by Ben Zackheim
Billy tagged along wherever Simon went. He was determined to be witness to any mistreatment of his hero. Bob’s every sneer and rude grumble was recorded in Billy’s little notepad.
With Billy, Simon could have enjoyed his first friend since Sister Alphonsus. But Simon didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to open himself up to anyone. His grief for her was so intense that he dreaded going to sleep at night. The sadness seemed to intensify right before bed. He thought about how pointless the spent day was, and how little he looked forward to the next one.
After a week in St. Mary’s, Simon was ready to break the law to escape.
“What if you flooded the boy’s bathroom?” Billy brainstormed while walking to class with Simon.
Simon just looked at him. The kid was so naive it hurt. How would he ever make it in this place?
“Uh, well, I don’t think that would do much to get me out,” Simon said trying to be kind.
“Sure would be stinky, though!” Billy said, and laughed.
As Simon pondered a good way to make a bad impression he inadvertently spotted an envelope in his mail slot. Kids got mail so rarely that the mail wall was invisible to everyone except teachers waiting for their Amazon packages. When a kid did get mail it was a big deal. Everyone knew within minutes.
Simon approached the envelope as if it were a growling dog. The hand-writing on the front was formal, pretty. It called him “Mr. Simon Sharp,” which was a first. He moved his fingers over the paper.
A real letter! He hadn’t let himself get this excited about anything for a very long time.
Brad snatched the letter and tore it up before Simon even realized it was out of his hand.
Simon leapt for the pieces, but Brad’s gang was delighted to kick them around the dirty floor. Simon took a couple of random swings at no one, missed, and got shoved to the ground. He snagged some scraps from the mess of paper before Brad dragged him into a dark, empty classroom by his ankles. Simon’s escorts, who had been hanging back, walked away.
“Let go!” Simon shouted. He kicked as hard as he could. But Brad was too strong. His grip tightened.
So Simon grabbed Brad’s foot, and sunk his teeth into the bully’s ankle.
Brad shrieked.
Simon spit a chunk of bloody sock onto the floor.
“You’re dead!” Brad screeched.
Billy pushed his way between Brad and Simon. “Leave him…” was all he managed to say before Brad’s fist put Billy down hard.
Simon used the distraction to scurry under a desk. Brad’s arms came down on the wood surface above his head.
He’s being stupid, Simon thought. He’s letting his anger fight for him.
Simon lifted the small desk over his head and threw it. Brad stayed stupid. He tried to hit the desk away instead of ducking. He screamed as his wrist cracked on the desk’s edge.
He recovered fast, bulldozed through a few chairs and pinned Simon to the floor with his forearm. Some catcalls from the other kids filled the room. Simon shoved Brad as hard as he could. Whatever else he did, Simon knew he had to keep the bully on the defensive. After a few seconds Brad got so frustrated that he was forced to use both forearms to pin his prey.
He’s about to do a head butt, Simon thought.
As Brad’s head came down, Simon moved his own out of the way.
Brad’s forehead struck the hard floor with a sickening WHACK.
Out cold, he slumped onto Simon, pinning him. The catcalls stopped.
Simon tried to push Brad off but another kid kicked him in the head before he could.
As he joined Brad in slumberland, Simon managed to enjoy the stunned faces of the posse.
HE AWOKE IN the nurse’s office. Brad was in the cot next to him, still out like a light. Mr. Digby sat in a chair nearby. He glowered at Simon as he tried to sit up.
“Don’t move. You probably have a concussion like my boy. I hope you’re, mmmmmmm, happy with yourself.”
Mr. Digby had a throbbing stutter that sounded like the hum of a dying fluorescent bulb. It creeped all the boys out, but they’d learned to stare patiently at Digby, expressionless, until the stutter was broken by the inevitable need for oxygen.
“He attacked me,” Simon managed.
