 
RETURN OF MR. BADPENNY

Book 5, Time Before Color TV series

by Brian Bakos

Copyright 2013 Brian Bakos / revised 07-2020

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Prelude: What Happened Before

Part 1: Enter the Badpenny

Part 2: Temptation in Various Flavors

Part 3: Matters of Conscience

Part 4: Melissa's Story

Part 5: Showdown

Brian's Other Books

#  Prelude: What Happened Before

The previous books in this series: The Time Before Color TV give interesting background info that can help you to enjoy this story more. Please click the link to obtain copies.

If you'd rather just dive in and read, that's okay, too.

# Part 1: Enter the Badpenny

1. At the Belcho Burger Restaurant

This strange girl is watching me and Quentin as we eat hamburgers and talk about our baseball game. She pretends to be clearing the next table, but she's actually spying on us.

I look directly at her. "Hey, what's up?"

"Uh... nothing."

She scurries off, clutching the burger wrappers and empty French fry cartons as if they're an armload of precious jewels.

Weird.

I turn back to the _Player of the Week_ trophy. How can I help it? The shiny cup graces our table like a royal crown, hogging up half the area. A deep ache grips my stomach, and it isn't just because of the greasy burgers.

"Maybe you'll win the trophy some week," Quentin says with that upbeat style he has.

"Fat chance." I push back my cap and sigh. "Everybody knows I'm the worst hitter on the team."

Quentin shakes his head. "You're too nervous at bat, Tommy. The power can flow better if you relax. Besides, you're the only guy on the team who can switch hit."

"Yeah, I can strike out on both sides."

"You're one of our best fielders," Quentin says. "We'd have lost some close games without you at second."

"Maybe, but it's the big hitters who get the glory." _And the girls_.

Quentin shrugs and goes back to his fries. "Yeah, whatever."

Guess he's tired of hearing me gripe. Can't say as I blame him; I'm getting tired of it, too. Man, am I in a downer mood! A chocolate fix is in order.

"I'm going to get a shake," I say. "Want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll take strawberry." Quentin reaches in his pocket.

"That's okay, I've got it."

"Thanks."

I head toward the counter, glad to get away from the blazing bright trophy at our table. If only I really _could_ win it some week. Quentin—our captain, pitcher, top hitter—says the team needs me at second base, and I'll admit to doing my part in some double plays. But he doesn't know what it's like hearing the other guys groan whenever I pick up a bat.

Behind the counter, the girl who was spying on us is busy with the cash register drawer. She wears an intense expression as she jerks the coins around with her fingers, mumbling. Her face is puffy with dark circles under the eyes, like she hasn't slept in a while.

"Excuse me," I say.

She flinches, as if I've set off a firecracker in her ear.

"Could I have two large shakes, please? A chocolate and a strawberry."

"Okay!" she almost shouts.

She scurries to the big silvery machine and pours our shakes, glancing over her shoulder at me like she expects to be attacked any second.

Did I frighten her or something? Do I have outrageous B.O.? She returns with the order and takes my bill. Then she counts out the change, very carefully, and puts it on the tray. A creepy little smile moves across her face.

"Enjoy that," she says.

"Sure, thanks."

I take the tray and escape from her. As I'm walking, I glimpse something unusually shiny among the change. It catches light coming through the windows and bounces it into by eyeball. I can't pay it much attention as I maneuver through the crowd, though. One wrong step and I could be wearing my shake instead of drinking it.

We have company when I return, or at least Quentin does. Melissa Jordanek is standing beside him, one hand resting on his chair back and the other stroking the trophy.

"You won this at the ball game today, Quentin?" she's saying. "You were the top player on the _whole_ team?"

"Yeah."

I approach her carrying my plastic tray as if I'm bearing some unworthy offering to a goddess.

"Hi, Melissa," I say.

She looks up and her smile fades. "Oh, hi Tommy."

I sit down, feeling about as important as a squashed cockroach. Some people crowd by with trays, and Melissa moves in close, supposedly to make way for them. But after the group has gone, she remains pressed up against Quentin.

"When's your next game?" she asks.

"Next Saturday, 12:30," Quentin says.

"Maybe I'll watch you play."

"Sure."

Can't he think of anything more to say? Melissa is falling all over him, and he doesn't even notice. Look at her fabulous blonde hair—the real thing, right down to the roots. Melissa and I were sort of friends at one time. At least we hung out with some of the same kids. Even then she was stuck up, but now that she's become the queen bee of South Junior High, she's unbearable.

Amanda Searles walks up, and the atmosphere improves. She flashes me a pleasant smile. "Hi, Tommy."

"Hi, Amanda."

I start feeling human again. Amanda's really cute, and smart, too. A genuinely nice person. So, why does she hang out with a snob like Melissa? She always has, ever since we were little.

"Congratulations, Quentin," Amanda says. "That's a beautiful trophy."

"Thanks."

Melissa moves even closer to Quentin and shoots Amanda a dagger-like glance. Amanda doesn't seem to notice. She holds up a bag with the grinning Belcho Burger logo.

"I've got our order."

Melissa unsticks herself from Quentin and smooths her hair. "We have to go. There's a special dance rehearsal this afternoon."

"Yeah," Amanda says, "the recital is only three weeks off, and they're working us pretty hard. See you guys later."

"Good luck at the next game, Quentin," Melissa says.

"Thanks."

They leave. As she's going through the door, Amanda looks back toward me and waves good-bye. I wave back.

"I think Amanda likes you," Quentin says.

"Well... great! Couldn't you have asked them to join us? Melissa was practically in your lap."

Quentin shrugs. "She's too mean."

I move my finger absently through the change on my tray, wishing it was Amanda sitting next to me instead of that show-off trophy. I could even put up with Melissa's presence in that case.

The four of us—me, Quentin, Amanda, and Melissa—used to be tight. We had some amazing adventures together, especially at the Tire Giant outside town. But things have changed a lot now that we're finishing junior high. We've moved on; the past is fading away. I'm not sure anymore if all that stuff really happened. Maybe I've just got a twisted imagination.

My shake tastes like chocolated cardboard pulp. Why do I keep buying these things? It must be force of habit, like my habit of getting zero hits per game. Our team, the Jaguars, only has Saturday games now, but when school gets out in a couple weeks, we'll be playing more often. It's going to be a long summer for me, I think.

_Wait a sec_.

There's something odd about one of the the coins. A thrill runs up my finger when I touch it, as if I've rubbed against an electrified bloodsucker. I flip it over. There's a head on each side.

"Look at this."

I toss it to Quentin. Surprise shoots across his face.

"It feels creepy." He turns the coin over carefully, as if he's touching a scorpion. "It's really two pennies. Somebody ground them down and stuck them together with both heads showing."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"To cheat at coin tosses, I suppose." Quentin drops the penny on the tray. "If you picked heads, you'd always win."

I look around for the worker who gave me the coin, but she's gone. That doesn't surprise me. I nudge the penny with my finger. It's heavier and thicker than a regular penny, and warm, too. It almost seems to throb. More weirdness.

Quentin is leaning back in his chair, one arm hooked over the back, drinking his shake. He's probably forgotten about the two-headed penny. His mind is filled with baseball strategies, batting lineups and the like. He's replaying our game in his mind, inning by inning. On playing days it's useless to talk to him about anything except baseball.

But I can't forget about the penny. Something powerful about the coin attracts me. I shovel the change off the tray and stuff it into my pocket. The two-headed penny sinks to the bottom. Having it there makes me feel... strong somehow.

Quentin is watching some girls across the room. They notice him and giggle. With his suntan, blue eyes, and light hair tousled just right, Quentin looks like some movie star dressed up as a baseball player. Plus that charming, President Kennedy type smile he flashes whenever he needs to.

Suddenly, I'm very irritated. Who does Quentin think he is, showing me up like this? I'm not bad looking myself—why don't those girls notice _me_?

With an empty-straw slurp, Quentin finishes drinking his shake. "Ready to go, Tommy?"

This sounds like a question, but it's actually an order. Quentin has this way of making people think they're the ones in charge while actually it's him who's making the decisions. Resentment flares in my heart. For an instant, I want to knock the trophy off the table and punch Quentin in the nose.

"Yeah," I say, "let's go."

I get up with my tray and follow Quentin toward the exit. For some strange reason, I feel like a whole different person—a movie heavy who can knock aside anyone who gets in the way. Another kid reaches the trash bin ahead of me, and I have to hold myself back from shoving him out of my way. I must be really jacked up on sugar.

Or is the coin doing this to me?

The thought is scary, but I like it, too. The kid ahead of me finishes dumping his trash, and I step up to the bin. Quentin walks out the door.

Good-bye, Captain. Go organize the world outside.

I'm delighted to be rid of Quentin. Yet, at the same time, I feel terribly alone and unsupported. Something is wrong with this scenario. An alarm siren howls in my brain. I'm dizzy; the room spins around me like some insane carnival ride. The chocolate shake starts coming up for an encore. I choke it back down. With a slow, robot-like movement, I reach into my pocket...

Quentin pokes his head back in the door. "Hey, you coming?"

"Yeah, sure," I answer from a million miles away.

I yank the two-headed coin out of my pocket and drop it on the tray. It makes a dull _thunk!_ like it weighs a lot more than it actually does.

The two-headed penny gleams angrily up at me, and I can barely resist snatching it back. With a jerky push, I dump the whole tray into the trash bin and flee out the door.

2. Speedy Mart Surprise

Thoughts of that fantastic penny haunt me the rest of the weekend.

I can't get them out of my head during my waking hours. At night, I wander through dream worlds clutching the two-headed coin. I peer through the darkness and open doors into mysterious regions that ought to remain shut. Just when I'm about to learn the penny's secret, I wake up in a sweat.

The feeling of power I got from the coin has hit me like an addictive drug. I even consider sneaking back to the Belcho Burger parking lot after dark and rifling through the dumpster. I know I can find the coin again. It's calling to me...

By Monday, I feel better. My battle with the coin seems to be over. Well, maybe not, but at least school is back in session, so I have new stuff to think about—particularly the spelling bee coming up in Miss Greene's English class.

Winning a spelling contest might not seem like a big deal to most people, but to me it would be a fine achievement, a way to balance my baseball failures. I've always been good at spelling, why shouldn't I get credit for it? Besides, Miss Greene is one of the coolest teachers at school. She's young and pretty, despite her rather goofy eyeglasses, and all us guys are big admirers.

Instead of thinking about the two-headed penny, I'm using every spare moment to go over my spelling lists. I have lists in my pockets, in my books, and running through my head.

After school, I stop at the Speedy Mart to buy some candy. Spelling words from the 'D' category are going through my mind as I hand the clerk my paper money.

_D-e-b-t-o-r_ , I recite silently, _D-e-f-e-r-r-e-d_.

Coins shoot out of the cash register and roll down a slot into a little change tray. I absently scoop them up.

_D-e-s-i-r-a-b-l-e,_ _D-i-l-e-m-m-a_ ...

Something very peculiar is in my hand. "Oh!"

"Is something wrong?" the clerk asks.

I gape at the double-faced penny leering up from my palm.

"No... I-I'm fine."

I back out the door, practically knocking over the potato chip display.

"Be careful!" The clerk says. Her voice seems to be coming from the bottom of a deep well.

The coin burns my palm. The spelling words flee my brain, replaced by the urgent voice of the two-faced penny.

" _Take me with you!"_ it screams.

But I can't do that. It's wrong.

I reel down the sidewalk like some drunk. I scarcely seem to be walking at all; the sidewalk moves while I stumble around in place. A sewer grate approaches. With a desperate heave, I fling the penny away and watch it tumble down out of sight.

The voice in my brain vanishes. My arm hangs numb and useless.

3. Mr. Badpenny Steps Out

I usually walk home by myself since none of my friends live in my exact neighborhood. By Tuesday, though, I'm too spooked to be alone. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

This whole penny thing is childish fairy tale stuff, like in those _Lord of the Rings_ stories. The real world doesn't work that way.

Does it?

I've half convinced myself that everything has been dreamed up. Still, I don't want to take unnecessary chances. After school, I attach myself to a group of kids who are walking my direction. I don't know them very well, so I hang back, minding my own business.

We come to the Speedy Mart. Some of the group go inside, but most keep walking. I stay with them, trying to be casual, as if I'm sneaking past a grave yard at midnight. Two of the guys, Greg Rolando and Bob Stewart, start a mock Karate fight, jumping around and throwing kicks at each other.

Suddenly, fear is walking beside me, blowing cold breath down my neck. Why didn't I take the long way home? Idiot! I could be walking with Quentin. Something awful is going to happen; I know it!

I try to concentrate on something else. Spelling words whip through my mind like a fast-forwarding movie.

_C-a-n-c-e-l-e-d, C-o-m-m-i-t-m-e-n-t,_ I think desperately, _C-o-n-s-c-i-e-n-c-e_.

I'm at the sewer grate now, the same one I tossed the coin down. Too late, I understand the full extent of my error.

A mini tornado explodes up through the grate, a rotten smell swirling with it. I stand frozen with shock; the spinning air hypnotizes me. The spelling words fly from my brain along with most of my sanity.

In the midst of this cyclone whirls a tall, thin man wearing a top hat. My knees start to give way, but the updraft keeps me on my feet. If this isn't bad enough, the man in the tornado has a second face on the back of his head! My heart almost stops cold.

"Look! Look!" I try to shout but can't raise my voice above a terrified rasp.

They kids stop walking and glance back toward me.

"What's the matter?" Greg Rolando says.

I stand pointing, my mouth working like a goldfish out of water. The kids stare at where I'm pointing. Then they look at each other and start laughing.

"You've got a serious head problem, Velasco," Bob Stewart says, real nasty.

"Jeez, what a dork!" Greg Rolando says.

More laughter. Everyone turns and walks away, leaving the street deserted. My stomach curdles as the man with the two faces steps onto the sidewalk.

"W-who... w-who are you?" I blurt.

