Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  “You said the kids tease you—but not about Spartacus?” Lloyd asked.

  “We-ell,” I said, kicking bits of gravel off the road and into the dirt. “Everyone calls me…well, they call me Poop Lip. Because of the, well, the—”

  “The freckle,” Lloyd said, shaking his head. “Clever. But rough, nonetheless.”

  “My brother made it up,” I explained. “He’s kind of the town bully.”

  “And this—this bully brother calls you Poop Lip?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. Hearing that name again made me feel about two inches tall.

  “Why don’t you stand up for yourself?”

  My heart sank. No one understood. I told him glumly, “You don’t get it. It’s not that easy.”

  “No, I know it can be tough. I have a rotten brother, too.”

  Chapter Seven

  I have a guilty secret: I really enjoyed decoding the postcards Mom sent me. I know, it’s terrible, considering what was happening. But Mom knew I was good at words, so it made sense that she would feel safe putting her secret messages in code. She knew I’d figure them out.

  Out of all her postcards, the hardest one to decode had been the one from Fearsville, Kentucky:

  Dear Spartacus:

  Things are still going real good. Made friends with a bunch of clowns. Turns out, they aren’t very funny. Especially one clown named Sam Eve. Sam Eve is very serious. No matter what anyone says, this isn’t a joke at all.

  – Mom

  It took me and Eli a whole week to figure out that the clown’s name was an anagram—and if you don’t know, an anagram is when you rearrange all the letters up to make other words. Once we figured it out, though, it made immediate sense: Sam Eve = Save Me.

  “Save Me is very serious. No matter what anyone says, Save Me isn’t a joke at all.”

  It gave me the shivers.

  And yet…part of me wondered why she was telling me this random stuff instead of important messages like, “Meet me in Cincinnati on the fifth.” What could I do with “save me” if she didn’t tell me where to go? And I couldn’t even write back to ask, since she was never in the same place longer than a few days.

  So many mysteries.

  

  When we pulled up to a house on the outskirts of Boise, it was late afternoon. Dark, shiny cars filled the driveway and lined the street. The mailbox read Geneva Moe.

  “You ready?” Lloyd asked, handing me my suitcase. It took me a minute before I understood he was asking about the funeral.

  “Guess so,” I answered. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. Apparently, the Moes were actually having a funeral.

  “Hold on,” Lloyd said, pulling out a notepad and scribbling something down. He folded the paper and handed it to me.

  “My phone number,” he said. “Give me a call if you need help leading a revolution—or just if you need anything, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I said, pocketing the note, knowing I would never, ever call him. But still, the gesture was nice. “Really. Thank you.” I shouldered my backpack and pressed down my hair with a shaky hand.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Spartacus,” Lloyd said, putting out his own hand. I reached out and shook it. A Rolling Stones lyric from his tattooed arm caught my eye, something about guessing his name.

  Spartacus. Casey. Ryan…

  A large woman in a black dress came out the front door of the house and stood there, watching us both. Lloyd waved at her in a friendly way, and I cringed. This was beyond awkward.

  “Good luck, Spartacus,” Lloyd said. “See you around.”

  I stalled. Lloyd nodded slightly toward the woman, who inched toward us with a questioning look on her face. Both of them seemed to be waiting for me to do something. With bravery I never suspected I had in me, I walked right up the sidewalk and hugged the lady.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said into her giant, soft arm, remembering the line from a movie somewhere. She seemed to accept I was someone she knew and hugged me so tight I could hardly hear Lloyd’s motorcycle as he roared away.

  

  Eli had evidently told them that I was the deceased’s paperboy. The woman immediately herded me into a crowded living room full of mourners laughing, crying, and, best of all—eating. She planted me in front of the hors d’oeuvres and I scarfed them gratefully.

  Now, to contact Eli and have him get me the heck out of here.

  I edged toward the back entrance and was almost in the clear when someone called out from behind me.

  “Wait!”

  I turned, as nervous as an imposter paperboy, my foot halfway out the door. The large woman staggered toward me under the weight of a monstrous bunch of purple and orange flowers. And I mean monstrous. It looked like an entire bush.

  “These just arrived, you dear, sweet, young man,” she exclaimed, heaving the bouquet onto the table. “Spending your paycheck on Aunt Geneva! I could kiss you.” And she did. She leaned down and gave me a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, you know…” I stuttered, completely confused.

  “I’ll get a vase,” said the woman, heading toward the kitchen. I looked at the bouquet and then realized what it was.

  Eli.

  Pumped up with adrenaline, I clawed through the flowers until I found the card. It was bright yellow, didn’t have an envelope, and said, quite clearly:

  Remembering

  You

  Always.

  Navin (your paper boy)

  Thirty seconds later, I was racing down some rural road, card in one hand, suitcase in the other. On the back of the card, Eli had had the florist write directions to a nearby intersection. There was also a time written: 6:30 p.m.

  It was already 6:15.

  Sometimes Eli surprises me with his cleverness. As I ran, ever weighed down by my suitcase and backpack, I took back all the bad things I’d thought about him.

