The Gravity Keeper

by Michael Reisman

  “’Scuse me, Sam, didn’t see you there,” Marcus said without looking at him. “Hey, Allie, you going to Nezzo’s after school today?”

  Simon hurried to get his books and go; he didn’t want to risk making Marcus angry. Tall and athletic Marcus Van Ny was one of the most popular kids in the sixth grade; even the teachers loved him. They saw his wide, gleaming smile, his glossy black hair, and his perfect grades and thought he was an angel.

  In truth, Marcus was feared by most sixth graders. He’d never lost a fight, but he mostly left the rough stuff to his best friend, Barry Stern. Barry wasn’t as smart or handsome as Marcus, but he was so big he could have passed for a ninth grader. Plus, he was fiercely loyal to Marcus. Marcus gave him desserts at lunchtime, fed him answers in class, and brought him along to parties. In return, Barry pummeled anyone that Marcus didn’t want to be bothered with.

  Simon closed his locker and quickly slipped away, merging into the hallway traffic. He rushed into the classroom, noting that he was the first student there: the other kids were out in the halls with their friends. The teacher wasn’t there, either. She must have just stepped out: a mug of coffee steamed on her desk and bits of chalk dust still floated in the air from a message on the board: TAKE YOUR SEATS.

  Simon sat down at his desk in the back of the classroom, far from the clatter outside. He looked up at the ceiling and let his mind wander off; he was imagining a tiny race of people living in the glass-covered space around the fluorescent lights when a loud clacking jarred him from his thoughts. Class was already under way and his teacher, Mrs. Desmond, was smacking her wooden pointer against the blackboard to get everybody’s attention.

  Simon looked next to his short, wrinkled teacher and saw a giant.

  Okay, not a giant. She was just under six feet tall in her heeled shoes, but her hair made her seem much taller. From the scalp down, she wasn’t that unusual—she had a pleasant face; a small but comforting smile; thick, black-framed glasses; and a simple beige pantsuit. She held a slim leather briefcase. Perfectly normal.

  The top of her head was a different story. She had the most amazing stack of jet-black hair that extended over two feet straight up. Remarkably, this tower didn’t jiggle when she moved her head. It was like stone. Simon didn’t know much about hair spray, but he wondered how so much hair could possibly keep from wobbling.

  As he stared at it, the upper few inches of the hair bent forward.

  Simon held back a gasp as that topmost portion practically folded over and, it seemed, started to swivel around. He supposed her hair spray had given out or something.

  “Class, this is our new principal,” Mrs. Desmond said. “Miss…Fanstrom, is it?”

  Miss Fanstrom nodded, and aside from that moving top part, her hair still didn’t wiggle. Suddenly, that top section stopped, angled at one spot, as if pointing. It was aimed right at Simon.

  Mrs. Desmond continued, “Mr. Shimshamp was suddenly called away for, er, how long, Miss Fanstrom?”

  Miss Fanstrom smiled. “Indefinitely, it seems.” She had a crisp English accent that, Simon thought, made her sound very sophisticated. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for quite a while,” she said with a slight smile. “I’m told he was offered a top position in a distant college’s history department. Apparently they made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  Mrs. Desmond’s forehead scrunched in confusion. “Oh. I see. This happened on a Sunday?” she asked Miss Fanstrom. “With less than a month left in the school year? And…the school board was able to find you on such short notice?”

  Miss Fanstrom turned to face the teacher directly, but that top part of her hair flopped over so it seemed to keep pointing at Simon. “Fortunate, isn’t it? In my line of work, it is best to be ready for emergencies.” She again gave a small smile and cleared her throat, bringing the teacher out of her surprised state. “Mrs. Desmond,” she whispered, “the class? My guide?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Desmond said, giving a long look at Miss Fanstrom’s hair before turning back to the class. “As I was saying, Miss Fanstrom is your new principal. I expect there’ll be a school-wide assembly later so she can officially introduce herself, but right now…” She glanced back at Miss Fanstrom, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Right now she’d like one of you to show her around the school.”

  Miss Fanstrom turned to face the sixth graders and smiled. “Yes. My office is being fixed up by some workmen. Minor adjustments here and there. A perfect time for one of you to give me a tour; I’d hate to get lost on my first day.”

