The Summer Experiment Page 4
“What about that delta wing someone over in England made out of metal?” asked Uncle Horace. “Even aliens would be afraid to ride on that thing.”
Sometimes, it’s fun to ask the adults a few questions you know they can’t answer. This may be the reason I was born.
“Didn’t Sheriff Mallory say it was twice the size of a football field? Are helicopters that big? Do big airplanes fly that close to the ground?”
No one spoke for a few seconds.
“Darn Air Force,” Grandpa finally said.
“If Stan Mallory says he saw a UFO,” Grandma was saying as Marilee and I sneaked out of the room, “then he saw a UFO.”
***
We stood on the back porch steps and thought about what had just happened. Sheriff Mallory was as respected as could be in Allagash. I was so impressed that I put my plan for revenge on a back burner.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” I asked, and Marilee nodded. “It means aliens are really out there, and they’re visiting this area again. So our chances of contacting them just got better.”
“Well, we’ll need better chances,” said Marilee. “I finally found out what Henry Helmsby is doing for his science project. He’s crossing a Maine potato with a red turnip. I think we should be worried.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “What’s to worry about?” I was very worried. Henry adores Gregor Mendel, that monk who first discovered that plants have genes and peas taste good if you put butter on them. Okay, I made up that last part, but you know who I mean.
“He’s calling it the Helmsby Poturn,” she added. “You’ve got to admit that Henry is brilliant.”
“Sure, but so is Venus. When was the last time Venus won anything?”
“Silly,” said Marilee, grinning. “Venus is a planet.”
“So is Henry Helmsby,” I said. “At least, he moves in a different orbit than earthlings do.” It was true. Brains and common sense don’t always march hand in hand.
“I hope you’re right,” said Marilee. “He gives me the creeps. Every night I can see him from my bedroom window. He even wears a lab coat and goggles when he goes out to his mom’s greenhouse. How weird is that?”
“Honestly, I can’t see his project winning,” I said, wanting to reassure her. “I mean, who is going to walk into the River Café and say to Darlene, ‘Give me the mashed poturns and gravy, with meatloaf and a side of corn?’ Who is going to play with a toy called Mr. Poturn Head? Is Joey Wallace a couch potato or a couch poturn?”
“But the judges are all science geeks,” said Marilee. “They don’t even know about Mr. Potato Head.”
“Well then, think of this fact,” I pushed on. “What girl in the county will be excited to be crowned Miss Maine Poturn Blossom Queen at the state fair?” I think that last one hit home. I mean, even the science geeks turn out every potato harvest to watch the queen ride by in Sherry Sullivan’s pink Cadillac convertible, the one she got by selling the most cosmetics in New England.
“You’re right,” Marilee said. “I never thought of it that way. Aliens are a lot more exciting than potatoes and turnips anyway.”
I should be a lawyer. I really should.
6
The Setup
And then I quickly brought my plan for revenge back to the front burner. Before the press conference, I had asked my mom about Marilee and me using the four-wheelers, hers and Dad’s. As I said, this is timber country. Huge trucks loaded with logs and headed to the paper mills are a daily sight on our highways. My dad, and just about every man in town, works for the P. G. Irvine Lumber Company, the biggest one in Maine. Dad operates heavy logging equipment such as a de-limber and a skidder. We’re also in pickup-truck heaven since that’s the most practical vehicle for this place. The roads have a lot of potholes due to wear from the big trucks driving over them. And they also have frost heaves, those mounds that push up under the tarred surface, thanks to our strenuous winters.
We’re also known for snowmobiles in the winters and four-wheelers in the summers. Just about every family in town has a four-wheeler or two. Mom and Dad are members of a club so our family owns two. I taught Marilee how to drive one shortly after she moved to town, and now she handles it as well as any other country kid. The machines are used mostly for recreation. But on this day, I needed the family four-wheelers for business, not pleasure. And with everyone still arguing over what Sheriff Mallory saw, and with Grandma still making Grandpa jealous, we were free to fly.
