Tunnels

by Lesley Downie

  Tunnels

  by Lesley Downie

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  TUNNELS

  Copyright © 2014 LESLEY DOWNIE

  ISBN 978-1-62135-354-6

  Cover Art Designed by BOOK BEAUTIFUL

  To my family: for all the great love and support,

  endless proofing of drafts, and story ideas.

  TOP TEN THINGS I'D RATHER DO THAN GET A LECTURE FROM MY PARENTS

  10.Pick up Jenny's dog poo from yard. She's obviously trying to get the award for the biggest number two EVER.

  9.Clean my eight-year-old brother's bathroom even though he gets more pee on the wall and floor than in the toilet.

  8.Squeeze zits—even ones beside my nose that make getting my braces tightened seem like fun times.

  7.Eat Mom's turkey-shaped soy alternative instead of the real thing on Thanksgiving.

  6.Do everybody's laundry for a whole year.

  5.Walk around with a KICK ME sign on my back‒had to do it in fifth grade on a lost dare so I'm no stranger to going viral online.

  4.Repeat sixth grade even though it's driving me completely insane.

  3.Have conversation with Mom about "Becoming a Woman" (don't forget the finger quotes).

  2.Have conversation with Dad about "Becoming a Woman".

  And the #1 thing I'd rather do than get a lecture from my parents:

  Buy gas relief medicine at the pharmacy for Dad while cutest box boy ever asks if I need a bag. Totally serious right now.

  Chapter One

  DOWN THE HOLE

  Bet I can beat you for most embarrassing moment. I'm living it right now and no, it doesn't involve a toilet paper tail stuck to the bottom of my shoe while walking down the hallway at school. Instead, four firemen (why can't they be ugly?) just yanked me out of a sewer hole and were staring at me like I was insane. But it wasn't the three super old twenty-somethings who made me want to die. It was the one on the end who made me squirm and doubt whether I should give them my real name.

  Because I absolutely knew who he was. My crush. David Perkins, a whole grade older than me and the cutest guy in the seventh grade class, let alone all of Crossley Prep. Only he could take my mind off of my Life's Mission. But more on that later—just as soon as Mr. Perfect, the guy most unlikely to be my first boyfriend, isn't right in front of me. I stared up at him. His junior fireman-in-training badge glimmered in the sun.

  Sigh. He was never going to think of me that way. Instead his eyes said, This girl's psycho for sure. And clearing up the crazy question was most def out. That would mean I'd have to tell him the real reason I'd ended up six feet below street level. Rule number one about a top-secret investigation: keep your mouth shut and look nuts if you have to. Definitely had an A+ in that department.

  "Hey," David breaks the stare-down. "I know you from somewhere?"

  But before I could answer, one of them plops this box in front of me and pulls out some pretty official doctor-y stuff from it. The others began talking to each other because apparently I've worn out their interest. Except David. He's still staring like I'm some hot new…circus act.

  "Okay, Katherine, is it?" the guy asks, practically choking me with this ugly collar thingy. "I'm Matt. Hold still while I get your vitals. We need to monitor you to make sure you aren't in shock."

  The padded collar was tight and I couldn't move, which I guess was the point. I pushed my hair out of my eyes. My curls were super annoying, bouncing around like everything was great.

  "But I'm fine!" I finally said. "I don't need you to monitor anything." And I was. I'd taken CPR two years in a row so I could be a junior lifeguard. I was breathing, my heart was beating, so back up, fella. But no one was listening to me. Instead they were all jokey-jokey with each other. I mean, excuse me for not being closer to death.

  "Fine, huh?" Matt said. "Let me be the judge of that, Red." He tousled my curls like I was a cocker spaniel. Or maybe I should say like a puli, because I'm the human equivalent with my big, fat, red cigar curls. You know those dogs that run around looking like an old-fashioned mop? Cute hair on a puli, not so cute on an almost-twelve-year-old girl like myself. David laughed and his eyes got all squinty, but in a cute way. Too bad he was laughing at me, not with me.

