Copyright
Published by
Harmony Ink Press
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Here’s to You, Zeb Pike
© 2013 Johanna Parkhurst.
Cover Art
© 2013 Anne Cain.
[email protected]
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-62798-524-6
Library ISBN: 978-1-62798-526-0
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-525-3
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
November 2013
Library Edition
February 2014
For Mom, Dad, and Anthony. For everything.
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK exists because of a lot of people.
This book exists because of the students in four different middle schools in four different cities. Thanks, guys, for constantly inspiring me, keeping me on all ten of my toes, and never letting me forget why I write.
This book exists because of the amazing friends and family members who read draft after draft and kept telling me not to give up on it.
And this book definitely only exists because of Travis, my lifelong cheerleader and editor. There’s no one I would rather explore life’s paths with.
Prologue
SOMETIMES I wonder if I’m the only high school freshman on the planet who actually likes school.
Well, I guess I don’t really like school itself. I don’t really enjoy writing papers or listening to lectures or dealing with quadratic formulas or any of that stuff. It would probably be more accurate to say that I like resting.
School is one of the few places where I get a chance to relax, sit back, and not think too hard. My buddy Race hates when I talk like that—he says it’s egotistical of me to brag that I can ignore about 80 percent of what our teachers say and still get the grades I do—but I’m not trying to brag. That’s just how school is for me.
Take the class I’m currently chilling out in: history with Ms. Carlson. This is a class that probably makes other freshmen want to slit their throats. I mean, I know all students think their teachers drone on and on, but Ms. Carlson brings it to the level of an art form. She must have been absent from teacher school on the day “class discussion” was introduced as a method of instruction.
Me? I love this class. Most of the time I completely zone out for forty minutes and just recap whatever I missed with a little textbook skimming during study hall.
Today I’ve managed to lean back my chair as far as it will go, and I’ve got my feet propped up on my backpack. I’m half-listening to Ms. Carlson; she’s going on about the Pike Expedition. After all, this is Colorado Springs, home of Pikes Peak, the semifamous and epically huge mountain that is currently looming right outside our classroom window.
“Zebulon Pike and his team did attempt to ascend the peak, but they were forced to turn back, essentially due to weather conditions and a lack of appropriate gear. There were no REIs in the area then, you see.”
The class titters, which is more of an effort to keep Ms. Carlson smiling than a nod to how great the joke is. Ms. Carlson is one of those teachers who enjoys thinking she’s hilarious. We’re a bunch of students who enjoy inflated grades.
“Wait, Ms. Carlson, I don’t get it. Do you mean he didn’t get to the top?”
Ms. Carlson looks annoyed by the interruption, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just because Albert Lansing forgot to raise his hand. I’m telling you, this is not a woman who appreciates student involvement in her classes.
“No, Albert, he did not. Now, shortly after the Pike team was forced to abandon the—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Now Dani Gonzalez is interrupting Ms. Carlson’s thoughts, also without raising her hand. Definitely not good for Ms. Carlson’s composure. “Why is the mountain named after him? Why is it named Pikes Peak if Zebulon Pike didn’t climb it?”
Ms. Carlson takes a moment to collect herself before she addresses Dani. Her lips are pursed so tight they could easily disappear. That would probably make speaking difficult, which would make her teaching nonexistent.
“The mountain is named Pikes Peak because Zebulon was the one who first discovered it, Danielle. Whether or not he reached the top of it is hardly the point.”
James Fuerte raises his hand, and Ms. Carlson calls on him. It’s a foregone conclusion that she doesn’t want to, but at this point her flow has to be shot anyway. “But there were already Native American tribes that had been living in this area for hundreds of years; wouldn’t it be more accurate to say they discovered the mountain? Shouldn’t it be named after them?”
James is smart. He knows Ms. Carlson loves to talk about how the land we live on was stolen from the Native Americans. She’ll have to get sucked into this now.
“You are correct, Mr. Fuerte. The mountain had been discovered long before Zebulon arrived. It would be much more accurate for us to say that Zebulon first recorded the existence of the mountain.” She shakes her head at the flurry of hands that go up in the air. “That said, the fact that he did not climb the mountain himself is entirely irrelevant. History has shown us time and again that discoveries are far more important than conquests.”
I’m actually paying attention for once, and I sort of would like her to expand on that point, but she goes off into how Zebulon Pike’s team was captured by the Spanish.
While Ms. Carlson heads with Zeb Pike’s team and the Spanish authorities to Santa Fe, I stay comfortably at the side of Pikes Peak, wondering if Ms. Carlson is right. I just can’t see it. My life proves over and over again that discoveries don’t matter at all; you have to conquer what life throws at you if you want to get anywhere in this world.
The fact that my brother and sister and I aren’t in foster care is proof enough of that. I “discovered” early on in our lives that my parents were basically worthless, as parents go. That discovery? All it meant was that I had to conquer taking care of Matt and Julia at, like, age ten.
