The Twin Powers

by Robert Lipsyte

  All I had were questions.

  Who is Hercules?

  Is Dr. Traum behind this?

  Why is the government involved? On both planets!

  Who are friends and who are enemies?

  I felt so small, weak, alone.

  I felt like crying.

  Toughen up, you little sissy, I told myself. You’ve been on your own for years; you’ve been alone since Mom died and Dad disappeared into a bottle and the foster family did bad things and you took off. You didn’t need anybody then and you don’t need anybody now. Nobody’s even looking for you back home. If people were, they wouldn’t find you because they’re looking for a different person.

  Why did Eddie bring you along to this planet? He felt sorry for you. All he ever cared about was himself, playing the jock star.

  C’mon, Ronnie, he did make you feel good, made you feel protected. How much of a friend would Eddie be if he knew the truth about you?

  Something warm and wet slapped against my face.

  Buddy!

  I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his soft, furry neck. He cried too.

  A hand closed around my arm. “It’s okay—I’m a friend,” a deep voice said. A big guy with a scraggly red beard and long yellow teeth, dressed in jeans and a New York Yankees warm-up jacket, had me in a grip that tightened as I struggled. I kicked him but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m on your side. Trust me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Keith. Tom ever mention me?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he called me Lump.”

  “Never heard of you,” I lied. Eddie had told me about the Lump, the guy who had lived in Tom’s house. He was some kind of computer geek who might be working for the government. Eddie liked him because they were both sports fans. Tom hated him.

  Keith, or the Lump, smelled bad.

  Two men in dark suits with white wires coming out of their ears suddenly surrounded us.

  “This one’s been on the run from the wagon,” said Keith. “Find out what he knows. It’s time to take these little punks down.”

  Fifteen

  TOM

  ALL OVER NEW JERSEY

  2012

  I TURNED my hoodie inside out to hide the Tech Off! logo and walked northwest for almost two hours before I began to pick up two moving brain-wave blips that I thought could be Ronnie and a small non-human thing alive enough to be vicious little Buddy. That was all I needed.

  They had stopped, probably to rest. I was tired, mostly from the energy I was expending to concentrate on staying on Ronnie’s trail. I hoped it would get easier as I got better at it. You really have to work at your powers.

  I was hungry but I didn’t have any money, so I opened my backpack and took out my violin. I was on a college campus. Last time I fiddled for money had been in a park near a college campus in New York. A college neighborhood is always a good place to play for pay. You get students, teachers, tourists, people who appreciate music and have a little dough. I pulled up my hoodie, opened the backpack in front of me, sat on a bench, and tuned up.

  And then I felt sad. The violin was something that Dad and I shared. We played together. We’d warm up with something wild and crazy like the dueling violins from Riverdance, which made us laugh, and then we’d go on to Mozart or the Beatles or zydeco, whatever we felt like.

  Dad was a famous violin teacher—he traveled constantly to coach big stars before a major concert. Or at least that was what my stepmom and I had thought. Maybe some of it was true. But it was also a cover story so he could do his alien-revolutionary thing. Eddie had a similar cover story for Dad, except he thought our dad was a famous basketball coach who worked privately with pro stars around the world. Eddie and Dad played ball when they hung out.

  Sitting in the park with the violin in my hands brought back the old days, before Dad disappeared in what we were told had been a plane crash. We had had a great life, Stepmom and Dad and me, until that had happened. When he disappeared, nearly three years ago, everything had changed, almost overnight. This jerk I called the Lump moved in as a tenant to help pay the bills. I hated him. And I started fighting with everybody. Teachers called it “acting out.” I started getting expelled from schools. Then six months ago all the stuff with the aliens happened, and I found my twin brother. I saw Dad again, just for a minute before he got sucked up by the alien spaceship. The Lump moved out shortly after that, but I still haven’t seen my dad since.

  “You gonna play or what, kid?”

  I almost snapped, “What’s it to you, dirtbag,” before I realized where I was and what I was doing.

  I made myself smile. “What would you like to hear, sir?”

  “She likes Mozart.” It was a college guy with a girl next to him.

  I checked the tuning, then swung into a melody from The Magic Flute. The girlfriend clapped and dropped a dollar into my backpack and suddenly I had a crowd. I stuck with Mozart for a while—he was one of Dad’s favorites—then did a few Beatles tunes on request. When there was a lull, I did a Willie Nelson song. Old people go nuts when they hear “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys” on a violin. Dad used to call that fiddlin’.

  I was so lost in the music that I was able to forget for a while how things were all messed up and that I was supposed to be chasing Ronnie.

  My backpack soon had enough dollar bills for a meal. I scooped up the money and thanked everybody. They looked sorry to see me go. I was sorry to go too.

  I found a diner nearby and ordered a hamburger and fries. There was a TV over the counter. Eddie filled the screen. He was being interviewed. I pulled my hoodie up around my face.

  “Last question, Tom. Some people say you’ve got a political agenda. Some people say you’re just trying to sell your sponsors’ products. What do you say to all that?”

  “I say groovy,” said Eddie, with his dopey smile. I could tell he was enjoying himself. “People are talking instead of planting their faces in their iThingies. Just what we want.”