  By 6:20, there I was, gasping and wheezing next to a boarded-up restaurant. (For someone who hated P.E., I was doing a lot more running than I’d ever intended.) The parking lot was empty, no one in sight—which was good because I was sweating big time and wanted to change clothes. Stepping to the side of the building, I shucked off my suit and threw on a black t-shirt and jeans. It’s strange how James Bond always stayed so clean, even while riding motorcycles and fighting bad guys. My white shirt already had pit stains. I flapped it around in the breeze to dry a bit before putting it back in the suitcase.

  I collapsed on the curb to catch my breath. The sun was lower, glinting off passing cars. How long would I have to wait? I didn’t even know what I was waiting for. A bus? A taxi to the airport? A helicopter?

  Then I remembered the note from Lloyd. I pulled it out of my pocket and read:

  Spartacus,

  Don’t forget your name:

  “Maybe there is no peace in this world for anyone, but I do know as long as we live, we must be true to ourselves.”

  - Spartacus

  If you’re ever in Portland, look me up!

  Your friend,

  Lloyd Lloeke

  He’d put his phone number and email address underneath his name. I tucked the note in my pocket and then checked my watch. 6:30 on the nose.

  Next stop, Albuquerque, I thought. I opened my backpack, ate one of my energy bars, and then started counting cars. I was up to a hundred and eight when a black semi rolled into the parking lot. It had orange and red flames down the sides and silver fangs on the grill. Two exhaust pipes belched black smoke, and the windows were tinted so you couldn’t see who was inside. The brakes screeched as it rolled to a stop, right in front of me.

  I realized I might have been too quick to forgive Eli.

  Chapter Eight

 
I don’t know who I expected to jump out of the truck cab, but it certainly wasn’t a small, young woman. She was brown-eyed and brown-haired, with dirty jeans, an orange shirt, and a green trucker hat. And did I mention she was small? Like my size?

  “You Brodie?” she said, yanking the bill of her hat forward on her head.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said cautiously. I wished Eli had at least stuck with one fake name so I’d always know who I was supposed to be. Brodie. Remember it: Brodie.

  “I’m Hailey,” she said, putting out her hand. She was stronger than she looked; her handshake practically broke my hand. She had a brassy voice with a Southern accent.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, though it came out more like “Play-sure to meetcha.”

  “H-hey,” I stammered back. “Nice to, uh, nice to make your—” I couldn’t speak. Something was wrong with my mouth. She was just so darn cute.

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You going to Albuquerque?”

  “Nope, Santa Fe. Change of plans. But don’t worry. You’ll get there. Let’s roll.” She smiled at me with big teeth and then turned and vaulted into the truck.

  I went to the passenger side, worrying about this “change of plans.”

  After struggling a bit with the handle, I got the door open. I crouched down and launched myself into the cab like I was doing a high jump.

  Once inside, I gave Hailey a sideways glance. Was this girl going to drive me? She wasn’t any bigger than I was. She had to sit on this raised platform to see over the dash—it was an adult’s booster seat.

  I buckled my seatbelt. The seats were soft, and the cab smelled like oranges.

  “Like I said, my plans changed and I’ve gotta drop you off in Santa Fe,” she said, putting the truck into gear. “But you’ll be able to get a city bus from there to Albuquerque, no problem. I’ll even give you a few bucks if you need it.”

  Even as I nodded, I wondered if a bus would let a kid my age ride alone—but I could only ask for so many favors. Instead, I asked, “How long is the drive?”

  It was Friday, and the show was Saturday. I had to make it there by tomorrow night.

  “Let’s just say we’ve got a long night ahead of us,” she said. She pulled the truck out onto the highway. “We’re not stopping much, unless you have to pee.”

  Usually, a girl talking about peeing would have made me blush. But weirdly, I wasn’t that embarrassed by it. I thought of my high dive experience. Could living through something so embarrassing make it so I’d never be embarrassed by anything again? I thought of my dad at the dinner table one night, talking about the high dive, saying, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Could he have been right?

  “Brodie,” Hailey mused. “You know, that’s a terrible name to be tryin’ to hide under.”

  “I’m not hiding,” I said, a little too forcefully. “What’s wrong with Brodie?”

  “You should choose something plainer.”

  “I—”

  “I ran away from home, too,” she went on, interrupting me. She looked thoughtful and knit her eyebrows under her hat. “Changed my name to Jane. I was sixteen. How old are you?”

  All of a sudden I was very aware of my height and Will’s scuffed new sneakers. I sat up a little straighter.

  “How old are you?” I countered.

  “Twenty-two,” she answered immediately.

  “I’m fifteen,” I countered. Hailey snorted. I tried to look offended. “What? I’m small for my age.”

  “I know how these lies work,” Hailey said. “It’s always a three-year jump. Twelve-year-olds say they’re fifteen; thirteen-year-olds say they’re sixteen.” She rattled these numbers off like she was reciting multiplication tables, then glanced over at me with a knowing smile. “You’re twelve, then.”

  “Ha!” I tried to force a laugh.

  “That’s a little young to be tryin’ to make it on your own.”

  “What makes you think I ran away?” I asked.