The results of that conquest, I’m proud to say, have so far been pretty positive. Take today: it’s one of those sunny, balmy days that can still appear in September in Colorado. I’ve promised to take Matt and Julia to the park this afternoon, and we’re going to have a great time. My friend Race is coming too, which means I’ll get to use his skateboard a few times, and Matt is hilarious in the park. He’s a great soccer player, and he loves to show off his skills. He used to play for one of the city teams when he was younger, but we haven�
�t had that kind of money in a few years.
And all that great family bonding will be brought to us because I conquered learning how to do laundry and make dinner before social services could figure out that my mother can’t find our apartment most nights. I don’t think discovering the laundry was sitting by the hamper really got me anything.
Ms. Carlson is still going on about Zebulon Pike and the Spanish, and I go back to relaxing.
I run a quick mental check to see if there’s anything I should be worrying about right now. Life seems to be treating me better than it treated Zeb Pike during the Pike Expedition, because I can’t come up with anything. The money Mom left us a week or so ago is stretching. We’re eating a lot of ramen and frozen dinners, but Matt and Julia like that kind of stuff, so they don’t seem to care. The electricity is still on. I don’t know if the gas still is, but we can worry about that when it really starts to get cold. I’m pretty sure Mom paid the rent through the end of the month. Things are working out a lot better than the last time Mom took off—that time she’d forgotten to pay the electric bill, and I had to track down Dad and get money from him to pay it.
Things seem to be going okay. I mean, at least I’m not stuck in waist-deep snow on the side of a mountain and about to accidentally stumble directly into Spanish territory.
The school secretary, Mrs. McMann, comes to the door and motions for Ms. Carlson. Ms. Carlson puts off her lecture long enough to walk to the door and read the note Mrs. McMann passes her. “Dusty,” she calls out. “The front office needs you.”
I pull myself up out of my cramped desk chair to go see Mrs. McMann, the tiniest secretary in the history of school secretaries. I like the woman and all, but she truly is miniscule. She can’t be more than five feet tall. I’m only in the ninth grade, and I tower over her.
Mrs. McMann is frowning intently at me. “Dusty, I need you to come downstairs with me for a bit. Julia seems to be pretty sick, and I can’t get your mother on the phone. She’s not answering her cell number. I called the work number she listed, but the person who answered said she no longer works there.”
Of course they had…. Mom hasn’t been at that temp job in nearly six months. My mom takes the phrase “temporary” to a whole new level. I reflect briefly on how impressive it is that the school hasn’t needed to reach Mom in that long, and I have a moment of pride. Who needs parents, anyway? We’re doing just fine.
I pause my inner monologue of what an amazing brother I am to notice that Mrs. McMann is nervously tapping her foot, which instantly makes me nervous. Mrs. McMann has been Prescott Charter School’s secretary for a long time, and she knows the difference between a sick kid and a faking one. She also knows Matt and Julia pretty well, so Julia must be in bad shape if Mrs. McMann thinks I need to be pulled out of class.
I practically race down the stairs to the health room, all the while worrying myself into a panic. Julia hardly ever gets sick—she hasn’t even had a cold for the past few months. I start to wonder if a person can get sick from eating too much ramen. By the time I reach poor Jules, I’ve completely remade our grocery list in my head and added about twelve green vegetables to it.
The health room reeks of vomit. Julia’s lying on her side on an old green cot, her skin as white as the ugly fluorescent light in our apartment hallway. Her light-blond hair is stuck to her face with sweat, and she’s holding her stomach. “Dusty,” she whispers, “I threw up twice.”
“Aw, that’s okay.” I sigh. “Just lie there for a second.” I sit down next to her and put her head in my lap. Her forehead feels like someone could cook an egg on it.
I look up at Mrs. McMann. “Can I please take her home? Please? She looks horrible.”
Mrs. McMann hesitates. “Maybe we should try your mother’s cell again. We really need to get her to come take Julia. I can’t release her to you like that. Anyway, how would you get her home? She’s in no shape to walk.”
I suck in a breath and release it slowly. This is definitely a challenge. How am I going to get Julia home without anyone realizing that our mother is MIA? “Mom just got a new job with the temp agency, and I don’t know her office number. She won’t be home until at least five. Please let me take her, Mrs. McMann. I’ll take good care of her; you know I will. She can piggyback home with me. She’s too sick to stay here.” I give Mrs. McMann my best puppy-dog face and hope I look like the upstanding, perfect student I always try so hard to be at Prescott Charter School. I know I have a pretty good shot of her saying yes. Prescott doesn’t have a school nurse full-time, and if Julia stays here, Mrs. McMann will have to take care of her.
She hesitates for a moment, and I feel suddenly powerful. If I get away with this lie, I can get away with anything when it comes to my brother and sister. I am really in charge of their lives, even if no one else knows it.
I wonder what my parents would think of that.
