The Reality Bug

by D. J. MacHale

  “But he’s not supposed to mix things from other territories,” Mark answered while fingering the device nervously. “It’s totally against the rules.”

  “We’ll put it in the safe-deposit box at the bank,” Courtney offered. “Nobody will ever see it.”

  “Good idea. I’ll go first thing after school tomorrow,” Mark said. “Man, why didn’t Bobby think of this?”

  “Maybe they don’t use paper on Veelox. It might have been the only way he could send a journal.”

  “Still,” Mark said. “It might cause—”

  Mark’s ring started to twitch. He stopped talking and held his hand up.

  “You’re kidding?” Courtney said with surprise. “That was fast!”

  Mark stared at the ring quizzically. “It feels different” was all he could say.

  He quickly took off the ring and put it on the table. Courtney stood next to him and the two gazed at it. Normally when one of Bobby’s journals was arriving, the gray stone in the center of the ring would turn crystal clear. The band would then grow and the journal would arrive in a flash of light and music. But that wasn’t happening this time. The large gray stone didn’t change. But something else did.

  Engraved in the silver band and circling the stone was a series of odd characters. Each symbol was unique, with no apparent pattern. When Mark first got the ring he did a search on the Internet, thinking he could decipher them. But he came up empty. After tons of research there was only one thing he knew for sure: The symbols had no relation to any language or culture on Earth.

  Now one of those symbols was starting to glow. It was as if there were a light inside the ring, shining out through the engraving. The glowing symbol was nothing more than a squiggle with a straight line passing through it. Mark and Courtney watched, dumbfounded, as the ring finally began to grow.

  “Something’s coming in,” Mark gasped. “I think.”

  The ring didn’t grow as large as usual. But they heard the familiar jumble of sweet notes that accompanied every trip. The light from the symbol then flashed across the room, momentarily blinding Mark and Courtney. A second later they looked back at the ring. As always, the event was over quickly. The ring had returned to normal. No more light, no more sound, nothing unusual …

  Except for what the ring had deposited. It wasn’t a journal. It was an envelope. A regular old white, Second Earth-style envelope.

  “What is it?” Courtney asked.

  “It’s an envelope,” answered Mark.

  Courtney rolled her eyes. “Duh. Why did Bobby send us an envelope?”

  Mark cautiously leaned over and picked up the piece of mail. He turned it over, examining it. There was nothing weird about it. It was sealed, with no writing on the outside. Courtney gave Mark a nod of encouragement and he carefully opened it, trying not to rip it more than he had to. Inside was a piece of plain white paper.

  “I don’t think this is from Bobby,” Mark announced.

  Courtney looked at the page. There was handwriting on it, and it was definitely not Bobby’s. Bobby wrote in a kind of classic script. This note was written with block letters. It was actually jittery looking, as if the person who wrote it didn’t have a sure hand. The note was simple. It was an address.

  “‘Four twenty-nine Amsterdam Place. Apartment Five-A. New York City,’” Mark read aloud. “You know anybody who lives there?”

  “No,” Courtney answered. “Why would Bobby send us an address? With no explanation?”

  Mark suddenly looked up, as if he were hit with an idea.

  “What?” asked Courtney.

  “Could it be?” he asked, half to himself, half to Courtney.

  “Could it be what?” Courtney asked, growing impatient.

  Mark looked at the address again, then back at the ring. “Could this be about the acolytes?”

  Courtney deflated. This wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “Are you still on that kick?” She plopped back down onto the couch.

  Mark was gaining energy. “I asked Bobby to find out about the acolytes. Maybe this is his way of pointing us in the right direction!”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” Courtney said sharply.

  “You promised you’d think about it,” Mark shot back at her.

  “I did. I decided I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “But this could be our chance to help Bobby, for real!”

  “Mark, I’ve got enough stuff to worry about.”

  Mark didn’t back down. “Like what?” he asked sarcastically. “Soccer?”

  It was like Mark had flashed a red cape in front of an angry bull. Courtney jumped to her feet. “Yes, soccer!”

  In the past Mark would have backed off when faced with Courtney’s rage. But not this time. He stood his ground. “How can you care about stupid sports when there’s so much more important stuff going on?”

  “It’s important to me!” Courtney defended herself.

  “But it’s just a game!” Mark countered.

  “It’s not! Can’t you see that? I’ve never failed, Mark. Never. You just can’t relate!”

  Mark stiffened. “Why? Because I’m used to failure?”

  Courtney forced herself to calm down and speak with more control. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” She sat back down on the soft couch and took a deep breath. “It’s not just about soccer,” she continued. “Everybody’s got a role. You know? An identity. I liked mine. I liked how people looked up to me. But after what’s been going on the past few days, I’m beginning to think I might not be the person I thought I was.”

  “Courtney,” Mark said with sympathy. “It’s just a game.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Courtney said. “But who knows what might turn up tomorrow? It’s the first time I’ve doubted myself. Ever.”

  Mark thought for a moment, then picked up the silver hologram projector and the envelope with the address, and put them in his backpack.

