JACK
IT COMES TO HIM with such force, such simple clarity, that he cries it aloud: “Tattooer!”
He’s Jack. Say it again: He’s Jack! Jack does not give up. Jack does not wimp out. Jack battles. He will go to Tattooer, get a new one. He will track the girl and get his bike back. Repaint it better than ever. This thing that is happening, whatever it is, he will dehappen it. He will drag this day, pummel this day, back to normal.
Start with Kiki. He finds him at Cartoons, cross-legged in the grass, gaping up at the great screen.
“Kiki!” he calls. Kiki turns. The joy on his face tells Jack his earlier meanness has been long forgotten. Kiki snatches his glove and comes running, untied laces flapping. “Hey, Jack! Hey, Jack!” Kiki pulls up, tongue hanging, panting. The kid is so puppy-like Jack sometimes fears he’ll jump up and start licking him in the face.
“Got your new ball?” says Jack. He prays the kid found it after the unkind kick across the Plains.
The kid pulls the black-taped ball from his mitt. “Right here.”
“Give,” says Jack. Kiki flips him the ball. He deloops his own glove from his belt. “OK, let’s go.”
They fall into their routine as neatly as a foot slipping into an old sneaker. They move without measurement to positions precisely twenty steps from each other, facing. Kiki readies himself: knees bent, weight on toes, arms hanging, poised.
“Say it,” says Jack.
Kiki barks: “Eyes on the ball.”
“What?”
“Eyes on the ball!”
Jack tosses the ball once, twice, in his bare hand, getting the feel. He rolls a grounder, slow, directly at Kiki. The kid snaps it up, sidewinds it back. More slow, easy ones. Now a few to the left. The right. Rolling them faster now. Faster. The kid handles them all, shifting nimbly to throwing position even as he plucks them from the dust. Jack grins to see the kid’s tongue poke out each time a ball comes. Jack feels a swell of pride. He’s taught the kid well.
Fly balls now, sending the kid back, left, right. The last one is always the same: Jack rears back and fires one straight up as hard as he can. He puts so much into it he’s sometimes surprised the ball doesn’t bounce off the sky. Jack’s favorite part is the kid’s reaction, a strung-out yelp of wonder and delight as the ball, at its peak, shrinks to the size of a pea. Fright sweetens the yelp as the ball descends, getting bigger, faster. The kid circles, staggers drunkenly and finally emits a faint squeak of surprise as the ball plops into his outstretched mitt.
As always, the kid comes running, waving the ball. “I caught it!”
Jack rewards him with a nod. He is careful not to overpraise the kid, give him a big head.
The kid is panting, more from excitement than exhaustion. “How’d I do, Jack? Huh?”
Jack pretends to think it over, flips the kid a crumb: “Not bad.”
The kid beams.
JUBILEE
THE GIRLS ROCKWALK across the water to the island. Jubilee foots the abandoned log and with a dismissive sniff rolls it into the creek. They stand before Forbidden Hut. They behold it as one of the wonders, one of the great mysteries, of the world. No one knows who named it Forbidden. No one knows who made it or why it’s here on this island in the creek. Or why it even exists at all. Most of all, no one knows what it looks like inside. Because no one has ever been inside. Not for lack of trying. Hardly a day goes by that someone doesn’t try. The rocks are worn pearly by the feet of creek-crossers. The more kids can’t get in, the more they want to. The pattern endlessly repeats: curiosity leads to determination leads to frustration leads to fury leads to sullen, sagging defeat. And simmering beneath all that: surprise.
Surprise, because getting in looks first off like a piece of cake. It’s not like the Hut is a stone fortress or anything. Its windowless walls and flat roof are a patchwork of scraps that look like they came from Stuff: particleboard, shingles, bed slats. It looks like a kids’ clubhouse. A cheesy one at that.
But surprise is not at the bottom of the bottom. Disappointment is. Sticky, won’t-rub-off disappointment—because the Hut seems so inviting. It practically croons in the ear of everyone who sees it: Come on in, kid. This is your place. That’s what hurts so much, that a place that seems to welcome you, a place that seems made for you, will not let you in.
