The Rivers of Zadaa (19 page)

Courtney and Whitney started spending much of their free time together. He even got her into one of his soccer games. As reluctant as Courtney was at first, she found that she actually had fun. It was the first time she had fun playing soccer since she was in grade school. There was no pressure, no drive to win at all costs, just the pure joy of doing something she loved. For Courtney, Whitney was giving her an incredible gift. He was teaching her how to be herself again.

She thought it ironic that what brought them together was the near miss by the mysterious black sedan. A few times when she and Whitney walked past the parked car, Courtney made sure that Whitney didn't see it. She didn't want him to try and convince her to report the driver. With only a few weeks left of summer school, she didn't want to deal with the police over something that was probably an accident. Accidents happened. So did near accidents.

She continued to catch glimpses of the dark car from the corner of her eye, but she no longer cared. There were no more near misses. The thought did occur to her that maybe the reason for that was because she was always with Whitney. If somebody was targeting her, they'd have to target both of them. They didn't. Whitney was like her protector. But Courtney didn't want to think of it that way. She didn't want to believe that somebody was out there lying in wait to “get” her. She didn't want to let anything stand in the way of having fun with Whitney, and the absolute, total joy of becoming Courtney again.

“Big night tonight,” Whitney exclaimed as he met Courtney one day after her literature class.

“What's going on?” she asked. Courtney thought that Whitney seemed a little nervous.

“Well, uh, a bunch of us are going into town,” he said. “Technically, we're not supposed to leave campus. But we're all feeling a little caged in, and we thought it would be cool to hit this place called the ‘Pizza Palace.' It's supposed to be decent. Do, uh, do you want to come?”

“Whitney!” Courtney teased. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Uh, well, yeah, I guess I am,” Whitney said nervously.

Courtney smiled. She realized that Whitney was nervous because he had never actually, officially asked her out. Up until this point, all they had done was hang out as friends. They might as well have been two guys, or two girls. But this was different. This was a girl/guy thing. There could potentially be kissing involved. Courtney wanted to go in a bad way.

“What time?” she asked.

Whitney looked visibly relieved. “Six o'clock,” he said. “A friend of mine has a car. We'll pick you up.”

Courtney's shoulders fell. “I've got art class until seven,” she said.

“Ditch!” Whitney said.

“I can't. There's a guest artist coming, and it's a pretty big deal. But I can meet you later. Town is what? Two, three miles away? I can ride my bike after class. It'll still be light. Then we'll put the bike in the trunk of the car on the way back.”

“Awesome,” Whitney said. “The place is called—”

“I know, the Pizza Palace,” Courtney interrupted. “You just told me.”

“Oh, right.” Whitney laughed. “You can't miss it. There's only one pizza place in that dinky town.”

“Can't wait,” Courtney said. She meant it. She was so excited, she wanted to dance. Or sing. But since doing either would be totally out of character and uncool, she did the next best thing.

She called Mark.

 

Mark Dimond was busy at work. He was engraving a huge, silver cup for a local boating race, and he was so nervous about it, his hands were shaking. In the engraving biz, shaky hands were not a good thing. Mostly he engraved brass plates that went on plaques and trophies. If he messed one up, no big deal. The plates were cheap. But this silver cup was worth more than he was going to earn all summer. One slip and he'd have to change his name and move to another state. Mark's palms were sweating. He was about to touch the cutting edge of the engraving tool to the silver surface…when the cell phone in his pocket rang.

The surprise made him jump. Luckily he hadn't started engraving yet. If the call had come a second later, there would have been a deep gouge slashed across the Stony Brook Yacht Club logo. He took a deep, relieved breath, then wondered why there was an electronic waltz coming from his pants. Mark never got calls on his cell phone. He only had it for emergencies and to tell the time. Incoming calls were an alien experience. The phone had to ring again before he realized what it was. He dug the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It's Courtney.”

“C-Courtney?” The surprise of hearing Courtney's voice was even greater than the surprise of having the cell phone ring at all. “Chetwynde?”

