Martin slid down the rough bark until he came to rest in a soft puddle position at the base of the trunk.
Alex and Stuart scrambled down the ladder.
“Martin! Martin! Are you okay?” they called.
Martin didn’t move. He sat, woozy and confused.
“Get up! Get up!” Alex ordered. “My dad always makes me do that right away to make sure nothing’s broken.”
But Martin did not get up. His ears were ringing, and even though Alex was talking right to Martin’s face, his words sounded far, far away. Martin peeled off his Zip Rideout goggles.
“He’s bleeding,” said Stuart, wringing his hands and stepping back behind Alex.
“Where?” asked Alex.
Stuart pointed to the side of Martin’s head precisely where Martin felt burning. It also throbbed every time his heart beat.
“Holy cow!” said Alex.
Martin reached up and gingerly touched the side of his head. It felt warm and sticky. He looked at his fingertips.
Blood.
The ground flew up to grab him, but Alex lunged forward to hold Martin steady against the tree trunk.
“H-how bad is it?” Martin asked tentatively, not sure if he really wanted to know. He half-turned his head so his friends could take a better look.
Alex and Stuart leaned in to investigate, then Stuart quickly pulled back.
“What?!” Martin demanded, alarmed by Stuart’s reaction.
His friends glanced at each other with big eyes. It was Stuart who finally spoke.
“You’re bleeding behind the flappity part of your ear,” he reported.
“The what?” Martin asked weakly. The ground wobbled again.
“Behind your ear flap,” Alex confirmed. “Someone should look at that.”
Stuart nodded vigorously.
Now the side of Martin’s head throbbed even more. Everything became swirly again. Martin started to shake.
“I’ll go get your mom,” offered Stuart, and he dashed across the lawn before Martin could protest.
Alex stayed with Martin. There followed a brief but tense silence.
“Holy cow! You should have seen yourself,” Alex finally blurted out. “One minute you’re moonwalking, and the next minute — whoosh — you’ve gone through a wormhole in space!”
Martin said nothing. It took great effort not to throw up.
“And look at this,” said Alex, scrambling to his feet and scooting over to where the pogo stick had speared the ground. It was still standing at a rakish angle.
“I can’t even pull this out,” he said, yanking it dramatically with both hands. He looked to Martin for approval but was interrupted by a shout.
“Martin!”
Martin looked up at the sound of his mom’s voice as she sprinted across the yard, then hunkered down in front of him.
“Let me see,” she said softly, turning Martin’s head so that the mashed side faced her. “Oh, my.” She gently prodded his pounding ear flap. “You boys wait with Martin. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
In a flash, she was gone. Alex turned to Stuart and started up again.
“Did you see Martin shoot through the trapdoor? It was like he rocketed through a wormhole. Like episode seven, when Zip travels from the desert planet of Bleeker to one of Astro’s moons.” He wheeled to face Martin. “No kidding, Martin. You were moving at the speed of light! Just like Zip Rideout!!”
Martin had always wanted to be just like his space hero, so Alex’s words should have thrilled him. But they didn’t.
Instead, Martin tried to remember an episode where Spyder Mapleson showed Zip in a lot of pain. Real pain. With blood. None came to mind. Not even the shoot-out scene with Crater Man. It was then that Martin realized he had been deceived.
“I don’t want to be an astronaut anymore,” Martin announced, Spyder Mapleson’s betrayal exploding inside him.
His friends gasped.
“That’s crazy,” said Alex.
“Crazy?” repeated Martin. “No. Crazy is bouncing around on a pogo stick in a tree fort.”
Alex scuffed at the ground.
“What about exploring bold, uncharted worlds?” asked Stuart.
“What do you know about exploring bold, uncharted worlds?” snapped Martin. “You chose Ground Control.”
“Hang on!” Stuart replied in a hurt voice. “I said I was bored and wanted to switch. Remember?”
“Want to switch with me now?” asked Martin. He turned the throbbing side of his head to Stuart for full effect.
To Martin’s satisfaction, Stuart quickly looked away.
Suddenly, Martin’s mom was gently pressing a cool cloth to his head. But Martin couldn’t remember how she got there. And he didn’t remember getting into the van or how Alex and Stuart came to be riding in the backseat.
