The Twin Powers (7 page)

“We better find out, because something big's going to happen.”

“Like what? The government is watching us. The aliens are watching us. What are we supposed to do?”

“That's what we have to find out,” said Britzky. “And where is everybody?”

Grandpa was missing. Some guy in a black suit with a white wire in his ear was driving the SUV. He wouldn't tell us who he was or where Grandpa had gone. National security, he said.

Ronnie was missing.

Tom was missing.

Even Buddy was missing.

“What can we do?” I said.

“Be ready,” said Britzky.

For what?
I wondered.

EDDIE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

2012

 

I
LIKED
seeing myself on TV. I thought I looked good, in shape. And I was getting better at answering questions, especially about Tom Canty. It was easier and easier to pretend to be him. At first, I wanted to be myself—plain old Eddie Tudor, nice guy, jock, leader, Captain Eddie—not a supersmart tech nerd with a mean streak. But as long as nobody was asking about Gargles and Tweeties, I was all right. I practiced reading from the Teleprompter as hard as I practiced free throws. After a while, the lady from the Tech Off! Treats company, Erin, told me it didn't sound as though I were slowly translating from Spanish anymore, not even as if I was reading. She said I was a natural. I started studying videos of myself talking and giving interviews. It reminded me of studying game films. It was just another way to improve. I felt more like myself even while I was pretending to be Tom.

Erin acted as a coach and gave me tips, such as where to put my hands while talking—never in your pockets!—and how to look people in the eye without getting locked in. “And lose the gum!” she'd say. She wanted me to behave more up-to-date, cooler.

One time, she said: “It's sweet that you're an old-fashioned guy, but let's not be so 1950s.”

I felt like telling her I
was
from the 1950s, that I came from a planet where cell phones and the Internet and hip-hop hadn't been invented yet, but I didn't.

Erin told me that she and her “people”—she talked to them on the phone a hundred times a day, at least—decided to erase the YouTube clip of me—Tom—greasing that bully in middle school last year. She made it seem like a big deal, as if she were doing me a favor. Big whoop. I liked that little movie of the real Tom in action. It gave me something to copy. Like imitating some great baseball player's batting stance. I wondered what Tom would think about that.

Now that I had an iPad so I could study my own performances, I was starting to enjoy going online. It wasn't so complicated. And the stuff you could see
. . .

“You are so coachable,” Erin told me more than once.

I wanted to tell her that my real coaches say the same thing, but it would sound like boasting. You have to stay humble or at least act humble. My favorite ballplayers, Mickey Mantle and Bob Cousy, never hot-dogged it. You never saw them beat their chests after a big basket or show up the pitchers by cakewalking around the bases after a home run. I was seeing a lot of that kind of showboating on TV these days. I loved ESPN. Twenty-four hours of sports. And they even had a classics channel that sometimes showed ball games from my time, or at least talked about them. I liked the nature channels too, except for the shows about snakes. Being scared of snakes wasn't going to help me make Eagle Scout.

I never expected to be watching so much TV in my hotel room. Erin and the security guys were always hustling me back to the hotel after a speech or an interview. I'd rather hang out and talk to people. I missed Buddy and I missed being on a team, goofing off with a bunch of guys, sharing what was going on, kidding around. I even missed Alessa and Britzky.

And I was worried about Ronnie. When I thought about him, that is.

I was ashamed that I wasn't thinking more about Ronnie. But I knew he could take care of himself. And I had a lot on my mind.

Like making contact with Tom.

Tom, you find Ronnie yet?

They've got him. They keep moving him around. In cars.

Just find him.

Maybe you can do better, Eddie.

I'm a prisoner here.

I thought you liked room service.

It's been four days.

Maybe you wanna take over.

Erin's here, Tom. Gotta go.

TOM

SOMEWHERE IN NEW JERSEY

2012

 

T
WO
tall, vicious-looking dogs glared at me and snarled. Saliva drooled out of their mouths. I glared back until I remembered reading that you're never supposed to look a dog in the eye unless it's your best friend. It was a good thing these dogs were behind a chainlink fence.

The fence surrounded the scrubby front yard of a dumpy white house on an ordinary street of dumpy white houses with scrubby front yards surrounded by chainlink fences. The only thing different about this particular house was the three shiny black SUVs in the driveway. They looked like the SUVs that cops drive in TV shows.

They had Ronnie inside the house. The blips in my head had gotten stronger as I followed them to the neighborhood and the house. I had stolen a bike—a couple, actually—which makes a huge difference when you're trying to cover a lot of ground. I felt sorry for the bike owners, but this was about the survival of the Earths.

So, now what? Bust in, guns blazing?

There was a Burger Clown down the block with a clear view of the house. I went in, bought some fries, and sat down at a table near the window. It was a table for four people, but it was the only empty table with what TV cops call “a visual.” I had to make the fries last because I didn't have any more money. I needed to fiddle for change again, but I hadn't had time while I'd been hot on Ronnie's trail. I'd barely slept in three days.

I stared at the house and tried to concentrate all my thoughts through the Burger Clown window, across the street, and through the dumpy white house's big picture window, which was covered by a curtain.

It was hard to concentrate, because other thoughts kept sneaking in.
What about those dogs? What will I do when I find Ronnie? Where will we go?

Time to try the powers again.

I concentrated on my brain waves entering the house. Slowly, two gray shapes came into focus, one much smaller than the other. Ronnie and Buddy. There were at least a half-dozen larger shapes. They wouldn't be just regular cops. Federal agents?

I imagined I could hear the cops talking to Ronnie. Gradually, I tuned in voices. They were as unclear as the shapes. They were like gurgles coming up through plumbing.

“Weeheehell you.” Could that be
We're here to help you
?