“Wear helmets!” Mom yelled out the window when she heard me start up Dad’s machine. I hate a helmet, but I’m no fool. My head is just another watermelon if it hits the tarred road at thirty miles an hour. With Marilee on Mom’s smaller machine and pulling up the rear, we roared out of my driveway and headed across the meadow. Instead of turning toward Frog Pond, we kept going past the hill where we’d run down through blackberry brambles the night before. From there, we hit one of the recreation trails and stayed on it until we reached Peterson’s Mountain. Driving the four-wheelers there is legal so long as we stay off the main highways.
Peterson’s Mountain was owned by Marcus Peterson in the 1890s. Therefore, he was dead and gone long before I was born. Just his name is left as a reminder that he once walked among us. But there’s a family graveyard up on the mountain. All the Petersons were buried there since they lived in isolation back then, as did a lot of old-timers. The graveyard is believed to be haunted since, well, it’s very old and there are even graves for babies and young children. Four generations of Petersons were born, raised, and died up on that mountain. It’s a place we Allagashers often use to test each other. “You think you’re so brave? How about spending a night all alone on Peterson’s Mountain?”
The only proof now of those families that once lived up there, other than their names on weathered, vine-covered stones, are the remains of a few old foundations and water wells, sunken into the earth and forgotten. It’s a creepy place. I mean, there are even stones, just plain rocks, for two dead dogs in that graveyard. What’s scarier than a ghost dog? Nothing, unless it’s a ghost baby, one that cries in the woods just as the clock strikes midnight. But as scary as the place is in the middle of a sunny day, I never once saw anything unearthly there. Not yet, anyway.
However, come 7 p.m., the sun would be sinking and casting shadows this way and that. All those pines and spruce would be blocking the dying sunlight and catching up moonlight instead. Was there any better place for my plan?
Meet me TONIGHT after dark at the picnic table on Peterson’s Mountain, near Calley’s Creek.
I knew that if a pretty girl sent Johnny a note to meet her on Mars, he’d show up five minutes early. But I wondered if Miranda Casey would be too afraid to come. She spent a lot of time in the girls’ bathroom at school, staring at her face in the mirror. Or fluffing up her already fluffy hair. I guess it would all depend on how crazy she was over my stupid brother.
Oh, did I tell you that Calley’s Creek was named after Mr. Peterson’s twelve-year-old daughter, Calley? It happened a hundred years ago, back at the turn of the century in 1914. Calley caught pneumonia. In her delirium, she left her sickbed late one night and wandered out into a raging snowstorm. The next morning, Old Man Peterson found her lying next to the icy creek, still dressed in her white nightgown. She had frozen to death. Southern Maine might be known for its big fancy ocean, its seafood, and its crimson sunsets. But up here we’re known for blackflies, moose, and raging snowstorms. It was just Calley’s bad luck not to have lived in Portland. If she had, she might have wandered down to the ocean and ordered a lobster.
Where you’re born can affect your entire life.
Everyone in town has heard of Calley’s Creek and the sad story of how she died. It’s said she still walks those woods at night, following the creek back upstream and trying to find her way home.
Meet me TONIGHT after dark
at the picnic table on Peterson’s Mountain, near Calley’s Creek.
Are you picturing this as I am? Who needs aliens to scare the daylights out of someone when a ghost story is right in my own backyard?
This trip on the four-wheelers up to Peterson’s Mountain was, however, a test run. As I said, I’m a perfectionist. I get things done right. And if you’re going to scare the daylights out of someone, it has to happen at night. I’d need this evening to prepare. Then tomorrow, once the sun had set, the real deal could go down. So, up we drove to the top of Peterson’s Mountain.
