Surviving the Improbable Quest Page 3

  Allan nods. He’s shorter than average with light brown hair like his dad, thin with blue eyes like his mom. He’s thirteen and a half and keenly aware that his mother is dragging him around like a child. School has been over for a couple of hours, but everyone still in the library can see his humiliation. “Your teacher said you’re failing assignments and doodling on everything. She’s caught you drawing a six-headed sea creature in a textbook. That’s vandalism. You are way better than this.” Allan sees troll hair sprouting from under his mother’s shirtsleeves. “You’ve flushed a third of your grade by not doing a science project. Why wouldn’t you do one? You didn’t even tell me you had one this quarter.” When Allan doesn’t answer, she bends to his eye level. “Answer me or so help me God.”

  “I, uh—” Tears roll down his face. “I didn’t know what to do. Everyone had good ideas but me. I couldn’t think of anything.”

  “Your brain works, I know it does.” Mrs. Westerfield opens the car door for Allan, the hunchback growing on her shoulders. The troll queen will eat me alive, Allan thinks. She taps her foot as Allan hops in, and then she slams the door shut. To Allan’s horror, his dad is driving.

  “What in the hell are you doing? I know you’re only in the eighth grade, but if you mess this up you won’t get into an Ivy League school. You can kiss Princeton goodbye.” Allan’s father clicks the car into gear and pulls into traffic, squealing the tires.

  His mother holds up a manila folder containing the bulk of Allan’s failed assignments. “Allan missed his science project, but never misses swim practice or his TV shows.” Fangs have grown from her distended lower jaw. She snorts. Or did she? Allan rubs his eyes and his mother looks normal again, though she continues her rant, “You could have asked me for some ideas. I’m an Ornithologist. What about a project on rare birds? Remember the Yellow Bellied Canaries I studied last year? They turned red in a single generation. They would have made a wonderful science project.” She grunts in frustration, something she does when words cannot convey her emotions. The grunt is a good sign, however. It means she’s running out of steam.

  Allan hopes he can still avoid being her main course. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . .” Allan tries to find a piece of fingernail to chew, but they were chomped away already. He wants to tell his father that Princeton means nothing to him, that Harvard has the better swim team. Allan bites his tongue. He knows better than to dismiss his father’s holy Princeton.

  “That’s right. You didn’t think!” Mr. Westerfield snaps. He changes lanes and yells out the window at a car that zips by. “Watch it! Idiot drivers are everywhere.”

  “Language, Warren.”

  “This is your fault, you know. You’re the one that read all those crazy kid books by Adam Boldary to him when he was younger. You know, the ones with those crazy creatures and worlds and Morty’s adventures at sea. It messed up his brain. All he thinks about is adventuring and swimming and diving.”

  “Okay, that makes absolutely no sense,” Mrs. Westerfield retorts.

  Allan sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He hates himself when he makes his parents mad. He feels stupid, worthless. The science project scared him to death. School scares him. The only thing he really wants to do is swim and go on adventures. He thinks about racing other kids and going to the Olympics. He wants to explore the castles of Europe and hunt for elusive sea creatures and hold the record for the deepest free dive. The Discovery channel has tons of people that make good money doing that stuff.

  Mrs. Westerfield turns to Allan. She takes a deep breath. Her usually tame hair is ruffled and messy. “Look, as you get older school gets harder. You’ve got to come to us for help. That’s what we’re here for.

  “The world has too many Adam Boldary wannabes and head-screwed-on-backward athletes. We need scientists and mathematicians. That’s where the money is. That’s where you’ll have a future.”

  Allan is about to say he won’t mess up again, but his mother cuts him off.

  “I’m still mad,” she says, then turns away looking more tired than ferocious.

  “You’ve got such a powerful drive. Look how you push yourself in the water. Why not push your mind like that? Science is only half academic. The other half is passion, which you have in spades. Just forget about the fantasies for a while. You can always race and dive and explore places; you only have one chance to get middle school right.”

  Mr. Westerfield wears new leather gloves that have little holes cut around the knuckles. They creak like a rusty hinge when he squeezes the wheel. Traffic is thick, not unusual this time of day. Allan looks out the window. The sun slips behind a dark cloud. I could do a science project about birds? How boring, Allan thinks. Now if that bird has razor-sharp short teeth, that would be cool.