“Almost there,” said Martin’s mom.
“Almost where?” asked Martin.
“The hospital,” said his mom, glancing at him.
The hospital? Cripes! Martin had never been to one before. But from what he had heard from Alex, who had been there plenty of times, it didn’t sound like much fun.
“Why can’t I just lie down in my room for a bit?” he asked feebly.
“This is an emergency, Martin,” said his mom. She glanced at him again, this time with alarm. “I already explained this when we were helping you into the van.”
Martin gave her a blank stare.
“We’re definitely going to the hospital,” she muttered, pushing harder on the gas pedal.
Looking back, Martin remembered bits and pieces about the hospital. Squeaky linoleum floors and voices calling over loudspeakers. Ceiling lights so bright there were no shadows in the room. And being wheeled around on a hard cot with a pillow that made crinkle sounds beneath his head.
Alex and Stuart had to wait in the lobby while Martin got stitches behind his ear, but Martin’s mom never left his side.
The next thing Martin knew, his mom was tucking him in on the sofa at home. She had even brought down Admiral, Martin’s furry stuffed turtle, and the rocket-covered blanket from his bed.
“Want to watch some television?” she asked kindly. “I think Zip’s on.”
This did not buoy Martin’s spirits. He was still angry at Spyder Mapleson because of Zip’s accident-free record.
Martin shook his head “no,” but the movement caused him sudden jabbing pains. He winced, and his mom nodded sympathetically. She got him some apple juice and a pill for the pain.
“You’ll be shipshape in no time,” she assured him as he swallowed it.
Martin wasn’t so certain. For as long as he could remember, Martin had believed in Zip. And every night he had dreamed of exploring bold, uncharted worlds. Now he knew better.
“Bought you a comic book, Sport,” said Martin’s dad later that day. “The newest Zip Rideout!”
“Thanks, Dad,” Martin managed as he stared at yet another annoyingly triumphant cover.
Moonwalking. Rescue missions. Shoot-outs! Why, an astronaut was bound to get hurt. But as Martin flipped through the pages, he reaffirmed that there were no accidents or hospital scenes or blood in any of Spyder Mapleson’s stories.
All lies, thought Martin bitterly.
He tossed the comic book down in disgust, then rolled over onto his non-mashed side. Moving his head still hurt.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” he complained, Zip’s infuriating front-cover smile mocking him from the floor.
On Sunday, Martin mostly slept, but by Monday morning he was up and about.
“Are you sure you feel well enough to go to school, Sport?” asked his dad at breakfast. “The doctor said you could stay home for another day.”
“Spyde
r Mapleson’s coming for a visit,” explained Martin’s mom as she buttered some toast. “Martin wouldn’t miss him for the world.”
Martin said nothing. He poured his usual bowl of Zip Rideout Space Flakes, but he turned the box so he wouldn’t have to look at the illustration of Zip’s rocket.
It was then that Martin remembered he had wanted to ask Spyder Mapleson about how to paint realistic details.
Forget that, thought Martin. Nothing about Spyder Mapleson’s illustrations was real. With angry determination, he began to develop a new line of questioning.
When Martin arrived at school, his bandages caused quite a sensation, and he had to explain the accident about a hundred times.
Alex kept trying to insert space hero details like moonwalking and wormholes into Martin’s version of the event, but Martin wouldn’t have any of it.
“I’m not like Zip,” he insisted, head still slightly throbbing. “And I don’t want to be.”
He repeated this until art class, when he spotted Spyder Mapleson sitting beside Mrs. Crammond’s desk. A box near the illustrator’s feet had part of the solar system sticking out of it.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Crammond warmly after all of Martin’s classmates had settled down. “As you know, we have a very special visitor today. Please welcome Spyder Mapleson.”
The class clapped vigorously as their guest stood. He had very bushy eyebrows and wore a black Zip Rideout T-shirt. He gave them the official Zip Rideout salute.
Everyone jumped up and saluted back. Martin grudgingly joined in. Then he noticed that one of the planets orbiting out of Spyder Mapleson’s box was Pluto.
That’s not even a planet anymore, thought Martin in disgust as he sat back down.
