Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  I’m telling you this story so what I did next won’t sound so terrible.

  I shut my closet and shoved the dresser away from my door. After making sure the coast was clear, I snuck into Will’s room (which Eli and I called the World of Fartcraft). The smell of Will’s room used to be enough to keep me out, but I’d gotten one of those hospital masks from Eli’s dad, who’s a doctor. This let me explore the room whenever I wanted, so I knew it inside and out.

  I grabbed his compass and pocketknife from his desk drawer. Then, I took his map of the U.S. from the back wall of his closet and his Boy Scout manual from his nightstand. (Who relaxes before bed by learning knots and trapping? Only masterminds in torturing brothers, that’s who.)

  Next on my list was Will’s brand-new pair of black Air Jordans. I found them in his closet. He hadn’t even worn them outside yet, just around the living room, admiring them. They were a bit too big, but I figured they’d help me blend into the dark.

  Back in my room, I pushed the dresser in front of the door again and packed these new items.

  Then, I prepared for the Moment of Truth. How much money had I saved?

  I reached into the cubbyhole and got out the metal box where I kept my money. I’d been saving my allowance since September. Who knew how much I’d been able to stash away? A few hundred dollars—maybe more? I thought I had at least enough for a bus ticket to wherever Mom was.

  Then I counted it.

  Thirteen dollars and eighty-seven cents. That was it.

  I hadn’t been planning on taking Will’s money. I’d planned on him coming with me and bringing it himself. But plans change. And I wasn’t exactly feeling friendly toward my brother.

  Closet door shut and dresser shoved aside once more, I was back in Will’s room. On a shelf, next to his trophies, was a single book: Shakespeare: The Collected Works. The book didn’t have any real pages, though—it just had an empty, carved out space in the middle. Will was an idiot if he thought it was a secret. I mean, he was smart, but he hated to read and everyone knew it. Inside was all the money Will bragged about saving from raking pine needles. I took it all.

  Back in my room, I counted it. Seventy-four dollars.

  It would have to do.

  Before I closed up the secret cubby for good, two things at the bottom caught my eye: a photo of Mom in her human cannonball suit, standing proudly beside the big white cannon, and this little golden bug thing that Mom had mailed to me a few months ago. She’d called it a scarab. She said she’d seen it in Mexico and thought of me—and for some reason, she’d asked me to keep it in the cubby.

  They were the only two things she’d mailed me, other than all the postcards.

  It might seem kinda sappy that I brought them, but I guess it felt like I was bringing her with me for good luck. I tucked them safely into an inside pocket.

  Finally, I got out the empty rolling suitcase, for Mom. It was even smaller than I’d remembered, but again, it was big enough that she could tuck herself into.

  “This had better work,” I muttered to myself.

  That was it. I was ready.

  I settled into my bedroom to wait.

  And wait.

  

  At three in the morning, I was in the pantry, silently cramming as much food as I could fit into my green backpack. I snagged a bag of chips, a six-cup pudding pack, some energy bars, a stack of fruit leather, a can of spaghetti, and three bottles of root beer. In my head, all I could hear was, I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it. My internal chant must have been too loud because I didn’t hear Dad come down the stairs.

  I was still in the pantry when a slice of light appeared in front of me. I froze. There, no more than three feet away, stood Dad in his underwear, swigging cranberry juice from the carton in the refrigerator light. If he turned even six inches, he would see me, and I’d be as good as toast.

  I was still clutching a bag of cookies in my hand as I backed against the pantry wall. A single muscle spasm in my pinky finger would crinkle the plastic and send me straight into the depths of summer grounding and yard work.

  The plastic felt damp in my hand. Why was my hand sweating?

  I held my breath as Dad polished off the juice and tried to squash the carton with his bare hand (he failed). The suitcase and my sleeping bag lay at his feet, in the shadow of the counter.

  Dead. I was dead.

