Stanley Will Probably Be Fine

by Sally J. Pla

  She’s climbing way too high. My heart pounds. “Hey, seriously. You could fall! What are you trying to prove?”

  The whole top of the tree is bending and swaying now. One purple-sneakered foot flails off a branch, then scrambles back on.

  I hold my breath as her hand reaches out and touches the tip-top branch. There’s a whoop of glee. “I see it!” she shouts.

  “See what?” I shout back.

  A face appears, up high between the branches, pale, but beaming. “The ocean! I see it!”

  “Just . . . don’t fall!” I turn to go. “Oh—and welcome to the neighborhood!” I add, in a way that probably doesn’t sound too welcoming.

  I can’t watch this. If she goes splat, she goes splat.

  Back in my room, I pass the time until dinner by flipping through a stack of vintage Weird Mysteries comics. And I try not to look out my window at that pine tree. In fact, I close the curtain.

  Mom’s late—big surprise—and Gramps is at the kitchen table, reading the business section and rubbing stinky ointment into his bum shoulder. He’s always either at that table reading the news, or in his recliner watching weird TV shows, and grumbling the whole time. Gramps has had some money and health troubles. He had to sell his farm last year and move in with us, and he can get pretty grumpy.

  It’s hard for Gramps to do a lot of things now—including dinner prep, because he has Parkinson’s and his hands are starting to shake. He says that nowadays, because of his shaky hands, the only food prep he’s good at is salting or peppering things.

  Because Calvin usually has sports practice after school, and Mom’s always working, and Gramps’s hands shake, dinner prep usually means me. I set the table around the newspaper, pull out a frozen lasagna, stick it in the oven, and wash some lettuce. Then I go outside and feed the chickens.

  I glance over my shoulder, back up the drive—there’s no sign of a splatted human under the pine tree, so that’s good. If I were homeschooled, the last thing I’d do is risk my life climbing up a tree just to stare at the ocean. I’d be in my room, having fun, reading comics. But, instead, I have to go to a big prison of a middle school. And make dinner. And do a million chores. And put up with Gramps. And Cal.

  Mom gets home late, and she’s so pooped from all the real-estating and accounting, she doesn’t even notice we’re eating lasagna that’s frozen in the middle. Calvin scoops all the good melted-cheese bits from around the edges. Then he says with an evil grin, “Hey, Mom. Stannie got called up on stage at assembly this morning in front of everyone, and he totally lost it.”

  “Hush!” Mom cuts him off. “I know all about that already. Leave your poor little brother alone.”

  Cal scowls, and shovels in some more lasagna. I don’t say anything, but come on. Poor little brother?

  The rest of the meal, Gramps grumbles about how he should’ve bought this stock, or could have bought that property, until Mom says, “Okay, Dad, enough complaining.” She points at him with her fork. “It’s too stressful to think that way. I’m reading this wonderful book about being more mindful in the moment. It’s called No More Woulda-Shoulda-Coulda.” She looks around at all of us, smiling. “Pay attention, Stanley. This might be helpful to you about lowering your anxiety. The book says to practice mindful living. Notice every moment. Live in the present tense, enjoying the beauty of the here and now. It’s a very Buddhist-like philosophy. Isn’t it beautiful? No more woulda-shoulda-coulda.”

  Cal snorts. “Yeah, like you live in the moment. You live in the office!”

  Mom’s smile droops. “You have a point there, bucko,” she says.

  Gramps takes another sip of his beer and shakes his head. “Shoulda been a Buddhist,” he says.

  After cleanup, we all move to the TV room. Gramps grumps at the news anchor from his recliner while Mom works on her laptop. I’m doing math homework, with Albert Einstein curled up on top of my feet. Calvin’s on the couch, chucking a football up in the air, over and over.

  “So help me, if you smash something . . . ,” Mom murmurs from behind her laptop screen. But Cal just keeps whipping the ball at the ceiling.

  “Breaking news from Uganda,” says some lady on the TV news, a hand on her earpiece.

  And we all freeze.

  When my dad first started this new travel job, Mom taped a giant paper world map on the living room wall for Cal and me so we could track him. Red pins show all the places Dad’s been, on his “midlife crisis mission to save the world,” as Mom calls it. And one single green pin marks where he is now. The map’s totally pockmarked with red pins.

