Stanley Will Probably Be Fine

by Sally J. Pla

  My dad would say there’s no such a thing as a model city. He’d say all cities, and all places, have problems. Because all people have problems.

  I remember him showing me a photo, before he left, of a paper model his charity organization had made. It was on a big board, a white model of a small village center with a new well and a school and a health clinic. . . .

  Model city.

  Okay. Now I have an idea.

  I run around until I find a stop for the little trolley shuttle, the one that goes around to the different areas within Balboa Park, and when it comes, I board, even though I’m shaking with nerves. I clear my throat and ask the driver: “Excuse me, do you know where the Model Railroad Museum is? Do you stop near it?”

  He nods.

  I hop on and quickly take a seat. I stare out the window to be sure I don’t miss the stop.

  A few minutes later, he pulls up by some arched, covered walkways. I step off and take a deep breath. I don’t see any signs for a Model Railroad Museum. Now I’m shaking again.

  Woop.

  Woop.

  I jog down one side of the walkway, and up the other. Finally, just past a restaurant and a gift shop, I spy it!

  The place is smaller than I remembered. Dad took Calvin and me here a really long time ago. I remember the action figures and Matchbox cars in the little street scenes set up around the train tracks.

  I’m hoping against hope that one of those action figures is Superman.

  I look at a wall clock: 4:15.

  Woop.

  Woop.

  The place is filled with big tabletop displays—model cities—of tiny villages, mountains, and farms, through which rumbling model trains chug and puff. Faster than a locomotive/this model citizen/saves his “model” city. Where is he?

  I run from one layout to the next, scanning the tiny main streets, side streets, farms, trains, bridges, forests, and tunnels. My heart’s pounding as I race.

  Where are you, Superman?

  My gaze lands on a scene by a lake; there’s a tiny fisherman with a fish on his line, the rod back behind his shoulder. A little plastic bear is coming out of the woods behind him, about to steal his fish.

  And parked in front of the general store is a model of Scooby-Doo’s mystery van. A chicken truck is overturned on the road, and a wolf—or is it a coyote?—is slinking away with one of the chickens.

  But no Superman.

  It’s like a high-stress Where’s Waldo? My eyes scan tiny schools, restaurants, gas stations, surf shops, candy stores, ice cream parlors, hardware stores, and farms with little fake cows and goats. There are roadways with vintage toy cars, painted plaster hills, and rough rocks beyond, and then taller mountains with a giant suspension bridge, way back against the wall, and then . . .

  “I found him!” I shout. An old man in an engineer’s cap and apron with a volunteer badge turns and looks at me. “Superman!” I explain. “Helping out his model city! Like in the Trivia Quest clue! Right?”

  The little plastic Superman action figure is lying flat, his hands grasping the train rails on a broken section of bridge, his feet hooking the rails behind. He’s completing the track with his body, so the train, when it comes, won’t tumble down into the gorge. A classic Superman-to-the-rescue move. He’s a model citizen saving his model city all right.

  The old man in the engineer’s cap smiles at me and presses a button. A sleek, orange-and-silver engine with a bright single headlight makes its way out of the tunnel and crosses, clickety-clack, over Superman’s stretched-out body.

  The train takes a bend, goes through another tunnel, then turns to descend into town. It slows to a gradual stop right in front of me.

  Inside its empty coal car is a shiny golden token.

  “Wow!” I turn to the engineer, smiling. “Thanks!”

  He nods and checks his pocket watch. “How many clues did you find today?”

  “This was my seventh one!”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa!” he says. “You’re a grand-prize VIP pass winner!” He glances at his watch again. “That is, you will be—if you can back get down to the plaza within . . . twenty-four point five minutes!”

  I dash out the door.

  41

  BARBARA GORDON/BATGIRL. Brian O’Brien/the Clock. Natasha Romanov/the Black Widow. Lorena Marquez/Aquagirl. The Zoo Crew’s Captain Carrot. And Dr. Hank Pym, and Superman. That’s seven clues. Seven cards. Seven gold tokens.