“Well, duh. How many Courtney's do you know who have your cell number?” Courtney asked, laughing.

“Man, it's good to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“I'm at school in the Berkshires. A place called Stansfield. I've been here for about a month.”

Mark said, “Right! Summer school! That sounds like, well, something
I'd
do.” They both laughed.

“Actually, it's pretty sweet,” Courtney said. “I'm only taking three courses, and one of 'em is art. Algebra-trig is a drag, though.”

“You're taking algebra-trig?” Mark laughed. “Need some help?”

“Yes!” Courtney said quickly, laughing. Mark laughed too. It felt good.

“So, uh, how are you?” Mark asked tentatively. It was a simple question. Both knew how far-reaching it was.

“I'm okay. Seriously. That's why I'm calling. We've got a ton to talk about, but not till I see you again. I just wanted to tell you that coming up here has been great. I'm really getting my head back together.”

“I'm really glad to hear that, Courtney.”

“I haven't been thinking too much about, you know, stuff. And that's good.”

Mark didn't respond. He knew what she meant.

“This is kind of weird to say,” Courtney continued. “But I met somebody.”

“Of course you did,” Mark said. “I didn't think you were there alone.”

Courtney chuckled. “No, dope. I'm talking about a guy.”

“Oh,” Mark said. “You mean like, a guy?”

“Yeah, a guy. His name's Whitney.”

“Whitney? That sounds like a bad soap-opera name.”

Courtney laughed. “It's worse. His name is Whitney Wilcox.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Unfortunately, no. But he's cool. We've, uh, we've got a date tonight. I'm riding to meet him for pizza.”

Mark wasn't sure of how to react. It was weird to hear that Courtney liked somebody other than Bobby, but after reading that Bobby had feelings for Loor, maybe it was all for the best. Of course, he couldn't tell Courtney that, for all sorts of reasons.

Courtney said, “I wanted to tell you about him. I'm not really sure why.”

“I'm glad you did,” Mark said.

There was a long pause, then Courtney said, “Do you hate me?”

“Hate you? No! No way!” he said quickly. “I think it's great you met a guy.”

“Not just that,” Courtney said. “About…everything.”

“I don't hate you, Courtney,” Mark said. “C'mon. Give me a break.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! There's a lot going on. We've got to do what we've got to do.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear you say that.” There was another long pause, and then Courtney said, “I'm sorry for taking off on you. That wasn't cool.”

“It's okay. I'm okay.”

“Still, I'm not proud of myself. But if you saw the shape I was in, you'd know I did the right thing.”

“I already know it,” Mark said. “I can tell by your voice. I can't wait to talk to you in person.”

Mark knew a question was out there that hadn't been asked. He really hoped she wouldn't ask it.

She did.

“So, uh, has anything—”

“No,” Mark said quickly. He knew she was going to ask if Bobby had sent a new journal. He didn't want to tell her. If she was working hard to put her head on straight, the last thing she needed to hear was that Bobby was about to step into the middle of a tribal war and had fallen in love with Loor—even if she did meet a new guy. He knew he'd eventually have to spill the news, but this wasn't the time.

“N-Nothing new,” Mark added, and winced, wishing he had stopped at “no.” He felt sure Courtney would pick up on his nervous stutter.

“Oh, okay,” Courtney said.

Mark sensed her hesitation. There was something in the way she said it that made him realize, she knew.

“When are you coming home?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“In a couple of weeks. We'll talk then, okay?”

“I can't wait to see you,” Mark said, relieved that she didn't press him about the journals.

“I miss you, Mark. Even though you're a dork and all.”

“Gee, thanks,” Mark said, laughing.

“We'll get some fries at Garden Poultry and catch up, okay?”

“It's a date. Bye, Courtney. Take care of yourself.”

“Later, gator!”

