Читать книгу The Lost Celt - A. E. Conran - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

Grandpa and I hardly get any sleep. Most of the night we spend in the ER. The rest I spend at home looking at time-travel videos online. How can I sleep when I’ve just seen a real live Celt?

The more I watch, the more I play back that conversation with Mariko in my head. Was she trying to tell me that there’s a conspiracy, just like the videos say? That time travel is happening all the time, but it’s a big secret and somehow she’s involved? It gives me goose bumps just thinking about it. Can a secret that big stay a secret? I pull my military history book from the shelf by my bed. Wars are full of secrets, even our battles in Romanii: Northern Borders.

The proof is there in black and white. During the Second World War, no one knew the Allies were making the atomic bomb, especially not the “general public,” even though whole “secret” towns were built where the bombs were made. And no one knew they had broken the Enigma code years before the war ended. Not even the Allied armies knew that the intelligence people had broken the code. Throughout history there have been secrets—massive secrets. This must be another one. Kyler’s gonna love this!

I must have fallen asleep because I wake up, what seems like five minutes later, with the book still open on my bed and my alarm blaring as loudly as a fire engine. I roll over groaning and hit the snooze. It’s only on the fourth burst of ringing that the memory of the Celt blows me clean out of bed like an electric shock.

Grandpa’s already downstairs packing my lunch. He slides a bowl of cereal across the table as I sit down. Cereal without milk, just how I like it.

“How are you, Grandpa?” I ask.

“Sore. Pretty sore. But we had an adventure, Mikey Boy, didn’t we? Heh, heh, heh.”

I nod and shovel cereal into my mouth as quickly as I can.

“You’re running late this morning,” Grandpa says. “I was gonna let you sleep in. I already texted Dave to say you wouldn’t be walking with Kyler, but now that you’re up…can you hustle?”

“Sure! Maybe I can catch up with him.”

I finish my cereal in record time, and I’m just putting my lunch box in my backpack by the door when Mom comes in from her shift. She makes me even later by doing what Grandpa calls one of her “Spanish Inquisitions.” This means she goes ballistic and asks lots of questions that neither Grandpa nor I get the chance to answer before she’s on to the next. You can bet Mariko’s already texted the details, but Mom insists on hearing them again from us.

“Poker night, Dad? On Sunday night? When Mikey has school the next day?” Mom speaks really fast when she does the Spanish Inquisition.

“It was the only night all the guys could make this month—”

“And you go down unlit steps?”

“There was dog poop in the—”

“You could’ve broken your arm, or leg, or both.”

“It’s just a strain, and a few stitches—”

“Were you drinking?”

“I had two or—”

“You go down unlit steps when you’ve been drinking?” Mom slaps her forehead like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“There was a plastic bag of dog—”

“And you couldn’t leave it ‘til morning?”

“Yeah I shoulda—”

“And Mikey was still up? On a school night?”

“He was in his bed—”

“Who called the ambulance?”

“Dave drove us—”

“And you let Mikey stay in the emergency room?”

“Dr. Curtis was—”

“He couldn’t have stayed with Dave?”

It goes on and on until she’s just shaking her head saying, “I don’t believe it, Dad. I just don’t believe it. I come home from work, and I’m still at work. What can I say? What am I going to do with you?”

She slugs back black coffee even though she never drinks coffee after a shift. While her mouth is around the cup, I make a dash for the door. “Don’t forget your phone, Mikey,” she calls. Grandpa limps after me.

“Don’t worry, Mikey. I’ll set her straight,” Grandpa says. “Mom’s not mad at you, but I’m in the dog house for sure. Throw me a bone next time you see me, heh, heh, heh.”

I make it to school with half a minute until the bell. Probably because I’m late, Kyler’s playing with the “tetherball kids” in the yard. The tetherball kids are always out there right up to the bell.

“Kyler!” I yell from the far side of the blacktop. “You’ll never guess what I saw last night!” I run to meet him, my tin lunch box clanking in my “mom-disapproved” camouflage backpack, but before I can reach him the bell rings.

“Come on, you’ll be late,” he yells as he joins the last kids racing headlong for class.

There’s no time to talk as we stuff our backpacks into our cubbies and sit down at our table for roll call, but the minute Miss O’Brien gets behind her computer to email our class numbers to the office, Kyler says, “What happened? You left the game!”

