Revenge of the Star Survivors

by Michael Merschel

  Ricki looked up and down the path. “Inside,” she said. And she climbed up.

  I followed her into the capsule, where we sat shoulder-to-shoulder, staring out at the world through the steel bars.

  “When?” I asked.

  “I get two weeks,” she said.

  “Two weeks? But what about the end of school?”

  “My dad got an offer from some tech company. Bought him out of his school contract. Offered my mom a job too. They need to start right away.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “California,” she said. “Palos Verdes or Palo Alto or Alta Vista something. Doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.”

  “Are you . . . can you . . . ?” I was grasping for a little bit of hope, in something. But there was none, and I knew it.

  “We’ve moved a lot,” she said. “I’m used to it.” She thought about that for a moment, then added, “No, I’m not.”

  “We can . . . we can write each other or something,” I said.

  “You know we won’t.”

  “Yes, we will!” I said angrily. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Moving ruins everything,” she said. “Especially friendships. How many friends did you keep when you moved?”

  But, I wanted to tell her, you’re different. I wanted to tell her we’re different. I wanted to tell her . . . I can’t believe how much this hurts.

  So I told her.

  “Ricki,” I said. “You’re different. We’re different. You saved my life this year. You made me feel—normal. Which is funny, because you’re weird. Really weird. Your defenses are like . . . like . . . Iron Man in a Batmobile behind Captain America’s shield.

  “But you know, you made this planet feel like . . . home. I won’t forget that. Ever.”

  She looked over at me. Her frown told me she was doubtful. But she didn’t tell me to stop. So I didn’t.

  “I mean, you know, you’re my friend. That means . . . the universe to me.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. So I started to raise two fingers towards the stars. She started to do the same.

  “I suppose you’re thinking up a Captain Maxim quote that will help us right now,” she said, sniffling.

  “No,” I said. “I’m thinking, I’ll bet we figure this out together.”

  And instead of extending our thumbs in a regulation salute, we reached out, toward each other, and pressed our fingertips together.

  We went from touching fingertips to pressing palm against palm, and then we hugged, tightly. We held on like each of us was about to fall off a cliff, down a chasm, into a rip in the universe.

  We held one another as close as we could for as long as we could.

  Then we had to let go.

  14.01.03

  After we parted, I walked off into the sunset. Actually, the sun wouldn’t be setting for about three hours. But it felt like it should be.

  And then, as I was walking past Festus on the way home, I saw it. In the parking lot. I had to squint to make sure.

  The blue Subaru. With the bumper stickers.

  She was back!

  I then did something I had never, ever expected to do. I ran. Toward Festus.

  The front doors were locked. But a side door had been propped open. I sprinted down a hall, around a corner, into the ARC. She was behind the circulation desk, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, carrying a box of books. Unpacking, I assumed.

  “Ms. Beacon!” I cried.

  She looked up, startled. And then she smiled. It struck me as a sad smile—clearly another sign that I had not yet mastered the skill of reading emotions. Because what was there to be sad about? Ricki was leaving, yes, but my own triumph over Denton was now complete.

  “Hello, Clark,” she said.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” I said. “I was afraid I . . .”

  I took a deep breath. The look on her face said I was speaking much too loudly for the ARC. “Sorry,” I said.

  She laughed. A little. Which, coming from her, seemed like a lot. “It’s OK, Clark. You don’t have to whisper.”

  “Good,” I said. “Do you need help with anything? Putting your stuff back? Or are you just unloading now, and we can get it tomorrow?”

  She sighed. And now her smile definitely looked sad.

  She motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, Clark.” Why was she calling me by my first name again?

  I sat.

  “Clark,” she said, “I’m very happy you’re here. I heard what you did. You were brave. You did the right thing. I knew you would, and I am proud of you. You made good work of my coded message.”

  I stared blankly. “Message?”

  “The day I was so ignominiously escorted from this building, I had time to scrawl only one note, and nothing that a weaker mind might be able to decipher. Hence, Colby 359.9.”

  My jaw dropped. “Always Faithful, Always Ready. That wasn’t Denton’s idea—it was yours?”

  She smiled. “Something about his incessant boasting did not match up with the men and women I have known who have served in the Marine Corps,” she said. “I suspected that you might come to the same conclusion. And thanks to your father’s skills and connections, we now know that we were entirely correct.”

  I was about to laugh out loud. And then I remembered why she had been sent away in the first place. It was because I had been an idiot.

  “I screwed things up,” I said to the floor. “Massively. With the envelope and all. I’m really sorry.” I looked up, saw her smiling and felt a wave of relief. “But I guess it’s working out, because you’re coming back!”

  She kept smiling, but she was shaking her head. “Clark,” she said softly, “I’m not coming back.”

  I leapt out of my chair. “What?” I cried. “That’s—that’s not fair! Why? Denton is gone! He can’t hurt you anymore!”

