The ride to the rec center was only about a mile and a half. Which really is not that far on a bicycle. For a fit person. On flat ground.
But I hadn’t been on a bike since . . . well, since before arrival on Planet Festus. And I had forgotten about gravity.
In space, it’s never an issue. But here, it has to be contended with. Especially because the rec center was set on a hill at the top of my subdivision, and my base was near the bottom of that hill. So that mile and a half between the two included a vertical climb of, by my rough estimate, 10,000 feet. And the roundabout path that would enable me to avoid danger zones would add about a mile to my route.
I also had a few issues with the bike, which was more complicated than my previous model, in that it had more gears and newer brakes and other things that took time to sort out.
So when I arrived at the rec center, half an hour later than I had planned, I was not exactly the suave space stud I had been when I left home; I was a sweaty mess.
I chained my bike to the rack, spun the four rings on the lock and walked into the center. It was a large, brick facility, adjacent to a soccer/baseball field, with basketball courts, a pool, a weight room and an indoor running track. It also had a theater, where some kind of dance class was going on, several classrooms and—hey, a snack bar that sold Rocket Pops! I had overheard some people talking about them in the halls at school, but I didn’t actually expect to find any. Cool.
I saw no sign of Ricki, but it was only 12:10, which meant I had five minutes to clean up. I stepped into the rest room to check my appearance. It was as bad as I expected—my face was flush, my hair was exploding off my head like a cheap Q-tip, my shirt’s most eye-catching aspect was not the fine detail on the rings of Saturn but the stains spreading from my armpits. I splashed some water on my hands and tried to slick back my hair.
Moments later I no longer looked like a cheap, exploding Q-tip; I looked like a cheap, wet exploding Q-tip.
Giving up on the hair, I pondered the sweat stains. I thought maybe I could mask them if my whole shirt were slightly damp, so I splashed a little water from the tap. That made the shirt wet, all right. It also made me look an awful lot like someone who had thrown up on himself again.
I needed a paper towel, but this rest room had only air dryers. So I ran over to one and held my shirt in front until the surface of the planet felt as if it might bubble, at which point I said, “OW!” because my skin was starting to burn too. And possibly, my meteorite necklace was beginning to melt.
It was then that a rec center worker—an older guy, at least seventeen—walked in, looked at me and asked, “You OK, kid?”
“Never better,” I replied. I pulled away from the hand dryer and made one last check in the mirror. It was not encouraging.
Well, at least I would smell nice. I had brought some Timber Peak along with me. Just to be safe. Because I’d expected I would need some freshening up. The Timber Peak came in a 1.25-ounce plastic bottle, shaped like a little pine tree, that had just barely fit in the front pocket of my crisp, new jeans. I reached for it. I pulled it out.
It was at this moment that a basic law of physics came into play. Namely, one involving friction. Because while lodged in my jeans pocket, the bottle of Timber Peak had managed to invert itself. And when I extracted it, the top part of the little tree popped right off, and Timber Peak was suddenly dribbling into my pocket, soaking into my jeans and trickling down my leg.
If spilling water on my shirt made me look like I had thrown up on myself, this made me look like I had . . . a real problem.
I looked down at my pants—yes, I had a real problem. I looked at my hands—I was still holding the Timber Peak. I dropped it and looked in the mirror at the rec center worker, who was standing behind me, confused.
Then the smell hit him. “Phewwwww,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face. “Dude, what’s with the Pine-Sol? We cleaned the stalls just last night.”
I stood frozen, then looked at my watch. 12:15! I had no time. I washed my hands furiously, wiped them on my jeans, shrugged at the rec center worker, and walked out. Maybe I would have a few moments to—
Nope. She was coming out of the theater. She scanned the lobby, immediately spotted me, then nodded toward the front door, signaling that I should follow.
She had been in that dance class. She was dressed identically to the other girls coming out, in black leotards with pink slippers, but she was taller and thinner than the rest. And when they gathered in little circles to chatter and give one another air-hugs, nobody bothered to say anything to her.
I followed her, ignoring the people who wrinkled their noses as I walked past.
Outside, benches lined the path to the entrance, and she sat on one. I sat on the same bench and hoped I was downwind.
“I think spring is on the way,” she said, her eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. She took a deep breath of the cool air. “I can smell the flowers already. Although they smell kind of like Christmas trees, for some reason.”
I wiped my hands on my pants again and tried to fold my legs in a way that hid the wet spot. “Yeah,” I said.
“I only have fifteen minutes,” she said abruptly. “My parents are coming to get me at 12:30.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound disappointed, though I was.
“I had some things I needed to tell you, and I wasn’t comfortable saying them at school.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to radiate confidence and ease and praying that the wind did not shift.
“First, thank you for your help on Tuesday. It was . . . a bad day.”
“I’ve had better myself,” I said. Oddly, the memory of the shared disaster made me relax. Ricki had seen me at my worst already. I didn’t have to pretend to be anything more than the hopeless loser I was.
“I’ve been in tough schools before, but this place is different. The girls are . . . they just . . . it’s been bad.”