"Good afternoon, Tommy," the man answers with a polite bow. "My name is Mr. Penny, and I am at your service."

I can almost see through him like he's a ghost, or a half-erased living person. His face is ugly with a big twisted nose, buggy eyes, and a mouth full of crooked teeth. A scraggly beard covers his chin.

"H-how do you know my name?"

"Why, we met at the Belcho Burger the other day, didn't we?" Mr. Badpenny says.

I've added the word _Bad_ to his name because that's how he feels. Yet, his voice is mellow, hypnotic.

"You accepted me of your own free will, Tommy. I rode in your pocket for a while—until you tossed me in the trash." An angry scowl flickers across his face, and he leans down toward me. "You'll find I'm not quite so easy to get rid of."

I back away, nearly tripping over my feet. Mr. Badpenny swivels his head and turns his other face toward me. It's a normal one, smooth and pleasant, with a friendly smile.

"Let's not talk of such misunderstandings, shall we?" the new face says.

"Yes. I mean no. I mean, whatever you say."

Mr. Badpenny chuckles softly. "Those youngsters weren't very nice to you, Tommy. Shall I teach them a lesson?"

I look down the street at the retreating group. They're having all kinds of fun, laughing at me, no doubt. Greg and Bob continue their Karate routine. Anger pushes aside my fear. I want to Karate their butts!

I turn back toward Mr. Badpenny with murder in my heart. He stands quietly, hands behind his back, waiting for my answer. I think better of things, barely.

"No thank you... sir."

Disappointment flashes over Mr. Badpenny's face. "Very well, some other time, perhaps."

What am I supposed to do? I stand rooted to the sidewalk like a concrete tree.

"I'd best be going," Mr. Badpenny says. "I can see you have experienced some upset. People sometimes react that way until they get to know me better."

I jerk my head in an attempted nod.

"I'll stop by again soon and we can have another chat," Mr. Badpenny says. "And remember, Tommy, I am _always_ at your service. Just call me."

He's suddenly gone. I bolt for home.

4. The Nazi Fighter Plane

I feel awful Wednesday morning. I'm feverish, and my whole body aches, as if the football team has used me for a tackling dummy. The shock of meeting Mr. Badpenny has really done me in.

Mom says I can stay home from school. I watch TV and read, hoping to push Badpenny out of my thoughts, but the sewer grate tornado scene keeps playing in my mind, bringing back all its terror.

Yet, Mr. Badpenny didn't try to hurt me, right? He even said he was at my service. What would he have done to those kids if I'd let him? Nothing too drastic, surely. Then again, why should I care? _They_ were the ones who chose to act like jerks.

My head spins with wild thoughts. If only I could talk to somebody. But who, Mom? She'd think I've gone nuts. Dad? He's down in Mexico working on yet another "business opportunity."

Sure, I could try to call him, but what would I say? And if he believed my story, he'd probably insist that I get Mr. Badpenny to help him with his business schemes—the "big investments" that never seem to pan out.

Both my parents are from Guatemala; they came to the U.S. before I was born. Dad was pursuing some other fabulous business opportunity back then, and after the deal went sour, they decided to stay. Dad is of mostly Spanish descent and claims to have famous ancestors from Europe. Well, he's my dad and I love him, but he always was a big talker.

I decide to work on the airplane model I got for my birthday last year. I'm usually not much for models. This one is rated "beginner level," though, so I figure I can build it without too much trouble.

The airplane is something special, I quickly realize—an ME-262 German fighter jet from World War 2. All my cares seem to disappear the moment I start work. Putting it together gives me a feeling of power. Why have I waited so long to build this wonderful thing?

The swept-winged fighter has a mottled cammo pattern imprinted on the plastic. The fuselage is flat along the bottom and rounded on top, and the front comes to a blunt point like a shark. Deadly cannons lurk behind slots in its nose.

By mid afternoon, I'm finished building the model. The plane looks really cool positioned on my bookshelf. I lie down to take a nap, but my eyes keep returning to the shelf. I imagine myself flying that lethal jet, firing the cannons, blasting anything in my way.

* * *

Quentin stops by after school. "You don't look so hot, Tommy."

"Thanks. I was just starting to feel better."

"Oh, yeah, good."

He socks a fist into his baseball glove and chomps his bubble gum as if he's a big-league player with a mouthful of chewing tobacco. He's outfitted in his Jaguar uniform, spiked shoes dangling around his neck from their laces.

"Do you feel up to practicing with us?" he asks.

"Not today."

Quentin nods, socking his glove again. "Hey, I like that!"

He points to my model plane. The ME-262 crouches on its landing gear like some vicious predator cat ready to leap off the bookshelf.

"Thanks. It took a lot of work." I conveniently forget to mention the model is just an easy, snap-together one.

Quentin moves to the shelf for a closer look. "The swastika is on wrong."

"Oh?"

"Here, on the tail. The swastika decal is supposed to be rotated to the right, but it's sitting flat."

"Thanks for pointing that out."

Quentin must be right. He has model fighter planes hanging all over his basement. Advanced ones, too, with custom paint jobs. It's another area where Quentin is better than me.

We stand at the shelf together, examining the model's deadly lines—Quentin dressed up like a champion athlete, me in my old pajamas too small for me. My mind comes around to Badpenny.

"Do you remember that two-headed penny?" I say.

Quentin socks his glove. "Two headed penny?"

"At the Belcho Burger last Saturday."

Quentin frowns. "Oh yeah. What about it?"

"Well..." I pause, uncertain how to continue.

Quentin keeps studying the model plane, not much interested in two-headed pennies.

"You said people could use it to cheat at coin tosses," I say. "Do you think somebody could use it to cheat at other things, too?"

"Sure, anything's possible."

Another sock on the baseball glove. That's Quentin for you, the deep thinker. Then again, what's he supposed to say? What am I supposed to say?

How about _: "What do you think about a two-faced guy spinning out of the sewer and offering to beat up some kids for me? Of course, only_ _I_ _can see him."_

Quentin would think a lot more is out of whack than just the decal on my model plane. Besides, I'm tired of depending on him so much. Quentin who got me on the Jaguars, who backs me up in confrontations with tough kids. Maybe it's time I settled something myself for once.

"Well, gotta go," Quentin says. "See you at school tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

I watch him bound down the stairs with that tremendous energy he's got. He dashes through the living room so quickly the Guatemalan flag attached to the wall flutters in his breeze.

Mom insists on keeping that faded old flag posted in our living room to honor the country that rescued her family. It's not wise to say the blue and white banner doesn't look cool hanging there.

Mom is half Jewish. Her family fled Europe to escape the Nazis. Not many countries were willing to take in Jewish refugees back then, but Guatemala did. So, this is definitely not the house to say anything that isn't pro Guatemala.

Quentin exchanges a few words with Mom, then he leaves, giving his baseball glove a final sock. Mom likes Quentin. She says he's a "good influence" for me, especially with so many hoods hanging around these days smoking cigarettes and getting into trouble.

I like him, too. It's just irritating he's so good at everything. He can even _fly_ airplanes. Okay, he's not a great scholar, but those types don't interest the girls that much, anyway.

To tell the truth, I don't like myself very much right now. I'm involved with something I can't understand or control. How can I possibly get rid of Mr. Badpenny? I already know. I'll have to palm him off on somebody else like the girl at the Belcho Burger did. But how can I possibly do that to anybody?

I walk back into my room. The model airplane dominates the whole place.

_Maybe it isn't time to get rid of Badpenny yet,_ a dark voice within me says.

Suddenly, I'm very tired. I flop down on my bed. Before dropping off to sleep, I give my bookshelf a final glance. Yes, that fighter plane looks pretty impressive, but there's still room on the shelf—enough for that _Player of the Week_ trophy.

5. Playground Rendezvous

It's the usual routine at school Thursday. Things are winding down toward summer.

Conversations center around vacation plans. People are traveling long distances, camping, sightseeing. One lucky stiff is going to Europe. Must be nice to have some big trip to look forward to. Anyplace has to be better than here with the endless, hitless baseball schedule looming ahead.

What's Guatemala like? I've never been there, even though I might qualify as a citizen. Dad is largely responsible for my lack of knowledge about the home country.

"We're Americans now," he proclaimed long ago. "Everything else is over!"

He didn't exactly bang his fist on the table, but the words were strong. As part of this philosophy, a strict 'English only' program is in effect for me at home.

The last time I heard any Spanish was a couple years ago when Uncle Arturo's family visited from Guatemala City. The adults talked Spanish while my cousins and I kind of stared at each other, since they didn't speak English.

Mom loves Guatemala, but really considers herself to be European. Mine is the only house around where you can hear German, Spanish, and American accents in the same conversation.

After school, I wander off alone into the gorgeous May weather. It's the type of day when the whole world seems full of exciting possibilities. Pink and white blossoms explode everywhere, filling the air with sweetness.

I come to a little playground and sit on a steel mesh bench coated with blue rubber. It feels warm and comforting. The park is empty, as the usual crowd of moms and little kids has already left.

My thoughts turn toward Mr. Badpenny.

" _I'll stop by and we can have another chat,"_ he'd said, _"just call me."_

Well, this is as good a place as any to chat. Not that I'd ever actually summon Mr. Badpenny, of course, but at least I'm not afraid of him any more. Okay, I'm still afraid, but not out of control scared like before. It's kind of like getting your appendix out. Even though you're scared, you know it has to be done, so you sort of accept the situation.

How can I call him, anyway?

I'm not fully recovered from my illness yet, and I feel tired. I close my eyes and doze off halfway, enjoying the sun's warmth on my skin. The sudden presence of Mr. Badpenny jolts me awake, and the air turns chill.

"Good afternoon, Tommy. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

I open my eyes to see Mr. Badpenny standing beside the bench, blocking the spring day. Maybe "standing" isn't the right word. He seems to float there, leaning over me like a vampire ready to suck my blood. A jolt of panic stabs my gut.

"Is this not a good time for you?" Badpenny asks. "I did hear you calling to me."

He has his ugly face turned my way, but his voice is smooth and mellow—a slick used car salesman voice. I force myself to be calm; the jackhammer in my chest slows a bit.

"No," I say. "I-I mean... yes. It's as good a time as any... I mean."

Mr. Badpenny chuckles and straightens to his full height, which is tremendous—like an NBA star wearing a top hat. Two little kids enter the opposite side of the park and toss around a big inflated ball that looks like a globe of the Earth. Their real-world presence steadies me a bit.

I look up at Badpenny. Yeah, maybe I did call him. At least I was thinking about it.

"Who are you," I say, "and where do you come from?"

He spreads his hands and shrugs. "My name is Mr. Penny, as I said, and I come from a residence of the same name."

"I know all that, but who are you, _really_?"

"Such a question. Can you tell me who _you_ really are? Isn't that what's important?"

"Why... I'm Tommy Velasco, and I'm from here."

Mr. Badpenny raises an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"I go to South junior high. I build model airplanes and play baseball. I – "

"Agh! Mere details." He extends a long, crooked finger at my heart. "Who are you in there, Tommy? That's what counts."

The question rocks me to my core. I can't say a word. Fortunately, some racket from the other side of the park distracts me.

The two little boys have lost their ball in a crabapple tree. The thing is wedged in the branches and won't budge despite their efforts to shake it down. The younger boy started crying.

Mr. Badpenny pulls a large watch from his pocket. "This is a rather tedious conversation, don't you think? Perhaps I should be going."

"No, please don't go yet."

He looks up from the watch. "Well, then?"

I lick my lips. They are as bone dry as the tongue I scrape over them.

"Mr. Penny. You told me I could call you whenever I wanted help, right?"

"Yes, you have that privilege."

"So," I point toward the boys, "how about getting their ball out of that tree for me?"

A bored expression passes over Mr. Badpenny's face. He glances at his watch again.

"Or other things," I say, "like carrying packages for elderly ladies. You know, helping people."

"Oh come now, Tommy. You could take such actions yourself if you really wanted to. They require no assistance from me."

"That's true, but – "

"My capabilities lie elsewhere, don't you know? Would you ask a car mechanic to cut your hair, or a carpenter to put up a brick wall?"

"Well... no."

"Hey, Velasco!" an insulting voice calls. "Having fun talking to yourself?"

I turn to see the Karate kids, Greg Rolando and Bob Stewart. Those jerks! My face turns about hundred degrees hotter with anger.

"Don't get upset," Bob says, "You wouldn't want to go into your gold fish impersonation again."

They stop walking and begin opening and closing their mouths, bug-eyed, mocking my terror from the other day. Greg socks Bob in the arm, and they go into their Karate routine again, bounding across the park throwing kicks at each other like total idiots.

"Oh, my," Mr. Badpenny says, "those young fellows are most tiresome."

"Yeah..." An acid fluid boils up in my throat, nearly choking me.

"Perhaps it's time they were taught a lesson?"

I hesitate a few seconds. "Yes, do that."

In an instant, Mr. Badpenny whooshes across the park. Bob has just thrown out a half-baked side kick. Mr. Badpenny grabs the leg in mid air and flings it hard into Greg's gut. Greg flies back and collapses by a tree. He lies there, balled up in agony.

"I'm sorry, man!" Bob says. "I don't know what happened." He bends over Greg. "Are you all right?"

Mr. Badpenny takes one of Greg's hands and wraps it around Bob's ankle.

"Hey!" Bob cries.

Using Greg's captured hand, Badpenny flings Bob against the tree trunk. A loud _thump!_ shoots across the park. Bob sprawls on the ground like a cracked egg.

Badpenny disappears, and the gorgeous springtime returns, not for Bob and Greg, of course.

I walk over and squat beside the fallen heroes. "You guys are great. Maybe you can teach me to do that some time."

Greg looks up with pain and fear in his eyes, gasping for air.

"Love the fish out of water routine, too," I add. "Have a nice day."

On my way out of the park, I come to the crabapple tree. With a mighty leap, I knock the ball out of the branches. It falls in a shower of pink blossoms.