Nothing is more ordinary-looking, or surprising, than the door. To look at it, it’s just that: a door. A plain, white-painted (generously chipped) plywood door with a plain, ordinary, yo-yo-shaped brass doorknob. It looks as if all you have to do is turn the knob and—presto!—you’re in. Forget it. That brassy knob is polished to high gold by the hands of kids trying to turn it, trying to get in. Big Kids. Little kids. Girls. Boys. They turn. They tug. They grunt. They beat the place with jungle-limb clubs. Wallop it with rocks. Kick it. Pound the walls with their fists.
The more they can’t get in, the more they want to.
Hence the word before Hut: Forbidden.
Some call it Don’t Even Try.
“So what’s your brilliant new idea?” says Ana Mae.
Jubilee grins. “We’re always trying to bust in, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So how about this time”—she taps Ana Mae’s chest with the red blade of the spade—“we bust under.”
JACK
FEELING BETTER. It was just like old times with Kiki. He can feel the day turning around, hope surging. He heads for Tattooer.
In his own Newbie and Snotsipper days, Jack thought Tattooer was in the building. Now he knows better: Tattooer is the building. Or, to be more precise, the robot. Its facade is the face of a clown. You walk up three steps and climb into a nostril—left or right, it’s your choice. Some say that choice makes all the difference, whatever that means. It’s a steep crawl up the nose, like going the wrong way on a sliding board, but you don’t even think about it, you just do it.
Inside, two things happen. First your diaper is whipped off and catapulted through a hole in the roof. If you’re standing outside, what you see is a stream of diapers popping out of the roof and flying in a great arc toward the far horizon. They never land, however, for at the height of the arc they burst into flame and glamorize the daytime sky like a parade of shooting stars.
The second thing that happens is you get your tattoo. Muddled memories recall a green misty light, a tickle on the belly, a smell like toasting marshmallows. Then, with a sound that’s come to be known as “the turtle’s toot,” you’re spit out the mouth. When you hit the ground, you announce yourself to Hokey Pokey: “I’m a kid!” More important, you’re wearing your tattoo—and a pair of pants. You are now a Newbie. A Hokey Poker.
Standing at the end of the line of diaper-clad Newbie recruits, Jack has never felt more foolish. Fortunately there are only three ahead of him. He prays the line moves fast, before anyone sees him. It’s bad enough that the Newbie in front of him looks up and says something that sounds like, “Ee foozanakka nugu.”
When his turn comes, he quickly discovers he’s got a problem: he can’t fit up either nostril. So he enters via the mouth. Inside, true to his memory, a misty green light pervades, though it barely tints the gloom. Squinting, he makes out the Tickler, as it’s called. He doesn’t know what he must have thought of it the first time around. Now if he had to describe it, he might say mechanical octopus. It strikes him as surprising that at this point the Newbies don’t run off screaming, for it’s a little scary even to him. It’s very low to the floor, no doubt to accommodate the height of its clients.
Jack drops to his knees and shuffles forward. He stops at what he hopes is the right spot. He pulls his shirt up. He’s sweating. He waits. And waits. Nothing seems to be happening. The stubby, jointed mechanical arms seem to be locked in mid-gesture. Has he done something wrong? Can it tell he’s not a Newbie? He crouches lower, sits on his heels. The dark light flickers. A sniff-like noise—twice—comes from somewhere. Now two of the arms are moving. They poke him gently on the stomac
h. Instantly they recoil and a red light is flashing and an alarm is wailing and something is happening beneath him and with a guttural gagging cough Tattooer barfs him backward and out of its mouth. He lands on his butt in the glaring daylight, at the feet of his Amigos.
AMIGOS
DUSTY AND LAJO STARE DUMBLY as Jack gets to his feet, dusts himself off. He doesn’t look at them. He acts as if he doesn’t know they’re there. He walks off. He abruptly turns and comes back. He pulls up their shirts, first Dusty’s, then LaJo’s. He sags. He sighs.
“It’s just me, isn’t it? Nobody but me.”
They nod.
“You knew?”
They nod.
“How long?”
Dusty clears his throat. “Just today. That’s when we saw. This morning. LaJo saw it first, at the tracks.”
