by Bart King
He turned his bike around before I could say anything, and looked back at me over his shoulder. “More later.”
I stood there, speechless, as Sanjay pedaled off.
Interesting kid, I thought, walking back to the Brights’ house. Who says “More later”?
But the day had other surprises waiting for me. Because when Jason and Jenny met me at their front door, they were still in their pajamas—their matching Star Wars pajamas.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to do anything crazy?” Jason whisper-hissed. “But then you took those bulldozers! And who was that little kid, anyway?”
“That’s no kid,” I said. “That’s Sanjay. He’s nine and five-sixths years old.”
“Whatever. Did you know that you’re all over the news?” Jenny demanded, looking up from her cell phone. “And everyone from school is freaking out about this thing.”
Mr. Bright interrupted from the kitchen. “IGNORE THEM, NOAH. NOW, WHO WANTS WAFFLES?”
Of course, we all did. (Sure, I’d already had breakfast, but probiotic egg-white scrambles never stick with me.)
“Let’s duck into my office,” said Jason. “We can eat there.”
A moment later, I was throwing T-shirts off the chair by Jason’s desk. Jenny bulldozed her way in over dirty socks and empty boxes of Cheez-Its. “Okay, Noah,” she said. “So how’d you get caught red-handed with a whole housing development in your backyard?”
“Actually,” I said, “my parents were caught red-handed. And that’s the problem.” I launched into the story, leaving out one small detail—my chat with T’wirpo, the alien from an unknown POO.
Why didn’t I tell the twins? Partly, it was because I didn’t think they’d believe me. I mean, I could imagine the conversation:
“You guys, I need to let you in on something about the quincunx.”
“Yes?”
“I mean, I don’t think there’s any harm in letting you know.”
“Go ahead.”
“I guess the key thing is for you to keep open minds about what I’m about to share.”
“Got it. Fire away.”
“Well, you might be surprised to know that the quincunx was grown on a faraway planet. And then it was sent here by an alien!”
[long pause]
“Dude, shut up.”
Or maybe the truth is that I just didn’t want to share Zorcha T’wirpo with them. Like, knowing an alien was my secret. (Yeah, yeah, selfish, I know.)
Anyway, a few minutes later, I wrapped up: “—and then I used EXPROPRIATE on pretty much everything.” Sighing, I crossed my arms across my chest. “Looks like I messed up, big-time.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Jenny. “It could have happened to anyone.”
“Thanks.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, anyone who screwed up in the exact same way Noah did. Look, you said the bulldozers disappeared, just like everything else. But you should have known there was no way that stuff could just vanish.” He gave Jenny a meaningful look.
“You mean everything has to go somewhere, right?” said Jenny. “I get it.”
I didn’t get it.
“C’mon, Noah,” implored Jason. “We did ‘conservation of mass’ in, like, the first month of science class.”
“Oh!” Jason was talking about a lab experiment. We weighed tiny amounts of two different chemicals. Then we combined the chemicals in a big empty beaker. And BAM—the beaker filled all the way with green foam. Lots of green foam.
Finally, we weighed the overflowing beaker. And it was the exact same weight as the total of our two earlier measurements.
In other words, nothing was added or lost. So—
“‘Mass cannot be created or destroyed,’” I recited. “That means the wood and bulldozers couldn’t just disappear. But what a rip-off—I didn’t know all that stuff was going to MY house!”
“And speaking of rip-offs,” Jenny pointed out, “that means you stole all that stuff the police found.”
“But I didn’t mean to steal it,” I protested. “I meant to destroy it.”
“So you just committed the wrong crime?” Jenny laughed sarcastically. “I guess that makes it okay.”
I shrugged. “Well, I didn’t know what ‘expropriate’ meant.”
Jenny pecked at her cell phone. “‘Expropriate: to take property away from its owner.’”
“So I didn’t actually steal.” That made me feel a little better. “I just expropriated!”
Still reading, Jenny added, “Synonym: to steal.”
I stopped feeling better, but Jason perked right up. “So you can just move things from one spot to your backyard? Wow, let’s think about this. What if we took a trip to the sports store today and you—”
Mr. Bright came into the room, balancing three plates of waffles on his arms. Sidestepping a comic book, he sniffed the air suspiciously. “JASON, WHAT’S THAT SMELL?”
