Ice Shock (8 page)

We agree on some dates for Mom's retreat, and I promise
to call Emmy to set up a week at her house. Then Mom leaves me alone in my room.

I lay the postcards on my desk, in order. Another puzzle.

What key holds blood
—has to be a reference to my father and me.

Death undid harmony—
darn right it did.

Zombie downed—
blatantly, the body in the airplane.

This is about my father's death. Someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something.

Well, to be precise, it's someone in the state of Veracruz. I don't know anyone who lives there, which makes that clue a bit of a dead end.

I'm stumped. I look back at my Mayan codex puzzle. Nothing makes any sense. I can't think straight. There's just too much going on. My head actually starts to hurt.

I need to talk to someone—just get away from this for a while.

I look at the list of people on my instant messenger program. Just like most days, Tyler's listed as “Away” and Ollie's not logged on. But “St_Emmy” is.

This is as good a time as any to ask about staying at her place for Christmas …

Hey, Emmy
.

Hey, Josh. Sup?

Not much. You?

Mikey's party
.

Mikey
… ?

You've seen my band, right? He's the bass player
.

Party? On a school day?

'Tis the season to be jolly. Last week of school. Plus it's his fifteenth today
.

Cool
.

I never see you at parties anymore
.

Yeaahhhh … I know. I've gotten lazy
.

You should come to Mikey's
.

Mikey … where does he live?

Old Marston
.

He wouldn't mind?

He won't notice!

Okay. Got his address?

I can't remember the last time I went to a party. Before my dad died, definitely. Right now, though, I'll do anything to be out of the house and talking to someone else. And to be honest—if I'm going to ask for a week-long sleepover, it had better be in person.

Mikey lives in a big cottage in the old village of Marston. I take the bus and my skateboard. I manage to remember to change out of my school uniform, and wear an old black Nirvana T-shirt over jeans.

I arrive before Emmy, unfortunately. Mikey's friends are mostly kids who aren't particularly friendly with me.

“Hey, weirdo! Seen any UFOs lately?” one of them says to me, then laughs like he's told an award-winning joke. The crowd he's with doesn't seem to understand his comment, so he spends the next minute or two explaining the background to them.

Great.

I move away and stand by the punch bowl. Looking at the door, waiting for Emmy. Wishing I hadn't bothered.

With one ear, I listen to the conversation behind me.

Garcia
this
, Garcia
that
.

Then one voice pipes up, “Josh Garcia—not the Josh Garcia with the, like, hilariously traumatized blog about UFOs and stuff …”

There's a big laugh from the entire group.

I think about going over there and punching a couple of them, but at that moment, Emmy bursts through the door and is jumped on by Mikey and the rest of her band. Her latest hair-dye job is black with red; she's wearing bright red lipstick and black fingernail polish, with a matching “American Idiot” T-shirt. With this girl, it's all about Billie Joe Armstrong. Then she notices me.

“Hey, Josh,” she says, grinning widely. “You made it! Cool.”

From behind me, the voices continue.

“
The Joshua Files
, it was called.”

“How do you know? Were you one of his readers?”

“Not me, idiot—Gracie, my big sister. She lives to be a geek—I told her this loner from school was obsessed with UFOs and said
they'd abducted his dad … and she started reading it. She used to leave comments on his blog … they were blog buddies!”

Squeals of laughter. Emmy raises her eyebrows to say “What the heck?” but I put a finger to my lips, then point behind us. She gets the message right away.

“Let me try to remember her blog name … I know, it was TopShopPrincess.”

“TopShopPrincess?”

“Something to do with the Arctic Monkeys …”

“They're
old
…”

“Nah, man, they're
awesome
, idiot; shut up and listen. Then one day Gracie left a comment—something so terrible that poor Joshey got all upset and deleted the blog.”

The guy's got a real audience now. Behind me, I sense them turning around to stare at me.

“Hey, Josh, what did she write?”

