Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus: Chapters 11–16

This injustice would not stand. This unfairness would not be tolerated.

“Yeah! Maybe they’re famous members of a boy band, and they don’t want anyone to know that they also dabble in western-themed amusement parks because it would ruin their cool pop-star image.”

“Maybe they pulled a prank on the wrong person. You know, shot someone they shouldn’t have in the face with one of those flowers that squirt water. Or hit someone on the head with a squeaky foam hammer, and that person did not find it funny. And now that person is out for revenge.”

“Back in fourth grade, we knew we were going to have a substitute teacher one day because our teacher had to go to a funeral. So my best friend, Emily, took these arms from one of her mom’s mannequins.”

So, anyway, when we got to our classroom, our covert operation went into effect.

When the teacher called for us all to take our seats, I yelled out, ‘Matthew, let go of my arms!’ and he pulled on the fake arms. The idea had been that he would basically pull my arms off and then hold them up over his head in triumph, howling like some wild barbarian.

“Everyone was laughing, but the sub just stared at us. Matthew gave up and went to his seat, so I did, too. My sleeves were so stretched out that the arms dragged on the floor next to me as I walked and I had to maneuver around them to sit down at my desk.”

I grinned mischievously to myself. If I had hands, they’d have been doing that evil finger-tapping thing right below my chin.

We snuck around to the back entrance and made our way to the kitchen, where cooks, busboys, and servers were all bustling around, getting ready for dinner.

It was sloppy and haphazard, but Connor managed to dig a hole in each of the steaks, tie the twine through them and then tie them around my T-shirt sleeves, going through the arm and neck holes.

I loosely draped a cardigan over my shoulders, and we made our way downstairs and out to the street to watch the gunfight, where a small crowd was already forming.

We had to wait only a minute before the cowboys came out and started yelling at each other. I tapped my foot while they went through their daily spiel.

Connor snickered beside me with his hand over his mouth.

A couple of kids standing nearby screamed in terror, and their parents looked alarmed for about one second—all the time it took to assess the situation.

The fight was all messed up now, and people started dispersing into the rest of the park. The cowboys glared at me.

Connor draped the cardigan back over my shoulders as I smiled sheepishly at them.

The next morning, the cowboys went and complained to Dad about my shenanigans.

“Yeah, it was,” I said, and we finished breakfast together, communicating only through overly stern looks and repressed giggles.

“Yeah, it was,” I said, and we finished breakfast together, communicating only through overly stern looks and repressed giggles.

He looked about as forlorn and pitiful as I must have looked cowering in the bathroom stall to eat my lunch.

He slowly lifted a juice box to his lips and took a long swig.

“I’m not allowed to play any game with a disclaimer on the cover,” I said.

“I’m better at games when I can mostly use the joy stick,” I said as Connor slipped the disc into the console.

I think I played worse than normal because Connor ticced a lot while he played, and it distracted me.

I smiled, but Connor looked grave. “Thank you, Mrs. Green, but I’m not staying for dinner.”

“It matters,” I said emphatically. “It matters a lot.”

Connor looked appalled and shrunk down in his seat.

Connor looked at Mom with interest, so she took that as her cue to tell the story for the millionth time.

“She’d never seen such a precious, beautiful, amazing, brilliant, intelligent child,” I said. Connor raised an eyebrow at me. “I may be embellishing a little.”

“There’s that guy who’s the motivational speaker,” Dad added.

Mom threw her arms up in exasperation. “Her foster families had done everything for her—bathed her, fed her, brushed her teeth. She just sat around like a slug, waiting to be cared for like the Queen of Sheba.”
“Queen. Of. Sheba,” Dad reiterated.

I had spent as much time with him as I could, trying to motivate him to get well and eat his hay, even offering it to him with my feet. I also made sure he ate his llama ration.

He looked up, seemingly surprised again that someone was talking to him.

My mom has eczema, so I know what a curse rough elbows can be.

“Where do you think the key is?” Zion asked me.
I shrugged. “This desk is probably like fifty years old. It could be anywhere. You know how to pry it open?”