  Mrs. Desmond beamed as she gestured toward Marcus in the back row; he was the one student whose gaze wasn’t locked on Miss Fanstrom’s column of hair. He was looking at Alysha, who sat a few rows ahead of him. When he noticed Mrs. Desmond looking his way, he snapped to attention and flashed his patented grin.

  “May I suggest Marcus Van Ny,” the teacher said. “He’s our top student and a fine athlete, so he should be—”

  Miss Fanstrom’s voice didn’t waver, but her smile slipped a bit when she heard Marcus’s name. She cut Mrs. Desmond off with a quick slash of her hand. “No, thank you. I’m sure Mr. Van Ny is quite capable, but I was thinking of someone else. Perhaps…” She made a show of turning her head from side to side, as if searching the room, but Simon noted that her eyes (and the top of her hair) never left him. “That young man.”

  Mrs. Desmond squinted to follow Miss Fanstrom’s pointed finger. “Him? Er, Stanley? No, my mistake, Simon. Simon Bloom. But he—” She stopped herself. “Of course, Miss Fanstrom. Simon, would you mind?”

  Simon rose from his seat, his mind bubbling with questions, but he just nodded and followed Miss Fanstrom—and her strange hairdo—out the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  SIMON FOLLOWS THE BREEZE, OWEN MEETS THE TREES

  Simon trotted alongside Miss Fanstrom, who swung her briefcase as she walked. Minutes stretched by with neither saying a word. The halls were a different place during classtime; there was no noise but the squeaking of his sneakers and the clunking of her heeled shoes on the tiled floor. Simon had started to wonder if she’d forgotten about him when she asked, “So, Mr. Bloom, how are you enjoying your school experience?”

  “It’s okay,” Simon said.

  Miss Fanstrom chuckled. “My, how descriptive. Any subjects you like?”

  Simon thought for a moment. “I like reading. And science is all right.”

  Miss Fanstrom nodded. Simon noticed that the top of her hair was still bent toward him, but when he looked directly at it, it seemed to pop back up again. Simon shook his head, not sure whether he’d imagined it.

  “Reading: always a good thing,” Miss Fanstrom said. “And science; like father, like son, yes?”

  Simon gaped. “My…father? How did you—?”

  “I’ve had time to examine a few of the students’ files.”

  Simon just blinked and hurried to follow her out the exit to the playground. For some reason, Miss Fanstrom turned to the brick wall on the left, which faced out into the playground, and nodded. She reached out and knocked against it. “Well done,” she murmured. “Blends right in.”

  Before Simon could ask her what she meant, she turned back to the school.

  “Mr. Bloom, do you know the way to my office?”

  “Yes, Miss Fanstrom.”

  “But not from personal experience, eh? Like to keep your nose clean, so I see. That’s good. Science is a fine subject, Mr. Bloom. Just watch yourself, dear boy. There are other dangers to watch for besides tough fellows roaming the halls. Keep alert outside the school, but also inside. Ah, here we are!”

  They’d arrived at her office. Simon wondered what use the tour had been; they’d barely explored the first floor, much less the whole school. Before Simon could ask, he noticed the two workers in Miss Fanstrom’s office.

  They were dressed in denim overalls covered with pockets practically overflowing with tools. Simon saw rulers, compasses, pencils, X-Acto knives, an
d screwdrivers poking out. But there were also coiled wires, circuitry boards, and strange fixtures that he didn’t recognize. On the floor was a large toolbox filled with more tools, many unlike anything he’d ever seen. Both workers wore caps with the word Guild neatly embroidered on the front.

  One worker was up a ladder at the top of the doorway. Simon noted a piece had been cut out of the wall to make the doorway extra high, probably to accommodate Miss Fanstrom’s hair. He gawked at a beige metal box with wires, tubes, and even a small compass coming out of it that the worker was installing just above the expanded doorway.

  Miss Fanstrom entered her office and pulled a fancy gray notebook computer out of her briefcase. She placed it on her desk, and Simon stared at it; it looked sturdy, like it was made of solid metal.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bloom. This has been a lovely tour; an honor, really. Please return to class and tell Mrs. Desmond that yours was a job well done.”

