Chasing the Milky Way (13 page)

I
WAIT UNTIL THE RAIN LETS
up for a few minutes and hurry outside. I set PingPing down on the ground and the laptop on the picnic table. I look over the program commands that we have put into our BotProg window:

Start

GoForward

GoForward

GoForward

SoftRight

SoftRight

GoForward

S3Trig

S4Trig

GoForward

XDelay

S4Retract

S3Retract

SoftLeft

GoForward

GoForward

GoForward

EndProg

It looks about right. I pull the program into the BotRun window and pick up my MCIIB. I pull out the transmitter. The Sharpie flies out with it and lands on the ground underneath the picnic table. I pick it up and as I'm rising I realize I should put PingPing's name on his belly. That way when we win, everyone will know the name of our superior droid. I uncap the Sharpie and use my neatest handwriting to write
PingPing200
around the barrel. Then I put the Sharpie away, uncap the transmitter, and insert it into the USB port on the side of the laptop. Let's hope this works. I lean down and flip PingPing on.

Wuw-whir, wuw-whir.
His elbows and claws twitch with life. His eyes flick on and beam across the Park and Sit. I take a look at the dark sky and silently beg it not to rain for the next five minutes.

“Let's hope this works, buddy,” I say. I take the remote control from its spot around PingPing's neck and make sure it's turned off so I'm not mixing signals. Then I take a deep breath, slide the mouse over to the go button, and click. PingPing rolls forward in three long bursts.

“C'mon,” I say as he jolts to the right twice. He moves forward again. So far, so good. Then he stops, his elbows drop, his fingers open. He slides forward.

“Pause,” I say.

Delay works. Then fingers close. In the rescue mission, this will be around a flag.

“Now retract.” I watch as his elbows close. One soft left—he executes perfectly. Then he moves forward in three bursts. Ideally, he'll have the flag and be over the finish line. If all our calculations are right. If not, he'll be smashing up against a wall somewhere. I flip the Mission Control book open and look at the details. We'll have three practice chances on the course before running the race, so if I have to change the distance forward it shouldn't be a big deal.

I close the BotRun program and eject the transmitter, then pick up the remote control and run PingPing back to me manually.
Pling-tink, pling-tink, pling-tink,
he says as he rolls my way. The lights on the metal detector light up. I stop. Toggle back.
Pling-ting, pling-tink, pling-tink,
he says again. I release the joystick and go over to him. Pick him up and set him down next to me. I look down where he was standing. A penny. I reach down to pick it up but freeze when a clatter comes from the RV window. I look up to see Cam's worried face. He slides the window open.

“Is it heads or tails?” he says. “Because if it's tails, you leave that penny right where it is. We don't need any extra bad luck in here right now.”

“Don't be silly,” I say, but when I look down, I take a big sigh of relief seeing it's heads. Of course, I don't believe in that fake superstition, but if there's ever a time we could use a lucky heads-up penny, now is it.

“We're safe,” I say, picking it up.

“Great,” Cam says.

I tuck the penny into my pocket, then pick PingPing up with one hand and the laptop up with the other. I climb the stairs.

“How we doing in here?” I say.

Izzy is sitting at the dining table winding three pieces of wire together. Cam has a few pieces of wood, some springs, and wires in front of him.

“Well, I'm making a new crown,” Izzy says as she threads a green wire over a red one.

“Good idea,” I say, setting PingPing down behind her.

“And I pulled out everything I think you might need for a foot extension,” Cam says, gesturing over the tools. “What do you think? You can use something here, right?”

I scan the blocks of wood and select a sturdy three-quarter-inch piece. I place it up against the sole of my shoe. It's about the right size. I grab a green spring and test the tension against the top of the table. It barely gives. Cam selects another block of wood and hands it to me. I put it at the other end of the spring.

“If we can sandwich the spring in the middle and then secure the top piece of wood to my foot . . .”

“Then we might have something,” Cam says.

I grab a thick-gauge wire from the bin and start securing the top piece of wood onto the spring. Cam puts the extra pieces back into the bin.

“This is too long,” Izzy says, holding up her crown. The white wire extends past the red and green. Cam grabs the wire cutters and gives it a snip.

