| Heck, I hope anybody's reading this because the thing that's keeping me from going toty my nut right is ting this down on paper so that someday, when it's over, it'll help prove that I'm not a total whack job. You see, two things happened yesterday that changed my forever. The first was that I finy kissed Courtney Chetwynde. Yes, the Courtney Chetwynde of the bites-her-lower-lip-when-she's-thinking, stares-right-into-your-heart-with-her-deep-gray-eyes, looks--in-her-volleyb-uni, and always-smells-a-little-like-roses fame. Yeah, I kissed her. It was a long time coming and it finy happened. Woo-hoo! The second thing was that I was launched through a wormhole ced a "flume" and got jacked across the universe to a medieval planet ced "Denduron" that's in the middle of a violent civil war. But back to Courtney. This wasn't your average "nice to see you" peck on the cheek. Oh no. This was a full-on, eyes cd, starting with tight lips but eventuy morphing into a mutual -mouth probe thing that lasted for a good thirty-second time. And we were c, too. Like real c. I was holding her so tight I could feel her heart beating against my chest. Or maybe it was my heart. Or maybe our hearts were bouncing each other. I have no idea. I k is that it was pretty cool. I hope I the to do it again, but right it's not looking so good. I guess it's kind of dumb to be fixating on the glorious Courtney Chetwynde when the real is that I'm afraid I'm going to die. Maybe that's why I can't her out of my head. The memory of that kiss is the thing that feels real to me right . I'm afraid that if I that memory I'm going to everything, and if that happens then…well, I don't k what will happen then because I don't understand anything that's been happening to me. Maybe by writing it down, it'll start to make some sense. Let me try to piece toher the events that led to my writing this. Up until yesterday I was living large. At least as large as any normal fourteen-year-old guy can live. School came pretty easy; I kicked ass in sports; my parents were way cool; I didn't hate my little sister, Shannon, usuy. I had excellent s, with you sitting right on top of the list, Mark. I lived in this major house w I had my own private space to play music or whatever and nobody bugged me. My dog, Marley, was the coolest golden retriever t ever was; and I had recently macked with Courtney Chetwynde. (Did I mention that?) How much more goin' on can you ? The thing is, I also had an Uncle Press. You remember him? He was the guy who always showed up at my birthday parties with some special surprise. He wouldn't just bring a pony, he'd bring a truckload of ponies for a minirodeo. He's the guy who turned my house into that laser-maze game. Was that or what? He's the one who was throg the pizzas at my party last year. Remember that guy? Every once in a while he'd show up, out of the blue, and do something like take me flying in a private plane. Yeah, he was a pilot. Another time he gave me this computer that was so advanced, it wasn't even in stores yet. You k the calculator I have that you input numbers by talking to it? That was from Uncle Press. I gotta tell you, he was the coolio uncle everybody wished they had. But t was always something a little mysterious about Uncle Press. He was my mom's brother, but she didn't say much about him. It was almost like she felt weird talking about him. Whe I asked, she'd shrug and say something like, "Oh, you k him, he's his own man. How was school ?" Basicy, she'd dodge the question. I don't k what he did for a living, but he always had boatloads of . I figured he probably had some top-level government job, like doing research for NASA or something and it was hush-hush. So I didn't ask too many questions. He wasn't married, but sometimes he'd show up at the house with some odd charer. he brought this lady over who said a word. He said she was his "," but I got the feeling she was more like his "girl." I think she was African or something because she was real dark-skinned. And beautiful. But it was strange because she'd just stare at me and smile. I wasn't scared or anything because she had soft eyes. And maybe she didn't talk because she didn't k English, but still it was kind of creepy. I'd have to say that my Uncle Press was the coolest guy I'd ever met. That is, until yesterday. The county semifinal basketb game was last night. You k how important I am to that team. I'm the highest scoring point guard in Stony Brook Junior High history. I'm not bragging; that's just the way it is. So for me to miss that game would have been like Kobe Bryant missing a Lakers play game. Okay, maybe I'm not that important, but it would not have been cool for me to bail on that game. Mom and Dad had already left for the gym with Shannon. I had a ton of work and I k I'd be fried