“Good morning, Mrs. Keenan,” chimed the class.
The monotony of this daily exchange was excruciating to Martin. His hand practically shot up on its own.
“A question already?” asked Mrs. Keenan, one eyebrow raised.
“Not a question. I have an announcement to make,” said Martin proudly.
“Go ahead then,” said Mrs. Keenan.
Martin stood for dramatic effect. “Today, I’m getting Zip Rideout’s Space Race Game! Deluxe Edition!”
A wave of delight swept across the faces in the room.
It was exactly the reaction Martin had hoped for!
“And everyone’s invited to my house tomorrow to play!” he added, the last part slipping out in his excitement.
Laila Moffatt, who sat in front of Martin and blocked his view of the blackboard with her big curly hair, twirled around and beamed at him. She did that about a hundred times a day, which Martin found annoying.
“Sounds great!” she said in her usual pushy way.
Oops, thought Martin. Perhaps he had been overly generous with his invitation. Once again, he wished that he had the wormhole on hand so he could do a start-over.
“You don’t like Zip,” said Martin flatly.
“But I like games,” said Laila in a little voice. She gave him a hurt look before turning around.
Martin sat down. Laila’s unwelcome reply reminded him of how his mom had told him he couldn’t keep a secret. He might have been able to defend his decision to tell his two best friends. Now he had gone ahead and told the whole class.
Even Laila Moffatt.
But cripes! Zip Rideout’s Space Race Game?! Deluxe Edition?!
Who could blame him for spreading the news faster than a meteor blazing across the sky?
Martin tapped Laila on her pointy shoulder.
“You’re invited, too,” he said, mustering some enthusiasm.
“Really?” said Laila brightly. “I heard you talking about the exploding yellow nebula. I’ll be sure not to get stranded!”
It would be just like Laila to win, thought Martin, regretting his invitation once again. He made a note to pull out his book on the night sky when he got home. Brushing up on the universe would give him an edge during tomorrow’s game.
“Better turn around,” whispered Martin when he noticed that Mrs. Keenan was staring at them.
For the rest of the morning, Martin had a hard time concentrating. He was too busy thinking about game rules involving hurtling meteors and systems of dwarf stars to fully appreciate the importance of adjectives, the steps for dividing numbers, or the names of all five oceans.
Finally, it was noontime. As usual, Martin sat with Alex and Stuart. He began to unlatch his lunchbox, then paused to listen to his friends’ conversation. To his dismay, they were chatting about the upcoming soccer game.
How could they have forgotten about his exciting news so quickly?!
Martin silently ate his meal, cookies first, frustrated by their short attention spans. And he barely nodded at Polly, who squawked her thanks for his lunchbox crackers.
When the last class of the day rolled around, Martin was determined to get everyone refocused on tomorrow’s big event. Sure, his secret was out, but that only counted if everyone remembered it. His thoughts were interrupted when the art teacher strode into the studio.
“We’re going to finish our ‘Where I Live’ module. So I’d like today’s artwork to feature your backyards,” announced Mrs. Crammond.
Martin had no trouble deciding what to paint. Art class was his favorite, and Mrs. Crammond had presented him with the very wormhole he sought. Now he could do a start-over and get the class back on track. He quickly set up his easel and had a blast with the paints.
Later, the class walked around admiring one another’s work. Martin noticed there were lots of vivid green lawns, flowers on thick sturdy stems and birds that looked like upside-down W’s. Pretty standard stuff.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mrs. Crammond. “What have we here?” She stood in front of Martin’s easel while a crowd gathered around.
Martin’s painting was blazing with fiery colors, and it featured people wearing space goggles. Some were climbing up to a tree fort. Others were crouching behind a smoking barbecue or under a picnic table. They all had H2O Faster Blasters.
“This is the class playing Zip Rideout’s Space Race Game at my house,” announced Martin. “The first cadet who successfully outsmarts Crater Man and saves the Orange Planet wins.”
“So this must be you,” said Mrs. Crammond, pointing to a figure holding a map of the Milky Way. “Nicely done!”
“Onwards and upwards,” confirmed Martin, giving her the official Zip Rideout salute.
Other classmates saluted, too, with murmurs of, “See you tomorrow, Martin.”
“I’ll definitely avoid the nebula,” Laila whispered as everyone shuffled off to the next easel.
Then she beamed at Martin. His ears burned.
Martin hastily rejoined the group, but he didn’t have much to say about anyone else’s work. He was too caught up with Saturday’s plans, right up until the end-of-school bell rang.
The ride home was agonizingly slow. Martin’s mind raced as the bus rumbled along its route, stopping a zillion times too many. By now he was certain that his mom’s story about lots of meetings was a ruse. Instead, Martin was convinced that she planned to pick up his prize from the post office, then get home early and help Martin’s dad set up the game in the backyard.
A barbecue!
Good one, Dad, thought Martin smugly.
