Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  “Oh?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Come on, Zeda. Gimme some dirt on Bart.

  “I’m only telling you this because now that I know you…well, I like you.”

  “You like me?” I blurted out in my normal voice, my face going hot immediately.

  “Shh, dumbo. Keep it down,” she hissed. “Yeah, I like you. But this is about Bartholomew. You have to listen to me. He can’t be trusted. I mean, animals aside. He’s a maniac.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled at this. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Did you hear—”

  But she didn’t get the chance to finish. A big truck rolled up toward us. It was a normal-looking brown delivery truck, except it didn’t have a company name or anything on it. And it was driving pretty fast. Everyone in our camp went quiet, watching it get nearer. I had an instinct to run, thinking it might be Bartholomew. Then the truck stopped short, maybe ten feet from us.

  “Not again,” Robin said. He put on his bowler hat and stood up.

  Remmy stood up on the bench, squinting at the truck before cursing, like he knew who it was.

  “Walk over with me, Robin,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Keep me from tearing the messenger’s fool head off.”

  

  I didn’t know it, but over the past three days, I’d been mastering the ability to handle disappointment. It was the little letdowns—like Lloyd being a murderer and the museum theft stuff—that helped get me ready. Oh, and the circus not being in Albuquerque—that sure was a big blow.

  The old me, the not-Spartacus me, might have started crying or something.

  The old me would have screamed and shouted and stomped and knocked something over. Who was I kidding? The old me would have just given up and gone home.

  Well.

  The new me didn’t do any of those things when the next let-down came, when Bartholomew cancelled. Again.

  What was the point? It was just toughening me up for future letdowns, right?

  

  I listened as Remmy and Robin talked to the truck driver, my nails biting into the wood of the bench. The bench was my cool and I was hanging onto it for dear life. I didn’t dare think about what my new plan was going to be. That would have sent me over the edge.

  Remmy’s constant stream of curse words made it kind of hard to gather the exact details of the conversation, but the basic gist was this: Bartholomew had changed his plans (again) and had, instead, booked a two-day gig in Portland, Oregon, starting tomorrow.

  Yep.

  Oregon.

  Not too far from where I’d started this whole journey.

  So I sat very still, hoping to either a) avoid another nervous breakdown, or b) at least get around the corner and away from Zeda before shouting, “You deserve this, Poop Lip! You really, really do!” once again.

  “Unbelievable,” Robin was saying as they walked back to the tables. Everyone in the sideshow watched them carefully, except Zeda. She was still drawing, pressing the pen so hard on my arm that it hurt. She was, however, the first one to speak up.

  “So, I suppose they want us to perform tomorrow and then go to them?”

  “Of course they do,” Remmy fumed. He spat on the ground.

  “This is just so stupid,” Zeda muttered under her breath. Only I heard her.

  “Well,” said Robin, stepping in. He took off his hat and examined its brim. “In lieu of going, Remmy and I could send a message back with the delivery guy—that is, if it’s all right with all of you.”

  Everyone blinked at one another for a moment before Nero stood up.

  “I think we should be done with Bartholomew,” he said. “I wouldn’t care if he doubled our pay.”

  “Me neither!” said the snake lady, standing up.

  “Well, if that’s how you all feel, let’s put it to a vote. Yea or nay?”

  There were so many yeas that I swore there were fifty people and not just the twenty. Remmy grinned at Robin.

  “Then that’s it,” Robin said. “We’re free.”

  “Tell Bartholomew to find himself a new sideshow!” Remmy shouted to the truck driver, who didn’t look like he cared all that much.

  “Whatever,” he muttered, looking at a clipboard.

  Meanwhile, everyone at the tables cheered. Well, except me. I was still willing myself to stay sane.

  “We’re our own show again! Who needs ’em?” Zeda exclaimed. She jumped up from her seat and hugged Nero, her dad, and then Remmy.