# Part 2: Temptation in Various Flavors

6. Frightening Report

Bad news is waiting at school Friday morning. Bob Stewart is in the hospital. The talk goes that's he the victim of a "martial arts accident."

People are saying all kinds of stuff about his condition: Bob is okay; he's totally messed up; he's something in between. I look for Quentin. If anyone has an accurate account, it will be him.

"How badly hurt is Bob Stewart?" I demand the instant I find Quentin at his locker.

"Hey, calm down, Tommy. What's wrong?"

"Just tell me what you know about Bob Stewart. Okay?"

"Okay!"

Quentin studies my face for a couple seconds; his own face looks surprised and a bit worried. "Bob's got a concussion. The doctors thought he might have fractured his neck, but it's only sprained."

"Is he going to be all right?"

"So I've heard. He'll be out the rest of the school year, though."

I'm relieved, but the news also chills me deep down, as if somebody has pumped my veins full of freezing water. A heavy lump of ice thuds into my stomach and churns around.

"What's the matter, Tommy? You're not worried about that jerk, are you?"

I don't reply.

"I mean, I don't want to see him seriously hurt," Quentin says, "but you have to admit he's been asking for it."

Things aren't supposed to happen this way. It's supposed to be like in the movies where guys beat each other up and then walk away barely injured.

"Do you know where Greg Rolando's locker is?" I ask.

"Yeah, over by the science labs."

I walk off, leaving Quentin baffled. The hall is jammed with kids rifling through their lockers and rushing to class, but I feel utterly alone. People get out of my way as if I've got some terrible disease. I wander like a zombie, looking for Greg. I have to say something to him, anything. At last I find him at his locker. He's reaching to get something from the top shelf.

"Look, Greg, I want – "

He spins around and gapes at me. His eyes widen, and his mouth clenches into a thin, crumpled line. He backs against the locker door. Color drains from his face. He trembles so much that the metal locker vibrates against him.

I let the passing crowd sweep me away.

7. Spelling Showdown

Greg's face haunts me all morning. Sure, I'd enjoyed seeing him yesterday lying on the ground with the wise attitude wiped away, but this is something terrible.

What if Bob had broken his neck; what if he could never walk again?

After lunch, I shuffle into English class still unable to push Greg's horrified expression out of my mind. I sit down at my desk and stare out the windows.

"All right, class," Miss Greene announces, "anyone who wants to participate in the spelling contest, please come to the front."

The spelling contest! I've forgotten about it. Should I sit it out, stay at my desk feeling rotten and guilty? No, I've worked too hard and have an excellent chance of winning. Greg Rolando flies out of my mind.

Nine of us move to the front—me, Quentin, two other guys and five girls. As I reach Miss Greene's desk, I see a large parchment certificate.

AWARD OF MERIT

Presented to the Winner of the Spring Spelling Contest

A blank line in the middle waits for the Champion's name. I can almost see my own name jumping out in big, fancy letters.

"Quit drooling, Tommy," Quentin jokes. "It isn't yours yet."

I take a place at the far end of the blackboard. Quentin stands beside me, then the others line up. I feel good. Maybe I'm not the world's greatest ball player, but I can beat Quentin at this.

Nikki Lee, school newspaper photographer, sits at her desk with her big, official-looking camera. She'll photograph the winner, and my picture will be in the final issue of the _Journal_.

The door at the back of the room opens and another eight kids enter from the hall, including Melissa Jordanek.

"I've invited my other English class to participate as well," Miss Greene says. "This should make the competition much more interesting."

I eye the new group suspiciously, and some of my confidence drains away. Well, with more people in the contest, the greater the achievement for the winner... for me.

"In the opening round, contestants will be eliminated after missing a single word," Miss Greene says. "The final three contestants will get two chances each."

I hold my breath. _Please, don't let me mess up!_

The air seems thick enough to cut with a hacksaw. Will Miss Greene pick me first, or will she begin at the other end of the line? She reaches into a big fishbowl. Her long, slender fingers with the perfect nails pull out a slip of paper. Slowly, she unfolds the paper and studies it.

"Tommy, what is the correct spelling of _correspondence_?"

A sharp spot light flicks on and pinpoints me like a bug under a hot magnifying glass beam. This is a tricky one. Does it end ___ _ance_ or ___ _ence_?

"C-o-r-r-e-s-p-o-n-d-e-n-c-e."

"That is correct."

Relief washes over me, and I allow myself to breathe again.

Miss Greene takes another paper from the fishbowl. "Quentin, what is the correct spelling of _vacuum_?"

Quentin folds his arms. His face twists into an almost comic expression of deep thought.

"Quentin?" Miss Greene prompts.

"V-a-c-u-m-e."

"I'm sorry, that is not correct."

Quentin slaps his forehead. "How embarrassing! Shot down on the first word."

The whole class laughs.

"How do you spell _embarrassing_?" someone yells.

Everyone applauds as Quentin walks back to his desk; he takes a comic bow. Imagine, the guy flunks out early and gets a round of applause.

At least some of the tension has left the air. I hunker down for the long haul.

More kids get eliminated. I survive, correctly spelling _conscientious, harassment,_ and _zealous_ among others. Eventually, everyone else from my class is gone. Only I remain, with four kids from the other class.

My confidence is starting to fade, though. A girl named Chelsea is doing fantastic, like a walking dictionary. She's already spelled at least one word that I know I would have bombed.

Melissa does surprisingly well. Whenever it's her turn, Miss Greene always seems to pick an easy word. That figures. Anybody who looks as good as Melissa would have to luck out on everything else, too. As the line of contestants shrinks, she ends up standing next to me.

Sure, Melissa thinks I'm a dork, but it's neat to have her standing so close. Her light perfume teases my nose. I can almost pretend that we're a romantic couple out bravely facing the world, the two of us battling the Great Chelsea. When it comes to the final showdown, will I gallantly defer and allow Melissa to win?

Melissa leans toward me and spoils everything. "You think you're so smart," she rasps in my ear. "You've just been lucky."

I flinch, and my little fantasy bursts. My confidence hits rock bottom. Then I gasp with horror. Mr. Badpenny is slithering through the back door like some giant, poison-vapor snake.

8. Against the Wall

I feel suddenly weak; my palms are clammy with sweat.

Badpenny takes full form and moves to the back wall. He stands with arms folded, eyes burning into me. His top hat nearly brushes the ceiling.

Some kids turn in their desks, following my gaze to the back of the room. They return with puzzled looks on their faces.

Miss Greene saves the situation. "This has been quite a contest. You've all done very well."

"Another round of applause!" Quentin leads a second burst of clapping.

As if propelled by the applause, Badpenny drifts down the middle aisle. In a few moments, he's standing beside me—a tall, cold presence, blocking the window sunshine.

"Let's take a short break," Miss Greene says.

People kick back at their desks. The other contestants talk among themselves, leaving me alone off to the side.

Mr. Badpenny leans down toward me. "The competition is pretty fierce, isn't it, Tommy?"

I grit my teeth and whisper back: "I don't like what you did to Bob Stewart."

Mr. Badpenny's eyebrows shoot up. "Come now, Tommy. It's what _you_ did. I only fulfilled your request."

"I didn't say to put him in the hospital."

Badpenny shrugs. "Such things happen. Perhaps he shouldn't have been standing so close to the tree."

I shut up. If I say anything more, someone might notice and make a snide comment about me 'talking to myself.' I'll get mad and make sure the big mouth gets taught a lesson. I'm on a nightmare roller coaster and don't know how to get off.

"You seem upset, so I'll give you some space," Badpenny says. "But don't worry, I'll be around if you need me."

He vanishes. A minute later I spot him peeking in the windows.

"All right everyone," Miss Greene says, "let's get started."

Once again, my turn comes first. Miss Greene reaches into the fishbowl and pulls out a slip. It looks innocent enough, but it's very bad news for me.

"Tommy, what is the correct spelling of _camouflage_?"

I stare at Miss Greene. I don't have a clue! A little smile twists Melissa's face.

"Tommy?" Miss Greene prompts.

Mr. Badpenny is at my side again. He wraps an arm over my shoulder and leans in close. "I can tell you the correct spelling."

"Well?" Miss Greene says.

I feel faint, as if the blood has drained out of my head and puddled into my toes.

"Are you all right, Tommy?" Miss Greene asks.

"Yes..." I lie.

No, I'm not! I'm about to go down in flames. But I can't let Badpenny tell me the answer—the victory would mean nothing. I try to block him from my mind, even though his presence hovers around me like a rotten-egg stink.

I close my eyes and concentrate hard. A vision of the ME-262 fighter blasts up from my memory. I see the plane's fantastic painted disguise, mottled on top, blue-gray on the bottom.

I give my best shot: "C-a-m-m-o-f-l-a-g-e."

When I open my eyes, Badpenny is gone. Melissa's spiteful grin tells me that I have failed.

"Oh I'm sorry, Tommy, that's incorrect," Miss Greene says.

"Loser!" Melissa whispers.

9. The Long Walk

I bump into Melissa as I'm leaving school. Or rather, she bumps into me, hard enough to almost spin me around. She's plenty strong, for a girl.

"Oh, excuse me," she says with phony politeness. "Looks like this just isn't your day, Tommy."

She's walking with a couple other girls from the stuck-up crowd and some football player goon. They all laugh.

Man! How can somebody who looks so wonderful on the outside be so nasty inside? She's like a rotten apple covered with whipped cream. I try to think of some reply, but they've already moved on to spread their cheer someplace else.

I leave the building and shuffle alone toward home, taking the long way, struggling with fierce thoughts. Why is all this happening to me?

Actually, I know why. I know a lot about Badpenny, if I listen to myself without making a lot of excuses. Something inside me is calling to him. Whatever your deepest longings might be, Badpenny will be there to help you achieve them, however terrible the cost.

I'm on a slippery slope with no bottom in sight. I almost gave in to Badpenny again during the spelling contest. Next time I might not be as strong; next time there could be terrible consequences. How can I stop this before it trashes my whole life and somebody else winds up in the hospital, or worse?

Quentin appears, interrupting my gloomy thoughts. "How's it going, Tommy?"

"Okay, I guess."

"You did great in the spelling contest. I thought sure you were going to win. Too bad about the camouflage, there's no disguising that fact."

"Yeah."

"Don't you get it? _Camouflage, disguise_ —They kind of mean the same thing."

"Oh, right."

"At least you didn't get 'vacuumed' up like I did."

I paste on a smile and bark something resembling a laugh. Easy for Quentin to make jokes; he couldn't care less if he lost some ridiculous spelling competition.

_Maybe it's time_ _he_ _got taught a lesson!_

We walk for some minutes without further conversation. Quentin finally gets the idea that I'm not in the mood for bad jokes. We come to my turn off, and I continue on alone. I'm glad to be rid of his company.

Without Quentin around, Badpenny squirms back into my thoughts like a blood-filled leech. As always, I feel a combination of fear and fascination about him.

I sure got set up by that Belcho Burger girl. I must have had a big _Sucker_ sign hanging around my neck that day. I've been a weakling and an idiot. Badpenny feeds on weakness. Quentin is strong. He's proved that many times, and he wanted nothing to do with the two-faced coin.

I look anxiously about the street, fearful that Mr. Badpenny will reappear. A little dog runs down the sidewalk behind me, and a plastic trash can lid rolls along the street in a gust of wind. The knot in my stomach loosens a bit.

I'm suddenly afraid Badpenny might _not_ appear again. This thought chases me all the way home.

10. The Mighty Sluggers

Badpenny is at our baseball game Saturday afternoon, in the bleachers along the third base line, two rows up from Melissa. He seems almost transparent in the bright sunshine, as if somebody has painted him on the air with thin watercolors.

His wicked grin is the most solid thing about him, hovering disembodied in the heat shimmer. People must feel his presence because the bleacher space around him is empty. I'm not surprised to see him, but not too happy, either.

We finish warming up on the field and head toward our bench.

"Hi Quentin!" Melissa calls from the stands. "Good luck!"

Quentin answers with a vague wave her direction. She looks disappointed, and a bit angry. Badpenny waves at me, and an evil chill runs up my spine.

I glare back at him and say aloud: "I've got enough problems!"

"We sure do," Brett says. He must think I'm talking to him. "These guys wiped us out bad the last time."

I take my place on our bench and gaze at the opposing team with a sinking heart. We're playing the _Sluggers_ again, the toughest team in the Summer League. Worse yet, their star pitcher, Billy Preston, is on the mound. He's out there throwing hard practice pitches. He looks mean and arrogant, the type of guy you'd want to avoid. Only today we can't avoid him.

The Sluggers have lots of depth—extra guys to pinch hit, a good backup pitcher. Even their uniforms look great, as if some Hollywood tailor made them.

Their coach swaggers around giving orders. He wears a big silver whistle around his neck and holds a clipboard in his left hand. His other hand rests dramatically on his hip. A real major-league wannabe.

Us _Jaguars_ seem a bit lame by comparison. We sit like a bunch of sheep waiting to get sliced into lamb chops. At least we have plenty of room on our bench. Roberto is out with the flu, and Jenkie has left town for a family reunion. We have no depth at all.

Our coach, Mr. Bloch, busies himself with his own clipboard, acting as if he'd rather be someplace else—the dentist's office maybe.

He looks up. "Johnny! You'll be catching for Roberto today."

"Yes, sir," Johnny O says.

Johnny's last name is Ostrowski, and we called him 'Johnny O' for short.

Mr. Bloch ("Blockhead" behind his back) is nice, but not really much of a coach. He was a leftover after the better coaches got their teams. We're all leftovers, guys who signed up late after the other teams were already full. If Quentin hadn't gone on a personal recruiting drive, there wouldn't be any Jaguars at all. Still, we aren't bad. We have a decent record, except against the Slugger powerhouse.

Quentin, not Mr. Bloch, is the real team boss, and he goes into his fearless leader routine.

"Listen up," he says between chomps of gum, "We owe these guys one. We can beat them!"