“Oh man, did you put it on pause? Did I win? Did I miss my entire victory?” I can hardly believe myself. I have the most super-amazing news in the world, and this is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

“No,” Kyler says. “You didn’t miss anything. I put it on pause.” He shakes his head as if he knows he’s the best friend ever and kind of wishes he wasn’t right now.

I try to thank him, but Miss O’Brien starts her Monday morning routine, announcing who’s paper collector, who’s librarian, all that stuff. There’s no way I can tell Kyler anything while she’s talking. It’s torture. I keep thinking she has to take a breath sometime, but no. It appears Miss O’Brien has given up breathing this week because the moment she’s done with the “helpers,” she says, “And now it’s your favorite Monday morning moment: what does Monday morning mean?”

“Math!” the class shouts.

“Yep, it’s quiz time!”

Everyone cheers and then, remembering they’re supposed to be upset, they groan. Casey Rubens, sitting across from me, pretends to barf into her pencil case.

“Oh, come on! You love it!” Miss O’Brien shakes the candy jar on her desk. “And today’s special question will be…” She takes two dice from her desk drawer and rolls them while everyone tries to guess the number. “Number nine,” she says, to a mixture of groans and cheers. In the “Monday Morning Means Math” quiz, Miss O’Brien randomly picks one math question before we start. If you get that question right you get a candy, even if you get all the other questions wrong. Everyone loves it.

We grab our pencils and math books. I try to catch Kyler’s eye before Miss O’Brien gets started, but Kyler is a serious quiz-taker. His head is already down. Miss O’Brien launches straight into the questions. Now I’m going to have to tell him without making her nose quiver. This is not easy. Miss O’Brien’s a great teacher, and she’s really fun, but she can be strict too. She doesn’t like anything messing up her Monday Morning Means Math quiz, that’s for sure. The warning sign: she repeats herself for a second time, and then her nose begins to quiver.

As she turns to write on the board, I nudge Kyler. He shakes his head as if I’m a gnat buzzing around his ear.

“Kyler,” I whisper. He swats me away. Five questions later, I finally get his attention. He’s ahead on the quiz and looking around to see how he’s doing compared to everyone else. “I saw a Celtic warrior last night. A real Celt in the VA,” I whisper.

Miss O’Brien looks around. Kyler makes a face. It’s an “I don’t believe you, and why don’t you shut up before Miss O’Brien moves our behavior pegs to orange” kind of face.

“Mikey,” Miss O’Brien points to my math book then returns to writing on the board.

I whisper again.

Miss O’Brien turns back to me. “Mikey, eyes on your work, please.”

I try to tell Kyler one more time and Miss O’Brien twitches her nose. I shouldn’t ignore the sign, but if I don’t tell him now I’m going to burst. And then it’s like some Celtic god has sent a thunderbolt from the sky. The classroom phone rings, and Miss O’Brien is distracted by someone in the office wanting to know whether Naomi Huang has gone to the dentist.

“He was up on one of those wheelie beds,” I whisper. “Red hair, red mustache, torc, tattoos, ripping off his hospital gown, and yelling, ‘Cuckoolaaand!’” I must have said that one word louder than I intended because all of a sudden Casey Rubens is singing, “Cuckooland, Cuckooland, Mikey’s in cloud Cuckooland,” in her chipmunk voice, and everyone’s giggling and making whacko expressions at me.

Miss O’Brien puts the phone down. “What is going on? This is the Monday Morning Means Math quiz, and I should be able to talk on the telephone without pandemonium breaking loose. Pandemonium means lots of noise and goofing off.”

She puts Casey’s and my peg down to orange. Casey points at me as if it is my fault. I make a “too bad” face and shrug. I’m not worried. I’ll get my peg back up again before the end of the day. She won’t be so lucky. She never shuts up.

Kyler seems to get back to his math, but a few seconds later he nudges me and shows me the side of his scratch paper. Red hair? Tattoos? he writes. I nod crazily. Ripped off his shirt? War cries?? He’s really thinking it over now. TORC???? I nod again.

No way, he writes.

Yes way, I write back. I grab a crayon from my pencil box and add some blood splatters and a puddle of red underneath to show I’m serious.

He thinks for a moment. I can tell he is thinking because his mouth hangs open, which is the way Kyler always thinks. Then he grins.

AWESOME!!!!!!!!!! He writes exclamation marks across the page until his pencil lead breaks.