by Ben Zackheim
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Dear Reader
The author
1
Simon Sharp’s normal life ended when he was twelve years, 217 days, 14 hours and 12 minutes old. He’ll show the scrap of paper on which he calculated the precise moment to anyone who asks.
The end began when Mrs. Teed, the sixth grade teacher, received a note from the vice-principal in the middle of class. She gasped when she read it, sneaking a quick glance at Simon. To her credit, Mrs. Teed got through the rest of the period, but she appeared to be distracted and her constant sighing irritated everyone.
The bell rang. Mrs. Teed let everyone leave, except Simon.
“Simon, can you stay behind for a moment, please?” she whispered, as he approached the door.
“Sure,” he said. His stomach tightened. His ears burned. Something was wrong. He could tell. Someone was hurt. “What’s going on? Is that note for me?”
“Follow me,” she answered, with the last words he’d ever hear from her. She led him to the administrative offices where he sat across from Principal Owens, an elderly woman with a reputation for being as kind as a cornered rat.
Simon Sharp’s twelve years on the planet had been pretty average up to that moment. Born in New York City, Simon lived in the Lower East Side with his folks and went to PS 110 where his grades impressed. He spent most of his free time in bookstores and libraries, or, as his mother liked to call them, “the third parent”. Local business owners said hi to Simon. The firemen at FDNY15 always asked him what he was reading. After school and on weekends, Old Melissa, a homeless woman, gave him updates on where the bullies were hanging out. Sometimes he felt surrounded by them, so he just sat next to her on the curb and read a book.
“Hello Simon,” the principal said from behind her desk. Principal Owens’ hard, high voice was lower and softer than usual. Simon guessed it was her version of a kind tone.
“Hi,” Simon said. “Did someone get hurt?”
“I’m afraid your parents are dead,” she answered without hesitation.
Simon didn’t feel the tears on his face until he walked out into the cold city air with someone holding his hand. The chill woke him right up and told him that this was real. It was happening. Up until that second, he’d hoped it had all been a nightmare.
But now he knew that he was alone. He remembered Mrs. Owens telling him that his mother and father had been on a charter plane over Scotland when it crashed. Sketchy details trickled in, but the authorities were confident that Thadeus and Robin Sharp had been on the plane.
Simon would never again see the Children’s Services agent who picked him up at school that day. But the gentleman mustered up enough concern to make an urgent note in his folder. He was so disturbed by Simon’s behavior that he didn’t quite know how to phrase it. He settled on a single sentence and hoped it would inform the next agent just how full their hands would be.
He wrote:
Simon is repeating the words “I hate King Arthur” over and over
Two years later
Simon was still five minutes away from his foster family’s apartment. If he didn’t get there soon, his cover would be blown and he would be sent back to St. Mary’s orphanage.
He’d rather die.
Simon hated running through this particular neighborhood. It was Officer Rice’s beat and the cop was keeping his eyes on him. Rice had made it clear during their last encounter that Simon was out of second chances.
Agent Sue Rivera, the latest Children’s Services case-worker, was probably already with Simon’s foster parents, the Winters. She needed to ask him and his “family” questions to make sure he was getting the minimum care required by the state of New York. The monthly ritual had been carried out with laser-like precision for the last six months.
“What time is Simon in bed?” she’d ask.
Or, “What did Mrs. Winter make for dinner last night, Simon?” These kinds of questions were meant to weed out foster parents who were just collecting money for the kid’s care and not caring for the kid. Kind of like the Winters.
But the worst question of all, the one always asked in a loud whisper that creeped him out, was, “And how are you, Simon?”
His answer the previous month had landed him in a bucket of trouble. “Oh. Me? Well, let’s see. King Arthur killed my parents. I get to answer questions once a month so Children’s Services can feel good about itself. So I guess I’m great! How are you?”
Now he was late for this month’s performance.
Then, as if Fate really wanted him to be super sure how doomed he was, Simon spotted Brad and his teenage thugs ganging up on a small kid. They were in their favorite spot, an alley behind St. Mary’s orphanage, Simon’s former home for two years.
Keep going. This is Brad’s turf.
The little kid screamed.
Don’t stop. Keep going. Somebody else will help him.
The scream got louder.
I hate this city.
Simon turned and ran back to the alley. He took a deep breath of smelly air. “Leave him alone!” he yelled at Brad.
Brad stopped, mid-punch, looked over his shoulder and smirked like only he could. Simon felt like running again. He’d seen that expression before, and it was always followed by a painful thrashing.
Brad let go of the small kid, who scrambled through piles of garbage to hide behind Simon. The bully puffed out his chest, like a big pigeon with pimples.
“Are you serious?” Brad said. “How many times do I have to wipe the sidewalk with your face before you wise up, Slimeon?” As usual, Brad’s buddies chuckled at Simon’s lame nickname.
