Summer on the Moon

by Adrian Fogelin

  With the extra weight of the board in his hands and the hot beam testing his will, he walked, step by step, away from the staircase and out over absolutely nothing.

  When he reached the middle of the beam, he looked down—the brochure hadn’t lied about the “cathedral ceilings.” The distance to the floor was so spectacular he felt a little dizzy.

  He was trying to figure out just how far he’d fall if his foot slipped when he heard the distant growl of a car engine approaching from behind. He whipped around. Because he didn’t take into account that he was at the center of the turn and that the ends of the two-by-four would be moving much faster, the force of momentum took him by surprise. His felt his feet slide out from under him, but he couldn’t do a thing.

  His balance pole sliced through the gap between two beams and he went down with it, whacking his arm on an adjacent beam before smashing into the floor. The air left his lungs with a rush. Could lungs deflate like punctured tires? If so, he was dead. It would be weeks before anyone found him. He’d lie there and dry up like a fly on a windowsill.

  The sound of the engine that had spooked him got louder and louder. He took a jagged breath and rolled up on his side. The toothy chrome grille of a black car rounded the curve in Full Moon Circle. The tinted windows were so dark Socko couldn’t see who was inside. He couldn’t even tell how many people were in there. He could tell by the speed, which was very slow, that whoever was in there was looking for something.

  He was partly hidden by beams, and his brown T-shirt might blend in with the floor. But what about his red hair? He tried to reassure himself: this wasn’t the old neighborhood; he was safe here.

  Traveling at a crawl, the car pulled even with the house.

  Then it stopped.

  Fear prickled Socko’s scalp. Whoever was in that car, they weren’t looking for him. They couldn’t be. Still, if the doors opened, he’d forget about being dead and run.

  The engine idled and the car sat.

  Taking shallow breaths, Socko smelled the warm plywood of the subfloor.

  He heard a tick as the brake pedal released. The car began to roll slowly forward.

  It seemed to take forever for the sound of the engine to die to a whisper and vanish.

  As he sat up, starry explosions shot off like bottle rockets inside his head. He dropped his forehead to his knees.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting like that when he heard the engine again. Now he was sure—they’d seen him the last time. They were just messing with his head! Ignoring the rushing sound in his ears, he pushed himself to his feet and snatched up his shoes and skateboard. He ditched his crumpled socks and jumped through a gap between the studs of the house’s back wall, then hesitated.

  He had come a long way on Full Moon Circle. Should he go back the way he had come, or continue on the Circle? The decision was critical. In such a flat landscape, a kid breaking for home would be visible from a long way off.

  Taking a chance, he continued to follow the circle, but he didn’t use the road. Instead he darted from house to house, stopping behind each to listen, his sneakers dangling from one hand, his skateboard under his arm. The bare dirt burned his feet and he worried about rusty nails, but he didn’t stop to put his shoes on.

  He was flattened against the side wall of a house trying to breathe when something red in the driveway caught his eye. Hey, thought the small corner of his brain that wasn’t in a panic, a ripstick! Even crazy scared, he was about to check out the figure-eight-shaped skateboard when he heard the car again. He took off running.

  He couldn’t believe it! Just ahead was the sign for Tranquility Way. He’d only been five streets away from where he’d started.

  He dropped the skateboard and jetted down his own street. Desperate to get inside, he abandoned the board outside the door, turned the doorknob, and fell into the cool. Letting the sneakers tucked under his arm drop, he twisted the knob lock, then put the chain across. It was so flimsy one good kick would bust it.

  The General’s voice wavered from the kitchen. “That you, Sacko?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” When he walked into the kitchen, the General was filling a water glass at the sink.

  “Listen,” Socko said, trying to catch his breath, “we … we gotta keep the door locked.”

  The General twisted the tap shut and stared for a long moment at Socko’s dirty bare feet. “Let me guess. Our neighbors are Mafia. And they stole your shoes.”