He slams a fist into his glove. I flinch, as if somebody has hit me in the gut. A whistle blows.

"Let's go!" Quentin says.

We charge out to the field. I take my position at second base, ready to participate in the looming disaster. Already the sun is getting hot, and I wipe sweat off my face. The stands hold a surprising number of people, mostly Slugger fans. They're like an obnoxious crowd gathered around a car wreck to stare at the victims.

Quentin must have believed his own pep talk because he pitches great. I watch his intense concentration as he readies the pitch, his smooth windup, the powerful throw. Wow! The first two batters go down, but the third one drops in a single.

The Slugger fans roar and stomp their feet, a bloodthirsty mob at a gladiator fight. "Go Sluggers go! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"

The next batter comes to the plate. The runner at first poises for a dash to second base, eager to run right through me.

"Let's go Sluggers!" somebody yells. "That kid can't pitch!"

Quentin fans the batter with just four throws. Our outnumbered portion of the crowd explodes into cheers. We run back to our bench jostling each other and high fiving for all we're worth.

"What did I tell you?" Quentin says. "Those guys aren't supermen, are they?

"No!" we all shout.

"Let's get out there and score some runs."

"Yeah!"

We're really pumped, but the air goes out of us soon enough. Billy Preston is awesome. If he isn't superman, he's the next best thing. He cuts through our lead batters, three up, three down. We gape into each other's faces, shell shocked. Even Quentin looks bewildered. We stumble out to our field positions like a bunch of zombies.

The game blurs past, a single inning repeated over and over again. Billy scarcely needs any fielders backing him up; he simply mows us down. We get guys to first base on walks a few times, and Tony drops in a single. That's it.

We fight back hard from the field, and Quentin continues his fine performance. He's not overpowering like Billy, but smart, tricky, psyching out the Slugger batters. The rest of us play our guts out, too, not giving a single break to the enemy base runners.

The bottom of the last inning arrives quickly, and with it our last turn at bat. We trail, incredibly, by only a single run.

"Okay, guys, great game," Quentin says.

His sunburned face is streaked with sweat, and his eyes glow. How has he managed to fight this pitcher's duel for so long? It must be pushing 90 degrees with punishing humidity.

"We can win!" Quentin shouts. "Am I right!"

"Right!"

11. Last Bats

Brett strikes out big time, swinging so hard at the last pitch he could have knocked the ball to the next county if he'd connected. Gloom settles over our bench like a damp, musty blanket. Some of the spectators begin to leave.

Then fortune smiles on us again. Johnny O knocks a fly ball to left. It should be an out, but the Slugger outfielders are not on their toes. The ball drops in for a single.

Billy Preston glowers at his bumbling teammates, as if he wants to pitch somebody's head at the next batter.

"Look alive out there, morons!" the Slugger coach bellows.

What a jerk.

Our bench explodes with joy. "Way to Go! Johnny O!"

Our handful of supporters takes up the theme. "Way to Go! Johnny O!"

I cheer along with everybody else, but then a horrid realization strikes me. Unless our next man up hits into a double play, _I_ will have to bat!

Quentin places an arm over my shoulder. "Don't freeze up out there, Tommy. Let the power flow."

"Sure," I squeak.

As if in a trance, I yank myself off the bench and walk to the on deck circle, replacing Ryan who moves to the plate. Billy's first pitch comes in low for a ball. Ryan steps out of the batter's box and adjusts his helmet. I look away, unable to bear the suspense.

I gaze at my surroundings with fresh eyes. Never has the world seemed so beautiful, as if this dusty field is the edge of paradise. A warm breeze carries the scent of clover. The bleachers seem friendly and inviting. Wouldn't it be great to be sitting in the crowd right now, a cold drink in my hand, watching the game-ending double play?

Boink!

The sickly noise of a baseball glancing off a bat wrenches me back to reality. Ryan has sliced a miserable little pop up. The Slugger catcher drops his mask and moves dramatically under the ball. He makes the catch easily. The crowd cheers. Johnny O stays glued to first base.

After all our tremendous effort, it's up to me to make the last out. It's a long, long walk to the plate. I seem to move incredibly slow, as if I'm making a trip to the guillotine.

Why can't somebody else be doing this?

With a smirk on his lips, Billy Preston grinds the ball into his glove. He acts glad to see me, the way a shark is glad to see some poor guy bleeding in the water.

I square off, batting left handed.

"Heeey batter-batter-batter!" taunt the Slugger fielders. "Heeey batter-batter-batter!"

I hear Melissa's shrill cry. "Come on Billy! Strike him out!"

The first pitch screams past me for a strike. I swing at the next one and pop it foul for another strike. My teammates' disappointment washes over me in waves from our bench. I hunker down and ready myself for the next pitch.

Let it be the last one, just get this over with.

The ball blazes in tight, right on me. I stumble back and fall on my butt. The opposing fans roar with laughter; Melissa's cackle lashes out. Billy Preston takes the return throw, grinning. I get up and brush my uniform, choking on miserable anger.

He tried to hit me on purpose!

No, that can't be right. Why would he send the worst hitter to first only to face the top of the batting order with two runners on base? Even Billy wouldn't be that arrogant.

The crowd chants. "Get him out! Hey! Hey! Get him out!"

Maybe that inside pitch was at least part accidental, but Billy is sure enjoying my humiliation.

"Heeey batter-batter-batter!" the Slugger fielders jeer.

Suddenly, Mr. Badpenny is at my side, whispering into my ear: "Let me help you get a hit, Tommy."

I can scarcely think. Through the dust and the blazing sun I see my teammates' disappointed faces, Melissa's smirk, Billy's 'I've got you, sucker!' grin. My head bakes inside the helmet; sweat trickles down my neck. The ugly roar of the crowd and the insults of the Slugger players fill my ears.

"Get him out! Hey! Hey! Get him out!"

"Do you want me to help?" Mr. Badpenny asks.

My eyes mist up. A small voice I scarcely recognize replies. "Okay."

I step up to the plate, batting right handed this time. Billy looks mildly surprised. Badpenny stands behind me and places his hands on the bat, burning into mine. Billy winds up. The ball hisses toward me. I feel my arms swing the bat with incredible power.

CRACK!

The force of the blow vibrates up to my armpits and down to my toes. The ball rockets straight at Billy Preston's head. He ducks, but the ball knocks his cap off and sends him sprawling into the dirt.

It flies over the center field fence like a rifle shot. The Slugger players gasp. A stunned silence grips the park.

Billy Preston wobbles to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. With his dusty uniform and sweaty, tangled hair, he looks utterly defeated. A tremendous roar shakes the stands and the Jaguar bench. I stand like an idiot. Johnny O rounds second base and heads for third.

"Run," Mr. Badpenny urges.

As if in a dream, I jog the base paths, the cheers making every step buoyant. I seem to be running on a cloud. When I reach home plate, my joyous teammates hoist me on their shoulders and bounce me around.

"I knew you could do it!" Quentin shouts.

I feel like some pagan god being lifted toward the heavens by my worshippers. People leave the bleachers and join our delirious parade. Even Melissa whoops along with everybody else.

When things settle down, Coach Bloch presents me with the Player of the Week trophy.

Me!

# Part 3: Matters of Conscience

12. Victory!

We all troop to Quentin's house together like a victorious army, ditching any other plans we might have had for the day. Most of us thought we'd be slinking away alone and defeated to lick our wounds. Now we're having a victory celebration.

We order pizza and fairly drown ourselves in a flood of Bomb Cola. We relive all the game's glory moments—Quentin's magnificent pitching, our desperately effective fielding and, above all, my homerun blast. There's more joy in Quentin's 'Lair,' basement, than on Christmas morning.

A couple of girls appear, which really tops things off. They are fans of Quentin, but he gives me full credit for the victory. Quentin is such a gentleman.

Mom is waiting in the living room for me when I get home. One of the other baseball moms called her with the news. She snatches the trophy from my hands the moment I get through the door.

"This is beautiful! I wish your father was here to see it."

She hands the trophy back and picks up the camera. It was waiting on the coffee table, loaded with fresh film.

"He'll just have to be satisfied with the pictures," she says.

She has me set the trophy in the ultimate place of honor, in front of the Guatemalan flag. She photographs it there in all its shining glory. She includes me in the next picture, then calls in Mrs. Aldi from next door to handle the camera so we can both be in the picture.

Next, Mom breaks out a cake. She and Mrs. Aldi are still munching it with their coffee when I pick up my trophy and head upstairs.

* * *

Dad makes his weekly call home that night. I think he's going to jump through the phone lines, all the way from Mexico, when he hears the news.

"That's my boy!" he says. "You're a chip off the old block!" and other stuff like that.

He's plenty excited, but the connection is poor. His voice is scratchy and dim, like it's coming from a ghost, and his accent is hard to follow. This gives me a creepy feeling. I hang up the phone and turn in, exhausted from a very long day.

13. School Hero

Word of our magnificent upset victory gets around school on Monday.

We're not an official school team, but since all of us Jaguars go to South junior high and most of the Sluggers go to North, people look upon our success as a victory over the cross-town rival. North wiped us out bad this year in football and basketball, and we Jaguars have restored our honor.

The two South guys who play for the Sluggers make themselves scarce today. One of them actually approaches Quentin and asks if he can switch teams.

"We're always looking for good men," Quentin tells the kid. "I'll take it up with the coach."

People regard me with particular awe. Guys who scoffed at the Jaguars are now asking me if they can join. I get to feeling pretty puffed. Who wouldn't in my place?

At one point, I hook up with Quentin, Brett, and Tony. We stroll down the hall together, falling into step like a military procession. People look at us with respect—at me. For once Quentin is bathing in _my_ glory.

"Hi, Tommy," Debbie Ulrich says as she approaches going the opposite direction.

My heart jumps into my throat, but I don't change my casual expression.

She slows and flashes an incredible smile. Perhaps she expects me to talk to her, but I keep moving. Debbie is way up in the female hierarchy. Before today, she regarded me as little better than road kill. She'll have to pay for that.

"Hi, Debbie." I give my her my coolest semi-smile, not overly friendly, but enough to leave things open for later—maybe.

Quentin nudges my arm. "Wow! I wish she'd smile at me that way."

"Mmm," I reply, trying to sound a little bored.

We come to the hall where Greg Rolando's locker is, and my self assurance fades. My aura drops away like a coat that's too big for me. I feel vulnerable. The place seems a dark and ominous dragon's cave. Chilly mist belches from it and wraps around my ankles, tickling me with icy fingers.

Inside this darkened hallway, hidden in the murk, Greg Rolando stands against the lockers shaking so hard the walls bounce metallic echoes. Bob Stewart is there, too, moaning in his hospital bed. And Billy Preston stands rubbing the bump on his head, amazed that his brains are still inside his skull.

Suddenly, I can hardly breathe. I don't want my friends around any longer suffocating me with their admiration. I break from my entourage and retreat up the stairs.

"See you guys later." I'm surprised at how steady my voice is.

"Yeah, later, Tommy."

I don't want to think about those battered people lurking in the back hall, especially not Billy Preston. If he'd been an instant slower ducking away, the ball would have struck him square, and I don't think he'd have much of a head left.

Billy was in the way, though, wasn't he? He knew the risks of the game, and nobody forced him to be out there on the pitcher's mound showing off. Besides, it was Mr. Badpenny who aimed the ball at him, right?

I can't quite bring myself to believe that lie. In my quieter moments, when people aren't slapping me on the back and saying how great I am, I understand it was my anger that put Billy's head in the cross hairs. Badpenny was only my tool.

Melissa bumps into me again that afternoon, only this time she doesn't try to knock me over.

"Oh, hi, Tommy," she says, smiling, "That was a great game Saturday."

"Yeah... thanks, Melissa."

I'm astonished by her friendly attitude but recover quickly.

"It's about time somebody cut Billy Preston down," she says. "He thinks he's so cool."

Melissa glances over her shoulder at the two girls she's with; one of them is Debbie Ulrich. They look away, as if to mind their own business, but their ears are still turned our direction.

"So, Tommy, were you planning to go to the spring dance Friday night?" Melissa asks.

"I haven't thought about it much. Maybe."

She moves in close, and her perfume wafts into my nostrils like some magical incense. "It should be fun. The DJ is really good."

"Oh?"

"He played at North last week. Everybody liked him." Melissa glances at her watch. "Well, gotta go, Tommy. Maybe I'll see you at the dance?"

"Yeah, bye."

The three girls walk off, or rather, Melissa herds the other two away, making sure they don't hang around to talk with me.

Dang!

Not long ago, I'd have fallen on my face if Melissa came on half this strong. I would have instantly forgiven all her past meanness. I'd have been the first one at the dance, just praying that she'd notice me.

But that was before I became _Player of the Week_. Things are different now, in ways I'm not sure I like.

* * *

Back home, the trophy looks very impressive on my shelf. It stands gleaming in a place of honor beside my fighter plane model. Anyone seeing this display would believe himself to be in the room of a very important person.

Jenkie stops by to pick me up for baseball practice after school. Roberto comes, too, even though he still isn't well enough to play. They both gaze longingly at the trophy.

"Imagine that," Jenkie says, "the greatest moment in Jaguar history, and I had to miss it."

Roberto nods. He's holding a tissue to his nose, and his eyes are bloodshot. This hasn't prevented him from coming to pay homage, though.

"Look at this." Jenkie points to a puffy bruise under his left eye. "My little brat cousin slugged me with one of his toys at the family reunion. Pretty good for a six year old, eh?"

"What did you do to get back at him?" Roberto asks.

"What could I do? Everybody thought he was being 'cute.'" Jenkie shakes his head. "And to think I could have been at the game. Man, I'd have given anything to see that home run, Tommy!"

"The Sluggers won't be in any hurry to play us again," Roberto says.

I shrug.

"Don't be so modest," Jenkie says.

I'm not being modest. I don't know exactly what I'm feeling, only that it doesn't feel good.