“Thanks,” Izzy says, lifting it and shaping it to her head. She pulls it off and tries to work the ends around each other. Cam helps her get them connected while I put the bottom piece of wood on. Then I grab another piece of wire and I secure the contraption to my foot by running the wire across the top of my shoe.

I shake my foot. It's a little floppy, so I get another piece to secure around my ankle.

Izzy places the crown on her head.

“That looks pretty good, Queen Nomony.”

“What's that for?” she asks, pointing to my foot.

“It's going to help take us out of here.” She nods like she understands.

“You ready, Cap'n?” Cam says, setting the box of junk parts behind the driver's seat.

“Two seconds. Let me make sure Mama's really not feeling good enough to drive. Then we'll go, okay?”

Cam nods and I hop to the back of the RV and open the door.

“H
EY,
M
AMA, ARE YOU OKAY?” I
say real quiet, squinting into the shadows.

“I'll be fine. I'll be fine,” she mutters.

“We're going to keep going to the coast, okay? Do you want to drive?”

Mama's voice is strained like she's been crying since I left this room a few hours ago.

“Don't you see we've gone from poetry to Poe? I don't want to do anything.”

My throat squeezes. “All right, well . . .”

Her voice gets rough. Gets louder. “You're not bringing me to Kensington, are you? You're not taking me there.”

“No, we're not. We're going to Seahook and that's all. Nothing to worry about,” I say. Of course, there are a million things to worry about, but I'm not about to bring them up now.

“Fine, fine,” Mama says, and I think that's all I'm going to get out of her, so I turn back toward the interior of the camper and close the door. I look at Cam, who is leaning up against the passenger seat, the curtain standing out just behind him as if it were a cape. He's holding his motorcycle helmet under one arm. Izzy stands next to him, sporting her new wire crown.

I take a deep breath and check my watch. It's ticking toward 9:00 p.m. “T-minus twelve hours until competition,” I say, heading for the front.

“T-minus twelve hours until we begin our new life,” Cam says.

T-minus twelve hours until promises are kept or broken,
I think. My new shoe flips and flaps as I head past the curtain. A few fat drops of rain thud onto the windshield.
Of course,
I think, but I don't pay it any mind because there is nothing I can do about it, anyway.

“C'mon up, Izzy. Bring a pillow,” I say as I slide into the driver's seat. I press my foot into the brake and feel the pressure through the sole of my shoe.

“If we take it real slow,” I say, touching the gas just a teensy bit.

Cam climbs into the passenger seat and Izzy settles on the floor in between us. She shoves her thumb in her mouth.

“You need to get as much rest as you can for tomorrow,” I say, watching her eyes flutter open and closed.

I press the brake in, take a deep breath, and turn the key. The console lights up, casting the whole interior in green. “Vintage Carrier has power,” I say, breathing out.

The GPS map floods the cabin with a blue tint. Cam hits a few buttons. “Setting navigation,” he says.

I hit a lever on the right side of the steering wheel. The windshield wipers peel the layer of rain from the glass.

“State.” A British accent comes out of the speaker.

Cam starts punching letters.
N-E-W.

“You know how to spell Hampshire?” he asks, but before I can say anything it fills the word in for him.

“City,” the British lady says next.

“That's Seahook,” I say. “S-E-A-H—”

Cam punches the buttons as I spell the word. Again, the computer completes the thought.

“Street.”

What street is the pavilion on?

“Queen Nomony?” I say. She pulls her thumb out and sits up.

“Yes, Cap'n?”

“Could you grab me the Mission Control notebook?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, ducking out of sight. I secure my seat belt. I hear her shuffling around in the back. She returns and hands me the notebook. I flip to the flyer in the front and scan the print.

“Oh, right. Ocean Avenue,” I say. “I should've remembered that.”

Cam starts typing and once again the British lady finishes.

“What number?” Cam asks.

“Fifteen,” I tell him.

He punches it in and the GPS springs to life. “Acquiring satellites, it says.” Then a new map blinks and holds steady on the screen. I examine it.
Arrival time: 10:30 p.m.

It's 9:00 p.m. If we go straight without any problems it will take us an hour and a half.

