He crumpled the paper slowly in one hand. Of course his SAT scores weren’t what they should have been, could have been. How could they be, when you spent half the nights the month of the testing fixing crappy plumbing and installing fiberglass insulation and exterminating ants? How did they expect him to study, to keep up with the rich kids like Jack Blake with his free time and his personal computer and his tutor and . . . and …”
“And I’ll always love you, Maggie,” murmured Louis wetly from his listening post in the hallway. “Kissy, kissy, kissy!”
“Louis!” Mrs. Rogan shouted.
Ten-year-old or no, Louis saw something then in Alex’s sudden glance that made him retreat back into the warm darkness of the hall. It wasn’t a threatening look. That he was prepared for and could have coped with. What he wasn’t ready to handle was the look of pain on the face of his invulnerable, indomitable big brother. In his preadolescent fashion he was aware that he was responsible for some of that pain, so different from the usual childish torments he and Alex exchanged. It was a numbing realization and he didn’t know how to react. He felt queasy, as if he’d just eaten something he knew he shouldn’t have.
Alex didn’t say anything to him, which was good. The expression on his face was hurtful enough. Twice embarrassed, he turned and fled from the trailer.
“Alex!” Jane Rogan moved after him and halted at the doorway. Sometimes peace and privacy could be more consoling than maternal concern. She was a good enough parent to let him go.
When you’re running real hard, fast as you can, and your mind is elsewhere, sometimes you forget to breathe. Eventually the body gets through to the brain and both combine to bring you up short. Alex slowed, wheezing and gasping, found himself halfway to the highway. Behind him colored lights flashed at the night-Starlight Starbright, Overnighters Welcome- in intermittent neon swirls.
He uncrumpled the letter, still clenched in his right fist, and read through it a second time. There was nothing personal in it. It was a standard printed rejection form. Even the signature had the look of a stamp. Nothing personal. He let it drop to the road.
Nothing personal, he thought, as an evening breeze carried his hopes for the future toward the ditch that bordered the parking area.
It didn’t matter. Just like Mom said, he could still go to City College with his friends. But he didn’t want to go to City College with his friends. He wanted to go to the University. He wanted out; out of the county, out of the state, out of Starlight Starbright and all it stood for.
He could go to City College and collect his A.B., then move on. Two years of junior college and then the University would have to accept him, would have to. But that also meant two more years of rusty pipes and blackened electrical outlets. Two more years of “gonna be a hot one today,” every day for the whole summer. Two more years of nothing to do in nowhere. He couldn’t take it.
Behind him, something went spizzit. Frowning, he turned back toward the general store. At first he was sure it was the big neon sign, finally determined to give up the neon ghost. The buzzing noise came again, but the sign never flickered or dimmed. The sound and the flashing light came from beyond. He headed for the porch.
It was the videogame, come alive with color and light, practically vibrating with energy. But no one was playing it and there was no one in sight. His first thought was that someone had tried to break into the machine’s coin box, but a close look showed no signs of attempted break-in, no denting of the hard steel that protected the collection containers.
Funny too those lights and that buzzing noise. Not like the game responses at all. Abstract yet organized. He decided a power surge was the cause. Sure, that would explain it. Somewhere up the line between the park and the generators at Hoover a big surge had shot through the grid and had thrown the game’s delicate microprocessor out of whack.
All he could do was unplug it until the company that serviced it could be notified. If he left it alone it might burn itself out, and he didn’t want to chance his mom being held liable for damages due to negligence. They couldn’t raise a fuss if he just pulled the plug.
He reached for the back of the console . . . and it stopped. Just went dead, almost as if it were afraid of being turned off and had decided to be good.
Or maybe he’d debated too long and it already had burnt itself out, he thought.
A dark shape suddenly loomed on the road in front of the store, just inside the glow from the store’s lights. It caught Alex’s attention immediately, large and boxy and unusually long. A rich man’s toy, some kind of customized cut-down van. Funny-sounding engine, too.
“Hello,” said a voice. “Excuse me, son?” A gullwing door whirred open, piqueing Alex’s curiosity further. He was torn between his duty to check out the suddenly silent game and his desire to see inside that peculiar vehicle. It was an uneven battle.
He walked toward the car, trying to get a good look at the interior without seeming to stare. “That’s a neat car, Mister.”
“Thanks. I try to keep it in shape.”
“Foreign job?”
“It is an import, yes.” The man smiled at nothing in particular.
Alex gave it a last, envious once-over before announcing officially, “Store’s closed now.” He pointed toward the highway. “It’s not far into town. There’s a 7-Eleven on Main that’s open twenty-four hours. You can probably get what you need there.”
“I doubt it, son.”
Alex tried to see down the road. “You don’t have a trailer broke down somewhere, do you?”
Something inside the car moved and he saw a dimly illuminated face. It was an elderly face, male, lined but without the deep creases of true old age. The owner might have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His white sideburns were bushy. When he looked up Alex was startled by the clarity of the driver’s eyes. They might have been transparent, protective lenses shielding some deeper secret from sight.
The man puffed on a cigarette at the end of a long holder, something Alex had seen only in the movies. As if sensing the boy’s interest the driver removed the holder and inspected the cigarette affectionately.
“Quaint affectation. Generates nothing in the way of nourishment, chemical stimuli or beneficial endocrine products, yet it’s catchy, catchy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, my boy. In reply to your question, no, I do not have a trailer broke down somewhere. Nor am I here to peruse your establishment for cigarettes or chewing gum. Actually I am here looking for someone.”
Alex remembered some of the tales Otis had told him about his younger days. He’d always laughed at the stories afterwards, knowing they were nothing more than tall tales spun to wile away the hot summer evenings. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“You with the IRS?”
Now it was the old man’s turn to look confused. “The IRS? A perennial rhizomatous or bulbous herbaceous plant of the family Iridaceae, is it not?”
Alex took a step backward. “Mister, I think maybe you’ve had too much to drink tonight.”
“Nonsense! I’ve imbibed no more liquid than is necessary for proper bodily functioning. As to this individual I seek,” and he gestured toward the porch, “can you by chance tell me the name of the person who broke the record on that game over there, and where I might find ’em?”
Pride overwhelmed Alex’s caution. This old guy was weird, but surely he was harmless. And the fancy rig he was driving . . . maybe he worked for the company that made the Starfighter game. Maybe there was some kind of electronic relay or something built into the console that sent back the results to some local headquarters. Maybe this old man wanted to give him a prize or something.
“His name’s Alex Rogan, Mister, and you’re looking at him. Who’re you? Did I win something for my score? Is that why you’re here?”
The man choked on his cigarette. “Hard to get the knack of this. What, win something? Well, you might say that. Yes, one could say that your achievement has entitled you to receive a singular honor.”
Visions of enough money to pay his way through the University suddenly flooded Alex’s mind. Maybe there’d even be some left over. He could buy Louis the stuffed tauntaun he’d always wanted. He could buy Mom a new TV, maybe even a new truck!
He forced himself to dampen his excitement. Perhaps the prize didn’t consist of cash. It might be some kind of product, or nothing more than a bunch of free plays on the game.