Holes by Louis Sachar
They turned out to be a lot more valuable than the jewels. After legal fees and taxes, Stanley and Zero each received less than a million dollars.
But not a lot less.
It was enough for Stanley to buy his family a new house, with a laboratory in the basement, and for Hector to hire a team of private investigators.
But it would be boring to go through all the tedious details of all the changes in their lives. Instead, the reader will be presented with one last scene, which took place almost a year and a half after Stanley and Hector left Camp Green Lake.
You will have to fill in the holes yourself.
There was a small party at the Yelnats house. Except for Stanley and Hector, everyone there was an adult. All kinds of snacks and drinks were set out on the counter, including caviar, champagne, and the fixings to make ice cream sundaes.
The Super Bowl was on television, but nobody was really watching.
“It should be coming on at the next break,” Ms. Morengo announced.
A time-out was called in the football game, and a commercial came on the screen.
Everyone stopped talking and watched.
The commercial showed a baseball game. Amid a cloud of dust, Clyde Livingston slid into home plate as the catcher caught the ball and tried to tag him out.
“Safe!” shouted the umpire as he signaled with his arms.
The people at Stanley’s house cheered, as if the run really counted.
Clyde Livingston got up and dusted the dirt off his uniform. As he made his way back to the dugout, he spoke to the camera. “Hi, I’m Clyde Livingston, but everyone around here calls me ‘Sweet Feet.’ ”
“Way to go, Sweet Feet!” said another baseball player, slapping his hand.
Besides being on the television screen, Clyde Livingston was also sitting on the couch next to Stanley.
“But my feet weren’t always sweet,” the television Clyde Livingston said as he sat down on the dugout bench. “They used to smell so bad that nobody would sit near me in the dugout.”
“They really did stink,” said the woman sitting on the couch on the other side of Clyde. She held her nose with one hand, and fanned the air with the other.
Clyde shushed her.
“Then a teammate told me about Sploosh,” said the television Clyde. He pulled a can of Sploosh out from under the dugout bench and held it up for everyone to see. “I just spray a little on each foot every morning, and now I really do have sweet feet. Plus, I like the tingle.”
“Sploosh,” said a voice. “A treat for your feet. Made from all natural ingredients, it neutralizes odor-causing fungi and bacteria. Plus, you’ll like the tingle.”
Everyone at the party clapped their hands.
“He wasn’t lying,” said the woman who sat next to Clyde. “I couldn’t even be in the same room with his socks.”
The other people at the party laughed.
The woman continued. “I’m not joking. It was so bad—”
“You’ve made your point,” said Clyde, covering her mouth with his hand. He looked back at Stanley. “Will you do me a favor, Stanley?”
Stanley raised and lowered his left shoulder.
“I’m going to get more caviar,” said Clyde. “Keep your hand over my wife’s mouth.” He patted Stanley on the shoulder as he rose from the couch.
Stanley looked uncertainly at his hand, then at Clyde Livingston’s wife.
She winked at him.
He felt himself blush, and turned away toward Hector, who was sitting on the floor in front of an overstuffed chair.
A woman sitting in the chair behind Hector was absent-mindedly fluffing his hair with her fingers. She wasn’t very old, but her skin had a weathered look to it, almost like leather. Her eyes seemed weary, as if she’d seen too many things in her life that she didn’t want to see. And when she smiled, her mouth seemed too big for her face.
Very softly, she half sang, half hummed a song that her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a little girl.
If only, if only, the moon speaks no reply;
Reflecting the sun and all that’s gone by.
Be strong my weary wolf, turn around boldly.
Fly high, my baby bird,
My angel, my only
SMALL STEPS
THE REMARKABLE FOLLOW-UP TO
HOLES …
Two years after being released from Camp Green Lake, Armpit is home in Austin, Texas, trying to turn his life around. But it’s hard when you have a record and everyone expects the worst from you. The only person who believes in Armpit is Ginny, his ten-year-old disabled neighbor. Together they’re learning to take small steps.
Armpit seems to be on the right path until X-Ray, a buddy from Camp Green Lake, comes up with a get-rich-quick scheme. X-Ray’s moneymaking plan leads Armpit to a chance encounter with teen pop sensation Kaira DeLeon, and suddenly Armpit’s life spins out of control. Only one thing is certain: he’ll never be the same again.
AVAILABLE EVERYWHERE JANUARY 2006
HERE’S A PREVIEW …
Excerpt copyright © 2006 by Louis Sachar
A rusted Honda Civic drove noisily down the street and parked across from the mayor’s house. Armpit had finished digging his trench and was attaching PVC pipe. The mayor had gone back inside.
