PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4197-4823-3
eISBN 9781647000240
Text copyright © 2021 ABRAMS
Book design by Marcie J. Lawrence
Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved.
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For AJ & FJ—the most out-of-this-world kiddos
1
EARTH
Dev Khatri’s rules for surviving middle school were pretty simple: Don’t speak up. Don’t act out. Don’t get your butt kicked.
During the last two months, he had learned these rules the hard way. Being the new kid was like wearing a flashing beacon on his head, alerting every bully to his presence. Except all Dev wanted to do was blend in, become invisible. That had been easy enough at his last school. But here in Conroy, Ohio, things were different.
It wasn’t just school that was rough. Dev couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about this town felt … off. Maybe it was the fact that Conroy lay along an active fault line and experienced frequent mini-quakes called quivers. Or maybe it was the intense and unpredictable weather patterns, dubbed shivers, with temperatures plummeting from balmy to subzero in a matter of hours.
Whatever it was, Dev believed his family had made a big mistake leaving San Francisco. His parents, however, disagreed. Virtually all cities were coping with shifting weather patterns, and seismic activity was a natural and normal phenomenon, they said. Before the most recent tectonic realignment, San Francisco had experienced far worse quakes than Conroy, his mother pointed out.
More importantly, how could they pass up an opportunity to help advance scientific study in revolutionary and meaningful ways, especially at a time when Earth and its ten billion inhabitants were more vulnerable than ever? His parents, a physicist and a botanist, spoke of exploration, adaptation, and survival. Their visions for the future spanned timescales of light-years and expanded into universes—even multiverses—far away.
Dev appreciated the weight of these issues, but his concerns were a lot more … immediate. Like not getting his butt kicked by the lacrosse jocks, or heckled by the pop-collared prepsters, or lured into some argument about the ethical ramifications of interstellar colonization with the speech and debate kids. Like not making an utter fool of himself in front of Zoey Hawthorne-Scott.
He had met Zoey at marching band tryouts during his second week at Conroy Middle School. Typically paralyzed by stage fright, he’d been reluctant to join the group, but after the first practice he was hooked. It wasn’t just that he got to spend time with Zoey; when he played the saxophone, he felt at home, despite the new city, new kids, new school. Plus, there was some unspoken nerd-to-nerd peace treaty that existed between the bandmates, which meant Dev could relax during practice without worrying some ninth grader was going to jump out from behind the tuba section and deliver an atom-splitting wedgie.
“Rise and shine! It’s morning time!” His father knocked loudly on his bedroom door.
“Newton’s first law: A body at rest wants to stay at rest,” Dev grumbled sleepily.
“Good one!” his dad laughed. He paused for a minute, then began tapping out the words W-A-K-E U-P in Morse code with his knuckles.
“Message received. I’m awake,” Dev called.
“Copy that! Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. You need to fuel up for your field trip. I hear it’s going to be out of this world! Pun intended. Get it?” He chuckled at his own dad joke.
Dev groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. It wasn’t NASA that Dev had an issue with. NASA was cool. Out-of-this-world cool, to be precise. It was the fact that his father, Dr. Mohan Khatri, was the head interdimensional physicist at NASA’s Gwen Research Center, the exact place Dev’s class was headed later that day. And he knew that despite his father’s good intentions, the statistical likelihood of him embarrassing Dev in some astronomically mortifying way was approximately 99.9 percent.
“Stupid field trip,” he muttered to himself as he got dressed, wishing his wardrobe might reveal a portal to some alternate dimension where he could escape. Just for the day.
He opened his sock drawer and paused, staring at the neatly rolled rows of goofy socks. There were swirling galaxies stitched in shades of indigo and violet, metatron diagrams in fluorescent green and orange, even flying cheeseburgers orbiting cratered planets. Until recently, the socks had been something he and his father had shared. Okay, they didn’t share them; that would’ve been gross. They each had their own identical sets. Before moving to Conroy, Dev and his dad would coordinate which pairs to wear each day of the week. A father-son bonding thing.
Dev looked down glumly at the open drawer. The socks fit, but Dev couldn’t help but feel like he’d grown out of the tradition. He knew his dad would be wearing the classic rocket ship socks today, but Dev couldn’t bring himself to wear his own set. Instead, he grabbed a boring, inconspicuous pair of black tube socks and slammed the drawer shut.
From the nursery across the hall, Dev’s younger sister, Sejal, wailed, hitting an earsplitting high note that could rival the school chorus’s best soprano. He knew his mother was out in their backyard greenhouse taking morning assessments of her new cultivars, and his father was downstairs making breakfast and packing lunches, which meant diaper duty fell to Dev.
While he changed her, he hummed a jazzy version of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Sejal clapped enthusiastically. He wished all his performances could be met with such high praise. The marching band was preparing for regionals and would be up against some fierce competition.
“Excited for the big field trip today?” his dad asked as Dev carried Sejal into the kitchen and buckled her into her high chair.
“I am. But Dad, listen. Please don’t do anything to embarrass me. Okay?”