There was so much I wanted to learn about her. But we only had fifteen minutes. And, well, her confessing to how bad things had been for her somehow brought every bad experience I had been through to the front of my brain. At once. Hearing someone else talk about them somehow made them very real. Something I was really living through, not just watching on TV.
“I know what you mean,” I told her.
“Do you?” she asked. It was a challenge. “I mean, really?”
I thought back to our conversation in the closet, and all she had been through. And I compared that with the memory loops of all the things I had been called at Festus. My size, strength and clothes had been mocked. I had been given nicknames that equated to male and female body parts, as well as the excretions from those parts. Then I’d been challenged as to which parts, if any, I had. I had been hit by a door, hit by balls and hit by chunks of ice. I had been terrorized with baseball bats to the point that I threw up.
“Yeah,” I said. “It feels like you’re all alone. An outsider. The only one of your kind in the whole universe.”
She sighed. “I knew you got it.” Then she looked me in the eye. “That’s why I had to tell you.”
Oh wow. I focused all my attention on her. Because, well, we apparently were having A Moment.
I lowered all my defensive screens and smiled in a way that I hoped emulated a young Harrison Ford. “That . . . you wanted to see me?” I asked, my voice rising to a pitch that probably sounded more Wookiee than handsome rogue.
“No,” she said. “That you’re in great danger at school. And not from whom you think.”
THUD. Well, that’s what you get for lowering your defensive screens. But I would have to wait to consider whether this was what heartbreak felt like.
“What . . . you mean . . . someone besides Ty Hunter is out to get me?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Who?”
She looked left, and she looked right. “Principal Denton.”
I sniffed. “I had already kind of figured that
—”
“And Ms. Beacon.”
“What?” I pressed my hands to my temples, the way Captain Maxim does when trying to think his way out of a crisis. “You think—?”
“I know.”
“But . . . how?”
“The office. I heard them.”
“Heard them what?”
“Talking about you.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
“You’re Clark Sherman, right?” she said, annoyed.
“Yeah, but . . . what did they say?”
She gave a little frown. “I’m not exactly sure. I distinctly heard Beacon use your name and ‘all kinds of trouble.’ And then Denton said something about there being ways to get rid of such issues.
“I wanted to stay and listen to more, but I had to get to the attendance computer while nobody was looking. By the time I was back to my usual seat, Beacon was leaving the office, with a folder that said ‘disciplinary’ something, and she did not look happy.”
“She never looks happy.”
“She looked less happy than usual, then,” Ricki snapped. “I’m telling you, it was something big, and you were the center of it.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t know anything else. I just wanted to tell you what I heard. You helped me. I’m trying to help back.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She looked off toward the parking lot.
“My parents are going to be here soon,” Ricki said. “You need to pretend you don’t know me. My mom would absolutely freak out if she knew I was talking to a boy. I think she invented the concept of ‘overprotective.’ ”
“Your parents are . . . amazing,” I said.
“I tell myself, ‘Nature, not nurture’ a lot,” she said, shaking her head.
She replied to my puzzled look by saying, “I’ll tell you about them someday.”
“Do you want to call me?” I asked.
“Based on our prior experience, I think it is safe to assume that they would not want your voice in our home ever again.”
“Is there some other way, then?”
She didn’t say no right away. But when she opened her mouth to speak, she was cut off by the sound of distant thunder. I looked to the sky, expecting to see storm clouds. But it was just an old Volvo chugging up the hill and turning into the parking lot.
“My parents,” said Ricki, sitting up straight. “Remember, you’re not with me. I’m . . . I’m sorry it has to be so crazy.”
I looked away from her. “ ‘The only crazy people in this galaxy are the ones who expect it to be sane.’ ”
“Thanks, Captain Maxim,” she said. “And be careful.”
“You too. Find me if you need help.” I stole a quick glance at her.
She turned toward me for just a moment, then back toward the approaching wagon. “Thank you,” she said, and then, out of the corner of her mouth: “It’s nice to not feel alone.”
She stood and walked toward the car. As she did, a scowling blond woman rolled down the window and asked her something before casting an angry glance my way; next to her, I could see a pale man with a severe, angular face staring blankly ahead. Ricki got into the back seat, and they rumbled off.
As dates went, it had been . . . not much. But we had at least set a foundation for the next time. When perhaps we could work our way up to speaking for more than fifteen minutes and discussing something besides the imminent peril I apparently was in. Again.
The thought of peril led me to pay attention to my surroundings a little more. I watched the people coming and going into the rec center. I watched the little kids climbing on the monkey bars on the playground. I watched the players leaving the baseball game that had been taking place in the field beyond.
I squinted as some of them headed my way.
Three of them, in fact.
I ran to my bike.
9.02.02
I fumbled with the lock. I had made careful note of the combination before I left the house, but in my panic I couldn’t remember—was it 5332, or 3552, or 5232, or . . .
Oh frak, they’d seen me.
Finally, at 3253, the lock slid open. Did I have enough of a head start?
