Sky Jumpers Series, Book 1 (3 page)

The trick to the tram was to use the brakes to slow
it at key places. Otherwise, you’d barrel toward the town center, unable to stop because of the weight of the load. My dad had told me that after several people crashed their platform of goods through the post at the bottom of the line, they required people to certify on it. Even though I hadn’t exactly driven it by myself before, I was sure I could be certified. It was entirely stupid that they didn’t let twelve-year-olds take the test.

The tram rocked side to side from our speed, and an excited energy filled my stomach. Aaren grasped Brenna’s shoulder as if she was going to fly away, but it wasn’t like I was being unsafe. We
had
to hurry.

I pushed back the hair that had fallen out of my ponytail so I could see toward City Circle better, hoping to catch a glimpse of the train. It wasn’t big enough to see over everyone’s trees, though.

Since everything in the valley sloped upward, we used steam plows to flatten the land in sections, or rings. It looked like steps led up in all directions from City Circle. Well, steps if you were a giant with half-mile-long feet. The tram path, though, wasn’t cut into steps; it just angled straight down. We whizzed past the freshly plowed fields of the third ring—the ring of farms that included my house.

“Hope!” Aaren screamed as the rocking almost knocked us into one of the support pillars at the end of the third ring.

I nodded and pushed on the stopper a bit, but went as fast through the second ring of farms as I dared. If anyone was working in their fields, I figured they’d have less of a chance to see us if we went so fast we were a blur.
Keep Aaren and Brenna out of trouble, and keep my invention safe
. That was all that really mattered.

Okay, so maybe my stop could’ve been a little smoother. But at least I got us near some bushes at the edge of the Kearneys’ property, still far enough from the end that anyone in City Circle wouldn’t see us get off. Aaren looked pale and was a bit unsteady as he climbed out of the tram, but I could tell he was grateful I got us there so fast.

Once we put our inventions safely on the ground, Aaren and I shoved the platform and managed to get it stuck in the bushes. It wouldn’t be the first time someone on a ring farther up didn’t tie the platform well enough and it took an unmanned trip down the hill until it lodged itself in bushes somewhere. We grabbed our stuff, then ran the rest of the way down the tram path and through the run-off ditches just behind the shops.

Our school sat smack in the middle of town, but it wasn’t just a school; it was also the community center. The gymnasium and the kitchen filled the rectangle in the middle, hallways along two sides of the rectangle led to classrooms, and as the city grew, a third side of classrooms would be added. The fourth side was city offices,
with the library in one corner and Aaren’s mom’s medical clinic in the other corner. Not only were there potentially a lot of people at the community center, but City Circle Road surrounded the building, and everyone with a split job as a merchant had a shop on the outside of the circle. We’d have to be sneaky not to get caught. We crept between Mrs. Newberry’s shoe shop and my mom’s bakery. When the coast was clear, we flat-out ran toward the school.

I glanced at the clock tower that rose above the community center and groaned. We were so late! I flung open the door and we sprinted down the hall until we saw Mr. Peterson round the corner, then we walked.
Great
. I’d forgotten it was a council meeting day, which meant Mr. Peterson was here through more than just lunchtime.

Mr. Peterson’s split job was to watch over the school, or to take care of “administrative issues,” as the parents said. We mostly thought his job was to suck the fun out of everything. As he walked toward us, his unnaturally close eyes oozed disapproval, and his furrowed brow made his short hair stick up even more. I could tell by the look on his face that we were in trouble.

“Sorry we’re late. We—” I wanted to do a much longer apology, complete with excuses, but when his eyes flicked to my shoes, I couldn’t finish.

Without looking, I knew my normally dark brown leather shoes were now tan from the thick layer of dust that surely covered them after our run. My socks were probably the exact same color. Then he looked at my bruised knees. I swear I wasn’t clumsy—just active. It took a second before I realized his scrutiny wasn’t focused on my knees—it was the tear in my shorts. Mr. Peterson hated when we violated dress code. I was already pushing it by wearing pants cut off at the knees, but to wear ones in such obvious need of mending was unforgivable. Then
his focus went to my untucked shirt. I was sure to get detention.

His eyes shifted to the invention in my hands. I moved it a little to the center, just so he could see it better. Even though they felt the same, most people in town weren’t as blatant as Mr. Peterson when they showed their disapproval of someone who, like me, didn’t contribute to the town. Or their delight in someone who, like Aaren, contributed tons. I always tried to do what everyone expected—it just hadn’t worked out as well for me as it had for everyone else. Mr. Peterson scowled at my invention, probably thinking of all my past failures. I waited for his scowl to change when he saw that this invention was a good one, but it didn’t.

When he looked at my face, I wore my sweetest smile, but he didn’t even notice. I held my breath and waited for him to say something. Maybe he stayed quiet to worry us more.

Mr. Peterson’s gaze turned from me to Aaren, and in that split second the disappointment and annoyance left his face.

Aaren’s appearance hadn’t held up any better than mine. He looked like I’d expect him to look after careening down a hill—his hair stuck out in all directions, tangled, his dark blue shirt was only half tucked in, and his shoes and the bottom of his pants looked dusty, too. But he
stood straight, shoulders back, and wore his serious face, the one that only disappeared when we weren’t around adults. I knew adults liked his attitude, but I also knew that wasn’t the main reason he got more pleased looks from Mr. Peterson. It was because of what he held under his arm.

Aaren cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mr. Peterson. My invention gave me troubles.” He held it up, as if it had caused the whole problem. “Sorry it made us late.”

I exhaled more than I meant to. The whole time, I’d been trying to keep Aaren and Brenna out of trouble, but Aaren was going to get us all out of trouble in three seconds flat. As grateful as I was, it still stung that he could get away with so much more than I could.

