The Curse of Arkady (5 page)

On the way back from the kitchen with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk, he paused at the room used for the Dozer's work study. McIntire was on the phone, frowning, and tapping his heavy fingers on his desktop impatiently.

“Yes, I know the house sits on prime cliffside property. And yes, I know what it's worth as a project to all of us. But, the McHenry house is still occupied by a McHenry, and he's made it quite clear he's not selling.” His fingers drummed. Jason hesitated to enter the office during a business call, one that obviously had the Dozer on edge.

“No, I'm not going to put pressure on him. That's not my job, and it's not one I want. Look, we've done some nice projects together, clean deals. Let's keep it that way. No, I don't think I misunderstood what you meant. Look, you can bring it up before the board if you want, but like I said, McHenry doesn't want to sell. All right, then. Talk to you later.” His voice sounded a teensy bit calmer when he hung up and picked up a magazine, leaning back in his creaking leather chair. He spread the golfing magazine out between his two thick hands.

Jason wanted to ask, then changed his mind, but he wasn't fast enough. McIntire looked up and caught him as he started to walk past the open doorway.

“Something wrong, son?”

“Not really.”

His stepfather smiled at him, his big hands practically obscuring the magazine. “Sure? How's that ankle holding up?”

“Fine! Just great, doesn't bother me at all.”

“Think you'll make the first lineup?”

“I should! Another week of practice and tryouts, and the coach will post the teams.” Jason hesitated, and even as the Dozer said, “Excellent, excellent!” he raised an eyebrow.

“Want to come in and have a seat? Man to man?”

“Well . . . um . . . okay.”

It was not that the McIntires didn't act as if they loved and accepted him, they did. But they were equally as kind to telephone solicitors and dirty stray cats, and he often wondered if he were just a charity case. You know, the boy whose mother died and then several years after he remarried, his father died, and no one else was able to take him. He just didn't trust the cheerful good nature that William, Joanna, and Alicia flung his way every day. Were they just enduring him until he could find a better home? He never wanted to do anything that would test it. Asking for a computer might.

“What's on your mind, son? Everything all right?”

“Everything,” Jason said with conviction, “is just fine.”

“Good! Just a question or two, then? Something I can help you with, maybe?” William McIntire kept his booming voice down inside the house, used as he was to shouting across vast construction sites. For that, Jason could only be thankful. Someday he might want to ask a question about something personal. He fidgeted a bit on the study chair as he steadied his sandwich and milk.

“How's business?” he started. Then he wanted to kick himself for asking.

“Great, couldn't be better! Tear 'em down and build 'em up bigger and better.” The Dozer's eyes twinkled with cheer at Jason's interest. “Come out to the site with me some weekend.”

“I'd like that.” And he would, except that his stepfather was always going just for an hour to check on something and finally trailing home a full workday later. He'd have to find a way to bail if he did go. Luckily, the McHenry thing, whatever it was, didn't seem to bother the Dozer all that much. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed, and managed to get out, “Do you think I could get a computer of my own?”

“What?” McIntire frowned, then smiled. “Oh! Your own computer. What did you have in mind? Something fancy? Fastest speed, all the bells and whistles?”

“No. Just something basic. I'd like to be able to get on the Internet, but . . .”

His stepfather nodded. “Homework and things like that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well.” McIntire reared back in his chair. “I don't think that will be a problem. Let me look into it, see what I can find. A lot of nice bargains out there in computers right now. Good solid manufacture, at good prices.” He beamed and reached for his golf magazine again.

Equally relieved, Jason blurted out, “Thank you!” grabbed his snack and retreated from the study. Upstairs he sat for a moment or two before eating. That had almost been easy. But it wasn't easy to ask for things, it had never been, as anxious as the McIntires seemed to be to give them. Well, it wasn't a done deal yet. As Bailey would say, seeing is almost as good as holding. He'd believe it when he had a computer sitting on his desk.

