“Nothing!” Mitchell answered defensively. “Jeez.”
Mark stared square at Mitchell, not accepting the answer.
Mitchell buckled. “Okay, maybe something. I want to ask you about that robot you made last year. You know, the one that won the state contest?”
“Yeah, I know which one. What about it?”
“Don’t be so twitchy. I was just interested is all. I mean, we’re both in Sci-Clops, right?”
Mark had more strange information thrown at him in the last few hours than his brain could accept. First there was Courtney’s letter, then Bobby’s journal, then here was Andy Mitchell, the hated Andy Mitchell, wanting to talk shop with him. It was almost more than Mark could take. Normally he would blow Andy off and keep walking. But he needed to get his mind off Courtney, and the journal.
“All right,” Mark said. “Fries at Garden Poultry.”
“Now you’re talkin’!”
They started to walk off together, but Mark suddenly stopped and said, “Wait, where did you get the money for fries? Did you steal it?”
“Gimme a break,” Mitchell said. “I got a job.”
“What job?” Mark asked suspiciously. “Is it legal?”
“You’re a piece of work, you know that? I make deliveries for my uncle,” Mitchell answered. “He’s got a flower store. Is that legal enough for you?”
“You have your driver’s license?” Mark asked, surprised.
“Sure, don’t you?” Mitchell asked.
Mark didn’t. He hadn’t even thought about asking his parents for his learner’s permit. Could he be any more of a loser?
“Sorry,” Mark finally said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
The odd couple walked up Stony Brook Avenue to the Garden Poultry Deli where they picked up a couple of boxes of golden-delicious fries and some sodas. They sat in the pocket park nearby, and Mitchell listened to Mark tell him all about the killer robot he designed that won both the local and state science fairs. It was the project that earned him his invitation to join Sci-Clops. Mitchell listened with interest, which was amazing to Mark. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t make fun. He didn’t snort and spit. Not once. Mark actually enjoyed telling him about his robot. With all that had been going on, talking about something real like his robot calmed him down. He even forgot for a second who he was talking to…that’s how desperate he was to get his mind off his problems.
When Mark was finally talked out, Mitchell nodded and said, “I gotta hand it to you, Dimond. You’re a freak, but you’ve got talent.”
‘Thanks… I think,” Mark said.
Andy stood up and said, “Maybe someday we’ll work together on something. That is, if you don’t mind working with somebody you think is a turd.”
This threw Mark. It was the first time Mitchell had shown any sign of humility whatsoever.
“Uh, yeah, maybe” was all Mark could get out. “I mean, I don’t think you’re a turd.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Thanks for the fries,” Mark said.
“Thanks for the story,” Mitchell said. “I gotta get to work. See ya.”
With that, Mitchell turned and walked out of the park. Mark was left there stunned. It seemed too surreal to be true, but Andy Mitchell had actually just helped him get through a panic attack. Mark chuckled and shook his head and thought, “Life just keeps on getting stranger.”
The next few weeks flew by. Mark visited the bank a few times to reread Bobby’s latest journal. He tried not to think about Courtney. He figured she’d contact him when she was ready. All Mark could do was hope that Bobby was fully recovered, and that he would avoid Saint Dane.
Mark started a summer job where he assembled and engraved sports trophies. It was better than most dumb summer jobs. At least there was a little bit of creativity involved, and it helped him get his mind off everything else. Mark actually hated summers. He didn’t like to do all the things that everybody else did. He didn’t like swimming. His family didn’t take many fun trips. He didn’t like sitting in the sun because his fair skin went from blue-white to raging red with no stopover at tan. But mostly it was because he liked school. Odd as that would seem to most kids, Mark longed for September because for him, summers were boring.
On the weekend of July Fourth, his summer got less boring.
He was working late at the trophy shop, but he didn’t mind because they were having a fireworks display in the park at the bottom of Stony Brook Avenue. Mark worked until nearly eight thirty, then stopped off at Garden Poultry for his obligatory box of fries and can of Mountain Dew. With his nutritious dinner in hand, he walked down the Ave to catch the fireworks. Families poured in from everywhere, carrying blankets to stake out their piece of grass and see the show. Mark sat down in the middle of one of the town tennis courts. He didn’t like sitting on the grass much, especially with food. He hated battling ants for his fries.
With two huge explosions the fireworks began. Everyone’s eyes went skyward to watch the display. Soon after, the traditional “Oohs” and “Aahs” began as each rocket exploded with spectacular sprays of multicolored light. Mark liked fireworks. They were like magic to him. He had no idea how the ancient Chinese could have figured out how to put the right chemicals and explosives together that would erupt in such amazing colors and patterns. He knew it would be easy enough to research and find out how they worked, but he chose not to. He preferred to think of it as magic.
“Excuse me, son,” came a voice next to him. “No sparklers in the crowd.”
Mark saw a cop standing in front of him. He looked around, wondering who the cop was talking to, but nobody around him was playing with sparklers.
“Did you hear me?” asked the cop, a bit more gruff.
Mark realized the cop was staring right at him.
“Are you talking to me?” Mark asked, confused.
“Don’t be smart,” the cop snapped. “Kill the sparkler. There are little kids around.”
Mark truly didn’t know what the guy was talking about. That is, until he felt his ring twitch. He didn’t notice it at first because he had been so focused up at fireworks in the sky, but there was a small pyrotechnic display going on right in Mark’s hand.
His ring had activated.
It was already growing larger, with shimmering light spewing from the opening, very sparklerlike. The fireworks had been so loud he didn’t even hear the music. Mark instantly clamped his hand over the ring.
“S-Sorry, Officer,” he stammered. “I’ll-uh-I’ll get rid of it.”
Mark awkwardly got to his feet, but he was in the middle of a crowd on the tennis court. He tried to run off, but ended up either stepping on people, or tripping over their picnic baskets, or generally making a nuisance of himself.
“Excuse me, pardon me, sorry, I’m sorry, oops, sorry,” he kept saying as he fought his way through the crowd and off the court. After annoying pretty much everybody along the way, he jumped off the tennis court and ran into the woods. He didn’t have to run far. Nobody cared about him. They were all watching the sky. Mark ran behind a tree, dropped his ring to the ground and watched his own personal pyrotechnic display. Unlike the fireworks exploding in the sky, this one actually did have a touch of magic to it.
This display was there to deliver Bobby’s next journal.
JOURNAL #21
ZADAA
There’s been a tragedy.
There was no warning. No build up. No way we could have been prepared. With everything I’ve seen, you’d think I’d be used to horrible things happening. Not so. I’m as stunned as ever. Now we’ve got to pick up the pieces and move on. The only good thing I can say about this, is that it has made our next step pretty clear.
Mark, Courtney, I’m once again writing this journal from Loor’s home. We won’t be here much longer. Tomorrow we begin a journey. Hopefully, I’m ready for it. Or at least more ready than I was when I wrote to you last.
It’s weird. I’m beginning to feel like two different people. I’m still Bobby Pendragon, the guy you know and who wants more than anything to be home and get his real life back. But in many ways, I’ve changed. I’ve seen so many things, both horrible and wondrous, that I can’t help but think I’m not the same person. I don’t like that. I want to be me. But with all that’s been going on, the old me wouldn’t survive for long. That’s why I needed to force myself to change even more. It’s allabout staying alive. The ironic part is that by forcing myself to be a new person, it feels like I’m killing off the old Bobby. I hate it, but I don’t have a choice. Not if I want to be around long enough to stop Saint Dane.