The phone went dead. Mark smiled. “Later, gator?” He thought Courtney sounded great. And happy. Just like the old Courtney. As weird as it was to think that she liked somebody besides Bobby, this new guy seemed to be helping her heal. That was a good thing. He hated having to carry the weight of Bobby's journals on his own, but if it meant getting Courtney better, it was worth it. He flipped the phone shut and jammed it back into his pocket with the feeling that things were definitely looking up. Now if he could only tackle this stupid silver bowl.

His phone rang again.

What was going on? Why was he suddenly so popular? He dug the phone back out and flipped it open, saying, “Courtney?”

“Courtney?” the deep guy-voice mimicked. “Do I sound like a Courtney?”

“Mitchell?” Mark asked in disbelief. “How did you get this number?”

“Who cares? From Sci-Clops. We're both members, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. What do you want?”

“I'm in trouble, Dimond,” Mitchell said. “I need your help. Now.”

Mrs. Dimond, Mark's mother,
gave Mark a ride to a lonely, country lane in Stony Brook that Mark knew well. It used to be part of his paper route. There, at the corner of Riversville Road and Carroll Street, they found what they were looking for. It was a beat-up, seventies-looking station wagon with fake wood paneling. Leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette, was Andy Mitchell. When he saw the Dimonds' car approach, he quickly stubbed out the smoke.

Mrs. Dimond stared at Mitchell like he was a walking disease and said to Mark, “Are you sure you're going to be okay?” To her, this guy looked like bad news. Mrs. Dimond was a smart lady.

“Yeah, he's a friend. He's in Sci-Clops,” Mark said.

“That hoodlum is in Sci-Clops?” Mrs. Dimond asked incredulously.

“Believe it or not,” Mark answered with a smile. “Thanks, Mom. He'll give me a ride home.”

Mark got out of the car, opened the rear door, and pulled out a full can of gasoline. Andy's big problem was that he had run out of gas.

“Thanks, lady!” Andy called, sounding as polite as could be.

“You saved my life.”

Mrs. Dimond waved and smiled, then turned the wheel and drove off, but not before giving Mark a final, concerned look that said: “Are you sure about this?” Mark waved as if to say, “Don't worry.”

“Thanks, Dimond,” Mitchell said as he took the gas can from Mark. “Really. Thanks.”

It sounded to Mark as if he meant it too. Mitchell went to the rear of his beater and started funneling the gas into the tank.

“How could you run out of gas?” Mark asked.

“The gauge is busted,” Mitchell said. “Whenever I fill it up, I zero out the trip odometer to tell me how many miles I go so I know when to fill up again.”

“So what happened?”

“The trip odometer's busted too. Piece of garbage car.”

Mark had to keep himself from laughing. Mitchell truly was an idiot.

“I got this call to make a real important delivery. Big rush. I picked up the flowers, got here, and chug chug chug. Dead. You really saved me, man.”

“What's so important about the delivery?” Mark asked.

“Huge client,” Mitchell answered. “Big-shot corporate guys. They're having a meeting tonight at seven o'clock, and they ordered a bunch of flowers for the tables. Last minute. Those guys don't care. Money talks, you know? But if I don't get 'em there in time, we'll never get another order. Those guys don't fool around. One mistake and you're gone. My uncle is the same way. If I don't deliver, I'll be gone too. And I need this job.”

“So why didn't you call your uncle for help?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Mitchell replied sarcastically. “So he'd know how bad a screwup I am? I may not be smart, but I ain't dumb.”

That surprised Mark. Hearing Andy Mitchell call himself a screwup was out of character. This was turning out to be a day full of surprises. Mitchell emptied the can and put the cap back on.

“Time?” Mitchell asked.

Mark checked his cell phone. “Six-oh-five,” he announced. “Plenty of time.”

“Let's go!” Mitchell said, and jumped into the car. He truly had to jump because the driver's door wouldn't open. He had to slither in through the window.

The meeting was taking place not far from where Andy broke down, at a posh country club. As Mitchell drove, Mark sat in the passenger seat thinking two things. One was that he couldn't believe he had come to the rescue of his archnemesis. The other was that he feared the sticky, vinyl car seat was infested with Andy bacteria. The only reason he didn't gag at the putrid car stench was because the sweet smell from the flower arrangements in the back masked the vile odor. He feared what would happen after they made the delivery and the flowers were gone. It was going to be a long ride home.

