WHEELS

by Lorijo Metz

  “I can’t breathe. Open the window.”

  “The window’s broken, honey. Be patient.”

  They were driving home from physical therapy. That part was true. Even before the accident, McKenzie’s legs had never worked. But the rest…

  “Only a dream,” whispered McKenzie, trying to stop the memories of last night’s nightmare. She knew the truth about her mother’s death. Her dad had told her.

  “I’m burning up!”

  In her dream, McKenzie had seen her feet. Small and useless and cold, and then warm—then too warm.

  “McKenzie, what are you doing?”

  “Only a dream,” murmured McKenzie.

  “McKenzie, PLEASE—oh God—PLEASE, not the door!”

  “I can’t.” McKenzie shook her head. “I CAN’T,” she shouted, all the while trying to make the image of the window opening, the door dissolving, her mom’s arm disappearing—

  “Oh my God, my arm! My arm, McKenzie, my arm!”

  “STOP!” McKenzie pressed her hands against her eyes, harder and harder until her eyes throbbed and her head ached. I should have stopped it. I should have tried harder! I should have—

  Chapter 4

  FBI TRANSCRIPT 21205

  Agent Wink Krumm and James Wu

  Tuesday, April 7th

  KRUMM: Your wife did not survive.

  J. WU: No.

  KRUMM: She was pregnant, a boy I believe? And the fetus was…deformed?

  J. WU: Now just a minute!

  KRUMM: I’m merely stating facts. The child had no legs.

  J. WU: This is none of your business.

  KRUMM: My business? What would be my business? My personal log, my phone…the diary?

  J. WU: What diary?

  KRUMM: Funny, your daughter had the same response. Let me jog your memory. It was a Monday, ten days ago in which you, accompanied by two gentleman—no, let me be more specific, two aliens—

  J. WU: You’re in the wrong profession, Krumm; you should be writing science fiction.

  KRUMM: And you should have investigated your wife’s accident more thoroughly.

  J. WU: What?

  KRUMM: I have reason to believe your daughter, McKenzie, is…dangerous. Did you ever question her?

  J. WU: One more word about my daughter—

  KRUMM: I want it back. That’s all. My personal log, my phone and the diary of Julianne Wells.

  ***

  ALIEN SKIN & ACCIDENT VICTIMS

  Monday, March 16th

  McKenzie’s wheelchair shot backwards across the room, missing a chair before bumping into Principal Provost’s desk.

  The box was glowing, so bright, she was sure everyone in the school could see it. What’s more, there was a sound—a pounding, pulsing vibration—coming from the box.

  Voices drifted into the room from outside the office door.

  McKenzie popped up her desktop, grabbed her notebook and pencil, and scribbled:

  Why I Should Not Be Racing Down the School Hallway

  Pencil poised, heart pounding, she waited. The voices were gone. McKenzie closed her eyes. So were the memories.

  Lowering her pencil, she sighed. The room was silent. The pounding had stopped. Blinking twice, she looked at the door and then at the box. It was still there. It was still real—an odd little pale-blue box. But it was no longer glowing.

  What was happening to her? If she was going crazy, then thinking about it was making her crazier still.

  McKenzie noticed a gray wastepaper basket beside the desk. She was about to toss an imaginary basketball through the air, then paused. Coach Nickels had threatened to bench her for good last night, after the game, claiming she wasn’t acting like a team player. As if they’d even be in the finals without me. She frowned. If Principal Provost kept her out of the game Saturday—Oh God! Coach Nickels would be furious.

  The office door slid open and, without a word, Hayes sauntered in. He plopped onto the chair in front of the principal’s desk.

  McKenzie picked up her pencil. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

  Hayes yawned, stretching his arms so wide his fingertips pressed, just for an instant, against McKenzie’s shoulder.

  Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. McKenzie’s shoulder tingled. She grabbed the extra rubber band off her wrist and pulled her hair back while sneaking a glance at Hayes’ profile. He was smiling. No. Grinning. Laughing. He was laughing at her!

  McKenzie dropped the pencil, ripped off a piece of paper, crushed it into a ball and took aim. “Need some paper?”

