Martin Bridge: Onwards and Upwards!

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  “Maybe someday I could learn to play Zip’s ‘Onwards and Upwards’ theme song,” suggested Martin’s mom enthusiastically.

  Martin took that as a threat. He quickly switched to another channel in the hope that she would learn to ruin the song of some other show.

  Over the next few days, Martin worked his way through the box of tapes. And, every once in a while, he came across a terrific song, like the one about a yellow submarine. When that happened, he’d get out his art supplies and set to work. The walls of his tree fort were nearly covered with underwater scenes.

  Then, one morning, Martin climbed down from another tape session and went into the kitchen for a snack. As he stood staring at the contents of the fridge, he noticed that something was different.

  Martin held his breath and listened hard.

  Silence.

  The only sound he could make out was his own nervous heartbeat.

  Martin crept to the hallway, spylike, and peeked into the living room.

  The keyboard stood alone. Had his mom finally figured out that she had no musical talent?

  Fingers crossed, Martin returned to his tree fort.

  Later in the afternoon, Martin made another daring mission to the kitchen. He wasn’t even hungry. It was curiosity that drove him to it.

  Once again, silence.

  What was she up to?

  Martin darted from room to room until he spied his mom sorting photos on her computer. He backed away and decided not to mention the keyboard, in case it triggered a return of the practice sessions. But Martin did brave a conversation with Polar Pete.

  “She’s stopped playing,” he confided over a scoop of Zip’s Milky Way Mocha Swirl.

  “What a shame,” said Polar Pete.

  But Martin was not yet convinced that his ordeal was over. Every time he entered the house that day and the next, he paused to listen, expecting the worst.

  And every time, he was greeted by the glorious sound of nothing at all.

  Then something strange happened.

  Martin began to frown at the silence. Somehow, it had become eerie. He even started to wonder if he actually missed the plink, plonk of his mom’s playing.

  He replayed her tuneless tunes in his head.

  No.

  Her attempts at making music sounded just as bad in his memory as they had in real life.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something.

  Puzzled, Martin continued his spy missions. He watched his mom clipping articles from magazines, sorting the mail and tossing out dried-up bottles of nail polish. But no matter what she was doing, she didn’t look like she was having much fun.

  “That’s it!” Martin blurted as he lay in bed that night. It wasn’t her music, it was her excitement about playing the keyboard that he missed. The house seemed emptier without it.

  Martin bunched up his pillow at the thought of all those times he had stomped by the living room on the way to his tree fort. And then he remembered Polar Pete’s words. Perhaps her happiness was worth putting up with a few badly played songs.

  “Hi, Mom,” said Martin when he searched the house the next morning and found her reading on the front porch. “How’s the keyboard coming along?”

  “The keyboard’s not my thing,” she declared, barely looking up.

  “But you can still have fun with it. Polar Pete says you should keep up the hard work. Why don’t you play something now?”

  “I can’t, Martin. I sold the keyboard. Yesterday.”

  “What?!” exclaimed Martin. “You did?!”

  He charged into the living room. A large potted plant stood where the keyboard used to be.

  The air in the empty room was suffocating.

  Martin slowly returned to the porch with something more than thick silence weighing heavily on his shoulders.

  “So, you’re quitting? Just like that?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Well, it’s not like I didn’t try. Besides, you must be getting sick of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ by now.”

  Well, that was definitely true.

  Still.

  One uneasy question remained. Martin wondered if he’d had anything to do with her decision to sell the keyboard. He studied his mom, who had returned to her book.

  “Mom?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Mmmmm?” she replied, turning a page.

  More oppressive silence.

  Martin struggled with his unspoken question, because he already knew the answer.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  The telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Martin, and he went inside.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Martin,” said Alex. “I’ve talked everyone into my sprinkler party business, and Stuart and I are starting this morning.”

  “Really?” said Martin, glad for the distraction.

  “Yes,” crowed Alex. “Harper’s dad let us borrow the demo sprinklers from his hardware store. Kyle’s dad printed business cards for us. And Clark’s mom is giving us a table in front of her bakery to sell sprinkler party packages to people who buy her birthday cakes.”

  “How come you didn’t ask me to help?” demanded Martin indignantly.

  “You never offered!” said Alex.

  He’s right, thought Martin sadly. He had been too busy hating Alex’s idea to even think about helping out.

  Martin slumped against the wall. The heavy silence around him was replaced with stomach-churning guilt.

  “Hey! I don’t hear the keyboard,” Alex remarked.

  “It’s gone,” said Martin with regret.

  But wait! Maybe there was a chance that he could still do something for his friends. He took a deep breath of that suffocating air.

  “What about decorating your table?” Martin asked. “I could bring my new drawings of underwater stuff.”

  “That’d be great!” said Alex. “We’re meeting at the bakery in an hour.”

  “Onwards and upwards!” Martin replied.

  After he hung up, Martin stood, shoulders back. He knew that there would be few, if any, sprinkler party sales. But that didn’t matter. Being supportive already felt way better than being right.

