Books by Philip Hoy

THE MISADVENTURES OF MATTHEW VAN DER BOOT is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental … no matter how many times you ask.

Who wants to go home, right?

Foster Freeze is still open and surprisingly busy. But then, it is a Friday night you remind yourself. The delicious odor of fried food in your nose and the relentless guitar riff to Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” still ringing in your ears, you hold the door open for your little sister, then follow her inside. The owner, a short, potbellied man in a blue apron, eyes Angie’s bare feet with tight-lipped disdain as you approach the register. “Only strawberry milkshake,” he announces. “Out of chocolate.”

“Okay, yeah, two specials then,” you say, handing over your last ten, then pocketing your $5.75 in change.

You and Angie sit across from each other in one of the empty booths and wait for your order. From the sound of it, the group huddled around the middle tables just got back from an away game. Plus, the green and yellow paint on a few of their faces is kind of a giveaway.

“Why don’t you ever go to football games?” Angie asks. “You can’t be too cool for that kind of thing, because you’re not.”

“I go to football games.”

“Next year,” she says, picking up the salt shaker and sprinkling some onto the center of the table “I’m going to all of them, even the away ones.”

“Really?” you ask, sounding more skeptical than you intended.

“Yeah, especially the away games,” she says, dragging her finger through the crystal grains. “See the world outside of this fucking place.”

“Why, what’s wrong with this fucking place?”

She looks at you. “Everything,” she says and returns to drawing shapes in the salt.

The server, with his greasy apron and a hairnet down to his eyebrows, appears with your cheeseburgers, fries, and strawberry milkshakes.

“Hey, Rabbit,” says your sister.

He smiles back at her, exposing his namesake front teeth. “What’s up, Angie?”

“Old man got you in the kitchen again?”

“You know it,” he says. “The new girl called in sick so I’m doing double duty.”

“Well, hang in there, dude.” She rewards him with another dimpled smile before reaching for a fry.

“See you ‘round, Angie,” says Rabbit, returning to the kitchen with a spring in his step that you’re sure was not there before.

You can’t help but stare at Angie. By now, it shouldn’t surprise you that your thirteen-year-old sister knows more people in your high school than you do, but still, it does.

“What,” she asks around a bite of cheeseburger, “you’re not eating?”

You peel back the wrapper on your own and take a bite. “It’s just that you have something on your cheek.”

“Fuck you,” she says, stifling a smile. “You have something on your face.”

It’s an old joke between you, the something on her cheek being a once prominent strawberry birthmark that has since faded over time to a slight blush, and the something on your face being your nose, which, for some reason, she has always found a fitting comeback.

A girl with thick, curly hair on her way to the restroom looks familiar, even from behind, especially from behind.

“Eyes in your head, Matt.”

“What?”

“I saw you checking that girl out.”

“What girl?”

“Dude,” says Angie, pausing for a hit of her milkshake. “In the jeans and yellow blouse. You followed her all the way to the bathroom.”

“I did?” You take a sip of your own. “It’s just, I thought I recognized her.”

“Oh yeah, what’s her name?”

You reach across the table for the ketchup bottle and squirt some on the corner of your cheeseburger wrapper before answering. “Ruth, I think.”

“And how do you think you know her?”

“Algebra. She sits next to me.”

“Humm…” Angie takes the squirt bottle and does the same. “You going to ask her out? I mean, now that you have your own car.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t be so pathetic, Matt,” she says, pointing a ketchup dipped fry at you. “How do you expect to get a girlfriend with that attitude?”

“It’s not my car.” You bite off a mouthful of cheeseburger, keep talking around it. “And she has a boyfriend.”

“So what? You going to let that stop you?”

You look up at your sister, trying to think of something smart to say, just as Ruth exits the restroom. You quickly lower your gaze and concentrate on getting the perfect amount of ketchup on your next fry.

Your sister sees right through the act and turns to catch Ruth as she is passing. “Excuse me. Hi, are you Ruth?”

“Uh, yes, do I…?” Ruth starts to say just as you lift your head. “Oh, hey, first period! It’s Matthew, right?”

“Oh, hey, yeah.” You give an awkward wave, then quickly drop your hand. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she says, her eyes moving back and forth between the two of you.

“I’m Angie,” says your sister, extending her hand. “Matt’s sister.”

