Chasing the Milky Way (4 page)

I
T'S
I
ZZY'S IDEA TO PLAY AT
Mission Control later. Even though all I'm thinking about is packing, programming, and unique attributes. Still, I put my best foot forward to have some fun with her.

“Queen Nomony, are you afraid?” I sit in the driver's seat of the Mustang and start our ritual. Izzy pretends to flip switches on the dashboard.

“I'm not afraid, Cap'n,” she shouts.

“And if we're to fly out into the void and become live bait for aliens, will you be afraid?” I grab hold of the wheel and duck to the right.

“I will not be afraid, sir!” She ducks to the right as well, then gets up so she is standing on her seat.

“And if we run out of fuel and have to walk through the stars until our feet bleed, will you be afraid?” I slam my foot down into the gas pedal and we race through the stars. Warp speed.

“I will not know the name of fear, Cap'n!” She gives me a sharp salute.

“And if we're taken down by space police and thrown into a jail to be put to death by a laser-beam firing squad, will you stand with fear?”

She goes quiet and the next line is soaked with the drama of all of the space shows we have ever watched. Her hand comes down to cover her heart in a pledge. “Fear will not cross my mind nor enter my heart, Cap'n.”

Cam flies through the back of the carport and does a leap into the backseat. “Then face thy doom!” He curls his arm up like he is holding a grenade launcher on his shoulder.

“Never!” Izzy shouts, raising a finger to the sky. “I may be held captive here in the Vintage Carrier, but I AM QUEEN NOMONY. I will take orders from no one. I am reclaiming this ship. I will go to Dracon and demolish . . .” Cam and I look at each other. This monologue is starting to go on a little long.

“Meet thy doom!” Cam tries again, bringing the grenade launcher to his shoulder a second time. Izzy gets the hint. She jumps down into the seat and we duck and lean back and forth, swerving around enemy ships.

Cam fires. “Boom, boom, boom! They're faster than we thought!” he shouts.

I hear the tarp crinkle and look in the rearview mirror. It's Mr. Blinks. I jump out the side of the car and go over to him.

“Hey, kiddos,” Mr. Blinks says as he steps in.

“Hey, Mr. Blinks.” Cam drops his imaginary grenade launcher and swivels on the back of the car.

Mr. Blinks holds out a new item. “Thought you might be able to put this to good use.” It's the metal detector!

“Oh my god, you found one?” I say, as he hands it to me.

“Wasn't easy, but I did. It was this one and a bigger one. I figured the smaller one was better. How'd I do?”

I test the weight in my hand. “It's perfect,” I say, laying it flat on both my palms. “Can't be more than a foot long, either.”

Mr. Blinks grabs on to the side of his overalls. “Yep, I looked this item up; it's the Mini Handheld 100 and it's super lightweight.”

I run my hands over the button on the base and flick it on, pointing it toward the Mustang.
Pling-tink, pling-tink,
it says. A gauge lights up as it goes over the hubcap.

“I found a couple of dimes out in the driveway with it.” Mr. Blinks reaches into his pocket. “Cam here reminded me that it's your birthday.” He takes my hand and puts the dimes in, folding my fingers closed.

“Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate it. Everything.”

He puts his hat back on. “Least I can do.” He heads back outside. I go over and set the metal detector on the desk. Daylight is fading, so I flip the light. Then hold the metal detector up against PingPing to see if the height is as good as it looks. The top of the handle will come just to the base of his head. I can't believe our good luck. I pull out a few zip ties while Cam practices backflips off of the Mustang and Izzy goes on with her monologue. “I'll bring the catpig people with me when I leave,” she says to the air. “And you will never stop me!”

A few minutes later, I hear Mr. Blinks start plucking the strings of his banjo.

“You know what that means.” I turn to Izzy.

She groans and gets out of the Mustang. “Bedtime.” I steer her out of the carport and lift her into our bedroom window.

“I'll be right back,” I say to Cam, as I climb in after her. “Just as soon as Queen Nomony falls asleep.”

“I'll be here,” Cam says, positioning himself four feet back from the car.

“See if you can attach that metal detector. I left the zip ties out. Details are on the design page,” I say.

“With pleasure.” Cam runs for the car, flips, sort of nails the landing, and then walks over to the Mission Control station.

“Thanks.” I climb in the window.

I
ZZY SLIPS INTO HER PAJAMAS AND
I do a quick story to get her to fall asleep. I'm about to duck out the window when I realize I better get packing. I sort through clothes, picking up shirts and sniffing the pits. Luckily, my three favorites get the all-clear. I pull a duffel out from under my bed and tuck the shirts inside. Then I choose pants and unders. I go over to Izzy's bureau, pick a few items, and pack those, too. Then I flip off the light, toss the duffel out the window. I grab the laptop and the picture of Sally Ride. Dried silt sprinkles onto the heating vent as I climb out and bring everything into the carport.

