“Did they hit it?” Gracie asks.
“Not a one of those bullets could penetrate it,” Mrs. Manuela answers. “Then whatever it was just shot out of the sky faster than any of our planes could fly. It just disappeared”—she flicks her wrist in the air—“into the stars as fast as it came.”
Mrs. Delgado shakes her head, adding canned beans and a bundle of fresh green beans to Mrs. Manuela’s paper sack.
“Did they ever figure out who it was?” Gracie says.
“That”—Mrs. Manuela points a finger at Gracie—“depends on whom you believe, young lady.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Well, my sister Thelma and her husband, Roger, live in El Segundo, right near there, and she says everyone was talking flying saucers. Why, the next morning there was shrapnel everywhere you could see. It had hit homes and cars and landed in backyards and in the middle of the streets. In fact, six people died that night from all those rounds we shot up in the sky.”
Dibs pokes me in the side. “Agents from a strange and foreign planet,” he whispers.
Mrs. Manuela’s eyes meet Dibs’s again. “Exactly, but that’s not what the military said. No, sir.” She shakes her head.
“What did they say?” I ask.
“The military came out with a statement telling the public it was just a weather balloon.” She picks up her sack of groceries and sets it carefully in her wire shopping cart. “You can read it for yourselves and see it, too. There was even a picture of it on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. And I’ll tell you what, that was no weather balloon. Anyone who has eyes can see that.”
“You mean those dumb balloons the Army Air Force is always sending up and they’re always falling down and getting stuck on the water tower in town?” Dibs asks. “Those weather balloons?”
“One and the same.” She nods.
“Fourteen hundred rounds and we couldn’t take down…a weather balloon?” Dibs looks at me. “It’s balsa wood and tinfoil. Who in the world would believe something so dumb?”
Mrs. Manuela scoffs. “Everyone, dear.” She grabs the handle of her cart. “Especially if it’s in the newspaper. No one is going to question it.”
“But what if it isn’t true?” I say.
“The military doesn’t lie,” Mrs. Delgado snaps at me. “If the military says it was a weather balloon, then that’s what it was.”
We all stand in silence for a moment.
“Well then, you all have yourselves a nice day now,” Mrs. Manuela says over her shoulder as we all stand and watch her pull her cart toward the door.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Manuela,” Mrs. Delgado calls after her, shaking her head again. “Is this all for you boys?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I lay our coins out on the counter for the Cokes and the Cracker Jacks.
Mrs. Delgado pushes buttons on the register until it dings and the drawer flies open. “Don’t you two let her fill your heads with crazy stories,” she tells us, dropping our seventeen cents into the proper compartments.
Gracie’s eyes meet mine.
“You want a sack for that?” Mrs. Delgado points to the box of Cracker Jacks, pushing the register drawer closed.
“No, thanks,” I tell her.
“Don’t you go dropping kernels in the back while you’re reading those comics. Mr. Delgado doesn’t like having to sweep up popcorn kernels after you kids.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I promise her. “We won’t open it until we’re headed on home.”
“All right then.” She smiles.
Dibs and I head toward the back, past the boxed pastries and the store-bought breads where there are tall wooden shelves and round wire racks of magazines, books, and comics.
“Is she looking?” I whisper to Dibs.
He stretches his neck. “Nope. How about what Mrs. Manuela was saying?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Why would she think your daddy knows anything about it? He’s not even in the military anymore.”
I shrug.
“Has he ever talked about that thing in California?”
“He never talks about anything he did when he was in the Army Air Force,” I say, leaning back to catch another glimpse of Gracie.
She’s back to reading and twirling and untwirling her hair around her finger.
“You know Mrs. Manuela,” I say. “She’s always gossiping about something. She’s probably got it wrong. Did you see the way Gracie looked at me?”
He shrugs. “You think they have the new Planet Comic yet?” he says.
“She has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“They look like plain old brown ones to me,” Dibs says, scanning the shelves of comic books.
“They’re not just brown,” I tell him. “They’re the color of Hershey’s Kisses with flecks of Bit-O-Honey mixed in.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of….Ooh.” He reaches for the latest Planet Comic from the shelf. “They got the new one.”
July 6, 1947—3:45 p.m.
After Mr. Delgado shows up and tells us the Corona General Store isn’t a library and we’d better buy something or be on our way, Dibs and I head out.
Gracie is still on her stool reading. She doesn’t even look up as we pass by.
When we make it out the door, Dibs turns to me. “She wasn’t looking,” he tells me.
“I didn’t ask you if she was looking.”
“Yeah, but you were gonna.” He smiles.
“Hey, Affinito!”
I turn to see Diego Ramos and Spuds Whitaker heading in our direction.
“Great,” Dibs mutters under his breath.
Diego and Spuds are two years older, same as Obie. Diego is at least a head taller than me and two taller than Dibs, and about last December he started sprouting so many wisps on his upper lip that he carries a tiny-toothed plastic comb in his back pocket. I’m pretty sure God gave my share to him, because he’s got a lot more than any other boy in Corona. So many that he’s constantly checking his upper-lip locks with his fingertips to make sure they’re straight and if they’re not, he pulls his tiny comb out of his back pocket.