afterward, so I had to it done before leaving. I had just enough time to scarf down a banana and some Pop-Tarts, feed Marley, jump on my bike, and blast over to school. At least that was the plan. I can't help but think that if I had done my work just a little bit er, or decided not to throw the tennis b with Marley, or even waited till I got to school to take a leak, none of this would have happened. But it did. I grabbed my pack, headed for the front door, threw it and came face to face with…Courtney Chetwynde. I froze. She froze. It was like somebody hit the pause button on two lives. Except t was nothing static about what was racing through my brain. The crush I had on her dated back to when we were in grade school. She was always so…. But not in that unattainable she's too good for everybody way. She was beautiful and smart and at sports and she laughed and told jokes. I think that was the key. The f that she told jokes. Maybe that sounds stupid, but if you tell jokes it shows you're willing to look stupid. And if you've got the whole package going on and still willing to let people laugh at you then, man, what else do you want? Of course I wasn't the one who felt this way about Courtney. I was one in a long line of admirers. But she was standing at my front door. Instantly, every synapse in my brain started firing to try and find the , spontaneous thing to say. The first words out of your mouth in a time of crisis can color someone's opinion of you forever. It either shows that you're toty in charge and ready to handle any situation with composure and wit, or that you're a blundering idiot whose mind will freeze at the first sign of pressure. This flashed through my brain in the few nanoseconds while we were on "pause." it was my move. She came to the house, it was my turn to respond. So I hitched my pack up on my shoulder, leaned casuy against the doorjamb, gave her a little smile and said: "Yo." Yo??? That's not even a real word! Nobody says "Yo" unless they're impersonating Sylvester Stone, which I was definitely not doing. I was set for the smile to drop her face in crushing disappointment as she turned and left without saying a word. Instead, she bit her lower lip (which meant she was thinking) and said: "Hi." That was good. "Hi" isn't much higher up on the cool scale than "Yo." I was back in the game. It was time to start playing. "What's up?" I said. Okay, maybe I wasn't ready to play just yet. It was easier to lob the b back into her court. It was then that I noticed something weird. Courtney looked nervous. Not out of her mind scared or anything, but a little bit uncomfortable. My confidence soared. She was just as tense as I was. That was good. "I k you've got to to the game and , I don't want to make you late," she said with a little embarrassed smile. What game? Oh, right, the county semifinal. Somehow it had slipped my mind. "I've got plenty of time," I lied casuy. "C'mon in." I was recovering nicely. As she walked past me to come inside I got that faint hint of rose fragrance. It took every ounce of willpower not to do a huge-old sucking inhale to try and grab every ounce of that derful smell. That would have been dumb and this was definitely not the time to do something dumb because Courtney was inside my . She was on my turf. I cd the door behind her and we were alone. I had no idea what to do next. Courtney turned to me and I made cont with those gray eyes. My knees went soft. I prayed she didn't notice. "I wasn't sure if I should come ," she said tentatively. "I'm glad you did," I shot back with timing. I kept the b in her court, yet still managed to make her feel at ease. I was on fire. "I'm not rey sure why I picked to come. Maybe it was to wish you good luck in the game. But I think it's more than that." "Rey?" comeback. "I'm not exly sure how to say this, Bobby, but since we were kids, I've had this…feeling about you." Feeling? Feeling is good, unless she feels like I'm an ax murderer or something. "Oh?" I shot back. Noncommittal, nonaggressive, . "Man, I feel like such a geek saying this." She broke eye cont. I was losing her. I didn't want her to chicken out so thing I could do was throw her a bone. "Courtney, t are a lot of words that come to mind when I think of you, but 'geek' is definitely not one of them." She looked back to me and smiled. We were back on track. "I'm not rey sure how to say this, so I'll just say it. T's something about you, Bobby. I k you're a brain and a jock and popular and , but it's more than that. You've got this, like, I don't k, this aura thing going on. People trust you. They like you. And it's not like you're trying to show or anything. Maybe that's part of it. You don't like you think you're better than everybody else. You're just this rey good guy" — she paused before going on, then the