But I can't say anything, I'm just too stunned. Emmy picks up that I'm angry, furious … She puts an arm around my shoulder. “You okay?”

I can't tell if I'm okay.

TopShopPrincess was this guy's sister. Fact.

Not Ollie
.

I can hardly take it in.

Emmy begins to sound really concerned. “Ignore them. If you actually tried to collect the stupidest people in our school, you couldn't do better than that bunch.”

I manage to find my voice. “It's not that …”

“What's wrong?”

I'm thinking about the exact order of events. I met Ollie right after that comment of TopShopPrincess's—the one that made me delete the blog.

And then … my knees almost give way when I remember.

I met Ollie after the burglary. The one that happened when I was so conveniently out of the house with Tyler.

The burglar took my laptop computer, read my blog up to that date, found out about TopShopPrincess
.

Ollie wasn't TopShopPrincess at all.

That was just the perfect way to sneak someone in under my guard. A spy—a mole. Whoever “Ollie” is—if that's even her name—she knows what she's doing.

I stumble toward the kitchen. I need to get those taunting voices out of my head. Emmy follows me. She closes the door. For a second she leans against it, blowing her bangs out of dramatically made-up eyes that stare at me, sizing the situation up. And then she walks over and hugs me tight.

“Josh, don't let it get to you …”

I'm so desperate to confide in her, but I feel gagged, choked into silence.

Emmy asks softly, “Is this about when you ran away to Mexico? Everyone knows, you know. There was a big fuss about it, wasn't there?”

“A bit.” I glance at Emmy. She stares sympathetically into
my eyes. We look at each other for a moment. It gets a little awkward.

To break the tension I say, “Thanks, Emmy. It's nice of you, you know. To listen.”

Emmy laughs. She punches me softly in the chest. “Get lost.”

And just like that, the tension vanishes.

“Let's get back to the party,” Emmy suggests. “Put some music on nice and loud, dance. Forget the losers.”

But how can I enjoy a party? My head is all over the place. At home there's a half-deciphered fragment of Mayan codex and a bizarre message coming through on mysterious postcards from Mexico. Not to mention what I've just learned about a girl I thought was becoming a really close friend.

Ollie wasn't TopShopPrincess. She's been lying to me from the beginning
.

Whatever suspicions I had about Tyler, what I've discovered about Ollie pretty much blows all that away. She's been lying, pretending to be someone she's not. And I fell for it—every word.

It's as though I've become entangled in jungle creepers, binding me more tightly every way I turn. I have to find my way out of this mess—sort the truth from the lies.

The truth is out there
… ?

You bet it is.

The next morning, Emmy turns up at my house at seven, dressed in her school uniform. I'd been thinking of faking a sickness anyway, so I'm still in my pj's, clutching the three postcards from Mexico.

I've been staring at them for the past ten minutes. Getting nowhere.

“Thought I'd make sure that you're not going to go all emo on me, start cutting yourself or anything.”

“As if.” I smirk. “But I can't go to school this morning. I've got stuff to do.”

“‘Stuff,'” Emmy repeats, precisely. “Very mysterious. And you wonder why people think you're weird.”

“My life … ,” I begin, “… is not like everyone else's.”

But instead of mocking, Emmy says, “Something happened to you in Mexico.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Something to do with UFOs … ?”

I hesitate. “Emmy … I can't tell you. If I told you …”

“You'd have to kill me, I get it.”

“No, no.” I stare right into her eyes. “But someone else might.”

“I can keep a secret,” she whispers.

Then she looks at the postcards in my hand.

“You got a new pen pal?”

I hesitate. Can I trust Emmy? I've known her since I was six, but the world's turned into a pretty suspicious place lately.

And my hesitation seems to make Emmy all the more interested.

“Oh, you have … ? Is it a girlfriend? Is that it, Josh, you hiding some secret girlfriend?”

I hold the postcards behind my back. “I'm not.”

