Deep in the forest, the neighborhood’s coolest boys filed up the hill to enter the Clubhouse Supreme. Cornelius followed, but like always, Leo, the clubhouse’s warden, blocked his way.
“How’s it hangin’, Corny?” The sixth grader hocked and spit a loogie the size of Cornelius’s eyeball. He towered like a pine tree. His frizzy hair might have been a helm, and his freckles could have been war paint.
“Oh, ya know.” Cornelius’s voice wouldn’t deepen. He looked down, heart sinking; both of his high-tops were untied. If he bent to re-tie them, Leo would think him a slapdash fool, as his father said.
Behind the warden, a needle-narrow path sliced up through trees and brambles to the door at the top of the hill. Waves of laughter rose and showered down, and a briar tore at his heart. Cornelius was the only kid in the neighborhood who had never entered the clubhouse. The only one not cool enough.
“Whatcha got today?” Not annoyed; Leo seemed to like messing with him.
He dug the prize from his pocket. Leo swiped it and held it up, squinting; he must have been nearsighted, but too cool to wear glasses. After half a second, he tossed it aside. “Give me a break! I have a million quarters at home.”
“Hey!” Sunlight sparked as the coin flew. Cornelius dashed off and returned, brushing dirt off of it. “It’s from 1963; it’s real silver.” He knew Leo collected coins.
“Silver, shmilver.”
Cornelius lowered his head. Tears came, like they always did, and he didn’t want Leo to see. Some days, he wondered if the clubhouse was worth all this. Maybe not, but then again, anything could be inside. His imagination conjured a palace of glittering fountains. Were there sofas? Beds? Had the boys brought food, video games? If only he could see . . .
He suddenly leaped forward, shoes slapping dirt. But he had barely made it three strides uphill before Leo’s arm encircled him and hoisted him back.
“Whoa, whoa. That’s breaking the rules.”
They faced off and Cornelius tried not to shrink under the sharp, blue-eyed gaze.
“Corny, Corny Cornelius.” Leo grinned. “You think this job’s easy? I could be there”—he gestured uphill—“having fun. But I have to make sure punks like you don’t sneak in.” He must have thought Cornelius was looking down at something, because he perked up. “Hey, those are some nice kicks.”
He blinked. “Thanks.” His Thunderflexes, with their blue lightning pattern, were pretty sweet.
Leo sniggered. “Even if you fucked up the laces.”
The F-word chainsawed profanely against the trees. But maybe Adult Language was the official clubhouse speech. A rule, even.
Cornelius kneeled to tie the shoes.
“Wait.” Leo looked like someone tasting chocolate cake. “Make you a deal. You give me your kicks, and I’ll consider letting you in.”
Cornelius straightened in a hurry, breathless. “Into the clubhouse?”
“That’s right.”
“The shoes won’t fit you.”
“They’re not for me, duh.”
“Then who’re they for?”
“Nunya bizniss.”
He suspected Leo might sell the shoes, or trade them for something sweet like a PlayStation. But Cornelius was already shaking his head. “I can’t.”
Leo stared like he had hocked a loogie inside the shoes. “What d’you mean, you can’t?”
“My brother got them, I can’t give them away.”
“So what? Did he sign ’em or something?” He chuckled. “The shoes, for the club. That’s the price.”
He shook his head harder.
Leo’s face darkened. “Then go on. Get out of here, Corny boy.”
Excluded once again, Cornelius left. But trudging through the trees, an idea came to him.
* * *
The next Saturday, they danced again. The greeting was exchanged, the payment requested. Cornelius offered a shiny set of blue gaming dice; Leo liked Dungeons & Dragons. The warden considered the dice with interest, but handed them back.
“Last thing I need. Sorry. No dice.” He giggled at his own joke, then studied Cornelius like he had grown a second nose. “Something different about you. What?”
Cornelius glanced up at the door longingly. “Iunno. Well, see ya.” He turned.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“What’s in your pocket?” He pointed at the back of Cornelius’s jeans.
“This?” He drew the object and raised it: a wooden comb the color of peanut butter. Gold lettering on its shaft said, “Kentworth’s Fine Wares.”
“That’s what’s different. You slicked your hair. You think you’re a gangster or something?” Cornelius opened his mouth, but Leo said, “The comb.”
“What?”
“The comb gets you in.” He held out a hand.
“Nuh-uh.” Cornelius shook his head, stowing it in his pocket. “It was my gr—”
“I don’t care if it was the president’s. I want it.”
Cornelius fell silent. He pretended to be torn up, like Leo had requested blood, but really the comb had not belonged to anyone except a dumpster. “Okay, fine.”
Leo’s grin could have lit a small town. He put the comb to work, transforming his hair into a porcupine, and stepped aside. Heavenly angels chorused in Cornelius’s head. His trembling legs climbed the hill; brambles scratched his arms, but he didn’t care. The summer sun turned the doorknob golden with promise. At long last, his heart swelling, he opened the door to the Clubhouse Supreme.
Inside on the ground, five boys surrounded a tablet, where video after video flicked by. Every minute or so, they burst into synchronized laughter. Half the clubhouse’s plywood walls had fallen. Bags of Doritos yawned open beside a Mountain Dew twelve-pack. The boys muttered greetings and returned to the screen.
After fifteen minutes, Cornelius left. At the bottom of the hill, Leo’s hair wrestled with the comb. “Back already?”
“Um, the club’s kind of . . .”
“Lame?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
Leo grinned. “Why do you think I’m out here, Corny?” He pointed at the comb lodged in his hair. “Thanks for this.”
Cornelius smiled back. “No problem.”
A warm silence embraced them. The two wardens stood side by side, staring into the trees, and guarded the clubhouse together.