When he realized that the next stop was his, he scooped up his belongings. At the same time, he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to see.
Maps of galaxies! A meteor chip! Inflatable planets! Zip Rideout and Crater Man! The wormhole! Martin’s stomach began to do flip-flops.
He leapt off the bus and saluted to Stuart. Then Martin strode up the driveway, whistling noisily so that his parents would know he was coming. He rounded the side of his house and flung open the gate.
“I’m home!” he announced.
There was no reply.
He took an uncertain step forward.
Still nothing.
A quick survey of the backyard told him everything he needed to know.
No maps of galaxies. No meteor chip. No inflatable planets. No Zip Rideout and Crater Man. No wormhole.
Just a smoking barbecue.
Cripes!
A wave of disappointment hit Martin. Then he was hit by another wave, this one filled with anger.
“Oh hi, Sport,” said his dad as Martin stormed into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I remembered to pick up the milk.”
“What happened to the surprise?” demanded Martin indignantly.
“Right. About that,” said his dad, suddenly serious. He pulled up a chair and sat down to face Martin. “Your mom didn’t get the promotion she was hoping for.”
“The what?” asked Martin, confused.
“The promotion,” repeated Martin’s dad gravely. “She thought she was going to be offered a job with more responsibility. But someone else was chosen.”
“That was the surprise?” said Martin, dropping his knapsack to the floor.
“Yes,” said his dad, missing Martin’s tone. He laid a calm hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Your mom’s pretty disappointed. We’ll have to be extra kind to her this weekend.”
Martin frowned. Sure, he felt bad for his mom. He supposed that a promotion with more responsibility was a good thing in the world of grown-ups.
But he was the one who had been expecting Zip’s game all day long! Nothing could be more disappointing than that!
“I’ll be up in m
y room,” muttered Martin, who could plainly see that no one would be interested in cheering him up tonight.
An even more horrible thought struck Martin as he climbed the stairs. Now he faced the grisly job of calling each and every one of his classmates to cancel tomorrow’s plans.
Including Laila Moffatt!
He groaned, desperate for a wormhole to take back the whole day!
Martin lay on his bed, listlessly flipping through his night sky book and putting off his hateful telephone task as long as possible. He paused when he heard the sound of his mom’s arrival.
The low murmur of his parents’ voices in the kitchen went on for quite some time. Martin was grateful that his dad was being nice, because Martin was in no mood to put aside his own colossal disappointment.
Then Martin heard his mom coming up the stairs. But something about her footsteps sounded different. They were heavier, perhaps, and slower. She hesitated outside his door before knocking softly.
“Come in,” said Martin.
“Got something for you,” said his mom.
Martin could tell she tried to say it happily, for his benefit. Only her words came out all skinny.
She put a parcel down beside him. One quick glance told him it was the game that he had been so desperate for.
“Surprise,” said his mom, but there was no exclamation mark. “I came home at lunch and found a notice from the post office saying that a parcel had arrived. I was pretty sure it was your prize, so I picked it up on my way home.”
For five long weeks, Martin had dreamed of this moment. He tore into the package at the speed of light.
“Oh, wow!” he exclaimed, pulling out the pieces. “Look at this! And this! And this!”
“Very nice,” said Martin’s mom.
Martin paused.
What was it about her that was throwing him off? Maybe the way she was slouching a bit? Maybe the way she hung her head ever so slightly? She looked smaller somehow.
His mom reached into the box and pulled out — of all things — the exploding yellow nebula. Then she stared into space, as if stranded on an unknown moon.
Something caught in Martin’s throat. He had never seen his mom looking so lost.
Perhaps that promotion had meant just as much to her as Zip’s game meant to him.
Yet, despite her disappointment, she had still gone to the post office.
For Martin.
And what did I do, thought Martin sheepishly, looking at the game parts tossed higgledy-piggledy about his bed.
“Enjoy,” his mom said with a touch of sadness. She turned to go, unaware that she was still holding the dreaded piece that Alex had warned Martin about.
“Wait,” said Martin. He took it gently from her. “You’d lose the game if you flew through the exploding yellow nebula.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she replied quietly.
Martin tossed the nebula back into the game box. His plans for tomorrow were certainly back on track. But having everyone over to play no longer seemed so important.
Martin glanced down and spotted the wormhole. He realized that what he wanted, more than anything, was a start-over for his mom.
Martin pushed the game box aside.
“How about you and me doing something tomorrow? Just the two of us,” he suggested. “The sky’s the limit.”
“Don’t you have plans with Alex and Stuart?” she asked.
Martin knew that if he told his mom the whole class was coming over, she would definitely turn him down.
“No plans,” Martin assured her.
Some secrets were definitely worth keeping.
She studied Martin, then gave him her old familiar smile.
“I’d like that,” his mom said in a voice more like herself. “Very much,” she added sincerely.
“Me too,” Martin replied.
Barbecue smoke wafted through Martin’s window.
