Masterminds (2 page)

Randy doesn't seem to notice at all. “Look!” he shouts back at me, waving his arm to the right.

It's the sign Randy mentioned—the one about leaving town. In contrast to spotless and impeccable Serenity, it's surprisingly faded and weather-beaten. I squint at the bottom, where the warning
No Gas Next 78 Miles
has been tacked on.

I've done it. I've left town. I survey the rocky hills and scrub pines and brush. I don't know what to call this, but it's not Serenity anymore. After more than thirteen years, I'm officially Somewhere Else. And how does it make me feel?

To be honest, kind of scared. I've never done this before, never lost visual contact with my hometown. By the time I get to see this Alfa Romeo, I'll be so stressed out that I won't even be able to appreciate it. I'm overthinking
this whole business to the point where it's making me sick to my stomach.

Well, I'm not turning back. I made it this far, and Randy will never let me hear the end of it if I don't follow through.

But I really
am
sick—and getting sicker. The nausea grows stronger, rising up the back of my throat. There's no way it's just from being nervous. This is something physical. What did I have for lunch today? I can't remember, but whatever it was, it's coming up, and soon. My stomach twists in a paralyzing cramp, and my head hurts too.

“What's with you, Eli?” Randy calls back in annoyance. “Running out of gas already?” His expression changes when he sees me. “Hey, are you okay?”

I've slowed down, although I hardly notice it. Only pure stubbornness keeps my legs pumping. I'm in agony, blinded by the kind of headache that lodges behind the eyes like a glowing coal, pulsating and doubling in intensity. The pain is unimaginable. It's not just a terrible thing; it's the
only
thing.

I'm not even aware of toppling off the bike until my chin strikes the road. Fire erupts on my forearms where they scrape the rough pavement. I see Randy kneeling over
me, feel him shaking me, but I'm powerless to respond. I can only focus on one thought:

I'm dying.

What happens next is so shocking, so bizarre, that I'm sure I'm imagining it, delirious with pain. A loud, rhythmic roar swells around Randy and me, and strong winds whip down on us. A dark shadow moves directly overhead, growing larger and larger as it descends. An enormous military-style helicopter settles on the road, its rotor buffeting us with air.

The hatch opens, and out jump six men in identical indigo uniforms and wine-colored berets.

“Purple People Eaters!” Randy breathes.

Through a fog, I can barely make out the distinctive tunics of the Surety, the security force of the Serenity Plastics Works that doubles as the town police. It takes all the strength I have left to spread my arms to the rescuers.

“Help me,” I whisper, wondering if they can even hear me over the thunder of the chopper.

“Eli . . .”

I can't seem to pinpoint the source of the voice. Through blurry vision, I can just make out the outline of a face peering down from above.

“Eli, wake up.”

“Dad?” I've never been so relieved to see him. My father's familiar features come into focus—thin lips and pale eyes, the color of a frozen lake. It's his Principal Stare, although it's hard to imagine him looking any different if he was an astronaut or a fruit picker or a rock star. Most kids go a long way to avoid that expression, but to me, it's familiar and even comforting, my earliest memory.

I'm in one of the two beds in Serenity's tiny doctor's office and health clinic. An IV tube tugs at my arm. And that means . . .

It's all true. It comes back like a delayed-reaction recollection of a terrible nightmare. The bikes. The collapse. The Purple People Eaters . . .

“I never thought I'd see you again, Dad.” The lump in my throat swells to cantaloupe size. “I never thought I'd see anybody!”

The Stare softens and he leans over and hugs me. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“What happened?” I feel better, but by no means back to normal. An impenetrable grogginess covers me like a curtain. The nausea and headache are gone, but the memory of so much pain and fear haunt me. The idea that it's possible to feel so awful, and that maybe I'll feel that way
again one day—it's changed me.

On the other hand, I'm alive, which is kind of a surprise. “What happened?” I repeat.

