Kyler’s about to cut in when a tennis ball hits hard against the wall above our hideout and drops onto the branches above us.
“Hey, watch out,” Kyler yells.
Another ball scorches past and thuds against the stucco.
“What the—?” I yell.
“You’re talking garbage.” Ryan O’Driscoll fights his way into our den. He’s so mad that when his coat snags on a branch, he rips the branch clean off. His face is red, his neck is all bulgy, and he’s inches away from us. He picks up one of the tennis balls and goes to throw it again, which is pretty dumb because we’re at point-blank range and all stooped over, but even without room to wind back, Ryan still has the best arm in fourth grade. He could take our heads off right now.
“Stop!” Kyler shouts.
“Know how stupid you sound?” Ryan says.
“You shouldn’t be listening.”
“You shouldn’t be talking so loud.”
“If you don’t like it, leave,” I say. “You don’t have to stand by the bushes.”
“I can stand where I like. Just stop going on about that guy.”
“What do you care?” Kyler says.
“I don’t, Turtle.”
That’s when Kyler points a finger and says, “Just because you were scared of him!”
I duck, out of instinct I guess. Ryan squeezes the tennis ball so hard his fingers go white. “Shut up about him,” he says, lifting his arm. Then he turns, pushes his way out of our hideout, and lobs the tennis ball right across the blacktop. Kyler and I scuffle to the front of the bush to watch. It loops up in the air, in one of those perfect arcs that teachers draw on graphs, and disappears over the wall into the street.
“Hey, that could’ve hit someone,” Kyler calls. “It could’ve hit a car, slammed onto someone’s windshield and made them crash.”
“Like a bomb!” I add.
“What would you know about bombs? What do you know about anything?” Ryan sneers as he walks away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That afternoon, Miss O’Brien drops a real bombshell. “Class,” she says. “In two weeks we have a day off school. Does anyone know why we are not at school on Tuesday, November 11th?”
I throw my hand up, but Casey cuts in using that chirpy chipmunk voice of hers, “Because the teachers want a party?” The whole chipmunk deal wasn’t funny even in second grade, but a few of the girls still titter. Just proves it’s good to have friends.
“Hands in the air.” Miss O’Brien picks someone else. I’m disappointed it’s not me, as I had my hand up first. This question is so mine.
“It’s Veterans Day,” Eduardo says. Suddenly everyone’s agreeing.
“I knew it,” Quinn says, flicking his forehead with a ruler.
Miss O’Brien quiets us down again. “Yes, and we’re going to do a special project for Veterans Day. So, does anyone know what Veterans Day is about?”
“Yeah! We have a big parade and make floats and stuff, and the best one gets a prize,” Casey says.
“Little League won last year,” Sawyer shouts. “We got so much candy!”
“That’s exciting, Sawyer,” Miss O’Brien says, “but that’s the Memorial Day parade you’re thinking of. We’ll come back to that.” She slowly scans the room to see if anyone else wants to answer. Her eyes linger on Ryan. He flushes bright red. She immediately looks to me instead. “Mikey, I’m sure you know.” You have to trust that Miss O’Brien has seen you. She knows her troops.
“Veterans Day is when we honor all the men and women who have served their country in the Armed Services.”
“Excellent! Now, what does Mikey mean by the Armed Services?”
Everyone’s in on it now. Hands shoot up and people mention the Army, the Marines, the Air Force, the Navy, and Army Medics.
“And does anyone know why we celebrate it on November 11th?”
This time it’s only me. My arm is straight up in the air like a flagpole. Miss O’Brien can’t pretend to be fair and give someone else a chance. She has to ask me.
“Because the First World War ended on November 11th, at eleven o’clock.”
“That’s right, and Veterans Day honors all veterans, both living and dead, who have served in the Armed Services whether during war or peacetime. It honors all veterans. Memorial Day, though we have lots of fun events as Sawyer remembers, specifically honors those who have died while serving. Do we all understand the difference?” The class nods. “Good,” Miss O’Brien says. “So, back to our special project. It’s our school tradition that every fourth grade class does a Veterans Day report.”
