Me and Sam-Sam Handle the Apocalypse

by Susan Vaught

  Coach Sedon shielded his eyes. “Awful color! I need sunglasses.”

  Ms. Morton laughed and clapped Coach Sedon on the back. “How’s it going?”

  Coach Sedon hesitated, then inclined his head toward his own yard.

  As they walked back across the road, closer to Springer and me, Jerkface and the cockroaches relaxed, but they didn’t start bouncing the ball again. They pulled in close together, watching Ms. Morton and Coach Sedon so intently that I worried they’d see us in the trees.

  “Be. Really. Still,” Springer whispered.

  “No. Kidding,” I whispered back without moving my lips.

  My heart started to beat harder, and I realized I was holding my breath. Little by little, I let out air and breathed in again as Coach Sedon told Ms. Morton, “I’m doing better.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Ms. Morton stopped about ten feet away from us. “So that problem—you got it taken care of?”

  “I did.” Coach Sedon smiled. “Chris gave me a hand. Got rid of some of his old stuff and gave me what he made.”

  “You have a good boy,” Ms. Morton said. Then, with a not-so-friendly look at Coach Sedon, she added, “Don’t let him down, okay?”

  “I won’t,” Coach Sedon said. “It’s not like that now. I’ve got everything in hand.”

  If they hadn’t been standing so close to us, I would have asked Springer why Coach Sedon was talking so fast, and why Ms. Morton looked like she didn’t believe anything she was hearing. Almost as soon as Coach Sedon took a breath, Ms. Morton nodded, then headed to her house again.

  Coach Sedon watched her go, and even with all my problems understanding people, I could tell the look on his face wasn’t too friendly. One of his fists clenched and unclenched, and if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was counting and imagining puppy pictures so he wouldn’t have a meltdown.

  Meanwhile, as Ms. Morton got to Ryker, she said, “You’re working your full-speed dribbling drills, right?”

  Ryker stood straighter. “Three times so far today.”

  “Make it five,” his mom ordered. “Make it ten. You’ve got to improve your ball-handling. That’s how you get to be a starter like your brother.”

  “Soon as we finish this game,” Ryker told his mother.

  His mother went silent and folded her arms, like she was waiting to see something. Closer to us, Coach Sedon stopped working his fists and walked away from our hiding place. In a few seconds, we heard the clump of his front door closing.

  I watched Ryker shoot at the basket over his carport while his mother looked on. The shot missed, and Ryker hung his head. His mother heaved a sigh, then went back into their house.

  “Should we feel sorry for him?” I asked Springer.

  “I don’t,” Springer admitted.

  I frowned. “Does that make us mean?”

  “Maybe.”

  The itching in my brain started back, and I wanted to stop thinking about feeling sorry for Jerkface and the cockroaches. “Ryker likes Trish, Trish likes Chris, and Chris doesn’t seem to like anybody,” I said, listing what we’d learned so far. “And Ms. Morton wants Ryker to be a star like his brother even though he’s not that good, and nobody really likes Coach Sedon.”

  “Sounds about right,” Springer said. “And Coach Sedon looks like he’s got a bad temper. And he had a problem he says he’s fixed now, but Ms. Morton doesn’t believe him. Sounded kinda like a money thing.”

  “So much to figure out.” I bit at my lower lip. “But I don’t think questioning any of these people would be a good idea, Springer.”

  He laughed. “Me neither.”

  “And I’m sort of tired of staring at them.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good. Then let’s roll.” I moved my fingers off the branches in front of my face and started to back away from our hiding spot, careful not to go too fast.

  Springer backed up, too. And put his foot down funny on a rock, stumbled, started to fall, grabbed the closest pine, and launched himself into Chris Sedon’s backyard.

  My entire body went rigid with shock.

  For a count of two, then three, it didn’t seem real.

  Like slow motion from a not-funny cartoon.

  Springer swung his arms, staggered, then fell face-first, splatting on the grass in Chris Sedon’s yard, and I heard all the air go out of him in one big huff.

