That’s when Kyler starts hopping from one foot to the other in excitement. “Seriously? He could have crossed into the Otherworld, in his time, and walked out again sometime way, way, in the future…like now?”
“You got it!” I say. “It’s the Celtic version of time travel! And that’s why he was saying: ‘Not this time!’ He probably only went to the Otherworld for an hour or two and now he’s freaking out because he’s left all his family behind. He doesn’t want to be here, Kyler. He wants to get back home, to his time!”
Suddenly Kyler’s scrabbling in his snack bag, in his pockets and, in desperation, in the pockets of the coats hanging on the Lost and Found rack. “Pencil,” he gasps. “Paper!”
I have a piece of paper stuffed in my pocket. The Lost and Found donates a ballpoint. Kyler grabs them both, folds the paper in two and then stabs the ballpoint right through. “I’m thinking ‘wormholes,’ Mikey. Celtic wormholes through time!”
The minute he says this, I remember one of our time-travel videos. “A wormhole is a time tunnel through space, but the Otherworld is a Celtic tunnel between different times on earth!”
“That’s it! Imagine this ballpoint is a tunnel. We’ve just found a shortcut from this side of the paper,” Kyler points to the top, “to this side.” He points to the bottom. “Or from this time,” he traces his finger around the entire curve of the paper, “to this time. That’s a wormhole. The Otherworld is a wormhole. You go into it in, say, 410 A.D. and you come out in 2010 A.D.” Then he does a kind of “ta-da” step. “Maybe the Celts were quantum physicists.”
“But with bigger mustaches!” I say. I have to give it to Kyler. He’s always been a smart guy. If he ate chips, like me, every time he read a book, he’d be a super brain by now—fat, sure, but real brainy. We’re about to high five when Kyler pulls his hand away.
“We know how he’s time traveling. He’s going into the Otherworld wormhole and coming out the other side. So, is the alley one of those foggy crossing places, like a magic portal?”
“Yeah, that’s it!”
“But can he control it?”
I think about this really carefully, trying to remember exactly what he looked like in the hospital and what he said. “No, I don’t think so. He said, ‘Not this time,’ like it was a mistake that he’s made before and he didn’t want to make it again.”
“So did we just see him leave for good this morning when he disappeared? Maybe he got lucky this time and got back home?” Kyler looks up at the sky with his hands clasped as if he’s begging the Celtic gods. “Please don’t let that be true!”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I say as the bell rings for the end of recess.
Kyler groans with frustration as he pushes out from behind the Lost and Found rack and starts running across the blacktop. “What?”
I follow him. “The key is ‘certain nights’. Your mom said the men came on certain nights. That’s all we know.” I stop for a moment. “But it makes perfect sense. The Celts believed there were certain nights when the skin between the Otherworld and this world was thin. The very best night was Halloween! I bet he’s stuck here until Halloween. We have to keep looking for him.”
“That’s what I needed to hear!” Kyler cheers. “Operation Getaceltorix worked this morning. It’ll work again tomorrow. Same time, same route,” he says as we sprint to class.
“If we gain his trust, maybe he’ll even take us with him,” I say.
Kyler whoops in agreement. “He’ll show us his horses, his chariot, everything.”
I hurl a pretend spear at our classroom door. “And we’ll fight alongside him. We’ll be warriors!”
CHAPTER NINE
I’m glaring at a yellow college pad, trying to write a book report before dinner. So far I’ve written one sentence about ten times, on ten different pieces of paper, which are now in the trash. I keep thinking about the Celt. Grandpa always says you mustn’t wish your life away, but I can’t wait to look for him tomorrow. Somehow Kyler and I have to get back to the alley.
I text Kyler.
What time tomorrow?
Kyler doesn’t answer.
I lean over a new piece of paper, trying to concentrate on my report, but the page stays blank.
I text again.
What do we tell moms?
Reason 4 leaving 4 school
early 2× this week is…?
Still no answer. Why doesn’t Kyler check his phone? I work some more on my report. I get a couple of good smears of ink on there, squeeze out the first sentence again, and then a couple more.
