by Jeff Norton
The little guys immediately understood what was in the container, took it gently from me and shared out the Rilperdough, one piece each.
“You have to, Jessica,” I said. There was still one left over, as well as mine.
The Martians munched. They made contented hmmmmmm noises.
“Eat! Eat!” they said, once they’d swallowed. “The glow! The glow!”
Finally, Jessica took a small bite. And, astonishingly, she managed a kind-of smile.
“Not bad,” she said, which was probably the closest thing to a compliment she could bring herself to give me. “We should serve this at Prom. Write that down!”
The Martians took the dictation and then gathered around me, pushing my Rilperdough towards my mouth.
“I’m the new chair of the Prom committee,” Jessica announced, “and if you find some way to mess that up, I’ll get you probed by aliens!”
“I may have already messed it up, Jess,” I said. “The world is going to end.”
“Don’t write that down, Klaatu,” Jessica said to the nearest Martian, who was busy putting pen to pad. “He’s not on the committee.”
I took a bite of my Rilperdough, and munched. The Crazy Glue fumes must have gone to my head, because suddenly I just didn’t care.
“Very funny, Sherman,” Jessica said, responding to my end-of-the-world announcement. “And yet, the fact you would even say that, tells me so much about your obvious desire to ruin any happiness I may find for myself, no matter what I …”
As she blathered on, Jessica seemed to transform into a cartoon version of herself. I was blissed out by the Rilperdough filling my insides with joy. The moment I took a bite, I felt like I hadn’t felt since I was about five. Watching jets take off with my dad when he still liked me, Science Fiction Theatre after my bath on Sunday nights, building my first rocket … and when Mom used to let me lick the icing off the mixer when she’d baked a birthday cake. The Rilperdough somehow unearthed all of my happiest memories and make me feel like they were happening again, right here, right now.
I wondered if that was how a deity like Juliet felt all of the time.
And that’s when the idea came – as effortlessly as picking rocket parts from a scrapyard.
I realized that even if nobody was going to stop the NED invasion, there was one person on Earth more powerful than the NEDs. My Juliet!
“Jess, when is Prom?”
“Like you’ll ever have a date to go with,” she teased.
“When?”
“May the fourth,” she said.
“Praise Lucas,” uttered the Martians in unison.
I remembered the text message from NED’s dad and did the math in my head. Seven weeks away. Just in time.
The plan took shape in my mind. Icons were more powerful than NEDs. So, if I could keep Juliet – an omnipotent deity – on Earth until the NED invasion, she could bodyguard the planet. Her mere presence would stop the extraction – the NEDs wouldn’t dare do it with an Icon around. And the extraction was planned for the same day as the Prom. Suddenly it was so clear: Juliet had to be my date, you know, to save the world!
It was a daring idea, an idea of such stupefying genius that it needed an audience as soon as humanly, or alienly, possible.
As the Rilperdough wore off and cartoon-Jessica morphed back into real-life-Jessica, nattering on about Prom this and decorations that, I floated on a newfound cloud of confidence down the hall in search of my friends.
It was time for Sherman Capote to save the world.
I went straight to the packed cafeteria, collected my food and found Sonya, Octo and Houston at our very own lunch table.
“Nice to have real estate, huh?” said Octo, stuffing two of his beaks with burgers and fries. By now, word of our field trip had gone viral and we had what Octo liked to call “street cred”.
“This is officially our table!” Octo continued.
“Too bad the world’s going to end,” Sonya said. She flicked her tongues, slurped her spearmint slushie and tapped a scaly, perfectly-manicured finger on the table. “It kind of puts a dampener on our social climbing.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, tucking into my seafood lasagne. “I have a plan for that.”
Octo looked at my plate. “You’re probably eating my distant cousin right now. Are you really okay with that?”
I spluttered, put my knife and fork down – appetite well and truly lost – and announced my genius plan. “I’m going to save the world.”
“Awesome,” said Octo. “Pass the ketchup.”
“How?” asked Sonya.
“Just pick it up and pass it over,” the ventitent said impatiently.