Maybe I should just stand my ground. Steele would. Did I want the whole rec center to see me running like a coward? I quickly reminded myself—I was no Steele. Being seen running like a coward would be much better than being seen humiliated and abused and then running. (“Hey, did you see that new kid get the snot beat out of him at the rec center on Saturday?” “Yeah, it was ugly, but he sure smelled nice.”)
I began to pedal away as quickly as I could. They reached the bike rack a few moments after I left, by which point I was across the parking lot. I looked back. They were staring at me but seemed in no hurry. I put my head down, shifted gears, nearly fell over when there was suddenly no resistance to my pedaling, shifted gears properly and headed out to the street at maximum speed.
I looked back again. All clear! They were still unlocking their bikes. All I had to do now was keep my balance, because it was all downhill from here—literally, for a change. Even I could make good speed on a 10,000-foot descent. Soon the wind was whipping through my hair as I cruised past Warp One to Warp Two and then Warp Three.
I followed the fastest downhill route, which took me a little east of home base. I would have to cut across Sand Creek Lane again, scene of the grimly remembered Battle of the Ice Clump, but with my pursuers so far to my rear, I felt confident. Let’s hear it for the power of panic! I sat up in my seat and started riding hands-free. I felt that confident.
I turned onto Sand Creek Lane and had slowed to about Warp One when I entered the stretch that had only the “park” on either side of the road. The memory of what had happened the last time I passed through this quadrant made me nervous, and I turned around to look behind me, one more time.
Which is why I was totally surprised by the riders when they flew out of the park, practically E.T.-style, but with significantly less heartwarming charm.
They came over a knoll, across the sidewalk and directly into my path. “Yeee-hawww!” one yelled in midair.
(I don’t like to stereotype, but that was probably Bubba.)
Out of reflex, I flung my right hand up to shield my face and grasped a brake handle with my left. As it turns out, this is the handle that controls the front brake—information I probably should have studied up on before I started flying around at warp speeds.
The good news is, those brand-new brakes were awfully effective at halting the rotation of my front wheel. It went from spinning at Warp One to a full stop in no time.
The bad news is that with the front wheel stopped, the rear wheel was sprung off the ground, and I was flung off my bike and onto the pavement, where my left shoulder became a braking mechanism for my body as it scraped along the ground at, well, just about Warp One.
As I slid to a stop, the riders surrounded me. They rode fat-tired mountain bikes, expertly, in the manner of people who had grown up in the neighborhood and knew, for example, shortcuts from the rec center that could be used to cut someone off.
“Hey look, it’s Clark!” said Jerry. “We were worried we wouldn’t get a chance to say hi.”
“Yeah,” snorted Bubba. “If Denton hadn’t told us to back off, we—”
“Shut up.” Ty glared at him, and he clammed up.
“Sorry if you got hurt,” Ty said, turning to me. “We were just in a rush to get home and must not of seen you. Right, guys?” His henchmen nodded. “Jerry’s right—we’ve missed you. And it might be a while before you hear from us, ’cause we’ve got a lot of baseball to play in the coming weeks, but”—he smiled his reptile smile—“we’ll be back in touch right away after that.”
With a nod, he directed the gang on down the street. But he stayed and watched me writhe on the pavement, where I was clutching my shoulder, feeling the sticky blood soak my ripped shirt.
He sneered down at me before spitting on the
ground next to my face. Then he rode off.
I stared at the sky for a few moments before trying to sit up. I was half hoping that a car would come along, not see me, and just put me out of my misery. But I had no such luck. I picked up my scraped body and battered bike and began walking at limp speed toward home. The smell of pine from my cologne-soaked pants filled my head, a reminder of the optimism I had greeted the day with. Man, how I hated that smell.
The command units went all medical on me when I got home. I told them I had swerved to avoid a kid on a trike. They were concerned about the bloody shoulder and kept using words like infection and scar. I just wanted to be left alone and frankly was more concerned about the loss of my shirt. Good dress shirts are hard to find, and I anticipated no planetarium field trips in my future. Just more confusion.
9.03.01
That evening, I could tell by the series of worried glances and closed-door conversations that the commanders were gearing up for another attempt at transgenerational communication.
Sure enough, the next afternoon, after I’d had a chance to rest and relax and allow the pain to spread from my shoulder throughout my entire body, the female commander declared that she and I should go clothes shopping.
I had no real desire to get new clothes, especially with a bandaged shoulder and a “Sci-Fi Sunday” doubleheader scheduled on Channel 31, but she insisted. I didn’t fight too much. For one, there was no point. And two, maybe I would get lucky and find a replacement for that Saturn shirt.
Also, it would be nice to have the commander to myself, like in the olden days, without the spawn around. The spawn could be cute sometimes, but she did have a way of taking over the conversation.
So despite the fact that I would probably have to deflect a lot of questions about how school was going, I managed to get myself to the point of actually looking forward to this venture. It was then, of course, that the other command unit’s phone rang.
Revenge of the Star Survivors Page 13