Ruth nods and smiles. “Of course. I can see the resemblance,” she says, returning the gesture. “Very nice to meet you.”

Angie smiles and nods politely.

“So,” says Ruth with her eyes resting on you. “What are you two up to?”

“Oh,” says Angie. “Just cruising around in our brother’s Volkswagen Super Beatle. Matt can drive it all by himself now.”

“Okay…” says Ruth, still smiling but with her forehead pinched in confusion. “Super Beatle, huh? Sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Angie sighs. “We got hungry, came in for a bite. How about you? You here with your boyfriend?”

“Uh, yeah, same here,” says Ruth. “Who wants to go home, right?”

“Exactly,” says Angie, reaching for her shake.

“So,” Ruth says, turning to you again. “Almost done with that book of yours?” She extends her hand and places it lightly over your wrist. “You know, the guy who wakes up in another world?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, almost.”

“Don’t forget,” she says, giving your arm a squeeze. “You promised I could borrow it.”

“Of course,” you manage to respond. “I mean, it’s no Hobbit, but yeah, definitely, I won’t forget.”

Ruth retrieves her hand, but her gaze continues to move between the two of you. In amusement, or maybe in appreciation, you can’t be sure.

Angie breaks the momentary silence. “So, you have any brothers or sisters, Ruth?”

“Yeah, an older brother, actually,” she says, frowning thoughtfully. “But we don’t really hang out, not like you two, you know, not close like that.”

“Well,” your sister says, looking slyly in your direction. “Matt here just recently became interesting.”

“Really,” says Ruth, crossing her arms and turning to you. “Just recently, huh?” She places a finger to her chin, suppressing a smile. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Uh, yeah, trust me,” says Angie, “but, better late than never, right?”

Ruth just smiles and slowly shakes her head. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your food.”

You give that awkward wave again, your hand fluttering briefly before you.

“Nice to meet you,” Ruth says to Angie, and then turning to you and touching you on the shoulder, says, “See you in school, Matthew.”

Then she is gone.

You take a long drink from your milkshake and stuff several fries in your mouth.

“You’re welcome, Matthew,” says Angie.

“I am, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning back in her seat. “Shit, I’m the one doing all the work here. You barely got in two words. And what was that all about anyway? She wants to borrow one of your books? Really? Who knew that’s how your nerdy-ass would get a girl?”

“I told you. She has a boyfriend.” You take a cautious look over your shoulder, spot Ruth returning to her table across the restaurant. She slides into a booth next to a square-jawed jock in a snug fitting polo. “That’s him right over there.”

Angie follows your gaze. “That old guy with the shaved head?”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh, shit,” she says. “That’s her boyfriend?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Dude, that’s not going to last. I mean, look at him. That guy is way too hot to read books. You know she probably does his homework for him.”

“Yeah, probably.”

You finish your cheeseburgers and pick off the last of your fries in silence. Angie’s got something on her mind. You can tell by the way she’s looking at you, but not actually looking at you. If you stuck out your tongue or crossed your eyes right now, she might not even notice. Eventually, her thoughts surface. “You think mom and dad will let you have Robert’s car?”

“I don’t know.” It’s not that you haven’t thought about this, just not for very long and not all the way through. “I mean, I don’t have a license, for one, and two…”

She waits for you to finish, leaning forward with impatience. “What? Two, what?”

“I don’t know, mom doesn’t even like it when I sleep in his bed.”

“You sleep in his bed?” she asks.

You suddenly feel guilty for sharing this. “Sometimes.”

This is probably the first time you and Angie have talked about Robert in the last six months. Since it happened. The accident.

“Well, you don’t think they’ll sell it, do you? Because if you don’t want it, I do.”

“I never said I didn’t want it.”

“Wait. Hold on.” She gestures accusingly at you with her cup. “Why should you get it? He was my brother too. Why does it automatically go to you?” Something wet hits your cheek just below your eye. “That’s bullshit!” she says, more milk flying from the tip of her straw. “Same with his cassettes.”

“Calm down, Angie.” You wipe strawberry shake from your cheek. “I never said it did.”

Now she’s trying not to laugh. “There’s something on your face,” she says, just beginning to appreciate what she’s done.

“This summer,” you say, dabbing at your chin with a napkin. “I’ll take driver’s training and next year I’ll have my license.”