“By taking Juliet to the Prom,” I answered.
Houston tossed a bottle of the red stuff to Octo and the three of them stared at me.
“Okay,” Octo mumbled. “It’s … er … good to have goals.” He tentacle-slapped me on the back.
“Lofty goals,” added Sonya.
“And your plan is?” Houston said.
“That is the plan,” I said. “Its brilliance is its simplicity!”
“Why do you have to take Juliet to the Prom?” Sonya asked.
“If she’s here on Earth when the invasion comes,” I explained, “she’ll protect the planet against the NEDs. They won’t dare carry out the extraction with her here.”
“In theory, the logic holds,” Houston announced. “But in practice, it’s inherently flawed.”
“What? No!” I said. “It’s flawless.”
“Yeah, metal-head,” said Octo. “Why you gotta be a player-hater?”
“I’m with Houston on this,” Sonya said, shaking her head. “Tell them why.”
“Because Juliet is a breathtakingly attractive deity,” Houston announced, “who could, quite literally, choose any guy in the universe. And Sherman is … well, Sherman.”
The only thing that hurts more than the truth, is the truth as told by your friends.
“You’re not exactly at the same … what’s the word?” started Sonya.
“Table?” I said. “I know, I gotta close the gap but—”
“Standard,” she said. “You’re not exactly at the same standard as Juliet. She sits up there, literally and figuratively on a pedestal, and even though we’ve got our own table now – and yes, Octo, it’s great to have real estate – let’s face it, we’re down here. Where we belong.”
I suddenly realized just how Sonya’s people were subjugated by the NEDs. They allowed themselves to be controlled by thinking they weren’t good enough.
“No offence,” she added, as if that suddenly made it all okay.
But she had a point. Why would Juliet give up a thousand amazing worlds filled with probably billions of cooler guys just to go to a stupid dance with me?
I didn’t know, but I had to make it happen.
The fate of the planet depended, entirely, on my mojo.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Field of Pains
The next day in PE, I discovered the only thing worse than an impending magma-draining apocalypse: football.
Until Groom Lake, I’d only ever been to international schools, where football was a “beautiful game” that actually involved kicking a ball with your foot. Back in the States, however, they favored the bone-crushing Super Bowl version. I could just about hold my own running around after a black-and-white ball, but avoiding death by blind-side tackle was not my idea of a physical education.
The heat was unbearable under the supposedly protective pads, but it was the humiliation that really stung. My dad had been the star quarterback in his glory days, but I was about flying rockets, not throwing balls. Being a rocket man is an all-consuming vocation. It’s a calling. And when your every thought’s way up above the Kármán Line, it’s pretty hard to care about who catches the pigskin on the ground. For me, football was just one giant reminder of a hundred fumbled catches in a dozen backyards, my dad shaking his head in disappointment and going back inside for a p
astrami sandwich and some NFL on satellite.
On this particularly scorching Groom Lake afternoon, I was cast as a wide receiver. My motivation was apparently to catch the ball, but what really motivated me was staying alive on the field. Octo was the quarterback of my team and Houston the kicker. The girls were in the gym (in the air conditioning) playing basketball, so it was just us guys on the field. And testosterone (or whatever aliens have) was off its leash.
“Anyone I should watch out for?” I asked Octo, scanning the opposing team for threats.
“The giant scorpion,” Octo whispered into my helmet, “definitely wants to pulverize you.”
The scorpion was the line backer for the other team – a seven-foot mass of black, gnarly armor with a couple of claws the size of sofa cushions. He strutted around upright on his spindly hind claws and, instead of arcing his tail over his head, like the regular-sized Nevada-desert scorps do, he dragged it across the ground menacingly. I was keen to avoid him, but Octo was right: the scorp seemed to have it in for me.
And, just to spice things up, Coach Caan’s phone rang (“the Mrs again”), and he put the scorpion in charge of the game.
“What if he stings me?” I asked.
“Your head will probably turn purple and swell until sweet death saves you from unimaginable agony,” Octo answered cheerfully.