I took a whiff. Besides the usual odors of dirty laundry and body spray, I didn’t smell anything.
After handing each of us a plate, Mr. Bright’s nose led him to Jason’s closet. He bent over, and like a dog digging a hole, started flinging shoes, empty sports-drink bottles, and comic books behind him. “JASON! WHAT IS THIS?” He held up what looked like a small, moldy pie.
Jason was mildly surprised. “A calzone.”
“A WHAT?”
“A calzone,” Jason explained. “It’s like a pizza sandwich, with meat and cheese in the middle—”
“I KNOW WHAT A CALZONE IS!” cried Mr. Bright. “BUT WHY IS A CALZONE IN YOUR CLOSET?”
Jason looked genuinely puzzled. “That’s a good question, actually.”
The phone started to ring in the other room. Mr. Bright just snorted and left, taking the moldy calzone with him.
I took a forkful of waffle. It had blueberries in it and was drenched in maple syrup. “Your dad is so cool,” I said. After chewing and swallowing, I yawned so hard, my jaw cracked. I was really tired. All I wanted to do was eat some waffles and not think about anything important.
But Jenny wasn’t letting me off that easily. She pointed her fork at me. “So right now, the police think your mom and dad are thieves?”
“It’s just totally lame,” I complained. “My parents are obviously innocent. And how was I supposed to know that something I did would reflect badly on them?”
Jason and Jenny both paused, forkfuls of waffle halfway to their mouths. Then the twins started laughing hysterically.
“What?” I asked.
Mr. Bright knocked briefly and came in. “I’M JUST PLANNING AHEAD FOR LATER TODAY. SO HOW DOES PIZZA SOUND FOR LUNCH, NOAH?”
“Thanks, Mr. Bright,” I said, “but my parents should be back pretty soon.”
Mr. Bright shifted uncomfortably. “ACTUALLY, I JUST GOT A CALL FROM THE STATION. IT SOUNDS LIKE YOUR MOM AND DAD ARE GOING TO BE THERE A WHILE. SO IS DEEP-DISH PEPPERONI OKAY?”
A LONG TIME AGO—LAST WEEK, TO BE EXACT—I was young and innocent.
But I’ve grown up a lot since then. Now I know that the world is totally unfair. Just look at what’s happened in the last few days:
—A bunch of little kids were nearly electrocuted.
—My dad’s peanut butter got a new flavor: fire.
—An earthquake almost destroyed my school.
—My parents were behind bars for a crime they had nothing to do with.
—The black swifts were likely gone forever.
“What good have I done?” I asked out loud. But the words were lost in the quiet roar of the waterfall. You know how criminals always return to the scene of the crime? That was me. From my seat on a flat rock, the big ferns waved in the breeze. Beyond them, the surveying stakes had been replanted everywhere. And soon, bulldozer tracks would crush the ferns and uproot the trees.
I glared at the sparkling device in my hand. “And what good are you?”
Stupid quincunx. I felt like my sparkling discovery was actually just part of
a long, practical joke on me. I was tired of it!
Plik-plik-plik-plik.
I whipped my head around. The black swifts are still here? How is that possible? Black swifts are famous for being supercautious around humans. Why would they stay?
The baby swift called to its parents.
Plik-plik-plik-plik?
Of course. The black swifts couldn’t move somewhere with a hatchling in the nest. But once the bulldozers started ripping up the earth by their hidden home, what choice would they have?
Black swifts nested in the most remote places possible. They went out of their way to be out of the way. But just like the passenger pigeons, these swifts still somehow ended up in front of the swerving SUV called Cataract Grove.
I’d tried to help the little birds. I had the quincunx, and even took advice from an alien to make sure my plan worked. But when I tried to do something good, my plan backfired on me. And when I did something bad, my plan backfired on my parents!
I wanted to curse, to yell, to break something. For the umpteenth time, I used my five fingertips on the back of the quincunx to try to contact T’wirpo. For the umpteenth time, I got nothing.