  “This just in,” the TV person says. “A massive explosion near government buildings in Kampala has resulted in evacuations, and early reports of casualties are coming in. . . .”

  Nobody moves. The football stays in Cal’s hands. Then all four of our heads swivel simultaneously to look at that world map. All of our eyes focus on the location of the one, small, green, pin.

  Mom’s eyes widen, and then she starts typing furiously on her laptop. “Just wait a minute. Let me call up your father’s latest schedule. Wait. Wait.”

  Red Alert.

  Red Alert.

  On the television the smoke is still billowing from the airport in Kampala. Mom is still tapping furiously on her laptop and jabbing at the buttons on her phone. “Wait!” she says. “I’ve texted him. Wait!”

  So we wait. I rub my clammy hands on the knees of my jeans and try to calm down. My eyes are riveted onto the news.

  On the screen, the black, billowing smoke footage has changed to a scene of ambulances and police across the street, and dirty, dazed people milling about. Some type of scuffle and screaming breaks out behind an on-the-scene reporter.

  “Principal Coffin would say they need to file out of there quickly and orderly,” says Cal, clutching the football tightly, his voice low and quiet.

  Woop, goes my stomach. Woop.

  Tap tap, go Mom’s fingers, flying on her laptop.

  “Wait!” Mom finally shouts. “He’s not even in Kampala right now. . . .” She exhales a gush of air. “He left there . . . two weeks ago!?” She rubs her eyes; they look bloodshot and bleary. “I totally forgot about moving that stupid pin!”

  We all let out a whoosh of air we didn’t realize we’d been holding.

  That’s how long my dad’s been away from us. So long that he could be anywhere on that big stupid wall map. So long that we’ve stopped remembering to even keep track.

  7

  THE REST OF the school week is pretty much okay. All Joon wants to talk about on the bus is the Trivia Quest, which makes me nervous. But on the plus side, Principal Coffin doesn’t hold any more safety assemblies.

  Still, I haven’t been sleeping well all this week. My mind’s too full of fire drills and airport explosions and purple sneakers flailing in the tops of trees.

  So Saturday morning, when the phone rings early, I’m groggy.

  “Dude! You still asleep? I can’t stop thinking about Trivia Quest!” Joon says. “Let’s make a plan. You want to bring a stack of your comics over?”

  My eyes snap open. He wants to hang out? It’s been eons since I spent a Saturday at Joon’s. We used to, all the time. But he’s been so busy, with soccer and everything.

  “Five minutes,” I tell him, grinning, “I’m there.”

  As I head out, I glance next door. I haven’t seen the neighbor girl since Monday. I told Mom I did my duty and said hello, and left it at that.

  But now, when I get to the end of the drive, there she is by the garbage pails, flattening out a bunch of cardboard moving boxes.

  I freeze. She looks different, up close and out of the tree.

  She must be at least six feet tall. Taller than Calvin. And skinny. Like, bony-skinny. Her hair’s bleached white, and shorter than mine. Below her forehead, she’s got kind of watery, green, bulging eyes.

  Along with ripped black leggings, she’s got on a giant, dress-sized sweatshirt that says Frolick
ing Kittens.

  “It’s a band,” she says to me.

  “What?”

  “Frolicking Kittens. That’s what you’re looking at, right?” She drops the piece of flattened cardboard she was holding, and pulls the sweatshirt out by the corners to better show off the picture of kittens. They have red fangs, and blood dripping from their claws. “It’s my mom’s old boyfriend’s band.”

  “Okay. Cool.” My heart’s hammering, like it always does when I talk to a new person. I try to stare up at her face, not her shirt. At her watery, bulging eyes.

  “When I was really little, we traveled around with them on tour,” she says. “But they broke up. Not the band—my mom and the drummer. And all I got was this lousy T-shirt.” She grins. Her teeth are small, with spaces between them.

  “So,” I hear myself say. “Wh-where’d you move from?”