  “Hey there,” said Hayes, shielding his head with his arm. “I’m supposed to be recuperating.”

  “Right! How can you rest? You’re the one who crashed into Principal Provost. You should be writing a paper. Not me.”

  Hayes turned his head just enough to fix McKenzie with one of his sappy, puppy dog looks. “I’m injured.”

  McKenzie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Hayes’ forehead looked good. The cut was barely visible. Nurse Prickel had probably used skintape. Grandma Mir was always muttering about how skintape was like having alien skin grafted onto your body and “just you wait,” soon there’d be a whole population of accident victims walking around like zombies.

  “So…” McKenzie was not ready to give up. “When’s the rematch?”

  Hayes sat up and scooted his chair around to face her. “Rematch?”

  “Nobody won that race.”

  “What do you mean ‘nobody won’? I won.”

  “You crashed. Automatic forfeit.” McKenzie smiled and stretched her arms as if now she was going to take a nap. “Ahhh….” She yawned. “Tell you what, Rudy, why don’t we ask Principal Provost what he thinks.”

  “DON’T call me Rudy!”

  “Rudy, Rudy, RUDY!”

  “What’s going on?” Miss Chantos was standing in the doorway.

  “Hey there, Miss C.” Hayes had gone from grimacing to grinning in one second flat.

  McKenzie glanced at the box. Not exactly invisible, but at least it wasn’t pounding or pulsing.

  “We were discussing…” McKenzie yanked the horn off her chair and held it out in front of her, “my paper. And I’m supposed to give this to you,” she said, hoping to draw attention away from the box.

  “How ‘bout we turn it down a notch,” said Miss Chantos. “Principal Provost is trapped—I mean, attending a short meeting in the library.”

  McKenzie quietly slipped the horn into her armrest.

  Miss Chantos favored McKenzie with a quick nod; then turned back to Hayes and added, “And let’s keep the door open. Shall we?”

  The next few minutes passed in silence. Hayes, scratching at the almost invisible wound on his forehead. McKenzie, staring at her paper.

  Finally, Hayes stood up. “You know,” he said, retrieving McKenzie’s paper ball off the floor, tossing it over his shoulder and into the wastebasket. “This is the first time I’ve been left alone in Principal Provost’s office.”

  “Hello! What am I, invisible?”

  Hayes ignored her and began creeping stealth-like towards the open doorway.

  “I give it thirty-seconds,” McKenzie warned, watching the door slide shut. “And I’m telling Miss Chantos you did it.”

  Hayes sauntered back, grabbed a piece of McKenzie’s hair and began twisting it around his finger. “This,” he said, gazing much too seriously into her eyes, “could never be invisible.”

  For the second time that day, McKenzie felt herself blushing and, forgetting about the hair wrapped around Hayes’ finger, pushed herself backwards. “Ow, ow, OW!”

  “Weird,” said Hayes.

  “Sorry would be more like it.” McKenzie rubbed her head and glanced at the door, surprised Miss Chantos wasn’t already standing in it. By the time she looked back, Hayes was in front of the box.

  The vein in her neck began to pulse. Until she’d touched it, somehow, someway, that box had remained hidden. McKenzie was sure of it. Now the particles that had b
een covering it were gone.

  Hayes was moving his hands through the air like a blind man feeling for the wall. It was all McKenzie could do to keep from racing across the room. “What are you doing?”

  “It feels warm,” he murmured. “Coming…from this box.”

  “Leave it alone!”

  “Calm down. It’s here, see?” Hayes paused to define the area. “Out here it’s normal, but when you get here it’s warmer. I wonder—”

  “STOP IT!”

  Hayes jumped. “What the—!”

  “Shhh…!” McKenzie pointed at the door. “It’s just I…I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Hayes’ eyebrow shot up.

  “Anyway, you shouldn’t go around touching strange objects. I think it might be a—a space heater. Old! An old, old space heater. Which means you could, you know…burn yourself.” Arghhhhh!

  Hayes’ right eyebrow rose up to meet the left one. “Why, Miss Wu, I didn’t know you cared.” And his face burst into a smile, the same smile he used to charm Nurse Prickel, Miss Chantos and every other female.