  Movement catches his eye as the car slows to a stop. A beetle with a black shell and an oblong body lands on the edge of the window. Beyond it, a swarm of beetles leap from car to car. Do beetles have parents that yell at them? Do they have homework that makes life difficult and cruel? If given the choice, would that beetle trade its meager life for mine? Allan taps the glass twice where the beetle is. To his surprise, it taps its front leg twice. Allan taps the glass three times. The beetle copies him. His eyes widen and his breath catches in his chest.

  The car starts to move again, sweeping past the swarm of beetles. The one beetle holds on for as long as it can until the wind whips it away. Allan slips out of the top part of the seat belt and cranes his neck to look out the back windshield so he can see the beetle join the swarm. There are so many. He’s never seen a cloud of bugs so thick. It rises over the cars and into the sky like dark smoke.

  Suddenly, the car is hit head on by a much larger vehicle. Airbags explode from the door panels and hammer Allan from the side. His lap belt catches his waist, but his unprotected torso snaps forward. Glass fills the air like confetti and sounds like a million wind chimes. Silence envelops him and he sees only a bright light. Another car slams into the opposite side and flips the car over. Time slows as the vehicle absorbs the energy of the collision. The roof caves in as easily as crumpling paper. Then Allan blinks out, enveloped in silence.

  Chapter 4

  Fear of Speaking

  It’s been eight months since Allan left the hospital. Allan wheels himself around the house with increasing skill. There are dings in the doorframes and dents in the walls, but they are old marks from when Allan first came home from the hospital and had to get used to being stuck in a wheelchair.

  When he gets sad it hits him at odd times like before his bath, after breakfast, during school, in the middle of the night or while swimming in the pool. When the sadness comes, it cloaks him in darkness and forms a tunnel around his vision. He can’t stop it or hold back the tears. They burst out of him in waves. It’s the only sound that comes out of his mouth. He takes a pill and it goes away. Allan has tried to scream, to babble any sound that resembles a word, but he can’t. His therapist, Dr. Brooks, stops by the house twice a week. Today she asks, “How does it feel to be using a wheelchair?” She’s in her usual grey pantsuit, has dark hair like Allan’s mother and has kind blue eyes.

  Allan types on his iPad, skipping words and abbreviating, ‘sucks. bump into door frames + chair doesn’t fit into bathroom.

  “It will get easier,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “There will be construction crews out this week or next to fix things. I think your uncle is just waiting for the settlement money.”

  Money? Allan thinks. So he’s got all my parents’ money now. Allan has always liked his uncle Rubic, but his mother insisted he was lazy and couldn’t keep a job. Now Rubic owns the house his father worked so hard to buy. It doesn’t seem right, none of it.

  The front door opens. Uncle Rubic enters with bags hanging from his fists, a lot of bags. He must be trying to beat the world record for how many bags he can hold at one time.

  “Hey kid. I got pudding cups. Your fav. Some lady at the store wanted t
he last of them, but I got ‘em. She looked at me like I didn’t deserve ‘em. Like a grown man can’t like pudding.” He drops the overstuffed plastic bags, digs through one of them and tosses a pudding cup at Allan. “Her snot-nosed kids can do without. You should’ve seen her cart. It was filled with crap: cupcakes, brownies, pop tarts, a huge bag of sour candies, and boxes of every kind of sugar cereal there was. Her kids are probably all toothless butter balls by now.”

  Allan opens the pudding and tips it up like a drink. The pudding slowly rolls out of the cup and into his mouth. Dr. Brooks stands. “Well, I think we’re done for today.”

  “Any peep?” Rubic asks as he rips the lid off his pudding and drinks it in the same way.

  She shakes her head as she tucks her notes and files into her briefcase. “He doesn’t even draw anymore.”

  “Gotta speak sometime, kid. Doc says your voice is fine.”

  Rubic and Dr. Brooks move away from Allan so he can’t hear them, but he does. He hears a lot of whispering about him these days.

