I raced downstairs. Dad always insisted I take the call in the living room on the sofa—with the camera on, so he could make sure I hadn’t trashed anything.
He’s a neat freak. I’m a mess freak. And I had only five rings till the call went to voice mail. In the living room I shoved a pile of cables and joysticks to the center of the Turkish rug, along with two guitars, some comic books, three sweatshirts, a few pairs of socks, take-out containers from Wu Kitchen, a pizza box I was afraid to look into, and a half-eaten Kit Kat.
Beep…
From the middle of the pile I lifted a hook attached to four cables, which were linked to the corners of the carpet. I slipped the hook into a pulley I’d rigged to the ceiling chandelier support. A couple of strong tugs, and the rug rose like Santa’s toy sack, leaving a pristine wood floor below.
Beep …
6:44.
Plopping myself on the sofa, I accepted the call.
“Hey, Dad! Um, I don’t have much time to—”
“Five and a quarter! Tell them to sell at five and a half!” Dad was shouting to someone in his office. All I saw was his arm. “And close the door. I’m on a conference call!”
Then he was grinning happily at me. Which made me grin, too. It was the end of his day in Singapore. He looked really tired, like he’d just run a marathon with a dead gorilla strapped to his back. I really missed him. I wished his job could keep him closer to home.
But why did he have to call now?
“Heyyyy, Jackie, so sorry I’m late!” Dad said with a tight grin. “Living room looks great! But … uh, where’s the rug?”
Oops. I tilted the phone so only the wall would show in the background. “I guess Vanessa took it to be cleaned. But, Dad, look, I have to go—”
“Did she spill something?” he asked.
“I have this math test today …”
“You’ll do great!” Dad replied. “Hey, what’s the McKinley family motto?”
“A problem is an answer waiting to be opened,” I recited.
“Bravo! Hey, did you see the article I sent you about that poor kid, Cromarty? Died in the bowling alley near Chicago?”
Ugh. Current events. This always involved sad stories about kids and tragedies. Followed by a lecture. Dad’s way of scaring me into being extra-careful.
I glanced at my watch. 6:46.
“I think I skimmed it. Send me the link again. So. Wish me luck!” As I stood, my leg buckled beneath me and I almost dropped the phone. I had to clutch the sofa arm to keep from falling.
“Jackie, are you okay?” Dad’s brow was all scrunched now. “What’s that mark on your forehead? Is that a cut? Did you fall?”
“No!” I said. “I just used a flying toy instead of an alarm.”
That sounded a lot crazier coming out of my mouth than I expected. “You used a what?” Dad said.
I was feeling weak and light-headed. I took about three deep breaths and tried to stand tall, but I stumbled against the tied-up pulley rope.
Bad move. The rug hurtled downward. It sent up a cloud of dust as everything clanked to the floor. I swiveled away so Dad wouldn’t see it.
“What was that?” Dad asked.
6:47. How much worse could this possibly get?
“Nothing!” I snapped.
Dad’s eyes were wide. “Okay, that’s it. Something’s not right. I’m booking the next flight home.”
“What?” This wasn’t like him. Usually he’s explaining left and right how important his job is. Usually he’s the one to cut the conversation short. “Really?” Dad was looking at me funny. “Stay safe until I get there. Do not let yourself out of Lorissa’s sight. Make her take you to school.”
“Vanessa,” I said. “Lorissa quit. And so did Randi.”
“Okay, stay close to her, Jack,” Dad said. “Be safe. And good luck on that math test.”
“Thanks!” I said. “Bye, Dad! Love”—the image flickered off—“you.”
The screen was blank.
6:48. I had to book.
“Vanessa!” I yelled, running into the kitchen. As I snatched two bags of fruit-flavored Skittles from the counter, I saw a note taped to the fridge.
I darted back to Vanessa’s bedroom door and pushed it open. The little room was tidy and neat. And totally empty.
One more catastrophe to explain when Dad got home.
Shutting it out of my mind, I bolted out the back door and got my bike from the garage. The air was cold and bracing, and I quickly buttoned my peacoat.
As I sped onto the sidewalk, I leaned right and headed toward school.
If Red Beard was there, I didn’t see him.
CHAPTER TWO
THE ACCIDENT
“YO, SPACE MAN, watch out!”
I didn’t hear the warning. I was at the end of my bike ride to school, which involves a sharp turn around the corner of the building. You’re supposed to walk your bike by that point, but I was in too much of a hurry. Not that it matters, because most people are too smart to stand close to that corner anyway.