  All I could do was watch as Springer lay in the grass trying to breathe.

  Across the street, Jerkface and the cockroaches stopped dribbling and shooting, and they turned toward us at the same time. The ball dropped out of Trisha’s hands, bounced twice, then rolled into the grass.

  Springer rolled onto his back and wheezed, “Run. Run!”

  But he was lying there, and they were coming, first Ryker, then Chris, then Trisha.

  They walked a few steps. One of them laughed. Then they walked faster.

  I threw myself out of the cover of the trees, bent and grabbed Springer’s arm with no touch warning, and pulled at him. “Get up. You have to.”

  He locked eyes with me, and the next time I pulled, he pushed himself up with his other arm, and somehow we got him off the ground.

  Jerkface and the cockroaches paused in the middle of their road, staring at us as we stared back at them. They still looked confused.

  Then Ryker raised one finger, pointing. “Were you two . . . spying on us?”

  My legs started moving without my brain talking to them, backing up. I still had hold of Springer’s arm, so I towed him with me.

  Three steps. Four. Five. Three more, and we’d make the tree line.

  At step seven, they bolted toward us, charging off the cul-de-sac road like angry, bellowing rhinos.

  My brain and legs connected in a big whoosh, and Springer seemed to get control of his body at exactly the same moment. I pushed him into the trees ahead of me, and together we took off like our eyes and noses and faces depended on it.

  15

  Thursday, Four Days Earlier, Later Afternoon

  We thundered down the main trail into Pond River Forest, Springer and me, side by side. I could have moved faster, but no way was I leaving him. I kept his wrist in my grip. He had to speed up. We had to speed up.

  Branches smacked and stung the bare parts of my arms and legs. I didn’t have to look behind us to know Jerkface and the cockroaches were coming hard on our tails. Their voices seemed to get closer with each noise they made.

  Terror tried to grab me like I had grabbed Springer, fast and hard with no touch warning at all, but I pushed it out of my head. One running step, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .

  When steps didn’t work, I counted breaths for a while, each number settling me as much as I could settle with three mean buttheads chasing me and my friend.

  “This way,” I told Springer, and pulled him with me on a sharp right turn.

  Somebody—Ryker, I think—let out a snarl.

  Springer kept his balance as I took him left, then right, then left again, off the main trail and the side trails, too, past mounds and rock markers where I had hidden Sam’s treats. I knew we were getting close to the pond when we ran through a clearing and plunged into heavy underbrush. Spotting the cover I wanted, I urged Springer down with me, under branches and thorny blackberry vines and leaves, into a covered grassy spot big enough for a few deer to hide on their bellies.

  We huddled there together, both breathing hard. Red-faced and sweating, Springer gazed at me with huge eyes. Little cuts scored both his cheeks, and I knew I was probably bleeding in a dozen places, too. Some of my hair was trapped in a blackberry vine, so I reached up and worked it free, poking my fingers another dozen times in the process.

  Jerkface and the cockroaches stormed into the clearing, and I brought my throbbing fingers down to my mouth, covering my lips so I couldn’t even make an accidental noise.

  “Where are you two?” Ryker hollered. “You know you can’t hide forever!”

  Spr
inger’s eyes got even wider. His mouth came open, and I knew he didn’t mean to talk or say anything, that he was just scared, so I pointed to my eyes and made him look at me and made myself look at him and ignore the itching jumping itching twitching running across my brain and up and down all my nerves.

  “Why were you spying on us?” Trisha yelled. “Is this more of your investigation stupidity?”

  “Y’all need to stay out of what isn’t your business,” Chris added.

  My eyes narrowed even though I was trying to keep Springer’s attention. My father was my business. And Jerkface and those cockroaches—well. They matched their nicknames.

  Springer took a breath in, then let it out slowly and quietly. He did this two or three times, and then he closed his mouth and nodded to me as if to say It’s okay. I’m okay.

  Feeling relieved, I looked away from him, through the twigs and branches separating us from the clearing.

  “They have to be around here somewhere,” Chris said.

