1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Hansen

Name: Star Lane writing as RS Hansen
Genre: Middle Grade Science-Fiction
Title: A Nerf Herder’s Guide to Physics

There’s a war taking place in this galaxy and it’s right here in my bathroom. A war between me and this stupid owl drawing on my forearm. The owl drawing is winning. 

I have no idea how I got a hold of a permanent marker last night—especially in the middle of a dream—but this sucker is not coming off. It doesn’t matter how much soap I use or how hard I scrub with this washcloth.

Ugh, I give up. Maybe if I unroll the sleeves of my sports coat a little more, it will cover it. Which is a good thing because that waft of browning bread coming from the kitchen means Mom hasn’t left for work. And having to explain why I have an owl scrawled on my arm would put me in serious danger of detection on the Mom worry-sensor. Of course, she’s probably already worried about something. She wouldn’t skip a shift at the hospital unless she had a good reason. The only question is what is she worried about?

My hand runs along the painted brick as I creep out of the bathroom and inch down the hallway into our living-slash-dining-slash-kitchen room. Mom is definitely still home because she’s standing in front of the toaster. At least she has her work scrubs on. They’re worn at the seams from constant washing and wearing. They make her look exhausted and she probably is.
“Do you have a late shift today?”

She turns around. “Good morning to you too, Michael. They didn’t need me yet. I thought maybe we could talk a little before you leave for school.”

“Um, Okay.” Talk? Great. That’s basically mom-speak for “something’s wrong.” Yes, the worry is strong with this mom.

The toast pops-up and she turns back to pull out the slices.

I plop down at the kitchen table, next to my laptop that I accidentally left out last night. I quickly swipe it into my backpack before she turns around with two plates of toast. One buttered and the other with that prickly pear jelly she’s been obsessed with since we moved. Hopefully, she didn’t open the laptop or anything. Oh no, what if she did? What if she saw my research and that’s what she wants to talk about?

She sets a plate in front of me and sits across the table with the other. I take a huge bite, almost a quarter of the slice. If my mouth is full, there’s no way I’ll be able to answer any questions about what she may or may not have seen.

But she doesn’t say anything, just takes a bite of her toast and stares at the howling wolf patch on the breast pocket of my—I mean, Dad’s sports coat. A lone wolf. That’s what my dad was, that’s what I am now.

Finally, she swallows. “The weather report says it’s going to be eighty-seven. You sure you want to wear the coat today?”

I finish my mouthful. “Um, I’ll be fine. The library is always freezing during lunch.” That can’t be what she wanted to talk about. I’ve been wearing it every day for a month, ever since that science journal called to tell us about the article.

“So,” she says.

Here it comes. I take another bite, pretty much finishing off the entire piece of toast.
“Have you heard from Ophelia yet?”

I chew slowly and shake my head. Is that what she’s worried about? It was stupid of me to tell Mom that I hadn’t received an email from my best friend in weeks.

Ophelia never responded to my last one, she just dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t even get a “happy birthday” last Wednesday. Emails suck because you can never tell if someone has read them or has just decided not to respond like you could with a text. But Ophelia doesn’t text. That would require her to use 21st-century technology. She prefers her original Commodore 64. That’s a computer by the way.

“I’m sure she’s just busy or something.” Maybe Mom will buy that, even if I don’t.

“Yes, probably.” Mom takes a sip of her coffee, then bites her lip. “But I’m still concerned about you. You haven’t made any friends in Tucson, I’m barely home. You’re spending too much time alone.”

“I’m fine.”

 
I get a sigh and the fine-is-not-an-acceptable-answer look.

“Really, I don’t mind. School has been keeping me busy.” Well, maybe not school, but close enough. I stuff the final bit of toast into my mouth, pretending to savor this last salty bite. Then, I feel a familiar tingle on the back of my neck.

“Michael, I just…” Mom’s voice fades out. Her lips are still moving but I can’t hear her words. Crud.

No. Not now. Not in front of Mom. I quickly swallow and cross my arms in front of me, digging my fingers into my ribs until it hurts. Maybe if I concentrate on the pain, it will go away. But the blackness starts to frame my vision. My pulse quickens, I take a shaky breath to slow it down. That doesn’t work.

Pretty soon, the fake-wood table and sand-colored cabinets of our kitchen stretch out, then whirl around like water draining out of a tub until it completely empties and I'm in a black abyss. Then, the door appears.

The door is white and smooth. It looks like the marble counters in our old house, but without the veins of gray running through it. I walk up to it and reach for the silver c-shaped handle. Even though, as always, it will be locked.

From my experience during biology class yesterday and seventh grade lunch period the day before I know that I'm not passed out. I'm probably just sitting at the table across from Mom, and as Mr. Anderson put it, “staring off into space.”

As long as mom keeps lecturing me about my lack of friends, I might be able to cover for this. Oh no, I have one of my graphite pencils in my pocket. If I start scribbling an owl on the table or worse on my sleeve, there’s no way she isn’t going to notice.

How did I come out of the dream yesterday? I do remember beating on the door. I try that. I pull at the handle. Thud—thud—thud. Pound some more. Then a quiet voice calls out. I press my ear against the door’s cool surface.

“Michael?” It’s a yell, muffled by the thick stone. “Michael!” A little louder this time, and I recognize it.

My heart pounds harder, I almost choke on her name. “Ophelia!” I call back.

“Where are you?”

“Here, I’m here!” But then the door disappears. This has never happened in one of the dreams.

Where the door once stood, is a swirl of blue. Not just a single shade of blue, but a ton of hues, from the darkest ebony-like shade to one that almost glows in contrast. They spin together in a fusion of color that looks strange, but also familiar—like a van Gogh painting. Then eight pinpricks of light burst through. The lights are scattered randomly across the blue swirl. Four of them form a small curve, above that, another three are unevenly spaced in a diagonal line, with the last thrown to the side.