“You’re sure there isn’t another number I can call?”
I shake my head. Odds are Mom doesn’t even have that cell phone Mrs. McMann’s been calling all morning. My mother changes cell phones almost weekly, depending on which pay-as-you-go company she’s using that week, and she never bothers to leave me a new number.
“Let me check with Mrs. Sabring,” Mrs. McMann finally decides. Mrs. Sabring is Prescott’s principal. She’s known my family for a very long time, since I was in first grade, and if anyone is going to blow my cover, it will be her.
Mrs. Sabring comes in and looks Julia over. Jules whimpers and clings to my hand. “And you don’t know your mother’s new work number, Dusty?” Mrs. Sabring asks, her face etched with concern.
I shake my head. “Un-uh. And she never gets home till late.”
“Well… I suppose I can let you take her. On two conditions: I will drive you both home, and you are to have your mother call me immediately when she gets home tonight.”
“Of course, Mrs. Sabring.” I agree with that same upstanding nod, even though I have no idea how “Mom” is going to call that night. At this point, I don’t care much. All I want to do is get Julia home and in bed.
I stop by Mrs. Hall’s algebra class to ask Race to pick up Matt, and bring him home. Race keeps my secrets well. He’s the kind of friend you can make farting noises with during lunch and still trust to never tell anyone that you almost set his mother’s couch on fire in the fourth grade. I’m never sure which quality I appreciate more.
I help Julia into Mrs. Sabring’s car. She whines and groans, and for a minute I’m afraid she’s going to throw up all over the expensive-looking interior of Mrs. Sabring’s sedan. “Probably just that nasty flu bug going around,” Mrs. Sabring says as she drives us down the street to our apartment complex. “Everybody’s coming down with it. Make sure you give her lots of fluids, Dusty.”
At home Julia shows no signs of improvement. I follow all Mrs. Sabring’s flu instructions, but none of it seems to help. Jules throws up every glass of water I give her. She whimpers more loudly each hour, holding her stomach more firmly every time she grabs it. I try to take her temperature on our old, beat-up thermometer, but it says she has a fever of 110 degrees. I know that can’t be right, but she definitely has a fever. Her forehead feels like a fire pit.
By the time Matt and Race get to the apartment around three-thirty, I’m starting to freak out. Matt comes racing up the hallway and into the doorway shouting, “Dusty! Is Julia okay, is she okay?”
I stop him at the door to Julia’s bedroom. “Shut up, kiddo,” I whisper, bumping my shoulder into his to let him know I’m not mad. “She’s finally sleeping.” And she is, a little. She’s dozing on and off, but she wakes up periodically to tell me how much her stomach hurts and throw up again. Nothing stays down.
Matt nods and tiptoes into Julia’s room. He sits down on the bed with her and frowns hard, as if he’s trying to diagnose her just by looking at her. Matt’s a really funny kid. Most of the time he’s a bundle of energy, loose and fun, like a lot of other eight-year-olds I�
��ve met. But there are some things he takes very seriously. His teacher has told me that Matt will be a class clown all day long, but when it comes time for math, which is the subject Matt enjoys the most and is best at, he settles right down and becomes the helper for his entire group. Matt takes Julia very seriously too. He hardly ever fights with her, even though they are really close in age and Julia can be pretty whiny sometimes. He seems to have endless patience when it comes to her. Julia was really young when Mom and Dad started skipping out on us, and Matt always seems very aware of that.
Six-year-old Julia’s not the laid-back kid Matt is—she’s much more deliberate and careful. She picks out her clothes carefully (even though we never have the money to buy her anything all that great), she fixes her hair carefully, she eats carefully. When she does her homework, she takes almost an hour to write a paragraph—not because she’s slow, but because every letter she puts on the paper has to be perfectly formed. It cracks me up, except when we’re in a hurry and she’s taking two hours to pick out the perfect pink outfit.
I wish she could be sitting at the kitchen table right now, taking twenty minutes to write her name at the top of her paper, instead of lying in her bed looking like she’s never going to stand up again.
Race pulls me backward out of the room a little ways. “Dude, is she okay? She doesn’t look so great.”
I run my hand over my forehead. “Race, I don’t know what to do. Her fever’s really high and she won’t stop throwing up.”
Race looks in on Matt and Julia. He shakes his head slowly, tongue between his teeth. This is Race’s “thinking” look. Normally I’d make some joke about how much brain power he’s wasting just keeping his tongue in place, but I don’t have the energy right now.
“Man….” Race pauses. “I’m not sure you have any more choices, Dusty.”
Even before he says it, I know he’s right.
WE CAN both see that Julia is in no position to be carried anywhere, so Race decides to call his mom and see if she’ll bring us to the clinic near our house. We agree to try to hold up the pretense that my mom is at work for as long as possible, even though I don’t think it will hold up very long if anything is really wrong with Jules. Still, it’s worth a shot.
Here's to You, Zeb Pike Page 1