  “No, but there was this black car with tinted windows cruising real slow on Full Moon Circle.”

  “Imagine that. A car on a road. You need to grow a spine, Sacko.” The paper bag map crackled as the General flattened it against the kitchen counter. “Report.” He pushed the bag toward Socko.

  The old man didn’t get it. He’d probably never lived in a tough neighborhood. Socko scribbled a loopy circle, then added a few spidery lines and began copying the names of the streets that radiated from the circle, but his mind was on the dark car. His danger sensors had gone wild when it had slowed down—and it had circled three times that he knew of. Something was definitely up with that car.

  “And these?” The General’s yellow nail unerringly targeted the five unlabeled streets.

  Socko shrugged. Running from the car, he hadn’t taken a lot of notes.

  “Slipshod. Well, there’ll be time enough to find out tomorrow.”

  Socko turned away, ready to retreat to his room to try calling Damien again, but the General pulled rank.

  “Park it, soldier. You and me are going to play us a little poker.” The old man slid the deck of cards Socko had found out of its box. The cards became a waterfall of blurred white as the deck flew from one gnarled hand to the other. Although clumsy on the Nintendo DS, the General’s hands were lightning when it came to shuffling cards—as quick as they had been with the matchbook.

  The General snapped the cards back into a tidy stack and slapped it down in front of Socko. “Cut.”

  Socko sat there.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never played cards before? Not even a sissy-girl game like Old Maid?”

  The only card game Socko had ever played was one he and Damien had made up called “Go Spit.” You couldn’t play it inside. Right now he wasn’t exactly in the mood to learn a new game. “They’re just stupid pieces of cardboard.”

  “Famous last words, son. Famous last words.” The General lifted the top half of the stack, thumped it down on the counter, then picked up the bottom half of the stack and set it on top. “You try.”

  “That looked really hard.”

  “Get your laughs in now, because I’m gonna take you to the cleaners, Mr. Wet Behind the Ears. This is a little game called Seven-Card Stud. I suggest you quit moping and pay attention.” He began dealing cards off the deck. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. Two cards landed in front of each of them with the pictures hidden. “The first two—which are your hole cards—are down and dirty.”

  The next card hit the piles face up. “Lesson number one,” said the General. “The poker face. Never let your opponent know what kind of cards you have. Whether you have the best or worst cards in the world, you keep a straight face. Show me.” The old man glared at Socko. “That is the worst poker face I’ve ever seen. What’s the matter with you, boy?”

  Normally Socko had no trouble looking blank—he wore the blank face every day in school—but the feeling that he had to reach Damien had just swept over him. In the same way he knew the black car was trouble, he knew something had happened to his friend. He dropped his cards on the table. “Be right back.”

  “I thought only old guys like me got sudden urges!” the General shouted after him.

  Socko sped up the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him. With his back against the door, he punched redial. After half a ring he heard a click—someone was picking up!

  But the voice that answered wasn’t Damien’s.

  It wasn’t even human.

  “The numb
er you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

  16

  THE MIGHTY ANT

  Mom, did you hear what I said?” Early morning wasn’t the best time to try to get his mother’s attention. “Mom! You gotta do it!”

  “We’ll talk about it later. I’m kinda busy right now.” Delia reached into the refrigerator and snatched a Phat Burger bag off the top shelf. She was about to bustle past him. Instead she grabbed his arm, zeroing in on a fall-off-the-beam injury. “Where’d you get this big old ugly bruise?”

  “Forget the bruise. You gotta check on Damien. I can’t reach him. His phone’s disconnected.”

  “Seems like you’re getting in enough trouble all by yourself without Damien,” she said, frowning at his bruised arm. “Breakfast!” she sang out, opening the bag in her hand.

  The General grimaced at the cold Hot Apple Tart Delia dropped in front of him. “When I said room and board”—he picked up the box and gave it a shake—“I didn’t think you’d give me a real board.”