“That seems like a long way to go with a fake foot,” I say. I squeeze the steering wheel, trying to think what Gram would say.

Cam shrugs. “Taking it slow, and factoring in potential problems, ETA will be midnight. Registration opens at nine a.m. tomorrow morning. We have lots of time.”

“Right,” I say. “We have plenty of time.”

Still, Cam is not the one in the pilot seat here.

“Can you make it keep us off highways?” I say.

Cam switches into
Tools
and selects
Preferences.
Then hits
Avoid Highways.

The map acquires satellites again. I press my block foot into the brake.

“With new coordinates, we'll still be in by midnight, Cap'n,” Cam says.

“Great,” I say.

Izzy starts to settle back into the spot between the seat. “Queen Nomony?” I say. She sits back up, giving me a queenie glare.

“What now?” she asks.

“Could you get the picture of Gram? I'm pretty sure I left it on the table.”

Izzy's brow unfurrows. She must think this is a worthy errand to be sent on because she gets up and a second later ducks back between us, holding Gram out to me.

I take the picture in my hand, wondering if she would approve of what we're about to do. Breaking about a million laws and running through the dark night in an RV that isn't ours. Nope, this isn't how Gram would do it, but somehow, I think she'd understand. I tuck the picture in the spot next to the speedometer. It props up just fine on that little ledge at the back of the steering wheel.

Cam makes a crackling sound.

“Captain Juniper Ray, commencing launch checklist now.”

“Commence,” I say, shifting in my seat.

“Seat adjustment?” Cam says.

I reach down to the left and pull the lever up, tilting forward slightly. I move it a bit back and a little forward until I'm comfortable.

“Check,” I say, releasing the lever.

“Mirrors, right and left?” Cam says.

I look to the mirrors on each side, locate the little buttons on the door, and adjust them until I can see the road behind me.

“Check,” I say.

“Ignition,” Cam says.

“Check,” I say, resting my hand on the key. “Ignition already initiated.”

“Navigational coordinates acquired and ready to go,” Cam says, tapping the
Go
on the touch screen of the GPS.

“Captain and techs, in position and secured?” I say.

He pulls his seat belt around, clipping it in on the other side. “Secured and ready. It's your ship, Cap'n.”

Hands at ten and two,
I hear Gram saying.
You stay in control.

I take a deep breath and gaze into the dark night. I place my foot carefully on the brake pedal and draw down the lever on the right of the steering wheel until the little arrow at the base lands on D. Then I lift my foot lightly off the brake and move it over to the gas, pressing down until the dirt below us squeaks, and we pull around a loop and out onto the road again. The camper jostles from left to right as I steady it in the right lane.

I chance a quick look at Cam. He gives a thumbs-up. “And that's a star-spangled takeoff for flight 220. Next stop, BotBlock.”

T
HE NIGHT GETS ENDLESSLY DARK AS
we pass from sleepy town to sleepy town. And I hear Gram in my head, telling me,
Eyes peeled, head calm and clear.
I try to make it so. Soon Izzy's light snores float up between Cam and me. I take a quick glance down. She's holding a pillow like it's a teddy bear and sucks her thumb quietly. I don't hear a sound from Mama. I hope she's drifted to sleep, too. Sometimes, sleeping can really help your brain. That's what Gram used to say.

As we wind down the road, I keep my eyes on that yellow line. I keep the RV going below thirty miles per hour. Cam flips the visor down and a little yellow glow beams on him. He opens the Mission Control notebook. I look over and see he's on our Mission Control Protocol for Optimum Achievement page.

“Two: Complete, practice, and program PingPing200,” Cam says.

“Well, we finished. It may need some alterations, but we did finish it, so that's technically done.”

I hear the pencil scrape across the paper.

“We have three test runs. We'll make any adjustments we need,” I say.

“Right,” Cam says.

“Take a right in two hundred feet,” the British lady says. I breathe out and move my foot from the gas to the brake. I press in once, twice, three times, then turn the wheel onto Vineyard Avenue. Once we're straightened out on that road, Cam says, “Item three: Go to BotBlock (and win).”

I hear the pencil meet the paper.

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” I tell him.

