Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars

by Cory Putman Oakes

  Down on the field, the injured Plutonian goalie was being hauled off on a stretcher.

  “As regular time resumes, the Plutonians are going to have to substitute in a new goalkeeper.”

  A fresh Plutonian jogged onto the field and took his place in front of the Plutonian goal.

  “My, he’s a tall one, isn’t he, ladies and gentlemen? Has he—yes! I just received word that he cleared the DNA check. He is definitely at least fifty-one percent Plutonian.”

  I took a closer look at the lanky figure in the Plutonian goal, and I felt my heart drop to my feet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, in his debut soccer match, number eighty-four for the Kuiper Kickers, Elliot Foster!”

  • • •

  Sylvie and I stared at each other. I have no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but hers was equal parts horror and disbelief.

  “How is that possible?” I asked. “He’s not a Plutonian!”

  “They said he passed the DNA test,” Venetio said slowly.

  Sylvie gasped as a bigger-than-life image of Elliot appeared on the Jumbotron.

  “He looks…” she started, and then gasped again. “Is he…just a little bit…?”

  “Blue,” I finished grimly. It was faint, but the arms and legs sticking out of his way-too-small Plutonian jersey were a distinct shade of blue. “He’s definitely blue.”

  “They gened him,” Venetio marveled. “The Plutonians gened him!”

  For a split second, I was angry. How could they?

  But then I saw the smile on Elliot’s face. And I realized that if he had indeed been gened, it must have been his idea. And it didn’t look like he regretted it.

  “Elliot, what have you done?” I muttered, just as the bone-rattling sound of the gong rang out once again.

  “Oh my goodness, the second sudden death period has begun!”

  • • •

  The firewalls rose again around the field. This time, they were so high I could barely see Elliot.

  “Never in history has the second sudden death period come so soon after the first!” the announcer was screaming, a scrap of tortilla dangling from his lower lip. “This is unprecedented! This is unbelievable!”

  “This is bad,” Venetio muttered, his cheek flat against the window. “Really bad.”

  “What?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the Jumbotron. “Why is it bad?”

  Venetio gestured down to the crowd. Everybody wearing blue—scratch that, everybody who was blue—was shouting up at the box.

  “Two sudden death periods back to back? That never happens,” Venetio explained. “They think you rigged it.”

  “Me?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Well, they think somebody rigged it,” Venetio explained. “If the Martians win during a questionable sudden death period—”

  “Stop the game!” I said, quietly at first. Then I turned toward Ms. Helen and raised my voice. “Stop the game!”

  “You can’t—” she began.

  “I’m the chancellor!” I yelled. “I’m the chancellor, and I say, Stop the game!”

  “Nobody can stop the game during sudden death,” she said. “It’s against the rules.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with her, but I was interrupted by a hysterical burst from the announcer’s booth.

  “It’s Tycho Brawn on a breakaway!”

  I stared down at the field with dread. Tycho Brawn was charging down the field behind the flaming ball. The close-up shot of him on the Jumbotron showed a grotesque plastic nose and a face that was filled with determination. A determination to end the game, once and for all. In a way that would give the BURPSers exactly what they wanted.

  And the only thing between him and the vast Plutonian goal was Elliot.

  The Return of the Phenom

  “It’s a showdown!” the announcer screeched as Tycho Brawn came barreling toward the Plutonian goal. “A trial by fire, literally, for the new Plutonian goalie! With the entire game on the line! The fate of their planets is in the hands of these two players!”

  The announcer thought he was being dramatic. He had no idea that he was right.

  “Come on, Elliot!” I yelled at the window, completely forgetting that I was supposed to be neutral. “Come on!”

  “Tycho always shoots right,” Sylvie muttered, her voice tense. “If Elliot’s been paying attention, he’ll know that Tycho always shoots high and to the right. High and right, Elliot! High and right!”

  “High and right!” Sylvie, Venetio, and I yelled. “High and right!”

  I don’t know if he heard us. Really, there was no way he could have. Not from behind a closed, bulletproof window hundreds of meters above his head. Maybe he didn’t need to hear us. But when Tycho Brawn’s shot came sailing at the goal, Elliot jumped, arms outstretched, high and to the right.

  The ball hit his gloves. Elliot snatched the ball out of the air and fell on top of it, smothering the flames.

  Tycho Brawn stood over him, furious. His face on the Jumbotron looked murderous.

  The Plutonians in the stands erupted in cheers as the Plutonian ref jogged over and stood pointedly over Elliot, staring Tycho Brawn straight in the face.

  The big Martian backed off and stalked back to midfield in a huff.

  The Plutonians in the crowd were still shouting, but not at the chancellors’ box. Now they were focused on the lanky, blueish figure in front of the Plutonian goal. They were smiling.

  And they were chanting: “Foster! Foster! Foster!”

  • • •

  “The sudden death period is over! Just four minutes of regular time remain!”

  I took a very deep breath and looked over at Sylvie.

  “So…that’s why you don’t play anymore?” I guessed. “Because of what happened in the ’14 Finals?”

  She nodded.