  “You’d be better off with us, if you wanted to stay,” Nero said to me. “I’m sure Remmy wouldn’t mind.”

  “You should stay,” Zeda exclaimed, coming over to me. “You’d learn so much more with us. And,” she added under her breath, “we’re not maniacs.” She was still looking at me, grinning, when the driver yelled out:

  “What about that animal? You gonna help me load it up or what?”

  “Bartholomew is paying you, isn’t he?” Remmy bellowed. “You got two arms—use ‘em!”

  “W-what?!” Zeda sputtered, looking from Remmy to Robin. Her dad just shook his head sadly at her.

  “What’s happening?” I asked Zeda.

  “Bartholomew is going to take Matilda back,” she thundered. “That piece of absolute garbage.” She punched the table. It looked like it hurt.

  “What? I thought she was yours?” I said.

  “No. She belongs to Bartholomew. But we’ve always taken care of her. That moron doesn’t know how to take care of her. They kept her in this tiny cage and she was all dirty and had fleas and—”

  She stopped abruptly and waved her hand. She was too angry to speak.

  It almost made me forget all about my problems.

  Almost.

  Zeda was just about to stomp off, but I grabbed her arm and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

  

  I took her away from the group, where no one could overhear us.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked, looking hopeful. Even that teeny smile was like a hundred heavy-duty flashlights and I wanted to melt.

  No time for melting, Spartacus.

  “I need to get on that truck,” I said.

  “Oh, I thought this was about Matilda,” she said, her face falling. “I meant what I was trying to tell you about Bartholomew. He is dangerous. I don’t have time to tell you everything he’s done, but look—you don’t need to get into Bartholomew’s. We’ll teach you so much more than—”

  “I don’t want to join the circus,” I blurted out. “My mom is with The Incredible and I think…I think she’s there against her will. I’m trying to get her out.”

  “Your mom?” She took a step back. “Who’s your mom?”

  “Athena,” I said. “The—”

  “The Human Cannonball!” she gasped, covering her mouth. “Right! Oh my god, you look just like her! She’s amazing!” Zeda’s face darkened suddenly. “Wait. You’re saying she was kidnapped or something?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy. But trust me. She told me herself.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” she assured me. “It doesn’t seem crazy to me. I know Bartholomew is a bad guy. I have so much to tell you about him—I just thought we had more time. But you’re not just going to be able to waltz in there and get her back.”

  “I know it’s not going to be easy,” I said. “But I have a plan.”

  I told her about how my mom is a contortionist and about my suitcase and cutting into the side of the tent.

  “That’s all well and good,” she said, “But what if you get caught? Bartholomew’s insane. Those people are always doing odd things. And they’re violent. One time, Finn almost put Nero in the hospital just because he was looking around backstage. My dad thinks they’re in a crime ring, but he c
an’t prove it.”

  “I think he might be right,” I said. “And just yesterday, I ran into this woman who looked just like my mom—”

  “No way—the doubles!” she exclaimed, actually hitting me in the shoulder with her excitement. “I read about that but didn’t think it was real! Have you ever seen a website called IHateBartholomewsCircus.com?”

  “Of course!” I blurted out. “My friend and I basically memorized it. But that’s weird. We never saw any posts about doubles…?”

  “It was just up on the site for maybe an hour. I happened to see it pop up and I read it. When I went back to find it, it was gone.”

  “Like someone deleted it?”

  She shrugged. “I assumed it was deleted because it wasn’t true.”

  “And you think the rest of it is?”

  “I’m telling you, that circus is dangerous. I was about to tell you earlier—once you work for him, you’re never allowed to work anywhere else. You’re in it for life.”

  “Like Prizrak,” I said in a whisper, remembering what Puck had said.

  “You know about him?” Zeda said.

  “Yeah, the magician. In the bank vault.”