Dad breaks the hug. He tries, but he's just not a touchy-feely guy. “Dr. Bruder isn't quite sure. Dehydration, maybe.”

“I was fine until suddenly I wasn't anymore. I was on my knees throwing up nothing and holding on to my head to keep it from falling off.” My voice cracks a little. “I honestly believed I was going to die.”

“But we can't rule out the possibility of an extreme allergic reaction to something growing out there,” Dad goes on briskly.

I stare at him, wanting to be babied just a few minutes longer. Briefly I wonder if my mom would have been the warm and fuzzy parent. She died when I was little, so I'll never know. I don't even remember the smiling face in her portrait on our mantel. It's my job to replace the flowers every week. The picture is familiar, but the person in it is a stranger.

Don't get me wrong. My father has always been there for me. I spit up on his tailored suits as a baby. When I toddled my first steps, his sure hands steadied me. I even remember him in the pool supporting my stomach when
I was learning to swim—no small thing for a guy who rarely loosens his tie. But a teddy bear he's not.

“Is Randy all right? Did the Purple People Eaters pick him up too?”

The pale eyes frost over in disapproval. “We don't use that term.”

I bite my tongue.
Maybe you don't, but that's what every kid in town calls them. What do you expect when you dress them up like a platoon in plum?

“You're very lucky the Surety stumbled on you when they did,” he continues.

“Stumbled?” It isn't exactly how I'd describe it. “Is that what you'd call a giant helicopter filled with purple storm troopers descending from the sky in a blizzard of flying dust?”

When my father frowns, his lips retreat into a pencil-thin line above his chin. “Storm troopers—where would you pick up a word like that?”

“From school,” I reply. “I'm in eighth grade, Dad. We know about armies. We even know they have to fight wars sometimes.”

He sighs. “I suppose. We're citizens of the larger world too—not just our own town. I wish that everybody could share the life we have here.”

“Tell me about it,” I agree. “Hey, Dad, why do the Purple—the Surety have their own helicopter?”

“It belongs to the factory. We're fortunate to have a company like the Plastics Works that looks after us so well. A lot of communities our size don't enjoy our resources.”

“Yeah,” I persist, “but why do they
need
it here? We're completely safe.”

He looks surprised. “Well, they just saved your bacon, didn't they? In a big city, that helicopter might be needed for police surveillance. Here we have the luxury to use it to help people. It's just another thing that makes Serenity such a special place, don't you agree?”

But for once, I'm not sure whether I agree or not, because the memory of the chopper triggers other images: rough hands hauling me aboard the craft; a stifled “Hey!” from Randy, hitting the deck beside me; the sound of the bikes being crammed into the cargo hold; a dizzying takeoff, which finally brings up lunch; Serenity viewed from high above, growing steadily larger as we come in for a landing.

Then, pounding feet, a babble of anxious voices. Purple People Eaters, Dr. Bruder, my father, all talking at once.

“Here!”

“Hold the stretcher steady!”

“Quickly!”

“Put him out!”

The needle pierces my arm and I'm fading, but I can hear a response. “Yes, Mr. Hammerstrom.”

Hammerstrom?

At that point, the sedative takes effect and everything goes black.

Dad kisses my forehead. That doesn't happen very often, proving how much this incident must have shaken him. “Now get some rest, Eli. Dr. Bruder wants to observe you for a couple of days.”

I know I should just be grateful to be alive. But the curiosity is boiling inside me and I can't help it. “What's Hammerstrom?”

He's almost gone, but the question freezes him in the doorway. “I beg your pardon?”

“When they took me out of the helicopter, someone mentioned Hammerstrom.”

“One of the Surety goes by that name,” Dad replies.

I try not to smile.
Wow, there's a Purple People Eater named Hammerstrom! I've got to tell Randy!