  “You wanted fruit?” She jabbed the word “Apple” on the box with a finger. “You got fruit.” She took the box out of his hands and tossed it to Socko. “Nuke this for your great-grandfather. And here’s one for yourself.” She tossed him a second box.

  Socko put both in the microwave and hit the 1-minute button. “Mom?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Socko! I gotta get to work. They’re disconnected because Louise didn’t pay the bill. End of story.”

  The General put a hand on his belly. “Tonight there’d better be real food, because my pipes—”

  “I get the message!”

  Beep. Socko took the pie boxes out of the oven and dropped one on the table.

  The General unfolded the cardboard flaps and winked back the steam. He snapped the flaps shut again. “Delia Marie, this is unacceptable. I repeat. Real food tonight, or I call my lawyer.”

  “Mom, about Damien?”

  Delia rested her knuckles on her wide hips. “Hello? I’m kinda in a rush right now! You two may have time to complain, but I don’t have time to listen!”

  The General cleared his throat loudly and spat in the garbage can beside his chair.

  Delia had just slung her purse over her shoulder but she stopped. “Was that a comment?”

  “Darn straight it was a comment!”

  “Well, it was gross! I won’t allow it in my house!”

  “Your house? It’s not your house ‘til I’m six feet under, which is probably what you’re hoping for, feeding me all this heart-stopping—”

  Socko stuffed his box of hot apple breakfast in the pocket of his cargo shorts and opened the front door.

  Delia and the General turned. “Where do you think you’re going, private?” the General demanded.

  “Somewhere else.”

  “It’s barely light out, baby,” said Delia.

  “At least it’s quiet.” Socko stepped outside and closed the door. His house was beginning to sound like Damien’s apartment.

  Still holding onto the knob, he took a slow breath.

  It was barely light out.

  Lying in bed last night, he’d admitted to himself he’d probably freaked about nothing. The black car was probably just a car on a road, like the General said. Still … he had learned to trust the tingle on the back of his neck. It had saved him too many times. But even if the car was bad news he wouldn’t see it now. He’d learned in the old neighborhood that if there was a safe time it was early morning. Although they might cruise all night, bad guys—like vampires—disappeared with the first rays of light.

  He took a few steps away from the house and listened, just in case. But there were no sounds outside, and none from inside either. Delia and the General had probably moved to the scorching-glare stage.

  The silence was creepy. While he didn’t miss the sounds of fighting coming through the floor in the old place, he did miss the everyday noise of people doing stuff, like Junebug practicing in the hall when she’d heard American Idol was coming to town. Turned out it wasn’t true, but everyone on the fourth floor learned the words to her audition number before she got the bad news.

  Maybe today he’d find someone here. Moon Ridge Estates was a big place. Some part of the subdivision had to be populated.

  Socko was about to set out on foot when he saw his skateboard lying in the dirt in front of the house. He couldn’t believe he’d ditched it, and that it was still right where he’d left it. Even though it was a piece of crap, at the old place it would have gone missing within ten minutes.

  He remembered the ripstick. It was not a piece of crap, yet it had lain abandoned and untouched too. Maybe he’d read the house wrong. Maybe it wasn’t empty. But it sure looked empty. And if it was, he’d have himself a ripstick. If it wasn’t? His mom would say, “Then you’ll have a new friend!”

  As he kicked down the street he stared at the board under his foot. The grip tape was peeling and the scars and dings on the deck were glaring. But the ripstick was mint. If the kid who went with that ripstick was around, he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet him.

  When he got to the house he peered through a window. Empty.

  No kid, but no ripstick anymore either. With one foot on his skateboard, he looked left, then right, scanning the street. He wondered which way the kid had gone, and why he’d been there in the first place.

  He thought about going back to the house. His mom had left for work by now, and the General would bust him if he didn’t get his “patoot” home pretty soon. But today Socko didn’t feel like playing his great-grandfather’s games.

  Instead, he decided to follow each of the streets off the circle. Maybe he’d find a different phase of Moon Ridge, one where people lived.