14. Demise of the Swallow

Back in my room, away from my admirers, I have to face the Player of the Week trophy alone. Every time I see the big, gleaming thing, it appears to get duller and smaller until it doesn't look much more impressive than a Cracker Jack prize. By Wednesday I can barely stand to look at it.

I'm a lousy cheat and know it.

Lurking beside the trophy on the shelf, the ME-262 seems to expand and become more menacing. The shark-like fighter plane looks ready to pounce on the trophy and swallow it whole. I even imagine the plane has rolled closer to the trophy when I wasn't looking, maneuvering into attack position.

I'm going out of my mind!

I take the airplane down and replace it with some other stuff. The trophy doesn't look any better, though. It just sits there, tinny and cheap looking. If the thing had a voice, it would be laughing at me. Finally, I cover it up with an old T shirt.

I hold up the model fighter plane in both hands. _Where am I going to put this thing?_

It hogs too much space on my desk. I could hang it from the ceiling but don't like the idea of it hovering over me like some jet propelled vampire bat. It could give you a coronary if you walked in after dark without turning on the lights.

I fish the empty model box out of my wastebasket. The picture on the top shows the jet fighter streaking through the sky, cannons blasting, while an American bomber tumbles down in flames before it. Sure enough, the swastika on the fighter's tail is rotated clockwise, as Quentin said it should be. I read the historical info on the back:

The ME-262 Schwalbe (Swallow) was the world's first operational jet fighter.

Interesting name. No wonder it wanted to 'swallow' the trophy.

Fortunately for the Allies, Nazi Germany's leadership was slow to recognize the potential of this revolutionary new weapon. Had the ME-262 been deployed earlier, it might have strongly influenced the outcome of World War Two.

I look at the picture on the box top again. Nobody is bailing out of the American bomber. A shudder runs through me. What must it be like inside that plane, all shot up and burning? How many kids never got born because the men who were supposed to be their dads got blasted out of the sky fighting to stop the Nazis from taking over the world?

We've been studying World War Two in history class and have watched a movie about Hitler. Sometimes he's talking to a small group of people in a quiet, friendly way. He smiles, laughs, and pats little kids on the cheek like some kind uncle.

Other times he's speaking to a huge crowd, and he's totally different. He screams and rants, flailing his arms around. It's as if some horrible monster crawled inside him and is bellowing out hatred. The crowd roars back, even more bloodthirsty than a bunch of Slugger fans.

Talk about a man with two faces... like somebody else I know.

Yet the Germans followed Hitler to the bitter end, until they were totally crushed. And the millions of innocent people the Nazis murdered—many for no other reason than they were Jewish, or even part Jewish. People like Mom. People like me!

Until now I've scarcely ever considered my Jewish heritage. I never thought it made me any better or worse than other people. I certainly never thought I should be killed for it.

" _So, Tommy,"_ says a little voice in my head. " _What monster have you got lurking inside?"_

"I'm not a monster!"

" _Oh, come now, Tommy."_ The voice is silky-smooth and ominous. _"Everyone has an 'Inner Nazi,' don't you know? It's buried deep down waiting to come out."_

I hate this voice because it's cold and vicious. I hate it even more because it speaks truths I don't want to admit. But I can't ignore it. I have to choose. Now! I grab the airplane hard, cracking the fuselage, and dash out of my room. I bolt down the stairs and out the back door, stopping briefly in the kitchen for a pack of matches.

In the backyard behind the big lilac bush, I set the plane down on a rock. It looks up at me with hatred, its body broken, aching to shoot its cannons at me.

"Swallow this, you stinking Nazi!"

I light a match and shove the flame into the fighter's shark snout. I light another and set fire to a wing. Soon the whole airplane is blazing; thick black smoke curls up. A change in the breeze sends a puff into my lungs, and I nearly fall over from the poisonous stench.

I move a safe distance off and watch the plane collapse into a puddle of flaming liquid plastic. For the first time in weeks, I feel good. Soon, Badpenny will be out of my life, too. One way or another.

15. The Reckoning

Saturday arrives at last. I snatch the Player of the Week trophy off my shelf as if I'm uprooting a poisonous plant. I stuff it into my gear bag, where nobody can see it, and take off for the baseball field on my bike.

As I ride, the gear bag becomes heavier. I stop and shift the bag strap to my other shoulder. After a while, I have to stop again and move the load back. What's in this bag, a load of cast iron?

I pass Bob Stewart's house. He and his mom are walking to their car in the driveway. Bob is wearing an ugly neck brace; he doesn't see me.

The bag becomes intolerably heavy, and I have to get off and walk my bike the rest of the way. When I arrive at the field, I practically shove the trophy into Mr. Bloch's hands.

"What's the rush, Tommy? Maybe you'll get to keep it another week."

"Yeah, right."

I feel 1,000 pounds lighter. At last, I'm rid of that awful thing! But how do I get rid of Badpenny? The question has been tormenting me since I burned the Swallow. I haven't got an answer yet. Quentin saunters up and blows an enormous bubble with his gum.

"How's it going, Tommy?" he says when the bubble finally collapses.

"Fine."

Quentin gestures toward our opponents. "We gonna knock these guys off, too?"

"No doubt."

We're playing the Bulldogs. They're good, but we can beat them, especially since Roberto and Jenkie are back in the lineup. A couple of new guys are sitting on the bench, too. They look over at me as if I'm Mickey Mantle.

"Hi, Tommy," one of them says.

"Hi."

I sit on the bench as far away from them as possible and gaze out toward the field where the Bulldogs are warming up. The heat wave from last week has moved off leaving glorious weather in its place. Big fluffy clouds drift by, covering the sun's glare.

I force myself to look at the spectator stands along the third base line. There's Mr. Badpenny again, sitting in his usual spot. He's really only half there. The other half floats around in my mind, like a bloated corpse bobbing in a cesspool.

I slam my fist hard into my glove. Quentin and the others glance over.

"Something wrong, Tommy?" Jenkie asks.

I shake my head, a single sharp jerk that says I don't want to talk.

Mr. Bloch blows on his whistle. "All right, guys, let's show 'em our stuff!"

Mr. Bloch had changed quite a bit in the last week. He now has as much attitude as the Slugger coach. The whole team has attitude. We swagger out on the field for our warm up.

"Hi Tommy!" a voice calls from the stands.

I see Melissa waving.

Quentin pokes me with his elbow. "Looks like you've got a new girlfriend."

"Yeah," I mutter.

An idea barges into my head with so much force it almost knocks me over. Why haven't I thought of it before? I take off my cap and wave to Melissa with real enthusiasm.

The players in the starting line up rush past to take their positions in the field. This is our 'show off for the crowd' time—toss the ball around, hit some flies to the outfielders, try to look cool. The new guys stand off to the side, wishing they could share the glory.

I walk up to one of them. "Cover second base a while for me, okay?"

The guy lights up as if Santa Claus just dropped his whole bag of goodies at his feet. "Sure, thanks!"

I walk the fence along the third base line, swinging a bat around like I'm warming up. Badpenny watches me from the stands. With every step I feel his eyes following; his wicked mind jabs at me.

I gesture to him, ja little flick of my finger so as not to draw attention from the spectators. Badpenny drifts down—a black, misty stream like smoke from the burning fighter plane.

The people he passes fidget in their seats, looking around for the source of the weird sensation. Mr. Badpenny comes beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. I flinch under it.

"We had a great time last Saturday, didn't we, Tommy?"

I stand quietly, gathering my strength.

"I can help you again. You could win the trophy for another whole week."

I look him in the eye and speak as bravely as I can. "I _don't_ want your help today."

Mr. Badpenny's eyebrows shoot up. He turns his normal face toward me.

"Certainly you don't mean that," the new face says.

I hold my ground, even though I feel like running. "Do as I say! Get back in your coin."

Badpenny spins one face at me, then the other, faster and faster. His whole body twirls furiously. A small dust tornado blows up. People in the stands cough. When the dust settles, only the two-faced coin remains lying on the ground.

It worked! For how long, I have no idea. I pick up the coin and walk quickly across the field toward Melissa. She smiles sweetly at me, and I almost drop my plan right then. She's so lovely; why not just let things go on as they are?

No!

I push all mushy thoughts out of my mind. Her smile is not for me; all she sees is a trophy walking towards her. The real Tommy cringes behind it, the guy she likes to insult. Well, I'm through with cringing.

I arrive at the stands. "Hi, Melissa. Thanks for coming."

"Hi Tommy! I missed you at the dance last night."

"Yeah, couldn't make it," I say casually. "I wanted to rest up for the game."

"Are you going to get another hit today?"

"I'm sure gonna try."

I hesitate. The whole world seems to hold its breath with me. Then I toss Melissa the coin.

"Here's a good-luck souvenir."

The coin flips through the air, almost in slow motion. She reaches for it with both hands. Suddenly, I ache to grab it back, but it's too late. Melissa has the coin in her hands already.

She flinches. Eye-bulging surprise flashes across her face. She opens her hands, frowning, and examines the coin. I wait tensely, wondering if she's going to toss it back.

A smile creeps over her mouth, and her eyes brighten. "Thanks, Tommy!"

I tip my cap. "Enjoy that, Melissa."

* * *

When my turn at bat comes, I feel calm and strong behind the plate, like I really belong there. For the first time ever my nerves are rock steady. Glorious sunshine covers me in warmth, while a fragrant breeze cools my skin.

The Bulldog pitcher goes into his windup. The ball whizzes toward me, the power flows, and...

WHACK!

# Part 4: Melissa's Story

16. Home with my Present

Such an odd present Tommy gave me! All through the game it absolutely burned in my pocket, like it had a fire inside. It felt very weird, but I liked it, too.

The Jaguars won, and Tommy got _two_ hits. Not big home run blasts like before but still very exciting. Best of all, he won the Player of the Week trophy again. Good thing Quentin didn't get it. He's so stuck up.

I feel bad about the way I've treated Tommy. I don't know why I'm so mean to people sometimes, but he doesn't seem to hold a grudge. How come I never noticed before how cute he is? I love the way he moves on the field—catching balls, tagging out the boys trying to reach second base, all that. He's a natural.

I decide not to hang around after the game. That might be a little too direct, like when I asked to see Tommy at the dance. He's pretty shy and must be approached in a more roundabout way. Besides, it's better if he thinks I'm hard to get.

There's a school roller skating party Monday night. I know Tommy is going because I heard him telling another boy. They didn't notice me following them in the hall. So, I'll sort of run into him at the Roll-O-Center. Anyway, I know Tommy likes me. He wouldn't have given me the good-luck charm if he didn't.

When I get back home, only Davis is there. He pokes his head out of his downstairs study. "Oh, it's you."

"Who were you expecting, Marilyn Monroe?"

He gives me a sour look; it makes his face look ugly. You'd hardly know we're related, much less twins. Not identical, of course, but what are called 'fraternal' twins. People say I got the looks while he got the brains.

Davis wouldn't be bad looking if he wasn't so fat. All he does is study in front of his big color TV, gorging on snacks. Pretty soon he won't be able to squeeze out of his arm chair. At least with no social life, he's got plenty of time to make high marks at his fancy private school.

"Is Mom around?"

Davis shrugs. "She's at the hospital, or someplace. I don't know."

I figure Dad won't be home. He's flown off again on some big case for his law firm, and we don't expect him back yet. I kind of want to see Mom, though. Maybe I want to tell her a cute new boy is interested in me.

Well, he's not really new. Mom probably wouldn't remember him from past years, though. She wasn't around much more back then than she is now. Yeah, Mom has plenty of time for everything and everybody—except me. She's president of the hospital auxiliary, treasurer for 'Friends of the Art Museum,' and who knows what else.

Davis shuts himself back behind the study door. I pull out my good-luck charm. Where on earth did Tommy get this? Touching it makes you feel weird and happy at the same time. Maybe not happy... powerful. It shines a lot, even in the dim indoor light.

It would make an interesting piece of jewelry. Yeah! I can drill a tiny hole through it and hang it from my gold chain. I'll wear it to the skating party. Tommy would like that. I head down to the basement.

I enter Dad's workshop and flick on the overhead light. I'm not supposed to go in here, but who really cares? Everything is neat and clean with nothing out of place, like Dad. He's an important lawyer. Mom studied to be a lawyer, too. They met in law school. Mom dropped out, though, when they got married.

Things must have been tough with two unplanned babies around. I'm no math whiz, but I've calculated that Mom and Dad's wedding date is less than six months before our birthday.

I don't recall much about the poor times. I've never had to scrimp on anything. Davis has his fancy private school now, and they want to send me to an all-girls boarding school in Virginia, with horses no less. What would I do out there? Every one of those stuck-up girls would have families at least as rich as ours, probably richer. How could I feel special?

I wrap the lower half of the penny with a rag and clamp it in the vice. Then I fit the smallest bit into the electric drill and plug it in. I watched Dad drill a hole into some little trinket once. He seemed so happy and relaxed in here with the radio playing. He didn't notice me standing outside the workshop door.

I pull my hair back and slip on the safety goggles. I must look like 'Rosie the Riveter' in that old poster. We're studying World War Two in history class, and I've seen her in my text book flexing her arm.

I turn on the drill, _BZZZZZZZZ!_ and begin to bore through the penny.

An astounding, incredible thing happens. A little whirlwind spins out of the coin, all the way to the ceiling! I jump back, but I can't escape because the tornado is blocking the door. I throw a hand against the wall to keep from falling over.

The swirling stops, and a gray mist fills the air. The mist takes a more solid form, like a man. He has a terribly ugly face and is so tall his hat scrunches against the ceiling! It's a good thing I'm still wearing the goggles, or my eyes might pop right out of my head.

"Owww!" The man points to a dent in his forehead. "You almost drilled through my skull!"

I'm too shocked to be scared even. I stand clutching the drill like a stuffed toy. The man, or whatever he is, sits down on the stool cradling his head in both hands.

I bolt out of the workshop and pound up the basement stairs, still holding onto the drill. The plug pulls out of the wall and bounces along the floor behind me.