  She nodded. “You’re right. He can’t hurt me further. Or you.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, as she turned and started to gather things to put into a packing crate, “he’s done some damage that can’t be undone. He got me removed on a technicality. It’s not the kind of thing that should cost me my job. But I’ve been smacking heads with some of more calcified members of the administration for many years. About many things. A fair number of those people don’t have much use for an old radical like me. And so I am being invited to take early retirement. It’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  I had barely begun to process the loss of Ricki, and now this?

  “I hate this place,” I croaked, as I unsuccessfully fought back tears once again. “Ricki’s leaving. Now you. Next year, at high school, it starts all over again. What’s the point in being friends with anybody? They just leave. I should . . . I should just stay home and watch Star Survivors. Or read a book. They never go away. And they don’t hurt. Losing people—that hurts.”

  Ms. Beacon reached into her box and handed me a tissue. Then she said, “Far be it from me to disparage reading books—or even watching Star Survivors—but I need to leave you with one more lesson, Mr. Sherman. You are a man of science, correct?”

  Just hearing her call me by my formal name settled me down a bit. I wiped my eyes and nodded.

  “You understand a bit about atomic physics, then?”

  I stared, puzzled.

  “Atoms. Nuclei. You understand that they are tightly bound bits of protons and neutrons, yes?”

  Oh. That. “Yes,” I said.

  “If they are left alone, for the most part, what do they do?”

  I thought for a moment. “Not much.”

  “Yes. They sort of drift aimlessly through space. But what happens when you throw them into a mix and make them bounce into one another?”

  I tried to imagine what she was asking. “You get . . . a bunch of atoms bouncing off one another?”

  “More than that, Clark. When the right atoms collide, in the proper circumstances, they fuse together. Things fly in all directions. It makes new elements, it cre
ates energy. And when you break atoms apart, and send the pieces flying around, it also releases energy. It’s how the universe was made. It’s what makes the sun glow. It’s what gives us life. Atoms flying around, bouncing into each other, fusing together, splitting apart.

  “You and Ricki are splitting apart. You and I are splitting apart. But sparks we created are going to fly around and set things off. You’ll take the energy you got from me, and I’ll take the energy I got from you, and we’ll soar on that until eventually, we’ll bounce into something else, and we’ll all create something new that will be wonderful, and powerful, and good.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. But it made me stop thinking about how hollow I felt inside.

  She resumed putting things in her box. “What are you going to do, Ms. Beacon? “ I asked. “Without a job?”

  She held a folder labeled PARENTAL CHALLENGES, briefly examined it, then tossed it in the recycling bin. “Well, it’s not as bad as you might think. The district might consider me a bad influence on children, but they have to pay me until my contract is up this summer. In a way, they are paying me to have a nice vacation.

  “So my friend Maggie and I—the one who was in the hospital—are going to treat ourselves to a few weeks in Florida. She could use some sunshine, and we’ve got friends with a spare room. And then—well, something will come up. Maybe I’ll finish that novel I started.”

  “You’re going to read a novel?”

  “You are good to notice my carelessness with language. I should pay closer attention to the words I use.

  “But for now, I need to finish cleaning out this office. I was trying to do so quietly, when nobody was around, so as not to cause a fuss. But it has been very good to see you, Clark. I shall not forget you, or your loyalty. Would you like to help me out, one more time?”

  Without speaking, I took one of the boxes she had filled, and she took the other, and we walked to her car.

  Once it was loaded, she turned and faced me. She stood up straight, and for a moment her face was the stern, mighty Beacon of old.

  Slowly, she brought up her right hand, extended two fingers and held her thumb out. She touched her heart, and then pointed to the skies.

  I watched, in awe, then returned the farewell.

  “May you always feel at home, Mr. Sherman. Whichever star you follow.”

  The growl of her Subaru driving away was not quite as impressive as the whoosh! of the Fortitude as it flew off into the closing credits. But it was a worthy exit nonetheless.

  I held the salute until she had rounded the corner. Then I turned toward home.

  14.02.01

  The goodbye to Ricki came frighteningly fast. We had a week of school, a few days off for break, and then she had to go.

  It was brief. She didn’t want anything too complicated. We just stood out in front of the school, me in my best NASA shirt, her in a dress that, for once, did not have any flowers on it. It was all black.

  She was holding a small white box with headphones attached.

  “New phone?” I asked, hopeful that this might open some line of long-distance communication.

  “Old iPod,” she explained. “Les rebuilt one for me. Something he salvaged from the Sanctuary. He filled it with music he thought I might be able to use on the drive west.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” she said, looking down at the box. “It’s stuff his mom and dad used to listen to, he said. He assures me it’s quite loud. Which is what I wanted. I’m going to enjoy introducing it to my parents. It’s about time I broadened their appreciation of the world a bit, don’t you think?”

  Her voice was spookily bright.

  “Ricki,” I asked, “are you . . . are you going to be OK? With them?”

  She set her jaw. “Clark, I survived life in a sewer with you, and I took down a wolf pack with my bare hands. I’m ready for anything.”

  She started to turn away but halted. She looked me right in the eye and said softly, “Thank you for your support.”