Emmy pushes her way into the house. Now I'm starting to remember why we fell out. She always did come on a bit too strong.

“Come on, let me see.”

“They're not from a girlfriend.”

Emmy tugs at the cards, pulls one out of my hand. She's grinning, like she's sure she's on the brink of a hilarious discovery. And I can't resist it.

Okay, Emmy, let's see how funny you really think this is
.

“‘Zombie downed' … ?” She glances up at me with a puzzled look. “So you've got weird friends too.”

“They're not from a friend,” I admit.

Then I show her the others. After all, I tell myself, Mom's already seen them. It's not as if this is a complete secret.

When she's seen them all, Emmy just frowns.

“Now that's odd,” she says, when I tell her that I don't know who's been sending them. “But if it's a message—it must be in code.”

“Well, obviously,” I say, although it's the first time it's occurred to me. I guess I've been too distracted with the way the clues actually seemed to be saying something about my father's death.

“I'd actually been wondering whether it's a Caesar cipher,” I say, thinking back to our Latin homework. “You know, the one Julius Caesar used to write coded messages to his generals.”

Really I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just trying to impress Emmy.

Emmy looks at the postcards again. “Caesar cipher … where D means A and E means B and stuff? Where it's really the third letter along, or something?”

“Or something,” I agree.

Emmy scrunches up her nose. “‘Course it's not that, kid. Those messages all look like nonsense when they're in code. LOL and stuff like that.”

“Not ‘LOL,'” I say with a grin.

Emmy breaks into a laugh. “Not that, exactly. Cipher words
never
read like real words. Too many consonants. Your
message has actual words—it can't be a Caesar cipher. I bet it's a riddle. Like in computer games.”

“Oh yeah, nonsensical riddles that bosses make up for players, for no obvious reason,” I say sardonically.

“Like that, yeah.”

“Emmy, this is my
real life
, not
World of Warcraft
. In real life people don't waste time trying to get you to answer riddles.”

Emmy stares at me, taken aback by my ominous tone. “Josh, man, it's just one of your relatives in Mexico joking around, right?”

I come to my senses.

What are you thinking? You can't involve her in this
.

“You're probably right,” I agree.

“So … you really going to skip school?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Homework to catch up on. You know how it is.”

“Totally. In fact, maybe during Christmas vacation, you could help me with physics homework,” Emmy says as she leaves. “That stuff about electromagnetism. I just don't get it.”

Electromagnetism
… ?

I'm nodding, smiling, whatever I need to do to get Emmy out of the house before I'm tempted to talk to her about my problems again. I don't really think about what she's just said until I get back upstairs.

When I do, I can hardly believe how blind I've been.

My translation of those glyphs from the Ix Codex:
el-ek-to mak-ne-ti-ka pul-sa
.

Or in English:
electromagnetic pulse
.

And
kan-ta-na
.

If you played around with the pronunciation … could be
container
.

It's not exact, but probably as close as you can get to making English words using Mayan syllables.

Except for the first page, the Ix Codex is written in English
.

School is completely off the agenda now. The next few hours go by in a chocolate-and-soda-induced blur. The next time I look up from my desk, it's almost three o'clock—and Mom will be home soon.

I have two of the three pages roughly decoded.

And now I know for sure just how bad it is that Madison and his people have this information.

It's worse than bad—it's a disaster
.

And it's all my fault. By trusting Ollie—and Tyler too, maybe—I've fed Madison all the juicy clues he needed to find the last few remaining scraps of the Ix Codex.

The first page, I can't translate. It's in another language, or there's a different reading order for the syllables; either way I can't figure it out. I get as far as reading the date (which uses the Mayan Long Count) and a fancy-looking glyph called the Initial Series Introductory Glyph—the ISIG—which tells me that the document is dedicated to Itzamna. Which comes
as no big surprise, since the Ix Codex is one of the so-called Books of Itzamna.