The Last Martin (16 page)

She looks pale, and I nod. “You might want to check into this guy. He’s a death dude, but I think he’s pretty good with curses too.”

From inside his office Principal Creaker clears his throat. “I just spoke with the health teacher. He seems to think that you should be excused from detention to run on the track team.”

“I totally forgot,” I glance into his office. “That’s today.”

“I told him it would not be fair to release you and detain Ms. Snow for the same crime. So … the terms of your parole will dictate that Julia accompanies you each afternoon. She doesn’t need to run, of course, but she does need to watch practices from the stands.” He winks. “How do you feel about that?”

“She won’t do it.” I shake my head. “She’s mad.”

“Make her … unmad, son.”

“Unmad?”

“Shoo.” He whisks me out of the office.

Undo the curse. Unmad the girl.

There’s still hope. Death said so.

I find Charley at lunch sitting with a herd of guys.

“Charley,” I bump his back with my lunch bag. “I need your help.”

“Oh, do you now? Kind of like I needed yours. How does it feel not to get it?”

I grab his collar and pull. His butt slides off the bench and onto the floor. He’s up and in my face in a hurry.

“What’s wrong with you?” He shoves my chest.

“This isn’t a stupid story. This is life and death.” I shove back.

Charley breathes deeply. “Life and death? Sure it is.” Shove.

I nod. Shove back.

“Explain,” he says, and shoves.

“I’m calling it Operation Save Martin. I’ve been talking to Dr. Death all morning and the man is a genius. He’s from Boston, you know. He told me I needed to find the beginning. I think I’ll need help.”

Charley leans forward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Big shove.

“Right.” I grab his sleeve and yank him away from the table. “Meet me at the boxcar at midnight. The Barn Owl should be hibernating, Poole should be free, and I’m going to try and convince Julia.”

His eyes widen. “Julia, or
your
Julia.”

“Just Julia. I need a commitment here.”

“You
need to be committed here.”

I wait.

“Fine. Tonight. Midnight. At the boxcar.” His eyes narrow. “Better be life and death.”

“Thanks.” I slap his back hard.
That’s one; now for Julia.

I run toward the lunchroom doors.

“Hold on, young man.”

It’s Gladys, the head cook. I don’t know why we call her Gladys. She’s the only staff that we call by their first name. I don’t even know if she has a second name. Maybe it’s Gladys too. Gladys Gladys.

“Yeah?” I wince and peek into the hall, stuffed with kids. I don’t have time for Gladys Gladys.

“Do you notice what we’re having today?”

I shrug.

“Here’s a hint. Small, round, purple, and staining. I don’t know how Principal Creaker has allowed you to sail on without apologizing to the kids. But this seems the appropriate day.”

She points to the loudspeaker, and I tramp over and pick up the cordless mic.

Gladys Gladys’s arms fold over her apron. She is a large woman, imposing, and at times terrible. “Make this sincere.” She flicks the mic switch to
on
and cranks the volume. Feedback squeals and everyone winces.

“Children. Martin Boyle would like to say something to you.”

The group hushes. I scan the silent mob. Waiting. Wondering. What will Martin say? Any other year, I would snivel and grovel. But no, behold the Dandingo! I feel the power.

“Yeah, well, I — “ I glance at Gladys Gladys and run to the other side of the lunchroom. “Has anyone seen Julia Snow?”

Hands shoot up.

Gladys pounds toward me, arms outstretched — looking like my deployed airbag with legs. I keep moving. “Where is she now?”

“Check the gym!” A girl yells from table four.

“Give me … give … that mic, Martin!” Gladys loses air fast.

I weave between tables. Kids pull in their feet for me, cheer me as I go.

“And, uh,” I gesture around the lunchroom. “I see you all have prunes.”

The kids groan. One long, loud groan.

Gladys Gladys pulls up, doubles over and huffs. She peeks up from across the room.

“It’s been brought to my attention that many of you were purpled last time we had prunes, and you probably got in trouble at home. I’m sorry for that whole thing. It’s just …” I peek at a prune cup, reach down, and lift it off a kid’s plate. “These little buggers taste so bad.” I pluck a prune out of its purple bath. “And fly so good.” I fling it over the tables, over Gladys Gladys, toward the garbage bins.

Swish!

“Viva la Martin!” Hector stands and whips his prunes, and the room erupts.

I shouldn’t have done it. I know it. But it felt so good.

I drop the mic and flee the carnage.

Next stop, gymnasium.

Two minutes later I burst into the gym. “Julia?”

I’m alone and my heart sinks. I quickly stroll to health class. I’m the first one to arrive. Laughing, purple kids stream in behind me. I stare at the announcement speaker hanging from the ceiling.

Five, four, three, two —

“Martin Boyle, to the lunchroom please. Martin Boyle.”

I sit down across from Creaker and Gladys Gladys. I’m flanked by two custodians and surrounded by purple. Purple lights, purple windows, purple walls.

Nobody says a word.

I peek at the principal. “Do you know my mother?”

Another crease marks his forehead.