My heart sinks. A report. I could do a great model of a battlefield or draw an awesome panorama, but a report? I’m hopeless at reports. Maybe I even groan, because Miss O’Brien shoots me a look and then changes her expression into an encouraging smile.
“I think you’ll all enjoy this because it’s not an ordinary report. I’m going to ask you to find and interview a veteran over the next three weeks. We’ll present our reports to your parents sometime toward the end of November, so you’ll have plenty of time to do a really great job. Remember, your veteran does not have to have been in combat, but they must have served in one of the Armed Services we’ve just talked about. You can interview them face to face, or videochat if they live a long way away. You could also telephone, email, or write.”
My skin tingles from my ears to my toes because the minute Miss O’Brien says “combat,” I know exactly the man I want to interview. It’s going to be epic. I’ll be the only kid in the history of the fourth grade Veterans Day project—heck, I’ll be the only kid in the whole world—to interview a live Celtic warrior.
“Yes!” I say out loud. “This is going to be awesome.” And suddenly I’m not afraid of the writing part at all, because even if it is hard, and my sentences end up short and choppy, and my spelling stinks, I will still have the best interview ever!
There’s a buzz in the classroom as Miss O’Brien hands out the instructions for the first stage of the project. Quinn tells Sawyer that his neighbor just graduated from high school and joined the navy to train as a nurse. He’ll interview him. Kyler asks me if he can interview Grandpa.
“Sure thing,” I say. Kyler looks super-surprised and pleased.
“Miss O’Brien, can we interview the same person?” Kyler asks. He must think I’m going to interview Grandpa, too.
Miss O’Brien looks at us sitting together, and I guess she thinks the same thing because she says, “Well, it would be nice if you could all interview a different person, but I understand if there’s a particular someone you’d like to interview, Kyler.” She reminds the whole class we have the weekend to find our veteran. “I’ll expect you to fill out your Stage One Planning Worksheet next Tuesday in school.”
“You sure?” Kyler asks me.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, because I don’t need Grandpa. I know he’s been in battle and all, but I’ve got someone way better, and I can’t believe that Kyler hasn’t thought of him, too. I know we said we’d keep him a secret until we understood how this whole “time travel parallel universe” thing was happening, but Veterans Day is after Halloween. We’ll have worked it out by then.
Casey is whining about how unfair it is. She doesn’t know anyone in those Armed Services things. And then she says it’s even more unfair because Ryan O’Driscoll’s dad is actually in Iraq, which means his project is going to be the best.
“You don’t know that,” I say. “My Grandpa was in real battles, too. He even got his lower leg blown off.” What I don’t say is that I’m not going to interview him. I should shut up, but I get this rush of adrenaline, and I want everyone to get at least a tiny idea of how incredibly, humongously, five-times-around-the-earth’s-crust massive my interview is going to be. “I bet there are all sorts of people we can interview. I am going to rock this project!”
“Mikey! Casey!” Miss O’Brien is suddenly stern. “This is not a competition! This is an op
portunity for you to learn how ordinary people make extraordinary sacrifices for our safety and freedom.” She drops her voice and walks over to Ryan sitting at the table next to ours.
“Are you all right, Ryan?” She touches his forearm. It’s only now I notice that Ryan has gone completely white. “I don’t expect you to write about your dad, if you don’t want to.” I don’t know why Miss O’Brien says this. Ryan’s project is going to be so easy.
“I can’t, Miss O’Brien.” Ryan looks around the room as he speaks. “My dad is, like, on special operations at the moment. He’s still out there, and nobody knows where he is right now. Not Mom, not Gran, nobody. We can’t call, can’t email, can’t videochat. Nothing.”
“I’m so sorry, Ryan. Your mom mentioned that your dad would be out of touch for a while, but I had no idea. That must be very hard.”
Ryan shakes his head. He’s deadly serious. “It’s really big stuff he’s doing, and we can’t talk about it, or people might die.”
“Wow,” Quinn says.
“See,” Casey pouts.