  Simon looked back to Miss Fanstrom. That was it? He said good-bye and walked back to class.

  For the rest of the morning, Miss Fanstrom’s hair and the tour gave him plenty to ponder. He wondered what she had meant about science. And about danger? Besides, how odd was it that Mr. Shimshamp quit suddenly and a new principal got hired the very next day? She seemed nice, but was that just a cover? And if it was—a cover for what?

  Simon was jolted from his thoughts by the lunchtime bell. He waited until the streams of kids were gone from the halls so he could avoid the bumping and pushing. He got his lunch box from his locker without seeing a single classmate.

  The peace was broken by the distant sound of a door slamming, followed by a yelp of fear; Simon turned and, moments later, saw Owen Walters rush past toward the staircase at the end of the hall. Fearing the worst, Simon ran, too; he didn’t want to meet whoever was chasing Owen.

  Simon found the boy cowering against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms crossed in front of his face. “Please-I’m-sorry-I-spilled-your-lunch-on-you-I-promise-I won’t-do-it-again-just-leave-me-alone!”

  Simon, as always, was impressed that Owen could say so much without taking a breath. “Owen, what are you doing?”

  Owen lowered his arms and tried to calm down. “Oh, it’s you, Simon. But where are they?”

  “Who?” Simon looked around.

  “Marcus and Barry. They’re after me, but it was an accident. It’s not my fault I’m such a klutz!”

  “You spilled Marcus’s lunch on him?” Simon asked.

  “And it’s chili day,” Owen moaned. “That stains, you know!”

  Simon heard the boys’ room door at the other end of the hall slam open; they’d probably just checked the stalls looking for Owen and would hit the stairwell next. “Come with me. Hurry up!”

  He dragged Owen out the rear double doors and through the playground. They passed dozens of screaming, romping children.

  Simon led Owen to a concrete tube at the far end of the playground; it had no kids in it, so they crouched inside. It was positioned such that a person would have to go right to the opening to see them. “Now keep quiet,” he said. “They might not bother coming all the way out here to look for you.”

  Simon poked his head out of the end of the tube, staring past the ankles of the playing children. At the double doors, Marcus appeared. Simon couldn’t see his face, but he recognized those brand-new, ultraexpensive sneakers—named after some basketball player that Simon couldn’t remember—that nobody else in school owned. Those, plus a pair of pricey jeans that Simon’s mother had once said cost a fortune, made Simon sure it was him. Only now the sneakers and jeans were covered in chili.

  Simon watched Marcus scan the playground from the doorway. Cool kids, especially Marcus, avoided going out there among the sticky, clingy younger kids.

  Finally, Marcus went inside, and Simon turned to Owen. “Coast’s clear.”

  Owen was too busy panting with fear to respond. Simon wasn’t close friends with Owen but had always thought he was nice enough. Owen was short for twelve (a few inches shorter than Simon), but that wasn’t why the other kids picked on him. They did it because he made it so easy.

  Owen was jumpy—he got scared by the smallest things. Fire drills, the bell at the start of the day, the bell at the end of the day. Clapping. Taco day in the school cafeteria (especially the shredded lettuce).

  That’s just the way he was. He wouldn’t call a glass of water half full or half empty; he’d assume it was poisoned and run away.

  “Thank-you-so-much,” Owen finally gasped. “You-saved-my-life.” When he was extra nervous, Owen also tended to speak without stopping, as if he was afraid to pause for air.

  “Try breathing a little, okay?” Simon opened his lunch box and saw Owen looking at him with puppy dog eyes; he must have abandoned his own lunch when he ran. Simon sighed. “Want half a ham on rye and a cookie?”

  At the end of the day, as Simon stood by his locker, gathering his homework, he saw Owen watching from around the corner. Fortunately Alysha wasn’t there; Simon guessed Owen would have a heart attack if he saw any of Marcus’s friends.

  Once Simon had his books together, he walked toward the door where Owen was standing. Owen didn’t say a word, but he had that puppy dog look again.

  “You wanna walk with me?” Simon asked. Owen nodded, and they set out together. They walked in silence until they got close to Simon’s house, where Simon suddenly got that tugging sensation and the inviting touch of the Breeze, just as he had on Sunday. “Do you feel that?”

