B005N8ZFUO EBOK

by Lubar, David

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE - WELCOME TO EDGEVIEW

  OFF THE BUS AND INTO TROUBLE

  FLAMING OUT

  TAKING THE TOUR

  TEACHING WITHOUT A LICENSE

  WHAT’S SHORT AND SMART AND FUN TO TEASE?

  BREAK TIME

  THE THINKING HERO

  A LITTLE CLASS

  LETTER TO THE EDITOR

  A LITTLE MORE CLASS

  SAND

  A MINDLESS EXERCISE

  FUN WITH SCIENCE

  YOU’RE HISTORY

  GOING NOWHERE

  TORCHIE FLICKS AWAY

  PART TWO - SEEING THE TRUTH

  SETTLING IN

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  WAY OUT

  A GLIMMER OF THE TRUTH

  MILKING THE MOMENT

  BELIEVE ME ALONE

  IF I TOLL YOU ONCE

  NOW YOU SEE ME, NOW YOU DON’T

  CURRENT METHODS

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?

  LETTER TO THE EDITOR

  PICK A CARD, ANY CARD

  TESTING, TESTING …

  NOTHING BUT THE PROOF

  PART THREE - POWERS

  NOW WHAT?

  BURNING QUESTIONS

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  TRAINING TRASH

  MOB VIOLENCE

  A DECLARATION OF WAR

  FEELINGS AND THOUGHTS

  POLITICS

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  LOST AND FOUND

  BLOW UP

  ESPIONAGE

  INSPECTION

  CONFRONTATION

  TALENT

  MEETING

  WHY I LIKE BEING ME

  SHOWDOWN

  Starscape Books by David Lubar

  Welcome to Edgeview

  About the Author

  STARSCAPE BOOKS

  True Talents

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s too bad acknowledgments can’t be written after a book is published. While it’s easy to remember those who’ve helped during the writing, the help that comes afterward often arrives in magical ways from unexpected places. To make up for my previous inability to know the future, I’m going to use a bit of this space to thank two special people who were wonderfully helpful and supportive after my first story collection came out—Walter Mayes and Kelly Milner Halls. Thank you both. You know what you’ve done, and I’m grateful.

  Now, let’s get back to the past so I can thank all the folks who helped with this book. joelle and Alison were always there and always honest. Ashley Grayson, as usual, did double duty. Jonathan Schmidt had his hand in the manuscript up to the elbow, helping me turn a sketchy first draft into a real novel. Marvelous Marilyn Singer gave me a great number of wonderful suggestions. She’s never shy about pointing out my flaws. Thanks, Marilyn. It takes a true buddy to say what stinks. Thanks to Lorraine Stanton and Laura Johnson for sharing what they know about alternative education.

  Acres of thanks and oceans of gratitude to Maura Fadden Rosenthal, who did such a fabulous job creating the interior design of this book.

  Special thanks to everyone at NKA for helping me learn to focus on the important stuff.

  Finally, thanks to those as-yet-unknown champions who will arrive by surprise after these words have been set in stone. I wish I knew your names.

  Nazareth, PA

  Winter 1998

  PART ONE

  WELCOME TO EDGEVIEW

  OFF THE BUS AND INTO TROUBLE

  All I needed was handcuffs. If my wrists had been chained to the seat, the scene could have been taken straight from one of those movies where they show the bus bringing the new guy to the prison. Of course, there wasn’t any need for cuffs on this ride. Fill my pockets with rocks, add a couple more layers of winter clothes—wet winter clothes—and I might push the scale up toward ninety pounds.

  The bus driver looked like he weighed three times that much. His wrists were thicker than my neck. He could probably crumple me up like a used tissue and still keep one hand on the steering wheel. No way I was going to cause him any trouble.