But most people doesn’t include Barry Reese, the Blow-hard of Mortimer P. Reese Middle School.
There was Barry’s hammy face, inches away, his eyes as big as softballs. As always, he was involved in his favorite hobby, making life miserable for littler kids. He was hunched menacingly over this tiny sixth-grader named Josh or George.
I slammed on the brakes. My front wheel jammed. The rear wheel bucked upward, flinging me over the handlebars. The bike slid out from under me. As I flew forward, Barry’s face loomed toward me at a zillion miles an hour. I could see three hairs sticking out of a mole on his cheek.
Then the worst conceivable thing happened.
He caught me.
When we stopped spinning around, I was hanging from him like a rag doll. “Shall we dance?” he said.
All I could hear was cackling laughter. Kids were convulsing. Barry grinned proudly, but I pushed him away. His breath smelled like bananas and moldy feet.
Josh or George scrambled up off the ground. No one offered to help pick up his books, which had been scattered all over the playground.
I don’t know why Barry was a bully. He was rich. Our school was named after his great-great-grandfather, who’d made his fortune creating those little plastic thingies that protect the toilet lid from hitting the seat. Personally, if I were rich and the heir to a toilet-thingy fortune, I’d be pretty happy. I wouldn’t pick on smaller kids.
“I don’t dance with apes,” I said, quickly stooping to pick up my bike to lock it to the rack.
I stole a look at my watch. The bell was going to ring in one minute.
“My apologies.” Barry elbowed me aside and scooped up my bike with exaggerated politeness. “Let me help you recover from your ride, Mario. From the cut on your head, I guess you had a few crashes already.”
I tried to take back the handlebars, but he was too fast for me. He yanked the bike away and began walking fast toward the rack. “Hey, by the way, did you finish the bio homework?” he said over his shoulder. “’Cause I was helping my dad with his business last night, and it got late. And, well, you can’t think about homework before profits. Not that I wouldn’t get all the answers perfect anyway—”
I pushed him aside and grabbed the bike. “No, Barry, you can’t copy my homework.”
“I did just save your life.”
As I locked the bike to the rack, Barry leaned closer with a twisted, smilelike expression. “Don’t think there won’t be some financial reward …”
Before I could answer, he took two quick steps to the side. Josh or George was making a break for the safety of the school yard, clutching an unruly mass of papers and notebooks. Barry thrust his arm out as if yawning. He clipped the kid squarely in the chest and sent him flying, the papers scattering again.
The blood rushed to my head. I wasn’t sure if it was from the Ugliosaurus hit, the crazy bike ride, the near crash, or Barry’s extreme obnoxiousness. Math test o
r not, he couldn’t get away with this.
“Here’s my homework!” I blurted, yanking a grocery list from my pocket. “You get it if you pick up Josh’s stuff and say you’re sorry.”
“It’s George,” the kid said.
Barry looked at me as if I were speaking Mongolian. “What did you say, McKinley?”
I was shaking. Dizzy. Maybe this was fear. How could I be so afraid of this doofus?
Focus.
Barry reached toward my sheet, but I pulled it away, backing toward the street. “Tell him you’ll never do it again,” I insisted. “And don’t even think of saying no.”
Balling and unballing his fists, Barry stepped closer. His white, fleshy face was taking on the color of rare roast beef. The bell rang. Or maybe it didn’t. I was having trouble hearing. What was happening to me?
“How’d you get that little cut on your head, McKinley?” Barry’s voice was muffled, like he was speaking inside a long tunnel. “Because I think you need a bigger one.”
I barely heard him. I felt as if something had crawled into my head and was kickboxing with my brain.
I struggled to stay upright. I couldn’t even see Barry now. The back of my leg smacked against a parked car. I spun into the street, trying to keep my balance. The black top rushed toward me and I put out my hands to stop the fall.
The last thing I saw was the grille of a late-model Toyota speeding toward my face.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Lerangis is the author of more than one hundred and sixty books, including two books in the New York Times bestselling 39 Clues series (The Sword Thief and The Viper’s Nest) and one book in the 39 Clues: Cahills vs. Vespers series (The Dead of Night). Together, his books have sold more than five million copies and have been translated into twenty-eight different languages, Peter is a Harvard graduate with a degree in biochemistry. He has run a marathon and gone rock climbing during an earthquake—though not on the same day. He lives in New York City with his wife, musician Tina deVaron, and their two sons, Nick and Joe. In his spare time, he likes to eat chocolate.
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COPYRIGHT
Seven Wonders Journals: The Select
Copyright © 2012 by HarperCollins Publishers
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