His father looked shocked. “Who, me? How could I possibly do anything of the sort?”
“It’s just that moving here has been tough. I’m finally starting to get in a groove and make some friends …”
“Yes!” His father thumped him on the back. “I’m really looking forward to meeting them today. I think your new friends will really get a kick out of these!” He hiked up the leg of his pleated chinos and stuck his foot out, wiggling his toes in a pair of socks with pi written out to the two-hundredth digit. “I know we discussed the rocket ships, but I thought these would make a stronger impression.”
Dev blinked. “They definitely make an impression, that’s for sure.”
“Go change into yours, Dev-i-doodle!” his dad said brightly, using Dev’s ridiculous childhood nickname. “So we can match!”
The probability of that happening was exactly 0.0 percent. “Oh, shoot! Mine are in the wash. Right, Mom?” Dev
called out, knowing his mother was still in the greenhouse and nothing as trivial as laundry could distract her.
His dad shrugged. “Well, maybe next time. Need me to drive you to school today? The Tardis awaits.” He couldn’t resist a good Doctor Who joke.
Dev considered the offer. “Thanks, but I’ll take the bus.”
It would have been nice to get a ride to school, especially since Gage Rawley and the other bullies might be on board the bus. But the last time his dad had driven him to school, he’d insisted on walking Dev all the way inside, as though he were a helpless kindergartener. Then, his dad proceeded to introduce himself to Principal Brant, Janitor Howe, and even the electrician who was repairing some lights in the lobby. Worst of all, before he finally left, he hugged Dev in front of everyone, declaring loudly, “I love you to infinity, but not beyond, because infinity goes on forever-ever-ever-ever-ever-ever-ever-ever-ever …” Dev cringed at the memory and the teasing he had endured since.
“Good morning,” his mother said, gliding into the room with a handful of fragrant herbs from the greenhouse.
Sejal squawked and launched a spoon into the air like a space missile. His father wiped splattered yogurt from his cheek, nudged his horn-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and smiled warmly. “Pure entropy, as usual! Lack of order or predictability and gradual decline into complete disorder.”
“I can see that,” his mother said, completely unfazed. She turned to the blender on the counter and filled it with assorted ingredients, including the fresh herbs, then set the machine to pulse. A minute later, she handed Dev a thick, green smoothie in a tall glass.
He took a swig. He gagged. “Ack! What’s in this? It’s worse than yesterday’s! Like lawnmower clippings mixed with ginger and toothpaste. And …” He wagged his tongue. “Chili powder? Ughhh!”
“Delicious, right?” his mother replied, polishing off a glass of her own. “Drink up, Dev.”
“Not happening.” Dev backed away from the kitchen island.
She reached her arms over her head, twisting from side to side, stretching her muscles. “The things that challenge us make us stronger,” she said. “If you want to be a knight, you will need dragons to defeat.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a knight. Besides, it’s a smoothie. Not a dragon.”
“It should be easy then, no? Defeat the smoothie, sweetie.”
“Mom.”
“What? You’re not … scared, are you?” She stage-gasped, but her chestnut-brown eyes were playful.
“Of course not. It’s just nasty, that’s all.”
“Ohh, so you are scared.”
Was she calling him a coward? His pulse quickened. He locked eyes with his mother. She returned the stare, calm but forceful.
“You must learn to face your fears, Dev,” she said. “It’s the only way to grow.”
He nudged his father, who had just finished cleaning up Sejal’s latest breakfast propulsion experiment. “Dad, are you hearing this? Mom’s turning a smoothie into a life lesson.”
“Your mother is a font of infinite wisdom. You should listen to her.” He gazed at his wife admiringly.
“Did you try this?” Dev asked his dad.
“Gosh, will you look at the time! I’m off to work! I hear we have a group of VIPs coming into the lab today.” He winked at Dev, grabbed his car keys from the counter, then made a quick dash for the door, putting distance between himself and the universe’s grossest smoothie.
Dev was about to follow when his mother stepped in front of him. “Not so fast.”
“I’ve gotta go, Mom. Big day today. Can’t be late.”
She shook her head, her long black hair cascading from side to side. “Defeat. The. Smoothie.”
“You are relentless.” He grabbed the glass and chugged it down. As soon as he finished, he ran to the sink and washed away the awful taste with gulps of fresh water. Sejal cheered, tossing Oaty-Os like confetti. “Nice to know I have at least one fan,” he said to his baby sister.
“You have more than that, sweetie,” his mother said. She gave him a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek.
“Ma! Really? You have got to stop doing that!”
“What?” She drew a hand across her chest.
“Calling me ‘sweetie.’ Kissing me. It’s … it’s … it has to stop. It’s mortifying. You and Dad. Both of you need to just stop.”
She exhaled. “Someday you’ll learn that your family’s love—and your father’s unconventional sense of humor—are nothing to be embarrassed by.”
Dev heard a hydraulic hiss and the squeak of wheels. Through the kitchen window, he watched as the electric school bus passed by. Above the red-leafed autumn trees, heavy gray clouds crowded the sky, hinting at rain.