  So I wasn’t in cuffs—but the rest of it felt a lot like going to prison. I was the only passenger on the bus. After a long ride across three counties, we’d reached the main gate at Edgeview Alternative School. A guard out front holding a clipboard waved us inside, then talked with the bus driver for a minute. The two of them reminded me of a pair of dogs who stop for a quick sniff as they pass each other on their way to important doggy missions. I smiled at the thought of the driver wriggling around on his back in the grass.

  Once the driver and the guard finished yapping, we rolled through the yard. The building even looked kind of like a prison—big, cold, gray stone, all wrapped up with a high brick fence. Edgeview was the sort of place where people kept broken machines, old tires, and other stuff they didn’t need. Yeah, this was a place for things nobody wanted. End of the trip. End of the line. No way I could pretend it wasn’t happening.

  As the bus stopped near the front door of the building, I noticed all the windows had that dead look of glass filled with wire—the type of windows they use in a gym or a warehouse. A man slipped out from behind the door and walked stiffly down the steps. I got the feeling he’d been watching from inside for the bus to show up so he wouldn’t seem like he was waiting. At first, I thought he was real old. As he got closer, I realized he wasn’t that much older than my parents—he just moved like he was ancient. He was wearing a dark suit with a bow tie. I never trusted anyone with a bow tie. I didn’t trust anyone without a bow tie, either, but I especially didn’t trust people who wore them.

  The driver leaned over and pulled the handle, thrusting open the bus door. Then he glanced back at me. “Last stop, kid. Everyone out.” He laughed. The big, stupid hunk of meat laughed like that was the funniest joke in the world.

  I got up. My whole body made little cracking sounds as I straightened out. My spine was having its own Fourth of July celebration, six months late. Thanks to all the construction on the highway, the ride here had taken two hours. That wasn’t counting the half-hour trip to the city to meet the bus. Me and Dad. What fun that was. Dad didn’t say a word when he handed me over to the driver. He just gave me that where-have-I-failed? look. I didn’t say anything, either. I just gave him my how-would-I-know? look. He couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “Come on, kid,” the driver said. “I ain’t got all day.”

  I grabbed my bag out of the overhead rack and scooped up my jacket from the seat. Mom would have made me wear the jacket. Probably a dorky scarf, too. But it wasn’t all that cold for the beginning of January, and Mom wasn’t around.

  “Move it, kid.”

  I took my time strolling down the aisle.

  “Have a nice life,” the driver said as I walked past him. He laughed again, wheezing like a donkey with asthma.

  “Have a heart attack,” I said. Then I hopped to the ground before he co
uld grab me.

  Behind my back, I heard the door slam hard, cutting off the stream of swear words the driver was spewing at me. Some people sure are touchy.

  I looked at the stiff little man with the bow tie.

  “Hello, Martin,” he said, smiling the sort of smile that doesn’t mean anything. “I’m Principal Davis. Welcome to Edgeview.”

  I had no idea what he expected me to say. Gee, nice place you have here, thanks for inviting me. I waited. He didn’t seem like the sort of person who would run out of words. I’m sure he had all sorts of wisdom to share with me. I hadn’t met an adult yet who didn’t have essential advice to pass along.

  “Well, you have a bit of settling in to do. We’d better get started.” He creaked his way up the steps toward the front door, muttering the basic facts of my life as if to prove he knew and cared. “Martin Anderson, age thirteen, grade eight, hometown is Spencer, recently expelled from Spencer Heights Middle School. Previously expelled from Upper Spencer Junior High, expelled before that from …”

  I tuned him out. To my right, the bus rolled out through the gate and rumbled down the road, carrying the driver back to the free world. I followed Principal Davis inside the building. The entrance was dark, barely lit by two weak bulbs that hung from the ceiling on frayed cords. The air hung down over me, too. Warm and heavy air. I felt like I was breathing soup.

  We climbed a steep flight of stairs to the left of the front door. The steps ended in the middle of a long hallway. Something that might have been a carpet a million footsteps ago clung to the floor. More dim bulbs made a halfhearted attempt at lighting the area, revealing walls covered with scrawled graffiti.

