by S. G. Rogers
Majell had blindingly white teeth, brightly colored contact lenses, and supergelled hair. He bore a strong resemblance to an animated cartoon, but Jon wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
“Can you answer a couple of questions for me about the disappearance of your father?” Majell asked.
“What?”
“You think he was kidnapped?”
Jon flinched. “How could you know about that?”
The reporter brandished a piece of paper. “In this police report, Jon, you stated your father disappeared in a flash of light accompanied by thunder. Do you think he was abducted by an extraterrestrial, or do you suppose he was the victim of spontaneous combustion?”
Jon stared at Majell, momentarily speechless. His instincts told him nothing good would come from talking to the man. “Get out of my face, Mr. Stocker,” he said before striding up the walkway.
“We don’t want to misrepresent your story, Jon,” Majell said with a smirk. “This is your opportunity to set the record straight.”
After letting himself into the house, Jon slammed the door and slid the dead bolt. He checked through the curtains in the living room to see if Majell was leaving. To his dismay, the reporter was still lurking on the sidewalk. Suddenly realizing he’d been holding his breath, he blew it out in a gust.
In the kitchen, Jon fixed himself an after-school snack of leftover birthday cake. Standing at the kitchen sink, he ate the remaining cake right from the box. He crammed buttercream-frosted marble cake into his mouth with his fingers and washed it down with cold milk. The cake was somewhat stale, but he didn’t care. He ate the cake to help steady his nerves, not for the taste.
How had Majell Stocker managed to snag a copy of the police report? Did the man hang out at the police station looking for interesting stories? Jon groaned as he remembered how he’d spilled his guts to Officer Perry. Shell-shocked, the ramifications of what he was saying hadn’t registered at the time. He could kick himself for not realizing the police report could go public. Nevertheless, he couldn’t have guessed it would catch the interest of a reporter, particularly not a troll like Majell Stocker. Maybe since he hadn’t fed the troll, the story would die. As he peeked through the kitchen window, Jon’s stomach tightened. A cameraman had joined Majell, and they were recording a stand-up report in front of the house. He squashed the empty cake box into the trashcan, wishing it were Majell Stocker’s face.
“Vampire leech,” Jon muttered.
Feeling a little better, he took a deep breath and headed toward his father’s office. As he entered the room, he noticed the lock had been damaged when he’d forced it open. Inside, the room seemed perfectly normal. Even the chair had been put right. Something weird and hinky happened here, but it certainly doesn’t show, Jon thought. No one, not even his mother, believed his father had been kidnapped. Perhaps he hadn’t been taken in the usual way, but he’d been kidnapped all the same…and Jon couldn’t prove it. He stood in the same spot where his father had vanished, hoping to sense something supernatural. Unfortunately, he felt nothing except frustration.
Jon retrieved his backpack from the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time on his way to his room. As he pored over calculus, he found it difficult to stay focused. When Channel Eight aired his story, he was going to look like a fool or a liar—or both. Tossing his pencil onto his desk, he stared at a framed photo of himself and his father at a hospital fundraiser last year.
“If you were here, Dad, you’d know what to do,” he said out loud. “As it is, I’ve messed things up pretty good.”
His sixteenth birthday had been the most horrible day of Jon Hansen’s life, but things were about to get worse.
Chapter Two
Boo Hoo Hansen
Sela burst into Jon’s room without knocking. “Did you know there’s a reporter outside? He asked Mom for an interview as we drove into the garage.”
“You’re not allowed in here, squirt, and yeah I ran into the guy when I got home from school. What did Mom say to him?”
“She told him she had no comment.”
“That’s kind of what I said, except I was a little more rude.”
“He had your police report, Jon,” she said with a grimace. “I think you’re going to be on the news.”
“I really, really hope not.” Jon was about to shoo his sister away when he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “Hey, are you sleeping okay?”
Sela stared at the floor. “I dunno.”
Jon pushed his chair back. “I’ve got something to cheer you up.”
He retrieved the pile of nymph watercolors and spread them out on his bed. “Pick one of these to put in your room, if you want,” he said.
“How pretty! Are they fairies?”
“Nymphs,” he replied. “Water nymphs, to be precise.”
Sela giggled. “Now I know where Mom’s missing swimwear catalog went.”
“Er…never mind. Take one and scram. My math homework is killing me.”
Sela left with her painting, but Jon’s concentration was shot. Taking a break, he found his mother paying bills in the den.
“I’m sorry about the reporter,” he apologized. “I knew I sounded crazy when I was talking to Officer Perry, but I couldn’t stop myself.”
“You were fine. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
Jon nodded, but secretly he wasn’t so sure. Chaz called during dinner to say Jon had made the Channel Eight nightly news. Sela wanted to turn on the television, but to Jon’s relief his mother nixed the idea. He felt like an ostrich; maybe if he put his head in the sand, the bad news would go away.
It didn’t.
The next morning, Jon noticed the newspaper had been stuffed into the kitchen trashcan. When his mother wasn’t looking, he fished it out. The headline read “Magic or Mayhem?” and the article went downhill from there. As Jon read it, he began to seethe.
