thin
k he feels bad. But anyone who knows him would tell you he is a good guy. Some might say he’s too good on account of how he brought Shayleen home that morning. Shayleen who took over my bedroom. Shayleen who drives me nuts. Shayleen who won’t leave.

  I stop talking when I get to this part about Shayleen. That’s not surprising. Though it would feel pretty all right to keep going. Feed Shayleen to the Dragon. I laugh about that. I push back my chair. I look at the screen and see all the typing. Lines and lines. Can hardly believe it all. Then the letters begin to swell up. Turn splotchy. I blink and look away.

  Behind me. The SWOOF has filled up with kids. Stopping in. I will have trouble keeping my brain on this. Ms. Blinny sees. She knows. She says, “All done for today, Mason? Great. Tell the Dragon to go to sleep. That’s the command to use when you’re finished.”

  So I do that. I dry my hands on my pants and pull the headset off. I use tissues to dry the earphones. Can’t be a gross-out.

  I have a wild feeling in me. Something new.

  I have a lot more to say.

  More to write.

  chapter 7

  TWO PRETZELS

  The first rule about the SWOOF is that you are always welcome. Another rule is you cannot stay all day. Ms. Blinny will touch her heart with her hand and say, “Sorry. I’m not allowed to keep you forever.”

  Someday I will tell her that it doesn’t make sense. How can you always be welcome if sometimes you cannot stay?

  The bell is about to ring. I will have to go along to class. I get my tall knees out from under the desk. Close the lid of the laptop.

  When I turn to leave I hear a hi. I look around. It’s like that hi came out of the couch in the SWOOF. Then I see the kid. He is nothing but a pair of shoes and a fluffy white head. Kitten hair. The shoes are the desert-boot kind. Tan-sandy color. Can’t see the rest of him because the big soft couch is swallowing up the whole middle of him. I can tell he’s small. And thin. Looks like someone made him out of paper clips and Scotch tape.

  He’s looking up at me. Way up. I’m thinking about that hi. It was not a smiling hi. Not an I-don’t-really-mean-it hi. Not a hi with so much air behind it that you’d never believe it was real. Just a plain hi. Like, you belong here as much as I belong here and you’ll get no trouble from me.

  He goes back to tapping around on a tablet in his lap. Well, if he even has a lap. I can’t tell. Then he holds up a package of pretzels in his free hand. Jiggles the bag. Twice.

  “Oh, for me?” I ask him.

  “Of course,” he says.

  I dry my sweaty hand on my pants—three swipes—before I take one of the pretzels. I say, “Thank you.”

  He nods.

  “I’m Mason,” I tell him. Then I add, “Buttle.”

  He looks up again just long enough that I see him smile. I know that Buttle is a funny name. He looks back down at his tablet. He says, “Of course you are. And I’m Calvin Chumsky. I ride your bus.” His smile grows out one side of his mouth. “Buttle and Chumsky,” he whispers. I hear a little snort come out of him.

  The bell rings. I tell him, “I have to go.”

  He nods. He says, “One for the road?” Shakes his pretzel bag again.

  I take another. I thank him. I start for the door.

  He says, “Hey, curious shirt by the way.”

  I look at my chest. Upside-down words.

  I think. What is it again? Then I remember.

  THINKS OUTSIDE THE picture of a box. CAN YOU?

  I tell Calvin Chumsky, “Yeah. It is. Curious.”

  chapter 8

  BIG YELLOW CHIPS

  While I’m eating Calvin Chumsky’s pretzel in the hall I think this: Been a long time since another kid offered me something to eat. Unless I count the time Matt Drinker and Lance Pierson got me to eat dog treats at the lunch table. They give me some trouble, Matt and Lance. Stuff like this STOOPID shirt. But they don’t mean anything by it. Not really.

  Man, they had a laugh about the dog treats. I didn’t get it. I tried to say something polite about those big yellow chips. But they were horrible and hard. Made me check myself for a broken tooth.

  I hid those chips in my sweaty hand. Pretended like I had finished them up. When no one was looking I put them in the trash can.

  All afternoon kids passed me in the hall saying, “Woof-woof! Bow-wow!” If they weren’t barking, they were falling apart laughing. Made me laugh too. I didn’t know what that was about. Not until I went down to Matt’s house to take care of his dog, Moonie, a few days later. I do that when his family goes away. Matt lives in the house down a long hill from me. Through our orchard. His house is on part of the land that Uncle Drum sold to the developers. I love Matt’s dog. Moonie. I like his house. Still smells new. And I like his mom. But I didn’t like it much when I saw a box of those yellow chips in the Drinker pantry next to Moonie’s dog food. Oh well. That’s when I knew. I survived eating a dog treat. Tell you what. Worse can happen.