Jack looks up, squints at the sundazzle. Their shadows are down to inches. “He’ll be here soon,” he says absently.
Dusty looks up, LaJo down. “Yeah,” they say together.
Jack gazes off in the distance. “So what do you think?”
LaJo starts to say something, but Dusty cuts him off. “Nothin, Jack. It don’t mean squat. It’s just some … crazy thing. No sweat.”
Jack looks at LaJo. LaJo doesn’t want to speak, but Jack waits him out. LaJo shrugs. “Like he said, no sweat.”
Jack keeps staring, repeats as if trying to memorize: “No sweat.” He looks back at Tattooer. He grins feebly. “I figured it was worth a try.”
Dusty, ever the tension-breaker, pokes Jack, laughs. “When you came shooting outta there … backwards—”
A flaming diaper vaults across the sky.
“What’s it like in there?” says Dusty. “I forget.”
“Creepy,” says Jack.
They stare in silence as the diaper comet dissolves in a sooty puff. Dusty pokes LaJo. “Give it to him.” LaJo doesn’t move. Another poke, harder. “Give it.”
LaJo turns. “No.”
“Yes. He needs it. Give it.”
LaJo’s hands remain tightly in his pockets. “Some things you don’t mess with.”
“It ain’t up to you. It’s up to him.”
They’re speaking as if Jack isn’t here.
Jack holds out his hand to LaJo. “Give.”
LaJo stares at Jack.
“Give.”
LaJo shrugs, gives.
It’s a felt-tip marker. “I found it,” says Dusty. “He snatched it.”
Jack studies the marker. He removes the cap. The tip is black, well-worn. He hands it to Dusty, pulls up his shirt. A small, solitary smear remains on his stomach. Dusty kneels, hesitates, begins to draw. He pauses, looks up. “Tickle?”
“Nah,” says Jack, but really it does.
Dusty goes back to work. LaJo sends them a sour look, turns away. A fresh Newbie pops from the maw of Tattooer: “I’m a kid!”
DESTROYER
THERE’S A POINT, when you’re still far away, where the bluff looks like the end of the world. All you see is the top edge of the bluff and the sky, like someone took a knife and sliced Hokey Pokey off right there. Then, as you continue walking, you begin to see treetops beyond the bluff, and then the jungle and, through the trees, the creek, and then, when you reach the bluff’s edge and look down, you see the tracks.
None of this catches Destroyer’s attention. What he notices, emerging like a mirage from the heatshimmer as he approaches, is a pair of girl bikes. They’re parked by the blackberry bramble. One, an ordinary nag, is a purply color. The other one is special. It’s yellow and glittery. Ribbons dangle from pink handlegrips. The saddle is fuzzy white. Fuzzy pink and white balls hang from the tail. Something is written on the flank. He knows exactly what he’s looking at: the famous bike that the girl stole this morning. That used to be Scramjet. That used to be Jack’s.
What’s it doing here?
Where’s the girl?
He wonders these things as he comes near.
JUBILEE
THERE’S ONLY ONE SPADE, so the girls take turns digging. At the moment it’s Ana Mae. She’s barely begun and already she’s huffing. “I can’t believe how hard this is.”
“You don’t have to believe,” says Jubilee. “Just shut your mouth and do it.”
“Why do little kids like to dig?” Ana Mae gasps. “What’s fun about this?”
“I’m not answering your stupid questions,” Jubilee growls. “Save your breath.”
Ana Mae digs. Each stroke yields barely a handful of coarse dirt and stones. Ana Mae is now grunting dramatically with every thrust of the red spade. She stops, bent, huffing. She steps back. She jabs the spade at the hole as she waits for her breath to return. “Look,” she says.
Jubilee groans. “Look at what?”
“The hole.”
“What about it?”
She jabs the blade at Jubilee. “First you dug. Then me. Then you. Then me. And look.” She puts her arm in the hole. Her elbow still shows. “We’ll never finish.”
“Holy Harriet.” Jubilee snatches the spade. “What a baby. Get outta the way.” She sets to digging.
DESTROYER
KEEPS WAITING for a head to pop up, for someone to yell “Hey—you!” But it isn’t happening. He’s alone.