  What a day. I’ve port-a-johnned my phone, faced smothering crowds, and had a meltdown at Electric Blue Oblivion. I faced deafening noise, stinky buses, and my own fear. I’ve run all over town. I’ve lost my partner.

  And I almost lost the tokens. Right now, they are zipped carefully into my backpack’s side pocket. Seven tokens that belong to Liberty and me. Meanwhile, the big city Metro bus I’m riding in—please, John Lockdown, keep me safe—rumbles and bumps down the hill.

  I unzip the pocket, reach in, and touch them, rubbing my thumb across the raised letter Q, for Quest, on each smooth, round surface.

  I can turn in these seven tokens for two VIP passes to Comic Fest. I let that sink in, maybe for the first time. Two VIP passes to Comic Fest!

  I wonder how Liberty is doing. Her mom seemed like she was having a meltdown of her own. A worry-meltdown. But Liberty was fine. Why did her mom feel so compelled to take her away?

  All kinds of troubles in the world, said John Lockdown on the mystery easel.

  I stare out the smudged bus window. I’m in the first seat, all tensed up and ready to fly out the door, the instant we get to the convention center.

  We pass under a bridge, where a homeless man with a shopping cart and pieces of cardboard is shuffling around. I think, again, of Rorschach in disguise.

  At an intersection, business people brush past with briefcases, talking on their phones. A few skateboarders are on the sidewalk, laughing, shouting.

  Through the front windshield is the ocean. The heavy orange ball of the sun hovers a few inches over the silver, calm water of the harbor. I breathe in.

  I start rocking impatiently in my seat—like that’s going to make the bus go faster. I know we should probably turn left when we hit the harbor, because the conference center is south of the airport. But when we hit Harbor Drive, the bus swings neatly around—to the right.

  Do I say something? Maybe this is what’s supposed to happen. Maybe we’re making a U-turn or something.

  We accelerate. I see signs for the airport.

  Red Alert!

  Red Alert!

  Fear opens my mouth. I find myself grasping the arm of the man next to me and asking: “Please—aren’t we going to the convention center?”

  He looks surprised. “No! You’re on the bus to Mission Bay, kid.”

  Everything stops.

  Space. Time. Sound.

  Is my heart even still beating?

  “Kid, you okay?” The man shoots a worried glance up at the bus driver. “Hey!” I hear him shout. “This kid here looks like he’s gonna faint!”

  42

  IN ORDER TO get the bus driver to let me off, I have to lie. I have to tell her my mom’s waiting for me in her car in the airport cell phone lot, which is the first turn-off I happen to see. “Really, I’m fine!” I keep yelling. Finally she pulls over and opens the doors. I jump out and hit the ground running, back along the highway toward the convention center. It’s probably about a mile or two south of where I am right now.

  It’s impossible.

  Still, I run. It’s the only thing I can do. I run until the stitch in my side turns into a needle, and then a sharp dagger. (What is wrong with the people who go out for track? This is serious pain!)

  As I run, I start waving madly for a cab—there’s got to be cabs, right? We’re near the airport! But no one is stopping.

  I know it for sure now. I’m going to miss the cutoff time.

  My feet are killing me. My throat is so parched I can’t swallow. I’m sweating a
nd miserable and it stinks like traffic and I’m jumping at every car horn and John Lockdown would say “be strong!” and Liberty would say “relax!”—but they’re both full of it. I can’t.

  It’s over.

  I stop on the sidewalk, panting, hands on knees.

  Suddenly, a car honks. I jump two feet in the air, then turn quickly to see a black convertible, swerving with a screech to the curb. A woman’s arm waves wildly. “Hey! What are you doing lollygagging out here on the highway, keed? It’s dangerous!”

  It’s Olga, my bus driver, back in her usual trucker cap and shades. “Trivia Quest’s almost over, keed,” she shouts. “Where you running? Convention Center? You need a ride?”

  I practically fall into her car. “How can I thank you?” I say, gasping. “You are the best!”

  She laughs, and peels out with a jolt. And just like that, zero to sixty, I’m racing toward the finish—in Black Widow’s convertible, with the wind in my hair. Laughing.

  She drops me right in front of the plaza with minutes to spare. I race to the big gold Trivia Quest platform. There’s a much smaller crowd than this morning.