  Then I overheard some official fire-chief-guy (thought they only wore those big red hats in the movies) say, "Yes, Mrs. Goldstein, we're at the scene right now. Your daughter's okay and you can meet us over at Citrus Grove Community."

  Crud. The rest of my day was about to become epically messed up. Solitary confinement once the Unit (Unit = Mom = the General) gets ahold of me. I know there'll be mounds of dishes to wash and toilets to scrub. She'll never understand I had a good reason for doing what I did. I mean, what would you rather do? Study for a stupid math test or carry out your Life's Mission, aka hunting for secret tunnels? Talk about total unleashing of parental ridiculousity—made up words are sometimes the best words—on me. Did I mention yet that being in sixth grade has serious drawbacks?

  But wait. What if I seemed more hurt? Would I still be grounded for life? I started second-guessing my injuries. Was that a muscle spasm in my back?

  You know, I wouldn't have to be making up lies if I just had better luck. All I was trying to do was make a monumental discovery in the archaeology world. Instead I end up here as the joke of the Citrus Grove Fire Department. I mean, who knew old sewer covers were sometimes hidden? Who knew they eventually rust and break apart? Isn't someone supposed to be watching out for this kind of stuff so nobody gets hurt?

  Guess not unless that person is a massive failure in the keeping-track-of-all-things-dangerous department. Seriously, one minute I'm in the alley behind the old Fox Theater, looking for a way into the tunnels and the next—poof, gone. Yeah, I guess I was squeezed between the buildings, and yeah, it didn't seem like anybody had been there in decades, but still. The ground shouldn't just collapse beneath you in a civilized society. Worst part? Absolutely no tunnels anywhere in sight at the bottom of that hole.

  Here's a little background. Some call the tunnels an urban legend. You know, a made-up story that people start believing. But I knew the tunnels were real and I was going to prove it to the world any day now. Soon all of modern civilization would know ancient people built tunnels and went underground here in Citrus Grove to hide from the world.

  So I just needed solid evidence. And to be able to answer the question of why they'd done this. Were they deformed? Did they have a human body with an amphibian's head? Maybe they were lizards or something? This discovery would make me a rock star in the archaeology world and I could go on all kinds of digs. It would be the ultimate life. Uncovering ancient ruins all over the world with cute guys in cargo shorts digging right beside me? Woo-hoo! After all, a girl's got to think about her dating future, too.

  David stepped closer and started to put a band around my arm. "I'm just going to check your blood pressure, so relax."

  My heart was pounding hard now and it sounded like a river was whooshing through my head. Relax? With him so close to me? His voice was kind of raspy and I wondered what he would sound like on the phone. Evan says that a two-hour phone convo with a guy whose voice you like is the best. Being a year older than me and my fr
iend since kindergarten (don't tell anyone he repeated the big k-grade) he comes in handy sometimes with crucial info like this.

  Yes, sometimes he can be annoying, which you'll soon find out. But the best of him def outweighs the part which can bug the crud out of me. My favorite thing about him? He doesn't care about the popular kids or what anyone thinks of him. Which is how I try to be, too. It's just harder when Kelley Coffey torments me. She's the only one who can make me feel like an idiot, even though I'm totally smarter and funnier than she is. So I do a lot of acting whenever she's around, like nothing she or her friends say matters to me. Even though deep down it does. Evan says she's the b-word and I totally think she is, too.

  And the rest of our group feels the same way about Kelley. We all know sixth grade means no more kid stuff, and you've got to stick together to stand up to people like her. It's when you need your friends more than ever—especially at lunch time. We form a united front against her and the rest of her evil cheer team friends at the long table in the caf. Kelley likes to call our small group the extra special name of the Marginals when she spots us at lunch. But she didn't exactly come up with the name on her own. It was only after I called her mile run time "marginal at best" that she stole the word and began calling us that. Otherwise she probably wouldn't even know what it meant.