Spuds is round and dimpled just like a baking potato, and he isn’t completely lip bald, but it’s not enough to run a comb through. Plus, he thinks he’s so funny. He’s always telling the dumbest jokes. No one even laughs at them. Except for him. He laughs at every single one even though he already knows the punch line.
“Butts!” Diego slaps Dibs’s shoulder three times like his hand is a hammer and he’s hammering Dibs deep into the sidewalk.
“It’s Butte, and you know it!” Dibs snaps at him.
Diego just laughs and takes his stupid comb out of his back pocket to pull through the lip hair. “You hear about that flying saucer?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say, before Dibs can run his big mouth.
“Hey, Mylo, why did the Martian throw beef on the asteroid?” Spuds throws his hands out. “He wanted it a little meaty-or.” He laughs his head off and slaps his knee. “Get it?” he asks. “Meaty-or! Like meteor with meat. Meaty-or.”
Diego ignores him. “Out in Mac Brazel’s field,” he goes on.
“I told you. I bet it turns out to be military,” Spuds says.
“Or a meteorite.” I jump in, eyeing Dibs a warning to keep his big mouth shut.
But he misses it completely. “Oh, it’s Martian all right,” he tells them. “Mac Brazel is going to call Roswell Fire out to look at it.”
“What do you know about it, Butts?” Diego demands.
“I bet I know more than you do about it.” Dibs puffs up his bony chest. “And you better stop calling me that if you know what’s good for you.”
“Is that right?” Diego laughs. “And what a
re you going to do if I don’t?”
Dibs squeezes his fingers into two skinny dukes and holds them up high to show Diego. “How about I knock your block off?”
Diego laughs.
“You’re right, Spuds. It’s probably military.” I grab Dibs by the rear of his overalls and pull him back to my side. “I thought we weren’t telling anyone,” I remind him.
“Even Mrs. Manuela knows it’s the Mars men, Affinito,” Diego says. “Get a clue, why don’t you.” Then he stretches his neck to peek in the door of Corona General. “You guys see if Gracie’s here today?”
Diego and Spuds push each other aside while they sneak a peek in the doorway of Corona General and wave.
“Hi, Gracie,” Diego calls.
“Did you see that?” he asks us, feeling his lip hairs to see if they’re straight. “She looked right at me. Probably noticed my ’stache.”
I roll my eyes at Dibs.
“Yeah, right.” Spuds punches his arm. “That thing is so thin, from a distance it looks like you forgot to wash the dirt off your lip. She was looking at me.”
“You? Please! She wouldn’t spit on you if your hair was on fire.” Diego punches him back.
“Oh, she sure was looking at me.” Spuds smirks, licking his pointer finger and thumb and sliding them over his dark eyebrows. “Those brown-with-a-fleck-of-gold eyes were taking all this in.” He waves a hand up and down his dimpled middle.
I poke Dibs. “See? They’re not just plain old brown,” I tell him.
“Come on.” Dibs pulls on my arm.
“Well, we’ll see you guys later, then,” I say.
“Wait,” Diego says. “You guys really know something about what’s going on out there?”
I look at Dibs.
He’s gnawing at his bottom lip, his eyes darting from Diego to Spuds to me and back again, and I know he’s about to blow.
“Dibs—” I warn.
“We know more than you about it,” he bursts out.
“Dibs!” I punch him in the arm.
“We saw it, okay? We went out there and we saw it!”
I throw my hands up in the air.
“Well?” he says to me. “It ain’t no secret now that Mrs. Manuela is going on about it. The whole town probably knows by now. She has lips faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive—”
“You saw an actual ship?” Spuds asks.
Dibs points a thumb out at me. “We both did,” he says. “Him and me, we went out there and we saw it for our own selves. It’s crunched up real good against the side of an arroyo. Tell ’em,” he says to me. “Tell ’em what we seen.”
“You really went out there?” a soft voice calls from the doorway.
Dibs sucks air.
Gracie Delgado.
She is standing in the doorway, her book in her hand. But it isn’t an Oz book after all; it’s Comet in Moominland by Tove Jansson. On the cover is a red sky over a pasture with a blazing ball of fire hurtling toward Earth.
“I—I don’t…I mean, I—” Dibs starts. “Mylo?”
“What’d you see, Affinito? Spit it out already.” Diego combs his wisps, looking down at Gracie like he’s a coyote and she’s an unsuspecting rabbit. “You either seen it or you didn’t. Which is it?”
I sigh.
“Yes,” I say. “We saw it.”
They’re standing in a circle now, surrounding me, breathing in my air.
Their eyes are burrowing into me.
I lick the salty sweat off my lips. My cheeks feel hot and my tongue is swelling and my brain can’t find the words I’m searching for.
“Did you see a real live Martian?” asks Spuds.
