Arlo Finch in the Valley of Fire

by John August

  Arlo tried to eavesdrop as he got himself a slice of cheese from the fridge. But Jaycee wasn’t actually saying anything. It was all “yeah”s and “uh-huh”s and “stop!” said with a giggle and a smile.

  This was definitely not his sister.

  He wanted to tell his mother his suspicions, but she was acting strangely, too. Ever since the car accident, she seemed noticeably happier. Which was odd, because things were worse than ever.

  The station wagon needed thousands of dollars of repairs—money they didn’t have. Luckily, Mitch, the man who owned the repair shop, had been friends with Arlo’s mom back in high school. He’d agreed to do the work in exchange for help with the bookkeeping. “You wouldn’t believe how bad his files are,” said Arlo’s mom. “He has invoices just wedged in a drawer.”

  Arlo didn’t know what invoices were, but his mom did, because she had been an accountant back in Chicago before she lost it and threw a chair at a window. Or through a window. He was still unclear on the details. Bookkeeping apparently combined the worst parts of math and matching socks on laundry day. His mother seemed unaware of how tedious and terrible it was.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. I like numbers. And it’s nice to be able to help someone,” she said, stacking repair-shop paperwork on the dining room table. “I used to double-check Mitch’s algebra back in high school. He was always so good with machines, but numbers just never clicked with him.”

  “Dad is good at machines, too,” said Arlo. “Like computers.”

  “Absolutely!” She searched the table for the right pile for the paper in her hand. “But computers are a different kind of machine. It’s really more math than mechanics. But yes, your dad is very smart. A genius, in fact. You know that, right? For what he does, cryptography, he’s one of the smartest people on the planet.”

  Arlo nodded. “Remember when he was building that desk from IKEA, and there were all those pieces, and he couldn’t figure out how it went together?”

  “Yeah, that took a while. And it still kind of wobbled afterwards.” She found the proper stack. “No one’s good at everything. And that’s how it should be. It gives us a reason to ask for help.”

  Arlo saw that as an opening to discuss his suspicions. “I think something’s wrong with Jaycee. She’s acting really weird.”

  “So you noticed, too.” His mom lowered her voice, even though Jaycee was in the kitchen and couldn’t hear them. “I don’t have confirmation yet, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.” Arlo nodded, ready for the worst. “I think your sister has a boyfriend.”

  Arlo knew this was impossible. In order for Jaycee to have a boyfriend, she would have to be someone’s girlfriend, and no boy would ever date her. She was surly and short-tempered. She hated dresses and movies and flowers. There’s only one way someone would agree to go out with her.

  “He hasn’t met her yet, has he? It’s one of those internet things where he’s trying to steal her money.” Arlo almost felt bad for the guy, because they had no money to take. Plus he had to talk to Jaycee and pretend to like her.

  His mom smiled. “His name is Benjy. I think he plays cymbals in marching band.”

  “So he’s real?”

  “I think so. I don’t want to pressure her, but I’ll ask if he wants to come over for dinner sometime.”

  Five days later, Arlo was sitting across from Benjy Weeks. He was Jaycee’s age, but an inch shorter, with hair that kept getting in his eyes. Other than some acne, there didn’t seem to be anything deeply broken about him. He was polite and attentive, even when Uncle Wade went on a long tirade about the US banking system.

  Arlo’s uncle had just received a large taxidermy order for a ski resort in Jackson Hole (“It’s a mountain! Don’t know why they call it otherwise.”). The payment had to be held at the bank for several days before the money was released. “‘Oh, sir, for amounts of this size it’s really better to use a wire transfer than a check.’ Can you believe that, Benjy?”

  The boy wasn’t sure which answer Wade wanted. “No?”

  “Well, that’s what they told me. They’d rather have a bunch of random numbers than an honest-to-gosh check. You ask me, I blame video games. Most of them don’t even have cartridges anymore. How do you know you have something if there’s nothing to put on a shelf?” Again, it didn’t seem like an answerable question. “And don’t get me started on movies.”

  Everyone carefully avoided getting him started on movies.

