September came, and so did an unprecedented amount of black bears. Jake’s mother warned him to be especially careful at night, and early in the morning. This was normally the month for hyperphagia, in which black bears consumed sixty thousand calories per day, getting ready for hibernation. They always made appearances in town—the people in Quinn grew used to the occasional nuisance of garbage cans overturned, gardens ravaged, and crashing sounds in the middle of the night as their unpicked crab apple trees were destroyed.
But this year, there was an armada. There really was no other word. Jake wasn’t scared of black bears—he knew enough that they were not a threat unless they were starving or protecting their cubs. Usually, all a person had to do was make a lot of noise, and the bear would run away. He learned this from a 1985 episode of All My Children, when he rushed home to see what became of Erica Kane, played by the immortal Susan Lucci, as she found herself trapped in the wilderness for some soap opera reason. A black bear charged her, and like any good soap opera, the drama was disarmed by the delivery of a passionate speech. In this case, Susan Lucci backed up against a tree and proclaimed: “You may not do this! . . . I am Erica Kane, and you are a filthy beast!” The bear, of course, knew that Erica Kane was nobody to mess with, and wandered away. The particular speech stuck with Jake, and he prepared to unleash it upon any bears that came near.
The bears invaded the town. The oldest citizens of Quinn claimed it was unprecedented. The bears traveled in packs down Main Street at night. The braver bears sunned on the bleachers of the football field, and one got stuck in the automatic doors of the post office. The Forest Service and Fish and Game stapled warnings on every pole and tree standing. Fish and Game came door-to-door at the trailer court, because apparently, black bears liked trailer courts. Cats and dogs went missing. Laverna announced to her regulars at the Dirty Shame that the number of bears surpassed the number of citizens. Special city council meetings were called, and the citizens of Quinn were told the same thing, every single time: Shoot on sight, and don’t let your toddlers play unattended. Fish and Game knew Red Mabel, and prepared for a massacre.
Jake started eighth grade in September, and this year promised to be better. Peggy Davis retired, and the new librarian was barely middle-aged. The new librarian wore cashmere turtlenecks and owned at least three different pairs of eyeglasses. Her beauty made him nervous, and he had yet to ask her name. He had a new friend in Shyanne, a beautiful ally and protector. She wasn’t mouthy like Misty, and Jake followed her around during lunch and waited by her locker in between classes.
First period was still Ms. Bray, At least this year he had a window seat. He wore his black sailor pants, and black boots that made him look taller. His shirt was a seafoam-green color, sewed on the old Singer.
Ms. Bray attempted to teach about continental drift, but most of the students watched out the windows, at the duo of black bears that had surrounded the flagpole. They milled about, sniffing at the lawn, curled up on top of the picnic tables that still smelled of sack lunches. All of this reminded Jake of the beginning of Red Dawn, one of his favorite movies, but without the Russians. He would have preferred Russians, because they probably would have shot Ms. Bray first.
Ms. Bray had enough and pulled the curtains shut. The students groaned, and Jake looked up at the blackboard to see Ms. Bray’s crudely drawn version of the continental drift. It resembled a basketball with patches of eczema.
Jake surreptitiously pulled his copy of Flowers in the Attic from his desk and slid it behind his earth science textbook. It was his second time through the entire series, but it was delicious, and far preferable to hearing Ms. Bray opine about Pangaea.
Ms. Bray caught him, even though he was trying to keep his page turning as quiet as possible. She pointed to the front of the class, and Jake knew the routine, knew that she would give the speech about how if he found cheap paperbacks more interesting than a junior high school education, he should just go live under a bridge. It was always the same. Sometimes she switched it up, and suggested that he go live on the streets of San Francisco, which always made the class snicker.
“What is it this time?” Ms. Bray took a seat in an empty desk at the front of the class, one leg crossed over a knee, her foot bobbing expectantly. “I cannot wait to hear about hobbits or Nancy Reagan’s astrologist or Jonathan Livingston Seabird.”
“Seagull,” said Jake.