Mr. Peterson narrowed his eyes at me, as if Aaren had said,
It was all Hope’s fault we were late. She’s the one to blame
. Okay, maybe it
was
all my fault. But Mr. Peterson didn’t know that. He was just being judgmental.

Eventually Mr. Peterson turned his back to me and crouched down to Brenna’s height. “Good morning, Brenna. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you,” Brenna said. “Good morning, Mr. Peterson!”

The part of her sandy hair that wasn’t windblown and frizzy fell in ringlets down to her shoulders. She was small for a five-year-old, so the blue cotton shirt tucked into her
pants was just as small as the four-year-olds’ in her class. Her blue eyes beamed up at Mr. Peterson. It was impossible not to love Brenna. Especially since, like her entire family, she showed inventing promise.

Mr. Peterson stood back up. “You better get your sister to class.”

“I’ll take her right now,” Aaren said. Even though Aaren was a perfectionist, he knew he wasn’t perfect. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But at this time of year, the rest of the town thought he was. I couldn’t get out the apology or the excuse. Aaren gave both,
and
somehow got Mr. Peterson to not give us detention. It was amazing what a reputation for inventing could do for you and your best friend.

Mr. Peterson gave a nod. “Get there quickly.”

Aaren took a couple of steps toward Brenna’s classroom, and I’d just taken my first step when Mr. Peterson said, “Not yet, Miss Toriella.”

I froze, and Aaren stopped in his tracks. Mr. Peterson tapped his foot. “Aaren had a problem with his invention?”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“So,” Mr. Peterson said, “why, then, are
you
late?”

“Um … I was helping?”

Mr. Peterson glanced at my invention, then looked back at my face. “We come to class on time and without violating dress code
yet again
, Miss Toriella, or we get detention.
For the next two weeks, you better wake up extra early to get your morning chores done, because you’ll be on the eight a.m. train here to clean bathrooms.”

I had barely opened my mouth to protest when he cut me off. “Get to class now,” he said as his eyes flicked down to my invention, “before I decide that your detention will start during inventions class today.”

Mr. Peterson didn’t hang around to see my reaction—he just strolled away. I kicked at the floor. It was so unfair! He just assumed my invention was bad again—without even noticing how hard I’d worked on it. And to give me bathroom detention was
extra
mean! For everyone else, detention meant cleaning chalkboards or sweeping classrooms. He gave me the only job that rivaled cleaning chicken coops.

Aaren took the couple of steps back in my direction and looked down the hall at Mr. Peterson, then at me. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind cleaning bathrooms,” I lied. “Thanks for trying to get me out of trouble.”

“He shouldn’t have given you detention,” Brenna huffed. “It wasn’t your fault!”

“I
was
late and I
did
violate dress code.”

“Yeah, but he …” Aaren trailed off.

I finished his sentence for him. “Really gave me detention because I stink at inventing?”

“But you don’t,” Aaren said. “Your invention is great.”

A calmness poured over me. He was right—my invention was pretty great. I looked down at the wood base on my invention that I had spent hours and hours sanding. Even the corners felt smooth in my hands. And after learning by trial and error so many ways not to tie cords, the lashing on the upper parts turned out perfectly. Once my invention was shown at the Harvest Festival Inventions Contest and everyone saw how great it was, Mr. Peterson and everyone else would treat me differently.

I pulled my schoolbag around to my stomach, but when I put my hand on the front of the bag, I didn’t feel the lump I expected and my calm turned to panic. “My potato!” I gently set my invention on the ground, then dumped my bag upside down, spilling everything on the floor of the hall. I rummaged through the contents, hoping the potato somehow hid with my small chalkboard, half a dozen pieces of chalk, and the book I had wrapped up in a protective cloth.

It wasn’t there.

It felt like butterflies made of fire flapped around my insides. I ran to the door and looked outside. My breath came in shallow gasps as my eyes searched frantically along the direction we came, hoping to see the lump that could be my potato.

Nothing.

It probably fell out when I got off the tram. I almost took off running to get it, but Mr. Peterson’s warning echoed in my head.
Get to class now, before I decide that your detention will start during inventions class today
. If I left, I wouldn’t get to show my invention at all.

Aaren grabbed my arm. “It’s okay, Hope. We’ll go see Mrs. Davies in the lunchroom. She’ll give us one.”

Of course that solution made sense to Aaren. If he’d made my invention, a different potato would have worked fine. I shook my head. “I had to search through hundreds of potatoes to find one that’d work.”

“We’ll find one,” he said in a voice convincing enough to give me a shred of hope.

As Aaren walked Brenna to class, I raced into the kitchen and barely skidded to a stop before I knocked into the back of Mrs. Davies. She was well into her seventies, yet still spent hours each day at school, because every kid needs “a hug and a lunch come midday.” She was one of the original citizens of the town—the ones who were alive when the green bombs hit—and was the oldest person in White Rock. She turned and smiled at me, her wrinkles crinkling all the way up to her eyes. Then she noticed my frantic state.

“What can I help you with, sweetie?”

“I need a potato,” I managed to squeak out with the small amount of breath my lungs held.

Her wrinkles sagged. “Oh, honey, I don’t have many. I peeled them for lunch today, and the only ones left are ones I didn’t think these hands could manage.” She held up her bent hands apologetically. “I think there’s only three left.”

Wednesday meant fried potatoes for lunch. Most Wednesdays I did my farm chores as quickly as possible so I could take the eight a.m. train to school to help Mrs. Davies peel them. Today, though, I chose to jump into the Bomb’s Breath. The sight of her hands made me wish I’d come to the lunchroom instead.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help,” I said, the guilt growing in my chest.

Mrs. Davies wiped her hands on a towel. “Don’t you worry. I missed your company, but I know you got other things you gotta do. Now, let’s see about getting you a potato.”