  “I assume you understand why you are here,” Principal Davis said.

  “I got on the wrong bus?” I figured a very stupid question deserved an extremely stupid answer.

  He ignored my guess and kept walking, leading me up a second flight of steps. The wall felt rough, and the dull green paint had flaked away in a couple of spots. The odor of old varnish on the second floor gave way to the sharper stench of unwashed clothing as I climbed higher.

  I tried again. “I won a contest? I wrote the winning essay? I’m the tenth caller? I got the highest score in Final Jeopardy?” This was fun. And as long as I kept talking, I wouldn’t have to think about where I was going.

  “These are the living quarters,” he said, still ignoring my guesses. “After you’ve gotten settled, I’ll have someone give you a tour of the school.” He stopped where he was and I caught up to him. Actually, I almost ran into him. His suit smelled like dusty mothballs.

  “I know,” I said as the perfect answer hit me. “I’m here because you need an assistant. The place is too much for you to handle by yourself. You just aren’t up to the job.”

  Oops. That one got rid of his smile. His face turned mean and angry for an instant—the sort of meanness that needs to lash out and cause pain. I could almost hear his teeth grinding together. Unlike the smile, this was an honest expression. This was Principal Davis at his finest. If he’d been a cartoon character, steam would have shot from his nose and ears. But, like a true professional, he hid the anger quickly. “Well, now … no point standing here chattering. Let’s get you—”

  He never finished that sentence. From down the hall, we were interrupted by a shout: “FIRE!”

  TELEPHONE CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE PARENTS OF MARTIN ANDERSON

  Richard Anderson: Hi. It’s me. I got the kid to the bus. I stopped at the office on the way home.

  Dorothy Anderson: Do you think he’ll be okay?

  Richard Anderson: Who knows? I hope this place does him some good. Heaven knows nothing else has worked. I’ll tell you, my old man wouldn’t have let me get away with anything. He’d have smacked me a couple of good ones with his belt. That always kept me in line. I don’t know where the kid gets that mouth of his.

  Dorothy Anderson: Martin’s not that bad.

  Richard Anderson: Tell that to the last three schools he’s been kicked out of. Tell that to the scout troop that threw him out. And while you’re at it, try telling it to his Little League coach. You know how bad that made me look when he mouthed off to the coach?

  Dorothy Anderson: It’s my fault. I just know it. I saw this psychologist on a talk show, and he said—

  Richard Anderson: Forget that nonsense. And don’t blame yourself. Or me. It’s not our fault. It’s his fault. We’re good parents. His sister is turning out fine. We did everything we could. Listen, want me to pick up a pizza on the way home?

  Dorothy Anderson: I guess. Yeah, that would be nice.

  FLAMING OUT

  When I heard the kid shout, “FIRE!” my brain said, Get out of here, but my feet said, Freeze.

  My feet won.

  Suddenly, kids were running all over the place. Along both sides of the hall, doors flew open and kids popped out, almost like they were throwing a giant surprise party. Far down at the end of the hall, smoke drifted from a room. There wasn’t a lot of smoke—just a trickle—but any smoke is bad if it isn’t supposed to be there. At least the fire wasn’t between me and the stairs. I relaxed when I realized I wasn’t trapped.

  “It’s Torchie’s room,” one kid said. “He did it again.”

  Principal Davis sighed. “I told them to make sure he didn’t get any matches,” he said. “Can’t anyone around here carry out a simple order? Do I have to do everything myself?”

  “Coming through,” someone shouted from behind us.