“It’s always so easy for you to blame, mmmm, someone else. You’re weak. No sense of responsibility. Did you know that no one likes you? No one. You think you’re so much better than everyone else. You never talk to anyone. You walk around pouting.” Mr. Digby made a sad face. Simon really hoped he didn’t look like that! “The best I can say is that you finally fought back like a man. My son does a good job keeping you in your place. Perhaps you can learn something from him, mmmmmmm.”
Either Simon’s head injury was making his head swim, or Mr. Digby’s stupidity was. Simon didn’t know what to say.
“Dumb, as usual,” the adult said. “When you get out of here you’re going to find that the world isn’t as forgiving as we are. You’d better get it together, kid, or they’ll eat you alive out there. As of now, you’re destined for welfare, if you’re lucky.”
Brad started to stir.
Wonderful, let’s make this a party, Simon thought.
But Brad glanced around confused and mumbled something about Kermit the Frog and a banana hat before he put his head back on the pillow.
“I can see that you two aren’t in any shape to get back into it with each other,” Digby said as he stood to leave. “But if you touch my boy again, I’ll kill you myself. Understand?” Simon glared back.
“Mmmmmmm. No one will miss you around here.” And with that he left.
Miss him? What did he mean by that?
The next morning Simon was released by the nurse with a stern warning not to get into any more fights if he wanted to live to his next birthday. Brad, who pretended to be asleep while Simon got dressed, was also let go later that day. He had a broken wrist and several fewer IQ points to show for it all.
THAT EVENING, SIMON was in the library with Bob the guard, digging for a book. Unfortunately, the library was tiny. It had about a hundred volumes in it. They were mostly hand-me-downs from teachers whose taste ranged from bad romance to anything with a “Now a Major Motion Picture” label on it.
Simon rolled his eyes and prepared to pick whatever was next on the shelf when Mr. Digby slammed the door open. He charged at Simon.
“I didn’t do anything!” Simon yelled.
“Where have you been?”
“I’m looking for a book to read.”
“Why aren’t you packing?”
“Why would I pack?”
Mr. Digby glanced at Simon sideways. “Because we’re finally getting rid of you for good. Now come on!” Simon followed him to the 3rd floor sleeping quarters, a room packed with cots and lit with fluorescents that made everyone look sickly green.
“The car will be here to pick you up in ten minutes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to stay.”
Simon didn’t know what to say. Digby stopped short and put a finger in Simon’s face.
“Didn’t you read the letter I put in your mailbox?” Digby hollered, his complexion reddening by the second.
Simon was about to tell him that his son had ripped it up, but thought better of it. “No,” he said instead.
“Is that because you get so many that you forgot?” He took Simon by the shoulder and shoved him onto a cot. “You have five minutes. Anything you can’t pack in that time will be given to charity.”
Digby slammed the door closed. Simon saw an old suitcase on top of his pillow.
“You’re lucky.” Billy’s small voice was smaller than usual. He sat on his cot in the corner of the room.
“Yeah?” Simon didn’t know what else to say.
“Yeah, you get to leave. Everyone’s been talking about it all day.”
“But… how do you know? Where am I going?”
“Oh man. Sorry, Simon! Hold on a second.” Billy ruffled through his stuff
and pulled out a sheet of paper. It had been torn to shreds and reassembled with tape and glue. When Billy walked closer Simon saw that his left eye was purple and swollen shut. He could also tell that Billy had been crying. “I put it back together for you after the fight. The one where you broke Brad’s wrist. Ha!”
Simon smirked and took the paper. It was his letter.
“Thanks Billy. How’s your eye?” Simon asked.
“Ugly, right?” Billy said, and then he laughed. “Go ahead and read it!”
Simon,
I understand that you are without a home. As was typical of my brother, he left you with no guardian. This has only now come to my attention, as I’ve been away from civilization for several years. However, now that I’m back I will, starting this month, provide you with room, board, and an education. You will have to take it from there, as every man must.