  Harvest Moon. He stared down the street, which still seemed to be waiting for Phase 1. The road was there. Sidewalks and curbs were in place. On each lot pipes stuck up out of the ground like periscopes, but the lots were vacant.

  Socko was about to give the road a pass when, at the back of the first yard-to-be, he spotted giant sections of pipe lying on their sides. He thought about tucking his board under his arm for the trek to the tubes, but left it at the curb. There weren’t even houses on this street, so who was going to steal his cruddy board?

  He stepped over the curb and into a dirt yard. Here and there a weed grew out of the parched ground. “Nature’s Phase 2,” he muttered. Even if the developer never planted a thing, weeds, like the ones that muscled up through the cracked sidewalks around the Kludge, were planting themselves.

  Watching the toes of his shoes sink as he walked forward, he spotted a tiny black hole in the ground. Ants wandered in and out of it, probably looking for food.

  Socko felt the heat from the apple tart box in his pocket. He fished it out and opened the flaps, then broke off a corner of the pastry and dropped it a few inches from the hole.

  Antennae tapping, a dozen ants approached the chunk of crust cautiously. Deciding it was food, they mobbed the crust and began to drag it toward the hole.

  Socko lay down on his stomach and propped his chin on his hands.

  The sugary chunk jammed the hole. Ant frenzy! The ants shoved it back out, turned it, then tried again, breaking off a few crumbs. When the ant gang and their prize finally went subterranean, Socko dropped a piece of apple.

  Damien would think he was nuts watching a bunch of ants—Damien always said he was allergic to nature. But Damien wasn’t here, so Socko monitored the activity closely, every now and then dropping another chunk of pie. He’d seen leafcutter ants on TV, carrying the giant green sails of cut leaves, but this was real, and real was better.

  He only realized how long he’d been there when the backs of his legs sent him a message, hey, we’re burning back here! He ignored the message for a few more minutes. In some weird way the ants felt like company.

  Before getting back to his feet, he slid the rest of the tart out of the box and set it a few inches from the hole. The half app
le tart, sitting like a colossus in the dust, would assure him a place in ant legend.

  He would have liked to see how they stuffed the giant pie down the midget hole, but the sun’s heat felt like a weight on his back. He turned his head on his arms. From the ground the tubes looked ant’s-eye-view big.

  When he stood up, the ants became ants again, the tubes less gigantic, but they did look shady.

  He sat inside a concrete tube, legs crossed. Slumped into its curve, he felt the cool through his T-shirt. He’d never seen concrete so clean and white.

  One time he and Damien had found a nearly empty can of spray paint in the dumpster. They had sprayed Socko and Damien rule! on the concrete wall of the stairwell. When Delia confronted them, Socko claimed someone else had tagged it. “Who, besides the two of you, thinks you and Damien rule?” she had demanded. Socko was grounded for a week.

  But Delia would never sit in this tube. No one but Socko ever would. He could write whatever he wanted. He pulled the pencil out of a pocket, then remembered—his best friend was the one who could draw. Socko’s tag, whatever it was, would have to be simple.

  Circle … The pencil scraped across the concrete. Circle. Circle. He began adding lines. How many? Six? Yeah, they always have six. Plus two antennae.

  He leaned back and looked at his symbol. It was—an ant. Compared to a hairy tarantula? Pretty lame. But then he remembered the ants bench-pressing several times their own weight.

  THE MIGHTY ANT, he wrote. Jagged lightning bolts zigged away from the stick-figure ant. The lead wore down to a nub before he finished the third lightning bolt, but the idea came across. This was no ordinary ant.

  This ant was indestructible.

  Radioactive.

  Glow-in-the-dark.

  Telekinetic.

  Kick-ass.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Socko caught a flash of movement. The dark car! But it wasn’t cruising this time—it was speeding. He heard a grinding sound, then saw his skateboard porpoising through the air; the car had somehow caught and tossed it as it drove by.