  At one point, after dinner and before dessert, Arlo was pretty sure Jaycee and Benjy were holding hands under the table.

  “Why do they do that?” asked Wu over cookies at Indra’s house the next day. “What’s so great about hands? They’re sweaty and gross.”

  “Not everyone’s hands are sweaty,” said Indra, moving the cookies away from him. “There’s probably something wrong with you.”

  Indra’s father, Dr. Srinivasaraghavan-Jones, took another sheet of cookies out of the oven. “It’s called hyperhidrosis. It’s very common. The eccrine sweat glands are highly concentrated in the hands. In a dry climate like Colorado’s, it may even be somewhat beneficial.”

  “See? I’ve evolved into a superhuman.”

  “With sweaty mutant hands.”

  Arlo realized Indra’s father might be able to help him. “Dr. S, if you needed to figure out if someone was human or not, how could you tell?”

  Dr. Srinivasaraghavan-Jones took Arlo’s question seriously, standing motionless with the spatula for at least ten seconds. Then he spoke. “I suppose I’d check their reflexes. It’s extremely difficult to control automatic responses. For example, how someone reacts when startled.”

  While most signs pointed to Jaycee’s strange behavior stemming from teenage love, Arlo wanted to be certain. So that evening, he crouched in the hallway outside Jaycee’s door, careful not to squeak the floorboards. He leaned against the wall, tucked into the shadows. Every breath was silent. He checked his watch: 6:27. Just three minutes until dinner. At any moment, his mom would call them down to set the table.

  But six thirty passed without notice. Arlo decided to keep waiting.

  By six forty-five, his legs were aching. Vibrating. He wondered how lions managed to do this, quietly stalking their prey for hours on the savannah. He was about to give up on the whole thing when he finally heard his mom’s voice yelling up from downstairs. “Arlo! Jaycee! Dinner!”

  He listened as Jaycee’s footsteps stomped behind the door. Getting closer. Closer.

  The doorknob turned. Arlo waited.

  The door opened a crack. Arlo waited.

  Jaycee stepped through the door. Arlo pounced with a loud roar.

  His sister screamed in terror, quickly transitioning to rage. “You little creep!” She pushed him back. “I’m going to murder you! So immature.”

  She clomped off, heading downstairs.

  Arlo lay on the floor, relieved to see his sister was not hexed, mind-controlled, or a secret doppelgänger. She wanted him dead for all the normal sisterly reasons.

  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Arlo expected to see Jaycee complaining to their mother about his juvenile prank. But instead he found a stranger in the dining room. He wore jeans and heavy work boots. The back of his jacket read Pine Mountain Garage and featured a cartoon truck with giant tires.

  Jaycee was staring at this man with the same petrifying gaze she had leveled at Uncle Wade when he’d said there was no internet. When she looked to Arlo, the man turned to face him.

  “You must be Arlo. I’m Mitch. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

  Mitch looked like Superman’s biker cousin. He was taller than Arlo’s dad, but also bigger, both in the shoulders and the gut. While he didn’t have a beard, it looked like one was struggling to grow out of his face. He had a bandana tied around his left wrist.

  Arlo’s mom came through the kitchen door, carrying green beans and potatoes. “I invited Mitch to have a home-cooked meal.”

  “Yo
ur mom always had the best meatloaf,” Mitch said to Arlo and Jaycee.

  “That wasn’t my meatloaf,” said their mom. “That was my mother’s. Frozen onions and two cans of stewed tomatoes. This is from a magazine.”

  “Well, it smells like it’s from heaven.” He took a seat at the center of the table, the same spot Benjy had used a week earlier.

  As they took their seats, Arlo and Jaycee exchanged a bewildered look. Why was this guy here? Why had their mom invited him?

  Uncle Wade arrived just as food was being passed around. He had a talent for showing up after all the dinner chores were finished. He nodded in their guest’s direction. “Mitch.”

  “Hey, Wade.” Mitch helped himself to the potatoes. “Heard you got a big order. Congratulations.”