Marilee pulled up beside me when we reached the picnic table that the Chamber of Commerce had put there for visitors. From that high spot, early evening, you can see all the lights of town twinkling like fireflies down below. At times like that, if I was with Mom and Dad, I always got a safe feeling, sort of like peering down on our own lives. You can forget about ghost dogs and frozen dead girls and just concentrate on how lucky you are to be alive. And to have both parents there to raise you. I knew Marilee was hurting over the news that her dad was going to marry his girlfriend. That ended the dream that her parents would get back together one day.
I turned off the four-wheeler and removed my helmet. Marilee did the same. We sat for a few seconds, not speaking, just looking down at the town of Allagash. Pickups and logging trucks and cars darted back and forth like important bugs.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I didn’t really mean it as a question since I’ve always loved the view. But Marilee was squeamish, being that city mouse at heart.
“Pretty freaky,” she said. “Where did that girl die?”
“Calley Peterson? Right there where you’re sitting,” I said, and smiled when I saw her jump. But then I remembered how scared I’d been on Frog Hill. “The creek runs down the mountain over there,” I said, and pointed. “The old foundations for the buildings and the family graveyard are on the other side. Over there.” I nodded at the west side of the mountain.
“Robbie, I don’t know if I can go through with this,” Marilee said. “I mean, it’s still daylight and it’s already a scary place. After sunset, it’ll be a horror movie. Look, I’ve got goose bumps.”
“Now you begin to realize my genius,” I said.
“And what about Sheriff Mallory’s press conference?”
“You heard my dad and uncle and Grandpa,” I said, reassuring her. “Flying wing. Metal delta wing. Weird-looking helicopters. Even honest people like Sheriff Mallory make mistakes. Don’t be afraid, Marilee. I’ll be with you.”
“That’s another reason I’ve got goose bumps.”
“Come on,” I said. “I want to be sure of the light so I don’t trip and break my neck. Otherwise, in a hundred years, they’ll be calling this place Roberta’s Creek.”
I got off the four-wheeler and walked a few feet from the path. To the left of the picnic table was a large pile of brush, as high as my head. It was probably put there by park rangers who were cleaning the area.
“There’s the perfect place for me to hide,” I said. “I’ll already have Mom’s white nightgown over my clothes. All you have to do is turn on the light.”
The light I chose for this mission was another sign of genius. It was Dad’s night fishing lamp, a lantern-shaped thing that gives off a bluish light, an eerie glow. “Otherworldly” is the adjective that comes to mind. And that’s the word I’ll use when I write about my prank for the school paper this coming autumn. That is, unless Brother Johnny agrees to keep his big mouth shut about how scared I was on Frog Hill. And even more than that, what I said about wanting to date Billy Ferguson one day. I believe this is called blackmail.
“Can’t we leave now?” Marilee asked. “It’s bad enough I have to come up here tomorrow night.”
I looked at my watch. Six thirty. The sun would set around seven.
“Not much longer,” I said. “Come look. There’s my house.”
Marilee got off the four-wheeler and put her helmet on the seat.
“I’ve only seen it a dozen times,” she said.
“There’s your house too. See?” I pointed to the yellow house that sat on Main Street, at the edge of town near Cramer’s Gas & Movie Rentals.
“I wonder if Mom is home yet,” Marilee said. “I wonder if she’s talking on the phone to Hank Preston, her new boyfriend. If your parents decide to date or marry someone new, shouldn’t their kid get to choose who it is?”
“I’m sorry, Marilee,” I said. “Life sucks sometimes.”
“I know,” she nodded. “Do you think if I ran away, maybe downstate somewhere, that Mom and Dad would get back together? You know, join forces so they can find me.”
“I don’t know,” I said. But what I really thought was, “I doubt it.” I shooed away the mosquito that had found my neck and was probably informing a zillion other mosquitoes that fresh meat was in the woods. We’d need to bring fly repellent tomorrow night, what the locals call “fly dope.” That, or be slowly cannibalized.
“God, what if she got involved in the hunt?” Marilee said then. “What if she and my dad bonded even more as he searched for me?”