Cam is sitting at the far end, leaning close to the lamp. PingPing is now equipped with a metal spine. I go over and look closely. Cam drilled six holes in the barrel and ran zip ties through to secure the metal detector to PingPing's back, just as specified in our design. When I look at him, his football head seems like it's grinning. I push him back and forth to see how stable he is. He wobbles slightly coming back to me.

“Nice,” I say. “We'll have to add a little weight in the front to make sure our distribution is right and maybe fiddle with the trim, but I think we're close.”

When Cam doesn't answer, I look down and see he is busy writing something.

“Homework?” I say, peering over his arm.

He holds up our Mission Control notebook. Page 8.

It's Cam's dream page. It's what happens after we win BotBlock. The whole page is covered with pictures and words.

Mighty Hawk: Man of Action, Man of Justice

YMCA

KARATE = brave heart

YOGA = clear mind = capacity for mind meld?

WEIGHTS = lean and mean (but only to the bad guys)

There are pictures of fists and feet flying, meditation, figures lifting weights, and something on the side with a stick figure that looks like a little old lady with a bag of groceries. Cam's going to use his half of the BotBlock money to buy a year membership to the Y. Someday, he's going to have his own gym.

Helping Kids Be Great and Getting Rid of D-Wayne Bad People,
it says at the bottom. He's crossed out a bunch of mottos before. I have a feeling this one might go, too.

“That motto seems a little long . . . and, uh, personal,” I say.

“I'm trying it out,” he says.

I set the laptop down on the desk and sit next to him. Dirt skitters to the ground.

“Whoa, what happened there?” Cam says, wiping his hand across the laptop. He holds his silt-covered fingertips under the light.

“Destin,” I say.

As he leans closer, I spot a welt on his neck, hard to detect in the shadows.

“Is that from—” I reach over and pull his collar back. It's not easy to see, but it's definitely big and it's definitely sore.

“It's fine, it's fine.” He waves my hand off. “I'm much faster than him for the most part. Did Destin throw mud at you or something?”

“Cam . . .”

“Seriously. You should have seen that fool face-plant trying to catch me. No one gets Mighty Hawk.”

D-Wayne gets Mighty Hawk, I think, but I don't say it 'cause I can see he isn't interested in talking about it. Cam has been cursed with blind optimism. I don't know how or why, but he has it. He says all the action heroes carry the optimism gene, otherwise they'd have nothing to fight for and they'd go down easy.

“Looks like
you
could have used my help, though,” he says.

“First of all, I held my own.” Then I tell him what happened, from leaving the classroom, through the bologna sandwich birthday cake wishes. “No laptop, no programming for the Rescue Mission.” I look away from Gram's searching gaze. “And we're running out of time.”

“Could we just do the RC part?” Cam starts and I cut him off.

“You know we can't. If we don't program, we only do two competitions. And if we only do two competitions, we don't qualify for the all around—”

He starts nodding before I even finish. “Right, right, no all around, no prize money.”

Cam pulls the race specs out of the back of the Mission Control notebook.

I pull the laptop close to me and blow on the keyboard. The dirt and silt fluffs toward the monitor. Cam closes the Mission Control binder and puts it out of the way of the dust.

I press the power button.

Nothing.

Cam makes a crackling sound with his voice. “Captain Juniper Ray, this is Mighty Hawk. We've got no response.”

I grab the cord. There's an outlet on the outside of the trailer. “I hear you, over. Testing with power. Commencing now.”

I push the plug in and press the power button again. A little light flicks on. And the keyboard lights up.

“We've got power!” I say.

We slap five. Words flash across the screen, but blink out before I can read them. I wait, crossing my fingers. But it freezes on the black screen.

“We'll just give it a minute,” I say.

“Yeah, it always needs a minute to boot up,” Cam says. He twirls a pencil in between his fingers, hits a beat on the edge of the desk.

A minute goes by. Two minutes go by. A tiny whisper seems to come from the keys and both Cam and I lean in. The laptop makes a crackling sound.

“Uh, that's not good!” Cam shouts. He lets go of the pencil and it sails over his right shoulder.

I grab the cord and yank it out of the wall. The crackle dies with a pop and the laptop lies still. I pick it up and examine it underneath the lamp. A little wisp of smoke filters up out of the keys. The battery pack is very warm on my fingers.

“Great,” I say. “It's officially fried.”

“Just borrow another laptop tomorrow?” Cam says.

“Really? Do you really think she'll let me borrow another one if this is what happens? Oh god.” My mind races. “I'll probably have to buy a new one. We can't buy a new one!”

“Hold on, now, Cap'n, you're panicking. We gotta think it through.” Cam gets up and paces back and forth next to the Mustang. Cam always seems to think better on his feet. “I mean, you're smart, Cap'n, but in this case, you'd be better off thinking like someone outside the law. First of all, it's almost the end of the school year. All this junk”—he gestures toward the laptop—“is getting real worn out, anyway.”

“Maybe, but most of it's not filled with mud,” I say, scraping a piece of grass off of the bottom with my fingernail. “Most of it's salvageable.”

