Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

CARL HIAASEN has been writing about Florida since his father gave him a typewriter at age six. Then it was hunt-and-peck stories about neighborhood kickball and softball games, given away to his friends. Now Hiaasen writes columns for the Miami Herald and is the author of many best-selling novels for adults, including Sick Puppy and Basket Case.

Hoot, Hiaasens first novel for young readers, is full of his trademark satirical wit, revealing the good, the bad, and the screwy state of Florida.

ONE

Roy would not have noticed the strange boy if it werent for Dana Matherson, because Roy ordinarily didnt look out the window of the school bus. He preferred to read comics and mystery books on the morning ride to Trace Middle.

But on this day, a Monday (Roy would never forget), Dana Matherson grabbed Roys head from behind and pressed his thumbs into Roys temple, as if he were squeezing a soccer ball. The older kids were supposed to stay in the back of the bus, but Dana had snuck up behind Roys seat and ambushed him. When Roy tried to wriggle free, Dana mushed his face against the window.

It was then, squinting through the smudged glass, that Roy spotted the strange boy running along the sidewalk. It appeared as if he was hurrying to catch the school bus, which had stopped at a corner to pick up more kids.

The boy was straw-blond and wiry, and his skin was nut-brown from the sun. The expression on his face was intent and serious. He wore a faded Miami Heat basketball jersey and dirty khaki shorts, and here was the odd part: no shoes. The soles of his bare feet looked as black as barbecue coals.

Trace Middle School didnt have the worlds strictest dress code, but Roy was pretty sure that some sort of footwear was required. The boy might have been carrying sneakers in his backpack, if only hed been wearing a backpack. No shoes, no backpack, no booksstrange, indeed, on a school day.

Roy was sure that the barefoot boy would catch all kinds of grief from Dana and the other big kids once he boarded the bus, but that didnt happen....

Because the boy kept runningpast the corner, past the line of students waiting to get on the bus; past the bus itself. Roy wanted to shout, Hey, look at that guy! but his mouth wasnt working so well. Dana Matherson still had him from behind, pushing his face against the window.

As the bus pulled away from the intersection, Roy hoped to catch another glimpse of the boy farther up the street. However, he had turned off the sidewalk and was now cutting across a private yardrunning very fast, much faster than Roy could run and maybe even faster than Richard, Roys best friend back in Montana. Richard was so fast that he got to work out with the high school track squad when he was only in seventh grade.

Dana Matherson was digging his fingernails into Roys scalp, trying to make him squeal, but Roy barely felt a thing. He was gripped with curiosity as the running boy dashed through one neat green yard after another, getting smaller in Roys vision as he put a wider distance between himself and the school bus.

Roy saw a big pointy-eared dog, probably a German shepherd, bound off somebodys porch and go for the boy. Incredibly, the boy didnt change his course. He vaulted over the dog, crashed through a cherry hedge, and then disappeared from view.

Roy gasped.

Whassamatter, cowgirl? Had enough?

This was Dana, hissing in Roys right ear. Being the new kid on the bus, Roy didnt expect any help from the others. The cowgirl remark was so lame, it wasnt worth getting mad about. Dana was a well-known idiot, on top of which he outweighed Roy by at least fifty pounds. Fighting back would have been a complete waste of energy.

Had enough yet? We cant hear you, Tex. Danas breath smelled like stale cigarettes. Smoking and beating up smaller kids were his two main hobbies.

Yeah, okay, Roy said impatiently. Ive had enough.

As soon as he was freed, Roy lowered the window and stuck out his head. The strange boy was gone.

Who was he? What was he running from?

Roy wondered if any of the other kids on the bus had seen what hed seen. For a moment he wondered if hed really seen it himself.

That same morning, a police officer named David Delinko was sent to the future site of another Mother Paulas All-American Pancake House. It was a vacant lot at the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury, on the eastern edge of town.

Officer Delinko was met by a man in a dark blue pickup truck. The man, who was as bald as a beach ball, introduced himself as Curly. Officer Delinko thought the bald man must have a good sense of humor to go by such a nickname, but he was wrong. Curly was cranky and unsmiling.

You should see what they done, he said to the policeman.

Who?

Follow me, the man called Curly said.

Officer Delinko got in step behind him. The dispatcher said you wanted to report some vandalism.

Thats right, Curly grunted over his shoulder.

The policeman couldnt see what there was to be vandalized on the property, which was basically a few acres of scraggly weeds. Curly stopped walking and pointed at a short piece of lumber on the ground. A ribbon of bright pink plastic was tied to one end of the stick. The other end was sharpened and caked with gray dirt.

Curly said, They pulled em out.

Thats a survey stake? asked Officer Delinko.

Yep. They yanked em out of the ground, every damn one.

Probably just kids.

And then they threw em every which way, Curly said, waving a beefy arm, and then they filled in the holes.

Thats a little weird, the policeman remarked. When did this happen?

Last night or early this morning, Curly said. Maybe it dont look like a big deal, but its gonna take a while to get the site marked out again. Meantime, we cant start clearin or gradin or nuthin. We got backhoes and dozers already leased, and now they gotta sit. I know it dont look like the crime of the century, but still

I understand, said Officer Delinko. Whats your estimate of the monetary damage?

Damage?

Yes. So I can put it in my report. The policeman picked up the survey stake and examined it. Its not really broken, is it?

Well, no

Were any of them destroyed? asked Officer Delinko. How much does one of these things costa buck or two?

The man called Curly was losing his patience. They didnt break none of the stakes, he said gruffly.

Not even one? The policeman frowned. He was trying to figure out what to put in his report. You cant have vandalism without monetary damages, and if nothing on the property was broken or defaced....

What Im tryin to explain, Curly said irritably, its not that they messed up the survey stakes, its them screwing up our whole construction schedule. Thats where itll cost some serious bucks.

Officer Delinko took off his cap and scratched his head. Let me think on this, he said.

Walking back toward the patrol car, the policeman stumbled and fell down. Curly grabbed him under one arm and hoisted him to his feet. Both men were mildly embarrassed.

Stupid owls, said Curly.

The policeman brushed the dirt and grass burs off his uniform. You say owls?

Curly gestured at a hole in the ground. It was as big around as one of Mother Paulas famous buttermilk flapjacks. A mound of loose white sand was visible at the entrance.

Thats what you tripped over, Curly informed Officer Delinko.

An owl lives down there? The policeman bent over and studied the hole. How big are they?

Bout as tall as a beer can.

No kidding? said Officer Delinko.

But I aint never seen one, officially speakin.

Back at the patrol car, the patrolman took out his clipboard and started writing the report. It turned out that Curlys real name was Leroy Branitt, and he was the supervising engineer of the construction project. He scowled when he saw the policeman write down foreman instead.