  A Quest official taps his microphone. “Last call!” His voice reverberates across the plaza. “Last call to redeem your tokens!”

  Six small booths, for the winners of one through six tokens, are closing up shop, or just handing out the last of their consolation prizes. Folks are walking away with bobblehead dolls, key chains, posters, that kind of stuff. Meanwhile, there’s a big banner in front of me with the words ALL 7 TOKENS = VIP PASSES! written in shining golden letters. I make a mad dash while pulling my coins from of my pack.

  What happens next feels like slow motion. Someone comes flying at me from out of left field. Before I can react, I’m hip-checked, hard, on my side.

  I go flying.

  My seven golden coins go flying, too.

  They sparkle in the air in the late-afternoon sun.

  And behind the airborne, glittering coins, I see the horrified face of Dylan Bustamante, his jaw dropping open as he realizes what he has done.

  The coins fall to the ground. They hit the concrete floor of the plaza, spinning and rolling in every direction.

  “Dang! Sorry!” says Bustamante.

  I’m already on my hands and knees, scrambling to retrieve the coins, dodging under people’s feet, this way and that. I grab at a man who’s about to pocket one. “Hey, mister, that’s mine!” I yell, tugging on his arm. He shrugs and hands it over.

  “I found four!” Dylan comes looming toward me out of the sea of people, handing over some tokens. “How many do you have? Do you have them all back?”

  One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

  One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

  43

  SIX.

  Not seven.

  My seventh token is lost.

  “LAST CALL!” the announcer shouts.

  My lips move, but no words come out. I’m numb.

  Joon swats Dylan on the back of the head. “Why’d you knock into him?” he says.

  Dylan shrugs. “I was just goofing around! I didn’t know what he was holding!”

  “Well,” I say, my voice more of a croak, “I was holding seven tokens. Now I have six. Six tokens won’t get a VIP pass.”

  Joon and Dylan stare at me, speechless, eyes wide.

  “Where’s Liberty, by the way?” Joon asks.

  “She had to leave early.”

  “So you’ve been competing alone?”

  I nod. “Just at the end, though.”

  The loudspeakers boom once more: “Attention, Questers! The booths will be closing in just a few minutes! Redeem your tokens NOW.”

  I look sadly at the six coins in my hand. It figures that stupid Dylan would ruin this, because stupid Dylan ruins everything.

  That’s pretty much the story of my life. One minute it’s a piece of cake; the next, I’m trapped in a dog crate. One minute, Dad’s right there; the next, he’s left us. One minute, I’m in elementary school, and I have a best friend. The next minute, I’m at Peavey, silent and alone.

  I think of John Lockdown, and the stories on the sketchpad. How he said my superpowers would kick in someday.

  And all this time, I’ve been dumb enough to believe it.

  Joon and Dylan have moved off a bit, and they’re arguing. Joon says something I can’t make out. Dylan says, “Chill out already!”

  “LAST CALL!” shouts the loudspeaker.

  Then, all of a sudden, Joon plants himself in front of me, scratching his head and frowning. “Stan,” he says. “Sorry Dylan bumped you.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan calls weakly from where he’s hovering behind Joon. “Sorry.”

  Joon opens his hand. A single gold token sits in the center of his sweaty palm.

  “We only got this one,” he says. “Then we got stumped, and spent the rest of the time goofing around. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It was fun. Maybe not as much fun as it would have been with you there with us.”

  I look up to meet his eyes. But he’s still staring at his gold coin. Then, quickly, he grabs my hand and presses it into my palm.

  I look from Joon to the coin and back again. Dylan, hovering behind Joon, nods and says “Take it, dude.”

  “Seriously? Are you sure?”

  Joon puts up his hands and backs away. He won’t take it back.

  “LAST CALL!” comes the voice from the overhead speakers.

  I’m frozen, until Joon starts shoving me toward the winners’ booth. I look at him, and I can see the old Joon, there, for a change. (That is, once I look past the Dragon Ball Z hair.)

  “You gotta tell me everything about Comic Fest next weekend.” Joon punches my arm. “And check for Green Lama stuff.”

