The Last Martin (2 page)

Painful, yes. Terrifying, no.

Our family’s yearly pilgrimage to honor the Boyle dead wins the creepiness award hands down.

I squeeze my knees to my chin — turn into a tiny Martin ball — and feel a pit, not a tiny grape pit, but a big old avocado pit, roll around my gut. I’m thirteen, they’re not breathing, and I shouldn’t have to hang around them.

And I’m not laying my hand on Great-Grandpa Martin’s stone. Not this year.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

Cripes. The Barn Owl.
Mom’s song rises through the vent, wriggles under my blanket, and slaps me on the cheek. I exhale hard.

Maybe it wasn’t kind of Lani to nickname Mom after a carnivore that feeds on mice, but so be it. Mom sees all, moves silently, and never sleeps.

I roll off the bed and thump against the hardwood. Pages from my fantasy story flutter down like flowers at a funeral. I gather up the story and stuff it in the desk drawer. No time to shower. I throw on balled-up clothes and fight a comb through cowlicked brown hair. My reflection scowls back at me from the computer screen.

“Einstein. On a bad hair day.” I stumble out my door and down the stairs.

“Good morning, Martin. Martin, good morning. Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo —”

My feet grind to a halt, and my chest tightens.

Morning people should never sing-hoot at people before 8:00 a.m.

“Come off those steps, my dear.” Plates clatter in the sink. “You’re late. You’ll need to eat breakfast on the way.”

“Um, hmm.” I creak onto the main floor, peek into the kitchen. “Where’s Lani?”

“Sick.” Mom glances over her shoulder, sighs, and approaches. She licks her palm and works her spit through my Einstein hair. Not only germy, but really second grade and really gross. “Your sister sneezed twice last night.”

I swat at Mom’s hand and grab my backpack from the floor. “Wait, I need to say bye to Dad.”

Mom pauses. “He left hours ago. His regiment has another battle reenactment at Fort Snelling. I don’t expect him home until mid-week.” She digs in the closet for my jacket. “When Gavin retired from the service, I thought we’d placed this schedule behind us. But I declare, the demands of a Living History Museum are equally intolerable. Guns blazing, crude talking, chew spitting, and sleeping with bugs. It is utterly amazing that man is still alive.”

Inside, I feel it. A little flutter. It frightens and excites me at the same time.

“Do you think someday he’d take me with him? It’d be like school. It’s history, right? I mean, those battles really happened.”

Mom’s hands shoot to her hips, my jacket clenched in her fist. “I will not have you missing the important lessons of life — the writing of haiku or perhaps new techniques of proper hygiene …” Her arms drop and her voice softens. “Your father is a good man, but he lives in the past, and — “ She places her hand on her abdomen, strains her ear toward the door. “Your bus is here. Run!”

I scoot outside, skip down porch steps, and dash for the yellow speck in the distance.

Only eight kids live near the Midway district of St. Paul, not enough to deserve a real school bus. We get the shrunken version — special-ed. transportation. It’s hard to feel self-confident when your bus is the size of a minivan.

I reach the accordion door, double over, and suck air. My thighs burn and I blink and wince and stare up the steps of the bus at our driver’s smiling face. Father Gooly is the size of a minivan too. The priest is a mountain, dressed black as night, with a little snow cover on his collar beneath both chins. All around, belly-fat foothills overflow his seat.

“Top of the mornin’ to you, Martin! Comin’ aboard, or would you be taking the wheelchair ramp in?”

“No, thanks.” I step up and squeeze by those blubbery hills. “I’m good.”

The bus smells like flu. That dreadful combination of sick room plus 7-Up plus soda crackers. I hold my breath and shuffle down the aisle.

So much for April fresh.

I run out of air, take several shallow breaths, and scan for Charley. My gaze falls on Brooke, my nearest neighbor. She rolls her eyes, sets her backpack beside her to fill the seat, and points her thumb back over her shoulder. I smile and push by her and stare down at my pasty-faced best friend.

“What’s wrong?” I plop into place, door hinges squeal, and we jerk forward. “You look sick.” My rear inches away from Charley.