  “Dunno,” Trisha answered. If I squinted, I could see the green of her knee-length shorts, about thirty feet away from us. “Messy knows these trails pretty good. Maybe she had a shortcut.”

  “They probably just wanted to see how real winners spend their time,” Chris said, way too loud, like he hoped to make us mad enough to say something. “Or maybe the beached whale likes Trisha?”

  The sound of the smack Trisha laid on him echoed around the clearing.

  “Ow,” he complained. “Lay off the shoulder!”

  I watched Ryker’s legs move to some bushes on the other side of the clearing. He picked up a stick, then jabbed it into the brush, and my heart seemed to quiver.

  I leaned back, put my mouth very close to Springer’s ear, and whispered, “The pond is behind us. The main path is that way.” I pointed to my right. “If you find it, you can get to the clubhouse.”

  He shook his head.

  I got even closer to Springer’s ear. “Look, I know the forest really well. I can get away.”

  Head-shake.

  “It’s the smart thing to do, Springer. I’m going to get their attention, and you go.”

  I leaned away from him and picked up some chunks of dirt and rock, and a few pinecones. When he saw these, his jaw clenched and he looked so stubborn I thought about hitting him with one of the pinecones.

  Ready? I mouthed.

  He nodded.

  I shot up from my hiding spot, busting through blackberry vines and pine branches, tearing my shirt and almost dropping some of my weapons. As Springer scrambled out of our cover on his belly, I stepped out of hiding about ten feet from Ryker, Chris, Trisha, and their sticks.

  Before they could so much as smirk in my general direction, I launched the dirt clods and pinecones right at their mean, ugly faces.

  When they swore and ducked, I took off in the opposite direction from Springer, and I ran as hard as I could toward the bank of the pond.

  All three of them charged after me.

  I dashed past a thick pine and grabbed the nearest low-hanging branch, pulling it with me, bending it, bending it—

  They kept right on running toward me, and I let go of that branch and stumbled to a stop, watching. The branch swept back, smashing Ryker and Chris in the face and knocking them both into Trisha, who had finally caught up with them.

  I turned and took off again, but it only took me a second to get to the pond bank. The tangles of vines and branches didn’t leave any room to move, so I’d either have to go back the way I came, or go across the water.

  The dark, muddy water.

  Which was probably full of snakes and snapping turtles.

  For a few seconds, I couldn’t decide. I glanced back toward the trail and imagined Jerkface and the cockroaches, cut up from that branch in the face and twice as pissed as they had been. Then I looked at the water again. On the other side of the pond lay the path to my clubhouse and Springer, to my house and Aunt Gus and Sam and Charlie and Dad. To everything good in my life.

  Okay.

  No real choice, right?

  I walked forward, sat on my butt, slid down the bank, and waded into the water. Mud smacked and pulled at my sneakers, but I kept walking. It took maybe a minute—a minute that felt like an hour—before I got to the other side and splashed and slogged up the bank.

  After I shook gunk and water off my arms, I turned to see what was happening behind me.

  Ryker was standing on the far bank, glaring at me. Blood trickled out of his nose, running down across his lips to his chin. Trish and Chris came next, with Chris walking funny and rubbing his eye.

  I scrubbed mud off my face with my palms, sort of. More like smeared it.

  “That was a pine branch!” Trish shrilled at me. “It really hurt them!”

  “Ryker’s fist really hurt Springer at the Little League tryouts!” I yelled back. “If you stop trying to smash us, I’ll quit smashing you.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Chris said, his voice a snarl across the surface of the muddy pond.

  “Yeah?” Heat bubbled in my chest now, fighting the chill from the pond. “Then how does it work, cockroach?”

  “You quit being a freaky little loser,” Riker said. “Turn invisible. Stay out of our way.”

  “Or you get hurt worse,” Chris said. “Maybe real bad.”

  I jammed my hand into my wet, grody pocket, pretending my phone was in there. “Want to send that in one of your mean messages? I’m sure the police would love to see it.”