  Bells rang faintly down the street. Martin rushed to the front porch and saw that his mom was already beside the ice-cream truck, chatting with Polar Pete.

  Martin ran down to join them.

  “I was just telling your mom about a drum set I saw up the street at a yard sale,” explained Polar Pete as he handed a cone of Zip’s Lunar Licorice Delight to Martin. “Your mom told me about the keyboard, but maybe drums are her thing.”

  “What do you think?” Martin’s mom asked eagerly, bending down to look Martin full in the face. “There’s space in the living room where the keyboard used to be.”

  Her words were music to his ears.

  Martin took only one quick lick of his ice cream, then said, “Let’s go check them out.”

  Rope

  Martin grudgingly shoved over as Laila Moffatt wedged herself between him and his two best friends, Alex and Stuart.

  “I want to join the Junior Badgers,” she announced.

  “No, you don’t,” said Martin. He flipped open his starship lunchbox, determined not to give her idiotic comment a second thought.

  “Yes, I do,” she insisted, opening her lunchbox, too.

  Laila’s lunchbox featured an old-fashioned character named Rosie. She had a can-do look and was flexing her arm.

  Martin glowered as Laila bit into her smelly tuna sandwich.

  In class, Laila sat right in front of Martin. Her messy orange curls blocked his view of the blackboard. She was forever borrowing his pencil crayons. And whenever she got the right answer, which was a lot, she’d turn around and smile at him as if they shared a secret.

  Martin’s ears burned just thinking about it.

  “Junior Badgers meet on Monday
nights, right?” Laila asked, plowing ahead.

  “So what if we do?” argued Stuart, coming to Martin’s rescue. “You can’t be serious about joining.”

  “I am serious,” said Laila, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Forget it, Laila,” said Alex. “Junior Badgers are all about rocket launchings and surviving in the woods and building weapons. None of those are up your alley.”

  “Junior Badgers are also about earning badges,” said Laila with deadly aim.

  “Oh, so that’s it!” exclaimed Martin. “You want to scoop all the badges! Don’t you have enough awards and first-place ribbons?”

  Laila generally cleaned up at the school’s annual Awards Day. Martin imagined that her bedroom must be absolutely stuffed with prizes. The rest of the class had to scramble for leftovers like “most improved in spelling” or “teacher’s helper” or “best debater.”

  Come to think of it, Laila had won “best debater” last year, too.

  And it wasn’t just winning awards that Laila was good at. She was a master organizer of team projects. She could beat Martin at his Zip Rideout Space Race Game. And Martin knew that for someone her size, Laila was surprisingly strong.

  He had made this last discovery after Laila had showed up a day late for his birthday, and Martin’s mom had forced him to play with Laila in the backyard. Instead of taking the ladder, Laila had climbed all the way up to Martin’s tree fort by rope to drop some water balloons.

  Neither he nor his friends had ever climbed all the way up by rope.

  It was just too hard.

  And a little bit scary.

  “You can’t join the Junior Badgers, Laila,” Stuart insisted, interrupting Martin’s thoughts. “You don’t even know the Junior Badger pledge.”

  Laila put down her sandwich, stood and recited the pledge flawlessly.

  I promise with all my heart

  To try new things with courage

  And blaze ahead with honor

  To learn something new every day

  Especially from those around me.

  Then she gave them the secret Junior Badger salute.

  All three boys gasped.

  “How’d you know that?!” Martin managed to ask, horrified by this breach in troop security.

  “Martin! I sit in front of you all day long. How could I not know,” she replied snootily.

  Martin’s best friends shot him death glares. He hung his head. Guilty as charged.

  He bit into his cheese sandwich, which now tasted like sawdust. So did his favorite chocolate chip cookies.

  At the next Junior Badger night, Alex elbowed Martin and pointed to the double doors of the lodge. Stuart looked, too.

  There entered Laila in full Junior Badger uniform, an empty badge sash draped across her chest.

  “She’ll be adding badges to that sash in no time,” Martin predicted grimly to Alex, who nodded in resentment.

  Stuart clucked his tongue.

  Laila scanned the hall, and when she spotted Martin, she gave him a cheerful wave.

  Martin turned away, arms crossed. If Laila insisted on joining the Junior Badgers, that was one thing. But he sure wasn’t going to make it easy for her to fit in.

  No way.

  “Attention, Junior Badgers!” boomed Head Badger Bob, the troop’s leader. He waved a gigantic flag bearing the Junior Badger logo, which was the signal for everyone to form a circle for the opening burrow.

  The Badgers quickly took their places and grew quiet. All eyes rested uneasily on Laila.

  Martin could tell she was also on edge. She had reached for her left foot and pulled it up behind her. Laila always did that when she was nervous.

  Good! His earlier snub was working.

  “I’d like everyone to give a warm Junior Badger welcome to our newest member,” Head Badger Bob called out jovially.

  Laila received a polite smattering of applause that quickly petered out.

  “What’s she doing here?” Kyle muttered to Martin.