The driver-side door had been bashed in, and it would have cost more to fix than the car was worth. The driver had to work his way over the stick shift and then exit on the passenger side.
The personalized license plate read: X RAY.
“Armpit!” X-Ray shouted as he crossed the street. “Armpit!”
The guys at work didn’t know him by that name, but if he didn’t say something X-Ray would just keep on shouting. Better to answer and shut him up.
“Hey,” he called back.
“Man, you’re really sweating,” X-Ray said as he came near.
“Yeah, well, you’d sweat too if you were digging.”
“I’ve already dug enough dirt to last one lifetime,” said X-Ray.
They had met each other at Camp Green Lake.
“Look, don’t call me Armpit around other people, all right?” Armpit said.
“But that’s your name, dawg. You should never be ashamed of who you are.”
X-Ray had the kind of smile that kept you from hating him no matter how annoying he was. He was skinny and wore glasses, which were now covered with clip-on shades.
He picked up Armpit’s shovel. “Different shape.”
“Yeah, it’s for digging trenches, not holes.”
X-Ray studied it awhile. “Seems like it would be harder to dig with. No leverage.” He let it drop. “So you must be making a ton of money.”
Armpit shrugged. “I’m doing all right.”
“A ton of money,” X-Ray repeated.
Armpit felt uncomfortable talking about money with X-Ray.
“So really, how much you got saved up so far?”
“I don’t know. Not that much.”
He knew exactly how much he had. Eight hundred and fifty-seven dollars. He hoped to break a thousand with his next paycheck.
“Got to be at least a thousand,” said X-Ray. “You’ve been working for three months.”
“Just part-time.”
Besides working, Armpit was also taking two classes in summer school. He had to make up for all the schooling he’d missed while at Green Lake.
“And they take out for taxes and stuff, so really I don’t take home all that much.”
“Eight hundred?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“The reason I’m asking,” X-Ray said, “the reason I’m asking is I got a business proposition for you. How would you like to double your money in less than two weeks?”
Armpit smiled as he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I just need six hundred dollars. Double your money, guaranteed. And I won’t be taking out any taxes.”
“Look, things are going all right for m
“Don’t you even want to hear me out?”
“Not really.”
“It’s not against the law,” X-Ray assured him. “I checked.”
“Yeah, you didn’t think selling little bags of parsley for fifty dollars an ounce was against the law either.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault what people think they’re buying. How is that my fault? Am I supposed to be a mind reader?”
X-Ray had been sent to Camp Green Lake for selling bags of dried parsley and oregano to customers who thought they were buying marijuana. That was also why his family had to move from Lubbock to Austin shortly after he was released.
“Look, I just don’t want to do anything that might screw things up,” Armpit said.
“That’s what you think? That I came here to screw things up? Man, I’m offering you an opportunity. An opportunity. If the Wright brothers came to you, you would have told them it’s impossible to fly.”
“The Wright brothers?” asked Armpit. “What century are you living in?”
“I just don’t get it,” said X-Ray. “I don’t get it. I offer my best friend an opportunity to double his money, and he won’t even listen to my idea.”
“All right, tell me your idea.”
“Forget it. If you’re not interested I’ll find somebody else.”
“Tell me your idea.” He actually was beginning to get just a little bit curious.
“What’s the point?” asked X-Ray. “If you’re not going to even listen …”
“All right, I’m listening,” said Armpit.
X-Ray smiled. “Just two words.” He paused for effect. “Kaira DeLeon.”
It was eleven-thirty in Austin, but it was an hour later in Atlanta, where Kaira DeLeon, a seventeen-year-old African American girl, was just waking up. Her face pressed against Pillow, which was, in fact, a pillow. There wasn’t much oomph left in the stuffing, and the edges were frayed. The picture of the bear with a balloon, which had once been brightly colored, had faded so much it was hardly visible.
Kaira groggily climbed out of bed. She wore boxer shorts and was unbuttoning her pajama top as she made her way to what she thought was the bathroom. She opened the door, then shrieked. A thirty-year-old white guy, sitting on a couch, stared back at her. She clutched the two halves of her pajama top together and slammed the door.
The door bounced back open.
“Doofus!” Kaira shouted at the man, then closed the door again, making sure it latched this time. “Can’t a person have some privacy around here!” she screamed, then made her way to the bathroom, which was on the opposite side of her bed.
Over the last three and a half weeks she’d been in nineteen different hotel suites, each with no fewer than three rooms, and one with six. So really, it was no wonder she went through the wrong door. She didn’t even remember what city she was in.