 

Jason trotted along the soccer field lines, the grass crushing beneath his cleats with the smell of being newly mown. Far off at the main field he could hear the whistles and grunts and noise of the football team practicing, but here, on the junior varsity field, bordered by shrubbery and one warped wooden bleacher, they were all alone except for the two practice teams. He tried not to feel anxious as he jogged into position for another kickoff and glanced at the score cards being held on the sidelines. 1-1. Not good enough! No Magick. He couldn't use Magick no matter how much he wanted to. He inhaled and exhaled a few times, and dangled his arms to lose tension. Think of something besides soccer and making the team. Or Magick.

Not only was it forbidden, but could he be any more of a freak? He didn't even want to try. It would be fun to tell Sam . . . heck, he wondered if Sam had Talent or if he could get Mrs. Cowling to test Sam the way she had the others . . . then they'd be a real team. Then he wouldn't be a freak, not really, 'cause he wouldn't have to keep the truth from Sam any more. Maybe she could be convinced to test him somehow. He could just talk to her after school sometime. . . .

The coach trotted along the sidelines, whistle in his hand, watching Jason closely.

“Don't get offside,” he warned, his white legs moving quickly to keep in step with the teams. Jason had only a moment to wonder how the coach managed to never get tan even though he wore shorts day in and day out, when the soccer ball came his way. The black-and-white orb shot toward him as the passer's instep met it squarely. With scarcely a pause, Jason passed it back and ran upfield. The sagging net goals waited, but he wasn't nearly close enough to catch the pass cleanly. The defender caught up with him and the two wheeled around each other, Jason breaking free.

He felt good. He'd played three quarters and he still had legs, and the breath whistling through his lungs felt clean and sharp. The old injury that had kept him out of soccer camp for the summer had long since healed.

“Coming your way!” Sam yelled, and with a grin, he passed the ball to Jason who had an almost perfect lineup for the goal.

Except for Canby, solid and mean-looking, determined to defend it.

We're on the same side,
thought Jason, except, of course, for this game they weren't, and Canby didn't particularly care if Jason made it onto the first squad. It had been Canby, with a sliding tackle, who'd changed his whole plans for the summer. This time though, Jason saw him coming. He zigzagged away and heard Canby let out a faint grunt of frustration as he easily outran the other. The wind skirled about him as he dribbled the ball downfield toward the goal net. Sam kept pace with him from the other side, and as Martin Brinkford closed in, his pale blond hair flying as the older boy outran Jason with his long strides, Jason passed it off.

As he outdistanced his pursuer, Sam let out a shout and sent the ball back his way yet again. It shot toward him, with the coach yelling, “Shoot, Jason! Cut it! Put some English on it!”

He would have to get the angle to even get close to the goal from where he'd caught the ball. Gathering himself, Jason paused a moment, breathed a faint prayer, and kicked the ball . . .
hard.
It sailed from the instep of his soccer shoe toward the net! With a grunt, and a swing of his square body, Canby lunged in defense. He and the ball collided, and the black-and-white soccer ball abruptly shot off in another direction out of bounds and deep into the wild shrubbery bordering the field's end.

Jason stopped, his mouth hanging open. He hadn't . . . heard . . . the ball cry out “Ooof!” and then, a faint “Oh, my!” as it disappeared into the greenery . . . had he? He couldn't have. Still . . . the voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“I'll get it!” he shouted and barreled into the bushes after the soccer ball. There were shouts behind him, as the coach told each and every one of the players how they'd done so far, and he felt the greenery close like a curtain behind him. The soccer ball lay in a nest of old leaves and grass. He picked it up cautiously.

“What an experience!” it said.

He almost dropped it, but instead turned the ball about till he could see a face pushing slightly out of the black-and-white leather. Jason stared. “Mrs. Cowling!” What had he done? Just by thinking about her?

“Jason! Do shut your mouth. You look like a carp at feeding time.” His English teacher sounded a bit peevish.

“Yes, ma'am.” His jaw snapped shut. But he could not help staring at the animated face looking back at him. Eyes snapping with vigor and soft curly hair in a halo about her aging face. “How did—are you—I mean—” He hardly knew what to say. “I'm so sorry. Are you all right?”