“So, why me?” Mark asked.

“Why you what?” Mitchell asked back.

“Why did you call me for help?”

“Sci-Clops,” Mitchell answered. “We gotta stick together, right?”

“Well, no,” Mark said. “It's a science club, not the Boy Scouts. Why did you call me? You hate me.”

Mitchell didn't answer right away. At first Mark thought the imbecile had forgotten the question.

“I don't exactly have a load of friends,” Mitchell finally said. “I know, hard to believe, but it's true.”

“Not so hard to believe,” Mark said.

Mitchell shot him a glance, but didn't fire a shot back. Instead he shrugged. “Okay, I had that coming. I've given you a hard time.”

“Hard time?” Mark said, incredulous. “You've bullied me for years. You've hit me. You've stolen my lunch money more times than I can count. You've hit me. You've robbed my house. You've hit me. Need I go on?”

“Guilty, guilty, guilty, all right? What do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything. You're a jerk. End of story.” Mark was feeling bold. He no longer feared Andy Mitchell. That stopped a while ago. His fear turned to pity when he realized that the guy was such a lamebrain. But lately, after seeing what a brilliant mathematical mind he had, Mark actually found himself envying Andy. It was all so twisted and weird.

“If it makes you feel any better, you aren't the only one I stepped on,” Mitchell said.

“Oh, good, now I can rest easy,” Mark said, dripping sarcasm.

“Hey, you asked, I'm tellin'.”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“I ain't the sharpest tool in the deck, in case you hadn't noticed,” Mitchell continued.

“I noticed,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. Mitchell couldn't even get the figure of speech right.

“But that only has to do with words and talking and whatnot. The thing is, with numbers I'm pretty good.”

Mark didn't argue. He'd seen Andy at work. With numbers he was better than pretty good.

“That didn't go down so well when I was a little kid. It was like, how do you say it, I had the worst of both worlds. Half the guys gave me a hard time because I sounded like an idiot. The other half gave me grief for being a brain. I was too smart to hang with the tough kids and too dumb to hang with the geeks. That works on you after a while, you know? Not fittin' in anywhere.”

Mark knew. He was an old pro at not fitting in.

So I guess I kind of built up this, I don't know, this shell. I didn't let nobody in; didn't put myself out there in case I might get whacked; and didn't take nothing from nobody. It's not like I had a choice. It was either that, or hide under my bed. But it was tough. I was angry all the time. I guess I took it out on a lot of people, including you.”

“Especially me.”

“Yeah, whatever. But then I got hooked up with the university and they actually liked that I had some good ideas. They encouraged me, you know? I wasn't used to that. That got me to join Sci-Clops and—hey, I don't mean to get all girly on you, but for the first time I'm starting to be happy with the way things are going. Most of the time, anyway.”

Mark didn't comment. For a second he thought Andy might cry. It was a strange feeling. For the first time, ever, he was looking at Andy Mitchell as a human being, not a cartoon bully. He wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Life was already weird enough. Having Andy Mitchell turn into a good guy just put things another notch higher on the surreal meter. Thankfully the conversation ended, because they had arrived at the Burning Hill Country Club.

“We're here!” Mark announced to break the tension.

Andy pulled the car up to the wide, flagstone front entrance and rolled to a stop.

“Looks kind of quiet,” Mark observed.

“And dark,” Andy said. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty,” Mark answered. “There has to be somebody here if the meeting is in half an hour.”

Mark and Andy got out of the car and walked up the few steps to the front door. Mitchell tried the knob. It was locked.

“What the hell?” Mitchell said, confused.

Mark looked inside the glass pane in the door and said, “There's a board in there with the schedule. What's the name of the company?”

Mitchell pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read, “Praxis Associates.”

“There it is,” Mark announced. “Praxis Associates. Seven o'clock.”