“I’ll wait ‘til you’re finished,” he says.

I nod and go to work. I remove the portable air bag from my pack, stick both arms through the straps, and tighten the belt at my chest. Mom bought the contraption from the Sky Mall, a bargain at $149.99. According to the ad, I’m now perfectly safe from ninety percent of possible traffic accidents.

“I need your help in English.” Charley glances over at me, his face all droopy. “I promised her I’d write the story if she’d be my partner and do the illustrations.”

“Her?”

My friend—my
best
friend—bites his lip and frowns. “Well come on, Marty. You’re never going to talk to Julia.”

My voice gets quiet. “I was going to talk to her today.”

“About what? She plays lacrosse. She rides four-wheelers. She’s into crazy stuff and outdoor stuff. Camping, fishing —”

“I fished once.” My nipple twitches, and I reach up to massage my chest. “You know I tried that.” I hold my breath, turn away, and sigh. “What’s your story for English about?”

Charley straightens, flops a pad and pen onto my lap. “Okay, it’s supposed to be a fairy tale based on a reallife event. So anything, you know? Some dumb prince, princess deal.”

“Have a start?”

He chews some more on that lip and gives a quick nod. “There.” Charley points at the paper.

“'A Prince and a Princess,’ by Charley Baxter.” I look over at him. “How long did that take?”

“Most of Saturday.”

“Right.” I close my eyes, think of Julia, twiddle the pen around in my hand, and settle into my seat. “I started a new story. I’ll write one page for you to use, but that’s it.”

“I tire of waiting.
I’ll
do this myself.” The
Black
Knight lifted the sword, its tip glinting in the torchlight. His minions —

Charley grabs my arm. “What’s a minion? That like an onion?”

I yank free. “His bad guys.”

His minions lurched forward. Sweat traced down beneath their armor, fell in black pools on the stony ground of the prison where the White Knight and the princess were held captive.

“Cursed White Knight, behold the end of your dream. This dungeon is your destiny. And now Alia is mine. Yah!” The sword fell upon the clear stone with a clank. Sparks flew through the air. Fire rained upon the Black Knight’s helmet.

“My sight!” He reeled, clawed at his eyes, and stuck his finger in the White Knight’s chest. “It is true! The prophecy. Only one pure of heart can free the beauty trapped within the crystal.” He gestured around the room. “Guards, loose the man!”

Hideous creatures, black of heart and mind, crushed the shackles that bound the White Knight’s hands and feet, and he slowly rose. Silently, he approached the stone and gazed down into it. His love gazed up from within the rock. Such pure crystal. Had Alia made it so? Her smooth features radiated light from within. She looked so at peace — save for her eyes. They beckoned to him, and he could not free himself from the call. Would she ever know how he felt? Would she ever know his secret? He would live forever trapped in a dark and lonely world, forever far from her, but she would be free. He would do this much.

“The sword,” he whispered.

The Black Knight reached down, grasped the sword, and thrust him the grip. “Ere you do this, know that when she is free, she will be mine.”
Sadly, the White Knight laid hold of the shaft, raised it to heaven, and —

“Yow!” Charley grabs the pencil from my hand. “Why’d you jab me? What’d I do?”

I blink hard and wipe sweat from my forehead. “Sorry. I just got carried away.”

Charley snatches the pad away from me. “I’ll finish —”

Tires screech and the bus swerves.

“Spring pothole!” Gooly hollers.

Front tires drop a foot into the earth. We lurch into tar, and my world explodes. It’s a balloon, or an angry marshmallow, but it thunders against my face and chest like a buffalo and pins me to my seat.

“Martin blew up! Martin blew up!” Girls scream and feet pound down the aisle.

“White guts!”

“Everyone out,” Gooly huffs. “Slow down, Brooke, easy now. I’ll see to the lad.”

“Charley,” I whisper. “You okay? Charley?”

I walk my fingers along the seat. No friend.

Charley gets out, the White Knight explodes. Figures.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m still pinned. The fire department finally arrives and extracts Father Gooly, wedged in the aisle, and then deflates my protective
device.

