The Great Flying Adventure Page 2

  “That looks okay,” Melissa said. “In fact, it’s an improvement.”

  “Thanks, Melissa,” I said.

  Her mom fixed us lunch and then hurried out to an important meeting – the Garden Club or something. Seems like she always had lots of time for “important” stuff and little time for Melissa.

  “You’re not going to join Quentin’s new club, are you, Amanda?” Melissa asked.

  “No way! I barely survived the last one.”

  Our words echoed in the vast kitchen. The whole house was huge, but it didn’t seem to contain much happiness. Everyone was in a hurry to get out. Melissa was in a hurry to get out.

  “I wish I still had my English racer,” she said. “I feel so trapped without it.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and it sure isn’t safe to ride around with Quentin.”

  “I made up a dumb story about it getting stolen,” Melissa said. “Dad wasn’t buying it, though, and he isn’t buying me another bike, either.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind by Christmas,” I said.

  “Christmas!” Melissa said. “That may as well be the end of the world. And who rides a bike in winter?”

  I nodded, Melissa sighed.

  “I feel like I lost half my personality with that bike,” she said.

  That seemed a bit of a stretch, unless she had a really limited personality. But I understood her pain.

  “And to think Davis gave his English racer to Quentin,” Melissa said. “Dad was really steamed, but he couldn’t very well take it back. That would be too ... low class.”

  “I thought it was sweet of Davis,” I said. “He didn’t really want the bike, and Quentin needed one desperately.”

  “I’m so sick of Quentin,” Melissa said.

  “Yeah, but if there’s trouble he’s handy to have around,” I said.

  “And who starts 99% of the trouble?” Melissa said. “Quentin, that’s who.”

  “Good point, Melissa.”

  We ate quietly for a few minutes, each lost in our own miseries. Then Davis came in.

  “Hi, Davis,” I said.

  “What do you want?” Melissa snapped.

  “This was in the mailbox.” Davis handed Melissa an envelope.

  “What the heck?” she said.

  The envelope was a light orangey yellow, and the paper was very thin. It had no stamp or return address, just “Melisa” written on the front.

  “Couldn’t even spell my name right,” Melissa said. “Who brought this?”

  “Beats me.” Davis opened the cookie jar. “It was stuck in a bunch of junk mail.”

  He left with a handful of cookies.

  “I wonder who this is from.” Melissa examined the strange envelop. “Hey, maybe it’s that new boy at school. He can spell my name any way he wants!”

  “Well, open it,” I said.

  She slit it carefully with a steak knife and pulled something out. Then her eyes bugged and her mouth dropped open. I though her chin was going to smack the counter top.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  I grabbed the item from her rigid fingers. It was a snapshot of Melissa standing with her English racer in my driveway.

  “Tommy took this picture a few weeks ago with Quentin’s camera,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

  Then it hit me.

  “Quentin left the camera in the Tire Giant, didn’t he?” I said.

  Melissa nodded.

  “Who developed the film, then?” I said.

  “I don’t know ...” Melissa said.

  We just stared at each other, dumbfounded. I was the first to snap out of it.

  “Come on, Melissa.” I stood up. “We’re going to Quentin’s.”

  6: Into the Lair

  We walked to Quentin’s house, avoiding the corner where Calvin and his crew lived.

  It wasn’t far from Melissa’s fancy neighborhood, but the differences were startling. In Quentin's area, houses were much smaller and scrunched together. The fancy cars were replaced by lower cost types, some of which were badly rusted.

  Quentin’s two little sisters were playing with some weird toy on the front lawn. The thing flashed red lights and spun like a top. It didn’t touch the ground, though, it just hovered a few inches above the grass making a low, whiny sound.

  “Is Quentin home?” Melissa asked.

  Tricia looked up. “What’s it to you?”

  “Just answer the question, okay?” Melissa said.

  “Give us ten cents first,” Kimmy chimed in.

  Kimmy was a year younger than Tricia, but just as bratty. I tried to get a better peek at the top thing, but Tricia turned it off and shoved it inside a box.

  “Thanks, anyway,” I said. “We’ll just look for ourselves – if you don’t mind.”

