Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,21

up at the teacher with immediate focus and remain still, like wild animals caught eating garbage.

“Hey, Mr. Glover,” Pony says loudly, “what do solids, liquids, and gases have in common?”

Mr. Glover thinks for a moment and then takes the bait. “What?”

“They all matter,” Pony says, and the class laughs a little, but Mr. Glover cracks up. It might be the funniest thing he has ever heard. I’m stunned. Pony is full of surprises.

Mr. Glover collects himself. “Now students, let’s talk mitochondria!”

After it’s safe to look away, Pony shifts his attention to writing in his notebook, and I’m left to think about what I don’t want to think about. I pull my phone out of my bag and conceal it under my desk. I open Anthony’s text and stare at the screen, unsure how to respond.

Pony slides a note over to me with a mischievous smile. A written note—how old-fashioned. I drop my phone in my lap and watch Mr. Glover do the Macarena while singing “Heeeey, Mitochondria.” I don’t think he’ll notice.

I unfold the paper, and it’s a drawing of a T. rex that looks like Mr. Glover—same mustache and everything—covered in feathers and standing on the moon. I start to laugh but cover my mouth. Pony has this big smile with bright, burning eyes.

I put my hand on his shoulder to push him away, but that’s not what I want. There’s an electricity between us, like that shock from clothes fresh out of the dryer. I let my hand fall down his arm. We both turn our attention back to the teacher, like we just did something wrong.

A few minutes later, I remember that my phone is in my lap. I grab it and read the text from last night: Hope u had a good first day, Georgie.

You know what? I did have a good first day. We pulled an A+ prank that everyone is talking about, and I met someone new. I can do better than Anthony. I put my phone away and sneak a look at Pony.

I’m going to stay right here for now.

THREE

Friday, August 30

PONY, 6:45 P.M.

As I walk up the steps to the mansion, I look at the neighborhood. The houses tower over the trees with big windows and fancy cars in the driveways. Each mansion looks different, all silently competing for superiority. We’re not in Addison anymore, Toto.

I ring the bell and hear the echo bounce around the house. After a couple minutes, the actor’s assistant answers the door. He seems confused by my presence, even though he interviewed, hired, and told me to be here.

“Hey, Victor, it’s Pony . . . You told me to stop by now?”

“Yes, of course I did. Come in, come in, come in!” Victor moves out of the way, and I walk in. “Mr. Pony, we are so glad you will be working for us! Now, let’s go to the study. The big guy is up and around. He’ll want to meet you.”

Victor doesn’t walk; he flutters around like a nervous butterfly. He’s a small guy—I’m a little taller than him (doesn’t happen often). My heart is beating out of my chest. I am ready to meet the mystery celebrity. We walk down an endless hallway, passing by so many rooms. All the doors shut.

“And this is the study!”

We walk into a dark and dusty room. Victor opens the window shutters, filling the room with light. It’s stuffy, and the smell of old smoke burns my nose, but—holy shit—there’s an Oscar on the shelf. This place is like a movie museum, floor-to-ceiling books and mementos. This is my heaven.

Victor pats the couch, “Sit! Sit, sit, sit!”

He heads over to the bar cart and readies some glasses. “What would you like?”

My knowledge of alcohol is limited to warm beer from kegs and bottles of vodka stolen from parents’ liquor cabinets.

“Margarita,” I say with the opposite of confidence.

Victor looks at me. “How old are you?”

“I’ll have water,” I say.

“Water it is,” he says while pouring a drink for himself and humming some upbeat song.

Victor hands me a glass and sits across from me. “So, Pony, you are agreed to the terms of the employment?”

“Yes,” I say, then take an awkward sip. “Sorry, what are the terms again?”

“Silly boy. You are here to organize and box up Ted London’s possessions. And for that we will pay you two hundred and fifty dollars per room.”

Per room? That’s an odd setup. “I accept your terms,” I say, because I’m unsure what else to