  “I’m sorry, Courtney,” Mark said. “I hear what you’re saying about roles and stuff. I always thought mine was to be the lamewad who everybody made fun of. But I’m beginning to think I’m better than that. You might not be the person you thought you were either, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it means you’ve got more important things to do.”

  Courtney gave Mark a quick look; then Mark headed for the stairs. “Tomorrow’s Friday,” he said. “I’ll put this stuff in the safe-deposit box at the bank. On Saturday I’m going to the address on this paper. I hope you come with me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.”

  Mark left her alone in the basement.

  The next day in school Mark and Courtney had no contact. Mark met with Mr. Pike about Sci-Clops and was given a schedule of meetings for the rest of the semester. He tried to be enthused about it, but it was hard to focus. All he could think about was being on the verge of a much bigger adventure.

  When school was over, Mark went to the National Bank of Stony Brook on the Ave. The pruny Ms. Jane Jansen brought him into the vault where he deposited the projector that held Bobby’s Journal #13 in the same safe box where he was keeping Journals #1-12. He didn’t put the mysterious slip of paper with the New York address in the box though. He needed that.

  As for Courtney, sheƍd made the tough decision and took the demotion to play for the junior varsity. Her plan was to prove herself so superior that Coach Horkey would have no choice but to bring her right back up to the varsity.

  Things didn’t work out that way. It was clear from Friday’s practice that she was one of the better girls on the team, but definitely not the best. She didn’t let it get to her though. She wouldn’t go so far as to accept her fate, but forced herself to try and make the best of it. At least for the time being.

  The next day, Saturday, Mark got up early and told his parents he was going to take the train into New York City to go to a science museum. He was old enough to do that on his own now. Taking the train into the city was easy. The station was at the bottom o
f Stony Brook Avenue, a short distance from Mark’s house. He checked the schedule and planned on catching the 8:05 local that would get him into Grand Central Station around 9 A.M. He figured that would leave him plenty of time to go to the address on the note and be back home before dinner.

  He was hoping to get a call from Courtney, but that call didn’t come, and he wasn’t going to beg. So he found himself early Saturday morning standing on the train platform, alone, ready to begin the next chapter in the adventure that had begun so long ago when Bobby first left home.

  The train pulled into the station and the doors opened quietly. During the week this train would be packed with commuters headed in to work. But on Saturday not many people took the train, so Mark pretty much had the car to himself. He picked a seat directly in the middle because he knew it was the smoothest ride. He threw his backpack in the overhead rack, then plunked down into the seat.

  “What’s the matter?” came a voice from the seat behind him. “Don’t want to sit with me?”

  Mark spun in surprise to see …

  Courtney.

  “I called your house,” she said. “Just missed you. Your mom told me you were catching this train. I got on one stop back.”

  “You sure about this?” he asked cautiously.

  “No, but who else is going to watch your back?” she answered with a smile.

  Mark broke out in a huge grin and moved into the seat next to her. For the time being, they were a team again. As the train took them into the city, they talked about everything except the mysterious note. It wasn’t that they were avoiding the subject, it was more that they had no idea what to expect on Amsterdam Place.

  They arrived in Grand Central Station and went right to the subway. Courtney knew that Amsterdam Place was on the upper East Side of Manhattan, so a quick scan of the subway map showed them the trains they had to take. The ride took twenty minutes, with only one change. Soon enough they found themselves emerging from the underground station on Amsterdam Place. Mark double-checked the building number, 429, and they walked two more blocks north.

  Finally they found themselves standing in front of an old, brick apartment building. It looked like a pretty nice neighborhood, with a view of the East River. There was a park across from the address with little kids running around and a bunch of guys playing touch football. Since it was September, the leaves were just beginning to show autumn colors. But the air was warm and the sky was the kind of deep blue that only showed up in the fall. The whole scene was about as normal and safe as could be.

  Except that Mark and Courtney now had to find out what was waiting for them in apartment 5A. With a quick look at each other, they climbed the cement stairs that led to the entrance. The double door looked like it had about five hundred coats of black paint on it. Mark grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open, letting Courtney go in first. Inside was another set of doors, but these were locked. The only way to get in was to be buzzed in by a tenant. On the right wall was a gray metal panel that listed all of the occupants of the building. Mark and Courtney eagerly checked for 5A.

  “‘Dorney,’” Mark said, reading the typed name. “Nothing weird about that.”

  “What did you think it was going to say?” asked Courtney. “Acolyte Headquarters?”

  In spite of his nervousness, Mark laughed. The two stood staring at the name. Next to it was a black button. Neither was quick to push it.

  “What are we going to say?” Mark asked.

  “How about: ‘Hi! We’re here to interview for the acolyte position.’”

  Mark gave Courtney a smirk. Before he could change his mind, he pushed the button. They waited. Nothing happened.

  “Maybe they’re out doing acolyte stuff,” Courtney offered.

  Mark hit the button again. Still nothing. Mark then said, “I guess we should come back—”

  “What?” came a man’s gruff voice from a speaker near the names.

  Mark and Courtney shot each other a look. Courtney got her head together first and said, “Uh, Mr. Dorney?”

  “Who is it?” the gruff voice demanded.