  They gave me identical dirty looks.

  “We were invited, you know,” I said.

  “Suite yourself,” Tricia said, “but don’t say we didn’t try to warn you.”

  Melissa and I walked up the driveway to the side door.

  “Nice kids, eh?” I said. “Very sociable.”

  “Those little twerps burn me up,” Melissa said. “Quentin spoils them rotten.”

  Mrs. Mays met us at the door. She had her usual frazzled, worried look, and her hands twisted a dish towel like she was trying to rip it apart. She must have been about my mom’s age, but looked much older.

  “Hello, girls,” she said. “Quentin’s in the basement, I think.”

  “Tricia and Kimmy were just telling us that,” I said. “They’re looking very well.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Mays’ face brightened a little. “That’s good.”

  She retreated into the kitchen while Melissa and I clattered down the basement stairs.

  “I don’t believe you sometimes, Amanda,” Melissa said. “Why are you always so nice?”

  “Just a bad habit, I guess.”

  The basement was definitely a boy’s world, Quentin’s “Lair” as he called it. A single bulb on the upstairs landing threw dim light down into it, revealing sports equipment and bike parts scattered around. To the right, a little workshop door stood open. The farther reaches of the basement were very dark, as there were no windows. We stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Where’s the light switch?” Melissa said.

  “I don’t know.”

  I tried to peer through the gloom. The place was starting to creep me out.

  “We’re here, Quentin ... Quentin?” I said.

  “He’s not home,” Melissa said. “Maybe we should have paid those brats and saved ourselves a trip.”

  A deep voice boomed from the darkness: “Enter at your peril!”

  We both flinched.

  Hands gripped our ankles.

  We both screamed.

  A light bulb flicked on. Quentin stood under it – the light chain in one hand, a microphone in the other. The Viking helmet, painted gold no less, sat on his head.

  “Pretty good, eh?” he said.

  “Pretty dumb,” I said. “Gimme back my ankle.”

  The hands retreated. A moment later, Tommy emerged from behind the stairs. Melissa shot him a rancorous glare.

  “I’d expect that from Quentin,” she said, “but I thought you had more class, Tommy.”

  “Well ... it was Quentin’s idea,” he said.

  Tommy looked pretty sheepish, but Quentin only laughed.

  “Quentin, what’s going on down there?” Mrs. Mays called from upstairs.

  “Nothing, Mom!” Quentin said. “We’re just practicing.”

  “Practicing what,” Melissa said, “being an idiot?”

  “How do you like the talking Idol?” Quentin said.

  He gestured to Mr. Luau who was perched on top of an upended milk crate. Quentin spoke into the microphone.

  “I am the guiding spirit of the club,” Mr. Luau boomed. “My commands are law!”

  Quentin lowered the microphone.

 
“Neat, huh?” he said. “There’s a speaker hooked up inside. It was Tricia’s idea, actually.”

  Melissa and I exchanged angry glances.

  “Was that Tricia’s idea too?” I said.

  I pointed to the large, floppy hat resting on the Tiki head. It had belonged to the Basitch guard we’d fought in the Tire Giant. I’d hoped to never see the horrible thing again.

  “Well, no,” Quentin said. “I thought it would look cool, but ... maybe it’s a little too much, eh?”

  He grabbed the hat and flung into a corner like a giant Frisbee.

  “Give me that.” Melissa grabbed the microphone. “How does this thing work?”

  “Just push the button and talk,” Quentin said.

  Melissa raised the microphone to her mouth.

  “I am the guiding spirit of stupidity,” Mr. Luau said. “My commands are totally boring!”

  “Not bad,” Quentin said. “You’ve got the hang of it.”

  Melissa held up the orangey yellow envelope. “What do you know about this, Quentin?”

  “What’s that?” Quentin asked.

  “A picture, taken with your camera,” I said.

  “Really?” Quentin examined the envelope. “Weird paper.”

  “That’s not the only weird thing,” Melissa said.

  “Okay, I’ll put it on the agenda,” Quentin said. “After we elect officers and approve the charter we’ll talk about his.”

