Itch Rocks

by Simon Mayo

  “I think she’s waiting for you,” he said.

  “Oh, hi,” said Itch, turning around and feigning surprise.

  Mary Lee was unpacking a small duffel bag, from which she produced a wooden box. “It’s part of my dad’s collection. Thought I’d show you.”

  “It’s not the cesium, is it?” said Itch, glancing over at Mr. Hampton. “He’ll go nuts!”

  Mary shook her head. “No, no, don’t worry.” Itch thought he detected a slight mocking tone in her voice. “These are all safe, trust me. Even Dr. Dart would like them.” She opened the box to reveal three drawstring bags, each with a stenciled number on. “It’s a test, of course!” she told him. “Everything in my dad’s collection is in bags like this. What do we have here, Mr. Element Hunter?”

  Again, Itch felt he was being made fun of, but he couldn’t resist the challenge. He picked up the bag marked 12; it was heavy, and contained a small square block. “Well, that’ll be magnesium.”

  Mary nodded. “Good. Open it up!”

  Itch tipped a square of silvery metal encased in plastic onto the bench. It was marked Mg12.

  “Yup, magnesium—atomic number twelve. That was the easy one,” said Mary. “Next!”

  The second bag weighed virtually nothing, but Itch could feel the outline of something like a small coin. He had to think for a moment, his mind running along and down the Periodic Table. “What color is it?” he asked.

  “Blue. Shiny,” said Mary.

  Five rows down and five along.

  “Wow—this should be niobium. Can I look?”

  Mary nodded, and Itch found a tiny but dazzling blue coin on his palm. It sparkled as he held it up to the light, and he was keen to know more, but Mr. Hampton had wandered over.

  “Whaddya have here, Itch?”

  “Oh, it’s some of Mary’s father’s element collection, sir. Look at this—it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He held out the coin. “It’s niobium, sir.”

  “Ah, of course,” the teacher said appreciatively. “Two things, Mary. First, this is a very fine piece of anodized niobium; and second, I’m just glad it’s not a rocket.”

  Mary looked puzzled.

  “Niobium is used in rockets as it doesn’t corrode even at high temperatures,” he explained.“And what’s this last one?”

  Mary was picking up the bag marked 73 when Jack appeared at the door.

  “Itch! It’s Lucy! She’s … she’s … in the hospital, unconscious. Itch—she might have been attacked!”

  By the start of afternoon lessons the only topic of conversation was Lucy Cavendish. The school had been told that she was in Stratton General after being found in a ditch by a passing motorist. She had a badly broken nose and deep cuts to her arms and legs. The driver who found her didn’t know how long she’d been lying there; at first he thought she might be dead. Dr. Dart had gone straight to the hospital; meanwhile, at the academy, speculation was running wild.

  Lucy’s friends were quick to point the finger at Jack. Even though her hand was still heavily strapped and she had round-the-clock security, it didn’t stop the theories.

  “She got her police friends to do it,” was one that Itch and Jack heard as they headed for the final class of the day.

  “She’s still got one good hand,” Peter Williams, a sixth grade boy, was saying as the cousins passed.

  “Maybe she got her dad to do it,” another boy suggested.

  Itch had heard enough. He stepped in front of them. “Really?” he shouted. “You really think Jack could have attacked Lucy? Look!” He pointed to Moz, who was closest to them. “We have these guys with us all the time! Do you think they’d let that happen? Well, do you?” The sixth graders shrank back against the wall, but Itch hadn’t finished. “And you think she’s the kind of person who’d just attack someone like that?” Moz was about to step in when Jim Littlewood, Lucy’s homeroom teacher, arrived.

  “Everyone just move on, please. Williams, you can see me after school. The rest of you, clear off.”

  Peter Williams, embarrassed, dropped his head and crept off; Moz Taylor ushered Itch and Jack away.

  “You need to tell everyone that we all arrived together this morning,” Itch told him. “That Jack couldn’t have attacked Lucy.”

  “Agreed,” said Moz. “I’ll get the colonel on it.”

  “Even if she might have wanted to,” added Jack quietly.

  “Even if she might have wanted to,” repeated Itch, smiling.