She suspected that Polly, her psychiatrist, would tell her she had done that on purpose; something about wanting to show her body to her bodyguard. Maybe she was better off not telling Polly about it. Everything she said in her therapy sessions was supposed to be confidential, but Kaira suspected that Polly, like a parrot, repeated everything to El Genius.
She had no privacy—not in her hotel room, not even in her own thoughts.
The problem was that, except for Polly, there wasn’t anybody on the tour she could talk to. Certainly not her mother. And not her doofus bodyguard. The guys in her band were all at least forty years old, and treated her like she was a snot-nosed little kid. The backup singers were in their late twenties, but they seemed to resent her being the center of attention.
The only time she felt at peace was when she was singing. Then it was just her and the song and everybody else just disappeared.
Her concert tour would take her to a total of fifty-four cities, so she wasn’t even half done yet. She was now on the southern swing. From Atlanta they’d be going to Jacksonville, then Miami, Birmingham, Memphis, Nashville, Little Rock, and New Orleans, and on to Texas: Houston, Austin, and Dallas. Originally the tour was supposed to include San Antonio instead of Austin, but that was changed at the last minute due to a monster truck rally at the Alamodome—not that Kaira cared, or even knew about the change.
Other people took care of things like that. Other people took care of everything. Kaira had accidentally left Pillow behind in New Haven, and Aileen, the tour’s travel coordinator, took a flight back to Connecticut and personally searched the hotel laundry until she found it.
Karra emerged from the bathroom thirty minutes later wearing a hotel robe. She called room service and ordered a glass of orange juice, pancakes, a cappuccino, and French fries. It would have to last her until the concert. If she tried to eat before the concert she’d puke. After a concert she usually had a bowl of ice cream.
She got dressed, then stepped back out to the sitting area. Fred, her doofus bodyguard, was still there, going through her mail.
“As soon as I turn eighteen, you’re going to be the second person I fire.”
Fred didn’t even look up. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it.
The television was on CNN. Kaira changed the station to the Cartoon Network.
The first person she’d fire would be El Genius. He was her business manager and agent, and also happened to be married to her mother. They had gotten married shortly before the tour. His real name was Jerome Paisley, but he actually wanted people to call him El Genius. No matter how hard Kaira tried to sound sarcastic when she used that name, he always took it as a compliment.
Her father had been killed in Iraq. His name was John Spears. Kaira’s real name was Kathy Spears, but there was already a famous singer with that last name.
El Genius had come up with the name Kaira DeLeon.
“You mean like Ponce de León?” Kaira had asked him.
“Who?”
Some genius.
Kaira explained to the genius who Ponce de León was, which was why her first CD was titled The Fountain of Youth. El Genius thought it looked classy for DeLeon to be spelled as one word, with a capital letter in the middle.
Kaira had learned all about Ponce de León when she was in fourth grade and living at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. She had to learn the history of Florida. By year’s end she was living at Fort Myer, where they’d been studying the history of Virginia all year. She had never spent an entire school year in the same place.
“So, anything from Billy Boy?” she asked Fred.
Fred shook his head.
“Aw, too bad,” Kaira said. “He writes such charming letters.”
“It’s not funny,” said Fred.
“I think it’s hilarious,” said Kaira. She sang, “Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?”
Billy Boy had sent her four letters so far. He told her he thought she was lovely, she sang like a bird, and someday he would kill her.
El Genius hired Fred after the first letter. Kaira wouldn’t have been surprised if El Genius had actually written the letters, to scare her into staying confined to her hotel room. He was such a control freak. She was sure Fred told him everything she did.
“You got another marriage proposal,” Fred said.
“White or black?”
A photograph had been sent with he letter. Fred looked at it. “White,” he said.
“What is it with you guys?” asked Kaira.
It was her seventh proposal, and every one had been from a white man.
Fred carefully put the letter and the photograph in a plastic bag.
“What are you doing that for?”
“FBI.”
“He said he wanted to marry me, not kill me,” Kaira pointed out.
“For some people, it’s the same thing,” said Fred.
Kaira glanced at him, surprised. The Doofus had actually said something kind of profound.
“Let me see what he looks like?”
Fred handed her the plastic bag.
Kaira laughed when she saw the picture. “He looks like you!” The photograph was that of a very muscular man wearing no shirt. The only difference between him and Fred was that his hair was long and wavy, while Fred had a buzz cut.
“You ought to grow your hair out,” Kaira told him as she handed the plastic bag back to him.
Seven marriage proposals, and she’d never had a boyfriend.
Louis Sachar, Holes
(Series: Holes # 1)