  “Uh, my name’s Courtney. I’m here with my friend Mark. We were wondering if—”

  “Go away!” the man barked, and the speaker went dead.

  “Now what?” Courtney asked.

  Mark hit the button again.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any!” the voice growled at them.

  “We’re not selling anything,” Mark said politely. “We’re here to talk to you about … uh … Bobby Pendragon.”

  No response. Mark and Courtney exchanged looks again. Mark reached forward to hit the button one more time, but was jolted by the harsh sound of a buzzer.

  “What’s that?” Mark said nervously.

  Courtney glanced at the door, then pushed it open.

  “He just buzzed us in,” she answered. Courtney stood in the doorway, holding the door open. “Last chance,” she said.

  “Don’t say that,” Mark threw back. “I might change my mind.”

  He took a quick breath, then turned and walked quickly past Courtney, through the door. Courtney followed, letting the door close behind them.

  Next stop, apartment 5A.

  The creaky elevator took them up to the fifth floor. Mark and Courtney anxiously watched the numbers above the door light up as they ascended.

  “What if it’s Saint Dane?” Courtney blurted out nervously. “He could be, like, luring us in.”

  “I thought about that,” Mark responded, almost as nervously. “But why would he bother with us? We’re just a couple of kids.”

  “Yeah,” said Courtney. “Two kids he could use to get even with Bobby.”

  Mark shot Courtney a look. He hadn’t thought of that. The elevator clunked to a stop and the doors slid open. Should they keep going?

  “If he wanted to get us,” Mark said, trying to sound confident, “he wouldn’t have to go through so much trouble.”

  Courtney nodded and stepped out of the elevator. Mark was right behind her. The hallway was carpeted and pleasant looking. There were windows on either end that glowed with warm, autumn light. Under each was a table with a pretty flower arrangement. They were probably fake, but still made the place look homey. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it wasn’t run down either. There looked to be around a dozen apartment doors spaced evenly on either side of the corridor. All were painted glossy black like the front door. Each had a brass knocker with the apartment number engraved on a metal plate. Mark walked right and Courtney looked left in search of 5A. The “A” apartment was right next to the elevator.

  “Go? No go?” Courtney asked.

  Mark’s answer was to reach for the brass knocker. He rapped twice. Not too hard as to sound insistent, but strong enough not to appear wussie. They heard the sound of footsteps inside shuffling toward the door. The person stopped, probably to peer out at Mark and Courtney through the peephole. Both of them sensed this, so they stood up straight, trying to look sincere. A moment later the door was unlatched and pulled open a crack. Just a crack. Mark and Courtney looked to each other as if to say: Now what? Courtney stepped forward and cautiously pushed the door open.

  The first thing they saw was the back of a man shuffling away from them—an old guy, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. His hair was gray and clipped short.

  “Close the door,” he called without turning around.

  Mark and Courtney stepped inside the apartment and closed the door. But not all the way. With a silent look, Courtney showed Mark that she was leaving the door open a hair, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

  “Come on!” the man shouted at them impatiently. “You got this far, don’t be shy now.”

  Mark and Courtney walked cautiously after the man, staying close to each other for support, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.

  The apartment was normal enough. It looked exactly like the kind of apartment one would expect an old man to live in
. The furniture was old, but in good shape. There were oil paintings of landscapes on the walls and framed photos of smiling people on polished mahogany tables. There wasn’t a single modern touch to the whole place.

  Two things stood out though. First was the books. There were thousands of them. In bookcases, on tables, in stacks that reached the ceiling. Whoever this guy was, he liked to read. The other thing was the plants. The apartment was like a greenhouse. There were dozens of potted plants, as well as viney tendrils, that traveled along the walls and across the bookcases every which way, with no beginning or end.

  The apartment in general looked very clean, even with all the plants. This wasn’t some slobby old guy who couldn’t take care of himself. So far, Mark and Courtney learned that the guy was neat, he read a lot, and had a green thumb. None of that helped to solve the bigger mystery of who he was though.

  “Sit down,” the old guy said while pointing to an overstuffed couch. He then shuffled over to an easy chair and slowly settled into it. Courtney and Mark didn’t take their eyes off him. As he sat, he had to hold on to the arm for support, as if his legs weren’t strong enough to do it on their own. The guy wasn’t frail, but he wasn’t going to run a marathon either. Mark and Courtney did as they were told and sat next to each other on the couch. Both thought it had the vague smell of mothballs. Neither mentioned it.

  Now that they were facing each other, they saw that the old man wore small, wire-rim glasses. His short gray hair was almost military in style. He sat with incredibly great posture, which made both Mark and Courtney sit up straight as well. He stared at them with a steady gaze, as if sizing them up. The guy may have been old, but he looked sharp.

  Mark got the ball rolling. “I’m M-Mark Dimond.”

  “And I’m Courtney Chetwynde.”

  A long moment went by. The man kept staring at them. Finally he asked, “Why do you care?”

  Mark and Courtney exchanged confused looks.

  “About what?” Courtney asked.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” the man said. “Why do you care?”

  Mark said, “W-We got your address—”