The Great Interactive Dream Machine

by Richard Peck

  We crossed Fifth Avenue, and then we were in the park. Aaron seemed to have something in mind. Like a plan. Now we were coming up on the soccer field. We sat down on a nearby rock and pulled up our huge knees.

  Suddenly it was great. It wasn’t even weird anymore. It was the perfect spring day, and we weren’t in class, and we were practically grown. Better than grown. We were in upper school.

  “How old do you think we are, Aaron?”

  “I put us at seventeen, pushing eighteen. I’d say we were looking at colleges about now.”

  We sat there and felt the sun on our big stubbly faces. We basked. “Aaron, we’re adolescents, and we didn’t have to get here. We didn’t have to do the whole puberty thing. We didn’t have to do the pimple thing. We didn’t have to—”

  “Hold it a minute,” he muttered.

  People were beginning to trickle onto the soccer field from Fifth Avenue. Small, spindly people in droopy shorts were dragging net goals.

  “Is that our Gym class?”

  Aaron shook his head. “Our class is last period. This is the eighth grade.” It was. Trip Renwick in his Dartmouth sweatshirt was in the lead. Next to him like an assistant coach was Daryl Dimbleby.

  We watched while Daryl assembled two eleven-man teams and ordered the real runts to the sidelines. We noticed how he put all his peer group on his own team, making sure the other team could be systematically stomped. We watched Daryl rule while Coach Renwick stood around, taking roll or whatever.

  We watched the game kick off.

  Then Aaron climbed off the rock. He slipped out of the blazer and rolled up Stink’s sleeves.

  So I did too. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re going to level the playing field.”

  “We’re what?”

  “We’re going to show Daryl how soccer’s played.”

  “But Aaron, we don’t know. We’re terrible at soccer.”

  “We were,” he said.

  He flexed his thick neck and then his big elbows. He hugged one knee and then the other in a warm-up.

  So I did too. Then we started walking toward the game.

  We weren’t suited up, but our ties said we were from Huckley. And who’s going to keep a couple of upperschoolers out of an eighth-grade game? Please.

  Most of the guys who weren’t on Daryl’s team were already flat on the field, clutching parts of their bodies. We came in on their side.

  The next minutes went really fast. I was feeling my way, trying to throw my weight around. Aaron got into it. Where his coordination came from I can’t tell you. But he had control of the ball and was ankling it down the field, making magical moves with his vast feet through a forest of knobby knees. His fiery hair flashed in the sun, and now the ball was bouncing off his big shoulders, off his heels, you name it. Aaron was steamrolling the peer group. Daryl was screaming for time-out.

  Then somehow I myself was pounding up behind Daryl, and Aaron was bearing down on his front like an express bus. It was amazing how small Daryl actually was. Shrunken, nearly. My Mighty Morphin kick went wild, and Hulk’s thick shoe connected with the back of Daryl’s shorts. It really lifted him. Aaron seemed to confuse Daryl’s head with the soccer ball itself. The sound of their colliding skulls echoed.

  Daryl went down hard, and a circle of his sidekicks formed around him. We’d given Daryl a taste of his own soccer. Coach Renwick’s whistle cut through the chaos.

  Aaron and I made a run for the rock. And we could run like deer. We grabbed up our blazers and kept on going. We didn’t stop till we were in sight of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Then we were leaning against a couple of trees, getting our breath back. The adrenaline was thundering through me.

  “That was great,” I gasped. “You want to go back for last period and get Buster?”

  “We made our point,” Aaron said. “We got better things to do with our time.”

  “How much time do you think we have?”

  It was almost the old Aaron again, because his sausage fingers were beginning to keyboard the air. Old habits die hard.

  “Cyberspatially, we could stay like this. I’m talking numbers, not need. But the Emotional Component wears off.” Aaron tapped his forehead. “After all, the human brain is the ultimate computer.”

  “Are you a hundred percent sure that we’re ...”

  “Bidirectional? Yes.”

  “So what are we talking here—hours, days?”

  “It varies,” Aaron said, meaning he didn’t know. “Wanting to go back could speed up the process. Like if we both concentrated, we might—”

  “Frankly, my heart wouldn’t be in it, Aaron. I’m not ready to give up all this.” I pointed at my body.

