Nowhere Boy Chapter 2

Max Howard nearly choked on his waffle. "You're what?!" He knew he should have been suspicious when his parents had suggested a second waffle of the day. They had just left the Grand Place, the enormous square in the center of Brussels where tourists gawked at the ornate gold-adorned buildings....

Max Howard nearly choked on his waffle. "You're what?!" He knew he should have been suspicious when his parents had suggested a second waffle of the day. They had just left the Grand Place, the enormous square in the center of Brussels where tourists gawked at the ornate gold-adorned buildings. It was their third day in Belgium, and his mother had wanted to take a family photo there. Max had figured she would post it on Facebook with some goofy comment like "Beginning our exciting year in Europe!" This was Max's first time in Europe, and, like most of what he'd seen so far, the Grand Place didn't seem real. The narrow cobblestone streets around it were filled with chocolate shops, waffle stands and souvenir stores selling beer steins and key chains of the Manneken Pis, the statue of the little peeing boy that was Brussels's mascot. Tourists speaking in a babble of languages passed by their table outside the waffle shop, and although it felt like morning, waiters were beginning to change the café chalkboards for dinner. But even in his jet-lagged fog, Max knew there was something very wrong with what his parents had just told him. "I thought I was going to the American school. Like Claire." He stared across the metal café table at his older sister. Had she known about this? But she just tossed her long blond hair and continued texting one of her millions of friends back home. Max felt like ripping the phone out of her hands and shouting, "Traitor!" In Washington, she'd always told him everything their parents were up to; she'd even given him strategies on how to keep them from freaking out about his grades. But she had been even angrier than Max when their parents had announced that they were moving to Brussels for a year so their father could be a defense consultant to NATO, a military alliance founded to protect Europe from Russia. And now, she was making it clear that he was on his own. His mom leaned in from the chair beside his. She was small, not much bigger than him, but she somehow still managed to make Max feel trapped. "Claire's in high school. She can't have an adventure like you." But the word "adventure" didn't fool Max. He knew what she was really saying: Claire is an A student on track to go to Harvard or Yale. You barely passed sixth grade, and we're afraid you're going to end up living in our basement. Max turned to his father. He was sipping a tiny European coffee, but with his sunburned face, cargo shorts and Marine Corps Marathon T-shirt, he was clearly American. Max hadn't seen a single man in shorts outside the Grand Place. "Dad?" Max knew his parents rarely agreed. But his father just smiled, as if he knew what Max was up to, and shook his head. "It's a good idea, Max." Max stared at his parents in disgust. He would have included Claire too, if she'd bothered to look up from her phone. "Um, you know I don't speak French?" "You'll learn," his father said. "Ms. Krantz said you have a good ear," his mother added. Max had a feeling the lawyer part of her had been waiting to break out this crushing evidence. What did you say? he almost said. But it was a dumb joke, and he felt too depressed to make it. Ms. Krantz was the learning specialist his parents had hired in Washington, D.C., after he'd nearly failed every subject but history. She'd told his parents he needed to work on study skills and focus, including on being less impulsive. But that was probably just because of the incident with the bike---after this crazy eighth grader took his friend Kevin's bike, Max had chased after him. It wouldn't have been a big deal except that when Max grabbed him, the crazy eighth grader had lost control of the bike and fractured his arm. The kid's parents had blamed Max, and even Kevin had been mad at him because his bike was twisted out of shape. But the incident with the bike was nothing compared to this. Here, he was stranded in a weird foreign country where people ate horsemeat (his mother had pointed it out at the store, so he knew it was true) and spoke a language that sounded like someone hacking up phlegm, and he was being denied his basic right to drift off in class to a language he understood. Middle school had been bad enough in English. And forget about friends. At least he'd had a few in Washington, like Kevin and Malik, who liked role-playing games and comic books. But how was he supposed to make friends when he couldn't even speak to them? Even the weather seemed to be messing with him. A few minutes before, it had been sunny, but now gray clouds covered the sky. He could feel his mom pressing in on him, a storm front of forced enthusiasm. "You