He stops ten feet away. He can’t believe he’s this close. He’s almost afraid to stare directly at it. Scramjet. The legend. He knows that it knows he’s here. He feels the energy streaming from it, as if flies are landing on his skin. Many times he has seen it streak across the land, the sprocket’s silver whirl. He has heard the chain sing.
His thoughts go back to the last time he sat upon his beloved yellow Daffy Duck trike.
He takes a deep breath, takes one step forward …
JUBILEE
DIGS … DIGS …
DESTROYER
ARE YOU WAITING FOR ME? Is that why you’re here? Yellow, like Daffy? They broke my Daffy. Are you my prize because they broke my Daffy?
JUBILEE
CANNOT ADMIT IT to Ana Mae, but this digging is brutal. With every thrust, the blade thunks against stones. The bigger rocks she has to claw out with her hands. The hole is big enough now for her to put one foot in. The sun feels like it’s close enough to touch. Her shirt is sticking to her skin. A pearl of sweat fattens on the end of her nose, falls. She’d give anything for a lemon-lime hokey pokey right now. Icy. Wet. Her shadow is a pencil line.
The blade clanks against a rock. She slumps. She needs a break. She’s about to hand the spade over when Ana Mae shrieks. She’s staring at her hand with a look of horror. “I’m getting a blister!”
Jubilee goes back to work.
DESTROYER
STANDS BEFORE THE BIKE. He cannot read the word on the yellow flank. He assumes it is Scramjet. He can’t believe he’s this close. He reaches out, touches a pink handlegrip with the tip of his finger. Yes, it’s real. He lays a hand lightly on the flank. He pets it. Nothing happens. The Great One is still, as if napping, beast and slim shadow leaning on the kickstand.
Do it.
I can’t.
Do it.
It’s not mine.
Who cares? Climb on. Ride. No one will know.
I might get hurt.
You might get the ride of your lifetime. You’ll make history. They’ll make a statue of you on Scramjet. Put it next to The Kid.
I’m scared.
You will amaze everyone. Now they’ll be scared of you. Even Big Kids.
I’m little.
Not after you do it.
I can’t.
They broke Daffy. Do it for Daffy.
I can’t.
You are Destroyer of Worlds.
I can’t reach the pedals.
The chain will sing to you.
I loved Daffy.
Do it!
JUBILEE
FOCUS … FOCUS …
She tries not to think of her aching shoulders. She tries not to think of her wet armpits and dry mouth. She focuses on t
he prize. Soon they will know what’s on the other side of the wall. She tries to picture it but finds that her thoughts dissolve like a lemon-lime hokey pokey on her tongue. No doubt it will be wonderful, but wonderful in what way? Will there be dazzle and spectacular things to see? Will it be the answer to a great mystery? Will it be wonderful in ways she cannot imagine? Is that the point? The prize? That the first person to enter Forbidden Hut will have an experience that cannot even be imagined by those left outside?
She digs … digs …
DESTROYER
“I AM DESTROYER OF WORLDS … I am Destroyer of Worlds …,” he whispers as he steps within the arc of the handlebar. And sees his problem at once: the saddle is too high—he needs a boost. And that’s not going to happen, as he’s alone out here on the bluff. The thought flitters in his brain: Not that anybody would ever give me a boost.
He looks about for something to step on—nothing but the berry thicket and a hole in the ground. Standing by the bike, the saddle head-high, he feels his littleness. Runt, the Daffy-killers called him. Well … maybe for once runt is good. Maybe he doesn’t need a boost. Maybe he doesn’t even weigh enough to topple it over. Maybe he can just climb up onto this thing. Step on the pedal, step on the sprocket, lean into the top tube, swing a leg up and over. He’ll do it on the kickstand side, and the kickstand will hold (Please!) because … he’s a runt.
The kickstand’s silver toe pierces the red dust. He’s panting, as if he’s just finished a race. He feels weak, shaky. He can’t move.
Do it!
He curls his fingers around the top tube, loosely at first, now more firmly. He does not know whose pulse he’s feeling, his or Scramjet’s. With his right hand he grasps the back of the white fuzzy saddle. He lifts his left foot, places it gingerly upon the left-side pedal, waits … waits …
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