  At Stratton Hospital, Felicity Dart and Nicola Cavendish were sitting outside Lucy’s room, both drinking something that tasted like a mixture of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate out of paper cups.

  A nurse put her head around the door. “She’s asking for you, Mrs. Cavendish.”

  “Would you come with me?” Nicola asked Dr. Dart. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair straggly and unkempt. “Please? I might say the wrong thing….”

  Reluctantly, Dr. Dart went into Lucy’s room with her, and couldn’t stop herself from holding her hand to her mouth. Lucy had bandages covering her nose, cheeks and ears, but the bruising was still visible: red and purple skin showing around the edges. Her left eye was swollen and blue, her bottom lip split in two places. Her arms were covered in cuts, many closed with stitches.

  “Oh, my …” said Dr. Dart quietly, and they both sat down by the bed.

  Hearing the creak of the ancient chairs, Lucy turned her head toward them and opened her one good eye. She managed a slight smile before her lips started to crack and bleed. “Hi, Mum,” she whispered.

  Nicola Cavendish got up to pass her daughter a tissue and to cover her own tears. “Hi, dear. You don’t need to talk—just rest up.”

  Lucy nodded and closed her eyes. “I’ll be OK.” She noticed the school principal sitting next to her mother. “Oh, hi, Dr. Dart. Glad you’re here.”

  Felicity Dart looked surprised. “You just get better as soon as possible. Everyone at school sends their best wishes. What a terrible, terrible accident. Do you remember what happened?”

  Lucy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The monitor beeped and the oxygen mixer hummed as she tried to prop herself up on her pillows. Her mother jumped up again to help her.

  “It wasn’t an accident, Mum. There was another cyclist. She pushed me off.”

  Horrified, Nicola looked at Felicity Dart, then back to her daughter. “What?!” she gasped. “Who would do—?”

  Lucy cut her off. “Couldn’t see.” She swallowed twice, and Nicola handed her some water, which she sipped before resuming. “But she … I’m sure it was a she … She mouthed two words at me before”—she closed her eyes and waved down at her body—“before any of this happened.”

  “What did she say—if it was a ‘she’?” asked Nicola.

  “She said, Naughty girl, Mum. She said, Naughty girl.”

  Lucy Cavendish stayed in the hospital for two days. As she had what they called “nasal trauma” to the bridge of her nose, they needed to check for “cerebrospinal fluid leak,” which sounded bad, but finally she’d been given the all clear. Her mother had had to go to work and was unable to pick her up, so an ambulance had been summoned. Lucy was waiting in the back for the paramedic to arrive.

  She had not been told that she would have company.

  Suddenly the back door opened, and Itch and Jack Lofte climbed in, Jack cradling a new cast on her hand. Lucy looked up in surprise, then froze. The three of them stared at each other, and Lucy quickly tried to leave, but her path was blocked. She sat back down and stared at the resuscitation equipment.

  While Jack was having her hand examined and new splints fitted, she had found out that Lucy was waiting to leave the hospital. Itch had persuaded her that they should take the opportunity to talk to Lucy. Jack hadn’t been keen on it: “Not sure I can do this,” she had said. “You know what she called me. That hurts almost as much as this …” She waved her splinted fingers.

  “We don’t have to do it,” said Itch. “We ca
n go back in the car. Would be a shame though, don’t you think? It’s a good opportunity to talk to her—or let her talk to us.”

  Jack sighed. “OK, let’s do it. But I’m not sitting next to her, all right?”

  Itch explained to Tina and Sam that they wanted to return in the ambulance and why. Fairnie OK’d the plan; Tina would sit next to the ambulance driver, with Sam following in the car.

  The ambulance door closed behind them and they sat down facing Lucy. As it moved off, all three of them stared at the blank monitors, the swaying cables—anything but each other.

  Itch turned to look at Jack. “You OK?” He had spoken quietly, but it seemed loud in the close confines of the ambulance. Jack nodded but stayed silent, her damaged hand cradled on her lap for all to see.

  As the ambulance swung onto the main road, the chatter of its radio clearly audible above the engine noise and the metallic rattling of the shifting medical equipment, the paramedic radioed in his status and destination. While the driver chatted to the dispatcher and Tina sitting next to him, Itch tried again.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked Jack. She shook her head. He thought for a moment. “As you can’t do the essay for the Brigadier, how ’bout helping me with mine?”