  Don't get me wrong. We aren't epic failures socially. True, we don't hang with the super popular kids. You know, the ASB reps, the jocks on the Crossley Prep football team, or the cheer squad. Unlike my group, they are all in a butt-load of yearbook pictures. And we also aren't the perfect Honors kids who play the tuba or trombone, and already do community service hours in sixth grade for their college application. Our group was lucky to have one or two extra pics besides our class photo in the yearbook. We were, well, the in-betweens.

  "Hey, be careful with that thing!" I didn't want to yell at Mr. Cuteness but he gave me no choice. The cuff from the blood pressure machine began squeezing my arm like a boa constrictor. "You wanna loosen it up a notch?" Seriously. What if he had to give me CPR because I passed out? I so don't want my first kiss to be because of a lifesaving event.

  "It's got to be tight to get a good read." Then he said something totally cool, making me forget about the tunnels. Or the fact my arm was about to be permanently separated from my body. "Hey, I do know you! You go to Prep, right?" His biceps moved while he squeezed the little rubber bulb on the blood pressure thingamajiggie, and he made me feel all gooey inside.

  "Uh, yeah." Wow. That's the best I could come up with? My tongue felt thick and my heart was probably clocking two hundred beats a second. Kind of like after I'm done with the uphill mile our Nazi P.E. teacher makes us run on Fridays. By the way? Some kids built a whole website about mean teachers and she's top of the list on the mean-ness scale.

  I sure wish I could ignore the tanned beautifulness of David's muscular upper arm, which is inches from me. You're probably thinking this is fantastic—I could just lean in and smell whatever body wash he's wearing. And it would be, for a normal girl. Me? Nuh-uh. Instead, I could feel my face turning the color of the fire engine my hero drove in on.

  "Perkins—you got that BP yet?" Matt was busy writing down notes. "Let's get this tied up and load her into the ambulance."

  Ambulance? Are you kidding me? What if someone sees me? "You know, guys, I'm good. Seriously." My voice came out like Jenny's squeaky rubber porcupine toy and they all stared at me like I was losing it.

  "'Fraid not, Red," Matt said as he held the door open while David and the two others lifted me in. "Your parents will be at the hospital when you get there."

  Chapter Two

  BUSTED

  Fun times. Whole ride home from the hospital was quiet. The scary kind of quiet. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, I checked out fine at the hospital. This totally messed with my plan to fake a broken back, or something equally monumental, to get my parents to feel sorry for me. And stretching the truth about why I wasn't in my room chained to my math book was completely out now, thanks to DBLB (Demon Boy Little Brother) who told my parents I'd been gone all afternoon. I can hear Mom's words now if I even tried lying: "Does someone think I just fell off the turnip truck?" Translation for those of you who don't have ancient parents saying ancient stuff: Do I look that stupid? Let me wipe the big S off my forehead.

  So thank you so much, Samuel Marc Goldstein, eight-year-old snitch extraordinaire, for violating my civil right to privacy. It's either that one or my right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, which is impossible to have with him as a brother. The narc acted all heroic and told the Unit Jenny had run into my room and hid under my bed, so he had to get her out. Right. Like a golden retriever can fit under a twin bed along with the million things I've stuffed under there for safe-keeping. So since I was missing, he couldn't help but tell Mom and Dad, because he was afraid I'd run away. It's like the concept of covering for each other didn't matter at all. But I knew the truth. I'd left my bedroom door closed, and my STAY OUT sign was one hundred percent for sure hanging from the doorknob. No one could miss it but somebody absolutely ignored it.

  “Now Katherine,” Mom said between bites of some awful veggie soufflé she'd made for dinner, "Sammy was just trying to make sure you were alright when he called me at work to let me know you were missing." She was going through a vegan phase this month, and so we were, too. I'd give anything for a burger. Should have tried to score one on the way home from the hospital, but they were too mad about the trespassing ticket the police gave me. I mean, who doesn't need comfort food when they've been through a major disaster? Totally heartless of them, right?