can sleep in! The school is just around the corner. Claire has to get up early to take the bus---" "He's not a complete idiot," Claire interrupted. Max might have thought she was defending him, except for the way she emphasized the word "complete." His mother shot her a look. "Excuse me?" "He knows this isn't just some fun adventure. We all do." "Claire," his father warned. Max got it. She'd been happy in Washington with her million friends. She loved Walls, the super-selective high school where she had just finished ninth grade. But she acted like the move was somehow Max's fault when he'd had nothing to do with it. And he certainly didn't feel sorry for her now. At least she would be going to school in English. Max pushed away his waffle. "I won't go." His mother's voice was gentle but firm. "It's not a choice, Max." "How am I supposed to pass seventh grade in French?" A group of tourists glanced over. He realized he was shouting. He hated the way everyone in Brussels walked around grim and silent, like they'd just been yelled at. Even the little kids were quieter than American little kids. "Here we go," Claire murmured. "Oh, shut up," Max said to her. She looked up from her phone and fixed him with a stare. "You're not going to seventh." From the nervous glance his parents exchanged, Max instantly knew that Claire was telling the truth. "What?!" "We thought it would be easier for you to learn French if you repeated sixth," his father said. This wasn't a waffle-and-coffee stop---it was an ambush! Max jumped to his feet. "You're holding me back?" "Just think how great your French will be when we get back to America," his mom said. "You'll be the best in your class!" The best. Always the best. That was all his parents seemed to care about. Max picked up the soggy remains of his waffle and pushed past his mom to the trash. Then he chucked it in. "Max!" she called after him. Max ignored her, his arms crossed over his chest. A drop of water smacked against his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Perfect. It was beginning to rain. He'd been in Brussels all of seventy-two hours and he was already sick of it---the little cars; the clouds of cigarette smoke; the scrawny, overtrimmed trees that looked like amputees; the greasy snack shops selling fries and kebabs; the surly waiters who refused to do anything in a rush. In a single afternoon, he'd nearly been run over by a tram and stepped in dog poop (the entire city was like some poop obstacle course since no one in Brussels seemed to clean up after their dogs). Parts of the city looked the storybook way he'd imagined, with large windows and flower boxes and steep roofs; others seemed different (Max had never seen so many women wearing headscarves). But none of it felt like home. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He just wanted a hamburger ---not the weird raw beef the Belgians inexplicably called "filet Américain." He pictured Kevin and Malik munching on the greasy ones at the diner on Connecticut Avenue. What he wouldn't give to be sitting in the booth with them, discussing the new Avengers movie and making plans for a sleepover. He thought about texting them, but he was too embarrassed to admit that his parents were making him repeat sixth. Would they even be his friends next year if they were in different grades? He'd never felt so completely alone. He heard footsteps behind him and a hand squeezed his shoulder. His father wasn't a big man, but he had a strong, reassuring grip from years of golf and Washington handshakes. "I know we kind of sprang this on you." "Which part? Moving to Belgium? French school? Repeating sixth grade?" "All of it," he admitted. "But like Mom was getting at, it's an opportunity. And it takes the pressure off. All you have to do is learn French ---" "All I have to do is learn French? An entire language. Wow, thanks. I'm glad that's all." His father laughed and Max couldn't help feeling a little of his anger drain away. His father's eyes crinkled as he leaned in closer. "Anyway, there are only four French words you really need to know." But Max wasn't going to let his father kid his way out of this. He stared silently across the cobblestone street. A woman in a headscarf stood on the corner, holding out a coffee cup. Max couldn't understand the handwritten sign in her other hand---only the words faim, hungry, and réfugié, refugee. Max wished he hadn't ordered the waffle, that he'd given her the five euros instead. "Max, come on," his father said gently. "Just give it a try." "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?" Max muttered. "That's the spirit! Now, those words..." His father looked from side to side, as if checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them. "Où est la toilette?" he whispered. Max groaned. "Where's the toilet? Are you serious?" His father playfully ruffled Max's curly brown hair. "Look at that. You understand already!"