That does it. Standing, I cocked my arm back to throw the quincunx into the pool—
And then sweet music rang out. “Greetings! You have a message! Oh, greetings! You please check your message!”
The quincunx’s screen was blinking red. I tapped it feverishly. I was all set to complain to T’wirpo, to protest, to demand.
GREETINGS, NOAH, the words flashed. THE QUINCUNX HAS ASKED ME TO RELAY THAT IT WOULD PREFER NOT TO GO UNDERWATER. IT FINDS ALGAE DISTASTEFUL.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I said reassuringly, as much to the quincunx as the unseen alien. “But, T’wirpo, I need some answers. Like, you grew the quincunx, but it can make its own decisions? And why do I have it at all?”
APOLOGIES! FOR NOW I FEAR THAT YOU MUST EMBRACE SOME OF THESE MYSTERIES. The quincunx scrolled up on T’wirpo’s message at the exact rate I was reading. BUT I CAN SHARE THAT YOUR USE OF THE QUINCUNX IS FOR A CLASS PROJECT ON HUMANS. I CHOSE YOU AS AN OUTSTANDING SPECIMEN OF YOUR SPECIES.
I puffed up proudly. Hey, I’m an outstanding specimen! I thought of an animal researcher tagging a bird with a tracking chip or band to study its species’ migrations and other behaviors. And right now, I was that bird! Maybe this is for T’wirpo’s science fair project! It could be called “The Human Equation: How to Help the People of Earth.”
NOAH, MY PARENTAL UNITS AGREE THAT IT IS ONLY RIGHT FOR ME TO MAKE SOME CONTACTS WITH YOU. I HAVE 42 PARENTAL UNITS. THEY SERVE SIMILAR FUNCTIONS TO YOUR “MOM” AND “DAD.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How old are you?”
YOU CALCULATE HUMAN AGE BY PLANETARY ROTATIONS AROUND YOUR STAR, YES? SO YOU ARE 11 AND I AM 727 YEARS OLD.
“But that means you’re ancient,” I cried. “Aren’t you a little old for your parents to be telling you what to do?”
MY PLANET ROTATES MUCH MORE QUICKLY AROUND OUR STAR THAN YOURS. IN EARTH YEARS, I AM YOUNGER THAN THIS FIGURE.
“Okay.” I thought about that. “So how old are you in Earth years?”
SEVEN.
“Seven?!” I was talking with an alien first grader.
MY PARENTAL UNITS SAY I AM VERY MATURE FOR MY AGE.
“Well, my parental units are in jail right now.”
YES. IN MY INEXPERIENCE WITH YOUR PLANET, I SOMETIMES MAKE MISTAKES.
“Yeah. And one of those mistakes is this quincunx’s menu. I can’t understand what most of its words mean!”
If it’s possible for a text message to look surprised, this one was.
BUT THE QUINCUNX KNOWS ALL 1,025,120 OF YOUR ENGLISH LANGUAGE WORDS.
“Yeah, but I don’t!” I protested.
OH.
There was a pause as Zorcha T’wirpo tried to understand why I didn’t know my own language.
IT SEEMS I DID NOT TAKE INTO CONSIDERATION HUMAN BRAIN SIZE. Then the quincunx flashed a new message—
PLEASE CHECK THE ADEPTNESS MENU.
—before blinking back to the green home screen.
“Hello?” I stared at the quincunx. Nothing. “He hung up on me. Or she hung up on me.”
I looked up at the sky. Somewhere, way out there, was an alien kid on an unknown POO.
“It hung up on me?”
I OPENED THE QUINCUNX’S ADEPTNESS MENU, and there were only two choices—? or !.
Great—simple is good, but now I’m just getting punctuation marks?
T’wirpo may have been trying to make things easier for me. But by going so simple, the alien had kept things just as mysterious as before!
Even so, of the two possibilities, the exclamation mark seemed more clear-cut. If I used it, something dramatic would happen. But what? The question mark’s meaning was more up in the air. Was it a warning? A prank? Or what?
I glared at the quincunx. “I hope you’re having fun.”
It just gleamed innocently. It was like the quincunx was saying, There is always a choice, human.
Then the baby black swift called:
Plik-plik-plik-plik.