  “No, no,” said Zeda. “Prizrak was some kind of genius animal trainer, like a lion whisperer or something. It was about five years ago, in Chicago. They found him dead in some rich guy’s mansion, in his private safe. He was trying to make friends with some guard dogs, but it didn’t work. They tore him to shreds. Everyone knew Bartholomew must have been involved, but nobody could prove it.”

  I swallowed hard.

  Which parts of this story were true? Zeda’s version sounded a lot more realistic than the Goth kids’ story.

  At that moment, Bartholomew’s truck driver went walking by us, rolling Matilda’s canvas-covered cage behind him.

  “Oh, right,” she said softly. “Matilda.”

  We fell silent, watching him. Her eyes started to fill with tears and she looked down, scuffing her foot on the ground.

  I had to do something. I just had to.

  “Zeda,” I said, “if you help me get in that truck, I promise I’ll bring Matilda back to you.”

  “You’d do that?” Zeda asked, her mouth open in shock.

  Inside I was thinking, Uh-oh. What did I just do?

  “Yes,” I found myself saying in a voice that didn’t sound at all like my own. “I won’t let her be another one of Bartholomew’s—” I searched for a word—“slaves.”

  “You’re really a hero,” she said, and my face got all hot.

  She started firing off tips for handling Matilda, but it wasn’t until she started saying stuff like “just keep her under your sweatshirt” that I fully understood what I’d promised.

  When would I have time to take Matilda back to Zeda? How would I keep track of a lemur when I was doing everything else?

  But looking at Zeda looking at me, I didn’t even try to take it back. I remembered once Dad told me that girls were trouble, and now I was beginning to think I knew what he meant.

  “All right. I’ll help you get on the truck if you promise me one more thing,” she said.

  Uh-oh.

  “Promise me that, if you get the chance, you’ll take down The Incredible.”

  “I promise.”

  And then she kissed me. Like we were in some kind of movie.

  It was pretty ridiculous—and pretty incredible.

  

  I was in a daze while I got my backpack and the suitcase. I hadn’t wiped off my lips; I was just letting her kiss evaporate into the desert air.

  I felt like a poet when I realized that’s what I was doing.

  Concentrate, Poop Lip. Don’t be any more of a twit. It was Will’s voice again, and for once I was grateful.

  I watched from around the corner of the tent while Zeda got Nero and her dad to help load Matilda’s cage into the back of the truck. Then Zeda pretended to cry.

  “Please make sure they take care of her,” Zeda sobbed, collapsing into the stunned driver. “She’s not strong enough for the circus life.”

  “Hey,” said the driver, looking around him for some help. Robin and Nero just looked at him like, What did you expect?

  Zeda took the driver’s arm and dragged him over to Remmy at the tables—away from the truck. The coast was clear.

  It was my chance.

  I tore across the pavement to the truck and jumped in. The narrow opening between the cage and the wall was barely wide enough for my suitcase, but I wedged it in there and crammed myself in after it.

  All they had to do was close the back door and I’d be as good as in Portland.

  “But she’s endangered!” I heard Zeda cry out. I wasn’t sure if she was acting then or not. I heard something skitter under the canvas and I flinched. Matilda! I still had no clue what she looked like.

  Come on, Zeda, you can stop acting now. Let him shut the truck and get me on the road!

  Then I heard Zeda’s voice, closer now, saying, “No, no. I’ll get the back door. I need to tell her good-bye.”

  I peeked out. Zeda stood at the truck’s back door, silhouetted against the fading daylight. She slid a small box across the truck floor toward me.

  “Good luck, Spartacus,” she whispered, right before slamming the door shut, leaving me in darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t know how I fell asleep wedged in behind the cage, but I must have, because I dreamt I was a kid again, riding in the back of our red wagon. It was one turn, one jolt after another. A dip in the road thumped my head against the wall and I woke up, thinking Will had just pulled my wagon off into a ditch.