  “It was all a lie,” she said. “We didn’t win; we cheated. We were all famous for no reason.”

  “You didn’t cheat,” I pointed out.

  “No, but I knew Tycho did. And I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “That’s why you don’t play anymore?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sylvie,” I gulped, as I snuck a look at the game clock: three fifty-five. “You can make up for that now. You can win this game for the Martians right now.”

  “I’m not playing, Sawyer,” she said.

  “Hmmm,” I said with a glance at Venetio. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Venetio said casually. “I doubt Coach Kepler would even let her play.”

  “He’s been begging me to play since I got here,” Sylvie corrected him testily.

  “Plus, she hasn’t played for a while,” I pointed out. Venetio and I both turned our backs on her, but not before I saw her mouth drop open in shock. I bit back a grin.

  “She’s probably not very good anymore,” Venetio said thoughtfully.

  “Totally out of shape,” I added.

  “Has-been,” Venetio sniffed.

  “Plus, she’s short,” I pointed out.

  Venetio snorted. “I mean, sure she got a few goals past Elliot the other day. But she’s no match for professional Plutonian players. Not anymore.”

  “It’s better if she doesn’t play,” I agreed. “I mean, let’s face it. She was on the ’14 Finals team, and apparently they had to cheat to beat the Plutonians, so…”

  I risked a glance over my shoulder, wondering if we needed to go even further.

  But we didn’t. Sylvie’s seat was empty.

  “Short?” Venetio repeated, raising an eyebrow.

  I nudged him in the ribs.

  “Sometimes, you’ve just got to know what buttons to push.”

  “Ladies and g
entlemen, substitution for the Martians. Number twenty-two, Sylvia Juarez, has taken the field!”

  • • •

  “With the score still at 0–0, the fiery phenom has returned! But with only two minutes left in regulation time, will she make a difference?”

  “What happens if she doesn’t score a goal?” I asked Venetio, pressing my face against the glass as I tried to get a better view of the game.

  “It’ll go into a shoot-out,” Venetio answered. “Two players, one from each team, alternate shots on goal until somebody scores. Both teams have preselected the players who will represent them.”

  “Let me guess, the Martians chose Tycho Brawn?” I asked.

  Venetio nodded. “And he’ll miss on purpose. The Plutonians will win.”

  “Come on, Sylvie!” I shouted.

  It didn’t last long. The Plutonians lost the ball around midfield, and the Martians passed it to Brawn, who started charging downfield toward Elliot again. It was only a matter of time before he pretended to trip, lose the ball, or miss. Just like he had been doing the whole game, when it wasn’t sudden death.

  Except that this time Tycho Brawn had a small, red-jerseyed blur on his tail.

  “Sylvia Juarez is keeping pace with Brawn! Is this a new offense they’ve been cooking up? Maybe—wait! Is she… She is! Sylvia Juarez is trying to steal the ball from her own teammate!”

  Sylvie kicked the ball right out from between Tycho Brawn’s legs. The bigger player roared, got tangled up in his own feet, and fell over.

  “No foul! Both refs are saying no foul! Sylvia Juarez is clear to the goal!”

  The Jumbotron camera moved from Brawn, who was lying on the ground and beating the grass with his fists, to Sylvie’s resolute face to Elliot…who stood shaking in front of the goal.

  I’m not sure if it happened in slow motion for everybody else, but it was definitely that way for me. Sylvie drew back her foot and the ball seemed to inch toward the goal. Elliot jumped and flew, arms outstretched, high and right.

  The ball sailed by him, low and left, into the goal, just as the buzzer signaling the end of the game sounded. The final score flashed across the Jumbotron:

  Martians: 1

  Plutonians: 0

  The stadium erupted in cheers.

  “SYL-VI-A!” the Martians in the crowd were chanting. “SYL-VI-A! SYL-VI-A!”

  “SYL-VI-A!” echoed Venetio, beating his hands together. When he caught me looking at him, he gave an embarrassed smile.

  “I never thought I’d be rooting for the Martians,” he said, wiping away a tear.

  “You know what, Venetio? Neither did I.”

  Down on the field, Sylvie was helping a prostrate Elliot to his feet. She looked up at the box and gave me a small salute with her free hand.

  I knew what she meant, and I felt the tension that had momentarily lifted settle back down on my shoulders.

  They had done it. Mars had won the game. Fair and square.

  Now it was my turn.

  Wherein I Save the Planet

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s now time to vote,” I said gravely, standing at the head of the table and facing the twelve members of the Martian Council. I handed a stack of paper ballots to the Martian on my right. “The question you must decide today is whether or not to ban the Plutonians from the Intergalactic Soccer Federation.”

  Twelve heads nodded in agreement. They all looked bored. Not like they were about to debate and argue about an important decision.

  Which means that Elliot had probably been right—they already knew exactly how they were going to vote.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I mused, “has everyone here already made up their minds?”

  The old Martian at the head of the table cleared his throat irritably.

  “Son,” he said to me. “I think we all know how this is going to go. The Plutonians must be taught a lesson. Let’s just get it over with, shall we?”