  “That’s because you never think ahead,” he said. “Next class period we’re still absent. After that we’re at large. We’re fugitives. Also, we could go back to being eleven within the next couple of minutes. Think about that.”

  I stared. “You mean we’d be back to our miserable small bodies, but wearing these big clothes in the middle of Central Park?”

  “Exactly. Our best bet is to get home and hide in our rooms till it happens. Anyway, this condition is caused by a virus loose in my hard-drive memory. The sooner I get back to my technopolis, the better.”

  Mention of the virus I’d caused shut me up till we got to the little pond where kids sail their boats. Aaron was keyboarding the afternoon air. We were taking long strides in our big shoes.

  “I can’t see it,” I said. “Today we’re getting what we wanted. When we went to the Hamptons, we got what Ophelia and Heather wanted.”

  “My formula’s cuckoo,” Aaron said.

  “I know that. But Ophelia came with us to the Hamptons. Why didn’t Heather, not that I wanted her?”

  “We went because we were standing too close to my equipment. And Ophelia wasn’t that far away. Ophelia’s mind is probably better focused than Heather’s. Who knows what kinetic powers dogs have? They’ve got a lot of untapped potential. Dogs can hear sounds that humans can’t, right?”

  “Do I know?” I said. “Am I a poodle?”

  “Careful,” Aaron warned. “Just don’t say things like that around my PC.”

  I hadn’t thought how we’d get past Vince the doorman until we were already in the lobby. But Miss Mather was there, bending Vince’s ear. Nanky-Poo was hanging in Miss Mather’s carrier bag, but neither one of them screamed at us as we walked past.

  In the elevator Aaron said, “Your mom won’t be home from work yet, will she? I’ll stop by your place in case. If she’s there, we’ll have to duck out and make a run for the penthouse. We can hide in my room.”

  “But for how long, Aaron? My mom’s going to want me home for dinner, believe it. She can’t see me like this. She won’t know me. She’ll think some senior got in her apartment and ate her little boy. What’s she going to say, ‘My, how you’ve grown since breakfast’? Please.”

  Aaron shrugged. Then we were at my front door, and I was slipping a quiet key into the lock.

  The apartment seemed empty at first. But in the front hall we heard a voice from the living room. And a squeal.

  “This is the truth, Heather, and I’m never wrong. Every boy in America is going to be at the Hamptons this summer. I’m talking upper school. I’m talking boarding school. Heather, I’m talking college.”

  Heather squealed. I know her squeal.

  “Summer boys in Speedos, Heather. Trust me, we’re going to have a beach full of Brad Pitts.”

  Heather squealed.

  I whipped around and ran into Aaron. “It’s Heather and Muffie Mclnteer. They’re out of school early or something. They’re in the living room. We can’t get past them.”

  “Forget about it,” Aaron said and gave me a shove. I staggered into the living room doorway, in plain view of Muffie and Heather.

  If you know Heather, you’d recognize Muffie. Heather copies everything from her: clothes, hair, boots, you name it.
Heather’s a Muffie clone. They were on the sofa with their combat boots tucked up under them. They looked at me and blinked.

  Before I could think, Aaron stepped up beside me. We filled the doorway.

  Heather’s and Muffie’s jaws sagged. “Who—” said Heather.

  “Wow,” said Muffie.

  I don’t think too well on my feet. But Aaron adjusted Stink’s tie and made his move.

  “Hel-lo, ladies,” he said in a rich baritone. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He put out a square hand.

  Muffie and Heather were all eyes.

  “I’m Stink Stuyvesant,” Aaron rumbled. “Call me Stink. I’d like you to meet my friend, Hulk. Hulk Hotchkiss.”

  We didn’t look anything like Stink and Hulk. But we were their size, and Muffie and Heather wouldn’t know them from Adam anyway.

  Heather’s hand came to rest in Aaron’s large mitt. Muffie’s came out for mine. We bowed slightly.

  Muffie’s never at a complete loss for words. She scanned our ties. “It’s Stink Stuyvesant and Hulk Hotchkiss. Everybody knows them, Heather. They’re Huckley upper school.” Heather didn’t have a hope of recognizing me. She couldn’t tear her eyes off Aaron.