  “OK.” Jack pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to say much more. Itch could see that she was struggling to stay in control, but he wasn’t sure whether to keep a conversation going or just sit in silence. He wasn’t used to being the one who had to think of things to say.

  “Can you use a laptop for English? I’m sure—”

  Jack put her good hand on Itch’s arm and shook her head. “Later, OK? We’ll talk later.”

  He nodded. Got that one wrong then, he thought.

  Itch glanced at Lucy. She looked terrible and spectacular at the same time. The bruising from the assault had spread around her eyes and cheeks and turned yellow. Her nose was protected by what looked like a mass of protective padding and tape, and her face and neck were still covered in deep scratches from the hedge. Despite all that unwanted color, she was still very pale, and her long wiry hair was barely controlled by a black band. As far as Itch could tell, she hadn’t moved since they had sat down, but he saw her wince as the ambulance negotiated a pothole and realized she must still be in pain. With a quick glance at Jack, he asked, “You OK, Lucy?”

  Lucy and Jack both looked at him at the same time. Jack’s astonished expression was clear; it meant: Excuse me—you’re bothered about how she’s feeling?

  “I think she’s in pain, Jack,” Itch said quietly. “I’m only asking.” By the time he looked back, Lucy had resumed her staring at the canister of oxygen in front of her. He caught himself about to say that the atmosphere was twenty-one percent oxygen. Not quite the time, he thought.

  Just when it seemed that he would be spending the journey between two furious, silent girls, Lucy said, “Like you care.”

  Itch’s jaw dropped.

  Jack, eyes full of tears, shook her head. “Don’t bother, Itch. This was a mistake. We know what she’s like. It’s not worth it. Please. We’ll be home soon.”

  Itch thought about that. Normally he would have taken Jack’s advice; she always judged these situations better than he did. But when would he have a better chance to talk to Lucy? Certainly not at school. She clearly hated him, hated Jack, and probably hated Chloe, too; but he didn’t know why. This wasn’t the usual antagonism he faced at school; his was vicious. Jack’s broken hand was proof of that. He felt responsible for what had happened because ultimately, he was sure, this was his fault.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he told Lucy. “It looks painful.”

  “You’re sorry?” she shot back. “Don’t make me sick.” And she turned to face forward and watch the road.

  “I am sorry! Why wouldn’t I be?” said Itch.

  Silence.

  “Look, I know that, for whatever reason, you attacked Jack, but that doesn’t mean I wanted you to … get hurt like this. I don’t know why you hate us so much, Lucy, but Jack’s fingers are badly broken. And we all saw you do it. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t sorry for what happened to you.”

  The driver was dividing his attention between the road and the conversation in the back of his ambulance. Tina had twisted around in her front seat.

  “So it’s just a coincidence, is it?” Lucy had spun around now, her eyes fiery and angry. “I step on Jack’s hand and the next morning a cyclist knocks me off my bike and smashes my nose. It just happened? Really? That’s just stupid. And whoever it was said I was a naughty girl! I don’t know who it was, but your security buddies here have got to be the most likely thugs, wouldn’t you say?”

  “They said you were a what?” asked Itch. Jack, too, had turned to look at Lucy.

  “A naughty girl. And I guess it’s unlikely she was talking about my messy room. So who else would be out to get me, apart from friends of yours?”

  “I haven’t got any friends,” said Itch. “Not really.”

  “True. So that leaves your private army.” Lucy leaned forward. “I mean, come on, who would you blame?” She sat back then, and pressed some of the bandage tape back flat on her face, wincing again as she did so.

  Itch and Jack sat there for a while, considering what Lucy had said.

  Then Jack spoke. “You’re right. If I were you, I’d be blaming me, too. But here’s the thing: you don’t know who broke your nose, but I know precisely who stood on my hand.” There was silence as the ambulance slowed down to turn into Lucy’s drive. “And what you said afterward …”

  “Why did you do it, Lucy?” pleaded Itch. “We don’t understand. You seemed friendly last year. At that jazz evening last term you seemed happy to chat … If there’s something we’ve done …”

  They had arrived at Lucy’s house, and she stood up slowly. The paramedic opened the door, and as the wintry afternoon light flooded in, they saw that Lucy’s tired, beaten face was streaked with tears.