“Do you know what it’s like to live thirteen years without doing anything? No frog collecting, no snake catching, no dirt digging, no fly swatting, no worm touching, no baseball playing, no Christmas tree cutting, no egg breaking, no cow milking, no pony riding, no fair going, no convertible riding, no snowball fighting …” I breathe. “No lake swimming, ice-fishing, tree climbing, nothing. Do you know what thirteen years of that makes a kid want to do?”

He tongues the inside of his cheek and shakes his head.

“It makes you want to throw a prune. It makes you want to grab a stupid mic and run away from Gladys Gladys and fling a prune.” I push my hand though my hair. “I know it wasn’t right.”

More silence. Creaker and Gladys Gladys exchange a glance and nod. Creaker stands. “Young man, I came in here to suspend you from school. I think, however, we’ll go with Gladys’s idea. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another prune flyer to prepare.”

Gladys grins, then swallows it. She’s trying to stay tough but it isn’t working. “Bring out the tray!” Ms. Watershed rolls out the metal cart covered with prune cups. There must be twenty of them.

“Since you and prunes seem to have a natural affection for each other, why not get to know them even more intimately? Eat.”

I frown and slowly palm a cup. Ms. Watershed hands me a fork. A minute later, I’ve downed three hideous prunes.

“And another.”

I slowly reach for a cup and pause. “How many —”

“All.”

“Twenty prune cups?”

“Twenty-eight. One for each table that is, once again, purple.”

I slowly nod. And eat. At five, juice dribbles down my chin. At eleven, the stomach ache starts. I swallow the last four prunes with my head collapsed on the table.

Gladys Gladys smiles and pats my back. “Feel free to toss a prune anytime. Have a good day.”

I
SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY IN THE NURSE’S OFFICE, shuffling back and forth from cot to bathroom. It gives me a lot of time to think. A lot of time to write.

Plenty of time to groan.

“The pain, sir. It increases each day.” The White Knight stuffed his foot back into his boot. “But the Dark Counselor’s interest in Alia. From where does that come?”

“Is it not clear? You lived. Your union with Alia places her in succession and your death will not give him the throne he desires. He must deal with both of you. And Alia is beautiful.

The Dark Counselor is, after all, a man.”

“A man now known as the Black Knight.”

“Yes.” The old man turned and stared out the window. “When he left your father’s court he took many with him They follow him out of fear, but follow they do. They gave him that name.”

“But what is his true name? His name from birth?”

The old man winced. “The rest of the story you know. The Black Knight imprisoned Alia in the stone. Yet he was unaware that in doing so, he would not be able to free her. He never did believe in the prophecies. Thus, he needed one pure in heart. He needed you.” The old man hobbled to the corner. “He needs you no longer.”

The White Knight stared at the open door. “How do you come to know all these things? An old man, in a hut of mud —”

Then, behind him, a low growl. The knight slowly rose and turned.

“Not always an old man,” Tas licked the fur on his arm.

The knight reached for his sword. “Your teeth, they sunk into my arm, they snapped my bone.”

The jackal paced back and forth. “Did it not heal?”

The knight frowned and worked his arm. He had not noticed that pain was no more.

“Yes. How —”

“Sometimes …” The jackal froze, “the one who breaks is also the one to heal. Had your arm not broken, you would not have traveled slowly. You would not have paused in the cave. You would not have been captured.” Tas lay down. “You would not be here.”

The White Knight slowly sheathed his sword and walked to the door. “So there is yet hope to find Alia?” A sharp pain stretched from his hip to his stomach. “Hope to live?”

He turned, and the old man smiled and closed his eyes. “There is always hope.”

The final bell rings, and I haul my stomach cramps up to detention.

I collapse in a seat beside Julia and clutch my gut.

“Dying early?” She speaks into her lap and doesn’t turn.

“Nope. But that’s one of two things I want to talk to you about. This morning, I spoke with Death and —”

“Comforting.”

“Not with death death. With Dr. Death. He’s a … doesn’t matter. In his office, I figured out how to break the curse.”

“You did,” Julia mutters.

“Now Dr. Death is brilliant. He’s from Boston and he’s like Death Einstein and … whatever, but the one who helped me the most was you.”

“Me.”

“That picture. The new one. I was looking at it while Death was talking about Irene and it hit — I just need to find the beginning, you know? Who is the Black Knight grabbing my toe? I need to find out where the curse started and undo it.”

“Grabbing
your
toe?” She peeks at me. “You’re the knight?”

I shrug and give a weak grin.

“And do you know anything about where it started?” she asks.

“No, but I know who the first Martin was. I know where he’s lying right now. I think we can figure this out!”

“Martin? Julia? Please come here.” Purse-lips gestures to me.

“So what do you say?” I whisper and stand. “Will you help?”

She stands and doesn’t say anything. “You don’t look unmad yet. Listen, just be at the boxcar in my backyard at midnight.” “Martin! Julia!”

We reach the front and Purse-lips glances from Julia to me.

“I have a note signed by the principal and the health teacher. You are to be on the track right now.” I groan. “But my gut —”

“And you, young lady, are to be sitting on the bleachers.”

Julia looks at me.

“That’s the other thing. I kind of cut a deal for us.” I nod toward the door. “I’ll tell you on the way.”