  I pulled myself out from behind the cage and stood in the dark of the truck, my legs stiff, rubbing the sore spot above my ear where I’d also banged my head against the cage. Headlight beams bounced through the cracks in the door. I didn’t have a clue how long I’d been asleep, but when I thought about the distance between Nevada and Oregon, I knew I had a lot longer to go. I pushed a button on my watch and saw it was almost ten at night. We’d been on the road for about two hours.

  I groped around in my backpack and found my flashlight. Turning it on, I could see the compartment was rectangular. And it was pretty much empty. The cage stood covered on one end, against the cab of the truck. The small box Zeda had pushed in was on the other end, next to the door.

  Zeda!

  My heart pounded.

  I almost tripped over myself to get to the box. I plopped down on the cold metal floor next to it and tore the box lid off. Inside were a bunch of granola bars, a can of nuts, a bottle of water, a face-painting kit, a book about breathing fire (Doug the Dragon’s Official Guide to Fire Breathing [Without Loss of Life]), and a compact torch with a small bottle of paraffin (for fire breathing). Finally, there was a small key, a couple of bananas, a large mason jar of cut fruit, and a plastic container filled with—ew, grubs! Each was labeled “Matilda.”

  I’d almost forgotten—I wasn’t alone.

  The cage waited for me at the other end of the truck, nylon ropes securing it in place. I hadn’t noticed before, but the air had that thick, farm-like smell of animal.

  Gulp.

  I guess I had no choice but to meet Matilda.

  I went over to the cage and propped up the flashlight. Then, slowly, I lifted the canvas off one side. I couldn’t see anything at first.

  “Hey, Matilda,” I whispered, getting closer. “It’s okay, girl. I’ve got some fruit.” I took a banana out of the box, and held it between the bars.

  “Here, Matilda. Looky what I have here…”

  I knew that Matilda was a lemur, but I guess I was still picturing a monkey. And when you think about monkeys, you usually think of those cute ones with the long arms, or maybe, if you don’t know the difference, you might think ab
out a chimp or a gorilla.

  Never, in your strangest dreams, would you expect Matilda.

  I’m ashamed to say it, but I actually let out a terrified “AYIEEE!” when she came into the light. Matilda was not a chimp or a cuddly monkey. Matilda was this black and gray gremlin-like thing the size of a large cat. She had the pale, whitish face of a blunt-nosed possum, the tail of a squirrel, the ears of a bat, and sparse fur like—I don’t know, like a cheap stuffed animal. But her eyes! My god, her giant eyes were practically glowing yellow.

  “Matilda?” I squeaked. She didn’t seem at all alarmed by me—or my scream. She probably got that all the time. In fact, she padded over on four legs before pulling herself up the cage wall until she was eye-level with me. She reached through the bars with a long, slender arm—and I saw it. The finger of death. It was longer than all the rest, as thin as a twig…

  And she pointed it right at me.

  “She’ll point a finger at you and then it’s just a matter of time before you’re dead,” Remmy had said.

  I looked at Matilda, who was still pointing at me and twitching her huge ears and her possum nose. Then I realized the truth of what Remmy had said. It was a fact: I would die eventually. But hopefully not for a while.

  Besides, she wasn’t pointing at me. She was pointing at the banana.

  

  It took me a while to go from just tossing the fruit to Matilda to actually handing it to her. I had to get used to her, though—I was going to have to carry her out of the truck.

  “Under your sweatshirt,” Zeda had said. I shivered. At least she seemed tame enough.

  “You’re going to be fine—right, Matilda?” I shined the flashlight in her cage and watched her amble back toward the corner, where there was a small log. She tapped at it with her long finger, like she was looking for something. Then she just sat there, looking kind of pathetic. I understood why Zeda felt so bad for her.

  I took out the book on fire breathing and read sitting next to the cage. I read it through twice before checking my watch. Nearly midnight. I had no clue when we’d get to Portland, but I figured I had time to get some sleep.