17. Mr. Penny Bows In

As I rush past the study, Davis pokes his head out the door. "Hey, knock it off!"

I dash upstairs, burst into my room, dive on my bed and cover up with every quilt and pillow. My pounding heart slows down enough so I can hear myself think a little. What should I do, call the police? The phone is downstairs. Get Davis? He wouldn't be any help.

Despite my panicky thoughts, I don't feel in any danger. Now that the first shock has passed, I'm not even afraid. Although the man appeared in an astonishing way, I don't believe he means to hurt me. I'd hurt him, though, and I still have the drill if I need to use it.

I have the same feeling I first got from the coin—a sense of weirdness and power. I get out of bed, plug in the drill, and hold it at the ready like a Western movie six-gun. The strange man will be back, and I want to be ready...

After a few minutes, a gray mist oozes under my door. It rises toward the ceiling and takes on the mysterious man's shape. The ugly, bearded face forms up, and I can see the drill dent in his forehead. The face looks at me with a stern expression like you might get from a teacher when you've been talking too much during class.

The man swivels his head and brings a whole other face around. I'm so surprised that I drop the drill with a heavy _thud!_ and stand there, my mouth gaping open.

Davis yells from downstairs. "Cut the racket!"

This second face is very handsome and wears a friendly smile. The man bows elegantly, like a gentleman in that old _Gone with the Wind_ movie.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he says in a soft, pleasant voice. "My name is Mr. Penny."

He doesn't seem to be fully there, like he's made out of smoke or something. I can almost see through him.

"Allow me to apologize for the... unfortunate circumstances of our first meeting," he says. "I was in a great deal of distress."

"I-I didn't want to hurt you. I was only trying to make a piece of jewelry to wear on my gold chain."

His eyebrows move up. "Really? You know, I rather like that idea, but no drills, please."

"Sure."

He looks around my room. With the bedding scattered and other stuff knocked about, it looks like a hurricane passed through.

"I'd best be going. I can see you have experienced some upset. I sometimes affect people that way, until they get to know me better."

"Who are you?" I don't want him to leave yet, as crazy as that sounds.

"My name is Mr. Penny, as I told you. I'm at your service whenever you need me."

"Oh?"

"Of course." He moves toward the door. "I'll be back soon, Melissa, and we can talk more."

"Okay... sure."

He points to the drill and goggles lying on the floor. "Perhaps you'll allow me to straighten up the workshop? Your father might be angry otherwise."

I nod.

He picks up the items in his smoky hands, holding the drill with two fingers an arm's length away, as if it's a dangerous snake. He opens the door.

"Farewell, my lady. Remember, you may always rely upon my friendship."

Then he's gone. A strange, tingling thrill glitters in the air. It passes through me, exciting me all the way down to my toes.

18. The Skating Party

Right through the weekend and into Monday, I think about the mysterious Mr. Penny. He's simply too fantastic to be real.

I almost convince myself that nothing happened, but when I go to the workshop, the drill and goggles are hanging in different spots. I didn't do that. I put them back in their right places so that Dad won't get suspicious when he returns.

Does Tommy know what's in the good luck charm? I can't wait to see him at the skating party. We sure have a lot to talk about.

Nichole's mom drops us off at the Roll-O-Center Monday night. I find a spot on a bench and lace on my skates while Nicole and Cyndy go to rent theirs. When Mom heard about our party, she rushed me out to buy the latest and greatest skates. She didn't want me standing in the rental line with the peasants. At least I got to talk to her a little. Though, as usual, we didn't say anything important.

The place is crowded. Tons of kids from South are out on the floor while others jam the food concession and the arcade. Loudspeakers blast music, and colored lights flit around from a big silvery ball rotating on the ceiling. Billy Preston zips past with a few other boys from North. He's such a show off. Their official skating party isn't until tomorrow; they're here trying to impress us South girls.

If I can just avoid embarrassing myself. I wobble up and look around for Tommy. I think of me and him skating hand in hand. He'll be a good skater, of course, and will keep me steady. Let the other boys watch us and drool. I start moving away from the bench and promptly fall on my rear.

"Ouch!"

I look around desperately, hoping no one saw me. Everyone's too busy to notice, though. I grip the bench with one hand and begin hoisting myself up.

"May I be of assistance?" a friendly voice asks.

Mr. Penny is standing before me.

"Y-your back!"

There's no way to avoid being shocked. He's so weird.

"Yes, milady, I'm back."

He's very polite, and his handsome faced is turned my way. He offers me his hand. I hesitate before taking it. An electric thrill runs up my arm. Instantly, I'm back on my feet.

"Shall we skate?" Mr. Penny asks.

"Yes," I hear myself say. It's like somebody else is talking for me.

He guides me out onto the floor. We start rolling with the crowd. Soon I'm skating like a pro. My legs seem to move by themselves, exactly correct. After a couple of practice laps, we move to the inside edge of the great circling mob, skating faster than the others. My new skates sing across the wooden floor.

Mr. Penny towers above everyone else, but nobody can see him, except me. We stay out of the mainstream as much as possible, but now and then somebody skates very close to him. The person shudders and looks around.

I'm getting the hang of this new type of skating, enjoying the feeling of superiority it gives me.

"Let's go faster."

"Of course."

The people in the crowd become a blur as I flash by them. They're like plodding turtles being passed by a race horse. I can scarcely breathe from excitement. A large red circle is painted in the center of the rink. A couple of kids are practicing in it—skating backwards, trying to look cool.

"Let's go there."

"As you wish."

I roar toward the circle at incredible speed. The two kids stop their exhibition and stand inside the circle, watching me. I come in low and streamlined, building speed, swinging my arms in perfect rhythm. I race around the red circle once, twice, four times. Then I come to a screeching halt.

"Backwards now."

Four more circuits, skating backwards. The Roll-O-Center spins past in a blur of colors—the lights stabbing from the ceiling, the clothes of the other skaters, and the smoky presence of Mr. Penny. Music blares, a thousand wheels rumble across the floor.

I leap in the air and spin like an ice skating dancer at the winter Olympics. I land, breathless, and look around the rink. Nobody seems to notice me. The big mob keeps moving, all wrapped up in their own little lives. The music stops a few seconds as a new song gets ready to blare.

"Jeeze, what a show off," one of the kids in the red circle says.

Somebody liked my performance, though. I hear a single person applauding from the crowd.

"Way to go, Melissa!" Amanda shouts.

She flashes me a big thumbs-up with both hands. I wave back.

"Thank you, thank you!"

The music starts blasting again. Amanda brings her arms down and resumes holding hands with the boy skating beside her.

"Ohhh!"

It's Tommy. My face reddens. A vein in my neck throbs like it's going to burst.

"Is something wrong?" Mr. Penny asks.

"That girl's got my boyfriend."

"Really? Perhaps she needs to be taught a lesson."

"Yes, yes!"

Mr. Penny swoops toward Amanda. I see him reach out his long arm. Amanda falls sprawling, right on her face. Other skaters jam up behind her. Some of them fall down, too.

Yeah!

Tommy is still on his feet, though. Our eyes meet, and his look is angry. He bends down to help Amanda.

Mr. Penny returns.

"Why didn't you knock Tommy over, too?"

"He is my former master; therefore, I cannot offer him any... correction."

"Then _I'll_ correct him." Billy Preston zips by with his band of friends. "Let's go with them."

With amazing speed, I zoom up to Billy and edge out the little red-headed nobody who was skating beside him.

"Hi, Billy."

He looks at me, surprised. "Oh... hi."

"We met at your spring dance, remember?"

"Uh, you're Melissa, right?"

"Yeah."

I take Billy's hand. He jerks back a little, but I hold on tight. Mr. Penny surrounds us with his smoky presence. Billy glances about nervously. His hand becomes cold and sweaty. Hey, what happened to the big baseball hero?

I look around for Tommy. Let him get a taste of jealous rage. He's standing outside the boards talking with Amanda and ignores me as I skate past. Billy is so scared of Mr. Penny that I have to dump him quick before he faints. What a wimp!

I leave the rink and change back into my shoes, tossing the hateful skates under the bench. Let somebody else have them. I rush to the food concession and stuff my face with pizza and ice cream. Mr. Penny spooks the kids ahead of me, so I don't have to wait in line.

I'm half way through my second chocolate burrito when Amanda and Tommy head toward the food counter. I want to throw my tray at them. Instead, I retreat to the arcade area and waste money playing stupid games. I've got plenty of cash; Mom always sees to that.

Mr. Penny offers to help me play, but I don't want to be bothered. I don't care about what happens on the pin ball tables. My real life is such a total disaster. Mr. Penny vanishes, leaving me alone with my misery.

19. Davis Gets His

The party starts breaking up. Nichole and Cyndy interrupt me during some idiotic 'shoot down the airplanes' game.

"My mom's here," Nichole says.

I spin around. "So?"

Nichole flinches, like she expects me to smack her. I ought to smack her!

"Aren't you riding back with us, Melissa?" Cyndy asks.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

I abandon the machine, leaving the airplanes un-shot down. The three of us walk toward the front exit where Nichole's mom waits in their station wagon—an old Studebaker, no less. Can't they afford anything better?

The Roll-O-Center is emptying out fast. I hope I never see this awful place again. Tommy is nowhere around. I never want to see him again, either.

"What about your skates?" Cyndy asks.

"Don't worry about my skates, all right?"

"Okay, sorry."

It's a very silent ride back. That suits me fine. Nichole sits in front with her mom. Cyndy shares the back seat, jamming herself against the door, as far away from me as possible.

I know Dad's home because I hear him and Mom arguing upstairs in their bedroom. Or, it used to be their bedroom. These days, only Mom sleeps there. I grip the stair railing hard to stop my hand trembling. I don't want to trudge up to the combat zone. I don't want to hear the hurtful things they're spitting at each other.

Rumblings and explosions come through the study door, the rat-tat-tat of machine guns. Davis is watching some war movie with his TV turned up loud.

I place my hands over my ears. "Can't anyone act decent?"

Tears burn down my cheeks. Through one hand I can hear Mom's shrill voice and Dad's angry shouting. The racket of Davis' war movie forces its way through my other hand.

Suddenly, Mr. Penny is at my side. He doesn't look out of place in this madhouse.

"Do something," I say. "Make them all stop!"

Mr. Penny bows. "Of course, right away."

He turns into a gray mist and seeps under the study door. A moment later I hear an explosion, a real one, followed by a loud crash. The door flies open and Davis stands there, his double chins quivering.

"Mom, help! My TV blew up."

The fighting upstairs abruptly stops, and Mom comes charging down like a mad buffalo. She rushes past me and takes Davis into her arms, comforting him.

I walk up to my room, unnoticed, and close the door.

20. Final Exams

The next day at school, I'm in a foul mood. Can anybody blame me for that?

I have finals in English and History. My other exams are tomorrow and Thursday. Another year at this dumb school will soon be over.

Then I've got that dance recital next week—with Amanda in it, no less. Our routine is called "Flamethrower Dance," so it's pretty energetic. We'll see how well _she_ does with all those tricky maneuvers.

Wouldn't you know Amanda is the first person I run into?

"Hi, Melissa." She's using that irritating, bubbly voice—the one she saves for special 'friends.' I want to smash her.

"Hi, Amanda."

"You were great last night. I had no idea you could skate so well."

"Yeah." Is that a bump on Amanda's forehead? Good.

"Let's get some friends together and go back to the skating rink. Maybe you could teach me some new moves."

I say nothing. Amanda keeps talking, ignoring my snub. She's good at ignoring snubs.

"Did you see me wipe out?" she asks. "I was so embarrassed."

I can't stand listening another second. I give her my fiercest glare. "If you want to learn some 'new moves,' why don't you ask Tommy?"

Her mouth flies open, and she stands there like an idiot.

I stalk into Miss Greene's room and plop down at my desk. Chelsea takes her seat in front of me and has the good sense not to say anything. She's the snot who won the spelling contest. Well, at least Tommy 'Player of the Week' Velasco didn't win.

Miss Greene passes out the test papers and I know I'm in for it. Some fat essay questions along with four pages of multiple choice. I stare at the first question:

____ is the imitation of natural sounds with words.

Four possible answers are listed, none of which make the slightest sense to me. I'm about to select one at random when a long, smoky finger appears on my test paper, pointing to answer _C_.

Mr. Penny! I practically jump out of my seat, but everybody is concentrating so much on the test that they don't notice. Miss Greene looks up, then returns to whatever it is she's writing.

Mr. Penny is standing beside me, all dignified looking with one hand behind his back. A finger on the other one points at my test paper. My desk is on an outside row, so nobody is in Mr. Penny's way to get scared.

I read the answer:

C) Onomatopoeia

That sounds like some weird disease, but I mark it anyway. Mr. Penny moves his finger down each page, pointing at answers. They must all be correct because I already know some of them, and he never misses a beat.

When I get to the essay part, Mr. Penny kneels down and speaks the answers softly into my ear with his wonderful, musical voice.

My History final comes after lunch. Much of it is about World War 2—Hitler, the Nazis, all those bloody battles. A lot of the boys gobble up this stuff, but I don't have a good grasp. I keep hoping Mr. Penny will come and help me, but he never does.

21. School Year Ends

Tommy:

School's out, and everything is great. I'm getting more base hits, and my fielding is better than ever. I won the Player of the Week trophy, for real this time. What more could I ask?

Some peace of mind would be nice.

It was wonderful to ditch Mr. Badpenny. Every day I wake up grateful he's not around anymore. Only he _is_ around. Melissa has him, and I don't feel good about that.

I was so mad at her. The shabby way she treated me, her phony change of heart when she saw my equally phony home run. I thought Badpenny would be a good pay back; they deserve each other. Besides, I was desperate to get rid of him and couldn't think of any other way.

Now I feel sorry for Melissa. I've seen her stalking around school with dark circles under her eyes and her hair frazzled. I've seen her old friends shying away. Badpenny is ruining her life, the same way he tried to ruin mine.