  Uncle Wade didn’t look up from his plate. “I don’t like people talking about my business.”

  Mitch nodded, fair enough. “So, Arlo. Your mom’s told me a lot about you. I hear you’re in Rangers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. I was in your company back in the day.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “I quit after Owl. Got too busy with baseball. I was playing on a travel team and kept missing the meetings. But man, I loved the campouts. Nothing better than being out under the sky with your best friends.”

  “Were you in Red Patrol?”

  “I was! Good guess.” It wasn’t that much of a guess. Jocks were always in Red Patrol. “Had to be one of four colors, right?”

  “There are only three colors: red, green and blue. Senior Patrol doesn’t wear neckerchiefs.”

  Mitch was about to say something, then he paused. He exchanged a quick look with Wade. It all happened too fast for Arlo to register what it was about.

  “My mistake,” said Mitch. “It was a long time ago.”

  Arlo didn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the dinner, at least not out loud. But plenty of questions were circling in his head.

  Were Uncle Wade and Mitch in Rangers together? They were about the same age. Arlo could have asked right at the table, but that risked Uncle Wade starting another tirade about something he disliked.

  Why did Uncle Wade and Mitch look at each other? They didn’t appear to like each other, but for that one moment, they seemed to share a common purpose.

  What if there was a fourth patrol color? Not now, but back when Mitch and Uncle Wade were in Rangers. Arlo thought back to his first Rangers meeting. That night, he’d worn Wade’s uniform, and shoved the neckerchief in his pocket. What color was it? Yellow?

  He hadn’t seen it since the night of the meeting. Had Wade taken it back?

  Dessert was apple crumble with ice cream. Arlo finished his quickly and excused himself. Making sure no one was watching, he opened the door to the basement very carefully so the hinges didn’t squeal. He flicked the light switch. The single bulb at the bottom of the stairs began to glow.

  The chest where Uncle Wade had stored the uniform was buried under a few other boxes, but Arlo was able to dig it out. It was still unlocked from weeks earlier. Inside, he found the same memorabilia as the first time: pennants and notebooks, geodes and novelty foam can cozies.

  But there was no neckerchief.

  At the bottom of the chest, he discovered a small leather case. It was heavy for its size, with a snap to keep it shut and a belt loop in back like a gun holster. The leather was old and brittle, particularly around the metal bits, so he opened it gently, trying not to damage it.

  Inside was a device the size of a deck of cards, but slightly rounder. It was tarnished brass, cold in his hand. He had never seen one before, but he knew immediately what it was.

  A Ranger’s compass.

  Indra and Wu had shown him their compasses. Theirs were new, made of plastic, with dials that glowed in the dark. This was much older. Arlo flipped open the lid, revealing a tapered needle bobbing beneath the glass. As he turned around, the needle kept pointing in a single direction. North, he presumed.

  Just then, he heard hinges squeal. Arlo looked back to see Uncle Wade at the top of the stairs. Neither of them said anything as Wade slowly walked down the steps. He had to duck under the lightbulb.

  Finally, he spoke. “I don’t recall inviting you to go through my things.”

  “Sorry.”

  Wade pointed at the compass. “You know what that is?”

  “A Ranger’s compass.”

  “My Ranger’s compass, to be specific.”

  “Sorry,” Arlo said again.

  “You know how it works?”

  Arlo held it out, trying to demonstrate. “I know you set the dial for what direction you want to head. And then it’s supposed to vibrate when the arrow lines up for north. But I don’t see where the batteries go.”

  “No batteries. It’s all mechanical. You gotta use the key to wind it.”

  Wade picked up the leather case, retrieving a tiny brass key from a pocket under the flap. Arlo never would have found it.

  Wade took the compass and showed Arlo the tiny hole in back. “Gotta be careful water doesn’t get in there, or the whole thing could rust and it’s useless.” He put the key in and twisted. “Always clockwise. Never more than twelve turns.”

  He flipped it back over and tested it, turning left and right. He nodded, satisfied. But there was something else in his expression, too. A softness Arlo had never seen before, like he was remembering something—not entirely happy but not entirely sad.