  “What hunks,” Muffie murmured.

  7

  What Hunks?

  Muffie couldn’t drag her eyes off me, and Heather wouldn’t let go of Aaron’s hand. They’d spent all afternoon discussing older guys, and suddenly two appear before them. Magic.

  “What ...” Heather said, stunned. “How ...”

  “We found your front door unlocked,” Aaron lied in a deep voice. “You need to watch that. There are a lot of crazy people out there these days.”

  Heather gaped. Personal safety was the last thing on her mind.

  “We dropped by on the off chance we might find Josh and Aaron around,” Aaron said to her.

  “Who are Josh and Aaron?” Muffie asked. Boys buzzed in her brain.

  “Josh is my geeky little brother,” Heather explained. “Aaron is his nerdy friend, Pencil-Neck.”

  “Is Josh the kid with the dweebish voice who keeps answering the phone when I’m trying to call you?” Muffie asked.

  “Ummm,” Heather replied, lost in Aaron’s eyes. “Why do you want them?”

  “It’s like this, Heather—it is Heather, isn’t it?” Aaron’s hand slipped smoothly out of her clutch. “Hulk and I are cocaptains of the Huckley upper-school soccer team. I don’t know if you know that. We’ve had a certain amount of publicity.” Aaron stubbed his toe modestly in the carpet. “And we’re scouting the most promising young players in middle school.”

  “Then why do you want to see Josh and Pencil-Neck?” Heather was confused.

  Aaron looked at me. “The sister is always the last to know, right, Hulk?”

  I nodded. Muffie’s eyes were burning asteroid craters in me.

  “You see,” Aaron said, chopping the air with a big hand, “Aaron and Josh have a lot of raw talent, on and off the soccer field. We think they both have leadership potential. We see great things for them when they get to upper school: soccer team, student government, you name it.”

  Muffie and Heather swayed.

  “But, hey, Hulk.” Aaron gave me a power punch on the arm like a mature Hardy Boy. “We better get going. Every minute counts. Right?”

  He turned back to Heather. “Tell your brother we dropped by, Heather. It is Heather, isn’t it?” Then he added, “And tell Aaron if you run into him.”

  Another couple of squeezes on their hands and we were out of there. But we weren’t through the front door before we heard serious squealing from the living room.

  Out in the hall take-charge Aaron said, “Ring for the elevator and press Penthouse.”

  On the way up I said, “Aaron, you were awesome. You’re going to be really good with girls.”

  He grinned, which he never does in real life.

  “I mean it,” I said. “Sometimes the nerdiest guys in middle school turn out to be ...”

  But his grin was beginning to fade.

  Getting into the penthouse was a piece of cake. The housekeeper was in the kitchen. Aaron’s room seemed like a closet now that we were in these big new bodies. He clumped over to boot up his workstation. He entered his virused formula, and it came up on the screen.

  “It’s time to go back to the way we were,” he said. “We really want this, am I right? Our parents better not see us like this. We both want this real bad. We agree, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “So stand with me between the keyboards. I’m sensing radioactivity here. I’m sensing a matrix. Let’s line up our numbers with our need.”

  I stood there. “I wish I may,” I muttered, “I wish I might—”

  “Josh, this isn’t like wishing on a star. Really concentrate.”

  We did our best, but nothing happened. Aaron ran a finger around Stink’s collar. “I could fiddle the formula while we’re both standing here, but I better not. We could be one digit from dinosaurs. Maybe we’re rushing things.”

  I wanted to hide till it happened. I wanted to phone Mom and tell her I was sleeping over at Aaron‘s, but I had the wrong voice.

  Finally I went home, right past his housekeeper, who doesn’t notice too much, and down the back stairs to our kitchen door. Aaron wasn’t that sorry to see me go. He couldn’t wait to do a major revamp on his formula and micromanage his technopolis. I saw him eyeing the soldering iron.

  I made it to my room, and I wasn’t in there five minutes before it happened. The whole room wobbled with my pain. Shrinking hurts just as bad as growing, maybe more. My ears rang. My cells raged. Then I was standing low in the room in these gigantic clothes. They were like a clown suit. Hulk’s big blazer and the tip of his Huckley tie swept the floor with my little feet in his size twelves poking out beneath. I could have turned around in his shirt. I was ridiculous.