  Dad turned away, letting the fridge door swing open as he gazed out the window. The yellow light crept into the pantry slowly—moving as the fridge door opened further—to my toes, then up to my knees. The plastic crumpled slightly in my hand.

  Dead, dead, dead, dead.

  Dad whirled around and, without even a glance in my direction, slapped the fridge shut. By the time the cookies slipped from my hand (and fell harmlessly to the floor), he was already at the top of the stairs.

  That was close, I thought, letting my breath out in a whoosh.

  “Almost too close,” I whispered. I’d always wanted the chance to say that out loud.

  I put on my backpack and, as an afterthought, grabbed Will’s black baseball cap off the table, pulling it low over my eyes. The finishing touch.

  After glancing around the kitchen one last time, I finally whispered, “This is me leaving.” I paused, waiting for something to stop me.

  Nothing did.

  I eased the door open and stepped out into the summer darkness. I stood on our back porch for a moment. I was nervous. But more than anything, I was excited. I didn’t know how far I’d have to travel, but I’d get there. Nothing would stop me from coming back with Mom.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Three houses down I realized I’d forgotten the empty suitcase and had to run back home.

  But after that, nothing could stop me.

  Chapter Four

  I knew the police would start looking for me as soon as Dad reported me gone. Dad had a weekly poker game with Officer Barton, so there might be a little more publicity than for some other runaway. Besides, the town was small—anyone running away would be a big deal.

  I could have taken Will’s cell phone. It would’ve made everything easier. Eli insisted I shouldn’t. He watched all these detective shows and said the police would check the phone records before anything else and track me down. But at least I wasn’t traveling completely blind; I had Eli in my corner. And since he was away at computer camp, he was online twenty-four/seven. And the best part? No one would be able to get to him and make him talk before Mom and I got back home, safe and sound.

  Well, in theory.

  In reality, Eli can’t keep his trap shut, which was why I hoped he’d be untouchable at eCamp. He might be a great friend, but he’s definitely a squealer. Eli’s dad is always calling my dad, fuming about one thing or another, like that Eli said a curse word he said he’d learned from Will. Will would get in trouble (not for saying it, but for saying it around “that Carson kid”), and then take it out on me.

  “Pay it forward,” Will would say, giving me his usual Tattled-On Revenge: a dead-arm, a dead-leg, and a rug burn on some delicate body part, like my face. I didn’t want Eli to feel bad, so I never told him, but sheesh. You’d think he’d have caught on sooner or later.

  

  I jogged lightly down the sidewalk, past all the neighbors’ dark houses. Everything was quiet. I didn’t hear a single car engine or a dog barking—not even a cricket.

  I hurried through the main strip of town, dodging in and out of the shadows. The last thing I wanted was to be taken home by the cops only a few minutes after leaving. Luckily, I saw them before they saw me. A squad car was parked under the buzzing fluorescent light at the gas station. Officer Barton—the town’s only night beat cop and Dad’s best (and only?) friend—was leaning back in his seat, asleep, all slack-jawed and snoring.

  It was easy to slip
out of town after that. There are only about ten buildings on the main strip. Once you get past the gas station, Brenville just…stops. It doesn’t dwindle off into suburbs or a park or something; it just plain ends. A green sign marks the city boundary with, Next Gas: 54 mi. After that, there’s nothing. Just dirt, sagebrush, scrubby short juniper trees, and the long curve of lonely highway.

  Seeing the open road ahead of me, I couldn’t help but grin—I was doing it!

  The plan was simple enough: be out at milepost three no later than five a.m. I walked down the right side of the county road. It felt strange being out there all alone in the dark. I still had two hours before the rendezvous with Eli’s cousin Carl, which meant I had time. I didn’t even need to worry about hiding from cars until then (there isn’t any traffic during the day, so there definitely wouldn’t be anyone out at that hour, except for Carl). And while I don’t know what Eli told Carl, I hoped that I wouldn’t look too suspicious to him, what with my backpack, suitcase, and sleeping bag. Maybe he’d think I was a Boy Scout, working on a survival merit badge or something like that.