  “Elect officers?” Melissa was irate. “But this picture – ”

  Quentin held up a hand. “All in due time,” He said. “You are staying for club meeting aren’t you?”

  “I want an explanation now!” Melissa said.

  “Let the Magic 8 Ball decide,” Tommy said.

  “Excellent idea,” Quentin said.

  He snatched up the Magic 8 Ball from its place beside Mr. Luau and gave it a good shake.

  “Please tell us, oh great Magic 8 Ball,” Quentin intoned, “should we talk about the picture now?”

  He turned the ball over. An answer bobbed up in the spirit window:

  Ask Again Later

  “Guess we’re stuck, Melissa,” I said.

  We all sat on the floor around a low table. Mr. Luau glared at us from across the basement. The club meeting began.

  7: Things Get Weird

  First we elected officers:

  Quentin Mays – President (of course)

  Melissa Jordanek – Vice President (“If I’m gonna be in this club, I want an executive position!”)

  Amanda Searles – Secretary Treasurer (Who had any money?)

  Tommy Velasco – Sergeant at Arms (to keep away undesirable elements)

  Next we talked about the purpose of the club, but we couldn’t think of any just yet.

  Throughout, Quentin worked for a dark, creepy atmosphere with flickering candles, commands from the “Talking Idol,” and consultations with the Magic 8 Ball. It was all pretty silly, but it started getting to me after a while.

  If you wanted to talk, you had to hold the “Golden Scepter” which was the railroad spike Quentin had picked up earlier.

  “Pretty cool, eh?” Quentin said. “I cleaned off the rust with my Dad’s grinding wheel and then sprayed on some gold model paint.”

  I felt sad whenever he talked like this, as if his dad was still around. I remembered that awful day two years ago when we learned of the car crash. Tears rolled down my dad’s face as he took the phone call. He and Mr. Mays had been great pals – bowling on the same team, going fishing together, drinking beer ...

  Melissa snatched the golden scepter. “Enough of all this. I want to talk about the picture.”

  “All right Melissa, let’s see if the Magic 8 Ball agrees,” Quentin said.

  As club president, he didn’t need to hold the golden scepter when he talked.

  “Forget the Magic 8 Ball,” Melissa said. “This is important.”

  She pulled the photo from the envelope and gave it to Quentin.

  “Tell me what you know about it,” she demanded.

  Quentin adjusted his Viking helmet and lowered the picture toward the candle light.

  “I can see that your shoe lace is untied,” he said.

  “Not that!” Melissa said.

  Tommy looked over. “I took that picture with your camera, Quentin, just before we left for the Tire Giant.”

  “Yeah, so?” Quentin said.

  “Somebody mailed it to me today,” Melissa said, “was it you?”

  “How could it be?” Quentin said. “I left the camera in the Tire Giant when ...”

  He looked back at the picture, his eyes widened. “I see what you mean. This is weird.”

  The basement became terribly quiet then, like a tomb or something – except for a dripping faucet in the darkness by the washing machine.

  Then Mr. Luau started talking.

  “he ... hel ...” it said, then a lot of static.

  I felt static running up my spine.

  “Cut that out, Quentin,” Melissa said.

  Quentin held up the microphone. “I didn’t say anything. Look, the mike is switched off.”

  “H-hel ... lo,” Mr. Luau said. “Is ... uh,” A blast of static wiped out the voice.

  “I don’t like this,” Melissa said.

  “Me neither,” I said, which was a huge understatement – actually I was getting really scared.

  The golden spike in Melissa’s hands started to glow. So did the horns on Quentin’s helmet!

  “Here, you take it,” Melissa tossed the spike over to Tommy.

  The spike grew brighter. Tommy just stared at it, unable to move. Then a big spark leaped from it and stuck the horns of Quentin’s helmet.

  “Ah!” Quentin yelped.

  He fell over backwards, upsetting the table. His helmet tumbled away. Melissa and I jumped up with a stereo scream.

  “Ahhh!”

  Tommy flung the spike aside as if it was a rattle snake.

  “Quentin, are you okay?” we gasped.

  “Uh, yeah ...” Quentin sat back up, rubbing his head. “I think I just had a brain storm.”