  “Yes, you could say there is something,” she said. “Just a small something. You should be able to work it out. You know it, anyway.”

  The paramedic helped her out and was just about to close the door again when Itch stood up.

  “Hope you feel better soon!” he called after her. Then added, “And honestly, we had nothing to do with it!” They watched as she headed for the front door and disappeared inside.

  “Finished?” asked the paramedic. Itch nodded, and they climbed out as Sam pulled up behind. In the car, the cousins were silent as they headed down the hill. They drove past the section of road where Lucy had been attacked; police tape still marked the place where she had been found.

  “So,” said Jack. “She stomped on my hand and broke my fingers. She’s been vile to both of us all term. And now I’m feeling sorry for her.” She glanced at Itch. “What’s that about?”

  Chloe looked up as her brother came into the kitchen. They had now, with relief all around, returned to their own house.

  “How’s Jack’s hand?” she asked as Itch rummaged around in the cookie jar.

  “Not bad, considering,” said Itch through a mouthful of cookie. “And you’ll never guess who we shared a ride with coming back….” He told her what had happened at the hospital and on the journey home with Lucy.

  “Wow,” said Chloe. “She really is messed up. I asked about her after that hockey match. A couple of the sports crowd knew she was tough, but they said they’d never seen her play that dirty before.”

  “So it was just for Jack.”

  “Seems like it.”

  The kitchen door opened and Nicholas appeared. “Hey, you two. Anyone fancy giving me a hand with this garden trash? I need another pair of hands. I’d ask Sam or Moz, but they usually say they have other things to do.”

  “Like protecting us from terrorists and criminals—that kind of thing?” said Itch.

  “Yeah, they’re not paid to do the gardening really, Dad.” Chloe laughed.

 
Nicholas smiled and nodded. “Good point. Which leaves you, Itch—come on.”

  “What about Chloe?” protested Itch. “I was just about to do some homework!”

  Nicholas and Chloe both laughed.

  “Yeah, right,” said Chloe.

  “Nice try, son. Your homework can wait—I’d like to get this yard cleared and tidied up for winter. It’ll be dark soon. Won’t take long.”

  Itch sighed and put his jacket on again. Taking another cookie, he followed his father into the yard. As Nicholas raked the leaves, Itch piled them onto the compost heap.

  “Did you know that there are twenty-five thousand aerobic bacteria in a gram of soil, Dad?” This was exactly the kind of statement that drove everyone except his father crazy.

  “Is this a lesson in the chemistry of composting?” asked Nicholas. “The carbon and nitrogen balance required for the perfect hot pile—that kind of thing?”

  “Not really. I just remember that you could get twenty-five thousand of them, end to end. If that was your idea of fun. They’re all here, millions of them, busy decomposing this stuff and giving off heat in the process. Smart guys, really.”

  Nicholas smiled at that. “Yup. Smart indeed.”

  They worked on in silence, each of them knowing there was much to discuss, but not knowing how long they’d have before they’d be interrupted. After all the leaves and twigs had been cleared, Itch checked that they weren’t being watched or overheard, glancing back at the kitchens of both his house and next door’s.

  “How’s work?” he asked.

  Nicholas picked up the pruning shears. “Bring the garbage bag, Itch,” he said, and set off for the far end of the yard. Itch followed with a green plastic bag. In what remained of the daylight, Nicholas began pruning the shrubs and dropping the stems into the bag Itch held open. “Work is interesting. Thank you for asking.” He stopped and laughed, shaking his head. “There is so much you don’t know, but let me tell you a little, anyway. You know … Jacob Alexander doesn’t just run the mining school. His main work is trying to find new energy sources. All governments have realized that someone has to think the unthinkable, because they certainly can’t. Coal is gone, oil and natural gas are going—we maybe have enough for forty years. Then what? Some kind of nuclear, that’s what. So we go around the world planning, experimenting, researching. Trying to find out how we’re going to survive in a world with no power. That’s why, when Jacob analyzed your rocks of 126, he went—he tells me—a little crazy.”