Brad and Simon didn’t like each other. Brad came from hearty stock, the kind that tilled fields and fought bears in the home country. Simon, on the other hand, came from generations of tall, thin scholars with bad backs. He did inherit long legs and a swiftness that got him out of binds, though. That was about to come in handy.
Simon tried to ignore the bully and took the sniffling kid by the shoulder to lead him out of the alley.
“Thanks. I’m William, but you can call me Billy,” the kid said, gazing up at Simon.
“Sssh,” Simon shushed, as quietly as possible.
“Hey!” Brad barked. Simon kept walking. He knew he’d get hit hard from behind within a few seconds. But that would buy Bill
y some time to escape.
“Run,” Simon whispered to him.
BAM!
Simon got an old shoe in the back of the neck. Hard. He rubbed at the pain. Blood or water ran down his shoulder. It was too warm to be water.
Despite all his instincts telling him to shut up, Simon muttered, “You doubled your dose of Super Cocoa Puffs this morning.” Brad took big, scary steps toward him for round two.
So Simon ran.
Sure, he could have defended himself. But it always came back to one question, “Why bother?” Why bother being a hero? Simon’s parents believed in heroes. They believed in one hero, King Arthur, so strongly that it cost them their lives.
Simon slid across the trunk of a car and just missed a cyclist. He spun away, dodged an oncoming car…
…and ran into a police officer.
A police officer who had been sipping hot coffee, but who now wore it on his jacket.
Brad and the boys hooted and laughed. Their glee echoed through the canyons of Bowery Street as they ran away.
“Sorry, Officer Rice,” Simon said. Rice glared at him with a look that was known to freeze criminals in their tracks.
“What are you into now, Simon? I told you to stay away from those punks!”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Not sorry enough! Who’s gonna pay to get this uniform cleaned?”
“I’ll do it. Mrs. Lang owes me a solid,” Simon said. “She’s got her own dry cleaning machine.”
“I don’t want to know who owes you, Simon,” Rice said. “Jeez, kid, you have blood on your shirt!” Rice closed his eyes to calm himself down. “Look. If you keep screwing up I’ll have to take you in. I already heard you’re getting into trouble at the bookstores. Maybe a night off the streets would teach you a lesson.”
“Excuse me?” A small voice came from behind them. It was Billy. Now that Simon got a good look at him he guessed he was about 9 years old. “Excuse me. Hi. Yes. I wanted to say thanks for saving me back there. I’m William. But you can call me Billy.” He grabbed Simon’s hand and shook it. Too hard.
“Yeah, you said that already. I’m Simon. This is Officer Rice. He’s arresting me.”
“No way!” Billy shouted. “He’s a hero!”
“I’m not arresting you, Simon. Just watch it okay? You’re a bright kid, but I’ve seen smarter end up dead. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rice put a finger in Simon’s face. “And lay off the bookstores.”
“Yes, sir.”
Officer Rice turned his back and Simon was off and running. Now he was ten minutes late.
“Why are we running?” Billy asked, doing his best to keep up.
“I’m running because I have somewhere to be. I guess you’re running because you don’t?”
“Ha! That’s funny! Where do you need to be?”
“Foster home.”
Billy’s eyes went wide. “Wow! You’re an orphan too?”
“Be careful,” Simon said.
“Sorry?”
Billy ran, full speed, into a parked car’s open door.
Simon kept running. He looked back and saw Billy hop up.
“I’m okay! See you later Simon!”
Weird kid, Simon thought. He won’t last long in St. Mary’s.
2
Agent Rivera was leaving apartment 5D when Simon turned the hallway corner, out of breath, sweaty and bleeding from the wound on his neck. He stopped when he saw her. They stared at each other in silence. He leaned against the wall awkwardly to hide the blood on his shirt. Rivera was about to say something when Simon’s stomach interrupted her. Its roar echoed down the hall.
“Where have you been?” Agent Rivera asked, putting her hands on her hips.
Simon saw Mr. and Mrs. Winter, his foster parents, peeking through the open door. It creeped him out how they looked so much alike: tall, thin, and blonde, with pale skin and faces that looked broken when they smiled. The two of them shot Simon their best sour frowns. He was used to it. They hated him, and Simon hated them right back.
The moment he met them at St. Mary’s, he knew they didn’t have a nurturing bone in their body. During their second interview Simon slipped them a note explaining how he’d be willing to lie so they could get the money for his care. In return, he’d find some way to escape his worst nightmare — the constant threat of life in an orphanage. In the end, they wanted the same thing he did. Easy money and freedom. It was a good deal while it lasted.
Mrs. Winter slipped by Agent Rivera, dropped to one knee and hugged Simon tight.
So tight it hurt.
“Oh, sweetheart!” she cried, digging her fingernails into his back. She used one hand to hide the blood-stain on his shirt. “You can’t just run away like that anymore, Simon. You have a home now!” She hugged him again, yanking his hair hard.
“Sorry... Mom,” he said. Calling her that made Simon sick to his stomach.