  Melissa gulped. Her eyes were all wide and scared, like mine, no doubt.

  “Well ... this was all great fun,” she said, “b-but I think I hear my mom calling. Come on, Amanda, let’s go see what she wants.”

  “Yeah, let’s go!” I said.

  Tommy stood up. “I think there’re some undesirable elements roaming around outside. I’d better go chase them away.”

  We all pounded up the stairs and were gone. Tricia and Kimmy laughed as we ran past them.

  8: Rendezvous

  I felt pretty dumb by the time I got home. The whole thing was probably just one of Quentin’s stunts, and he’d be laughing his head off now with Tricia and Kimmy. They’d sure pulled one over on us!

  But I didn’t really believe that, however much I wanted to. Quentin had seemed as amazed as the rest of us, and he’s not very good at faking such things. Also, he’s the one who got his head fried. That’s a long way to go just to scare your friends.

  Then I started feeling ashamed. Maybe Quentin was in trouble, and we’d left him there alone. Imagine, three weeks ago we’d outfought that horrible guard in the Tire Giant, and now we were afraid of a stupid Tiki head!

  Of course, we’d had no place to run away from the guard, so we’d had to fight him.

  I wanted to phone Quentin, but that would just embarrass him. He’d think that I was questioning his macho status if I showed any concern.

  As I was lying in bed that night, watching my lava lamp throw weird shadows around my room and trying to figure out the nonsensical situation, a stone bounced off my window screen. I looked out to see Quentin standing in my back yard moonlight.

  “Come on down, Amanda,” he whisper-yelled.

  I threw on some clothes and slipped out the back door. Quentin was very nervous, shifting from one foot to the other as if he were standing barefoot on a ho
t beach.

  “Check this out.” He thrust the Magic 8 Ball into my hands.

  I moved to the little circle of light behind the shed. Then I shook the 8 Ball and turned it over. Something very strange bobbed up in the spirit window.

  Hep – E H

  I shook the ball again:

  Plz – E H

  and again:

  Hury – E H

  With each answer, the hair on the back of my neck stood up stiffer.

  “Did you mess with this?” I demanded.

  Quentin shook his head. “Don’t you see, Amanda? It’s Eddie Hawkes – ‘E H’ – calling for help.”

  The night beyond the 40-watt bulb suddenly teemed with dark mystery.

  “That isn’t possible,” I said. “Eddie’s in another universe or someplace.”

  “Right,” Quentin said, “and he’s been trying to contact me all day. Why else did I buy all that weird stuff? The railroad spike, too. Eddie was directing me somehow.”

  I grasped for a bit of sanity in all this madness. “What about that snapshot, Quentin? Tell the truth.”

  “Eddie must have sent it somehow,” Quentin said. “I left my camera behind with my old bike, you know that.”

  “Th-this simply can’t be,” I said, but the tingle up my spine claimed otherwise.

  “He can barely get through,” Quentin said, “it’s like somebody’s fighting him. Look how choppy those words are. There used to be more, but they’re fading out.”

  I shook the ball again. A standard rely appeared in the spirit window this time:

  Reply Hazy Try Again

  “The Tiki head kept trying to talk after you left,” Quentin said.

  Another chill up my spine.

  “What did it say?”

  “A bunch of words that I couldn’t figure out through the static,” Quentin said, “and then some numbers that I could.”

  “What numbers?”

  Quentin yanked something out of his pocket.

  “They’re map co-ordinates,” he said. “I found them on my aeronautical chart.”

  He unfolded the chart and pointed to a red X.

  “It’s about 65 miles from here, along the same railroad track where the Tire Giant was,” Quentin said. “I’m sure Eddie needs us to go there right away. He must be in serious trouble.”

  “How could we do that?” I said. “It would take forever to bike that far.”

  “We’ll have to borrow the airplane,” Quentin said.

  I was too astonished to answer.

  “There’s no other way,” Quentin said. “If we woke somebody up and asked them to drive us, they’d think we were crazy.”

  “I think this is crazy,” I said. “Besides, how well can you fly? At night no less.”