“Is he behind enemy lines doing covert operations?” Kyler asks.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “That’s it. If I interviewed him, I could put him in mortal danger.”
“Man, that’s intense,” Kyler says. “Does he get to kill people?”
Ryan grits his teeth. “What do you think?” he mutters.
Kyler doesn’t seem to notice that Ryan has gone from “Mr. Boastful” to “Mr. Completely Raging Mad” in two seconds. Miss O’Brien does.
“Kyler, that’s not the spirit we want to foster with our projects. All servicemen and women have to deal with terrible situations in war. No one revels in killing, but we want to honor anyone who has faced peril, tough decisions, and hardships in the service of our country. And there is a lighter side. I’m sure that the people you interview will have learned new skills, started new careers, made close, lasting friendships, and learned important lessons about life.”
Man, I’m thinking, my warrior’s not going for any of that. He’s just a hero through and through, swinging that sword, spearing dragons, leaping through flames. I make a fist. “Yes!” I say.
Ryan jerks his chair back and walks straight out of the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Are you sure I can interview your Grandpa for my project?” Kyler asks again as we wait in the hot-lunch line.
“Yeah.” I shrug like it’s nothing. Inside I’m boiling with excitement, but I feel nervous at the same time. I should just tell Kyler about my plan to interview the Celt. Kyler’s my best friend after all. But I saw the Celt first and interviewing him is my idea. I’ll share Grandpa if I have to, but the Celt is mine.
I guess I must be looking off into space because Kyler elbows me in the ribs. I automatically shuffle up a few spaces in the line.
“He’s following us,” Kyler whispers.
“What?”
“Ryan. He’s following us.” Kyler’s whisper tickles my skin and makes me want to rub my ear. I can’t because I’m carrying a tray loaded with a plate of pasta, a carton of milk, and a container of yogurt.
“He’s in the line, dude,” I whisper back. “He has to follow us, or we’d be following him.”
Kyler nudges me again. “No, look.” I would, but his nudge turns out to be more of a shove. It makes my yogurt wobble into my milk carton, unbalancing the whole tray.
“Watch out!” The volunteer mom at the fruit station catches the milk just in time and straightens my tray.
“He’s acting real strange,” Kyler insists as we hustle to the very back row of the lunch tables in the yard.
Four seagulls squawk angrily as we approach. If anyone is a commercial for our school’s healthy lunches, these seagulls are. They’re here every day, and no one has to persuade these guys to eat a chunk of cucumber. They eat everything.
“Hey! This is our lunch, not yours,” Kyler says. He holds his tray completely level as he kicks out with his leg to scare them off. His Tae Kwon Do lessons are really paying off. I feel a quick pang of jealousy. Kyler got his brown belt about four months ago. I would have been a brown belt too, but Mom decided to cut down on “the fighting lessons,” as she put it, when Dad left for Nigeria. I’ll never catch up.
The seagulls fly away, but not so far that they can’t swoop in the minute we leave to pick up the scraps. As we start eating, Ryan sits down at the very next table. He never does that! A few of the foursquare boys join him to discuss new rules or something, but, for once, Ryan doesn’t look interested. He’s the foursquare champ, and he likes everyone to know it, but today he just nods, puts in a word or two, and then gets back to staring at us the way a seagull eyes a sandwich.
“See? He looks really mad,” Kyler whispers. I shrug, trying to pretend I’m not scared, but I don’t want Ryan coming down on us again in one of his rages.
“Let’s go play,” I say. We eat as quickly as we can and run into the crowd of kids on the blacktop. A few seconds later I look around, and Ryan has followed us. As he skulks about on the edge of the blacktop, he pushes an apple and three cheese sticks into his pocket. No wonder the kid’s so big. He can really work the lunch line.
Mom always says if someone looks like trouble, use your feet and walk away. If that doesn’t work, ignore them. If that doesn’t work, go stand next to one of the lunch-duty people, or tell them what’s going on. I opt for phase one of “Operation Avoid Ryan.”
“Come on, Kyler, let’s move,” I say.