“How exhilarating!” Mrs. Cowling beamed at him. “As for how, well, I assume you Magicked me in here. Do Magick me out as soon as we make a goal, I've papers to grade.”

“I didn't mean to. I was just thinking about errh, you know, the testing and stuff.” He tried to keep his mouth firmly shut between words. “But . . . doesn't it . . .
hurt?
”

“Goodness no! I'm not the ball. I'm just a passenger, as it were.”

“Oh.” He held the soccer ball between his palms.

“JAAAAAson!” bellowed from the field hidden behind him.

Mrs. Cowling gave him a flashing smile. “Show time!” she said gleefully.

“Ummm . . . right.” He tucked the ball under his arm and trotted back to the field. Making a goal was now not the only immediate problem he had. Getting Mrs. Cowling Magicked back where she belonged suddenly became extremely important. If only he knew how. . . . He touched the crystal pendant tucked inside his shirt. Ting had made a brass wire cage to hold his crystal loosely, and had shown him the secret way to open it and slip his focus out when he needed it. But it would do him no good if he didn't know what he'd done, and how to undo it.

The thought of Mrs. Cowling's head bouncing down the soccer field endlessly for another thirty minutes or so of practice unnerved him. Could anyone else see her? Hear her? And was she really all right? She'd always been a little . . . well . . . odd. But then, she was a Magicker, too, or at least, had come of Magicker blood. He should have asked her for help!

Sam grabbed the ball from him. “Get in there, I'll do the throw-in!” His best friend, well, one of his best friends, grinned at him, his wiry body tensed at the edge of the powdery white line.

“Right.” Jason's lips felt cotton dry as he turned away and got into position, jostled by the other players, his eyes intent on the soccer ball. Sam didn't seem to notice anything unusual, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. He made a tiny movement with his chin. Jason caught it and moved to the signal as Sam threw it in. He caught it on his chest and let it drop, dead at his feet, with no one near him but the goal. He drew his foot back, then hesitated.

He only had seconds. Jason swallowed tightly, then kicked the ball as hard as he could, arcing it toward the net, and it lifted off the grass as it flew. He heard a happy “Wheeee!” as it went, then sailed past the goalee's blocking hands right square into the goal. He tapped his crystal, thinking,
Done!

The coach fetched the ball out of the net, smiling. “Good shot, Jason.”

Canby snickered as he trotted past to line up for the kickoff. “Whee!” he said mockingly, and Brinkford joined him, the two laughing as they got into position. Jason's face warmed, but he had other fish to fry. He fell in with the coach, trying to get a look at the soccer ball. He could have sworn he saw a wink, and then Mrs. Cowling's face faded into plain old black-and-white leather diamonds.

Jason let out a sigh of relief. Sam punched his shoulder. “Nice job!”

“Thanks.”

It did little good, in the end. The other team got two more goals, but by the time they all left the field, tired, sore and winded, the coach looked pleased. “We're going to have a great team this year,” he remarked. “Good depth in all positions. I'll be posting Monday after school.”

Sam danced around Jason. “We made it, I betcha.”

“Maybe.” Suddenly the soccer team didn't seem quite as vital as it had. He'd worked Magick, unknowingly, and against another Magicker. That could be big trouble.

But how big?

S
AM'S finger eagerly stabbed at the sheet of paper duct-taped to the gym's main door. “We made it!” He bounced once for emphasis. “First string! Well, you're first string, I'm first string alternate! How cool is that?”

Jason felt himself grinning ear to ear. “It's very cool,” he said. He read the list for himself a second time, scarcely able to believe it. A heavy hand descended on his shoulder with a thump.

“Move it, Adrian. Other people want to read the list,” snorted George Canby in his ear.

Other players jostled him aside. The hand on his shoulder thumped him a second time. Jason turned about, frowning as Canby gave him a grin that was anything but friendly, then added, “Made the team, too? Good.”