  Probably still talking about you on their iThingies, dummy.

  The newswoman turned to the camera. “And just what America seems to want as the caravan following the Tech Off! tour grows on the road to Washington, D.C..”

  Tour? Washington, D.C.? How’d all this happen so fast?

  A commercial came on. The waitress said, “Some kid, that Tom. How old do you have to be to be president?”

  A few people laughed. I wanted to say, Forget about age—you have to be born in this America, not in some other planet’s America. I should have felt proud of my brother, but I was annoyed. Not jealous, I thought, just annoyed. Why? Because he seemed to be liking the attention so much. We were supposed to be trying to save the Earths, not having fun.

  Do your own job, I thought. Concentrate on Ronnie. He wasn’t that far away. I finished my food and hit the road.

  Sixteen

  ALESSA

  EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON, D.C.

  2012

  BRITZKY and I sat on the driver’s bench of the wagon as the caravan rolled slowly along a two-lane blacktop road. There were farms on both sides. Cows glanced up at us, lost interest, and chewed on. Behind us were dozens of cars, trucks, vans, buses, RVs. The caravan disappeared around bends of the road. How had this happened so fast?

  We must have gone viral! But how would I know?

  I missed my cell and tablet. Agent Brown let me use his cell while he watched. I wondered how many thousands of Twitter followers I could have by now. Once people knew I was in the wagon, they’d go wild to follow me and also on Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr . . .

  “Check this out,” said Britzky. He handed me the binoculars. “About twenty cars back.”

  Two kids our age were standing in the bed of a pickup truck waving a white bed sheet attached to two broomsticks. I focused and read:

  Save Earth.

  No Nukes.

  No Extreme Weather.

  “That’s so cool. It’
s what this was supposed to be all about.”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Britzky.

  “Pessimist.”

  He pointed up at two drones hovering above the pickup truck, their propeller blades making the banner flap. “You think the government’s going to let this go on?”

  “One banner?”

  “One banner leads to another one,” said Britzky. “That’s how revolutions happen.”

  “Revolutions? Shut up. This is just going to be a week of no texting. That’s it.”

  Britzky lowered his voice. “How do you think the American Revolution started? Some people didn’t want to pay a tax on tea.”

  He looked serious. He was making me nervous.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t some middle-school project, Lessi. Do you know the Russians have secret files on extraterrestrials?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Everything’s online if you know where to look.”

  “So what does that have to do with us?” I said.

  “Why do you think these federal agents are on our backs?”

  “Why?”

  “They’re afraid if the Russians or the Chinese get to the aliens first, they’ll team up and take over the world.”

  “But what does that have to do with us?” I asked again.

  “The federal agents seem to know the aliens already made contact with us. They think that if they stick with us, they’ll find the aliens first.”

  “Should we warn the aliens? Tell them we’re being watched?”

  “Are we on Dr. Traum’s side?”

  “Whose side are we on?”

  “We better find out, because something big’s going to happen.”

  “Like what? The government is watching us. The aliens are watching us. What are we supposed to do?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” said Britzky. “And where is everybody?”

  Grandpa was missing. Some guy in a black suit with a white wire in his ear was driving the SUV. He wouldn’t tell us who he was or where Grandpa had gone. National security, he said.

  Ronnie was missing.

  Tom was missing.

  Even Buddy was missing.

  “What can we do?” I said.

  “Be ready,” said Britzky.

  For what? I wondered.

  Seventeen

  EDDIE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  2012

  I LIKED seeing myself on TV. I thought I looked good, in shape. And I was getting better at answering questions, especially about Tom Canty. It was easier and easier to pretend to be him. At first, I wanted to be myself—plain old Eddie Tudor, nice guy, jock, leader, Captain Eddie—not a supersmart tech nerd with a mean streak. But as long as nobody was asking about Gargles and Tweeties, I was all right. I practiced reading from the Teleprompter as hard as I practiced free throws. After a while, the lady from the Tech Off! Treats company, Erin, told me it didn’t sound as though I were slowly translating from Spanish anymore, not even as if I was reading. She said I was a natural. I started studying videos of myself talking and giving interviews. It reminded me of studying game films. It was just another way to improve. I felt more like myself even while I was pretending to be Tom.

  Erin acted as a coach and gave me tips, such as where to put my hands while talking—never in your pockets!—and how to look people in the eye without getting locked in. “And lose the gum!” she’d say. She wanted me to behave more up-to-date, cooler.

  One time, she said: “It’s sweet that you’re an old-fashioned guy, but let’s not be so 1950s.”

  I felt like telling her I was from the 1950s, that I came from a planet where cell phones and the Internet and hip-hop hadn’t been invented yet, but I didn’t.

  Erin told me that she and her “people”—she talked to them on the phone a hundred times a day, at least—decided to erase the YouTube clip of me—Tom—greasing that bully in middle school last year. She made it seem like a big deal, as if she were doing me a favor. Big whoop. I liked that little movie of the real Tom in action. It gave me something to copy. Like imitating some great baseball player’s batting stance. I wondered what Tom would think about that.