  “Do you all feel that way?” I asked the table.

  There were nods all around.

  “I was afraid of that,” I said. “Which is why I made sure that the tacos you ate earlier contained a secret ingredient to help you make the right choice.”

  “A—a what?” the old Martian asked, exchanging puzzled glances with the Martian across from him.

  “A secret ingredient,” I repeated. Then I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid you have all been gened.”

  Twelve mouths dropped open in shock.

  “Gened?” the old Martian exclaimed. “With what DNA?”

  “Plutonian,” I said pleasantly.

  The old Martian laughed.

  “If you think for one second that we’re going to believe—”

  “Aughhh!”

  Chancellor Fontana jumped up from her seat. There was a look of pure horror on her face as she stared down at her arm…which was now sporting a distinctively blue smear of color from her wrist, all the way to her elbow.

  “It’s happening!” she screamed.

  “You should all begin showing symptoms within the next hour or so,” I informed them.

  “Wait a second,” the old Martian growled, pointing a bony finger at me. “You ate one of those tacos too. I saw you.”

  “Yes, I did,” I admitted. “Which is why I’m very glad to say that there is good news for all of us.”

  I motioned to the door. Mrs. Juarez entered, holding another tray of steaming foil packets.

  “Hello again,” she said cheerfully, grinning at the horrified Martians around the table.

  “The tacos we ate contained a virus that was injected with a fast-replicating form of Plutonian DNA,” I explained as I took one of the foil-wrapped packets off the tray. “These tacos contain the cure, a second virus that will completely neutralize the first. All you have to do to get one of the cure tacos is vote no on the Plutonian ban.”

  Very pointedly, I unwrapped my taco and took a huge bite.

  “Delicious,” I enthused, swallowing. “I feel better already.”

  “This is blackmail,” the old Martian snarled.

  “Maybe,” I said, licking cheese sauce from my fingers. Then I dropped my casual act and addressed the table very seriously.

  “I think we all know this decision is about more than just soccer. You are all free to vote however you like, of course. But when you do, you will be making your choice as Plutonians. This was the only way I could think of to make you see things from someone else’s point of view.”

  The Martians all exchanged nearly identical looks of shock. But I could see the thoughts racing behind their eyes. Thoughts they had never had before. What they would look like when their skin turned blue. What it would be like, never being able to root for their soccer team again. How it would feel to live on a cold, distant non-planet at the mercy of more powerful planets who didn’t like them.

  They would probably never know what it was really like to be a Plutonian. But for a few minutes at least, I had made them see the world just a little bit differently. I had made it personal.

  I was pretty sure Harriet the polar bear would have been proud of me.

  I grinned, swallowed, and crumpled my empty taco wrapper in one hand.

  “Now, who needs a pen?”

  • • •

  “Congratulations,” said Elliot sometime later when we were alone in the box. “You saved Mars.”

  “So did you,” I pointed out. “And so did Sylvie.”

  “Yeah, well, you were the only one actually trying to do it.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” I said. “You left before Venetio told us what the BURPSers were going to do.”

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t mess up your plan,” he said, stretching one of his faintly blue arms out in front of him. “I should have listened to you when you said yo
u had one.”

  His eyes drifted over to the taco tray. Exactly thirteen of them had been eaten. But Mrs. Juarez had made a few extras.

  “So…will those ‘cure’ tacos work on me too?” Elliot asked.

  “Actually…there wasn’t a cure in any of those tacos,” I admitted. “Because there wasn’t a virus in the first batch.”

  Elliot nodded knowingly.

  “I thought so. I mean, I didn’t think you’d really gene anybody.”

  “I’m glad the Martian Council didn’t know that,” I said. “We definitely fooled them. We were lucky that Chancellor Fontana turned out to be such a good actress.”

  And also that a mixture of some of Mrs. Juarez’s eye shadows had produced the right shade of blue to smear all over her arm.

  “So…there’s no cure?” Elliot asked.

  “I’m sorry, there isn’t,” I said, looking closely at Elliot’s eyes. He had seemed happy to be part Plutonian, but it had been impossible to tell for sure on the Jumbotron. “Not one that works. Not yet anyway.”

  Elliot shrugged.

  “That’s OK. I’m not sure I’d take it anyway. It was my choice to get gened. Being part Plutonian isn’t so bad. Coach Charon even offered me a spot on the Plutonian team!”

  “That’s awesome!” I guess Elliot had made the traveling team after all. He’d have to travel a bit farther than just the next county over, but still.

  “And I guess I’ll have to think of a way to cover the blue at school,” he added thoughtfully.

  “You should talk to Ms. Helen about that,” I suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  “Hey, where did Sylvie go?”

  Elliot smirked.

  “She’s down on the field, greeting her adoring fans. Signing autographs and stuff.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t tell me she likes being famous now.”

  Elliot shrugged. “I’ll never figure that girl out.”

  I wasn’t sure I ever would either. But I suppose it’s easier to enjoy getting attention when you know you really deserve it.

  I gestured to the tray.

  “Do you want some of the extra tacos? They may not cure anything, but they’re delicious.”