  Owen looked around in a panic. “Did-something-bite-you-or-sting-you?”

  “No, Owen. Relax. It’s just some wind. But it feels great…the best thing I’ve ever felt. It’s coming from there.” He pointed toward Van Silas Way as the Breeze coursed through him. “Let’s check it out.”

  Owen sniffed the air. “Could-be-a-fire-or-the-power-lines-or-air-pollution.” But he followed Simon anyway.

  Small towns like Lawnville usually have someplace that people tell stories about, such as a haunted house, a cursed cul-de-sac, or a petrifying parking lot. Often, kids in those towns dare other kids to run into the place and do something (knock on a door, write their name, bray like a donkey) to show how courageous they are.

  Dunkerhook Woods was not one of those places. Nobody thought about going into the small forest at the dead end of Van Silas Way. Outsiders, young or old, simply didn’t notice it. No car had ever mistakenly driven in, no loose ball had ever accidentally bounced in, no Frisbee had ever unintentionally sailed in.

  In fact, if somebody was to really think about it, they’d wonder if some power was working to hide Dunkerhook Woods. But such a power would also keep Outsiders from thinking that, and that’s what it did.

  The trees in Dunkerhook Woods were thick and high, many tall enough to rival the famed redwoods of the Pacific Northwest. But thanks to the very old, very effective safeguards that kept the place hidden, no Outsiders noticed the trees towering over all of Lawnville. People who lived in the areas nearest the woods noticed that their neighborhoods were often cooler, as if in the shade. Once again, those powerful forces surrounding the woods stopped people from dwelling on it. Thus, the Order’s meeting place remained secret, and a great agricultural wonder of New Jersey went all but unnoticed.

  As Simon and Owen reached Van Silas Way, Simon was disappointed: it was a regular, dull-looking street. He was about to turn away from the dead end, but the Breeze grew stronger. It wrapped itself around him and invigorated him. To Simon, it felt like an invitation.

  While Owen saw nothing but a dead-end street, the lush, green woods appeared before Simon. “Wow,” he said, “look at that place!”

  Owen blinked. “What place?”

  Simon pointed. “There, those woods with the gigantic trees! It looks…incredible. I guess I never noticed it somehow.”

  Owen squinted in confusion. The Breeze hadn’t touched him, so he wasn’t officially invited. “Maybe you need some rest, or
you’ve caught the flu or something, but Simon, it’s just a street.”

  Simon, naturally, thought Owen was afraid; how could he not see the woods, right there in front of them? “Come on,” Simon said. “They’re just big trees.”

  Simon strode down the block, and Owen, despite the feeling that his new friend might be crazy, hurried after him. Simon stepped onto the curb leading into the woods, and Owen, baffled at the sight (Simon’s body seemed to be getting blurry now), ran to catch up.

  Owen paused in confusion a few inches away. Simon, standing half in the woods and half out, grabbed his arm and tugged him up the curb. Owen gasped in amazement as the enormous forest suddenly became visible.

  Together, the boys walked in: for the first time in history, two Outsiders entered Dunkerhook Woods.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE BROKEN CHAIN

  As Simon and Owen were stepping into history, Ralfagon Wintrofline was sitting in a cramped room cluttered with piles of books, overflowing file cabinets, and scattered stacks of papers. This was his office at Milnes University. It wasn’t always this messy; Eldonna straightened it up at least twice a week. When Ralfagon was lost in thought, however, he tended to invoke physics formulas without noticing. It was his version of thumb twiddling or pencil chewing, only his method caused small items to move around in random ways. It proved disastrous on the rare occasions he went into stores that sold glassware.

  Ralfagon wasn’t lost in thought now. He was hunched over the one clear spot on his desk, which was occupied by a thick blue Book. It was the Book of Physics, and it contained all the formulas, laws, and powers connected to the science of physics. Ralfagon never let the book out of his sight, and the cover kept it disguised from Outsiders; it read: Teacher’s Edition of Physics, so any students or colleagues who happened to see it thought it was Professor Ralph Winter’s ordinary teaching textbook.