Although everybody knows everybody in Serenity, that doesn't extend to the Surety. They keep to themselves,
which makes them kind of nameless and faceless. You see them around town, but the only time you ever get close is on Serenity Day, for the annual Surety-versus-Plastics-Works tug-of-war. That's also when they do their drill team parade, which looks like someone spilled grape juice on the Grenadier Guards in front of Buckingham Palace.

“Now put it out of your mind,” my father continues. “You're safe and it's all over.”

It's meant to be soothing, but it sounds a little like an order.

I resist a wild impulse to snap a salute.

THINGS TO DO TODAY (UNPRIORITIZED)

           
•
  
Piano Practice (1.5 hours)

           
•
  
Ballet Practice (1 hour)

           
•
  
Math Test Corrections (to bring up grade from 94)

           
•
  
Meditation (need new mantra—download English-Sanskrit translation app)

           
•
  
Make Farewell Card for Randy (optional)

           
•
  
Work on Book with Tori

           
•
  
Work on Serenity Day Project with Tori

           
•
  
Sleepover at Tori's (unconfirmed; Tori might sleep over here)

I frown at the list, and then change
optional
to
mandatory
. Maybe Randy's not my favorite person—I think he's a troublemaker. But I feel terrible for anybody who has to move away from Serenity. No other place could ever be as good.

The scene where he breaks the news keeps replaying itself in my head. He's being sent to live with his grandparents in Colorado.

“You mean”—my mind can barely take it in—“you're
leaving
Serenity?”

He nods grimly. “They have a small farm, and they're getting older, so they need some help.”

He's devastated. And what about Eli? He's still in the health clinic from that weird accident. I shudder just thinking about it. You're shut away with no visitors, and when you finally get out, the first thing you hear is that your best friend is moving away? I can only imagine what it would be like to lose Tori, who I've seen every single day as long as I can remember.

“Can't your grandparents hire somebody?” Tori asks.

Randy shrugs. “My mom says they can't afford to. It's just a small place.”

We stare at him like he's speaking a foreign language. None of us has ever met anybody with money problems.
The plastics factory is always busy, and everyone who wants a job has one. We're not rich in Serenity, but we're all really comfortable. I mean, we know about poor people, but that kind of thing happens in other places. It's the saddest thing I've ever heard—not being able to afford a house or even food to eat.

One time Tori and I saw this movie where a family gets their power shut off because they can't pay their electric bill. It's hard to imagine that situation in Serenity. Maybe you don't pay your water bill so you can't fill up your pool? But here, there's plenty of money to go around, so
everybody
pays their bills. It's just another reason why I'd never leave Serenity—until college, of course. We're too tiny to have our own university—though I wish we did. Even then, I intend to stay as close to home as possible, at the University of New Mexico at Taos. I'm careful to keep my interests and hobbies limited to things you can major in at Taos, like English, music, and dance. That's why I gave up learning Chinese last year. No sense in wasting my time on something that isn't going to go anywhere.

It seems to me that they're ignoring an obvious solution. “Why don't your grandparents sell their farm and come to live here?”

He looks miserable. “It's already decided. I'm going.”

“Poor you,” laughs Malik Bruder, the doctor's son. “You might actually have some fun in the big bad world out there.”

“Can you be serious for once?” I'm so not in the mood for this. “What do you consider fun? Living in a crumbling, dangerous city where people are packed in like sardines?”

Malik smirks at me. He always manages to look like nothing bothers him. “You'd be surprised, Laska.”

“And you know
so
much about the world,” I shoot back. “With your C-plus average and your interest in—” I pretend to rack my brain. “Oh, right—absolutely nothing!”

He seems amused. “Have you ever been anywhere but here?”

“You haven't either.”

“True,” he admits. “But the minute I'm old enough, I'm out of here. NYC all the way, baby!” He always calls it by its initials—
en-why-see.

“Don't say that!” pleads Hector Amani, Malik's number one fan. “It's not like Serenity out there. People take advantage of you!”