  Then the moment passed. Wade slid the compass into the case.

  “I need a compass for Rangers,” said Arlo. “For my Squirrel rank.”

  Wade tucked the key into its special pocket.

  “I didn’t want to ask mom for one, because they’re pretty expensive.”

  Wade snapped the case shut.

  “So could I use yours? I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

  After a long pause, Uncle Wade frowned. “Lots of people, they confuse the tool with the use of that tool. A hammer can’t build a house. It can only pound a nail. Likewise, a compass can only tell you which way north is. Not which way to go.”

  He handed Arlo the compass.

  “Best you don’t forget that, or you’ll get very, very lost.”

  20

  THE COMPASS

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Arlo found a note next to the cereal box. It was from his mom. She was working a double shift at the diner and wouldn’t be back until almost dinner.

  An hour later, Jaycee tromped down the stairs and announced she was going out with friends. Arlo saw a dirty Toyota pick her up at the end of the driveway. Benjy was alone at the wheel.

  Arlo didn’t know the specific rules of learner’s permits in Colorado, but he was pretty sure Benjy wasn’t allowed to drive with another teenager in the car. It wasn’t safe, and his mom certainly wouldn’t approve. He considered calling her, or finding Uncle Wade out in his workshop. But he was only supposed to call the diner in the event of a true emergency, and this didn’t seem to qualify. And short of a fire, Arlo couldn’t imagine any reason he’d risk disturbing Wade. So he decided to say nothing.

  Besides, this gave Arlo the whole day to work on mastering the Ranger’s compass.

  In order to earn his Squirrel rank, Arlo would need to complete the Dark Walk—the blindfolded test of compass proficiency. Wu had given him some basic instructions. You started by aligning the outline of the arrow with the magnetic pointer inside. That meant you were facing north. Each time the pointer crossed into the lines of the arrow, the compass would vibrate, so you could tell north without having to look down at it.

  With Wu’s modern battery-powered compass, the vibration was strong enough that you could feel it through your gloves. But Uncle Wade’s antique compass worked differently. For starters, there was always a tiny hum from the clockwork gears inside. When the needle crossed into the arrow, the vibration was almost imperceptible, like a tiny down feather landing on your palm.

  Even with his
gloves off, Arlo could barely feel it. He nearly gave up in frustration.

  Then he thought of the scenes in movies where the hero had to keep trying and failing hundreds of times until they finally got it. It didn’t matter what the “it” was—karate, dancing, light sabers—the sequence was the same. Usually there was a cranky teacher pointing out the hero’s faults, and a song playing in the background.

  Arlo didn’t have either of these things, but he did have all day with nothing better to do.

  So to practice, Arlo would close his eyes, spin around and try to feel north. Once he’d made his decision, he would open his eyes and check whether the arrow lined up with the pointer.

  The first twenty times, he was wrong.

  The next twenty times, he was also wrong. Plus he was getting dizzy. He decided to alternate spinning left and spinning right.

  The following twenty times, he was still wrong. But one attempt was actually pretty close. He decided to give it one more run of twenty.

  On the second attempt, he got it right. Then he missed four in a row. Then he got two correct back-to-back. He started to worry that he was cheating somehow, that the sunlight coming through his eyelids was giving him an unfair advantage. (He had read how some insects navigate by checking the angle of the light, which is why moths flutter endlessly around porch lights.) So to avoid any chance of insectoid interference, he fetched his Ranger neckerchief and tied it around his face like a blindfold.

  After another twenty attempts in complete darkness, he was getting it right more than half the time. More importantly, he was starting to understand why he was sometimes wrong. The compass didn’t just vibrate at north. It also responded at two other points in the circle. These were slightly fainter buzzes, like echoes. When he really focused, he could tell the difference between northerly vibrations and the other ones.

  Finally, he got ten right in a row. Declaring victory, he went inside and made himself a peanut butter, potato chip and jelly sandwich to celebrate.

  Finding north was only step one. In order to complete the Dark Walk, he would need to be able to follow a specific path while blindfolded.