SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) (6 page)

“Look,” Dad said. “Marty died and that’s horrible but it doesn’t mean we should keep Tucker from playing. Things happen. Heck, he could get hit by a bus tomorrow.”

“I hate that saying,” Mom groused.

“But it’s true,” Dad pressed. “People have to live their lives and do the things that make them happy. We’ve got to remember that.”

That seemed like an overly philosophical argument for such a simple issue but Dad was on a roll so I didn’t point it out.

“We moved here to make a better life,” Mom argued. “A safer life. You know that as well as I do.”

“I do,” Dad said. “But we still have to be who we are. If we can’t do that, then why are we here?”

The argument had gone from philosophical straight into weird.

“What was so unsafe about our lives before?” I asked. “I thought you just got fired and wanted a change.”

Mom and Dad exchanged looks and fell silent. It was like they had said too much and regretted it.

“Am I missing something?” I added.

“No,” Mom said, now calm. “I’m just…worried.”

“Jeez, Mom, it’s just football. It’s not like I’m going to war.”

That ended the argument. They both backed off without reaching a decision, which meant I was still cleared to play. But I was left with an uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with football. The idea that we had come to Pemberwick Island to get away from a life that was somehow unsafe was something I’d never imagined. It had an ominous ring, but I didn’t press the issue. I thought it best to leave well enough alone. I was still on the team and for that I was grateful….

Until the following Monday when practice began again.

Putting it simply, I got my brains beaten in.

“Pierce!” Coach screamed. “Don’t save it for the prom!”

Coach was full of colorful sayings that made little sense but got the point across. Up until then I had been flying under the radar as a glorified tackling dummy. Now I was the starting tailback trying to fill the shoes of an all-star. I felt like a little kid playing with the big boys—because that’s exactly what I was. And the big boys wanted to hurt me.

“Rip, knock-six on two,” our QB called in the huddle.

It was an off-tackle handoff to me. The same play that Marty ran for a touchdown. His last. We came up to the line, got set, the quarterback barked, “Go!” and I launched forward. It was a perfect handoff, right into my gut. I wrapped my arms around the ball, kept my head up, and charged ahead. Running through the hole, I planted and cut for the sidelines. I was ready to turn on the afterburners when I got hit so hard I saw colors. The next thing I knew I was on the ground with Kent Berringer looking down at me through his face mask.

“Olivia’s here to watch you get your ass kicked,” he said with a smile.

I hated hearing that, which was probably why he told me. I staggered to my feet and trotted back to the huddle. A quick glance to the sideline showed Olivia standing there wearing white short-shorts and a blue halter top. She gave me a wave and a sympathetic smile. Swell. I had an audience for my undoing.

“Quit fiddle-farting around, Pierce!” Coach shouted. “Stick your shoulders in there and keep your legs pumping.”

Shoulders…pumping…farting. Got it.

It was a trial by fire and I was getting burned. Kent had the
defense all riled up and raring to get out their frustrations—on me. I didn’t get any sympathy from the offense, either. They had lost their captain and all they had to replace him was an inexperienced freshman. I wanted to believe they were making an effort to block for me, but it sure seemed as though I was taking an above-average pounding.

Mercifully, practice came to an end before I was knocked unconscious. Coach gathered us together to congratulate us on a good workout and to let us know we’d be playing the rest of the season in honor of Marty. That brought on a big cheer.

“We were dealt a bad hand,” he said. “But we’ll do the best we can with it.”

I wasn’t sure if the bad hand was because Marty had died or because they were stuck with a pathetic running back to replace him. Probably both.

As we left the field, none of the players acknowledged the fact that I had so valiantly withstood a brutal pounding. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Rooks didn’t get respect, no matter what the circumstances.

Olivia was already gone. Just as well. Neither of us would have known what to say.

When I got home I was exhausted, and sore, and embarrassed, and I had homework, and, and, and—the whole situation had me ready to explode. So after dinner I got out of the house and went for a walk to clear my head. I didn’t want to go anywhere near downtown for fear I’d run into some football fan who would remind me of how inadequate I was. Instead I headed for the beach. One of the great things about living on an island is that you’re never far from the water.