Victor Sharp
Dorusduain, Scotland
Victor, Victor…
His uncle! Well, estranged uncle. Simon didn’t even know what he looked like. Some memories came rushing in as he remembered hearing about how Victor frowned on his brother’s archaeological adventures. Simon’s dad, Thadeus, was the dreamer. Victor was what again? An antiques dealer, maybe. Sister Alphonsus had looked for the uncle but wasn’t able to track him down.
Ten minutes.
He was leaving.
He was really leaving!
Simon had left all his stuff at the Winters’, so he didn’t have much to pack. He slipped the vambrace into a pillow case, covering it with a t-shirt and a pair of pants that Sister Mary Eunice had given him.
In his haste to leave he almost forgot about Billy, who was watching him from his cot, hands rested on his knees.
Simon didn’t know what to say. He was bad enough with words even when there wasn’t someone hanging on his every one. But he had to try. Billy was a good person. The first good person he’d found his own age.
“Thanks Billy. That was really cool of you, what you did with the letter.”
Billy just stared. His unblinking eyes were fixed on Simon. Simon sat on the cot across from him. Finally, he knew what to say.
“Sister Alphonsus was my best friend. She always told me ‘Homework will build a home.’ Okay? You understand?”
“No.”
This kid wasn’t going to make it easy, was he? “Just work hard, okay? Study a lot. It’s your best chance to make a life.”
Billy stood up, walked forward two steps stiffly and put out his hand to shake. He squeezed Simon’s hand, then left.
Simon watched him go. If this was even a fraction of what Billy’s father felt when he’d abandoned him, Simon didn’t know how the bum lived with himself.
6
The flight to Glasgow was dull, until someone showed up on the wing.
They’d been in the air for several hours. Simon couldn’t sleep, so he stared out into the night sky. The moon’s glow blanketed the huge jet engine outside row seventeen’s window. In the distance, dim lights flickered into view in the black sheet of night. He guessed it was Glasgow.
The cabin lights popped on when Simon saw movement near the wing’s tip. He squinted and pressed his nose against the window to get a better view.
Was that a person out there?
He glanced around. The passengers were either asleep or getting ready for landing.
A bolt of lightning killed the moonlight. In that moment Simon saw a human figure perched on the wing in a long, wind-whipped robe, arms stretched in the air.
The plane shook violently. Shrieks filled the cabin. They fell a few hundred feet in an instant. The pilot pulled out of the dive but the climb was about as scary, especially when another lightning bolt shot past them.
After a moment, the pilot’s voice reassured them, “Sorry for that one, folks. Looks like we dodged a bullet or two there. I’ll have you on the ground before you know it.”
By the time they landed, there was nervous laughter, but everyone was ready to run for the exit.
Simon waited for the plane to empty out before he grabbed his bag. He followed the flight staff and searched for someone who might be his ride. Most people were hugging their families or looking for the baggage claim.
There was only one person standing in the middle of the crowd as if she were waiting for someone. She was a pretty girl, early teens, with red hair and light freckles. She wore a black cape adorned with colorful patterns, fastened at the neck with a shiny silver clasp.
She stared right at him.
As people crossed his view, Simon realized she was coming closer. Before he could blink she was standing right in front of him, with a very serious look on her face. The expression conflicted with her hair, which looked as if… as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. And were those bugs squashed to her forehead?
“Simon?” He nodded his head. “I’m Maille Rose. I’m here to take you to your uncle’s.”
“Hello,” he said as politely as he could.
Maille’s eyes darted about nervously. Her hair whipped around like branches on a tree, swaying with every movement of her head.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, as he noticed a bug crawling toward her ear. “Oh, um, hey, I think you have some bugs on…”
“No. Of course not. Nothing’s wrong.” She grabbed his hand and led him away. “Do you have much luggage?”
“None. I don’t own much.”
“Oh, too bad. That you don’t own much, that is.” Her grip on his wrist was strong. Too strong. She broke into a jog.