“I’m not all that sure…I mean, ah…I really…,” I mutter. “I, ah—”
“What’s he saying?” Diego asks Spuds, leaning in closer.
“I, ah…I said I don’t know what it was, or, ah…what I heard. I just don’t really know—”
“Well, I know,” Dibs spouts. “It was an army of Martians. Some say they have quadruple the brains we do. Fat-brained green Martians. Me and Mylo went out there prepared for interstellar battle just in case they had any Martian funny business in mind.” He pulls his Buck Rogers Atomic Disintegrator Pistol out of his back pocket to show them. “There was an electromagnetic field all around and it took all our muscles to stay connected to the Earth and not be beamed up to the mother ship. I bet they were just up there waiting to vacuum us up while they sharpened their probes and charged their phasers. Not to mention the radioactivity all around the area. Mylo and me are sure to be radioactive after being out there yesterday. I’m surprised we aren’t glowing.”
“What Martian hunt were you on?” I ask him.
“You should’ve sent in for one of those Atomic Bomb Rings. They detect radioactive material,” Spuds informs Dibs.
“I don’t think it detects the radiation,” Diego says.
“Sure does,” Dibs pipes up. “The air was so thick with radiation, the ring couldn’t even read it. That’s how I know it was working.”
“Are you done yet?” I ask Dibs.
“Well, then you tell us what happened out there,” Gracie says to me. “What exactly did you see?”
“Yeah, how close did you get?” Spuds asks.
“You see any bodies?” Diego says.
“All we saw was the ship,” I tell them. “That’s it.”
“I’m going!” Diego announces.
“Me too,” Spuds pipes up.
“Gracie.” Diego leans against the shop window like some smooth character. “You want to come out with us? I’ll protect you from the Martians.”
This time Gracie rolls her eyes all the way to the sky and back again. “And who’s going to protect you?” she wants to know.
I snicker behind my hand.
What’s so great about Graciela Maria Delgado?
Only everything.
* * *
On the way home Dibs and I break into the box of Cracker Jacks.
“Kind of neat that Gracie is coming with us tomorrow, huh?”
Dibs is picking the peanuts out of his handful of caramel corn and chucking them into the field for the birds.
“I can take her or leave her,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’ll probably just scream the whole time.”
“Why would she do that?” I pop another kernel in my mouth.
“ ’Cause she’s a girl. That’s what girls do. You know, like in the movies. Whenever something scary happens the girls are always screaming their heads off and the men have to slap them or shake them right again.”
“I don’t know any girls like that,” I say. “Momma certainly isn’t like that.”
“People don’t make that kind of thing up,” he tells me.
“Movies are made up.” I pop another kernel.
“Are you going to hog them all or what?” Dibs complains, holding out his empty hand.
I pour another handful for him.
“There a prize at the bottom?” he asks.
I peek inside the dark box and see a white envelope. I tip the box upside down and both crumbs and the prize fall into my palm. I carefully tear the envelope open, pull out a brightly colored card, and look it over.
“Is it the ink tattoo?” Dibs leans over my arm.
“No.”
“Stickers?”
“No,” I tell him, examining the card. “It’s a Superhero Club Membership Card.”
“Neat! Let’s see it.” He reaches for the prize and looks it over, then hands it back to me. “That’s actually even cooler than the whistle.”
“You think it’s official?” I ask him.
“Maybe. But probably not as offi
cial as my Atomic Bomb Ring. That cost fifteen cents, plus one Kix cereal box top, and came with a satisfaction guarantee or your money back. That has to mean it’s official. This was free in the box, probably doesn’t mean as much. Still cooler than the whistle, though.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and slip the card into the bib pocket of my overalls.
July 6, 1947—7:05 p.m.
That evening after supper Dibs and I listen to our favorite program on the radio, The Adventures of Superman.
“Remember, boys and girls,” the radio announcer calls out. “Don’t miss the next installment of…”
“Superman!” Dibs and I holler together with our fingers in the air as we fly around the living room, towels safety-pinned around our necks.
“Up in the sky…Look! It’s a giant bird! It’s a plane!”
“It’s Superman!” we call out.
“Superman is a copyrighted feature appearing in Action Comics Magazine….”
Daddy reaches over to the radio on the shelf from the davenport, where he’s reading the paper, and turns the radio off while Momma points to the back door.
“You two Supermans,” she calls from the rocking chair, her lap full of her knitting. “Out! No flying indoors!”
Dibs darts out first. “Ka-pow!” he hollers as he pushes through the screen door, then leaps in a single bound off the top back porch step to the ground below, tucking and rolling in a somersault in the dirt while calling out to the desert about speeding bullets.
With a hand on the door, I turn back and look at Daddy reading the paper on the davenport.
“Daddy,” I say. “Want to throw out back with Dibs and me, maybe?”
Even though I already know the answer.
Daddy looks at Momma with Baby Kay on the floor as the baby stacks wooden blocks, and Momma gives him an encouraging nod. But it doesn’t help any.
“Not tonight,” he says, his eyes going back to his paper.
The Truth About Martians Page 6
