The Invitation (2 page)

What is the point of all this gross national product nonsense? What's it to me what the leading export of Chile is? There are some things I'd like to export
to
Chile, like Bobby Saunders for starters, but nobody's asking me, are they? No one ever does.

Does school have to be so boring? Is it a council requirement? There must be something vaguely interesting lurking inside all those books. Someone was interested enough to write them. Molly is bored too, I can tell from the way she's swirling her pencil around—she must be doodling in the margins of her notes, like she always does. Why can't
we ever learn anything interesting, answers to the really important questions, like why things are so bloody random, or how is it decided who is born poor and who's born rich? And why are the wrong people always in charge? But school's no place to ask such dangerous questions.

 

Timothy Hunter pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and tried to pay attention. No such luck. Social studies just could not hold his interest. Not when there were much more interesting things just outside the window.
Or maybe not
, he thought, his gaze sliding over the empty schoolyard, the chain-link fence, the broken streetlamp at the corner.

What is Molly doing now
? Tim glanced behind him as Mr. Carstairs drew a graph on the board. Molly had the strangest smile on her face, so Tim knew she wasn't writing down the facts and figures that Mr. Carstairs was droning on about.
Of course, neither am I
, he thought, flipping forward in his notebook to find a blank page. If Carstairs strolled up and down the rows, Tim didn't want the teacher to spot his journal entry.

Tim bent his head as if he were writing intently,
and snuck another peek at Molly by peering under the crook of his elbow. Something was different about Molly this year. He had known her all his life, had spent many years trying to rid himself of her—but she didn't irritate him the way so many other people did these days. Lately, she was the only person he wanted to talk to, and one of the few he didn't mind letting into the flat when his father was home. Which was most of the time, since Dad rarely left his overstuffed recliner.

Maybe it isn't Molly who's changed
, Tim mused.
Maybe it's me
.

Nothing seemed to fit these days—and not just because he'd outgrown his trainers and hadn't yet managed to approach Dad to arrange for new ones. Tim felt restless all the time, as if he had grown on the inside and his outside didn't have the room to accommodate his new size. But some days he felt just the opposite: that on the outside he had grown to official teenagerhood—thir
teen
after all!—while he felt smaller inside, and as skinless as a snail popped out of his shell. No wonder he couldn't find shoes that fit.

You truly are daft
. Tim gave his head a sharp shake as if to clear it.
Molly was right.
One of these days he would think so hard his brain would explode. He told himself to time it right, like during a pop quiz. At least then the whole class
would benefit from his early and dramatic demise.

The bell rang and Molly swung her head up to look at him. Her dark thick hair slid over one narrow shoulder. She rolled her brown eyes as if to say, “What took those bells so long?” and got out of her seat. She grabbed her books and bounced up to his desk, waiting for Tim to join her for the walk home.

It was over. The day was over. The week was over. There was an entire weekend of freedom to look forward to. Not that Tim had any plans. Not like there was anything to do. But at least he could go anywhere, be anywhere, at any time he chose. Well, that wasn't precisely true. With empty pockets and a curfew, his horizons were somewhat limited.

But there were the streets, and the docks, and the empty lots, and the whole grimy gray of London, unsupervised and unregimented—no bells ringing to demand that he move on to the next subject. He could read, he could write, he could dream, he could float away in his head to anywhere. And he could get there even faster on his skateboard.

“What's holding you up?” Molly said. “Molasses under your desk?”

Tim grabbed his books and leaped to his feet. “Let's blow this pop stand,” he said, quoting the American gangster movie his dad had watched the
night before on television.

“What's a pop stand?” Molly asked, as they bounded down the school steps.

“Dunno,” Tim admitted. “I think it just means ‘Let's get out of here.'”

“I'm for that!” Molly replied enthusiastically.

“Got plans for the weekend?” Tim asked. Molly came from a big family, so she was often busy at home.