  Then I fought my way out of this giant dress code. The underpants fell off me. I could walk out of the shoes. I grabbed a Bulls sweatshirt Dad had sent me from Chicago and a pair of my old jeans and my own sneakers and jumped into them. I hustled all Hulk’s clothes into the closet. I was breathing hard.

  My door opened, and Heather looked in. She was still starry-eyed from Stink Stuyvesant. “Yes, Mom, Josh is home,” she screamed over her shoulder. “He’s lurking in his room.

  “What are you doing in here anyway?” she said to me.

  “Homework,” I squeaked in a dweebish voice.

  “Please,” Heather said, and left.

  Right away my phone rang. I get almost no privacy. I answered and so did Heather from her room. You tell me how she got there that quick. We have separate phone lines and different numbers, but she gives mine out. And when she hears mine ring, she can switch over and horn in.

  “Muffie?”

  “Josh?”

  “It’s for me, Heather. It’s Aaron. Get off the line.” We waited till she did.

  “You back to normal?” he asked in a cautious, changeable voice.

  “Yes,” I piped. “About five minutes ago. It was like pow.”

  “Me too.”

  “Was it something you did?”

  “Maybe. I was at my keyboards. I was interfacing. Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  “Anyway, we’re back. We’re bidirectional.”

  “I told you we were,” Aaron said, “and when I get this fine-tuned, we’re going to be able to—”

  “Aaron, it’s almost dinnertime.”

  “It is? Okay, but listen. Put Hulk’s dress code in a shopping bag to smuggle into the locker room tomorrow. Somehow.”

  “Right,” I said. “Over and out.”

  Mom doesn’t do serious cooking on a weeknight. She’s still winding down from a day at Barnes Ogleby. We had Stouffer’s lasagne and a green salad. I missed being Hulk Hotchkiss. The fork felt big in my hand. But I was mainly relieved to be back to me. In sixth grade the less explaining you have to do, the better. Heather was at the table, toyi
ng with her lasagne, but she was mentally missing.

  Mom likes a little dinner-table conversation if she can get it. “How was your day, Josh?”

  My chin was down near the plate. “Pretty routine, Mom. It had its ups. It had its downs.”

  “Didn’t you have a quiz in Mr. Headbloom’s class? How do you think you did?”

  “I probably aced it,” I said.

  Suddenly boys blurted out of Heather’s brain.

  “A couple of guys dropped by this afternoon,” she mentioned casually. “Upper-school guys.”

  Mom sighed. “Heather, you know the rules. You’re not to invite boys over when I’m not here.”

  “Mo-om, I didn’t invite them,” Heather said. “Anyway, they were looking for Josh and Pencil-Neck,” which she hadn’t meant to say.

  “Really?” I said, looking up. “Who were they?”

  “Two guys named Stink and Hulk,” she muttered, “from Huckley upper school.”

  I let the fork fall out of my hand. “Stuyvesant and Hotchkiss?” I smacked my forehead. “They’re only the two coolest guys at Huckley. What did they want to see me about?”

  Now Heather had to say. “Something about soccer,” she said, barely aloud.

  I was halfway out of my chair. “They’re scouting me for the upper-school varsity soccer team already?” I fell back in the chair. “I hadn’t dared to hope.”

  Heather was totally disgusted now, and Mom said, “I didn’t know you were that interested in soccer, Josh. I didn’t know you were promising.”

  “Oh well,” I said humbly, “I enjoy it mainly for the exercise.”

  Mom was really looking at me. There was practically a big question-mark floating over her head. “And Aaron’s a good player too?” she said, mystified.

  “He’s not bad, Mom. He’s shown a lot of improvement just lately.”

  By now Heather was close to tears. The conversation and Stink Stuyvesant were drifting away from her. Her geeky little brother was turning into a soccer star.

  I have to say I was enjoying this. Then I realized what I was doing. I froze.

  I was practically inviting Mom to send me to soccer camp all summer. I was practically signing my own prison papers. I shut up, but probably not in time.