“What a big fat lie!” he exclaimed. “I never said Dad disappeared in a flash like Houdini. And who’re they calling ‘troubled’?”
A reprint of Jon’s impromptu sketch accompanied the article. The caption read: “Have you seen this man?” A few moments later, Mrs. Hansen came into the kitchen.
“This is horrible, Mom!” Jon cried. “Did you read this? They’ve made me out to be a first-class whack job.”
He crammed the paper back in the trash, where it belonged.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t see it,” Mrs. Hansen admitted. “Although your drawing was impressive.”
Sela sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Froot Loops. “I think you shouldn’t go to school today. If I were you, I’d consider dropping out.”
“Maybe not too many kids pay attention to the news,” Jon said.
His hopes proved futile. His closest friend, Bruce, avoided him. Some of the other kids called him a liar or a kook. Nevertheless, he kept his cool until lunchtime when one of the football players tried to stuff him into a vending machine. Because Fred Spencer had three inches and forty pounds on Jon, it wasn’t that hard for him.
“You lousy con artist,” Fred sneered. He shoved Jon against the vending machine so hard the coin return began to click. “Making up stories because your daddy left. I should call you Boo Hoo Hansen.” Fred gave him another shove.
“Thanks, Fred,” Jon said. “I hear your photo’s in the dictionary next to the word ‘bully.’”
“Your dad probably ditched you for another family on account of he likes them better,” Fred added.
Jon was already on edge, so he wasn’t entirely sure if his fists flew because he was angry or because he lost his balance. At any rate, his knuckles connected with Fred’s nose. Fred howled when he saw blood and threw several punches in return. When teachers finally pulled them apart, Jon was sporting a fat lip, a black eye, and a considerable number of bruises. He took some small consolation from the fact Fred’s bloody nose had stained the front of his letterman jacket.
The headmaster, Mr. Rosino, gave them both a l
ecture. Jon was sent home to tend to his wounds, and Fred was suspended for two days because he’d started the fight. Before they were released, however, they had to sit through a harangue on resolving their differences in a civilized and mature fashion. Mr. Rosino concluded with a parting shot at Fred. “And I would have expected better behavior from the son of the police chief,” he said.
Jon snorted with laughter. He’d had no idea Chief Spencer was Fred’s father, but he suspected the man was a strict disciplinarian.
“What’re you laughing at, Hansen?” Fred asked.
“I’d hate to be you when your dad gets home tonight,” Jon said.
“At least he’s coming home.”
Jon glared. “To be honest, I’d hate to be you, period.”
Only the presence of Mr. Rosino saved Jon from getting clocked.
****
Since school wasn’t out yet, Jon caught the city bus home.
The bus driver chuckled at Jon’s battle scars. “Hey, kid. What’d the other guy look like?”
“He got the best of the deal,” Jon muttered.
“He’ll get his someday. A bully always meets his match, and then he goes down.”
When Jon got home, several more news vans were parked on his street. He was stunned to find a well-dressed woman going through the trash receptacle in front of his house. She’d torn open the bag and was pawing through its contents with plastic gloves.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” Jon exclaimed.
She straightened up, startled. He was dismayed to see several of his discarded pen-and-ink drawings clutched in her hand.
“What are you doing with those? Give them back!” he demanded.
The woman spun around on stiletto heels and practically flew to her car. As Jon knelt to clean up the trash she’d dislodged, reporters descended.
“Jon, have you ever been abducted by aliens?”
“Has the family consulted a psychic yet?”
“Jon, you look like you’ve been fighting. Do you consider yourself a troublemaker or simply misunderstood?”
Gritting his teeth, Jon ignored their questions. He let himself into the house, stressed out and miserable. Leaning against the door, he longed for summer vacation. The kids at school would have two and a half months to forget about his notoriety before classes resumed in the fall. Maybe his father would be home by then. Jon set his backpack down gingerly, groaning at the soreness in his ribs courtesy of Fred Spencer. He fervently hoped the swelling in Fred’s nose would last awhile. Maybe he’d get lucky and Chief Spencer would make sure Fred couldn’t sit down, either.
Suddenly Jon lost it. “Dad?” he bellowed.
Rewarded by silence, Jon let out a cry of frustration. His father had vanished and there must be a clue where he’d gone. Maybe he could uncover some evidence the police had failed to notice, or perhaps find something unusual no one had considered. He limped into his father’s office to search.
As he settled himself into his father’s swivel chair, his eyes fell on the tropical island seascape hanging over the fireplace. Jon had painted it after a particularly vivid dream one night. His father had been especially proud of it. “You’ve got power in your talent, Jon,” he’d said. Jon’s throat suddenly constricted with the ache of missing him. Swallowing hard, he opened the top drawer of his father’s desk and began to search.
The desk seemed to contain all the usual things at first. As Jon’s hopes waned, however, he discovered a box hidden in the back of the file drawer. He almost missed it because it was covered by a set of rolled-up scrubs. When he pulled the wooden box out, he was disappointed at its shabby, plain appearance. The contents of the box, however, proved to be much more interesting.