“Still, we have to evaluate our options.”

“Okay, option one: I explain what happened and she doesn't let me take another laptop out. Option two: I have to pay for it and she still doesn't let me take another one out. Option three: I have to pay for it and maybe she'll let me take another one out, but with conditions.”

“Option four,” he turns, heads back in my direction. “You bring it to school under the radar, don't mention anything is wrong, and then once she notices, halfway through summer, she'll think it just burned out!”

I rub my hands over my eyes. I'm liking option four, but not so sure it's a foolproof plan.

“We just place it back in the laptop cart nonchalantly and take out another one. Make the change on the sign-out sheet to cover our tracks. It's a simple old switcheroo.” He crosses his arms and leans up against the Mustang.

“I think it looks suspicious, especially with the mud . . . situation. I'm the one that checks them out the most. If one is sitting in there caked in mud, she is going to come to me first. She probably won't even check the sign-out sheet.”

I lean down close to the keys and blow again. More dirt comes out, but when I press the keys they crackle and pop underneath my fingertips. “Maybe if we had something to pump all the dirt out, so it looks like the others.”

Cam snaps. “Can air.”

“Can air?” I say. “Can air what?”

“
Can
air. I've seen Mrs. Shareze use it on her keyboard. It's like a spray bottle filled with air.” He holds his hand up like he is holding up a can of WD-40. “Pshhh, pshhh. You know?”

I jump up. “
Compressed
air!” I shout. “I've seen it, too.”

My fingers tingle.

Cam comes over and picks up the laptop. “Easy,” he says. “She always has her coffee in the teachers' lounge before the bell, so her room should be empty.”

“All right.” I lick my lips. “I could just get there early.” Gram peers at me from the picture frame and I have to turn it slightly so she isn't looking into my eyes. I turn back to Cam. “I could get the compressed air and clean it all up so that it's in tip-top shape.”

“And then we slide it on home.” He sails the laptop through the air like a magic carpet, then sets it down, grabs another pencil from the jar at the edge of my makeshift desk, and starts using that one as a drumstick, too.
Ditditditdit
bingbing,
onto the edge of the lamp. “While you're cleaning that one, I'll check out the new one. Foolproof.”

If we want to program PingPing tomorrow, if we really want to compete, we don't have a choice. “Just as long as we're there early.”

A wail comes from the trailer next door and Cam drops his eyes, shaking his head. “Let's just hope I get some sleep.”

“Camrin?” That'd be his sister Judy.

“I'll see you first thing,” Cam says as he heads toward the back of the carport.

“Okay,” I say. “T-minus twenty-one hours until liftoff and T-minus sixty hours until competition.” I'm starting to have my doubts that this was meant to be.

“I think you mean T-minus sixty hours until the road to victory,” Cam says.

“I hope so,” I answer, crossing my fingers that he's right about that.

“Oh.” He pulls the tarp aside and a second later reappears with a backpack. “Almost forgot.” He dumps the bag into the back of the Mustang. “All packed and ready to go!”

“Right,” I say, looking at PingPing. “All ready, except for the most important part.”

“Nothing can be done tonight,” Cam says. “But we'll get it tomorrow.”

“Camrin?” Judy says again.

“I better run.” He ducks out of the carport.

I secure two bolts to the bottom of the frame to even out the weight of the metal detector. Then I flip the RC on and adjust the trim and do one practice run. PingPing is doing better than ever. After that, I get restless thinking I still have a million things to prepare for. I start sifting through junk parts. I sort some into a bin to bring along. A couple extra servos in case PingPing ends up with a burned-out joint, and plenty of extra wire for mishaps of other kinds. I put the soldering iron in, too. I pick up an old microphone bag that Mr. Blinks brought me. This is going to be my Mission Control Important Items Bag. I take a Sharpie from the desk and scribble the initials on the front of it,
MCIIB,
then toss the Sharpie inside. I pull the desk drawer open and take out my USB-compatible transmitter. I place it delicately into the soft lining. Then I take out the only other item in the drawer: a printed registration form. I fold it and tuck it underneath the transmitter. What else will I need with me for the big day? Of course, I'll have the laptop and the remote control. Scanning the desk, I take an extra battery pack off the charger. Then I pick up the picture of Gram, give it a kiss, and tuck it into the bag, too. Last, I bring the MCIIB over to the car, unzip my duffel bag, and place it inside. I survey the area. All clear. I go back over to my Mission Control station and flip our notebook open to the Protocol for Optimum Achievement.

I write in one middle step.

1.5) Swap out laptop

I pull the Sally Ride picture from the corner of the desk where I dropped it. It's all dry now, just crumpled and covered in silt. I spread it flat and dust some mud off her face. Then I pull a glue stick out of the pencil holder and use the very last bit of glue to secure the picture to the front of our Mission Control book. Smoothing the corners, I press on all sides so there's no chance of it falling off. Just a few more steps, a few easy steps, and we're headed for the stars. That's what I tell myself. I press my hand over it one more time so I can go to bed believing.