  Chris surged toward the edge of the pond, but Ryker and Trish both grabbed hold of him. I realized they were giving him weird looks.

  He stopped trying to get in the pond, but he yelled, “I’m serious, Messy! Just let us catch you alone somewhere. Let me catch you alone.”

  And with that, he jerked out of Ryker’s and Trisha’s holds and stalked off into the forest, back toward the side trail. Trisha and Ryker ran right after him, with Trisha calling his name.

  I was pretty sure they weren’t planning to loop around the pond and come after me again, but I wasn’t taking chances.

  I turned and ran toward the clubhouse as fast as my mud-caked shoes and legs would go.

  16

  Thursday, Four Days Earlier, Early Evening

  You ever seen Swamp Thing?” Springer asked me as he poured more water on some paper towels and tried to scrub off my face.

  “Funny,” I told him. “Not.”

  We were huddled inside the clubhouse, sitting close together with my cleaning tote open, and I couldn’t stop shivering from my yucky swim.

  “You have a lot of little cuts on your face and arms,” he pointed out.

  I sighed. “I know that. And now Dad’ll be all like, see, it’s like I said, you can’t keep yourself safe.”

  “That’s not true.” Springer dabbed my forehead. “You saved us both.”

  “After I almost got us both stomped. Stupid idea, observing Jerkface and the cockroaches. Do you think it would hurt if I used spray cleanser on my arms?”

  “Yes,” Springer said. “Don’t do that. And I think your shoes are ruined.”

  “Nooooooo.” I took the paper towels away from him and used the spray cleanser on my poor sneakers. “I’ll tiptoe into the house and put my clothes and shoes in the washer. I’ll even take a really long bath, even if it makes me itchy.”

  “At least you were grounded from your phone,” he pointed out. “Or that would be ruined, too. And I don’t think it was stupid to observe Ryker and Trisha and Chris. We got some evidence, didn’t we?”

  I scooted away from him and leaned against one of the clubhouse walls. I wanted Sam-Sam, but I was sort of glad he wasn’t here to roll around on me and get all muddy, too. I kept remembering swimming through the pond, and the way Chris’s voice sounded and all their dumb threats.

  “They are such jerks,” I whispered, wishing I had better words to express how much I loathed every cell in their bodies. “But I don’t know if they s
eem guilty because I can’t stand them, or because they really had something to do with the money being stolen.”

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” Springer said, pulling out his phone and wiggling it back and forth. “OBWIG can keep investigating. Question the other suspects and see if we can rule them out—or in.”

  He lowered the phone and punched in his security code, then pulled up the photos he had taken in my dad’s office.

  I blinked at them, then remembered. The initials. The people we needed to look up in the yearbook. The yearbook that was still here in the clubhouse. I pointed to it, and Springer handed it to me, then got out a head lamp and switched it on without strapping it to his head. He handed that to me, too.

  “What’s the first one?” I squinted at the phone. “I remembered them all when I was talking to Dad, but a lot has happened since then.”

  “KA,” Springer said. “So go to the As.”

  I held the head lamp in my hand and shined it on the pages until I found the A names in the senior high section of the yearbook.

  “KA has two senior high matches,” I said, pointing at the pictures. “Karen Abelmore and Kevin Aztine. I don’t know either of them. Do you?”

  Springer shook his head, then used his phone to type the names into a note program. When he was finished, he said, “JS, then MK, then NN.”

  I flipped pages. “Okay, JS is Josh Sharp. The only JS in the book. He’s on the student council—or he was last year when this was made.” More flipping, more searching, then, “MK is Maleka Keston. Her, I’ve heard of. She’s captain of the volleyball team.”

  Springer typed on his phone as I moved to the N section. “Got it,” he said.

  “NN is Nancy Newsom,” I said, staring at her picture in the yearbook. “I don’t know her, either, but something about her looks familiar.”

  “You seen her before?” Springer asked.

  I gazed down at the dark hair, the sneery sort of expression. “I—yes? But I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’ll come to you,” he said.