“Either way, both of you losing her to some Harley-riding guy from Alaska—does that sting much?”
Ty, in a verb, lost it.
His thin lips curled into a snarl, his hands turned into angry claws, and he pounced on Les ferociously. Ty went straight for Les’s throat and wrapped his fingers around it. Les tried to squirm away but looked, for all his effort, like a tiny mouse in the clutches of a raptor.
Ty spun Les around and twisted his arms behind him. Les gasped. I could see his face. His eyes were screwed tight and his lips peeled back as he writhed.
Just when I thought his head was going to pop, Ty pushed Les into Bubba, who jabbed him in the stomach, then pushed his hunched body into Jerry, who swept his ankle and flung him to the floor.
“How do you like this deal?” screamed Ty as he kicked him in the side. “Maybe it’s a disappointment, huh?” Another kick. “AND LEAVE MY MOM OUT OF THIS!” An extra-hard kick. “NEVER, NEVER, MENTION MY MOM!” Another kick. And another.
Les had told me not to say anything, no matter what I saw. But surely, he hadn’t expected to be used as a mop on the sewer floor. But how could I defend him?
Suddenly, I was living what I had read in a book about test pilots. How their minds focus on the problem in front of them, and time seems to slow as they calmly go through the options, even as their craft plummets toward the earth in a flat spin. The ones who get out of it go on to become astronauts. The ones who don’t . . .
I pushed that thought aside and focused on my options.
I could lie here, hide, wait for them to leave, help Les when the coast was clear.
Les could be dead by then.
I could push the crate full of books out of the way, crawl forward, leap to the ground, and, using the element of surprise, immobilize them with some precisely administered Omegan Fingers of Defibrillation.
Yeah, right.
I could improvise using available tools. This had worked for Commander Steele in Episode 21, where he’s able to build a lithium cannon out of a broken communicator, the frame of an old bicycle and a jar of pickle juice. But I didn’t have any of those things. I had a milk crate, some paperback books, a flashlight and . . .
A box of matches. The ones I used to light the candles.
Les’s moans and his attackers’ laughter concealed the sound as I unzipped my backpack and felt around for the matchbox. I grabbed it and pulled out my English reading list as well.
I struck a match, fearful that the sound would reveal my hiding spot too soon. It took a moment for the reading list to ignite. But eventually, a flame started turning the gray words into white smoke and brown ash.
I slipped the burning paper through the back of the milk crate and waited for the books to light. I said a silent apology to Ray Bradbury in particular; I hoped he would understand.
As the corners of those old paperbacks began to glow orange, then blacken and curl, I realized the first flaw in my strategy: I was getting a face full of smoke and was going to be blind and choking in about five seconds. This would be a serious impediment to the rest of my plan, which, as usual, I did not know yet.
I waited as long as I could, then pushed hard and dumped the crate to the floor. My hopes were pinned on two things: surprise, and . . . well, one thing. Surprise was about all I had. So to help with that angle, I accompanied the crash of the crate with a shout, in my deepest voice.
“FIRE!” I yelled. “EVERYBODY GET OUT! FIRE!” And I started hacking and coughing, which was not in the plan, but which enhanced the mood nicely.
As the crate crashed to the ground, pages from several of the older books came unbound and were consumed in bright yellow flames. It wasn’t quite an explosion, but it was close enough.
Ty, Jerry and Bubba let go of Les. Nobody could see me; I was too far back in the pipe. The gang could hear me, though; the acoustics had the effect of amplifying what I said and making it sound as if it were coming from multiple directions. And they could see the smoke that had started to fill the chamber and the rising bonfire in front of them.
Bubba bolted toward the exit with a speed that was surprising for someone that large.
As the smoke thickened, Jerry, too decided to run.
That left Ty, who was staring down at Les. Ty watched the flames, then looked at his stepbrother, incapacitated from the beating he’d taken.
Then Ty did something shocking. He slowly bent down, touched Les’s face and said, “Oh God. I’m sorry, man. I swear, I never meant for it to get this crazy. I swear to God. But when my mom just . . . and the way my dad never . . . and you’re always such a . . .” He broke off.
The hate on Ty’s face had melted away; his eyes were watering and he looked like a frightened, messed-up kid who was in over his head and unsure where to turn. It hit me—Les had finally found a way to make Ty act halfway human, and even offer an apology. Too bad he wasn’t conscious to see it.
I expected Ty to run, like the others had. But as the smoke made it ever harder to see, he kept holding on to Les. Just as the smoke became thickest, he hoisted him on to his back, grunting under the burden, and carried him out, firefighter-style, crouching awkwardly so as not to scrape his brother against the low ceiling.
I watched them go. For a moment, I thought of Ty as a real human being.
The feeling passed quickly. But I can’t deny it.
I coughed my way out of my hiding place, watched the flames turn the books into cinders that rose toward the school through the access tube, which was working like a chimney. I felt cool air being drawn in from the park. There was no real danger. I had known there wouldn’t be. I congratulated myself and started to weigh my prospects as a test pilot.
