The Curse of the King (3 page)

“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.

“S
O, 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 when he was excited. “What's this?” he asked, scrunching up his face at the shard.

“Nothing!” I blurted.

“Then why did you both grab for it first?” As he lifted it upward, the shard glinted in the sunlight. “What's that weird star shape on it? A symbol from a secret nerd society?”

“Mathletes!” Cass said. “It's . . . a club. Of math people. We talk about . . . pi. And stuff like that.”

“I like pies, too . . . but I don't like
lies
!” Barry snickered at his own idiotic joke. “Especially lies about anti-American world-domination cults that kidnap kids for weeks at a time!”

Cass was shaking now. “Jack, is he going loony tunes on us? Should we be calling nine-one-one?”

Barry stepped closer, his beady eyes shifting from me to Cass. “You're not a street tough, Casper, are you? And, Jack, you didn't lose your memory and travel across the country. Your little story? It's full of holes. My dad thinks your dad has connections with terrorists. Where does he fly all the time? What's with all the long trips to Magnolia?”

“Mongolia,” Cass corrected him.

“Wait—
terrorists
?” I said. “There are no terrorists in Mongolia!”

“Ha—so you
were
there!” Barry said.

“My dad runs a genetics lab there,” I replied. Barry's face went blank, so I added, “That's the study of genes, and not the kind you wear.”

Barry grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. He cradled the back of my head in his right hand. “Where's the white hair, Jack?”

“What?”
I squeaked.

He let go of my head and spun me back around. “That
day you fell into the street—I saw this, like, upside-down V shape on the back of your head. Now it's gone. It means something, doesn't it? A secret symbol from some hidden organization?”

Cass's eyes were huge. Leave it to Barry, the dumbest person I knew, to come the closest to the truth.

“Uh . . .” Cass said.

“I'm right, huh?” Barry barked. “Go ahead, tell the Barry he's right!”

Let your enemy give you the lead.

Dad had recited that one to me at least a thousand times. And now, in this moment, I finally understood it.

I stepped right up to Barry and refused to blink. Then I took a deep breath and spoke fast. “You want the truth? Okay. My hair and Cass's? Yup, it did go white in the back, in the shape of a Greek lambda, which is their letter
L
. Now our hair is dyed. The lambda means we inherited a gene from a prince who escaped the sinking of Atlantis. See, the gene unlocks part of our DNA that turns our best ability into a superpower. But it also overwhelms the body, and no one who's ever had it has lived past the age of fourteen. In the last year of life, the body begins to break down. You get sick every few weeks. You can stay alive for a while if you get certain treatments, but eventually you die. We learned this from a group called the Karai Institute on this island that can't be detected. They told us we can
be cured if we find seven magical Loculi that contain the power of Atlantis, which were hidden centuries ago in the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. As you know—well, maybe you don't—six of the Wonders don't exist anymore. The thing in your hand is a piece of a destroyed Loculus.”