  I nod.

  “Now get your scrawny VIP butt up there. They’re closing,” Joon says.

  So I do.

  44

  BACK IN MRS. Lee’s van, rumbling toward home, my brain’s too burnt out to process any more sounds, smells, or sights. I close my eyes. I’m done.

  But everyone else is super excited. Dylan’s up front, chatting with Mrs. Lee. And here in back, Joon keeps badgering me with questions about the trivia clues and punching my arm. Now he asks, “Hey, can I see them?”

  I rub my bruised arm and hand over the long blue envelopes with the red-and-gold logo of Comic Fest. He gently touches the giant gold Q embossed on the back.

  “Remember that day on Olga’s bus?” I ask Joon. “When we first heard the radio ad for the Quest?”

  Joon smiles. “And now you won it.” He carefully opens an envelope and stares at the shiny card. From the look in his eyes, you’d think it’s made of real gold.

  Mrs. Lee pipes up from the front seat. “They said not very many Questers found all seven clues today. Congratulations, Stanley Fortinbras!”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lee.”

  “And I am glad to hear Joon did a generous thing and replaced the token for you.” She wags her finger at Joon and Dylan. “That was the right thing to do. Always treat your friends right. Good friends are more valuable than silly tokens.”

  Joon pretends to gag.

  Mrs. Lee keeps on talking. “So, say again: Why did Liberty leave early, Stanley?”

  “I don’t know. Her mom had some kind of worry-attack about her. She seemed pretty upset . . . I think Liberty’s life is kind of complicated.”

  As we turn down Canyon Rim, Joon hands the VIP passes back and flashes me a strange look. “Well, at least you won, Stan. If I couldn’t, I’m glad you did. Hope you and Liberty have a blast next weekend,” he says.

  I know that look in his eye. It’s the same look he had when we were nine, and I got a Power Rangers Super Megaforce Legendary Megazord for my birthday, but he didn’t. It’s Joon’s mega-jealous look.

  But you know what? He had his chance to compete with me.

  It’s not my fault he ditched me for Dylan.

  45

  THE MINUTE
THEY drop me home, I head over to the Silverbergs’ and ring the bell. I can’t wait to see Liberty’s face when I give her the VIP pass. And I want to make sure her mom has calmed down, that whatever happened is over and all is good. I want to tell her how I solved the Superman clue, then got on the wrong bus, but Natasha/Olga saved me, but then I lost the token, but then Joon came through for me. . . . So much happened after her mom swooped in and grabbed her.

  It takes a long time before I hear footsteps inside the house. Then Dr. Silverberg opens the door. His red hair is sticking up around his bald spot, and his eyes are puffy behind his glasses, like he’d been sleeping.

  “Hey, Dr. Silverberg. Could I talk to Liberty? Are she and her mom back yet?”

  He frowns and scratches his forehead. “Her mom?” Then he opens the door wider to let me in the entry hall. I see books and half-empty moving boxes, the contents still piled all around, even though they moved in over a month ago. “What are you talking about, Stanley?” He looks puzzled. “Isn’t she with you?”

  We stare at each other for a minute. “No, sir. Her mom came to the Quest and got her about two hours ago, when we were on the next-to-last clue.”

  Dr. Silverberg’s eyes come suddenly into focus. He rushes into the kitchen and picks up his phone.

  I tiptoe in behind him. Their kitchen is on the left; ours is on the right. Their house is the exact reverse layout of ours, just like their family. Her folks are the opposite of my parents. And Liberty is the opposite of me.

  “Where are you?” Dr. Silverberg shouts into the phone. “But don’t you see, you can’t just pick her up without telling me—and you just left Stanley there?—I have to be told first—don’t you see? That’s so impulsive!

  “But she’s fine! You knew she was doing fine here. You need to—”

  He listens some more, saying “uh-huh, uh-huh.” Finally, Dr. Silverberg hangs up. He rubs his hands over his eyes.

  I stand there and wait.

  “Well, Stanley, it looks like Liberty is on her way up to LA to stay with her mother for a while.”

  “What? But—why?”

  My whole body goes rigid as I try to process what he said.