The Curse of the King. Peter Lerangis

The fact that we were going to die.

      There. I said it.

      I’ll admit, I hated actually putting that idea into words. I tried not to think of it as a fact. Or even think of it at all. Hey, the fat lady hadn’t sung, right? Dad was trying to keep the show going.

      I had to stay positive for Cass and me.

      “It’s weird,” Cass murmured.

      “What’s weird?” I said.

      “G7W,” Cass replied.

      “Of course it’s weird,” I said. “It sits in DNA for generations and then, bam—it shows up in people like you and me.”

      “No, I mean it forces us all into stereotypes,” Cass said. “That always bothered me. You know, like when P. Beg called us Soldier, Sailor, Tinker, Tailor. It’s like another way of saying Jock, GPS-Guy, Geek, and … whatever Tailor is supposed to be.”

      “The one who puts it all together,” I said. “That’s what Bhegad said.”

      “He slices … he dices … he figures out ways to find Loculi in ancient settings! But wait, there’s more! Now the new improved Jack is also the Destroyer!” Cass let out a weary laugh. “How does that make any sense? It doesn’t. At first this whole thing seemed so cool—we were going to be superhumans, woo-hoo! But the last few weeks have been like this bad dream. Don’t you wish we could be normal—just kids like everybody else?”

      “Cheer up, Cass,” I said, scooping stuff up from my desk. “Normal is the enemy of interesting.”

      I dumped my pen, phone, change, and gum into my pockets. The last thing I picked up was the Loculus shard.

      It was my good luck charm, I guess. For ten days I’d been carrying it with me all the time. Maybe because it reminded me of my mom. I really did believe that she had dropped it at my feet on purpose, no matter what Cass or Aly thought.

      Besides, it really was awesome to look at. It felt smooth and cool to the touch—not like metal exactly, or plastic, but dense and supertough. I held it up to the sun for a quick glance:

      “You’ve been wearing that thing out,” Cass said. “It looks like it shrunk.”

      “Shrank,” I corrected him.

      “Thunk you.” Cass hopped down from the bunk. “Anyway, you’re much more Tailor than Destroyer. That description fits Marco.”

      “Now who’s stereotyping?” I said.

      Cass giggled. “Somewhere in this world, the Massa are training Marco Ramsay to be the new king of Atlantis, while you, me, and Aly are going off to seventh grade. I think we get the better deal.”

      As he disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom, I heard the front doorbell ring—which seemed kind of weird for 6:39 A.M. Dropping the shard into my pocket, I glanced out the window. I saw a white minivan parked at the curb. The van’s sides were emblazoned with the call letters of a local TV station WREE-TV.

      Uh-oh. So much for keeping things under the radar.

      “Sorry, no interviews.” Dad’s muffled voice echoed upward.

      “We think the nation will want to hear this brave story,” a woman’s voice piped up. “It’s got heart, grit, pathos—”

      “I appreciate that,” Dad said firmly. “Look, I know your station owner, Morty Reese. He’ll understand as a father, we’d like our privacy.”

      The woman’s voice got softer. “If it’s compensation you’re concerned about, we are prepared—”

      “Compensation?” Dad shot back with a disbelieving laugh. “Wait. Morty asked you to bribe me?”

      “Mr. Reese has your best interests at heart,” the woman said. “This story could lead to awareness of traumatic brain injury. Hospitals will realize they need to increase security—”

      “I’m sure Mr. Reese can donate directly to the hospitals if he’s so concerned,” Dad replied. “My private life is not for sale, sorry. Between you and me, he should learn how legitimate news organizations operate.”

      “Mr. Reese is an excellent newsman—” the woman protested.

      “And I’m an excellent trapeze artist,” Dad shot back. “Thanks but no thanks.”

      I heard the door shut firmly.

      

      “SO, DID HE work there before or after you were born?” Cass said as we walked up the street toward school.

      “Did who work where?” I asked.

      “Your dad, in the circus,” Cass said. “Did you get to see him?”

      Trapeze. It took me a moment. “Dad was being sarcastic,” I explained. “He doesn’t like Mr. Reese.”

      “Your dad has a weird sense of humor,” Cass said.

      “Reese is like the Donald Trump of Belleville,” I said. “Except with normal hair. Dad says he owns half the town, but still Mr. Reese wants to be a media mogul. He’s the head of Reese Industries, the Bathroom Solutions People.”

      “Whoa. As in ‘Reese: The Wings Beneath Your Wind’?” Cass asked.

      “Yup,” I replied. “Those little plastic toilet thingies that attach the seat to the bowl. Everyone has them. That’s billions in profit. And billions in profit buys local TV stations. Anyway, the most important thing is that Dad’s trying to protect us. To keep our faces out of the news so he can work on saving our lives.”

      “Hope springs eternal,” Cass said, kicking a stone up the sidewalk.

      I smiled. That was the first positive thing Cass had said all day. “You know, that’s one of my dad’s favorite sayings.”

      “That’s a sign!” Cass said with a grin. “I do belong in your family!”

      I put my arm around his shoulder, and we walked quietly along a wooded area.

      When Cass spoke again, his voice was soft and unsteady. “It’s so hard to stay optimistic. How do you do it?”

      “I try to list all the good things,” I said. “Like number one, I have a new brother.”

      “Is there a number two?” Cass asked.

      “We both feel healthy,” I suggested. “We haven’t needed treatments yet. Your turn.”

      “Um …” Cass replied. “Number three, it could be that this whole thing will blow over? I mean, it’s possible the Karai Institute was lying to us—you know, about needing those Sesulucol?”

      “Ilucol,” I corrected him.

      Cass laughed. “Number four, you are getting really good at Backwardish!”

      I veered off the sidewalk onto a dirt path that led into a tangle of trees that sloped downward to a creek. “Come on, this is a tuctrosh … tushcort … shortcut.”

      “Wait—what? There’s a stream down there!” Cass protested. As he walked, his foot kicked aside a busted-up baseball glove, festooned with a banana peel. “This is disgusting. Can’t we take Smith Street to Whaley and then the jagged left-right on Roosevelt? Or bypass Roosevelt via the dog run?”

      “Even I don’t even know my neighborhood that well!” I said