  “Whose parent would go on Craigslist to get their son a ride to the, what was it—oh yeah, the Geology Ultimate Fightin’ Championships?”

  I almost burst out laughing, but kept it together. “Yeah. It’s—it’s the finals,” I managed. I couldn’t believe Eli had used that as my story. Eli and I had once recorded classmates wrestling in Geology class and uploaded the video as the “Geology Fighting Championship”—and now Hailey thought I was competing.

  Hailey just gave me an incredulous look. “It was such a stupid story, I had to pick you up, Brodie, but I don’t believe it for a second.”

  “No, seriously. My team is already down there!” I insisted.

  “Okay, tell me what you do at this Geology Fightin’ Tournament,” she said with a smirk.

  “Uh, I don’t like talking about it before the competition. Gotta keep my head clear.”

  When she laughed, it sounded like a goose honk.

  “You been travelin’ long?” she asked.

  “A day,” I said, then corrected myself. “I mean, just a few hours. I got a ride from…” Where had I come from? I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. How much had Eli told her? I was getting the new story confused with the paperboy story and the story I’d had to tell Lloyd. Navin. Brodie. Casey. Spartacus. Moe.

  I was in over my head.

  “Did you ever go back home?” I asked her abruptly, changing the subject. “After you ran away?”

  “Nope.”

  I thought about Hailey being out on the road, never going back. As terrible as Will and Dad were, could I do that?

  “Were your parents mean or something?” I blurted out.

  Hailey gave a slight, sick grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Let me put it this way, kid,” she said. “However bad you think your family is, mine was a hundred times worse.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that.

  I watched the road fly away behind us in the side-mirror. We passed a few towns, the kind that you’re practically out of before you even see the welcome sign. Patchwork fields turned into gray and black squares as the sun started to sink below the horizon.

  After a while, Hailey put on a slow-paced Spanish language-learning audio book.

  “Mira el campo,” said a deep, lulling voice.

  “Mira el campo,” Hailey repeated, but she wasn’t even trying to match the Spanish accent.

  I pulled out a comic book and pretended to read, but really I was thinking about the rescue mission. Bartholomew wasn’t expecting me, so I wouldn’t need a disguise inside the circus. I’d just need to blend in. Maybe I should use some makeup to cover my freckle, just in case? I could probably find some at a drug store.

  “Veo una vaca.”

  “Veo una vaca.”

  I had a pocketknife to cut my way through the tent. Would I need rope? I don’t know what I’d need it for, but it seemed like a useful thing to have. The circus would probably have some lying around if I needed it.

  “Esa es una gran cabra.”

  “Esa es una gran cabra.”

  My head began to feel heavy. I rested it against the cool window and watched the fields slide by.

  Sleep would be really nice.

  As I nodded off, thoughts of Bartholomew’s Circus spun in my head.

  

  When I first discovered IHateBartholomewsCircus.com, there was maybe an entire week when I didn’t sleep. I spent every free moment—lunch breaks, recess, and from after dinner until I had to go to bed—surfing the forum full of crazy stories and rumors about the circus. Or, at least, I gorged on information until Dad turned off the wi-fi. (Once, Dad caught me online at four a.m. I closed the browser window just in time and tried to pretend I’d fallen asleep while doing my homework. He didn’t buy it, but luc
kily, he didn’t know how computers worked and couldn’t reopen the window.)

  It was weird how all this conspiracy info was out there, yet Bartholomew was still allowed to roam the country, putting on shows and stealing people’s moms. I pored over every detail, creating a chronological time line of Bartholomew’s life and the history of the circus, which I’d message to Eli, with links.

  Sometimes, he would reply with, “Wow. Wow. I mean. Wow.”

  Other times, though, it was, “go to sleep.”

  Bartholomew’s story goes like this:

  Count Csizmadia Bartholomew had lived in some country near Russia that doesn’t exist anymore—one of those places that got all broken to pieces after a war or something. He had been exiled (no one knows why) and he landed in Maryland twenty-five years ago, with only the clothes on his back.

  Within two days, he had landed a job mending animal cages with the The Humble Reed Family Circus. He had been the first employee who wasn’t a Reed. They said he had some kind of hypnotic power over animals. That makes sense, because within two years, he was head animal trainer. He did an act where big jungle cats and bears all performed with a troupe of house cats (which I guess is hard to get them to do).

  A couple years later, the owner of The Reed Circus? Bam! Kicked the bucket. He got cornered one night by a loose leopard, had a heart attack—and that was it. Dead. The leopard hadn’t even touched him.

  Then, get this: Mr. Reed left the whole circus and all its animals to Bartholomew.

  I told you it was sketchy.

  Bart fired all the Reeds and renamed the circus after himself. Overnight, it went from just a dozen performers to the hundred-person-strong Bartholomew’s World-Renowned Circus of The Incredible—and where he found a hundred new performers is another unanswered question. They began traveling all over North and South America. They toured Europe and Asia—once they spent a winter in Africa.

  “But where did they get the money from?” Eli always asked. “Travel is expensive. No way were they making it from admission tickets.”

  I didn’t have an answer—and neither did anyone else.