He lifted the lid to see a large tubular piece of metal nestled in a dark blue fabric bag. The surface of the tube felt odd to the touch—more like liquid than metal. In fact, it warmed to the temperature of his skin and became quite flexible. The metallic finish grew brighter as he held it in his hand, and faint, indecipherable markings appeared. The hair on the back of Jon’s neck stood up and he shivered. His instincts told him the object was vitally important, but he hadn’t the slightest idea how or why. As he twirled it on his finger, it reminded him of an oversized napkin ring.
The box also held a couple of photographs. The first was of an older couple, marked “Helen and Gary Lewis/foster parents.” Jon knew his father had been in foster care at the age of sixteen because his parents—Jon’s grandparents—couldn’t take care of him. His father never talked about his real parents, and Jon had always assumed they were dead.
The second photograph depicted a young woman in her early twenties standing next to a thin teenager with long blond hair. Although the photo had been taken at a cheerful theme park, the kid had a serious, almost haunted look. Jon gave a startled yelp as he realized the boy was his father. He slipped that photo into his shirt pocket to take to his room.
Jon flinched when he heard voices in the kitchen, having forgotten his mother and Sela would be home early because of Sela’s parent/teacher conference. He quickly returned everything to the box and put it back where he found it. He barely got the drawer closed when his mother appeared in the doorway.
“Greg?” Mrs. Hansen exhaled when she saw her son. “Jonathan Greggoran Hansen! What are you doing in here?” She paused when she noticed his injuries. “You’re hurt! What happened?”
“Fred Spencer happened. On my face. We both got sent home.”
“You were fighting?”
“Fred was fighting. I was sort of flailing.”
Mrs. Hansen clamped her lips together to prevent them from trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be in here, Jon. I thought your father was back.”
Jon stood, abashed. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Eew,” Sela said from the doorway. “You’re hideous.”
“Thanks, squirt.”
“What was the fight about?” Mrs. Hansen asked.
“Uh…Fred didn’t like my publicity,” Jon said.
“Yeah, you’re a celebrity at my school,” Sela offered.
Jon brightened. “A celebrity?”
“Kind of. My friends are all scared of you now.”
“Why don’t you sprinkle salt into my wounds while you’re at it?” Jon muttered, deflated.
“Well, it’s true!” Sela huffed. “They think you’re loony.”
“That’s not very helpful, Sela,” Mrs. Hansen said.
When Jon and Sela stepped out of the office, Mrs. Hansen snapped off the lights and shut the door. “I’ve got to call a handyman to fix this lock. And then we’re going to keep the office closed to avoid any other unpleasant surprises,” she said.
Jon and Sela exchanged a glance as they walked down the hall.
“Bonehead,” Sela whispered.
****
The reporters must have found a celebrity scandal to cover because they disappeared by the weekend. Early Saturday morning, Jon woke to the muffled sound of power tools and hammering. He was a little groggy because he’d had to stay up with Sela the night before. His sister was continuing to have nightmares.
He threw on some clothes and headed downstairs to see what was going on. The lock on the office door had been repaired, and Jon found his uncle in the kitchen. Chaz laughed when he saw Jon’s face. The purple bruising under Jon’s eye had mellowed into a weird, ugly yellow-green color.
“Your mom mentioned you’d walked into a door,” he said as he tossed Jon a pair of training gloves. “I’ve hung a heavy bag in the garage. You’re going to learn how to hit back.”
“That’s not politically correct, is it?”
“It’s real life, kid. Get used to it.”
The two of them spent half the morning in the garage. Jon had always enjoyed spending time with Chaz. Since he was only about ten years older, Chaz was more like a big brother than an uncle. He was into fitness, and he had the muscular guns to prove it. Chaz put Jon through some
boxing drills and then let him work out his frustrations on the heavy bag. He ended the session by making Jon skip rope for ten minutes. Drenched with sweat afterward, Jon trembled with fatigue.
Chaz nodded, satisfied. “It’s a start. We’ve got to put some meat on your bones this summer. I don’t want to hear about any more doors jumping out at you.”
“Thanks, Chaz. Er—how about you teach me how to drive your Jeep, too? I’ve got my learner’s permit and I need to learn how to use a stick.”
“Don’t push it, kid.”
****
Expecting to cruise through the last few days of school, Jon’s hopes were dashed when his story appeared in the weekly supermarket tabloid rag The Nutt Dish. Jon and Sela used to howl with laughter over Nutt Dish stories about three-headed babies and secret invasions of dog-shaped aliens. But since Jon was the subject of “Supernatural Disappearance Unsolved,” it wasn’t particularly funny this time. The article highlighted every mortifying detail in the police report. They printed Jon’s stolen pen-and-ink drawings as well—experimental renderings of animé-style monsters, which had been stained with coffee grounds. Jon wouldn’t have known about the article except for an email he received from Bruce. His now-former friend had tweeted and emailed the story link to everyone at school with the tagline “What A Loser!”