  “Ugh!” McKenzie covered her face with her hands. Starting tomorrow, no more racing—no nothing. What did she care if Hayes could see the box? Or even touch it. Particles wouldn’t follow him. Nothing would happen…

  McKenzie’s hands drifted slowly to her lap. Hayes was already reaching for the box.

  Or would it?

  Chapter 5

  FBI TRANSCRIPT 21203

  Agent Wink Krumm and Principal B.R. Provost

  Tuesday, April 14th

  KRUMM: For the record please.

  PROVOST: B.R. Provost, Principal of Avondale High School.

  KRUMM: And B.R. would stand for—

  PROVOST: I’d rather not say.

  KRUMM: You’d rather not say?

  PROVOST: It’s embarrassing.

  KRUMM: Ahhhh…but it is for the record. The official record.

  PROVOST: Bewfordios—

  KRUMM: Bew-for-dios?

  PROVOST: But, you may call me Principal Provost.

  ***

  DAYDREAMS & DILLY-DALLYING

  Monday, March 16th

  How in Concentric’s name did I blunder into this?

  Mary Boncher, head librarian and volunteer coordinator, had grabbed Principal Provost’s wheelchair as he left the band room, spun him in the direction of the student resource center and gently, but firmly, reminded him of his promise to attend this year’s volunteer brunch. An affront not another human being within a thousand-miles would dare.

  He’d texted Miss Chantos to have McKenzie remain in his office. Meanwhile, he was stuffed between Mrs. Snipe and Ms. Nimrev, Avondale’s most enthusiastic busybodies, listening to a five-minute testimony on each and every volunteer’s efforts throughout the school year.

  Time, he thought, I’ve wasted too much of it. Loonocks have gone by and I haven’t located Revolvos. Blast the old cir, wouldn’t it be just like him to be dead.

  Mary Boncher’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as a stream of unimaginative words spewed forth. Principal Provost thought about McKenzie. What could he possibly say to convince a fourteen-year-old Earthling that her destiny lay on a tiny planet, in another solar system light-years away, saving a race of beings she knew nothing about? He shook his head. Plenty! But nothing that sounded sane.

  If only Revolvos were here!

  Mary Boncher continued to talk. Open and close. Open and close. Principal Provost’s eyes mimicked the action. Open and close. Open and close. Revolvos where are you? Open and close. Open and close. Open and…

  ********

  “What are you mumbling about, Bewfordios?”

  “Don’t call me—WHAT? REVOLVOS? How did you get here? Oh dear, where IS here?

  “It appears we’re in a cave.”

  Principal Provost stared at his old mentor. Revolvos seemed to be hovering immediately out of reach in front of him. Stranger still, he was hovering in some sort of reclining lounge chair. However, he was right; they did appear to be in a cave. A dark, damp and…hummm, slightly sweet smelling cave. He had a vague notion that all this should surprise him. But why? Then it came to him, “I’m SUPPOSED to be in the library.”

  “Perhaps you’ve fallen asleep,” said Revolvos.

  “I’m dreaming? But I’m still in my wheelchair.”

  “An outdated version by the looks of it. I really should fix you up with one of our—”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I AM dreaming!” said Provost. “It’s the only logical explanation. And that means you’re either dead or—”

  “DEAD!” Revolvos looked outraged. “Of course, I’m not dead. Stop gaping, you make me feel as if I’m three hundred loonocks old.”

  “Oh, you’re far older than that,” said Principal Provost. Although the Revolvos hovering in front of him didn’t look any older than the last time he’d seen him, which was over a hundred Earth years ago. But of course, it was a dream, so why should he.

  “What do you want, Bewfordios?”

  “Stop calling me that. You know I prefer Provost. Anyway, this is my dream. ‘What do I want?’ Why…to get to the office and tell McKenzie about—wait! This isn’t a normal dream, is it?”

  “Define normal.”

  “It’s more vivid, more—why, I haven’t dreamt like this since I left Circanthos. Which can only mean one thing: you’re NOT dead.”

  “Thank you.” Revolvos yawned and stretched his arms as if feeling slightly confined in his hovering lounge chair.