  "That's right, Kit-Kat," Dad agreed as he took a big swig of water, probably to choke down the veggie lump in his throat. "But the real question is, why weren't you in your room studying for your algebra exam like you were supposed to be?"

  Uh, because I hate it? Because I have better stuff to do on a Saturday afternoon than sit in my room figuring out what a plus b equals? That's exactly what I wanted to say, but didn't. Why? 'Cause no way was I gonna give Sam the satisfaction of thinking he'd won this one. If I showed how upset I truly was, he'd love that more than a visit from Ryan Scheckler, his favorite skateboarder of all time. I actually secretly liked the guy, too. Not for his killer skateboarding, but because you don't get much cuter than him. And I don't mean young Scheckler. I mean older Scheckler ‘cause he's not so perfect-looking now. Messy hair on boys is good hair in my book.

  So instead of answering either of them right away, I pushed the food around on my plate and tried to come up with a good answer. Don't they know some stuff majorly gets in the way of what's important? Why couldn't they see algebra was one of those things? Besides, if I'd asked to go out instead of leaving by my window, Mom would have done her hands on hips, eye-roll combo. I just love that (please tell me you hear the sarcasm).

  Know what else gets in the way of important stuff? Stopping to pull all the dirty clothes out from under my bed before I have permission to do anything else. Like the world would stop revolving or the apocalypse might happen if the clothes lie there a few more days. Valuable minutes are lost to overrated house cleaning.

  "Katherine?" Mom interrupted my thoughts. Sure wish she'd stop calling me by my full name. "While we're waiting for a good answer, could you please tell me what you've done to the Veggie Delight on your plate?"

  Veggie Delight? Is that what this stuff was called? So not delightful. I stared down at my plate and was shocked. What had I done? The Delight was shmooshed together and wound around the plate in the shape of an S.

  "Looks like a snake!" Sam snickered as he executed my signature move. Snitch-boy held his hand up to his face like he was pretending to cover his laugh, but I knew the deal. Spit Mom's disgusting pick of the week into your hand, and then feed it to Jenny under the table. Only I couldn't bust him, because he'd just tell them he'd learned it from me. I was in enough trouble. So I fully kept my mouth shut. Mom hates it when we waste fo
od, and she'd hate it even more if she knew we were messing up Jenny's "scientifically balanced diet".

  One thing's for sure, it wasn't a snake on my plate—just a veggie tunnel, and I don't even remember making it. My best bet was to ignore Mom's question and go back to Dad's about where I'd been. Seemed easier. Because what was I going to say? That I was dreaming about tunnels, and couldn't get them off of my mind? I flattened the soufflé tunnel and choked down a bite as a show of good faith.

  "Truth is," I lied, shrugging my shoulders like they were making a big deal out of nothing, "I took a little walk to clear my head."

  "Is that so?" Mom raised one eyebrow. I could see her mom-radar was at Defcon One and she was ready to launch the final attack. "Any reason why this so-called walk lasted three hours and why it required the help of our fine firemen to drag you out of a hole?"

  "Three hours," Dad said now. "No one said anything about three hours." His forehead crinkled like it always did when he was worried. Dad is kind of a nerd. Full-on retractable key chain and pocket protector with pants ready for a flood nerd, but a great guy and a total softie. Mom's the General of the house and our town, fighting against all the stuff which doesn't fit in her Okay Box, like sodas and spaghetti straps at Crossley (you try being the PTA president's daughter and see how fun it is). But even though I felt bad for lying, I wasn't going to spill the beans on what I knew. I just wasn't ready to share.

  "Clear the dishes," she said to me as she stacked her plate on my Dad's. "You'll be grounded one day for every hour you were gone. Don't plan anything for a few days. And don't forget you've got your first math tutoring session coming up. Better be there and ready to learn."

  Grounded? A few days—are you kidding me? "But I've got to meet Evan to study." I was frantic so I lied again, ignoring Sam, who was trying to do a celebratory high-five with my Dad over my misfortune. What was I going to do? I needed to get back to the tunnels. Lock-down until Wednesday? Impossible.