The sun cast a warm red glow on the ocean and lit up a ribbon of thin clouds that stretched across the horizon for as far as I could see. I had gone there to clear my head, but looking out over the ocean reminded me of the exploding shadow. By now over a week had gone by and no information had come out about what it was. There was a short article in the local paper that talked about “two local boys” who witnessed the strange event, but that was it. All week the paper had been filled with articles about Marty. Nobody cared about what Quinn and I had seen.

We had both gotten phone calls from the Coast Guard and were asked to repeat the story, but they didn’t have any more information to offer back. It was the same as Sheriff Laska had said on the night of the explosion: No boats or planes were reported missing. It was beginning to look as though Dad was right. The military might have been performing some secret tests.

Either that, or Quinn and I had been hallucinating.

I sat down in the cool sand to stare out at the ocean…and the mainland far in the distance. It seemed so far away, as if it were another world. In many ways, it was.

In spite of the recent disturbing events, I liked living on Pemberwick. The islanders who lived here year-round were pretty cool. I guess you’d call it a neighborly place where everybody knew most everybody else. Most of the men worked on fishing or lobster boats. That’s what Pemberwick was all about. That and tourism. The summer crowds brought in the big bucks, which supported the people who owned the inns or worked the ferries or clerked in the shops or did any one of the other thousand jobs that kept the island humming with summer fun. Quinn and I had even pulled
traps on a lobster boat that past summer. It was tough work, but we learned a lot about boats and the sea. It was a pretty simple life—and there wasn’t much chance of getting cast aside like they did to my dad back in Greenwich when some corporation needed to cut expenses to increase profits. That world scared me. Pemberwick, on the other hand, made sense. It was safe. I could see myself living here for a good long time. Who needed the real world?

Those few short minutes on the beach had me totally relaxed and feeling good for the first time in over a week. It was a welcome vacation that I wish could have lasted a lot longer than it did.

“Hey! Tucker Pierce?”

A man’s voice was calling to me from the road. I was afraid it might be an armchair quarterback from town who wanted to tell me how I’d never fill Marty’s shoes. I debated sprinting down the beach to escape, but after the practice I’d been through, my legs felt like lead.

“Is that you?” the guy asked.

He was coming closer. No way I could duck this.

“Nope,” I called over my shoulder. “Don’t know anybody by that name.”

The guy laughed and walked up behind me.

“I don’t blame you, man. You’ve had a hell of a day.”

Finally! Somebody who understood what I was going through. I turned to see who this sympathetic stranger could be—and came face to face with the surfer dude from the game. And the funeral. He was trudging through the sand wearing sunglasses and a big friendly smile.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He held out his hand to shake. “Ken Feit,” he said with authority. “Good to meet you, Tucker.”

I tentatively shook his hand. His grip was strong and confident.

“I’ve seen you around,” I said. “What’s your deal?”

Feit laughed. “No deal. I’m on vacation. Been kicking around for a couple of weeks. The surf’s been outstanding along the East Coast so I’ve been working my way north from South Carolina, chasing waves.”

It sounded like the kind of life I wanted to lead.

Feit added, “It’s been great but I’ve got to get back to reality soon.”

“What’s with the note-taking?” I asked.

Feit pulled his small journal from the front pocket of his hoodie.

“This?” He shrugged and said, “I guess you’d call this a working vacation. I heard about Marty Wiggins and wanted to see him play. So tragic.”

“Are you a college scout?”

“Nah. I work for a company that makes nutritional supplements. You know, ergogenic aids.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Feit laughed again. He laughed easily.

“It’s not as complicated as it sounds. We manufacture nutritional substances to help athletes improve their performance.”

“You mean like steroids?”

“No! It’s all natural. We’ve got a new product that I’ve been testing and I thought of giving a sample to Marty but, well, I never got the chance.”

“That’s why you were at the game?”