  “Yes, his mind won’t allow him to speak. It’s a coping mechanism. But he’ll come around on his own time. Trust that.”

  Rubic cleans the pudding cup with his finger then licks it. “However long it takes, huh? I know that gets you over here twice a week so you can get that fat paycheck, but I think we oughta try and speed things up a bit.”

  “Trust me,” she says in a hushed voice. “These kinds of cases are textbook. He’s got to work through this on his own. He’s just now starting to go outside again where people can see him. That’s a big step.”“So one day he’s just gonna be like, Uncle Rub pass the ketchup would ya?” Rubic shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. Gotta try something else.”

  “I’m a good therapist,” she defends.

  Rubic rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got it. And I’m a turkey sandwich.”

  Dr. Brooks stomps out the front door, letting it close a little harder than necessary. Rubic snaps his fingers. “I know. Hey buddy, do you know what your dad’s favorite thing to do was? Well, used to be his favorite thing. Up until his job took over his life.”

  Allan types on his iPad. ‘fishing?’

  Rubic karate kicks then punches the air symbolizing his enthusiasm. “That’s right. We’re gonna go fishing. Forget all these city dwellers. We’re going up to the mountains to go catch us some fish.” He ruffles Allan’s hair.

  ‘no thanks. something bad will happen.’

  “Nonsense. That’s fear talking. You’ll love it. Nothing but fresh air, squirrels and fire. We’ll make a big fire. Capital B, capital F.”

  ‘have swim practice,’ Allan types. Even though he can’t race and he doesn’t want to be in the water anymore, Rubic and his therapist make him go. Allan is all too aware that he will never hear the roar of the crowd again. He’ll never see an opponent fall behind, and he’ll never get another chance to get an award hung on the hall of fame at Greenville.

  “They won’t miss you. No excuse can save you this time. You used to want to be an explorer, or was it a sea captain? Remember that? Just like that kid in those books your mom would read to you. What was it called? Ah yeah, Morty’s Travels.” Allan looks away. Rubic shrugs, “Well, either way, we’re going, and I think you’ll dig it once we get up there.”

  ‘can’t run away so no choice. never have choice.’ Rubic doesn’t see the text so Allan deletes it. He rolls to the window and stares into the daylight. It hurts his eyes at first. People pass by wearing headphones or chatting on their telephones. He sees a woman running with her dog. The muscles in her calves tighten and flex. He hopes she falls, sprains her ankle or skins her knee. Everyone is wearing shorts. There’s another runner and then a walker. The more the person is exercising the less clothing they wear, like they’re taunting Allan with their healthy bodies, rubbing it in his face.

  A delivery truck rumbles by, startling Allan. Everything startles him these days. The world is filled with dangerous things: things that crash into you, steal your life and your parents, and make you hurt all over. No! Allan does not want to go camping. In fact, he doesn’t want to leave his house ever again.

  Friday finally arrives. Allan hopes Rubic would ditch this camping idea. You can’t camp if you can’t walk.

  After burnt scrambled eggs and watery orange juice, Rubic presses the button on Allan’s iPad that shuts down the video game. Allan scowls.

  “Time to go camping. I know you don’t want to, but trust me. It’ll be good.” Rubic loads his truck then comes back inside to get Allan. He carries Allan to his pickup truck while Allan protests with silence and frowns. The back is piled high with camping gear and covered with a blue tarp. He sits Allan in the passenger seat.

  ‘not bringing my chair?’ Allan types.

  “Nah, you can’t roll that thing in the dirt. I’ll carry you. And I’ve got camping chairs, hammocks and a couple of air mattresses. It’ll be great.”

  ‘want chair.’

  Rubic puts his hands on his hips and thinks for a millisecond. “Fine, if you insist. I guess it’s your new baby blanket now. Don’t get too used to it, though. There’s a chance you could walk again. Doc says we should try seeing a different specialist.” He loads the chair under the tarp then hops in the truck.

  ‘can’t breathe.’ Allan types. He clutches his chest and drops his chin as panic seizes his heart and thickens his blood. Dizziness adds dark shapes to his vision as though Death is doing laps around his head, waiting for him to die. Rubic unzips a bag in between them. “Here, kid. You’re just nervous about driving. Doc said you’d be like this for a while. Take this. It’ll relax you.”