  Dad was always getting on me about becoming a Boy Scout, but I never wanted to do it. It was like the diving: even if I wanted to do it, it kind of became a bummer if Will was into it, too—and if Dad was pressuring me on top of that? I definitely wasn’t going to do it. But Dad was always telling me I had to “take advantage of all this wilderness” and that “you’d regret it when you were older.”

  Dad always went on about how great the area was, but to me, it wasn’t anything special. Brenville is in something called the “high desert,” which is like a desert but without the sand. It’s just really brown, with these weird, scraggly trees you see on TV or in Western movies, the ones that don’t look like normal trees. In the summer, it’s scorching during the day and freezing at night. In the winter, it’s just a frozen wasteland with snow drifting across the flatness. The one cool thing is that there are tons of animals, like lizards and scorpions and mountain lions and rattlesnakes. My favorite, though, are the coyotes, maybe because they scared Will when we were little.

  As I trekked along, I heard the coyotes start up, making that row-oooh-ooh-ooohh sound. They kept it up a bit before fading out. In the blackness of the middle of nowhere, they sounded like ghosts.

  

  I reached milepost three with about twenty minutes to spare. I’d originally told Eli that three miles was way too far to walk with a backpack and a suitcase, but he insisted the pick-up happen where there wasn’t a chance that there could be a witness. And he was right about the place; there wasn’t a car for miles.

  I stepped off the road and sat down behind a large rock to drink a morning root beer. Then I heard an engine in the distance. I looked at my watch; if it was Carl, he was a bit early. I felt a pounding in my chest as I jumped to my feet.

  At five a.m., it’s still dark, but it’s not too dark to see details. As the lights came over the horizon, I saw it. It was a truck. And as it got closer, I saw it was an old, beat-up Chevy truck hauling—what were they? I squinted in the dark. Were they chickens?

  But the truck went on by. Coincidence? Probably. My heart slowed. I was about to sit back down when the truck lurched to a stop, maybe fifty yards past me.

  So it was Carl after all? And my ride was in a chicken truck?

  I guessed it was possible. Eli hadn’t told me much about Carl, but knowing Eli, his relatives were probably capable of being chicken farmers.

  As I walked in the dim light toward the truck, I let out a slow breath. This was it. The Moment of Truth.

  I waited behind the truck for Carl to make his move. Greet me, open the passenger door, or something. I could see his plaid-shirted elbow in his side-mirror, but he wasn’t getting out.

  Strange.

  That’s when it hit me: Carl was pretending to be on his phone. I could see him in his big side mirror, under the glow of his dome light, looking in the glove compartment with his phone to his ear. If he didn’t talk to me, he could say he hadn’t stopped for me. He could tell the cops, “Nope, I didn’t even see him.”

  Which meant he wanted me to ride in the back.

  Well, it was better than walking. I lobbed my suitcase and sleeping bag into a gap between the cages, sending the chickens into an even louder fit of clucking. I had my hands on the pickup gate, getting ready to pull myself up into the truck—and that was the same moment that Carl chose to drive away.

  

  I wasn’t much of an athlete. Except for my newfound talent for diving, I couldn’t really do much else in the physical activity department. I’ve been told I run like a wounded cow. But I am fast when I need to be.

  Sprinting behind the chicken truck, I just barely kept my hold on the slick tailgate. Soon, the toes of Will’s brand new shoes dragged along the asphalt—and we were picking up speed.

  “Carl! Slow down!” I called out, but I don’t think he heard me over the squawk of the chickens.

  I could already see the headline about my death:

  Runaway dragged miles behind truck;

  older brother finishes him off for

  destroying shoes.

  Feathers blowing in my face and legs flailing, I grabbed a bit of rope tied to the tailgate. Begging it not to snap, I used all my strength to pull myself up. I got one foot on the bumper, and then the other. The chickens sounded like they were cheering me on as I got a leg over the tailgate—and then the truck jolted like Carl had run over a tree stump.