  Now that I had an iPad so I could study my own performances, I was starting to enjoy going online. It wasn’t so complicated. And the stuff you could see . . .

  “You are so coachable,” Erin told me more than once.

  I wanted to tell her that my real coaches say the same thing, but it would sound like boasting. You have to stay humble or at least act humble. My favorite ballplayers, Mickey Mantle and Bob Cousy, never hot-dogged it. You never saw them beat their chests after a big basket or show up the pitchers by cakewalking around the bases after a home run. I was seeing a lot of that kind of showboating on TV these days. I loved ESPN. Twenty-four hours of sports. And they even had a classics channel that sometimes showed ball games from my time, or at least talked about them. I liked the nature channels too, except for the shows about snakes. Being scared of snakes wasn’t going to help me make Eagle Scout.

  I never expected to be watching so much TV in my hotel room. Erin and the security guys were always hustling me back to the hotel after a speech or an interview. I’d rather hang out and talk to people. I missed Buddy and I missed being on a team, goofing off with a bunch of guys, sharing what was going on, kidding around. I even missed Alessa and Britzky.

  And I was worried about Ronnie. When I thought about him, that is.

  I was ashamed that I wasn’t thinking more about Ronnie. But I knew he could take care of himself. And I had a lot on my mind.

  Like making contact with Tom.

  Tom, you find Ronnie yet?

  They’ve got him. They keep moving him around. In cars.

  Just find him.

  Maybe you can do better, Eddie.

  I’m a prisoner here.

  I thought you liked room service.

  It’s been four days.

  Maybe you wanna take over.

  Erin’s here, Tom. Gotta go.

  Eighteen

  TOM

  SOMEWHERE IN NEW JERSEY

  2012

  TWO tall, vicious-looking dogs glared at me and snarled. Saliva drooled out of their mouths. I glared back until I remembered reading that you’re never supposed to look a dog in the eye unless it’s your best friend. It was a good thing these dogs were behind a chainlink fence.

  The fence surrounded the scrubby front yard of a dumpy white house on an ordinary street of dumpy white houses with scrubby front yards surrounded by chainlink fences. The only thing different about this particular house was the three shiny black SUVs in the driveway. They looked like the SUVs that cops drive in TV shows.

  They had Ronnie inside the house. The blips in my head had gotten stronger as I followed them to the neighborhood and the house. I had stolen a bike—a couple, actually—which makes a huge difference when you’re trying to cover a lot of ground. I felt sorry for the bike owners, but this was about the survival of the Earths.

  So, now what? Bust in, guns blazing?

  There was a Burger Clown down the block with a clear view of the house. I went in, bought some fries, and sat down at a table near the window. It was a table for four people, but it was the only empty table with what TV cops call “a visual.” I had to make the fries last because I didn’t have any more money. I needed to fiddle for change again, but I hadn’t had time while I’d been hot on Ronnie’s trail. I’d barely slept in three days.

  I stared at the house and tried to concentrate all my thoughts through the Burger Clown window, across the street, and through the dumpy white house’s big picture window, which was covered by a curtain.

  It was hard to concentrate, because other thoughts kept sneaking in. What about those dogs? What will I do when I find Ronnie? Where will we go?

  Time to try the powers again.

  I concentrated on my brain waves entering the house. Slowly, two gray shapes came i
nto focus, one much smaller than the other. Ronnie and Buddy. There were at least a half-dozen larger shapes. They wouldn’t be just regular cops. Federal agents?

  I imagined I could hear the cops talking to Ronnie. Gradually, I tuned in voices. They were as unclear as the shapes. They were like gurgles coming up through plumbing.

  “Weeheehell you.” Could that be We’re here to help you?

  I thought I heard a dog bark. A Buddy-size bark. That set off the two dogs in the yard and drowned out the gurgles.

  I tried harder and harder, and just when I thought my head would burst, I tuned in the sounds clearly. Three different rough voices.

  “Or the puppy goes to the pound and you go to juvenile hall.”

  “You’ll both be in a world of hurt.”

  “You might live, not the pooch.”

  It was exhausting, but a real charge. My powers!

  Or was I going nuts?

  “C’mon, kid, better say something.”

  A different voice, closer. “That all you gonna order?”

  It took me a moment to pull my brain back into the fast-food joint. A guy in a Burger Clown hat was leaning over my table—a big guy with a red clown nose over his own nose. From his name tag, I saw he was the manager. I was picking up some vibrations that he was upset more than he was angry. I decided not to give him a hard time. I had a job to do.

  “It’s all the money I have.”

  “Too bad. People are waiting for this table.”

  I looked around. It wasn’t true. In fact, the place was emptying out. I wanted to say, “They must have tasted your food and gone to McDonald’s,” but I swallowed that down. Be cool, Tom. You don’t have your grease gun or your climate-simulator rods to back you up. I could have probably created a little air storm and knocked him on his butt, but then what? I’d have to run for it. Ruin my stakeout.

  I tried to get into his mind. It was a mess. He was annoyed at having to wear the red clown nose. He thought he looked stupid. I imagined him thinking, Is this what I went to school for, to wear this stupid nose and deal with creeps like this little kid?