The Curse of the King. Peter Lerangis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 over my shoulder.

      “Wait till I learn to ride a bike,” Cass grumbled. “Then we’ll have great options. And I won’t seem like such a doofus.”

      “You’re not a doofus,” I said.

      “I am the only kid in the country who can’t ride a bike!” Cass replied.

      “Yeah, well …” I said. “You had a different kind of childhood.”

      “As in none,” Cass said. “You try growing up with criminal parents.”

      WHOOOOO … WHOOOO! An eerie call made me stop in my tracks.

      “Cool,” Cass said, bumping into me from behind. “An owl?”

      Slowly a plaid shirt appeared among the rustling leaves—and then the moonlike, grinning face of Barry Reese. “Whooooo do we have heeeere?”

      He jumped in front of us—well, if you consider slowly moving nearly two hundred pounds of well-fed and expensively dressed flesh into a narrow dirt path jumping.

      “Not owl,” I said. “Foul. Cass, meet Barry Reese.”

      “Son of Donald Trump?” Cass said.

      Barry ignored the comment, or maybe he was too busy thinking up his next move. Barry had a hard time doing two things at once. He held up three pudgy fingers to my face, then five, then one. “How many fingers? I heard you had some mental problems, like losing your memory. Just want to test to see if you’re okay, Amnesia Boy.”

      There were approximately three hundred middle-school kids in Belleville who would be quaking in their boots at this kind of bullying. But after facing up to killer zombies, sharp-taloned griffins, and acid-spitting vizzeet, I wasn’t bothered by Barry Reese. “Stick two of them into your eyes and I’ll count slowly,” I said.

      He shoved both of us backward. His face was covered with a sheen of sweat as he grinned sadistically at Cass. “Look! It’s Cash! The hardened LA stweet tough who still wides a twicycle!”

      “Wait, how did you know that?” Cass said.

      “Um, maybe because you just announced it to the world?” Barry replied. “Can I have your autograph? It’s okay if you want to use cwayons.”

      I lunged forward and gave Barry a shove. “It’s Cass. And he only gives autographs to people who know how to read.”

      Unfortunately pushing a guy of Barry’s bulk was like trying to move a boulder. He bumped me hard with his belly and grabbed my backpack straps. “That was disrespectful, McKinley. The Barry sent you to the hospital once and he can do it again. Now give me your phone.”

      “My phone?” I said. “Doesn’t the Barry have a phone?”

      His beefy fingers were already in my jeans pocket. As I wriggled to get away, the pocket popped inside out along with Barry’s hand. All my stuff spilled out onto the ground, including the Loculus shard.

      Cass and I scrambled to grab it, but Barry was shockingly fast СКАЧАТЬ