That's not entirely true. When Badpenny is around, you pretty much wreck your own life. I'm thinking I'm no better than pond scum. It's getting hard to look at myself in the mirror.

Besides, Melissa could be really dangerous. I can't see Badpenny anymore, but I know he tripped Amanda. Who's going to get hurt next? I must have been crazy to give Melissa such a destructive thing. That's it—I'm innocent by reason of insanity.

What a phony excuse. I _must_ help Melissa.

# Part 5: Showdown

22. Baseball Game Fiasco

With gloomy thoughts squirming in my mind, I sit on the bench Saturday waiting for our baseball game to begin. All the guys are upbeat, as we're playing the Warriors today. Cheery warmth soaks our bench, except for the pool of silence where I sit.

"What's wrong, Tommy?" Quentin asks. "You're not worried about the Warriors, are you? They're the worst team in the Summer League."

"Yeah." Jenkie smirks. "I thought of letting my baby sister handle third base for me, but she'd rather play with her dolls."

I try to join in the kidding, but my mind is elsewhere. I have to approach Melissa somehow and help her get rid of Badpenny. But how can I get through to her? I look out at the crowd and see the answer to my question. I don't have to worry about getting through to Melissa because she's planning to get through to me.

"This game might be tougher than anybody thinks," I say.

"Yeah, right." Quentin socks his glove and shakes his head as if I've just made the world's dumbest statement.

Melissa makes her way to the second row of the bleachers along the third base line. The people already there move aside and give her plenty of room. I know why they did that; she hasn't come alone. A damp chill settles over me.

She looks terrible. Her usually gorgeous hair is frazzled. Even from this distance, I can see her face is a puffy gray, full of anger and unhappiness. I glance away, ashamed.

The whistle blows.

"Come on," Mr. Bloch shouts. "Let's flatten these guys!"

We run out to take our fielding positions, swagger-jogging as if we're some big-shot major league club. We're the hottest team in the Summer League and know it. Our fans, much increased since our victory over the Sluggers, cheer us on.

"Go Jags!" they yell. "Go! Go! Go!"

Quentin takes off his cap and waves to the fans from the royal heights of the pitcher's mound. The first Warrior batter comes to the plate.

Right from the start, things go terribly wrong. Quentin's control is way off. The lead batter knocks a looping fly ball to left center field, an easy out under normal circumstances. Brett moves in, waving off the other fielders, and holds up his glove for the catch. Tony stands nearby for back up.

The ball tips off Brett's glove and lands behind him. He stands there, his mouth gaping open. Tony moves to pick up the ball and slips, falling on his face. Somebody finally gets hold of the ball and flings it toward me.

It's a wild throw, but I manage to snag it. The Warrior runner is barreling toward me... maybe I can still get him out. He slides under my tag, spikes flying amid a cloud of dust.

"Safe!" the umpire yells.

The Warrior gets up and brushes the dirt off his uniform. "Great outfield you've got, like the Three Stooges."

I want to jam the ball down his throat. Instead, I toss it back to Quentin. I'm disgusted with the whole situation.

And so it goes. I feel Badpenny's presence all around, ruining our game. Our batters miss even the most cream-puff pitches or knock idiotic little pop-ups. Our fielders make countless errors while Quentin seems to be pitching in slow motion. Mr. Bloch's face gets longer and longer. He keeps looking toward the parking lot, eager to get in his car and escape.

I'm the only one who doesn't mess up. Mr. Badpenny leaves me alone, for some reason. I hit a single and a double, but the rally immediately dies with the next batter.

The crowd sours on us big time. Insults fly our direction: "Get off the field! ... Go home! ... Those kids can't play."

With Badpenny's help, the Warriors wipe us out 9 to 0. Afterwards, battered and defeated, we sit on our bench, staring into space. Mr. Bloch has already fled, taking the Player of the Week trophy with him.

"I don't know what happened," Roberto says. "It felt like something was holding me back."

"Me too," the others agree.

"Tell me about it," Quentin says. "I just pitched the worst game in history."

A dreadful silence falls upon us. Out on the field, the Warriors finish their victory celebration and pack up to leave. The spectators clear out. They must be wondering what became of the 'Mighty Jaguars.'

"Let's meet at the Belcho Burger," Quentin says. "We need to talk about this."

Everyone mumbles agreement.

I get up. "Sorry, can't make it. I've got something important to take care of."

"Okay, Tommy, whatever."

23. Confrontation

I ride my bike after Melissa. She's walking fast. Anger shimmers around her like a poisoned fog. I catch up, ditch my bike, and cover the last few yards on foot.

"That was a lousy way to act!" I grab her elbow and turn her around. "What have those guys ever done against you?"

She draws back her fist and slugs me in the chest.

"Ow!"

I stumble back. The punch really hurt, but at least I know Mr. Badpenny wasn't behind it. If so, I'd be decked for sure.

I massage my bruised chest, watching Melissa's back as she stomps away. So, the tough and angry routine isn't going to work for me. I try a different approach.

"I'm sorry, Melissa!"

She stops walking and stands motionless, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. I catch up. She turns on me, fists clenched and fury stabbing from her eyes.

"You oughtta be sorry, Tommy! You... you..."

"Go ahead, hit me again if it makes you feel better."

I brace myself for the blow. Instead, Melissa bursts into wild tears. I stand there like the world's biggest jerk, wishing she had slugged me—anything but this terrible crying.

"Melissa, please..."

I take her in my arms. She heaves great racking sobs; hot tears splash onto my forearms. Then, tears are rolling down my own cheeks. We must make a pitiful sight in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Everybody hates me," she says between sobs. "I hate myself."

"I don't hate you."

Fortunately, we're near a little playground. I lead Melissa to a bench, and we sit down together. I place my left arm over her shoulders. She grips my right hand in both of hers tight enough to hurt, but I don't pull away. Some little kids playing on the Jungle Jim look up, then resume their make-believe games. I wish we were only in some make-believe game.

The sun on Melissa's blonde hair is so bright I can scarcely look at it. So, I just close my eyes and hold onto her. We sit this way until the crying passes. When I look up again, the little park is deserted. I glance about uneasily. This is the same place where Badpenny trounced the karate kids.

"He's not around now, is he, Melissa?"

She shakes her head. "He disappeared after the game."

A few more minutes pass before she speaks again in a soft little voice that tears my heart. "Why did you do this to me, Tommy? I really liked you."

"Because I'm an idiot, and because..."

She looks up at me. "Well?"

I gather myself to speak some hard truth. "Because you were so mean. Why did you have to act like that, the spelling contest and everything?"

Melissa wipes the last tears out of her eyes with the palms of her hands. "I don't know, Tommy, I really don't. I've always liked you, ever since we were little. You were so kind and sweet."

This sure is an earful. I feel like the world's biggest jerk again, and the biggest idiot, too. I wish I could grate myself, like a big ugly cheese, right through the mesh of the park bench and disappear.

Melissa settles back against me and sighs. "I've always felt terrible about myself. I guess knocking other people down was supposed to make me feel better. It's so stupid."

What can I say to that?

Melissa moves out of my arms and straightens her clothes. "Like Amanda. She's been such a good friend all these years, and all I can think is everyone likes her more than me, she's better at school than me."

This really strikes home. "I used to feel that way about Quentin. I still do, sometimes."

Melissa moves back under my arm. She feels so right in this position, as if she was designed to fit perfectly.

"There's my brother, too," she says. "He's got so many problems, and all we ever do is fight. Everybody in my family. We're like a bunch of strangers living under the same roof."

Man, she's breaking my heart. I want to pull out a magic wand and erase all her troubles with one wave, but I can't. There is one important thing I can do for her, though.

"You do want to get rid of Mr. Penny, don't you?"

"Yes, Tommy, more than anything. He's way too much for me to handle."

I nod gravely, as if I'm old and wise. "I want to help you get rid of him."

"How can you do that? Pass him on to somebody else?"

"No, no! Some other way."

Her face brightens a little. "What's that, Tommy?"

"I-I don't know yet."

"Oh." She sags back.

"But I have some ideas that might work," I add quickly.

My mind races for something that Melissa can hang onto. A desperate concern for her flares in my heart. She's like a fairy tale princess endangered by some horrible monster, and I will do anything to be her shining knight.

"Well?" she says. "What are these ideas?"

"I don't want to say anything definite right now. We have to get him back into his coin before we can try anything. Can you do that?"

"Let me think..." Melissa strokes her chin. Her mouth tightens and some hardness enters her eyes. "Yeah, maybe I can."

"Good, the sooner the better. When you get him back in coin mode, call me immediately, any time."

"All right, I will."

Melissa settles back, relieved, certain I can fix everything. I feel like a total fraud. How can I possibly free us from Badpenny? Well, there is a way I can get Melissa away from him, at least.

"We'll figure something out," I say. "And if we can't..."

Melissa looks up at me. I feel myself tumbling into her deep blue eyes, as if they are some vast ocean.

"If we can't get rid of him any other way, then I'll take him back myself."

"Really, you'd do that for me?"

I don't hesitate a second. "Yes."

24. Charming Mr. Penny

Melissa:

I flop down on my bed, totally exhausted. More than anything, I want to sleep, but I resist the urge. Instead, I dangle my new pendant from its gold chain and watch it glitter in the street lamp rays shining through my window.

The pendant is a gold coin, about the size of an American penny, inside a metal frame. You can take the frame apart and replace the gold piece, if you want. It wasn't hard to guilt trip Mom into buying it for me. After all, she spent a ton of money on Davis for his new TV.

This has been the most incredible day of my life. First that terrible baseball game, then the meeting with Tommy, then the trip to the jewelry store with Mom. It's like I've packed a whole lifetime into a few hours.

It was so wonderful on that park bench with Tommy, after I managed to stop bawling. Just the two of us snuggled up close and warm, Tommy listening to every word I said as if I were the most important person in the world. Or just sitting together, all quiet and happy.

Not that Tommy didn't talk a lot himself, mostly about Mr. Penny. How's that for being unromantic? Tommy thinks Mr. Penny is a demon or something, and that he's been passed along for many years. He thinks Hitler might have owned Mr. Penny once. How else could the Nazis have conquered so many countries so fast?

This seems like quite a stretch. Boys are good at thinking up stuff about wars and fighting. Then again, Mr. Penny didn't show up for my History final, did he? There were a lot of questions about World War Two and the Nazis. Maybe he didn't want to read anything bad about his old boss.

When I told Tommy about the drill, his eyes lit up, and that was the end of our time on the park bench. He walked me home, then zipped away on his bike. He had "serious thinking" to do.

I'll miss Mr. Penny. I know we have to get rid of him, though, before the rest of my life goes down the drain. Nobody can handle him.

I close my eyes and concentrate hard. _Mr. Penny, please come._

I've never called to him before. Tommy says he appears automatically when he knows you're tempted to cheat at something. Well, I'm trying to cheat Mr. Penny himself now, aren't I?

After a minute, he appears at my window, looking in over the books on the sill. The street light shines right through him. The fact my room is on the second floor doesn't bother him at all.

"Hi, Mr. Penny. Come in."

In a moment he's at my bedside, bowing politely. "You summoned me?"

"Yes, thank you for coming."

He is so charming and polite, with his handsome face turned toward me, that I almost can't go through with my plan. But it has to be done, now or never. I hold up my pendant and dangle it in the dim light.

"That's a beautiful piece of jewelry," Mr. Penny says.

"I thought so, too, at first. Now I'm bored with it."

"Why is that?"

"It's this silly little gold coin. It does nothing for me."

Mr. Penny cocks an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"It's just so boring." I unscrew the frame and remove the coin. "See, it just fits in the frame, there's no hole drilled in it."

At the word "drilled" he flinches a bit.

"Remember when we first met, Mr. Penny? You said you rather liked the idea of being a piece of jewelry."

"Ah... yes, I do recall that."

Is he starting to get suspicious? I pour on all the charm I can.

"Well, I think it would be wonderful if _you_ became my pendant. That way I could always have you with me. It would be so cool! Everybody would be green with envy."

Mr. Penny folds his hands behind his back; a serious expression comes over his face. "I don't know about that, my lady."

"Oh please, Mr. Penny, let's try it... just for one day." I point toward my jewelry box. "You could stay in there tonight, and tomorrow you could travel about around my neck. I'd be so proud."

That gets to him. He straightens up and strokes his face with one hand, preening himself like a rooster. He looks at himself in my big wall mirror and adjusts his tie. I've never seen a guy yet who couldn't be swayed by a pretty girl. And I've got what it takes, if I do say so myself.

"Very well, my lady. We'll try it—but just for one day."

He spins into a mini tornado, blowing papers around my room and tearing my Elvis poster off the wall. When the tornado stops, the two-headed coin lies gleaming on the floor. It looks so harmless nestled in the thick carpet.

25. Fateful Telephone Call

The coin fits perfect in the little gold frame. I open my jewelry box and place the pendant on the top shelf with my best stuff. The penny shines with its own soft glow. A terrible sadness comes over me.

_Don't start crying again, Melissa_.

I slip out into the hall. Dad is gone again. Mom's bedroom is quiet, and no light comes from under the door. I head downstairs and enter the dim study, moving behind Davis' chair.

He's studying a math book under the glare of a single floor lamp. With his free hand, he scoops potato chips from a bowl. In front of him, the TV plays some stupid deodorant commercial.

I place a hand on his left shoulder. He jerks his head around, throwing me an irritated glance. I keep my hand where it is and smile at him; my eyes are full of sadness, though. He turns back to his book.

Just as I'm just about to leave, Davis reaches up his hand and places it on top of mine, holding it there a few seconds. I want to stay and talk, but that will have to wait until my business with Tommy is finished. I leave the room and head for the telephone in the den. Tommy answers on the first ring.

He sounds very nervous. "You got him back in the coin?"

"Yeah, on my necklace. He agreed to stay there a whole day."

"You seem really down, Melissa. Do you feel in any danger?"

"I'm okay, don't worry."

A long pause.