  Kyle was a year older than Martin, and he had only one more badge to earn before his sash was complete. A complete sash would mean that he’d receive high honors when he moved up to Trail Makers.

  “Beats me,” Martin replied, taking a step back.

  Kyle’s breath smelled like a dishcloth gone sour.

  “Listen! This is no place for your brainiac friend,” Kyle warned, wagging his finger in Martin’s face.

  “She’s not my friend!” Martin protested.

  “Tell her to stay away,” insisted Kyle. “I’m this close” — he showed Martin the tiny gap between his thumb and pointer finger — “to filling my sash, and I don’t need that brainiac taking up our Head Badger’s marking time.”

  “But I don’t —” Martin tried to defend himself. Kyle cut Martin off with a rude wave of his hand.

  Fuming, Martin struggled to return his attention to Head Badger Bob. Laila stood across from him and grinned when she caught his eye.

  He returned her friendliness with his fierce hands-on-hips stance.

  It worked. She reached for her foot.

  “As always, we’ll start off by awarding the latest badges,” announced Head Badger Bob.

  Then he called out Martin’s name. Martin eagerly stepped forward to receive his badge for bicycle safety.

  Bicycle safety was one of the easier badges to complete. Many in the troop already had that one. But since Martin wasn’t moving up to Trail Makers until next year, he was in no rush to get started on the harder badges.

  After the awards, everyone took a seat on the floor.

  “Tonight we have a special guest who will be teaching us about” — Head Badger Bob checked his clipboard — “oh, yes, that’s the correct term. Scat!”

  A man wearing a park ranger uniform moved into the circle. Laila shot her hand up into the air.

  “What’s scat?” she asked boldly.

  “It’s animal poop, Laila,” explained Head Badger Bob.

  Laila frowned.

  “Why would we want to learn about that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “You can learn all kinds of things from studying scat,” the park ranger cut in. “Like what wildlife eat, how healthy they are and where they’ve traveled.”

  Alex nudged Martin excitedly. Poop was right up Alex’s alley.

  And that was probably true for the rest of the troop, judging by the growing buzz.

  The park ranger proceeded to show them all kinds of scat — owl, deer and even coyote. Laila pushed each new sample away with a grimace, much to Martin’s satisfaction.

  The next morning at school, Martin took his seat and tapped Laila’s pointy shoulder. She wheeled around and smiled.

  “Hi, Martin,” she said pleasantly.

  “What did you think about the poop?” Martin asked, knowing full well that she had hated that activity.

  “Not poop, Martin! Scat!” Laila corrected him. And then she added curtly, “I have no intention of quitting, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  That was exactly what Martin was thinking. His ears burned.

  “Besides,” Laila continued, “I’ve already started working on several badges. Public Speaking. Journalism. And Good Citizenry.” She counted them off on her fingers matter-of-factly.

  Martin rolled his eyes. She was going straight for the hardest badges!

  Typical.

  On the next Junior Badger night, Laila showed up again, just as she had promised. And during the opening burrow, Head Badger Bob made a big deal out of awarding Laila the first badge on her ambitious list.

  Laila beamed at Martin, still seeking his approval. But Martin quickly turned away, only to come face-to-face with Kyle.

  Kyle did not look impressed.

  After the opening burrow, everyone sat down.

  “Tonight,” boomed Head Badger Bob, “we’ll be focusing on skills for outdoor survival. And as a special tre
at, we have a museum biologist on hand to teach us how to cook and eat …”

  There was a dramatic pause, and the Junior Badgers fidgeted in anticipation.

  “… bugs!” finished Head Badger Bob gleefully.

  “Holy cow!” exclaimed Alex, rubbing his hands together.

  Eating bugs was right up Alex’s alley.

  Martin was thrilled, too. Laila had had a hard time handling last week’s poop. He was positive that she would not be overjoyed about eating bugs.

  Come to think of it, Martin wasn’t so keen on eating them, either. But he’d do it if it would show Laila why she was not Junior Badger material.

  All through the bug-cooking demonstration, Martin noticed that Laila was looking queasy and clutching her stomach.

  “What’s that know-it-all friend of yours still doing here?” snarled Kyle to Martin as the museum biologist began to serve the bugs.

  Kyle’s breath hadn’t improved, and now there was a hint of dirty-sock-at-the-bottom-of-the-hamper added to the sour dishcloth smell.

  “How should I know?!” Martin replied, fighting the urge to plug his nose.

  But Kyle persisted.

  “Tell that keener to stay away from the badges,” Kyle growled. “Like I said” — he held the space between his thumb and finger close to Martin’s face — “I’m this close to completing my sash.”

  “I get it,” said Martin flatly. “Have some bugs,” he added as the plate was passed around to their part of the circle.

  “Delicious!” said Alex, who sat beside Martin, munching a handful. “Can I have seconds?” he earnestly asked their chef.

  Martin gingerly picked the smallest bug he could find and quickly forced it down. It tasted mostly of the spices that the museum biologist had added. Only the thought of eating bugs tasted really bad, Martin realized with surprise.