I text Kyler to see if he wants to carry on our battle in Romanii: Northern Borders. We’ve been so busy we haven’t had the chance to finish it yet. When he doesn’t reply this time, I text:
Afraid I’m going to whoop
your butt?
Then I remember he has Tae Kwon Do. That’s why he’s not near his phone. I bet he’s already finished his book report, too.
Kyler finds schoolwork easy. I watch him write sometimes, like when he was doing his worksheet today. All those words and ideas just flow out of him. He never seems to forget what he was saying at the start of the sentence, never sits there with the words coming out in the wrong order or not coming out at all.
I look back at my paper. I’ve read the book. I like reading books. I just hate writing about them. I straighten up to think, lean back over, and push my pen across the paper. One more sentence, two more, then I get stuck on a spelling. I cross the word out. Try again. Write it out a third time—and by then I’ve forgotten what I was trying to say. The page looks a mess. Mom would tell me to copy it out again, but I need a break.
I throw the pen down and delve into the box of building bricks by my desk. Just the sound of the plastic bricks rattling makes me relax. I picture the whole scene I want to make: a Roman city with walls around it, a forum in the middle, and streets in a grid pattern. Then I’m going to have my Celts ransack it, just like the real Celts did early in Rome’s history. Maybe my Celt was there? He could have been.
I dig further through my storage boxes for some of the big baseplates to build on. These days, I like playing Romanii: Northern Borders best, but sometimes it’s good to go “old style.” I used to create giant battle scenes across my bedroom floor, and then my plastic soldiers would go to war. I still have them—hundreds of soldiers from different ages, Romans, Celts, Egyptians, Vikings, redcoats, pirates, Civil-War guys, D-Day-landing dudes—but the funny thing is, I have no guns. It’s a Mom thing.
When I was little, every birthday I’d ask for soldiers. After a while she gave in and bought them for me, but even though they should have had guns, they never did. It took me years to figure out that Mom opened each set, took out the tiny guns, and resealed it before she gave it to me. She’d even black out the pictures of the guns on the outside of the box with a marker.
So I have this idea that she’s hidden them. Somewhere in this house there’s an arsenal of miniature weaponry of epic proportions, and I’m going to find it. I look sometimes, on nights when she’s working. It sounds crazy, I guess, but Kyler agrees with me. Knowing Mom, she’s kept the guns because she sure as heck has kept all the boxes. One day she plans to sell everything online. She’s told me. “Toys always get more if you still have the boxes, the instructions, and all the pieces,” she said.
Kyler loves this whole “mini-weapons dump” idea. That’s why, at the most unexpected times, he’ll say “plastic bag, bottom of coffee can,” or “scooped-out spaghetti squash, back of the kitchen cupboard.” It’s become another of our games, and some of his ideas are pretty good.
Anyway, I borrow a whole lot of pale green and ivory bricks from my castle set and a bunch of white bricks from my spaceships. There was a lot of marble and fancy decoration in Rome. It’s already looking good when Mom calls me into the kitchen.
“Mikey, dinner for you and Grandpa is in the slow cooker. Set the table. Grandpa will serve.”
; She’s about to go to work. She’s wearing her uniform, and she’s stuffing herself with salad in front of her laptop, emailing Dad before her shift. I tell her to say hi to Dad for me. She’s got her commuter cup of coffee ready for the drive. I can tell she’s already drunk half of it. She’ll have to pour herself another before she leaves.
“Dad, can you turn the TV down?” she calls. “I need to talk to Mikey.”
My heart freezes. Ryan’s said something.
I glance into the living room. Grandpa’s in his chair watching the news. He fumbles around on a little table next to him for the remote.
“Just doing it. Now where is that…?”
Mom sighs. “Get it for him, Mikey.” She hates the new giant flat-screen TV. We didn’t have one until Grandpa came to live here. Mom calls it “the price of built-in babysitting.”
Grandpa searches down the back of his chair. He pats down his pockets, too. “Heh, heh,” he laughs. “That little devil remote’s got legs, Mikey Boy. I swear it. Always running away from me.”
“Got it, Grandpa.” I spot it on the windowsill right away.
“Good recon, son,” he says.
As I hand it over I whisper, “Am I in trouble, Grandpa?”