  “No, no. Don’t you see? Circanthians often talk to each other in dreams. Which means you must be alive and what’s more—close by!”

  “And asleep,” said Revolvos, yawning. “You know, I believe I’m napping in one of those crazy human contraptions called an airplane. I’m feeling quite rested. Dear me, you’d best say what you came to say before I wake up.”

  “Don’t rush me,” said Provost.

  “Is that the Captain I hear speaking?”

  “Right. Okay. Where to begin? After you went back to the Isle of Iciis and discovered the key to translating the Circolar—”

  “The ancient book discovered by our ancestors?” said Revolvos.

  “Yes, yes, and then some of the more…conservative Circanthians began to complain and forced you to continue your experiments on long range space-time travel from the cave located in the Cocombaca Forest—ah hah!”

  “What is it?” said Revolvos.

  “Look around you, old man; we’re in that very cave.”

  “Ahhhh, so it would appear.” Revolvos stretched his arms again. “You know, if I do say so, this cave was a brilliant choice on my part. Only one entrance and it’s via the water.”

  “Yes, yes, the location of the cave was brilliant; however, building your own cortext—”

  “CORTEXT!” Revolvos and his hovering chair seemed to leap forward…and yet, as before, remained strangely out of reach. “You wouldn’t happen to have those instructions on you, would you?”

  “This is a dream—remember? Besides, your experiments proved disastrous. In your rush to build a cortext—”

  “A device that allows us long range space-time travel. Think of the possibilities Bewfordios. THINK of the possibilities!”

  “Revolvos—listen to me! You refused to heed my advice to finish translating the Circolar before building your own blasted cortext…and then disappeared!”

  “Disappeared?”

  “To Earth,” said Provost. “Oh!”

  “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re getting blurry.”

  “Am I?” Revolvos scrunched up his nose and sniffed. “I believe that pretty little flight attendant is coming down the aisle. Ummm, do I smell chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Hang the cookies Revolvos, I need to finish. Had you listened to me, had you completed translating the Circolar, you would have discovered your actions had been predicted.”

  “Ah Hah! Pr
edicted, meaning—unavoidable.”

  “Your impatience, dear mentor, led directly to the problems our people now face with H.G. Wells and the Tsendi.”

  “H.G. Wells?” Revolvos’ blurry form leaned forward. “Isn’t that a coincidence.”

  “You know him?”

  “I might.” Revolvos looked sheepish…or maybe he was just getting blurrier.

  “Yes, well, your friend, ‘coincidentally,’ arrived on our planet at approximately the same time you disappeared. Oh my!” Provost leaned forward, squinting.

  “Is there something in my teeth?” said Revolvos.

  “Yes—I mean, no. All I can see is your teeth. The rest of you has faded.”

  “Then you’d better finish your story.”

  “Right.” Provost was feeling slightly blurry himself. “The problem is if I cannot locate you and find the Corona-Soter, the savior of our people—also predicted in the Circolar—we’re doomed. The Circanthian race will become extinct. It may already be too late.”

  “Then you must find me and this…what did you call it?”

  “Corona-Soter. I believe I already have.”

  “Bravo! Then, why are you pouting?”

  “I am not pouting. It’s just—”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I didn’t expect the Corona-Soter to be a 14-year-old Earthling with an attitude. The truth is, the Circolar was rather vague…in regards to how exactly the Corona-Soter would help us. Or, not exactly vague—unfinished, it seems. So, even if I find this Corona-Soter, it could all be for naught.”

  “Then perhaps it was you, Bewfordios, who made the mistake.”

  “Revolvos. Wait—come back here! What’s your flight number? I could meet you. Do not disappear. Don’t you DARE disappear!”

  ********

  “Principal Provost.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Principal Provost, wake up.”

  “Wake up?” Principal Provost opened his eyes. Drool was dripping down the side of his mouth and he was looking at—Concentric help him—cleavage! He’d fallen asleep on Mrs. Snipe’s shoulder. “I’m awake,” he stammered, sitting up. “I was trying to get a better look at—what I mean is, meditate on Mrs. Boncher’s wise words.”