“I guess we can share it,” she decides. “I’ll be driving in a few years too, you know.”

“And he was making payments to mom for something, the car insurance, I think. I guess I’d have to find a parttime job or something.” Your brother seemed to enjoy working at Shakey’s Pizza in the next town over, but you can’t see yourself doing that. Something in the mall possibly, like the book store or Miller’s Outpost. “But I am done with throwing the paper,” you say.

“Then maybe I should get a paper route.”

The thought instantly panics you. “A paper route, really, are you sure? It’s harder than you think and, well, there are things you gotta worry about, you know, like dogs.”

Angie rolls her eyes. “Because I’m a girl, right? I can handle the dogs, Matt.”

“Not just dogs, Angie. I mean—” The image of your sister, half naked on Carmen’s bed, hits like a fist in your chest. You push it away. “I mean there’s some scary fucking people out there, okay?”

“Okay, brother,” she says, almost soothingly. “I know what you mean.”

And you think that she does know, maybe even more than you.

“I’ll take Max with me.”

“That could actually work,” you say, somehow reassured.

“Hey, what about here?” asks Angie, eyes wide. “For you, I mean. Shit, you could start tonight! You heard Rabbit. The new girl didn’t show. You could be the new girl, Matt! Think about it! You, the new girl!”

You frown back at her, but her laugh, loud and unrestrained, is contagious, and you struggle not to smile.  

“Oh,” she says, suddenly lowering her voice. “She’s looking over here.”

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend, for like the second time now.”

“Stop looking over there.”

“I’m not … anymore …” She continues to stare past you across the restaurant. “Okay, they’re leaving now. Who is that vato loco they’re with any way?”

You attempt a casual glance over your shoulder. The man and Ruth’s boyfriend continue to converse enthusiastically on their way to the front doors. Ruth walks ahead of them as the three exit. “Hell, if I know.”

“I mean, talk about scary fucking people.”

“Yeah,” you say, balling up the wrapper from your burger and stuffing it into your empty French-fry carton. “You ready to go?”

Angie takes a long draw on her milkshake and doesn’t stop until she reaches the bottom and sucks air with a resounding slurp. “Yeah, I guess,” she says, then lifts her head and burps noisily.

Outside, Ruth and company are still in the parking lot standing near the cars parked against the back wall.

“Shit,” you say under your breath. “Leave all ready.”

Angie hears you and laughs to herself. “Poor Matthew.”

Thankfully, the Volkswagen is parked in the opposite direction and you don’t have to walk past them to get to it.

“Nice to meet you, Timo,” you hear Ruth say.

“Orale,” he responds in a singsong, gravelly voice. “My pleasure, beautiful.”

“Later, primo,” the boyfriend says. “Nice running into you.”

“Well,” says Angie as you reach the car. “That explains that.”

Just as you are unlocking Angie’s door, the sound of gunfire—several consecutive pops—erupts in the parking lot behind you. You reach for Angie and pull her down with you against the Volkswagen. A car, dark and low to the ground, speeds past on its way out of the parking lot, nearly hitting another car as it turns, tires squealing, onto the highway.

“Drive by,” says Angie, declaring the obvious as you get to your feet, but it takes several more heartbeats before your brain finishes piecing things together.

“Call 911,” you tell your sister, pointing toward the payphone just outside the Foster Freeze entrance.

You hurry toward them, heart beating in your throat. At first, all three appear to be on the ground, but then Ruth looks up from where she is huddled over her boyfriend’s body. “Help!” she cries. “Oh God! Someone, help!”

“Are you hurt?” you ask as soon as you reach her.

“I don’t—no, I don’t think so.” She is cradling her boyfriend’s head in her lap. His eyes are closed, but his face, twisted in pain, tells you he’s still conscious. “But Tony,” she says, pointing to an obvious bullet wound to his thigh. The blood is spreading quickly, darkening the inside of his leg all the way to the ankle of his Levi’s.

“Pressure,” you say, kneeling beside her. “We need to put pressure on the wound.”

“What? How?”

You place the palm of your hand over the hole in his jeans. “We need to slow the bleeding,” you say as more blood, warm and sticky, flows between your fingers. Tony cries out as you press harder, straightening your arm and leaning into it with the weight of your upper body. “More, we need more …” You look for something that will work, scanning the immediate area but not finding it on Tony, Ruth, or yourself. Finally, your gaze settles on Timo, lying in a misshapen heap not ten feet from you, his once white t-shirt now crimson with blood.

