When Zachary Beaver Came to Town Read Online Free

door, Kate tries to parallel park the McKnight station wagon between two garbage cans set on the street. She looks like an old lady—frizzy red hair twisted in a knot on top of her head, glasses low on her nose, shoulders hiked up to her ears, and her body curled over the steering wheel.
    Every high school junior in Antler already has their driver’s license except for Kate. Mrs. McKnight drove her to Amarillo three times this summer to take the test, and each time Kate failed the driving part because she can’t parallel park. Now she frantically looks from the rearview mirror to the side mirror, inching the car backward.
    Watching from my driveway, Cal and I straddle our bikes and eat our dry muffins. I stop chewing. I even cross my fingers, wanting for her to succeed this time. But as usual, she backs into the rear garbage can, knocking it over, causing the metal to clank against the road.
    â€œOh!” Cal smacks his hands against his chest and falls off his bike in slow motion. “She got me, buddy.”
Flat on his back, the rear tire covering his legs, he raises his head and looks her way. I laugh.
    Kate jumps out of the station wagon, pushes up her glasses, and returns the can to its upright position. Her baggy jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt swallow her skinny body. Before getting back behind the wheel, she faces Cal, tight fists at her sides, and glares.
    â€œCome on,” Cal says. “Let’s get out of here before she blows.”
    We race down the sidewalks on Ivy Street, Cal on the right side of the road, me on the left. We jump curbs like track stars leaping hurdles. We take sharp turns at the corner of Ivy and Langston, leaning into the wind, knowing we won’t fall because we’ve done it a million times before. We can stop our bikes on a dime, and we do when we reach the school. In a few months the grounds will be crawling with kids, but right now Malcolm is mowing it with his dad’s riding mower. From the looks of it, he’s been at it awhile, and the smell of freshly cut grass floats in the air. He waves and we wave back, but Cal yells, “Hey, Malcolm. You big goofball! Crybaby!”
    We’re safe because Malcolm can’t hear Cal through the motor’s growl. He waves again, sucks in his big gut, and accelerates like he’s on a Harley-Davidson.
He’s wearing his Antler Wrestling T-shirt, but the only wrestling action Malcolm has seen is from the bench.
    Last summer the three of us were out by Sheriff Levi’s place with the electric fence surrounding it. Cal and I challenged Malcolm to a pissing contest. We stood facing the fence, only Cal and I undershot. As we predicted, show-off Malcolm aimed for the fence, and as soon as he successfully hit his target, he was knocked flat on his back. It didn’t really hurt him, but the shock shook him up bad. He had hollered, “A snake! I got bit by a snake!” Cal and I split a gut laughing, but Malcolm ran home crying to his mother. We were grounded for weeks.
    â€œHow much do you think that guy eats?” Cal asks.
    â€œMalcolm?” I ask.
    â€œNo,” Cal says, shaking his head. “Zachary Beaver.”
    â€œHe told you. As much as he can.”
    â€œMan, that guy was huge,” Cal continues. “I wonder if he’s in the Guinness Book of World Records .”
    â€œWho cares?”
    â€œDo you think he really weighs 643 pounds?”
    I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess.”
    â€œI mean, how do they weigh him? Most scales don’t go that high.”

    â€œMaybe they weigh him at a meat market.”
    Cal scratches his chin. “I wonder how he goes to the bathroom?”
    â€œHow do you go to the bathroom?”
    â€œYou know what I mean. I mean, does he have to have a special toilet?”
    I roll my eyes.
    â€œAnd what do you think he keeps in that gold cardboard box?”
    I don’t want to talk about the fat kid. It makes my stomach ache