“Too late, I crossed it out,” Cam says. “I'm feeling confident. Four: Make dreams come true. That one we'll have to wait on. Good progress, though.”

I squeeze the steering wheel, liking the sound of his words. As the rain slicks the window, I can see Gram in the periphery, like she is here along with me. As we wind our way along a river, in between mountains, then down into flatter terrain, I start to recognize where I am, and memories of previous trips to the coast rush back to me.

• • •

My tenth birthday. Izzy was four and wanted to stay up late like me. Mama told her she could, but she whispered in my ear, “She'll be far into dreams by ten, trust me.”

She actually made it to 11:00, but I watched her eyes drooping for half an hour before she actually let them close.

I counted the minutes until 11:49.

“Shall we make our way to the beach?” Mama said, pulling up the surprise bag. I eyed the shape at the bottom of it, wondering what she got me this year. I bounced off the bed and grabbed hold of my sneakers, slipped them on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gram dig around in her big purse.

“Can you carry this along?” Gram asked Mama. Mama went over with the surprise duffel and they started shuffling things around. I tried peeking to see what they had, but they were pretty good at being sneaky. Once everything was adjusted, Mama picked Izzy up and put her into the carriage and we walked out into the night.

We didn't run down to the beach, but we did get into the sand and I took my shoes off and smashed the waves. Gram pushed Izzy along, singing a little melody, and Mama sat down in the sand with the bag. She opened it up and I sat down across from her, knowing how this worked.

“First from me,” she said, pulling up a rectangular gift. I took it from her and peeled away the wrapping paper.
The Collected Works of Robert Frost.
I rubbed the front and held the book to my heart, knowing how much Robert Frost meant to Mama.

“Thank you,” I said. She smiled from ear to ear and rubbed a thumb across my cheek.

“I think you're ready for it. He's always had a great deal of wisdom for me,” Mama said. I nodded and flipped the pages quickly.

“Try the ‘Master Speed,' or ‘Moon Compasses.'”
She picked up a moon shell and tucked it into my hand. “I know you'll like that one.”

Gram rolled toward us and stopped. Then she pushed sleeping Izzy back and forth.

“Don't forget mine!” she said. Mama reached into the bag and pulled out a second wrapped package. I set Robert Frost and the moon shells down in the sand and took the gift between my hands. I loosened the wrapping paper, letting it fall onto my crossed legs. I tilted the box so I could see the writing.
Tin Can Robot,
it said.
Do It Yourself.
I gasped; this was just like the kids in the competition. I grabbed the lid.

“Hold on now, there's another,” Gram said, gesturing toward the bag.

Mama pulled out another book. This one was called
Building Your Robot from Scratch.
I jumped up. “Thanks, Gram,” I said, rushing in for a hug. “I love it.”

I heard Mama let out an exasperated sigh. “You're good at making her like what you like.”

“Hush now,” Gram said. “The only thing I'm good at is knowing what both of your interests are. And encouraging them. My poet and my scientist.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Imagine, Lucy, you can compete here when you're twelve. You have a knack for this kind of thinking. I can see it. Maybe you can enter a Google science fair if you get really good, or some other . . .”

Gram went on and on, and the dreams piled up in my brain. I dove back into the sand to grab all my presents, but Mama had picked up the Robert Frost for herself. She held it open on her lap and read.

“‘And a masked moon had spread down compass rays

To a cone mountain in the midnight haze.'”

“Mama, that sounds so nice,” I said, but I couldn't help working my fingers along the top of the robot box while I was saying it. And by the time we were headed back to the room, I was so tired I forgot all about the moon shell. I left it near the half-eaten cupcake and went to bed with big dreams in my head. Mama and I had a harder time connecting after that birthday. Like two magnets back to back.

• • •

We slam into a pothole and I jolt out of my memories. Gram's picture jogs loose and Cam catches it right before it hits Izzy on the head. I blink and attempt to line us up, but this road doesn't have clear lines. It's warped and cracked and there is only a very pale yellow in the center. With the rain, it's hard to tell which section is the middle.

“I could use an extra pair of eyes, Mighty Hawk,” I say.

I hear Cam set Gram down on the floor.