“Exactly!” Mitchell said. “Half an hour from now.”

Mark looked inside again and said, “Uh, actually, it's twelve and a half hours from now.”

“Say what?” Mitchell shouted.

Mark said, “The sign says it's a breakfast meeting.”

Mitchell quickly looked back at the packing slip. He reread it and yelled, “No way! It says right here. Praxis Associates. Seven A.”

Mark took the paper and read it. “Yeah, seven A, as in seven
A.M
. The meeting is tomorrow morning.”

Mitchell stared at the page blankly. He then sprang back to the door and looked inside. “There's gotta be a mistake.”

Mark said, “Well, yeah. There was.”

Mitchell banged his head against the glass, finally accepting that the mistake was his.

“Will the flowers keep?” Mark asked.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, sounding beaten. “I am such an idiot. C'mon, I'll drive you home.”

The two didn't say much on the way back toward town. Mitchell was too embarrassed and Mark was too cool to make him feel any dumber. When they got to Mark's house, Mark hopped out of the car and grabbed the gas can.

“It's been…interesting,” he said.

“Listen, Dimond,” Mitchell said. “Thanks. I know how you feel about me, that only makes it all the cooler that you helped me out.”

“Hey, we Sci-Clops types have to stick together, right?”

Mitchell laughed. “Yeah, sure. I owe you one. I mean that. If you ever need anything, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Sure, uh, Andy. Good night.”

“G'night.”

Mitchell hit the gas, the car belched once and rolled off, leaving Mark standing alone on the sidewalk in front of his house. It was a strange ending to a strange day. Mark couldn't help but wonder what the next chapter in the strange saga of Andy Mitchell would be.

 

For Courtney, she felt as if her day was just beginning. Ever since Whitney had asked her to go into town, she counted the minutes until seven o'clock. The rest of the day crept by slowly. It seemed like an eternity until she finally made it to art class. She sat there, listening to the guest speaker talk about the challenge of sketching the human hand. With Courtney's head being where it was, the lecture seemed about as interesting as algebra-trig. Still, she had made a commitment to this class. She wasn't going to blow it off. Though she might as well have. Her mind wasn't on sketching. It was on Whitney, and what the rest of the night might hold.

When seven o'clock finally came, most of the students stuck around to talk to the artist and pick his brain. Not Courtney. She was out the door before the echo from the bell had died. To save time, she had ridden her bike to class. It meant bringing her backpack and books into town, but she figured that was better than taking the time to go all the way back to her dorm to drop them off. That would have wasted precious minutes. She quickly unlocked her Tech road bike from the rack, tightened up her backpack, and began pedaling for the main road, and town.

Stansfield Academy was in a rural area of the Berkshires, a few miles outside the small town of Derby Falls. Courtney knew that from when she'd first visited Stansfield with her parents. The road between Stansfield and Derby Falls was a beautiful, winding country lane that snaked up along one ridge of the mountain, through a dense pine forest and then down the other side and into town. As much as she focused on getting to town as quickly as her legs would bring her, it was hard for her not to notice how beautiful the mountains were.

The sun was on the way down, creating long pine-tree shadows across the road. The amber rays sparkled through the trees as Courtney rode, making her feel as if she were riding through the beams of a strobe light. She passed a rolling meadow where black-and-white dairy cows grazed. There were a few farm stands along the way, where you could buy corn on the cob and tomatoes that had been picked that day. They were closing up for the night. The birds were out now. It was time for them to feed. Courtney could hear them twittering in the trees. She even saw a few fireflies spark in the woods. It was a truly idyllic ride. Courtney promised herself that she would make this trip again, maybe on a Sunday when she wasn't in such a hurry. And maybe she could convince Whitney to come with her. Things were about as right for Courtney as they could be.

The road inclined quickly as it brought her up into the mountain. She was in shape, but still, a steep climb is a steep climb. It was no problem, but she worried that she'd be all sweaty for her date. Lugging the heavy books along suddenly seemed like a bad idea. But there was no turning back now. She had to gut it out, sweat and all.