bombshell — "who I've had this incredible crush on since fourth grade." Nothing in my wildest fantasy could have prepared me for that. I was speechless. I hoped my mouth wasn't hanging in stupefied shock. "I'm not rey sure why I'm telling you this ," she went on. "But I have this weird feeling that if I didn't, I might the again. And I wanted to tell you how I felt…and do this." That's when it happened. The kiss. She stepped forward, hesitated a second to see if I'd her, (yeah right, like t was danger of that happening), and we kissed. I 't rehash the details, but suffice it to say I was a happy guy. It was the most thirty seconds of my . It was the thirty-first second when it came crashing down. My eyes were cd, but I could see a whole future full of Courtney and Courtney's kisses. I don't k if it's possible to kiss and smile at the same time, but if it is, I did. And then I ed my eyes, and it was over. "Hi, Bobby." Uncle Press was standing t! W did he come from? I pulled away from Courtney so that she still had her eyes cd. uy, she looked kind of goofy for a second like she was kissing air, but she recovered and me, I didn't laugh. "Uncle Press! Hi!" I probably should have said, "Yo!" that's how stupid I felt. I'm not sure why, either. We weren't doing anything wrong. We were just kissing. Granted, it was the big-league kiss of time, but it was still just a kiss. Once Courtney realized what was happening, she went from zero to full-tilt embarrassed. She wanted to be anyw but t, and I wanted to be t with her. She backed toward the door. "I…uh…I better go," she stammered. "No, don't go." I didn't want to take the heat alone, but Uncle Press had other things on his mind. "Yes. You should go." Short, blunt, simple as that. Something about the way he said it made a red flag go up in my head. This didn't sound like Uncle Press. Normy he's the kind of guy who would think catching his nephew macking was pretty funny. In f, that's exly what happened when he caught me making out with Nancy Kilgore on the back porch. He just laughed. I was embarrassed as hell, but he got a real charge out of it. He'd bring it up every once in a while, just to jazz me. But not in front of anybody else, which made it okay. This time was different though. This time he wasn't laughing. "Good luck tonight. I'll be cheering," said Courtney as she took a step…and walked square into the door. Ouch. Uncle Press leaned over and ed it for her. She gave him a quick, embarrassed nod of thanks, then shot me a look with the slightest hint of a sly smile. Then she was gone. Uncle Press cd the door and looked at me. "I'm sorry, Bobby, but I need your help. I want you to come with me." Again, this didn't sound like Uncle Press. He was a loose kind of guy. My guess was he was in his fifties, but he didn't like a geezer. He was always goofing around, seemed to take things that ly. But tonight, he was dead . In f, it almost seemed as if he looked a little…scared. "But, I got a game. County semis. I'm already late." "You didn't seem too concerned about that a few seconds ago," he shot back. Good point. But I rey was late, and it was a big game. "Mom and Dad are already t with Shannon. If I don't show up — " "They'll understand. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it was more important than a basketb game…or kissing that beautiful girl who just left." I was prepared to argue on that last point, but man, he was ing pretty intense. It was weird. Then, as if he were reading my mind he said, "Bobby, you've kn me your . Have you ever seen me like this?" I didn't need to answer. Something was definitely up. "Then you k how this is," he said with absolute finality. I didn't k what to do. At that very minute t was a team waiting for me to help them a county title. Not to mention a family, s, and an almost-girl who would be expecting me to trot out onto the court. But standing in front of me was a guy who was my own flesh and blood who needed my help. Uncle Press did a lot for me as I was grog up and asked for a single thing in return. Until . How could I turn him down? "You to explain things to my coach, Mom and Dad, and Courtney Chetwynde?" Uncle Press uy gave a sm smile, just like he used to, and said, "They'll understand." I tried to think of any other reason why I shouldn't go with him, but came up empty. So with a sigh I said, " right then, let's go." Instantly Uncle Press ed the front door. I shrugged and started out. "You 't need that bag," he said, referring to my pack. I'm not sure why, but that sounded strange, and a touch ominous. "What's this about Uncle Press?" If he had answered the question truthfully, I would have run upstairs to my room and hid under the bed. But he didn't. he said was, "You'll find out." He was my uncle. I trusted the guy. So I let my pack f to the floor