“Yeah. Whenever I come across a serious athlete, I offer them a sample. It’s the best PR possible because the results are incredible.”

“What does it do?” I asked.

“Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”

The guy seemed harmless so I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a walk. I took a step and stumbled a bit.

“Whoa, you sore?” he asked.

“I had a bad practice.”

“Dude, that wasn’t bad. It was brutal.”

“You were there?”

Feit shrugged. “I told you, I’m always looking for serious athletes.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been watching me.”

“C’mon,” he said with a charming smile. “Let’s walk.”

I had to work to keep up. His idea of walking and mine were two different things. His was closer to a jog than a stroll. He looked to be in his thirties and in decent shape. I was half his age and in football shape, but my legs were still heavy from practice. At least that’s what I told myself. I didn’t want to admit that an old guy had more stamina than me.

“Check this out,” he said, reaching into the front pocket of his hoodie.

He pulled out a clear plastic medicine bottle that was filled with brilliant red crystals.

“This is what my company makes. We call it the Ruby, for obvious reasons.”

I took the bottle and held it up to the dying light to get a closer look.

“Looks like chunks of quartz,” I observed.

“It’s mostly sea salts. We’ve been experimenting with the stuff for years and I think we’ve finally hit the right formula. It’s all about helping an athlete’s metabolism function more efficiently, which dramatically improves performance.”

“How?” I asked.

Feit laughed. Again. I wasn’t sure if he found everything funny or if it was a put-on to make him seem like a friendly guy.

“You’d have to ask our research team about that. I just promote the stuff. But I guarantee you, once this hits the market, it’s going to revolutionize sports and athletic training.”

He took the bottle back and twisted off the cap. “Here,” he said. “Give it a try.”

“Whoa, no. I don’t think so.”

“It’s totally safe, Tucker,” he assured me. “It’s basically salt. Some sugars too.”

“And it’s not illegal?”

“How can it be illegal? Nobody even knows it exists.”

“I don’t know…”

“I saw you play today, if that’s what you call it. Do you want to repeat that performance again tomorrow? Or in a game?”

I didn’t have to answer that.

“Here,” he said, grabbing my hand.

He tapped a few tiny crystals into my open palm.

“That’s, like…nothing,” he said. “Let it dissolve in your mouth.”

I stared at the red crystals. They were almost pretty.

“I don’t even like taking aspirin,” I said.

Feit laughed.

“Why is that funny?” I asked.

“Look, it’s an absolutely harmless natural salt. I’ll prove it to you.”

He tapped a much larger portion into his hand, screwed the cap back on the bottle, and jammed it into his pocket.

“If it was dangerous, would I do this?” he said and licked the crystals from the palm of his hand. He then licked his lips, and smiled. “Tasty too.”

I watched the cocky guy closely, not sure of what to expect.

“Yeah, so?” I said.

“Race you to the lifeguard tower,” he said with a smile.

“No way. I’m too sore.”

“Or maybe you’re afraid to get beat by an old man.”

He took off his sunglasses and gave me a wink and a smile. He then took off running faster than I thought was humanly possible. He blasted along the shore, digging through the soft sand like he was on turf.

I stood there staring, stunned. The lifeguard tower was at least a hundred yards away and he was there within seconds. How could that be? Was he really that fast? Or was it the Ruby?

I examined the crystals in my hand. It was salt. From the sea. What harm could it do? I was torn between fear and curiosity. I raised my hand and took a closer look, as if I could possibly unlock the secret of the stuff by staring at it.

I may have been looking at the crystals, but what I was seeing was Kent Berringer’s smug smile as he stared down at me through his face mask after nearly knocking me cold. I didn’t ever want to see that again.

I licked the rough crystals off my palm.

They were sweet in more ways than one. An instant wave of warm energy flowed through my body. Through my veins. My legs no longer felt heavy. Miraculously, impossibly, the soreness was gone. Everything snapped into focus as my senses perked up. The sunset seemed redder, the surf sounds louder, and the smell of the ocean more distinct. I didn’t question what was happening. It felt right and I knew there was only one thing I could do.

Run.