  My “oh-no-oh-no-oh-no” mixed right in with the loud clucking as I fell, headfirst, into the truck bed.

  Carl drove on as I struggled to get upright. The chickens really seemed to be going nuts (but for all I knew, this was a completely normal way for chickens to act in a speeding truck). I got situated just in time for the truck to hit another big bump, which caused my sleeping bag to bounce right by me and down the road.

  “No, no, no, no!” I hissed, but it was gone.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  “Carl!” I tried to yell to get him to stop, but he couldn’t hear me. And there were too many chicken containers in the way for me to get his attention. What a maniac, I thought.

  I pulled myself, the suitcase, and my backpack down low between the tailgate and the chicken cages, where it wasn’t as cold. At least I still had Will’s hat.

  Just a little tip: if you ever need to hitch a ride in the bed of a truck, a chicken truck isn’t exactly the most luxurious choice. As we reached full cruising speed, the truck bed became a quaking, earsplitting, reeking tornado of feathers. And not just big feathers either, but little downy ones that got caught in my nose and mouth and eyes. I chose to believe that chicken crap doesn’t blow in the wind, but I may have been wrong.

  I got as comfortable as I could and watched the sun rise while we wound our way northwest, putting more and more miles between Brenville and me. In the back of the truck, I shivered, and it wasn’t just the wind. My stomach was a lump of guilt and fear. And not just because I’d stolen from Will, though that was definitely part of it.

  I was starting to realize the seriousness of what I was doing. Yes, serious was the word. I imagined Dad talking to me, looking very disappointed. Maybe even sad. “This is a serious thing you’ve done, Ryan.” And it was. Look at me—I’d almost been killed already and I hadn’t even been gone three hours.

  But did I have a choice? I remembered the diving board incident and my cheeks reddened. I thought of the look on Erika Dixon’s face as I stood in front of everyone, naked. I couldn’t go back. Not now. Having Mom back would be the only thing that could make Brenville bearable now.

  So I was doing it. For better or worse, I was doing it.

  This was either the start of something really great, or the beginning of the end.

  

  The chickens never calmed down. I had thought they were just
excited by my clumsy arrival, but apparently that’s just how chickens act.

  As we bumped down the road, I squinted against the feathery chaos and watched them through the crook of my arm. Some hunkered down together. Others lay on the floor of their cages like they were dead, which I guess they might have been. There was this pudgy, one-eyed hen wedged into a corner, her lumpy butt poking through the bars of the cage. Over the course of the drive, we had a few staring contests, and she won every time. Chickens can stare. I hadn’t known that before, either.

  After a few hours, I checked my watch and saw that we were already an hour late. I was supposed to be in Bend at eight a.m. and it was already nine. Maybe because Carl was driving so slowly. Or maybe because of all the chickens—maybe they weren’t very aerodynamic. I guess it didn’t matter too much. Eli would figure things out.

  Finally, I felt the truck slowing. We made a few turns, went over a few bumps, and then we came to a stop. The engine shut off, and the truck door opened and then slammed shut.

  I popped my head up. We were in front of a small bakery, which, I guess, is kind of like a café. I chucked the suitcase out and leaped from the back of the truck. I tried to brush the feathers off of my clothes, but they were everywhere. Inside and out.

  I looked around for Carl. Even if he were playing it cool, maybe I could at least give him a quick wave.

  “Did you just jump outta my truck?” a voice hollered and I dropped my suitcase. Carl walked toward me—or the person I had thought was Carl. But Carl wouldn’t be surprised I was in his truck.

  And Eli’s cousin probably wasn’t a sixty-year-old man, either.

  Uh-oh.

  Chapter Five

  I took a step back, eyes wide. My mouth moved, but nothing came out. Nothing understandable, anyway.

  “Uh, um, well, no, I was…I was just looking at your chickens,” I stammered.

  “You jumped outta my truck!” He strode toward me looking kind of shocked, like he didn’t know what to do.