“But he’ll likely be expelled,” added Houston.
“Did we steal his lunch table or something?” I wondered.
“Like he’d let us,” scoffed Octo.
“One of NED’s henchmen maybe?”
“Nope,” Octo said. “Varsity through and through. Superjock. Name’s Atawee.”
“Then what—?”
Atawee blew his whistle, threw it on the turf, spit, then banged his claws together.
“Lisssen up,” he said with a slight hiss. “Run the play again. But thisss time, leave the new kid to me!”
Great. That meant when the AJABot playing center snapped the ball to Octo, and I ran downfield in a hopeless attempt to catch Octo’s pass, it would be the interstellar killer scorpion with the mystery grudge and lethal stinger who tackled me.
“Ah, you’ll be fine, Sherman,” Octo said, lining up the scrimmage. “Just remember my advice.”
I took my stance, preparing to die. “TWENTY-SEVEN, FORTY-NINE …” Octo called.
“Advice?” I yelled.
“Run faster than him,” Octo said. “SEVENTY- TWO, THIRTY NINE …”
The AJABot snapped the ball to Octo and I ran as fast as I could. Octo hurled a perfect spiral in my direction. As it soared, I wondered if Sonya’s Eggcraft would be more aero-efficient if it spiraled like a football and whether—
SLAM!
Atawee hit me like a truck squishing a squirrel. He pinned me down and growled into my helmet (which I was pretty sure would have to be surgically removed).
“Heard about your airborne manoeuvresss, sssquishy,” he hissed. “Outrunning the Air Force isn’t easily done. Consider yourself recruited.”
“Um, uh,” I grunted. “For what?”
“Rocket Races. And I’m sssponsoring you. Don’t. Let. Me. Down.”
So he wasn’t going to sting me, yet. For a full second, the world was undeniably a wonderful place again – but then reality sank in, and all I could think about were gulags. Dark, dangerous, death-bringing gulags.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “But I’m not your guy. I’ll go to prison if I touch a rocket.”
“That’s your problem,” Atawee whispered. “So unless you want to feel the sharp end of my stinger, I’d get yourself a crew together and get prepped. Trials are in five weeks.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, weighing up a sudden death by scorpion against a cruel, slow expiration in a gulag.
“Don’t think too hard,” he said, clicking his claw against my helmet. “You might hurt your head.”
He sprang off me and resumed his stand-in coaching duties. Octo scooped me up, hauled me to the touchline, and checked my vitals.
“You’ll live,” he said. “Guess he didn’t like the taste of you?”
“He wants to recruit me for the Rocket Races.”
“That’s huge!” Octo shouted.
“Yeah, a huge problem,” I said. “He’s going to kill me if I don’t race, but I’m as good as dead if I do – you know I’m not allowed anywhere near rockets.”
“Well, it’s what I call a high-class problem,” he said. “Look, only the cool kids compete in the Rocket Races. And if you race, then you’ll be cool too. Plus, it’s a universal truth that chicks dig guys that go fast. It’s a sure-fire way to impress Juliet.”
I didn’t want to argue with his logic, nor ask why he considered himself such an expert on human dating dynamics, because he did have a point. All of the fighter pilots I’d met had always had pretty wives or girlfriends.
“But if I’m caught racing, I’m toast. Maybe I should just get Juliet to like me for, well, me?”
Houston laughed, joining our huddle.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Octo said, hoisting me to my feet, “but you’re no teen idol, and you’re not exactly All American on the field. Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you are not exactly cool.”
First Houston and Sonya, then Octo. Where was the loyalty?
“Octo, you’re not exactly an authority on cool,” I said, trying to keep my confidence.
“But I’m not trying to date a deity,” he said. “For a guy like you to get a girl like Juliet – especially to get a girl like Juliet to the Prom – you’ve got only one option.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“You’ve got to defy the terrifying odds and somehow become cool by being seen doing something cool way, way, way better than anyone else.”
I slumped. He was right.
“And you, buckaroo,” he said, “have just one skill set to draw on there.”