We walk over to the other side of the blacktop. It seems to work. Ryan walks the other way, but then he keeps on walking until he’s gone full circle and is next to us again. We try it a few more times. Ryan keeps making out like he’s not interested, but every time he winds up back at our side. In the end I say, “Leave us alone, Ryan.”
He steps closer to me. For some reason he’s trembling. He knows as well as I do that the lunch-duty person is way across the blacktop. Rats! I should have gone straight for phase three and stayed next to her. Ryan could do anything right now, and no one would notice.
“Keep away from him,” he says.
It’s not what I was expecting, and it makes me really mad. “Who?”
“You know who.”
“You told us to forget him, so he’s forgotten, Ryan. Bye.” I cross the blacktop toward the lunch-duty lady. Kyler follows.
I know exactly what Ryan O’Driscoll is planning. He’s heard us talking about the Celt, and now he’s trying to steal my warrior for his project because he can’t use his dad!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s Monday, Kyler’s doing homework before his violin lesson, and I’m pretending that I really want to be here, on my own, swinging on the monkey bars in Park Two at four o’clock in the afternoon.
Grandpa turns his newspaper over to a new page, shakes it a couple of times to straighten it, and looks up before settling in to read.
“Few more minutes, Mikey Boy, then I’m gonna need a cup of joe.”
“Sure, Grandpa,” I wave, adding lamely, “This is fun!” I feel like a complete bozo, but what can I do? Tomorrow I have to complete the first step of my report. I need to fill in the worksheet saying who I’m going to interview, how I’m going to interview him, and what questions I want to ask. I’ve already decided who it’ll be, of course. That was easy, but telling Miss O’Brien is going to be a nightmare. I don’t even know the Celt’s name, where he lives, or how to contact him. So far I’ve seen him once at the hospital, once on Swinton Street, and once on my own street, but that doesn’t amount to having an address.
I swing around and go back along the monkey bars. Two moms, sitting at a picnic bench with their babies crawling at their feet, check me out as if I’m going to rip their kids apart with my bare hands. When I smile, they look away.
Checking this park is my last-ditch attempt to find the Celt before tomorrow. I tried all weekend, while Kyler was at his Tae Kwon Do tournament. I even talked Grandpa into drivin
g me to the two parks Kyler and I couldn’t walk to. Nothing.
If I find him here, I could at least put the name of the street or the park, even if I don’t have a number. Ardee Park. That sounds OK. Like a fancy apartment building. I wonder if Miss O’Brien would notice?
I wait until Grandpa is buried in the sports pages and then I leap off the monkey bars to go explore the rest of the park. I make sure I’m nowhere near the babies, but the moms still glare at me. My shoes fill with sand on landing, and I have to half hop to empty them as I make my way to the farthest end of the park.
Ardee Park is a long wide strip of grass at the top of a hill with the monkey bars at one end. On one side there are bushes that are supposed to create a screen between the park and the sidewalk, but kids have pushed through too many times and there are gaps everywhere. The cross street on that side is really quiet. At the farthest end there’s a boulder and a street coming up the hill. On the other side of the park, there’s a bank up to an old railway, which is now a bike path. The bank is planted with big bushes and tall stands of pampas grass. There’s a very tiny stream at the bottom of the bank, a bridge crossing it, and a ramp at one end for the cyclists to reach the path. If you stand on the bike path, you can see the VA one way and the cycle path leading downtown in the other.
The bushes on the bank are pretty big. I walk around them, making my way back to Grandpa, avoiding a few plastic bags of dog poop on the way. Good thing Grandpa isn’t here to see these. On one bush there’s an old baseball jacket left out to dry. A tree further on has cardboard leaning up against the trunk, and there’s a place where the ground is flattened, as if someone has been lying there. Above, hanging from the branches, I find string. People must sleep here, maybe tying tarps or something over their heads. I wonder if the Celt has been sleeping here too, but if he has, he sure isn’t here now. I look all through the bushes and find nothing that would specifically say, “a Celt was here.” I’m not sure what that would be, but you can bet the guy knows how to look after himself in the wild.
The Lost Celt Page 9