“Uh, why are we running?” he asked. But Maille didn’t answer. She peeked over her shoulder.
“Okay. What’s going on here? Who are you?” Simon stopped short. Maille moved close to him and leaned into his ear to whisper.
“Listen to me, Simon. You’re in danger. We need to get you out of here.”
“Who’s we? What do you mean danger?”
But Maille, if that was her name, saw something that made her eyes go wide.
“Oh, look at that,” she said with a smile, then ducked below the elbows of a gaggle of chattering businessmen and disappeared. Simon couldn’t spot her anywhere. He was going to call out her name when he felt a large hand settle on his shoulder.
“Mr. Sharp?” Simon turned and saw the biggest man he’d ever laid his eyes on. The guy looked like a boxer, with shoulders as wide as a door. He was dressed in old-fashioned chauffeur garb, hat and all. It fit so badly that it was more like a costume than a uniform. Simon made a gesture with his hand that was a cross between a wave hello and erasing a chalk-board. The man smiled and took his carry-on.
“I’m Hector,” he said with a distinct Scottish accent. “I’ll be taking you to yer uncle’s.”
“Then who was…” He stopped himself.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Thanks.” Simon stayed a few paces back as Hector carved a path through the crowd. The driver’s stride was long enough to take four steps at a time up a flight of stairs. Simon stole a few glances around on the off chance he’d spot Maille, but no luck. Maybe he’d dreamed her up. Like he’d dreamed that someone was standing on the wing of a plane going 400 miles per hour. Jet lag. Yeah. Jet lag.
Hector’s car was black and its steering wheel was on the wrong side. Simon’s dad had tried to milk that joke when they’d visited the United Kingdom together. It wasn’t funny the first time, so it was like nails on a chalkboard by the seventeenth. Generally speaking, his dad hadn’t been a funny guy, but sometimes he was struck by the mood. It was random and never made any sense to Simon. He’d always wished his dad would stick to the dour professor act. Now, of course, he would even tolerate the steering wheel joke if it meant he could hear his voice again.
When Simon got in the front seat with Hector, the driver seemed a little surprised.
“You can sit in the back if you’d like.” Simon looked at him, confused. “Roomy,” Hector added with a smile.
“I’m fine in the fro
nt if you’re okay with it.”
“Whatever you’d like, Mr. Sharp.”
“Simon.”
Man, grownups can be weird.
“The drive’ll be a long one,” Hector said. “The estate’s in Dorusduain. Few hundred kilometers north.”
Simon decided to make the most of it and get to know this guy. It was better than fretting about the weird girl he’d just met. What did she mean when she said he was in danger? She was probably just a nut.
A nut who happened to know his name.
He shut his eyes tight to make the thought go away.
“You okay?” Hector asked.
“Yeah, fine. How old is this car?” Simon ran his hand over the door handle. He’d never seen a car with a stick-shift before.
“Nineteen fifty seven.”
“Wow, that’s old all right.” Hector smiled politely. “So what’s it like working for my uncle?”
“It’s a good job,” he answered, and left it at that.
Okay, not very detailed, but at least he answered. Simon didn’t know much about his father’s brother. He’d tapped his brain on the flight and dug up some memories, hazy from lack of use. Victor was wealthy from selling antiques, as secretive as could be, and believed strongly that searching for King Arthur was “about as rewarding as standing in line for a smack on the head.” Simon’s father was especially offended by that line and tended to repeat it whenever the subject of his brother came up.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a fair man,” Hector said. Simon had no idea what that meant. He got the sense that the driver wasn’t comfortable talking about it, so he opted to shut up. Since his uncle was the only thing Simon had in common with Hector, he figured he’d get to know the driver better some other time.
Soon enough, Simon would meet his uncle and understand why Hector was so careful.
“THERE IT IS,” Hector said, waking Simon from a deep sleep. They were driving through a security gate. Pebbles popped under the wheels. Simon rubbed his eyes and tried to comprehend what he was seeing.