“But if I’m going to race a rocket, I’m going to need a disguise,” I said. “Something really good – that’ll fool everyone, except for Juliet.”
“I knew … know someone who can help there,” offered Houston, cryptically. “I can get you a disguise.”
Octo patted us both on our backs with his tentacles. “Then we meet at the hangar tonight, rocket men!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
If You Build It
That night, during a spaghetti-and-meatballs dinner, Dad quizzed us half-heartedly on our days. Jess announced that in addition to becoming Prom committee chairperson, she was now editor of the yearbook.
“I even got invited to sit at the cool tables in the cafeteria, Dad,” she gloated. “And that’s like a really big deal.”
She’d somehow managed to elevate her social status, right up to the rarefied tables along the wall. I couldn’t believe it. My twin sister was now in the exclusive company of the cool seniors, the cool juniors and of course the cafeteria monitors. Without even knowing it, she was rubbing my distinct uncoolness in my face.
“I get to decide what is remembered about this year at Groom Lake,” she bragged, turning to me, “and what is forgotten.”
I sighed. Unless my plan worked, Jessica would be in charge of archiving our last days on Earth.
“Top-gun, Jessica! I’m very proud of the way you’re fitting in here,” Dad said, slurping spaghetti into his mouth. I almost laughed. With long strands of red pasta hanging from his mouth, he actually looked like an alien.
“Thanks, Dad,” Jess said as she cut her pasta into little pieces. “I’m really starting to find my groove here.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I said as I twirled. I’ve always been a twirler. When it comes to spaghetti, I seek to create order from the chaos on my plate. I twirled my spaghetti strands into an expertly-shaped cone of pasta around my fork, like the command module of the Apollo rockets. “It’ll be great to have a yearbook commemorating Earth’s last year of existence.”
“Sherman Capote,” snapped Dad. “You
should be supportive of your sister, and you should be trying to fit in too.”
“I played football today,” I offered.
“Yeah,” laughed Jess. “I heard he got crushed in a tackle. Heard your octopus friend had to scoop you off the thirty-yard line.”
“That’s great, Sherman,” said Dad. “Football made me the man I am today.”
“I thought that was military school?” I asked.
“Or the Air Force?” chimed Jess.
“Football was the foundation of all of that: focus, discipline and inner strength.”
“Just like yearbook!” said Jess.
“Exactly,” said Dad.
“And rocket-building,” I said. “I used to get all of that from rocketeering.”
“But football never almost-caused a world war, Sherman,” Dad said.
“That’s because it’s an American-only sport,” I said. “Nobody else cares.”
“Sherman, sometimes you exasperate me.”
* * *
After dinner I raced through my Math homework and then waited until Dad and Jess fell asleep to sneak out to meet Octo at the hangar next to the scrapyard. Sonya and Houston were there too. I smiled at them – I needed all the help I could get.
“So you’re going to be a racer, eh?” asked Sonya.
“I figure it’ll teach me focus, discipline and inner strength,” I said.
“And get you the girl,” added Octo.
“And save the planet,” said Houston.
“That’s the general idea,” I said.
“Then we’re your crew,” Sonya announced, “and we’d better get started. We’ve got a rocket to build and a racer to train.”
We didn’t waste any time. Octo and I scoured the scrapyard for usable rocket parts while Houston and Sonya separated and organized our haul into the essential categories: engines, fuselage, boosters and guidance.
We debated and discussed what type of racer to build.
“The fastest one possible,” I said.
“But it’s a trade-off between speed and maneuverability,” explained Sonya.
“Speed, speed, speed!” shouted Octo.
“Agility and control,” countered Houston.
The possibilities were mind-blowing: saucer, airplane style, bi-plane, tri-plane, X-Wing, Enterprise, or NASA-issue STS. We debated aerodynamics, torque and hovering capacity. I may have been banned from Rocket Camp, but out here, at night, I was getting a full education on the galaxy’s best space technology. It was the first time I’d had friends to talk about rockets with. I guessed this was how normal people felt in football teams, chess clubs and choirs: like they belonged.