“I better go help your dad,” said Martin’s mom.
As soon she left, Martin picked up the wormhole and tossed it in with the nebula. Then he dug out the class list from his knapsack, determined to get a jump start on those calls.
Look Up!
To prepare for Zip’s Space Race game, Martin studied the night sky. Here are some things you can try to spot. For best viewing, pick a cloudless evening and go to a park or a playing field where city lights won’t block your view.
Star or planet?
Stars look like they’re twinkling because they’re so far away that their tiny points of light are shifted by Earth’s atmosphere. Planets don’t twinkle because they’re much closer and thus appear to be larger, so Earth’s atmosphere has little effect on how they look.
Venus is the easiest planet to spot. It is the brightest object in the sky (except for the moon) and appears low in the west just after sunset. Mars, when it appears, can be easily identified because of its red light.
Comet or meteor?
A comet is made of rock and ice. As it moves toward the sun, the ice thaws, leaving a trail of rock that looks like a slow-moving smudge. Comets are usually difficult to see without a telescope, so if you spot one, consider yourself lucky!
Meteors, also known as shooting stars, are much easier to see. They flash across the sky when Earth passes through dust in space. As dust hits Earth’s atmosphere, friction makes the dust heat up and glow briefly before burning out.
Satellite or airplane?
Satellites, made of metal panels that reflect the sun’s light, appear as yellowish specks that glide across the sky. Hundreds of satellites orbit Earth taking weather photos, relaying telephone calls, and even spying. Airplanes also glide, but they have flashing lights and appear to move more slowly.
Now that you can identify these simple objects, there’s even more to see! The cosmos is brimming with stars that have been mapped out, called constellations. So grab a book about the night sky, look up, and get ready to explore the universe!
About the Creators
Jessica Scott Kerrin, who lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, has a big secret. She’s a terrible speller and also a poor sport when it comes to intergalactic board games. But it’s no secret that she loves to watch dazzling harbor fireworks with her husband and son aboard Cape Fear, her family’s boat. And, unlike Martin, she doesn’t have to wear earplugs.
Joseph Kelly wonders why games are so repetitious, need winners and losers or have to end. He and his kids have more fun making up new rules when they play. Try some of their favorites: Cat Scrabble, where the cat chooses the next tile, or Sentence Hangman, where you use whole sentences so the game lasts for days. Then make up your own!
Joseph lives with his family in Sonoma, California. Except for games, he plays by all the rules.
An Excerpt from The Lobster Chronicles
Floater Number Four
“I’ll dangle Lynnette by her ankles off the gunwale,” Graeme Swinimer swore to himself when he discovered a mummichog floating sideways in his plastic saltwater tub.
Its lifeless, speckled body bobbed above the sand dollars, periwinkles, brittle sea stars, urchins and a rock crab, all part of his marine life collection.
Lynnette was always feeding her food to his fish. What else could explain the soggy banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches, crusts cut off, hanging in the water?
A dead giveaway.
And this was the fourth floater since the start of the spring lobster season!
Graeme sighed. Ankle dangling would have to wait, because his little sister was at the playground with her buddies from the after-school program. He could hear their screams of glee way off in the distance, along with the putta-putta sound of Homarus II, his dad’s mint-green Cape Islander, motoring home for the day.
Graeme cast about his room for the fishnet. He checked underneath his aquarium
magazine, Cold Marine Tanks. He skirted past his posters of sharks, whales and sea turtles and scanned the top of his sock-and-underwear dresser. He turned to the other side of his room, which featured a large plaque of sailors’ knots mounted next to his closet door.
Aha! There it was, hooked on the knob. He remembered that he had hung the net to dry after scooping out Floater Number Three just last week.
Graeme strode across his bedroom’s round braided rug to retrieve the net. Then he dipped it into the saltwater tub to recover the limp fish.
Down the hall he plodded — drip, drip, drip — into the yellow bathroom with the wicker clothes hamper that faintly whiffed of lobster and diesel. Graeme stopped in front of the toilet. Plop went the fish. Whoosh went the bowl. Then, as payback, he grabbed Lynnette’s hairbrush and plunged it deep into the smelly hamper.
Graeme returned to the scene of the crime and wrote up the incident in his scientific journal. He included the usual details: the date, the type of marine animal, the probable cause of death.
Entry completed, he closed his notes, then gazed into the saltwater tub to observe the remainder of the school of mummichogs frolicking between barnacle-covered rocks, apparently unaware of the recent decrease to their number.
“Graeme’s going to be a marine biologist,” his dad boasted regularly at the government wharf next to the Lucky Catch Cannery where he unloaded his lobsters.
A longtime widower, Mr. Swinimer was determined that Graeme follow his dream, despite the challenges of having to raise him and Lynnette alone.
“Can’t wait!” Graeme always added, riding the wave of his dad’s enthusiasm.
Martin Bridge: The Sky's the Limit! Page 3