“But I don’t really have any choice, do I?” I asked. Because I had to do something for the black swifts—even if I didn’t know what that something was.
I made my decision. Both the quincunx and T’wirpo knew I had questions—so maybe this was their way of offering to answer them. I made my choice and watched the screen flash:
?
?
?
I felt the connection being made.
Yikes!
Energy surged into my body. It clenched my fists and curled my toes. I felt light-headed and carefree—and fizzy, like I’d just chugged a soda.
Suddenly, I needed air, so I gulped in a lungful. Ah, that was good. But I needed MORE air. Another deep breath. I felt so giddy, I laughed and—
“Hello?” called a woman’s voice from behind me.
I spun around in surprise. Two people were at the head of the Nature Trail. One was a well-dressed woman with gray streaks in her hair and a smile on her lips. Next to her was a man in a green-and-brown suit. He had a neatly trimmed mustache, and he was holding a computer tablet.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “Please don’t let us interrupt you.” The pair began talking quietly and looking at the survey stakes. While they did, Mustache Man took notes.
My hand clenched around the quincunx as anger rose inside me. They obviously worked for Cataract Grove. Maybe these two even owned the company—and here they were, planning this waterfall’s destruction.
That meant they were the enemy of the black swifts. And any enemy of the black swifts was my enemy, too. Of course, they hadn’t counted on me being here to stop them.
I closed my eyes and tried to get a feel for whatever the quincunx had set loose inside me. But it was slippery. Catching ? was like trying to grab the string of a runaway balloon. Gulping more air, I chased ?, grabbed for it and missed, reached for it again—
And then I caught the string! Immediately, something odd happened with my feet. I opened my eyes and noticed that the ferns at my feet were farther away. What are they doing down there? Did the world just shrink?
In the background, I could hear Mustache Man murmuring: “—I think the environmental damage here has been minimal—”
And then I realized what had happened. The world didn’t shrink—I just grew taller. But that wasn’t right either. I looked down at my feet. I was still the same height as before, but I was…floating.
I’m lifting off—I’M FLYING!
I SOARED IN THE AIR, the wind blowing across my face. I’m as free as a bird! It was hard to fully enjoy the moment, though, because I was mostly trying not to pee my pants.
Seriously—I was TERRIFIED. And I know that might seem sort of weird. After all, I love birds, and most birds fly. Some even spend days in the air, drifting along with the wind, perfectly safe. I mean, scientists tracked
one little shorebird, a bar-tailed godwit (Limosa lapponica), from Alaska to New Zealand. That’s over seven thousand miles—and it never landed once!
So it’s not like I’m afraid of heights….Okay, I actually am afraid of heights. But just in the normal way that most people are. You know, like how when you get on the high dive at the pool, and it’s obvious that you’re so far up that when you jump you’re going to miss the pool completely and smash into the concrete?
Yeah. That way.
So after the quincunx launched me into the heavens, I squeezed my eyes shut. And I kept them shut as the air whistled past my ears and clawed at my hair. Far, far away, I could still hear the voices of Mustache Man and the Gray Streak Woman.
Was I a hundred feet above Noyd Falls? Two hundred? There was only one way to find out. I brought a shaking hand up to my face and fearfully peeked through my fingers—
I was in the exact same spot as before. Except now I was hovering about eight inches over the rock.
So I AM flying—but I guess my imagination got the best of me.
The call of a black swift swept the little canyon.
Plik-plik-plik-plik.
The woman gasped. “Is that—”
“Look!” said Mustache Man, pointing to the waterfall. “That’s the positive identification we need!”
A bird crawled out from behind the rushing waters of Noyd Falls. The swift’s long black wings were crossed behind its back like swords. It cocked its head to the side and shot us a sharp glance.
The woman almost clapped her hands in glee. “So the bird is still here!”
Wait a minute, I thought. What’s going on?
“Hey,” I whispered from my newfound height. “Why do you care about that bird?”
Without even glancing my way, Mustache Man said, “That’s not just any bird, young man,” he said. “It’s a—”
“—black swift,” I finished.
That got their attention. As the two of them turned to me, I got a sinking feeling (without actually sinking). I’d drawn attention to the fact that I was flying!