  “Pittsburgh, the last couple of years, living with my uncle and my mom. Then my uncle moved here, and my mom and I figured we’d come, too—but she’s in LA, to try acting, and so, well, I decided to come here, to . . .” She gets a cloudy look on her face.

  “To what?”

  She shrugs. “Nothing. To keep Uncle Dan company, and help him with the move.” She puts her words in air quotes. I hate when people do that.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I just stare at her shoes.

  “Liberty,” she finally says.

  “And justice for all,” I reply.

  “No, stupid.” She snort-laughs. “That’s my name.”

  “Okay.” I swallow, hard.

  “How old are you?” She nudges my shoulder with her bony elbow, and I take a step back.

  “Almost thirteen,” I say. “Technically, twelve and nine months.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Wow. I’m less than a year older than you, and seriously about twice your height.” She snort-laughs again. “We’re two extremes.”

  I scuff one sneaker against the other and steal a glance up the road, where Joon’s waiting. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you’re right. I’m the smallest kid in school. But extremes are no good. I’d rather be the norm.”

  She puts out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Norm.”

  I shake her hand quickly. Then I sprint up the road. I’m sweating and all stressed out.

  At the corner, I look back, and Liberty Silverberg is still standing there, watching me. She looks like an Axi-Tun warrior. A member of that alien race from the Fantastic Four. The Axi-Tun were giants, with the superpower of being able to manipulate energy.

  Which makes sense. Because I feel like I just escaped from some kind of freakish force field.

  Joon’s mom opens the door before I can knock, and stops yelling into her phone just long enough to shove a napkin with some home-baked granola bars into my hands. They’re crispy-chewy-salty and pretty much one of my favorite foods.

  “Very healthy! Full of protein. Eat ’em and like ’em,” she orders. “Complaint department, fifth floor.”

  That’s our standard joke because there’s no fifth floor at Joon’s.

  Joon says his mom is the most uptight yoga studio owner in existence, but I like that you always know where you stand with Mrs. Lee—because she will tell you flat out. There’s something calming about that.

  Joon’s upstairs, lying on his bed in a pile of comics and dirty laundry. I offer him a granola bar, but he waves it away.

  “You’re in, for sure? No scaredy-cat backing out? We’re doing the Trivia Quest, definitely, right?” Joon flaps one of his silly Captain Carrot and the Zoo Crew comics in my face.

  “For sure!” I say. “Me? Back out?” I laugh. Ha ha! What an absolutely ridiculous question.

  “Trivia Quest is a big deal, Stan. There’s tons of teams already signed up. I’ve checked everything out online. Seven clues. One day. And the clues can be about anything—any comic, from any time period. So I need you. Don’t wig out on me.”

  “No problema!” I say, all fake-cheerful, even though my brain’s already flashing with possible disaster scenarios. Maybe getting down to work will help. I open my backpack. “Okay. Here. I made some comic history charts last week in study hall, just in case. Let’s start with the Golden Age of Comics, 1930s to 1950s.” I smooth out the folds in my pieces of paper, stare at my small, careful lettering. Just looking at the charts calms and comforts me. This is order. This is control. If I concentrate on the trivia, and I don’t think about the Quest itself, I just might get through it.

  “How about we go through the superheroes one by one,” I say.

  Joon grabs the chart from me. “Hey, there’s the Green Lama! Whoa. How many names on this list?”

  “A ton of superheroes were born during the Golden Age. Superman, Batman, Robin, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Green Lantern, the Atom, Hawkman, Green Arrow, and Aquaman . . . And that’s just on the DC side. Now, Marvel, or what was going to turn into Marvel, they created the Human Torch, Sub-Mariner, Captain America . . .”

  “Captain Marvel,” Joon adds.

  “Er, no.”

  He squints. “Captain Marvel is not Marvel Comics?”

  “He was under Fawcett. Then DC bought Fawcett.”

  “So Captain Marvel is a DC comic? That’s weird.”

  “Well, yeah. Sorta. And then the comic got renamed Shazam! And later, there was this thing called the Crisis on Infinite Earths, which led to a bunch of reboots, when a lot of stuff changed around. You’ll see—”

  That’s when Joon gets a glazed look and says he has to go to the bathroom.