"I've got a plan," Tommy says.

"What?"

Another pause.

"It's better if you don't know too much. He might be able to read your mind."

I feel so tired. Why can't I drop off to sleep and wake up tomorrow with the whole world perfect?

"All right. What should I do?"

"Be at the Speedy Mart tomorrow morning at 10:15, exactly. Bring the coin."

"Sure, Tommy."

"Be careful. Think only about happy, simple things. Don't give him an excuse to come out of the coin."

"Okay."

I return to my room. Finally, I get to crawl in bed and stretch out under the covers. Across the darkness, a little glow peaks through the edge of my jewelry box. I turn away from it.

Let me see... what's a happy thought?

Well, there's this boy I'm absolutely crazy about, but he'll probably go for Amanda. She's much more his type. Then there's my screwed-up family and the coming divorce. It might be here already. I've talked with friends whose families have broken up, so I know the warning signs. We have them all.

A door swings open in my mind; behind it lies terrifying darkness. I quickly slam it shut. Then, from out of my earliest memories, a happy thought bubbles up, like a dear old friend coming to visit.

In my mind, I'm four years old again, back when we lived at our old apartment. It must have just finished snowing because the sidewalks are mostly still covered. Dad is pulling me on a sled down the block. Just me and my dad, nobody else to steal attention from me.

The sky is a tremendous, fresh blue. I hold on tight, bursting with excitement. The cold air stings tears from my eyes. We're going so fast! Dad runs on ahead, pulling the line in one gloved hand, a dark blue knitted cap on his head. Now and then we hit a cleared section of sidewalk, but we keep going, scraping right over the bare cement.

I ride that sled until I drop off to sleep, wishing I was still gliding along in that time before the big house, the money, and all the trouble.

26. Fond Farewell

The next day, I'm at the Speedy Mart exactly 10:15, but Tommy is nowhere around.

Oh well, boys.

I feel relieved, actually. The longer I walk around with Mr. Penny hanging from my neck, the less I want to get rid of him. Oops! I'm thinking about the mysterious plan again. Time for some happy thoughts.

I walk to the cooler and stare at the bottles of pop. They shine back orange, red, and brown. I'm fresh out of happy thoughts, so I try to fill my mind with colors, instead. I reach in for a bottle of Bomb Cola.

"Oh, Miss," the lady at the counter says. "Are you Melissa Jordanek?"

"Yes, why?"

She holds up a little envelope. "A young man left this for you."

All thoughts of Bomb Cola disappear from my mind. I walk to the counter and take the envelope from her carefully.

"Thank you."

It has an odd feel, as if the words in it are so important they have actual weight—like an announcement of your best friend's funeral. I tear open the envelope.

Wait for me at the railroad crossing. – Tommy

That's clear enough. I leave the store and turn left toward the railroad tracks a couple of blocks away.

It's a bright June morning, rather hot already. I'm wearing a sweatshirt, though, and under that a heavy T-shirt. Even so, the pendant resting on top all this material tingles and thrills my skin. It shines so much I have to wear sunglasses and squint.

I walk past the little two-story apartment building, past the library across the street. The Knights of Columbus banquet hall appears on my left, then retreats. The landscape seems to be moving instead of me, everything rolling past on a big conveyor belt while I shuffle in place.

My mind is drifting away. The pendant becomes heavier and more tingly. It tries to force itself into my brain and push out everything else.

The railroad crossing is just ahead, moving toward me, and beyond it is the high school. I'll be going there soon enough, unless I get sent to that boarding school in Virginia when Mom and Dad break up. I try to think about the horses there.

Mom and the Admissions lady stayed behind while I walked alone down the aisle in the barn. On either side, massive heads poked out from the stalls. I paused and stroked one of the beautiful horse faces with its huge brown eyes, so kind and intelligent. I offered a carrot, and...

Clang! Clang! Runga-Runga! Clang! Clang!

I look around, startled. I'm standing on the sidewalk near the railroad tracks. On my left, a drainage ditch choked with weedy bushes gives off a rotten smell. A train is coming, and the barrier with its clanging bell and flashing red light has lowered over the street to my right.

What am I doing here?

I'm waiting for Tommy, but he hasn't shown up... that's because he's off with Amanda. Yeah, they're out roller skating, or else snuggled on a park bench someplace.

I'm such a fool!

I turn around to leave. But then Tommy is suddenly here, climbing out of the ditch where he's been hiding in the bushes. Heavy winter gloves cover his hands.

"Tommy! W-what?"

He comes at me with this wild look in his eyes. I try to back away, but he reaches out a gloved hand and grabs my pendant. With a sharp tug he snaps the chain.

"Ow!"

I feel suddenly empty, as if somebody has ripped my heart out. Tommy runs to the railroad track and sets my pendant on a rail, right in the path of the oncoming train. He comes back toward me.

"Hey, you can't do that!" I bolt toward the track, desperate to rescue my pendant.

Tommy grabs me and we struggle on the sidewalk until we tumble into the ditch. My sun glasses go flying. Cold, filthy water soaks into my clothes and hair; I gag on the rotten stink.

"Let me go!"

Runga-Runga-Runga-Runga!

The train is almost here.

"Tommy!"

The ground shakes.

Whaaaaah!

The engine blasts its horn. Tommy looks up the slope at the rolling monster. He lets go of me and starts scrambling toward the tracks. He means to take the pendant for himself.

"No you don't!"

I grab his legs and pull him down onto the loose stones of the railroad bed. He strains forward, trying to reach the coin. I can't allow that. Nobody can have it, especially not Tommy. Especially not me!

I can barely hold on. Tommy is so much stronger. He kicks violently; his hand stretches toward the coin, just inches away now.

"Tommy! Stop!"

A whirling tornado rises from the coin; it tries to hypnotize me. I shut my eyes tight against it and pull back on Tommy with my last ounce of strength.

Whaaaaah!

The horn blasts, and I scream along with it. The flashing red light throbs through my eyelids. The train is on us with all its roaring power. The whole world becomes a thundering horror—going on and on, carrying us away.

27. Liberation

The horrible train passes like a gigantic bellowing dragon, shaking the earth. All is quiet at last. I lie sprawled face down on the stones, dreading what I might see if I open my eyes.

Yet, the world seems oddly calm and comfortable. Why can't I seep through these stones and go back to the time of winter sleds? Foot steps approach, and I open my eyes. Tommy has rolled down the slope and is moaning quietly. I scramble down to him and make a desperate examination.

Please let him still have all his body parts!

Except for a few scrapes, he's okay. A blast of pure joy strikes me. I glance up to see a dark mist hovering over the track. Evil and hatred radiate off it, like heat from a burning trash pile. A breeze comes and breaks it apart into nothing. In that instant, a crushing weight lifts off my spirit.

"What's going on?" someone says. "Are you all right?"

A small group of people has gathered around us. A woman is on her knees beside me, a worried frown on her face. Cars stand in the street with their doors open.

Oh, don't let anybody I know be in this crowd.

Then I realize how totally unimportant such a thought is. Who cares? All my life, I've worried about impressing others; it's time to put myself first. I stand and brush my clothes off.

"Yes, I'm fine."

I look down at the reeking mess that used to be my sweatshirt. I yank if off and toss it into the ditch.

Then I laugh. "I've never felt better in my life."

The woman gives me a strange look, as if she's found a space alien flopped beside the railroad track. People are shaking their heads and walking back toward their cars. Tommy gets up and moves next to me.

I place an arm around his waist. "My friend is okay, too. Thanks for asking."

"All right," the lady says. "Try to be more careful, both of you."

She walks back to her car and drives away. The little traffic jam at the crossing clears, and we are alone.

"What happened?" Tommy asks in a groggy voice.

He is dazed and shaky, but I hold onto his waist tight. Pressed together like this, we fit perfectly.

"What happened? Just the greatest thing in our lives."

"He's... gone?"

"Yes, he is, Tommy. Gone but never to be forgotten."

I pull his gloves off and toss them aside. Then I take his hand and lead him up to the sidewalk. He's still a bit wobbly, but I simply must get away from that terrible railroad track.

We begin walking toward the Speedy Mart.

"I remember fighting with you in the mud," Tommy says, "Then everything kind of went black."

"You did great."

"Really?" Tommy looks sheepish. "I thought I was going to rescue you, but it looks like it was you who rescued me."

"That's how it was. We took care of each other."

We walk silently hand in hand, our fingers all mixed together. This is even better than the park bench. Warm sunshine evaporates the ditch water that covers me like a filthy cologne.

Oh, my hair!

Will it ever be clean again? I hate for Tommy to see me like this. And my clothes! I can't wait to get home and throw them in the washing machine, or maybe the trash can.

Not that Tommy looks all that great, either, with his clothes all muddy and scrapes on his face. He's plenty good enough for me, though. When we reach the alley behind the Speedy Mart, I pull him off the sidewalk and give him the biggest, most loving kiss I can.

I draw away. Tommy looks overwhelmed, as if somebody has smacked him. His body seems about to melt. I want to kiss him again, but decide against it. This is just enough to let him know that any other girls he might come across are simply _not_ in my league.

"Look Tommy. My dance recital is this Friday night, and I'd really like you to come. There's a party at my house afterwards, too."

"Sure, I'll be there."

He is still off in the clouds somewhere, trying to figure out what's happening to him. Good.

The light changes at the intersection, and I trot across the street. When I get to the other side, I turn and wave. Tommy waves back; his old, wonderful smile spreads across his face. I start running.

Without Mr. Penny weighing me down, I am light and fast, and oh so wicked. I can't wait until Friday to see Tommy again. Of course, he'll certainly call me before then, or maybe I should call him first.

Unfortunately, Amanda will be in the recital, too, and she's already invited to my party. Well, I can't do anything about that now. For an instant, I almost wish that Mr. Penny was still around, but I quickly abandon that idea.

We'll see who Tommy goes for.

Epilog

We never saw Mr. Penny again. I'm happy about that because he was such a dangerous person.

Still, sometimes late at night, I can't help wishing he was back just one more time to help me with something. Oh well, that's the way things are. You can't have your cake and eat it, too—whatever that's supposed to mean.

So, what eventually happened between me and Tommy? That's another long story.

Melissa Jordanek

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other books for young readers. They are available at all major online retailers in ebook format. Also, please check my Smashwords author page and Goodreads author profile

The Lost Country

Crown Prince Rupert struggles against ignorance and superstition to rally his countrymen against a dire threat coming from the mysterious Eastlands. When disaster finally strikes, it's up to Rupert and his band of often questionable allies to win through or face destruction of his kingdom and everything he holds dear.

Young adult action / adventure fantasy

Captive in Terror Orchard

Book 1 of the _Terror Orchard series_

To the authorities, Billy Conner is just a rebellious and defiant juvenile delinquent. To his foster parents, he's a pawn in a fiendish drug plot. He's much more than anyone realizes, though – he'd better be, or the consequences will be unspeakable. Assisted by unlikely allies, one of them literally "dug up" from the orange orchard, Billy struggles for his freedom and for the lives of countless other potential victims.

light horror / action adventure

The Bulb People

Sequel to _Captive in Terror Orchard_

Book 2 of the _Terror Orchard series_

What's going on in the awful little town of Bridgestock? Why did the English teacher's husband race his truck down the streets screaming his head off, and why are people vanishing? Of course, only nasty types have disappeared so far, but that could change at any time.

Ryan Keppen, a 13-year-old newcomer, must tackle these mysteries, along with the issue of his "happy blended family" which he desperately wants to disappear as well. Maybe everything is related, and one problem can help solve another.

light horror / action adventure / humor

Disaster Productions

Matt's struggle to win media fame by his 14th birthday leads to escalating disasters. Matt knows that he is too much of an impractical dreamer achieve this goal on his own. He needs help from a smart collaborator. Enter manipulative genius and borderline frenemy Stephan "Duals" Chrono.

The resulting power struggles and unexpected consequences drive the story. Throughout the chaos, Matt develops the focus and leadership skills necessary for true success and, incidentally, does become famous in a totally unpredictable way.

humor / satire

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

A Hurricane in Your Suitcase

Brett's constant lying is getting him into serious trouble. Can big brother Joe stop admiring himself long enough to help turn things around? A strange mixture of cautionary tales leads to a showdown with the Giant Hill.

Children's humor / satire

The Daring Rooftop Rescue

"Coming up in the world" can bring unexpected problems as Johnny Badger learns the hard way. Despite his new-found wealth, Johnny is no match for the complicated political situation in Forest Towne. His own bumbling arrogance adds to his woes.

Children's humor / satire

TIME BEFORE COLOR TV SERIES

Follow the adventures of Amanda Searles and her friends as they make astonishing discoveries, invent new stuff, and generally save the world. Based in 1950's USA, they branch out into strange realms of the wider universe to set things right. It's all in a day's work.

Middle grade – Young Adult humor / adventure / fantasy

How Raspberry Jam got Invented

Book 1 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The last summer picnic turns into an astonishing disaster! Melissa's snotty arrogance involves the friends in a situation they may not survive, but maybe they will.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The First Ring Rainbow

Book 2 of the _Time before Color TV series_

1950's cold war tension at it's scariest. Anything can happen during the Atomic Summer. Amanda struggles to deal with the era's sexist restraints, her fugitive Russian communist grandparents, and the appearance of a bizarre creature at Secret Pond. Somehow, everything ties together.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

Adventure Bike Club& the Tire Giant

Book 3 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The huge tire on the freeway outside town is not an advertisement, as people think, but a vessel from another universe on a sinister mission. Can Amanda and her friends make it back out alive? The fate of the world might hinge on the outcome. Not only that, but the town mayor stands to lose a fair amount of money.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The Great Flying Adventure

Book 4 of the _Time before Color TV series_

Amanda and Quentin fly to an alien universe where Quentin competes in a brutal sports tournament to determine the fate of the Earth and of human civilization. Amanda falls for the enemy team captain, and things become terribly complicated.

Tween humor / adventure / fantasy