I thanked the writers of the smoldering books for the way they had saved me. Then I took a look around the smoky Sanctuary. I knew this would be the last time I passed through. My battles would be out in the open now.
I grabbed my backpack, put the matches away and walked toward the light.
10.03.05
I was worried about how I would explain my smoky clothes to my commander—maybe she’d believe that the Boy Scouts had held a recruitment wiener roast after school and things had gotten slightly out of hand?
But as it turned out, moments before I got home, the spawn had discovered how to use a Marks-A-Lot. On the wall and herself. So the commander was elbow-deep in toddler and suds and didn’t even see me come in. I dashed to my room, did a quick change and doused my clothes with Timber Peak body spray—enough to mask an entire forest fire—before shoving them to the bottom of the hamper.
When she was older, I would have to thank Gwen for being such an excellent diversion. She was really saving me from a lot of explaining lately.
I went back to my room and pretended to do homework while I wondered how Les was doing.
He called in the middle of Star Survivors.
“I’m OK,” he said.
“You made it home?”
“Somehow,” he said. “I woke up in the park, not far from our house. I got smacked in the head right after I heard you yell, ‘FIRE.’ It gets hazy for a bit after that, but I must have staggered into the park when the others ran.”
I didn’t tell him what I had seen—about the apologetic, frightened Ty—because I wasn’t sure I believed it. Or if it had really happened, what to make of it.
“I was worried,” was all I said. “Why are you breaking radio silence?”
“I’m done hiding from him,” he said.
“Does that mean you’re going to Denton?”
“No,” Les said, reluctantly. “I—I can’t. I want to. But if I ever did anything to mess with Ty, it would make Ben angry. Off-the-charts angry. I mean, me getting Ty kicked out of school and out of baseball? I—I couldn’t do that to my mom.”
“Your mom?”
“I mean, probably he’d direct all the rage at me. But he might turn on her after that. And it’s my job to protect her. So I can’t . . .” He paused for a moment, thin
king. “No, I can’t.”
“But Les, didn’t she see what Ty did to you? You looked . . . pretty bad.” That was an understatement. A few more kicks and he would have been ready for a role in a zombie movie.
“Clark,” Les said slowly, “my family has seen this all before.”
He let that sink in.
“But while you and I were down there,” he finally said, “I realized you’re the answer, Clark. Do you understand now? I can’t turn him in. . . .”
I got it. “But I can.”
“Right,” Les continued. “They can’t stop you. The only problem, I realized, was that some authority might ask for proof that Ty was dangerous. That’s why I set him off. To create evidence. You have all my bruises and scrapes to show them.”
I felt humbled by Les’s gift. And simultaneously, a little like Peter Parker must have felt the day after being bitten by the radioactive spider. Or young Kal-El when the first rays of a golden sun hit him.
I had a superpower, and it did not even involve vomit. This would have to be handled with courage, with foresight, with strategy, with—
“Clark! Are you there?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
EXPEDITION LOG
ENTRY 11.01.01
As I strode into Festus the next day, I told myself: Ruining Ty’s life will be so simple that even I couldn’t screw it up. It could be done in a flash. Although I knew that Ty had to be thinking about how dangerous I was, and I wanted him to agonize a bit.
So, when to strike to maximize that anguish?
Not first hour. Too soon. Ty and his partners kept their distance in any case. I could see them whispering and looking at me from the far side of the track. Excellent.
But in the crowded halls on the way to second hour, I decided that proper dramatic structure required me to serve justice . . . during Athletics.
Yes. I would let them squirm all day, then release the Kraken on them, as it were. I would saunter into the office and make sure Denton was around. “Ms. Blethins,” I would say, “I need to tell you something about a student who has been causing problems.” She would have to send someone to fetch him from right under Coach Chambers’s nose. Chambers would watch helplessly as the star of his precious baseball team was marched away, never to return.
Denton would be flustered, but the mechanical part of him would know—the law was the law. He would have to follow the rules. He was a Marine cyborg, after all.
After lunch I was so excited I could hardly contain myself as I walked into the ARC. Ms. Beacon would be almost as big a winner as I was. I reminded myself that I would have to stay humble and modest around her when she became effusive in her praise.
It was at this point that I was reminded of one big difference between real life and TV shows. On Star Survivors, every time danger looms, you can brace yourself for it by the musical cue. The sound starts low, with the basses vibrating nervously, then crescendos up to a series of panicky horn blasts and screeching violins as the peril reveals itself.
In real life, you just walk into a room, see your friend Ricki staring at you, wide-eyed, turn to look at your teacher and see—
“Are you Clark Sherman?”
He was a man in a dark suit, slightly better fitting than Denton’s, but probably purchased off the same rack.
“Yes sir?”
“I’m Gerald Branigan, assistant superintendent for school security. Will you join me in your principal’s office so I can ask a few questions?”
11.01.02
We sat in the office. The assistant superintendent, a balding man with sharp blue eyes, and I sat across from Denton, whose fingertips were making a tent and touching one another rhythmically.