Dev groaned. “Okay, okay. Love you too. But I need to go. Really. Especially now that I’ll be walking to school.” He gave his mother a quick hug, then blew a wet, sloppy raspberry on Sejal’s cheek, which sent her into a fit of giggles.
“Have a good day!” his mother called. “May you defeat many dragons!”
“Sure, whatever!” he hollered back.
On his way out the door, he grabbed his saxophone from the bench in the hall. He wrapped a green poncho around the instrument case, as protection from the unpredictable Conroy weather, and stuffed a second poncho into his bag in case he needed one to wear. You could never be too prepared in this weird town.
He popped his earbuds in, tapped his music player, and let the sweet sounds of John Coltrane fill his head. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up with Lewis down the road.
Lewiston Wynner was not, as his name suggested, a winner. Sure, he had inherited the Wynner looks: sandy hair, olive skin, jade-green eyes. But to his father’s great chagrin, he was not an elite athlete like the generations of Wynners who had reigned before. To his older brothers’ endless amusement, he was actually fairly uncoordinated. Instead of playing lacrosse like them, Lewis ran track, half-heartedly at best, and only because sports were a family requirement.
Aside from frequently tripping over his own lanky legs and boat-sized feet, Lewis was best known for three things: playing drums, playing pranks, and having what had once been described as “devastatingly cute” dimples. His pranks often got him into trouble, and his dimples typically got him out of it. And his passion for percussion earned him a spot on the Conroy Middle School Marching Band, along with the not-so-coveted title of Band Geek. Never before had a Wynner been such a loser. At least according to his brothers, a fact that they reminded Lewis of daily, ever since he had opted for drumsticks over lacrosse sticks.
Speaking of his brothers, he could hear them lumbering down the hall.
“Sleeping beauty! Wakey-wakey!” Kingston called out. At seventeen, he was the oldest of the three Wynner boys and a total bruiser.
Instead of his usual dread, Lewis felt the giddy fizz of excitement. After a few failed attempts at basic retaliation pranks, he’d smartened up and recruited his new friend Dev to help design the ultimate Brute Brothers Takedown.
Lewis had met Dev on the first day of school when some lacrosse jocks pinned Dev to his locker, threatening some terrifying thing called a supersonic-atomic-bubonic-wedgie. Because his older brothers were captains of the varsity and junior varsity lacrosse teams, Lewis held some sway over the ninth-grade bullies. He told them to get lost or face the wrath of Kingston and Winston. Since then, he and Dev had formed a fast friendship built on a shared love of music, pranks, and sour gummies.
“Get up, band geek!” Winston, the middle brother, barked from down the hall.
Lewis hid, fully dressed, in a protective fort made of pillows and blankets. He peeked out, surveying the intricate contraption. He’d stayed up until two o’clock in the morning constructing each pulley and trigger, following the detailed diagrams Dev had sketched out after band practice.
Two beefy shadows approached. He could hear the thwack, thwack of their lacrosse sticks against their palms, ready
to inflict their morning tortures.
“Moooooom!” Lewis hollered from beneath his fortress, playing the part. “Win and King are being goons again!”
He eyed the taut string across the floor, intended to trip Winston and send him face-first into a pie plate heaped with shaving cream. When Kingston followed a moment later, the overhead trigger would pull, setting off an elaborate chain reaction. He pictured the glorious scene in his mind: Foam darts raining down, a bucket of marbles spilling across the floor, a pail of maple syrup tipping onto their heads, the fan whirring, speakers blaring, a feather pillow tearing open, a glitter bomb exploding in a final crescendo. He held his phone steady, finger poised above the record button. The epic video would probably be viral by third period. His toes tingled with anticipation.
Kingston’s voice drew nearer, snapping him out of his daydream. “You’re gonna have to stand up for yourself someday. Why not get some practice?”
“I can stand up for myself just fine. And I stand up for my friends, too. Against your friends,” Lewis replied, praying the prank would go off without a hitch.
“Can you bench-press two hundred pounds? Can you run the hundred-meter dash in fourteen seconds flat? Can you call yourself a state champ, an MVP, a true Wynner?”
Lewis frowned. “Those aren’t the only measures of success.”
“We have a legacy of greatness to uphold, baby bro,” Kingston snickered. “You need to man up.”
Lewis’s stomach twisted. He hated when they talked like that. “It’s possible to be a jock, not a jerk, you know.”
“Sure, but what fun is that?” He could hear the slap of their high five. Then he spotted them, framed in the doorway. Kingston was about to tromp across the threshold when—
“Boys! Your seven-egg omelets are ready!” their mother called out.
Their ears pricked. “Protein!” they roared, and went racing down the polished oak staircase like a pack of slobbering hounds.
Lewis sat numbly in the center of his fort. His elaborate prank was untouched. There wasn’t a speck of glitter, a single feather, or a sticky drip of maple syrup anywhere. His brothers were unscathed, stuffing their faces with fluffy omelets instead of writhing in the pain of total humiliation. What a letdown! Revenge would have to wait until tomorrow.
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