“Well, let me see. I believe first I'm scheduled to address Parliament, ushering in some new laws. Then I have a ball with Her Highness the queen. After that I suppose I'll take the wee ones to the doctor while my mother and father take care of the old'uns and shopping.”

“What a social life,” Tim said with a laugh. He pulled his yo-yo out of his pocket and walked-the-dog, and did an around-the-world as they strolled toward home. Molly lived a few blocks farther than him, so they reached his house first.

“How about you?” Molly asked as they stood at the edge of Tim's walk. She twisted the end of her long hair between her fingers.

Tim shrugged. “You know. The usual. Watch grass grow. Watch dust collect on Dad.”

“Ring me if you like,” Molly said. “I'd love to see if grass could grow on your dad and dust collect on the lawn!”

Tim laughed. “Now that would be a trick.”

“Oh no,” Molly argued with an impish grin. “The real trick is avoiding death by boredom.”

“‘Boring' is one word that doesn't come to mind when I think of you, Mol,” Tim said.

“Yeah?” Molly asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said.

Molly always came up with crazy, cool ideas for adventures. Most of them were in her imagination, but they were exciting, entertaining. Tim enjoyed escaping with Molly into her wild stories.

A light blush crept into her pale cheeks. “See you,” she said hastily, and walked away.

“Yeah, see you,” Tim called after her. He slipped his yo-yo back into his pocket, took a deep breath, and braced himself to head inside.

For three years, ever since his mother died in the car accident—the one that left his father with one arm—his dad had had a deep relationship with drink and melancholy. Still, Tim always hoped to find something different whenever he opened the front door, or each time he came down the stairs. But his dad never changed, and it left him feeling foolish every time. What would it take to rouse his dad out of the world he now inhabited? A miracle. Or magic.

And what about me
? Tim wondered as he opened the front door to the deep gloom inside.
He'd lost someone too, but his father acted as if he was the only one who'd suffered. Tim missed his mom with the same phantom feeling that he suspected his dad missed his arm, the same sudden shock of constantly rediscovering the absence. And Tim missed his dad too. This new version was a less than adequate replacement.

“You should see this girl's legs,” Dad called from his chair in front of the telly, hearing Tim come in. “She was a looker, all right. They made films the
right
way back then.” He tipped his beer bottle back, drained it, then added the bottle to the pile of empties beside the chair.

The living room was dark, the curtains drawn, as usual. The only light came from the vintage black-and-white movies on the BBC. Dad lived in a black-and-white world. Color had been drained out of the house. The curtains were never open, the lights rarely on. In the dim twilight in which they lived, there were only shadows and pale illumination—all in shades of gray.

“Yeah, Dad,” Tim said, quickly climbing the stairs to his room. “Whatever you say.”

Tim couldn't stand it. It was such a beautiful day outside; he couldn't stay cooped up with ghosts and permanent dankness. He grabbed his skateboard from its spot in the corner by his bed
and dashed downstairs again. Tucking it under his arm, he swung the front door open.

“Going out?” his father called, his eyes never leaving the set.

“For a while,” Tim replied, and let the door slam behind him.

He took in a deep breath. Autumn air, crisp and bright, filled his lungs. He looked up and down the street. No sign of Molly. Should he ride by her home? He decided not to. He didn't want company right now—he just wanted to move.

Tim put down the board and slowly pushed himself along with one foot. This area of London wasn't any more colorful than his home: the grit of dirt piling up in abandoned lots, the gray of the sidewalk, the institutional colors of the council flats, the tired gray faces of the unemployed, their clothing washed so many times the color had been leached completely out of it. There were spots of black breaking up the monotony—tar, grates, iron bars, and gates—but mostly it was a gray world of cement, of exhaustion, of dashed dreams. Of reality.

At least he could escape on his board.