  My throat burned too hotly for me to speak. She touched her fingers to her chest, and as she raised her hand, we touched fingertips one more time.

  “I suppose it is ironic that you will go down as the one bright memory I take with me from this place,” she said cheerfully. “But you will.”

  Then she spun away and, with a bouncy stride, was gone.

  I wondered whether I would see her again. But I knew she’d know where to find me: I’d written my address inside my copy of Star Survivors: The Novel, which I’d slipped inside her backpack earlier.

  I like to think that with real friends, hailing frequencies are always open. As Maxim might say—there’s always a way.

  14.03.01

  I still have to report to the gym each morning, and again in the afternoon. But it’s not such a bad class when you don’t have to suit up. Or run. Or throw anything. Or get punched, kicked or . . .

  It’s not so bad having to sit for an hour and read.

  In the afternoon sometimes, Les is able to hide in the bleachers with me and talk to me about how things are evolving at his house. How Blethins had gotten them into a counseling center that had a whole shelf of games, funky toys and even free snacks—and how Les’s mom had been really interested in this book the counselor had suggested. Also, how Ty had been keeping his distance.

  The updates give me hope for Les. But I’m too much of a space veteran to lower my guard. Today, I waited a good long time for the regular PE students to get out of the way before I decided to slip into the locker room to visit the water fountain.

  Which is where I ran into him.

  We almost collided, there in the doorway. He’d been slow in suiting up because he’d done something to his arm. His right hand and forearm were sheathed in plastic and athletic tape. Maybe he’d sprained it. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. It still looked as if it could damage me, should he put his mind to it.

  Then I remembered he couldn’t actually hurt me anymore. In theory.

  I dared to look him in the eye.

  Ty returned the stare with what I took to be the glow of hatred coming from deep inside his pupils. I balked. I wanted to run.

  I stayed.

  He spoke.

  “I didn’t need your help,” he said.

  “I didn’t offer any,” I said. “Go ahead, take a drink. I’ll watch.”

  He snorted. “Not the water fountain. With my dad. In the office. I could of handled him.”

  I spoke to him in a tone that I imagined a mouse would use in conversation with a cobra that was trying to decide whether to strike.

  “I’m sure you could have,” I said.

  “I was in control.”

  “I know.”

  “He doesn’t own me.”

  I said nothing.

  “When they called me to the office, I thought they were going to kick me off the team. That would have really made him blow his stack.” He smiled at this thought. “It would’ve been great.”

  “You mean,” I said slowly, “you wanted to get kicked out?”

  “I didn’t think so. Until he was there, yelling at me. But after that, yeah. Getting banned from baseball would’ve been a great way to tell him, ‘Screw you,’ don’t you think?”

  I didn’t move.

  “I mean, even Blethins and the new shrink couldn’t get him to talk about much besides baseball at first,” he continued. “All he wanted to know was when I could rejoin the team. So to get his attention, I had to do this.”

  My look must have said, Do what? because he held up his bandaged hand.

  “Punched my locker. I’ll be out for six weeks.”

  “Uh, nice?” was all I could manage. My eyes kept darting between his face and his good arm. Which I expected to strike at any second.

  Then his shoulders sagged, and he glanced around. “Look,” he said in a lower voice, “I, uh, I’m glad you did what you did. With the counselor and all. I’m no
t sure why you would. I mean, nobody else has given a rat’s ass about me. Aside from my arm, I mean. My freaking arm.

  “And I—I’m sorry. That I was an ass. It wasn’t supposed to be . . . I mean, we never . . .”

  He huffed. “We were just doing what we did. That’s all.”

  It was not going to win an award for Most Articulate Apology. But I shrugged my acceptance.

  “You looked like you needed a break,” I said. It was true.

  He gave a very slight nod.

  “If you’re up to visit Les, I’ll keep clear,” he said. “And I’ll tell the others to keep clear too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just watch out for my dad.” And he called him one of those urological nicknames he used to reserve for me.

  I cringed reflexively, then remembered I was no longer his target. “I will.”

  I stepped out of his way. And he stepped out of mine.

  “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He headed to the field. I headed to the water fountain.

  I thought about all he had put me through. I thought about how his wrist would heal a lot sooner than my mental scars. I thought it would be wrong to forgive him for what he’d done. That would be a sign of weakness. And if I had learned one thing on Planet Festus, it was that the universe is far too tough a place to show weakness.

  But as I bent down to take my drink, I thought the universe had plenty of meanness in it already, and perhaps it would not be too weak of me to hate him just a little bit less.

  14.04.01

  Don’t get me wrong—even if I hate Ty slightly less, there’s still plenty to dislike about Planet Festus.

  Classes are still boring. The hallways are still ugly. And when I walk them, sometimes I still feel like a lost spaceman. When I see packs of unfamiliar faces headed my way, I reflexively look for a wormhole.

  But there’s no denying that life has evolved.

  Sometimes somebody will say hi to me. Not often. But more than before. I’m working on how to handle that.