“It's just hard to tell the middle because of the rain,” I say, squinting. I think I'm on the left side of the line, but I'm not certain.

“I've got you covered,” he says, leaning up to look out his window. “You're real good on this side. And this side is the one you have to be careful of because we're most likely to careen off the planet if we misjudge.”

I take a deep breath. “That's very reassuring,” I say, glancing to the edge. Off into the darkness.

“Glad to help, Cap'n,” he says.

“Clearly,” I say. We drive like this for about forty-five minutes, with Cam looking out his side and me looking out the windshield. Me hanging tight on to the wheel. Counting my breaths. Wishing that big white BotBlock tent was coming around the next bend.

We take it real slow. A couple of cars blaze past us and I hope the rain is helping shield the windows. After a while, the storm starts to lighten up, and we turn onto a road with a nice solid yellow line in the middle. We're in the clear, I think. Of course, that's when I notice the fuel gauge is dipping dangerously close to the red line.

“We're getting low on gas,” I say.

“We're not too far off, now,” Cam says, hitting a minus sign on the GPS screen. He sucks in a breath.

“Uh, we better not risk it. It says we still have twenty minutes to go.”

My heart picks up a beat as I think about going into a gas station, where people might recognize us. Might have heard the story. Might call us in and end the game before our moment.

“How much do you think it takes to fill this?” he asks.

“We don't have to fill it, we just need to put in enough to get us twenty minutes down the road. We have to be quick. You got twenty-five from D-Wayne. How much do we have overall and how much can we spend without cutting into our registration money?”

He leans over the arm of the passenger seat, over Izzy and behind my chair. He pulls the paint bucket and a second later, I hear the snap of the rubber band hitting his wrist. He counts under his breath as he peels a few bills off.

“We can spend just over fifteen on gas,” he says. I hear the rubber band go back around the money and he tosses it into the paint can.

“He shoots, he scores!” Cam shouts, raising his arms. “And the crowd goes wild. McKinney is one in a million!” He makes a hissing sound that echoes like a crowd of people cheering.

“You can celebrate later. We need to figure out where the heck a gas station is,” I say.

We're cruising down some windy strip of road. Dark houses sprinkle the landscape on our right and left. No restaurants or convenience stores to speak of, much less a gas station. We pass a shack that says Barney's Burger Palace. Only it is a tiny place, barely the size of a shed, and the windows are all boarded up. Seems like it would be a good place for a gas station.

Cam hits the GPS. “I think some of these things have places of interest. Richie Frank liked to stop for McDonald's all the time, so we did a lot of searching for those in every town.”

“Do what you can, Mighty Hawk.”

He punches a button and the color in the cockpit goes from light blue to dark blue.

“All right,” he mutters. “Points of interest. Is that the same thing?”

“Sounds like tourist attractions to me,” I say.

“Nope. I got it. Fuel.”

I hear a
blip blip
as he searches. “Target acquired, Cap'n.”
Blip blip.
“Nearest gas station is five miles away.”

“Turn right in 0.2 miles,” the British lady says as we reroute. I push the brakes slightly and get us going nice and slow nearing the turn. We go right and then left, and right again. Winding our way through a small neighborhood. I hear a dog bark in the distance and hold my breath. We're aliens in enemy territory. All the houses are dark, and feel like they get closer to us the farther we drive. I take a left onto Route 3 and I see the glimmer of a Gulf sign glowing out of the dark. A little dot in the distance.

“Here goes nothing,” I say.

“We there yet?” My heart nearly hits the top of my skull. It's Izzy. She pulls her thumb out of her mouth with a pop.

“You get any rest?” Cam asks.

“Turning is making my stomach sore,” she says. As I push the brake, I think that despite trying to put on a brave face, going toward this gas station is making my stomach a little bit sore, too. The neon sign gets bigger every second. I find myself pushing the brake, slowing us down twenty miles per hour below the speed limit. I cannot be afraid.

“Mighty Hawk, can you do the fill-up, so I can be prepared in case we need a quick takeoff?” I say.

“Affirmative, Cap'n. I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“All right then. Here goes.” I squeeze the brake all the way to the floor, put on the blinker, and turn into the Gulf station.