Tim picked up speed and crouched low, angling against the curbs. He felt a breeze swoop in, ruffling his dark hair. The world blurred, and
now what stood out against the grimy backdrop were the few spots of color: Mrs. Waltham's hydrangea plant; tossed cigarette wrappers and junk food packets, shiny and bright in the gutter; a blue car, a red car, a yellow car parked outside the bingo parlor. At the speed he was moving, the world could be imagined as pretty.

Tim headed south, past his favorite old junk lot. He knew all the best places—empty, broken-down streets where he wouldn't have to worry about cars or pedestrians. Where he could pick up speed and test out new moves. He stood, held out his arms, and shouted, “Awesome!” in his best—or worst—American accent, imagining the surf splashing against his face.

Laughing, and glad no one was there to see him, he stopped to set up the right angle to take the ramp. He was going to grab some air!

Suddenly, he heard a strange tapping sound and glanced around. He couldn't tell where it was coming from, and figured it must be something banging against a building. He placed the board and took the ramp, executing a perfect twist-about as he landed.

“All right!” he cried, pumping his fist in the air. Too bad he
hadn't
invited Molly along—she would have been impressed.

Exhilarated, he rolled to a stop and tugged the end of his T-shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. He was breathing harder now.

His head jerked up. It was the tapping sound again, getting louder.
That's no tree branch,
he thought. It was getting closer.

Uncertainly, Tim slowly pushed himself forward on his board. The sound now seemed to come from everywhere—it echoed around him. There was no way he could locate the source. He rolled to a stop, feeling a strange sense of dread.

A hand suddenly clutched his shoulder, and he whirled around to see a blind man with a cane looming over him, his hair streaked with silver at the temples.

“Do you believe in magic?” the man demanded.

“Get off!” Tim shouted, jerking himself out of the man's grip. He leaped onto his board and moved out, fast. The man was no match for the best boarder ever, a skateboard superhero, the Olympian of all skaters—

Whoa!
He skidded to a stop. Another man in a trench coat emerged from the shadows of the overpass. “Tim,” the man said. “We only want to talk to you.”

Tim flipped the board, expertly turning
around, and pushed himself back up to speed. His mind raced as fast as his board.
How'd he know my name?
he wondered with a shiver.

Tim took a sharp turn, scooted down an alley, then pulled up short again. Yet another man in a trench coat was standing by the garbage cans at the end
. Nobody mentioned the freak show was in town.
Tim bent down, gripped his board, and did a fast U-ie out of there.

That makes three
, he thought. His heart was pounding.
They were everywhere
. He wasn't frightened, though. Instead, he was excited by the chase, by the potential for danger, safe in the knowledge that these old geezers in their trench coats couldn't keep up with him.

Racing down a steep incline, he felt the breeze chill the sweat on his face. The freedom of the downhill move exhilarated him. “Can't catch me!” he cried.

He ducked low and spun into the loading area of the empty warehouse. He knew he could get away without being seen in here.
Nobody catches me
, he thought with pride.
Not cops, not weirdos, not teachers, not nobody!

Tim came out the other side to a street of shops, which were mostly closed. The tapping sound had long faded away. He was alone. He'd escaped.

Then he heard a tiny sound—like a match being struck. Before he could turn to look, he felt a rough grip on his shoulder.

“Gotcha!” A blond man yanked the neck of his sweatshirt so hard he dragged him off his board. It skidded out from under him.

“Hey!” Tim snapped. “Back off!”

The man continued to grip Tim's collar as he looked at him with a sly smile. Tim could tell there was no point in trying to elude this one. He was younger than the others.

“Hello, Tim,” the man said. His gravelly voice sounded friendly, but all of Tim's senses were on high alert.

The man's blue eyes flicked to the sidewalk. “Nice board you got there.” He took a drag of the cigarette he'd lit before.

Tim squirmed, struggling to get out of his grip. He knew he probably couldn't escape, but he didn't want the man to know that he knew.

In fact, the blond man didn't even seem to notice that he was being struggled against. “Now, don't try to bite me, Tim,” he said amiably. “There are things in my bloodstream you really don't want in your mouth.”