  While he’s gone my thoughts slide back to the contest. I go to the official website on his laptop, just to see what I’m getting myself into.

  At Trivia Quest, hundreds of comics fans from all over the world will compete for clues that send them to many local landmarks all around scenic downtown San Diego. For every clue solved, one gold token is awarded. Contestants who solve seven clues and collect seven gold tokens will automatically be awarded VIP passes to Comic Fest, which starts the following weekend! But never fear—there are consolation prizes as well. . . .

  Hmm. Sounds intimidating.

  “Joon,” I say as he comes back in. “You know, Trivia Quest sounds pretty much mainly for superfans. And grown-ups. This has to be only for grown-ups.”

  “Nope. Read on, dude.”

  I skim down the fine print and sure enough: Ages twelve to eighteen welcome to register with signed permission from a parent or guardian . . .

  My stomach flops. How will I handle a whole day in a crowd downtown?

  “It’s gonna be awesome!” Joon shouts.

  I try to smile. “Yeah! Awesome!” I say, slapping him five.

  I pray he doesn’t notice how weak my high five is.

  8

  I WALK HOME from Joon’s feeling slightly queasy about Trivia Quest. I sprint past the neighbors’ to avoid the Axi-Tun alien. I can’t wait to take refuge up in my room. To have some quiet and think this whole contest idea through.

  But the minute I open our front door, there’s trouble: Cal is fist-pumping and leaping around the living room like he’s just scored a winning touchdown.

  “YES!”

  He’s about to knock over a floor lamp.

  “YES YES YESSS!”

  “NO!” Mom says, diving for the lamp with one hand and swiping for the long, thin package Cal’s holding with the other. “I swear I’m going to shoot your grandfather! In a manner of speaking.”

  “What’s going on here?” I say.

  “Gramps gave me the hunting rifle I wanted for my birthday!” Cal shouts joyfully. “A .22!”

  Gramps comes shuffling in from the kitchen, clutching his cane in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “Darn straight I did,” he says. “The boy’s fourteen, Jane! Ain’t nothing wrong with it!” He glares at Mom from under his wiry gray eyebrows. “Let the boy grow up! Cal’s more than old enough. Hell, even Stanley here’s old enough for a little target practice. OOH-yah.” Gramps ends a lot of sentences wi
th “OOH-yah,” because he’s from what he calls “dang near indestructible Norwegian farm stock.”

  “Target practice where? We don’t have forty acres of cornfields out back, like you did, Dad,” Mom says, shaking her head and frowning.

  Gramps really misses his cornfields. And hunting. He loves going on about it and about how great life was back in the simpler time of the early Pleistocene, or whenever it was he grew up. The menfolk would go deer hunting every November, ice fishing every February . . .

  But Mom’s a total pacifist. She hates the thought of killing living things for sport. And I have to say, I’m with her. Anyway, right now Mom is yelling, and Gramps is yelling, and Cal is aiming the rifle out the window where some tall guy—it must Liberty’s uncle, I guess—is innocently walking down to his mailbox.

  Mom swipes the gun from Cal’s hands. “End of story. I’m locking it away right now.”

  “But—I’m fourteen!”

  “Not another word!”

  Cal’s face is flushed. “Well . . . who else is going to man up around here?” he bellows.

  Mom wrinkles her nose and jolts her head back. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Who’s gonna protect us?” Cal’s fuming. “You’re always working. Dad’s ditched us. Gramps is too old. Who’s the man in charge?”

  Mom’s eyes bulge, and she starts rumbling like she’s a volcano about to erupt. “Who on earth in this day and age says there has to be a man in charge, Calvin Fortinbras? I’m working two jobs, running this house, feeding you, clothing you, doing everything around here—and there has to be a man in charge? What on God’s green earth do you think we need protecting from? Has Gramps got you thinking you’re Daniel Boone, living in the wild frontier, with all this gun nonsense?”

  I feel like I should do or say something. But I don’t know what. So I just stand there, frozen, clutching at my Trivia Quest notes. Wanting everyone to stop shouting.

  “What about the coyotes?” Cal shouts. “Every night, they keep coming up the canyon!” Cal grabs at his greasy brown hair. “And you won’t let me do anything about it.”