He turns the volume up rather than down so Mom won’t hear and winks. “Not that I know of, Mikey. Want me in there?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Nah,” I say. “As long as she’s not on the war path.”
Grandpa shakes his head. “Want to watch a war movie later?” Grandpa loves war movies. I feel guilty about my report for a second, then I put my thumbs up. Only then does Grandpa turn the volume down. “Never can get it right,” he says loudly with another wink.
“Mikey?” Mom beckons from the kitchen. “Quick. I’ve got to leave in five minutes.” She pats the chair next to her. We’re on the same level so I know she’s serious. I try to look interested in an innocent sort of way, but I’m clenching my teeth, waiting for a lecture.
“Mikey,” she says, “I don’t want to worry you, but I’ve just got an email from school. All the parents have. Apparently a fourth grader was…frightened…by a man who jumped out at him this morning. Nothing bad happened. The man didn’t rob the boy or hurt him, but it was just on Swinton Street, close to the park on Alvarado. The kid was on his way to school. Have you heard anything? Do you know who the kid was?”
I wait before I speak, thinking through what she’s said. She’s not mad. She doesn’t know we were there. It’s OK. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, it was Ryan O’Driscoll. He was late to school. They sent him to see Miss Wendy. A lady in the laundromat found him or something.”
Mom shakes her head. “As if that family hasn’t got enough going on.” She’s sort of talking to herself. “I’d better email his mom.” She walks over to the living room door and leans in. “Dad? Would you mind walking Mikey and Kyler to school for the next few days? Just to be on the safe side?”
“Sure,” Grandpa says.
“And maybe one other kid, if he needs it?” she asks.
“Fine by me. As long as the kid doesn’t run off, because I’m not chasing after anyone anymore.” He taps his right leg beneath the knee, as if Mom hasn’t noticed the false one for the last forty years. “I can’t even keep the remote in order. That right, Mikey?”
I don’t answer because I’m thinking. If we have Grandpa with us, we can’t look for our Celt. This is going to ruin everything. And then I think, “extra kid?” We’re going to have an extra kid tagging along, too?
Mom taps out an email and says, “There. I don’t expect anything will come of it, but at least I’ve tried. Mikey, Grandpa’s going to walk you and Kyler to school for the next few days until all this has blown over. You won’t mind walking with Ryan too, will you?”
“Ryan?” I say. “Ryan?” But it’s too late. Mom’s already out the door.
CHAPTER TEN
“Do we have to pick up Ryan, Grandpa?” I ask at breakfast. “Can’t you walk him to school and I’ll walk with Kyler?”
“No, Mikey Boy. Your mom sent this list while she was working her shift, and it’s numbered. No stars or abc’s. Numbers. You know what that means. Orders are orders.” He points to a printed email on the table:
1) Get up and leave house 15 minutes early.
2) Give M carrot and jicama sticks in fridge for snack.
3) Make sure M takes his coat.
4) Pick up Kyler.
5) Pick up Ryan O’Driscoll, 1110 Alvarado. He’ll be waiting on the street at 7:45.
6) Mikey, walk with Grandpa. Don’t run ahead. Tell Kyler too.
“Oh, man. Ryan hates us. This stinks,” I say.
“Hates you?” Grandpa hands me a bag of chips and three gummy worms from his poker store.
“It’s not just me, Grandpa. He’s mean to everyone right now.”
“Hmmm,” Grandpa says. “Well, he won’t be mean when I’m around. Besides, Mikey, you have to remember, I’ve met some real mean guys in my time, but most of them had someone do mean things to them first. Be nice to people, Mikey, because everyone’s fighting a hard battle.” He forms his hand into a fist and pretends to bonk me over the head with it.
When we ring Kyler’s doorbell, Kyler’s mom answers the door while yelling back down the hallway, “Hurry up! And take your coat. It’s cold.”
“Awww, Mom. Nooo,” Kyler whines from the kitchen.
“It’s cold, Kyler! Isn’t it cold, Mikey? Mikey says it’s cold.” I swear I haven’t said a thing. “Take your coat!” Mariko’s dressed in her emergency room gear. She looks tired, but she still smiles at Grandpa and says, “Thank you so much for doing this, Marty. Are your wrist and leg OK?”