and headed for the door. Uncle Press didn't follow right away. I looked back and saw that he was looking around the house. Maybe I imagined this, but he seemed a little sad, as if this was the last time he was going to be . After a few seconds he said, "You love this place, don't you? And your family?" "Well…yeah. Of course," I answered. What a dumb question. He took one more wistful look around, then turned to face me. The sad look was gone. In its place was the determined look of a guy who had business elsew. "Let's go," he said. He walked past me and headed down the front walk to the street. Uncle Press always dressed the same way, in jeans, boots, and a dark brown work shirt. Over this he wore a long, tan, leather coat that reached down to his knees. It flapped in the d as he walked. I'd seen that look many times before, but for some reason, this time it gave him the air of someone for whom time has stood still. In another time and place he could have been a dusty cowboy striding into town, or a military emissary carrying vital documents. Uncle Press was indeed a unique charer. Parked in front of my house was the sweetest looking motorcycle I ever saw. It looked like one of those multicolored Matchbox racers that I had played with not too long ago. But this bike was very big and very real. Uncle Press always did things in style. He grabbed the helmet from the seat and tossed it to me. I buckled up and he did the same. He then gunned the engine and I was surprised to hear that it wasn't very loud. I was expecting some growling, gut-churning hog sound. But this bike was almost quiet. It sounded like, well, a rocket that's about to ignite. I hopped on the seat behind him and he glanced back to me. Fourteen-year-old Bobby Pendragon is a loyal , sports star, devoted pet owner — and Traveler. Along with his uncle Press, Bobby has visited the alternate dimension of Denduron and participated in a civil war. He's also waded through the endangered underwater territory of Cloral. Bobby once again finds himself thrust beyond the boundaries of time and space into a place that seems somewhat familiar: First Earth. Bobby and the Traveler from Cloral — Spader — have flumed to York City, 1937. Against a backdrop of gangsters, sg music, and the distant sound of a breg war, the two must uncover the evil Saint Dane's est plot. But is Bobby ready for the difficult choices ahead? Book Excerpt Chapter 1: First Earth That's w I am. First Earth. Veelox was a misdirection. Spader and I flumed to Veelox, but found the wasn't t. It was on First Earth. W is First Earth? The better question is, when is First Earth? I'm in York City and it's 1937. March of 1937 to be ex. To be rey ex, it's March 11 of 1937. I'm writing this on my birthday. 's a weird thought: If I'm in 1937 and it's my birthday, did I still turn fifteen? Kind of freaky, no? I'll begin this journal by telling you I stumbled into the most bizarro, confusing, dangerous situation yet. But then again, haven't I said that before? Let me give you a little taste of what happened in the first few minutes since I got …. Spader and I were nearly killed. Three times. We were also robbed and witnessed a gruesome murder. Happy birthday to me! The way things are going, I k what I want for my fifteenth birthday…the to have a sixteenth. When Spader and I flumed in from Veelox, I had no idea of what "First Earth" meant. Since I'm from Second Earth, I could guess that First Earth was sometime in the Earth's past. But how far past? For I k we were fluming back to a time when quigs were dinosaurs and we'd be on the run from hungry, yellow-eyed raptors. I was toty relieved to find that when we landed at the gate, it was the ex same rocky room that I had been through many times before. Yes, we had arrived at the gate the subway tunnel in the Bronx, York. Phew. At least t were no T-rexes or Neanderthals waiting for us. That was the good s. Bad s was that we weren't alone. As as the flume dropped us , I saw two guys standing t, facing us. They wore old-fashioned gray suits, like Clark Kent wears in the old Superman show on TV Land. uy, a better analogy is that these guys were dressed like the bad guys from that old show, because that's what they were. Bad guys. Very bad guys. They wore wide-brimmed hats that were pulled down low and had white handkerchiefs around their noses and mouths like banditos. T's one word to describe these dudes. Gangsters. Their eyes looked wide and scared. No big surprise. They had just seen Spader and me drop out of in an explosion of light and music. They seemed toty stunned, which was good because t was one other detail I haven't mentioned…. They were both holding machine guns that were aimed at the flume — and at us. "Down!" I yelled at Spader. |
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