by Roland Smith
I turned to Boone. “I have some questions.”
“I’m sure you do,” Boone said. “But right now I need to talk to the president.”
The second helicopter was coming in for a landing.
“After you get off the phone?” I asked.
“We’ll be leaving as soon as I finish the conversation. We’ll have plenty of time for questions later. Felix is waiting for us in the coach at the cemetery. I need to get you and Angela to San Antonio.”
“Are we taking the boat or the helicopter?”
“We’ll take the boat.”
“Where’s Croc?” I hadn’t seen him since we left the bedroom.
“He’s at the cemetery,” Boone said.
“That’s what I thought.”
Boone smiled and called the president.
On the Road Again
Felix was driving. Croc was in the passenger seat. Boone and Angela and I were sitting at the dining table.
“Kill Devil Hills,” Angela said, pointing out the window.
“Odd name,” I said.
“Back in the colonial days when a ship foundered, locals would scavenge what they could of the ship’s cargo before it sank,” Miss Travelogue said. “Sometimes they found rum aboard the ships and they buried it in the sand dunes along here. Back then, rum was called Kill Devil.”
That was actually kind of interesting. I felt something vibrating in my pocket. Angela’s phone. It was her dad.
I handed it to her. “It’s for you.”
“Hi Dad … Just a second. It’s for both of us.” She put it on speaker phone.
My mom came on. “Where are you?”
“Kitty Hawk,” I said. “Well, actually Kill Devil Hills.”
“What are you doing way over there?” Roger asked “I thought you were on your way to Texas.”
“We are,” Angela said. “Boone figured we had enough time for this detour.”
“Wasn’t there a hurricane there last night?” Mom asked.
“We got here long after it hit. We’re fine.”
“I called your phone,” Mom said. “You didn’t answer.”
“I ran out of juice and haven’t gotten around to charging it.”
“Well, get it charged.”
“Will do. How’s everything there?”
“Good.” Mom said. “We’re exhausted, of course, after last night’s concert, but we’re recovering. The president postponed the press conference, so we’re just hanging at the White House.”
“The press conference is scheduled for this afternoon,” Roger said. “We’ll head to Texas as soon as it’s over.”
“I wish you’d stayed so you could ride on Air Force One,” Mom said.
“We probably should have,” I said. “But it’s been interesting down here. Have you seen the president today?”
“We just had a late breakfast with him and P.K.,” Roger said. “They said to say hello to you.”
“Tell them hello from us too,” Angela said.
“We will,” Roger said.
“I guess we better let you go,” Mom said. “Love you. Plug in your phone!”
“Okay,” I said. As soon as I get another phone.
“I love you, sweetheart,” Roger said to Angela.
“I love you,” Angela answered, and ended the call.
“I wonder if Bethany will show up at the press conference,” she said to us.
“That’s why the press conference was delayed,” Boone said. “J.R. wanted to make sure she was there so the ghost cell would know they had failed.”
We passed a McDonalds, which reminded me that I was starving.
“I need to get something to eat,” I said.
“And we need gas,” Felix said from the driver’s seat. “I also want to stop at the Big and Tall Shop. It wasn’t open yet when I drove by earlier.”
He did need a new set of clothes. The ones he had on were in ruins and smelled worse than Croc.
Felix pulled into a gas station next to an outlet mall.
Boone stood. “I’ll fill it up.”
“I’ll do it,” Felix said, getting out of the driver’s seat. “I need to stretch my legs.”
He and Croc stepped out of the coach.
“Where do you want to eat breakfast?” Boone asked.
“Mc—”
“Forget it!” Angela and Boone said in unison.
“It was just an idea,” I said. “I don’t care where we eat.”
“Are you okay?” Angela asked with a grin.
I looked at Boone. “Yes, but I have some questions. How about answering some of them now that we’re alone?”
But we weren’t alone.
Roger and Mom’s bedroom door opened.
Peter “Speed” Paulsen walked out, stifling a yawn.
“Did someone say something about breakfast?” he asked.
About The Author
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Roland Smith was just five years old when his parents gave him an old manual typewriter that weighed more than he did, and he’s been writing ever since. Now he is the award-winning author of eighteen novels for young readers and more than a dozen nonfiction titles and picture books for children.
Raised in the music business, Smith decided to incorporate that experience as a backdrop for the I, Q series.
When he is not at home writing, Roland Smith spends a good part of the year speaking to students at schools around the country. Learn more about the I, Q books at: www.iqtheseries.com. Learn more about Roland Smith at: www.rolandsmith.com.