“Now, Ms. Rivera asked you a question,” Mrs. Winter said. “Where have you been?”
Before Simon could answer, Agent Rivera flipped open her folder. “I’ll take it from here, Mrs. Winter. What did you have for dinner last night, Simon?”
In previous months, Simon would usually get rehearsed hand signals from Mr. Winter. Crossed arms meant pasta with red sauce. Hands in pocket meant salmon. But Mr. Winter was stuck in his apartment’s doorway behind Agent Rivera, so Simon couldn’t see him.
“Salmon?” he guessed.
“Uh-huh,” Rivera said. Simon could tell he’d guessed wrong. “What toothpaste do you use?”
That was a new question. “Crest,” Simon said, while Mr. Winter mouthed “Colgate” silently behind Agent Rivera’s back.
“Can you at least tell me which wall the clock is hanging on in the kitchen?” she asked, throwing her arms up in frustration.
“The white one,” Simon said. He didn’t know the answer but the whole place was painted as white as the Winters’ faces.
“Okay. All of you listen to me closely. You are in a heap of trouble, understand?” Rivera said, slapping her binder shut with a plastic CRACK. “It’s clear there’s some serious fraud going on here. Simon, we’ll be back later today. Get your stuff together. You are out of here. If you’re lucky Sister Alphonsus will still want you at St. Mary’s.” The Winters and Simon watched her storm off.
Simon could see how angry they were. Mr. Winter made a move toward Simon. His wife grabbed his shoulder to stop him.
“If I go to jail for this I will kill you, kid. This was your idea!” They stormed back into their apartment. He would never see his stuff again, because he was not going to go back in there. The only thing he owned that he’d miss was the picture of Mom and Dad in Paris, France. They looked happy in that picture. Knowing them, the Winters would probably burn it.
So, yeah, he hated their guts. But if he counted up all the people he liked and lined them up in the hallway, that hallway would be empty.
3
Agent Rivera was right. If Simon were lucky he’d be placed in St. Mary’s with Sister Alphonsus. But he’d spent the two most miserable years of his life there.
He’d never go back.
So Simon stood on Bowery alone, hungry and with nowhere to go. He’d already finished his job for the day, stealing books for an uptown street vendor named Howie. As usual, the creep claimed he was short on money, leaving Simon with lots of promises and no cash. But unless delis accepted promises for food, he was out of luck.
For the first time in a long time Simon couldn’t think of what to do next. Bowery Mission, a place where the homeless went to rent a bed for the night was his favorite, but it didn’t open until 6pm. So he decided to sit on the sidewalk outside St. Mary’s orphanage. He knew that Sister Alphonsus liked to come out for a smoke once in awhile. He’d talk to her if he saw her. And if he didn’t see her, well, then tough luck for him.
“Hi Simon,” Billy said, appearing out of nowhere and sitting down on the curb next to him.
“Hey Billy,” Simon said as politely as possible.
“I saw you from my window up there.” He pointed to the sleeping quarters of St. Mary’s, which was the same room that Simon had slept in for two years. “It’s cold, Simon. Do you want to come inside?”
“No thanks, Billy. I’m waiting for someone.” Simon wished he had a cell phone to pretend he was busy.
“You better be careful. I seen that bully kid around,” Billy said.
“Yeah, Brad Digby. He’ll always be around here. His dad works for the orphanage.”
“Halfway house,” Billy said, defensively.
“Whatever. If you don’t know Brad yet, you will.”
“Is his dad the mean guy who wears the same shirt and tie every day?”
“That’s the one,” Simon said.
“Yeah they look alike,” Billy said. He started to rock back and forth, as if he were nervous about something. “How did your parents die?” he finally asked. His small voice got smaller as the question came out.
Simon didn’t hesitate to answer. He wanted the world to know why his parents had been taken from him. “King Arthur killed them.”
“Who’s he?”
“King Arthur. He’s the king with Excalibur. You know, the sword? Pulled it from the stone and became king of England.” Billy just stared back. “You ever hear of Merlin?”
“Yeah!” Billy yelled. “Isn’t he that guy in the TV show?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “No. He’s the wizard who guided King Arthur’s reign. They created the kingdom of Camelot where they wore armor and played hero.”
“Cool!”
“No. Not cool. It’s a myth.”
“So… if… then how did he kill your parents if he’s a myth?”
Simon scratched the back of his head. It was a habit he’d picked up to stop himself from crying. “They died in a plane crash in Scotland a couple of years ago. They were archaeologists. Really into King Arthur. They thought they were close to finding his grave.”
“Wow, did they tell you where it was?”
“Of course not. They didn’t tell me anything.” Simon needed to change the subject. “How did your parents die?”
“They didn’t die,” Billy said looking down the street as if something interesting was happening there. “I don’t know my mom. My dad left me here. He said he couldn’t handle it anymore and that I deserved better. I’m not sure how this is better. I mean, he wasn’t perfect but he never hit me or anything.”