  Allan takes the pill. Like the flip of a switch, Allan relaxes quickly. The pill didn’t even have time to hit his stomach. Must be another brain thing, Rubic thinks. Then he wonders if the pill is anything but sugar.

  On the road, the traffic is bad. Rubic cusses at the other drivers just like Allan’s father used to. They sound so similar sometimes. Tears swell up in Allan’s eyes.

  Once Rubic gets to the freeway he relaxes. “We’re goin’ to the river me and your dad used to fish when we were your age. It’s perfect. No idiot drivers, no fools lookin’ for a hand out, no alarm clocks. There’s just the big ball of light in the sky and those hungry fish.”

  Allan ignores Rubic. And he feels justified. If he’s going to be dragged out of his house, he doesn’t have to play nice. He flips his texting program off. With a tap on the screen a video game loads, and he resumes his previous game. It’s some little character jumping and throwing weapons and ducking and dodging. He compiles millions of coins and passes level after level with increasing skill.

  During the drive, Allan misses how the city shrinks and thins like a sandcastle being washed out by the waves. Instead of corner drugstores, fancy restaurants and gum-laden sidewalks, there are trees, small homes and a passing freight train. He doesn’t see any of it. Instead, his little character misses a platform and is impaled on spikes. Its body flashes and dissolves and the level starts over. Not a scratch, not a bruise. Allan wishes he would flash and dissolve so he could try his life again.

  After four hours of driving, Rubic hits a dirt road, and the ride gets bumpy. The trees, much bigger, stand straight like soldiers. The air thins and is cold. Rocks push out of the dry pine needles like giant monuments, and dust clings to the windows, sneaking through the A/C vents. The road narrows until there is only one lane. Allan finally looks out the window. He stares into the forest as it passes by. It’s ugly and boring, he thinks. It’s dirty and filled with dangerous animals. There’s nothing out there for me, nothing.

  Half an hour later, Rubic parks under a gigantic tree. “We’re here.” There are no facilities, no tables and no trashcans. “This is camping. We’re out in the middle of nowhere living like the cavemen did.” He laughs. “Not really. I’ve got everything we need. I’ll teach you how to fish and tie a bowline. And you can carve something out of wood. How does that sound?”

  All
an fakes a wide smile. He doesn’t smile much these days so the stretching of his cheeks feels tight. Sadness swarms like whispering ghosts and he wants more medicine. He wants his father with them.

  Rubic puts his hand on Allan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, kid. You want him to be here. I know. So do I. He’s the only dude in the whole world that I could stand. But a part of him is here. There are other worlds besides our own. He’s up there watchin’ us. He hopes you’ll try to have a good time.”

  Rubic sets up the tent and table and then gathers some firewood and lights the fire. He’s a skillful camper and is done as the sky darkens. In silence, the two eat hotdogs and stare at the fire.

  Chapter 5

  Power of French Fries

  Allan is wet and muddy from the flash flood, hopeless, drained and confused. He feels misplaced, like a lost coin or a forgotten toy. He wonders how Rubic will feel when he wakes up, pinned under a bolder. Who will save Rubic, if he can’t? Allan survived a car accident, the death of his parents and being paralyzed. He didn’t think he could go on then either, to survive any of those things, but he did.

  Allan knows how to save Rubic. He just has to keep moving.

  The Dream Spirit told him to continue, urged him on. All Allan has to do is get his bearings. He needs to find high ground. No one is going to die in this forest, not today.

  Allan sits up. Wind rattles the treetops and stirs the blue-green leaves all around him. It chills Allan’s skin as it slips through sweat-soaked and muddied clothes. He scoots up the hill.

  An hour passes, but Allan is determined. He takes a turn crawling on his knees. He knows his bruises will deepen, but he doesn’t have feeling in his legs so it doesn’t matter.

  In between the fern-like plants are orange shoots. They twist like Red Vines licorice, but are bright orange. He touches one, and it sticks to his finger for a moment, leaving some orange on his skin. He quickly wipes it off and continues crawling, avoiding the orange stalks.