I thought I heard a dog bark. A Buddy-size bark. That set off the two dogs in the yard and drowned out the gurgles.

I tried harder and harder, and just when I thought my head would burst, I tuned in the sounds clearly. Three different rough voices.

“Or the puppy goes to the pound and you go to juvenile hall.”

“You'll both be in a world of hurt.”

“You might live, not the pooch.”

It was exhausting, but a real charge. My powers!

Or was I going nuts?

“C'mon, kid, better say something.”

A different voice, closer. “That all you gonna order?”

It took me a moment to pull my brain back into the fast-food joint. A guy in a Burger Clown hat was leaning over my table—a big guy with a red clown nose over his own nose. From his name tag, I saw he was the manager. I was picking up some vibrations that he was upset more than he was angry. I decided not to give him a hard time. I had a job to do.

“It's all the money I have.”

“Too bad. People are waiting for this table.”

I looked around. It wasn't true. In fact, the place was emptying out. I wanted to say, “They must have tasted your food and gone to McDonald's,” but I swallowed that down.
Be cool, Tom. You don't have your grease gun or your climate-simulator rods to back you up.
I could have probably created a little air storm and knocked him on his butt, but then what? I'd have to run for it. Ruin my stakeout.

I tried to get into his mind. It was a mess. He was annoyed at having to wear the red clown nose. He thought he looked stupid. I imagined him thinking,
Is this what I went to school for, to wear this stupid nose and deal with creeps like this little kid?

Could I really be tuning this in? Or was I just imagining it?

Either way, I felt a little bad for him.

“I'm sorry, sir,” I said. I tried hard to look sorry but wasn't sure I was doing it. I didn't feel that sorry. “I'm waiting before my
. . .
violin lesson.”

He glanced at my violin case, and I could sense his mind shifting. So I tried to put a thought into his head:
They make me take the lessons. I hate 'em.

I imagined his thought:
Give the kid a break. He has problems too.

“Okay. We get more customers and you gotta move.”

“Thanks.” I smiled at him.

He smiled back.

I felt a surge of good feelings. We were both happy and I had gotten what I'd wanted. By being nice! That was a strange new feeling for me. But something didn't feel right. And then it hit me: being nice was so Eddie.
You're supposed to be bad,
I told myself.
Hey, man, sometimes being nice can be bad, especially if you're not sincere.

I focused back on the house across the street. The Burger Clown manager put a soda in front of me but I never got to drink it. I thought I heard Ronnie's high voice screaming.

Across the street, two construction workers in white hardhats and work boots were carrying a long metal pipe. They stopped in front of the house. They heard the screaming too. They looked at each other, then back at the house. They were wondering what to do. I could hear them wondering!

I created a thought and imagined it as a laser beam splitting just before it entered their heads, right through their hardhats.

Throw that javelin through the window and save the screaming kid.

The men hoisted the pipe, turned, and hurled it right at the picture window. It shattered the glass.

The tall, vicious dogs jumped the fence and ran away. The construction workers looked at each other, then ran away too.

By the time I got across the street to the house, Ronnie and Buddy had leaped through the broken window and were racing toward me.

TOM

SOMEWHERE IN NEW JERSEY

2012

 

“E
DDIE
!” Ronnie yelled at me. “I knew you'd find me.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “Follow me.”

“Oh. Tom.” He did sound disappointed.

He followed me around the house to the driveway. I opened the door of the first black SUV. Just as I figured, the keys were under the mat. I had read about this on a secret website for carjackers. Cops want their keys handy for quick getaways but not too handy, such as in the ignition.

“You drive,” I told Ronnie. “Like you did when you busted us out of the insane asylum last year.”

I ran to the second SUV, found its keys, and pitched them into the bushes. That would block the third car and give us a few extra minutes.

By the time I got back to the first car, guys in suits were running out the door, guns drawn. But Ronnie had the motor running and the police radio on. He was kneeling on the front seat. He still couldn't see over the wheel and reach the pedals at the same time. Buddy was taking up the passenger seat, growling, just daring me to push him off. Ronnie lifted one of his floppy ears and whispered something. The dog gave me a dirty look and went into the back. I climbed in and stomped on the accelerator.

Ronnie blasted through the chainlink fence out to the street and took off.

“Find a highway, and then we'll ditch the car,” I shouted. “It probably has a GPS, so it'll be easy to track.”

“GPS?”

“Later.” I twisted around so I could crawl down under the steering wheel and put my left hand on the brake and my right hand on the accelerator. Just like old times.

Ronnie had really quick reflexes. He maneuvered that big SUV like a racecar, off the street and onto a road that fed into the highway, and then onto the highway with sudden moves, but smooth too, yelling down to me, “Gas . . . more gas . . . let up a little . . . okay, be ready . . . pedal to the metal!”

He didn't call for the brake much, which Grandpa always says is the mark of a good driver, always thinking ahead.

Now
I
had to think ahead.
We ditch the car, but then what? Where do we go? Back to the wagon? Who will protect us there?
I couldn't even get Eddie on the brain waves.
Who do I need to make contact with? The aliens? How do I do that? Am I totally on my own? Just what powers do I have, besides breaking windows? Wind power is pretty awesome but it isn't going to be enough. Hearing voices and thoughts? That would help. But maybe I had just been imagining them. Humans are good at imagining things, even half humans.

Every so often, I popped up to check for police cars, and not just the ones that would be coming after us. How long could we be driving around with a thirteen-year-old boy who looked ten at the wheel? Even if no cops spotted us, what about other drivers? Unless they were all too busy talking or texting to notice Ronnie.

The radio started to crackle. “Enterprise Two, come in, Enterprise Two. This is Federation.”

“Gas . . . more . . . okay, we're coming to an exit . . .”