  Anyway. Lucky thing to meet someone and know that you like them right away. And they like you. Used to happen more. Not as much now. But that is how it was when I met Ms. Blinny. And now with that little dude Calvin Chumsky with the pretzels. And going back a while it was like that with Matt’s mom, Mrs. Drinker. She is a real friend of mine. A grown-up one. Been that way ever since I met her. That was the day I rode my sled in through her cellar window.

  Tell you what. That is something that could have been all bad. But Mrs. Drinker turned it into good.

  chapter 9

  THE SLED

  When the sled accident happened, Matt was the first one down his cellar stairs. He was pretty new in Merrimack. I already knew him from school. And the bus. And a few apple fights. Ones I didn’t really want to be in. Already knew that it was his cellar I’d crashed into. His mom and his dog came down the stairs right behind him. Matt was yelling. His mom was gasping. And this black-and-white dog was looking at me all curious and wagging so hard. That’s Moonie. He has the best tail that ever grew off the back of any dog.

  I was apologizing as fast as I could and as many times as I could for breaking through the window and collapsing one end of the Drinkers’ Ping-Pong table. Oh. And for denting their big white chest freezer. Tell you what. That sled sailed out from under me and hit it. I’m not sure how that happened. Must be about gravity or something.

  I was trying to get up off the Ping-Pong table. Mrs. Drinker was begging me to stay down so she could look me over. Moonie must have thought down was meant for him because he dropped into that elbow-walking thing dogs do. He was trying to behave himself but still get to me.

  Matt yelled at me, “Buttle! You idiot!”

  I sat up.

  Mrs. Drinker told me, “Wait, wait! Honey, does anything hurt? What about your head? And are you bleeding?”

  Matt said, “You are so going to pay for that window, Buttle. And this Ping-Pong table too!”

  “Matty!” Mrs. Drinker squawked at him. “This is a person who could be hurt! Let’s not worry about objects!”

  I touched my head, felt for my hat. Had that big pom-pom right on top. “I think I’m pretty okay,” I said.

  “Well, our house isn’t!” Matt said. “There’s damage. And you just trespassed too!”

  I said, “Yeah . . . I made it around the apple trees. I thought I was going to be able to steer between the yards too. I don’t know what happened.” I shook my head, looked at the mess all around us. “Wow. Breaking and entering,” I said.

  That made Mrs. Drinker laugh.

  “I am real sorry. I will pay for it. I will,” I said. Then Mrs. Drinker looked ready to cry.

  “Every last penny!” Matt said.

  “Matty! Stop that!” Mrs. Drinker said, and then she really did sniffle. She put her arms around me. Then Matt’s dog, Moonie, crawled up and he put his arms around me too.

  They walked me home—Matt’s dog and Matt’s mom. She put on her boots and pulled my sled up the hill, even though I said I could do i
t. She wasn’t having that. So, we walked and I reached down to pat Moonie’s happy head. He kept putting his ears back for a scratch. Then he ran up ahead all bouncy. All I had to do was say his name and back he came. Right to me. Dog smile on his face. First time I met him.

  I told Mrs. Drinker, “That is a great dog. He’s welcome to come in the house and meet my grandma while I get you the money. And if I don’t have enough today, I’ll earn some more and I will pay you back—”

  “Mason! We will not worry about the money!”

  “Well, I broke your window. I should pay. And I can pay. I get money from helping people. Or maybe I can do something for you. I’m a good worker. I like work.”

  That’s how Mrs. Drinker and I got the idea for me to take care of Moonie. She likes how it works out. Because they go to see Matt’s dad a lot. He has a crazy job. He was supposed to be in Merrimack more. But he is gone. Most of the time. Seems like.

  So I do that a lot now. I check on their house. Bring in the mail when they go away. I’m welcome to hang around the place. Play with Moonie. Keep him company. I do that. I love that dog.

  chapter 10

  BOOM

  At the end of the day, I look for the boy named Calvin Chumsky. He said he was on my bus. But I don’t see him. The bus line is not a looking-around place for me. I look at my shoes. I shuffle forward.

  The loudest kids get on our bus first. They sit at the back. Matt Drinker. Lance Pierson. Their friends. I sit in the middle of the bus. Face at the window. There’s a lot of talking. I like the sound being all around me. Feels like I’m invisible, big as I am.

  The bus rolls out. I think about that Dragon program. Me, writing the sequence of mornings. I think about how my checkpoints through town run backward on the way home. I think this: Right before the diner is the firehouse. I look for the bench out front. It has my best friend’s name on it.