“My son needs me.” Outside, Mom’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Bring him out this instant!”

I stare at my rescuer, a muscular fireman with a thin mustache. “If I give you my lunch money, any chance you’d sneak me to Fort Snelling?”

“Sorry, kid.” He checks my neck, pauses to listen to Mom rant. “Your mom is pretty upset.”

“Not really. She lives for disasters.”

Minutes later, my fire guy removes his helmet and lifts his hands. “You, young man, have a clean bill of health. Let’s get you to your mom before
she
explodes.”

He turns away, and I panic — don’t know why but I panic — and I grab his sleeve and tug. “Do you believe in fairy tales? I mean, like the happy ending parts even if they look
totally
and
probably
impossible, and you might not even know what a happy ending looks like because for thirteen years all you felt was stuck — maybe stuck on the inside and definitely stuck on the outside and legally the stuck will last five more years, but even then you’ll probably stay stuck because you’ve been stuck for so long you don’t know any other way to live? Do you believe in happy endings anyway?”

He tongues the inside of his jaw and scratches his head. “Yeah. Reckon I do.”

I smile. “Me too.”

“Stuck?” The Barn Owl screeches at a policeman.

“My son is not stuck. I see him plain as day, speaking with that fireman. What is taking so long?”

My rescuer shakes his head and glances out the window. “She’s a piece of work.” I exhale hard. “I know.”

M
OM KEEPS ME HOME FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK — a twisted house arrest during an unseasonably warm stretch of spring. She frowns whenever I venture out of my room.

“You shouldn’t take chances with PTSD.” Mom insists she saw Pothole Traumatic Stress Disorder featured on an early episode of Oprah, and for her, that seals the matter.

“Oh Martin, if you could have seen the panel of sufferers. They were visibly shaken.” She shoos me up the stairs. “Now, I’ve taken a week off from the library to care for you. Don’t push it.”

I drop the phone onto the sofa and trudge back up to my cell. “Fine. I just wanted to see Charley, is all.” My voice lowers to a whisper. “I’ll be up here if you need me. In my room. Watching the trains go by.”

“Up, Martin!”

I crack an eyelid and jump to my feet. My new copy of
Dragon’s Revenge
thunks onto the floor.

“Dad! You’re home.” My gaze wanders over his uniform, bloody and threadbare.

“Shoes on. In the car in five minutes.”

I reach down, grab my book, and set it on the desk. “But Mom said —”

The heel of Dad’s musket pounds the floor. “Have you or have you not been in this house for four straight school days because your bus popped a tire?”

“Well, I mean … yeah.” I risk a look into his eyes.

Dad nods big and slow. “Elaina, my dear,” he whispers, “you have a crossed a line.”

I eye the gun. “That’s not loaded, is it?”

“Five minutes, in the car. You’re going to school.”

Classes have ended for the day, and we pull in as buses load. Shrieks and laughter, running kids, and helpless teachers line the front of Midway Middle School. Sure it’s April and we have months of education left, but when the snow vanishes, everyone knows it’s all over.

Dad squeals into the visitor-parking space, throws open the door, and strides toward the school. I don’t move — a fact he doesn’t notice for a good twenty paces. He stops and gives an exaggerated point, straight down.

I shake my head. Not before the buses are gone.

I don’t mind walking with Dad. In fact, there’s no place I’d rather be. I do mind walking beside a United States soldier dressed in the finest 1820 had to offer, and smelling the part.

Behind Dad, kids hang from buses. They laugh and point at the bloodstained kook in the parking lot.

But Dad hollers my name — I hear it through the glass — and I breathe deeply.

Just keep the eyes down and the ears closed.

I step out, stare at tar, and shuffle forward. I’m not mad at him — don’t know that I have it in me. My stomach turns because of Mom. She’s the one who kept me home. She’s the one who’s lost it. Mom is the one with crazy juice that surges through her brain and yanks her into an alternate paranoid universe. And it’s not enough for her to live there alone; now she’s injected the poison into Lani and me, and I know the only reason she doesn’t seem totally nuts is because we’re infected too.