  A guy raced up the stairs carrying a fire extinguisher. He sprinted past us and hurried toward the room. I followed, trying to slip my way through the crowd that had gathered at the edge of the smoke. I managed to squeeze next to the doorway and catch a glimpse inside the room. A small fire smoldered on a desk. It looked like a bunch of papers were burning. A kid stood pressed against the far wall, staring at the fire. I figured that must be Torchie.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t do nuthin’.” He raised his hands in a display of innocence. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, past his right eye. It stopped, finally, at his pudgy cheek. Red hair, also damp, drooped in clumps from a wandering part that ran along the center of his scalp. It was the sort of face a ventriloquist would have loved. “I didn’t do it,” he repeated.

  Yeah, right, I thought. And I’m Abe Lincoln. In the room, the guy with the fire extinguisher let fly with a stream of foamy spray, knocking out the blaze pretty quickly. He spun toward the crowd of kids and spouted out words I never would have expected. “Quick, what have we learned here?”

  Nobody said anything. I sure didn’t.

  “Come on,” the man said. “This is easy. What three things are required for a fire?”

  “Heat, fuel …” a small kid at the back of the crowd said. I couldn’t believe the guy was turning this into a science lesson. He had to be a teacher, though he sure wasn’t dressed like one. He wore a T-shirt with PRINCETON on it in big orange letters hanging above a picture of a tiger. The shirt was tucked into a pair of jeans. The frayed jeans cuffs hung over scuffed shoes, the same way his ragged mustache hung over his upper lip.

  “Right! Heat and fuel. That’s two. Come on, one more,” the man urged. He took a real deep breath.

  “Oxygen,” someone else said.

  “Exactly!” The guy held up the extinguisher. “So we smother the fire to deprive it of oxygen. We can also stop a fire by lowering the temperature or removing the fuel. Remember that.” He gave the desktop another short blast. Then he turned his attention to Torchie. I wondered if he was going to blast the kid with a stream of words the way he’d blasted the fire with a stream of foam, but he just sighed and said, “Philip, we need to work a bit harder on this problem of yours.” He tucked the extinguisher under his left arm and held his right hand out, palm up.

  Torchie—I guess his real name was Philip—opened his mouth as if he was going to protest. Then he shrugged, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a disposa
ble lighter. “I really didn’t do nuthin’,” he said as he dropped the lighter in the man’s hand. “Honest.”

  What a loser.

  The man didn’t say anything more to Torchie. He put the lighter in his own pocket, then turned back to the crowd and said, “Okay, guys, it’s all over. Nothing else to see. Move along.” He sounded like a city cop trying to get people away from an accident, but I sort of liked that.

  “Well,” Principal Davis said, coming up behind me, “this works out rather nicely. Now that you’re together, allow me to introduce you to your roommate. Martin Anderson, meet Philip Grieg.”

  My roommate? Oh crap. This had to be a joke.

  Torchie looked at the principal and spewed out the double-negative denial yet again. “I didn’t do nuthin’.” His eyes shifted over toward me as if he hoped I could leap to his defense. Keep dreaming, fireboy.

  “We’ll deal with that issue later, Philip. For now, why don’t you be a good lad and show Martin around the school. I have to get back to my office.”

  With that, Principal Davis marched off, leaving me alone in the company of Philip or Torchie or whatever his flaming name was. I stared after the principal. That was it? Hi. Bye. Rip me from my home and shove me here. I had no choice except to turn back to my new roommate.

  Now that it was just the two of us, I figured Torchie would find a different song. No such luck. “I really didn’t do it,” he said.

  Sheesh—he needed a sign with that printed on it. Or one of those big pin-on buttons. Then he could just point whenever he wanted to claim he was innocent. I waited for him to change the subject. He wiped his face with his sleeve. It didn’t do much for his face, and it left a big wet blotch on his shirt.

  “Didn’t do nuthin’,” he said.

  “So I heard.” This was just great. They’d put me in a room with a kid who liked to start fires. Fantastic. If I’d known ahead of time, I’d at least have brought some marshmallows. We could have toasted them. Hot dogs would be nice, too. As it was, I hoped I didn’t end up getting toasted myself. Man, we’d be a great pair if that happened. Torchie and Toastie.