“Ruth,” you say. “I need you to trade places with me, do what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” she says, lowering Tony’s head to the ground. “Show me.”

“Here, put your hands, both of them, over mine. Now, get up on your knees so you can put as much weight on them as possible.”

She does exactly what you say.

“I’m going to pull my hand out. When I do, keep pushing down as hard as you can.”

She nods, squaring her shoulders.

A groan escapes Tony as you make the exchange, but Ruth locks her elbows and bears down.

You rush over to Timo’s body, avoiding the vacant stare in his eyes, and return with his belt, one of those military-style canvas ones but with an Old English “R” cut into the silver buckle. Primo, Tony had said to him, cousin. Your hands are now covered in a mix of their blood.

Ruth does her best to maintain pressure as you push the tip of the belt beneath Tony’s knee. Then, holding each end, you slide it side-to-side up his leg until it is mid-thigh, at least a hand’s width above the wound. There, you thread the end of the belt through the buckle, sinching it as firmly as you can. “It needs to be as tight as possible you say,” pulling up on the belt with both hands.

The buckle snaps off, spinning past Ruth’s head out into the parking lot, and the belt slides free of Tony’s leg.

“Shit.”

You grab both ends and repeat the process, this time tying the ends of the belt in a firm knot and making sure to leave plenty of slack in the loop.

“Isn’t that too loose?” asks Ruth.

“I need a stick … anything I can use to twist it tighter.”

“Will this work?” You look up to find Rabbit standing over you and holding out a spatula. He must have come running straight from the kitchen. There are more people standing behind him.

“Yes,” you say, taking it from him. “It’s perfect.”

You insert the spatula handle first beneath the knot in the belt and start to twist. Tony whimpers in pain, but you continue until the spatula will turn no more.

“They’re on their way!” you hear, recognizing your sister’s voice, and off in the distance a siren begins to wail. You look over to find Ruth staring wide-eyed at you, maybe waiting for your next instructions

“Okay,” you tell her, your hands still holding the torniquet in place.

She eases up, slowly at first, then lets go completely and sits back on her ankles. “Where did you learn that?” she asks.

“Uh, last summer,” you say. “Water Safety and Basic First Aid.” No use telling her that was the title of a book you checked out from the library and that you never actually took such a class, or that it was the chapter on “Severe Bleeding Emergencies” that especially held your interest.

“Oh.” She finds Tony’s hand and clasps it between the bloodied palms of her own. “What do we do now?”

You hear the sirens drawing closer, the howling rise and fall of an ambulance, along with a police car’s pulsing blare. “We wait.”

Ruth’s gaze drifts past you towards Timo’s body. “I just met him,” she says, “Tony’s cousin.” She turns to her boyfriend. “He seemed like a nice guy.” She looks toward the dead man again. “I guess.”

Well, someone didn’t like him, you think, as the ambulance, lights flashing, pulls into the parking lot.

The next few minutes are a blur as the paramedics quickly survey the scene, check Tony’s vitals, and assess your improvised torniquet. “Nice job,” one says, relieving you of your hold on the spatula. “We’ll take it from here.”

The police arrive, multiple cars. One officer confers with the paramedics while the other begins securing the area. Angie finds you, grabs onto the back of your shirt, and doesn’t let go. Tony is loaded into the back of the ambulance, Ruth climbs in with him, and soon they are speeding down the highway. Then it’s just you, Angie, and the dead man behind the yellow police tape. No, you didn’t know the victim. Yes, you know the other two from school. No, you didn’t see what happened, but you did hear the gunshots and see the vehicle speed away. Color and make? Dark, maybe black? Sorry, that’s all you can remember. No, you didn’t get the license. You give your name, address, and phone. Your car? Yes, that one there, the Volkswagen Bug. Driver’s license? No. Yes sir. Sorry sir. No sir. Thank you, sir. It won’t happen again.
 
 To be continued…  


This story is a work in progress — I’m writing it as fast as I can! More episodes in this thread coming soon. While you are waiting, feel free to return to the beginning: if you make different choices you will get a different story. 

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