Spyder Mapleson launched into his presentation. He talked about his artwork and where he got his ideas from. As he did, he pulled out the old-fashioned solar system and other space props from his box. Then he taped a large sheet of paper to the wall and showed them how to draw Zip Rideout step by step.
“And this is how I handle my ink brush to add details, like the star-shaped zipper pull and the badge of honor,” explained Spyder, putting the finishing touches on Zip’s jacket.
This was exactly the kind of information Martin had once hoped for.
“Aaaaaah!” said the class, much to Martin’s annoyance.
Martin did not take notes.
“Any questions?” asked Spyder.
Hands shot up.
The astronauts were curious about why Astro’s moon was orange. The firefighters were interested in Zip’s most memorable explosion. The police officers wanted to find out if laser guns made sounds in space. The hockey players asked if Zip’s space suit protected him from flying debris. And the paleontologists and ballerinas wondered if Zip went to museums and theaters on his days off.
Martin rolled his eyes at all of Spyder Mapleson’s answers.
“We have time for one more question,” said Mrs. Crammond.
Martin raised his hand.
“My name is Martin, and I have a question,” he said with the deadly aim of an intergalactic missile. “How come you never show pictures of accidents or blood or pain when Zip is exploring bold, uncharted worlds?”
“Good question, Martin,” said Spyder. “But before I answer, let me ask you this. Would you want to see pictures of accidents or blood or your space hero in pain?”
Martin didn’t take long to answer. “No,” he said as he touched his bandages.
The class murmured in agreement, glancing at Martin with sympathetic eyes.
“Precisely,” said Spyder. “And that’s one of the best things about being an illustrator. Sure, Zip gets to explore bold, uncharted worlds. But I get to create those worlds and Zip’s space adventures. There’s nothing more exciting than that!”
The class mulled this over.
Martin, too.
Like a misfired rocket booster, Martin’s anger fizzled to nothing.
“Say, I have an idea for a world that Zip could explore,” said Martin.
“You do?” said Spyder. “Tell us.”
“How about a planet where people live in tree forts?” suggested Martin.
“I like it,” said Spyder, raising a bushy eyebrow in delight. He picked up his ink brush and began to sketch out the scene.
“And maybe they could get around on pogo sticks,” Martin called out.
Spyder drew that, too.
“I think we should call them Martinians,” said Spyder, adding the final details.
When he completed the drawing, he rolled it up and gave it to Martin along with the official Zip Rideout salute.
Martin saluted back.
Spyder Mapleson’s visit ended, and Mrs. Crammond escorted him to the school’s front door. Everyone quickly turned to Martin.
“Holy cow, Martin!” exclaimed Alex. “You think just like Spyder!”
“And I thought only astronauts got worlds named after them,” added Stuart, fully impressed.
Martin beamed. He leapt up from his desk and raced over to his portrait of Zip, eager to add silver points, now that he knew how.
For although Martin hadn’t taken any notes, he remembered every word.
Draw Zip Rideout!
Spyder Mapleson showed Martin’s class how to draw their favorite superhero. Here are some tips to help you make Zip Rideout fly!
1. Draw a grid of squares, 3 squares wide and 7 high. Use graph paper to help you, or trace this grid.
2. Now you can draw Zip’s face. Take your time, and put your lines in the top middle square, like this:
3. His flight helmet goes here.
4. Draw his jacket next. Watch which square you’re in and where your lines begin and end!
5. Now add his pants, and you’re almost in orbit!
6. Now draw his hands, feet and rocket booster.
7. Add some shading and his badge of honor and get ready to fly!
About the Creators
Growing up, Jessica Scott Kerrin longed for a pogo stick or a tree fort or a bike that could actually fly. But unlike Zip Rideout, she did not have an accident-free record, and if she had gotten her wishes — ouch! — those things would have sent her completely out of orbit. She did, however, get along well with board games. Jessica, a champion puzzle solver, lives with her family in Halifax, Nova Scotia.
When Joseph Kelly was a boy, he drew spaceships, astronauts, robots, aliens and bold, uncharted worlds. Now, he gets to draw all that and more as he creates Martin’s universe. Without a doubt this makes him the happiest man in Sonoma, California.
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.
The other fishermen would reply by thumping his back good-naturedly with their sausage-fingered hands.
Martin Bridge: Out of Orbit! Page 3