“Clark,” the assistant superintendent said, “there was an incident yesterday. Someone smelled smoke in the basement that was coming from the storm drain,” he said. Things were arranged so that looking at him also meant looking at Denton’s Marine portrait and the display case that held his Soldier’s Medal for Valor.
“Oh,” I said. I began to wonder how I was going to look in a jail jumpsuit.
“Some other students said they saw you playing near the entrance to the storm drain yesterday.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Clark,” he asked, “did you see anything unusual yesterday?”
I thought for a moment. “Nothing out of the ordinary, really.” Which was the truth.
He looked over at Denton, who nodded at him.
“Clark,” the assistant superintendent said, “arson is a very serious crime.”
“Yes,” I said.
“The repercussions can be very severe,” he said.
“I’m sure,” I said. I wondered whether I would qualify for solitary confinement or if I would be left to be dismembered by the general prison population.
“It would be an awful thing for a young man to have on his permanent record,” he said. “And it could, at the very least, get you sent to alternative school with the other juvenile delinquents.”
I thought of being at a whole school full of Tys—only bigger, stronger and meaner. I thought of the last time I had visited the zoo and witnessed feeding time at the lion cage.
The assistant superintendent looked up at Denton, who folded his hands and placed them on his desk.
“Mr. Branigan, maybe I have an answer for you. You and I have known each other quite some time, have we not?”
He nodded. “For quite some time, yes.”
“So my recommendations would carry some weight with you, yes?”
Again he nodded. “Yes, certainly, George.”
Denton fixed his gaze on me. “Jerry, this boy is OK. Leave him with me.”
The assistant superintendent rose. “It’s your school, George. I’m here to help.” He opened his jacket to put his pen in his pocket, and I noticed that he had a tie tack that looked like a tiny baseball. I also caught a glimpse of a pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt.
“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll call if there are developments to report.”
The assistant superintendent looked at me, nodded knowingly at Denton and left.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Denton spoke in venomous tones.
“And there will be developments to report, Sherman, the instant you cause any sort of problems. For me or any fellow student. I will use paperwork to take you out of this school the way I would have used my gun to take out an enemy when I was a Marine: Quickly. Efficiently. Mercilessly. And if you try to go over my head to the district, the first person you’ll have to deal with will be my friend Branigan. Who will make sure things go my way. Am I perfectly clear, son?”
It was way, way too clear: I was in over my head.
“It’s clear, sir,” I said.
“Excellent,” he said.
I stood. “Shall I report back to Ms. Beacon now, sir?”
The grin on his face made me ill. “You may return to your class, but your instructor is no longer Ms. Beacon.”
Blood drained from my face as his smile broadened. “W-w-why not?” I stammered.
His malicious tone could have been stolen right from the Vexon Praetor himself. “Because she has been placed on permanent administrative leave.”
He let the news sink in, then explained.
“An important, confidential student file was lost while in her possession. It later surfaced in the regular interoffice mail. Failure to secure sensitive student records is a breach of district policy, if not federal law. Given that, and her record of lax supervision and conflict with her superiors, I had no choice but to begin termination proceedings.
“She was never much of a team player,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing her again.”
11.01.03
I staggered back to the ARC.
When I got there, I saw that Ms. Beacon’s office had been cleared of most of her photos and knickknacks.
I felt like Luke, watching the annihilation of Obi-W
an. Except in this case, it’s as if I had built the lightsaber myself, then handed it to Darth Vader.
A young, nervous substitute teacher sat at the desk.
“Are you Clark?” she said. “Mr. Denton—Principal Denton—told me you’d be by. When I asked him about a lesson plan, he said to assign you a book report. It’s due next week.”
She then looked around as if making sure nobody was watching. “I also found this note with your name on it.” She slipped me a piece of official school stationery, folded in half. I opened it, and saw, in unfamiliar handwriting: “Mr. Sherman—Colby 359.9.”
I recognized the reference to a Dewey decimal number and trudged to the shelf in a daze. The book I found was Always Faithful, Always Ready: Real Stories of the United States Marine Corps. Clearly, Denton had taken care of every insulting detail.
I pulled it off the shelf and stumbled back to my seat, avoiding eye contact with Ricki the whole hour. When the bell rang at the end of class, she ran over to me.
“What happened?” she asked. “Where’s Beacon?”
I shook my head. “Gone.”
“What? How?” she asked as she followed me out. The halls were crowded with students, but we didn’t care.
“The envelope. I—they think she lost it, and they fired her.”
“No!” cried Ricki. “That’s not fair!”
She was right.
“What are you going to do?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to confess that I was powerless. That I had walked right into a trap. That I’d had failures of courage, of intellect, of . . . everything.
“Please, can we talk about it after school, at the rocket ship park?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
Actually, the only thing that seemed sure to me was this: there could be no worse feeling than appearing so weak and dumb in front of Ricki.
Revenge of the Star Survivors Page 18