Grandpa twirls his wrist around in front of her then pulls up his pants’ leg. His three stitches are neat as anything, and his cut is closed up and pink.
“Wow, Marty. That looks good,” she says. “You heal real fast…for an old guy.” She gives him a playful pat on the shoulder.
“Old soldier!” Grandpa corrects her. “Heh, heh, heh.” Mariko laughs along with him. She’s the only one who can call Grandpa an old guy and get away with it. “Good genes and good luck! That’s what gets me through every time,” Grandpa says.
Losing a leg doesn’t seem like good luck to me, but Grandpa always tells me, “I was one of the lucky ones. I came home.”
Kyler pushes past his mom to join us.
“OK,” Mariko says. “Have a good day, and don’t run ahead!”
We walk far enough in front of Grandpa to talk, but not so far that it looks like we’re running off. He’s happy walking behind us at his own pace, saying good morning to the people he knows, and saluting them with his stick; people like the white-haired English lady with the yappy dog and the grocery store guy.
“What’s Ryan gonna say when we pick him up?” Kyler whispers. “Will he tell on us to your Grandpa?
“I hope not.” The thought makes me uneasy inside. “Grandpa’d have to tell Mom and she’d be M-A-D, mad.”
“Mine too.” Kyler hitches up his backpack. “And how are we going to find our warrior again if we’re always with people?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Like you said, the Celt found us, didn’t he, even when we were with Ryan? He could be watching us right now.” As I speak, I feel it—that sensation of someone staring at the back of my head. I spin around and Grandpa grins at me. Well, duh!
“Yeah, I guess.” Kyler sighs. “But if Ryan calls me Turtle again, I’ll cream him.” Kyler’s as disappointed as I am about this whole “walking Ryan to school” thing, so I whisper, “Look, we get to walk straight past the alley every day we walk Ryan to school. That’s perfect. We couldn’t have arranged it better ourselves. We can’t get to Park Two when we’re walking with Ryan and Grandpa, that’s tough, but we never got to search in Big…uh…Lost Tooth…er, I mean Park One, did we? So it’s great we’re going there again. Maybe we can persuade Grandpa to let us scout it out while we wait for Ryan. We can pretend we
’re covert operations: a crack team of two, handpicked for our mega-awesome fighting skills. Urban ninja, Kyler!” I don’t mention “turtles” in the same sentence as “ninja” for obvious reasons.
Kyler’s face brightens. He glances around and throws himself against the wall of a town house, as if he’s a shadow not a person. “Garage water heater, strapped all around with duct tape, tucked into the duct tape bands!”
“Clever,” I say. Kyler grins and then slinks the whole way to Alvarado.
Just our luck, Ryan is already waiting outside a bright-yellow house when we arrive. That leaves us no time to check out the park. His house must be newly painted because there’s still a painter’s sign in the yard. There are Mexican tiles up to the front door and twisty bushes cut into pompoms along the front, like Dr. Seuss trees. It’s pretty much opposite the park, so it’s no wonder he goes running there.
Grandpa introduces himself, even though Ryan’s seen him loads of times at school and knows who he is. Ryan glares at us. “I don’t need you to walk me to school. It was that dumb lady at the laundromat who wouldn’t leave me alone. I wasn’t frightened. My dad’s a Sergeant.”
“Oh, I know that, son,” Grandpa says quietly, “but this isn’t about you being afraid. It’s about your mom and the other moms being afraid. They just want you to be safe. No point taking risks unless you need to.”
“If nothing happens, I can walk on my own again, right?”
“Right,” Grandpa says. “In a few days.”
Ryan glances across the street, chewing the inside of his mouth. Then he hurries in front of us, so no one will think he’s with us. Grandpa calls for him to slow down. Ryan turns and scowls, but he waits.
“Sergeant, eh?” Grandpa asks when he catches up. “Me too.”
Kyler nods toward the park and gives me a resigned look. I nod back. He’s right. There’s no time to search the park. This morning is a disaster so far.
I wait a minute watching them all walk ahead of me. For someone who says he’s not afraid, Ryan’s looking around an awful lot. I guess he’s looking for the Celt, too, wondering if he’ll surprise us again.
The Lost Celt Page 5