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Dad calls her Sarah,” Marilee said. “But I call her she.”
The sun had set and a gray hue covered the mountain. Below us, the firefly lights of town were winking. It would be a dark ride down the narrow mountain path, a trail lined with the thick branches of pines and spruce. But we had our faithful four-wheelers with their yellow headlights. I went over to the brush pile and crouched behind it.
“Can you see me?” I asked.
“No,” I heard Marilee say.
“Okay, here’s where you can hide to shine the light on me.” I pointed to a fat pine tree that grew ten feet from the brush pile. Marilee came and stood behind the pine.
“So I hold the lamp about this high and point it at you?”
“That looks about right,” I said. I wished now I’d brought the lamp with us for the test run. Dumb. But it would work. I could see it so clearly in my mind. Me standing up suddenly from behind the brush, dressed in deathly white, being lit up by a ghostly blue light. Should I moan as I stuck both arms out straight? Or just begin walking toward them?
Johnny would probably arrive first, being Johnny and so infatuated with Miranda. His four-wheeler would purr up the mountain, or Dad’s four-wheeler rather. Then Miranda would arrive, probably on her brother’s machine since I’d seen her riding it often with her friends. They would meet at the picnic table and she’d ask, “What did you want to tell me?” But before it could go any further, I’d stand up in my death gown and Marilee would blast me with blue light. Calley Peterson, trying to find her way home.
I should be given an Oscar.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Plan Roberta is in cement.”
We started our machines and flicked on our headlights. Helmets on, we circled around the picnic table and headed down the mountain, Marilee in the lead. I slowed for the sharp turn halfway down since I’d almost run over a rabbit there once. I figured it was a crossing path for critters on their way to the creek. The last thing I needed or wanted was to squash anything. Unless it was a mosquito or a blackfly.
Not knowing about the Oregon Trail for animals, Marilee kept up her speed and I lost her. By the time I shifted into high and came out on the trail by the cabin where the park rangers store their equipment, I saw her taillights up ahead. She was waiting for me at the bottom of the mountain. I pulled up alongside her and was about to say, “Ma’am, may I see your driver’s license, please?” when I saw the amazement on her face.
“Look,” Marilee whispered.
I looked far up into the sky and there they were. The lights the whole town had been buzzing about. Three white balls. They were in a neat row, and each one had flashing white lights beneath it. Then they disappeared.
“Holy cow,” I said. I, on the other hand, was scared. I was trying to find a flying wing or a crazy helicopter in the formations. Any explanation would do. The lights were now much higher in the sky over Allagash. Then, as if in a nanosecond from a distant world, they simply vanished.
“One thing is certain,” Marilee said, breathless.
“What?” My voice had grown tiny with fright.
“This time, it’s not your crazy brother.”
7
The Delay
I woke to the sound of rain beating on our shingled roof. The curtains were fluttering back and forth at my bedroom window. Wind shook the top of the oak tree in the yard, which I could see from my bed. I lay there, feeling safe from the storm, but thinking of what Marilee and I had seen the night before. Something just wasn’t right. Much as I tried to do what Sheriff Mallory said, to find the logic in the mystery, I couldn’t. What were those weird lights? How could they move so fast? How could they appear and then just disappear?
“Roberta, take the screen out and close your window!” my mother screamed up the stairs. “This is going to be a nasty one.”
I removed the screen and shut the window. Then I crawled back into bed to think. The strange lights could have kept my brain busy, but I had more fish to fry, as Grandpa likes to say. Roberta’s revenge. On my computer, I had already set up a fake e-mail account for Miranda Casey. I knew my brother would be too lovesick to notice when he received the e-mail. Instead of MirCase@mail.com, her real address, I set one up for MiraCase@mail.com. I was certain this would work.
Dear Johnny,
Please meet me TONIGHT after dark at the picnic table on Peterson’s Mountain, near Calley’s Creek.
I would, therefore, have a way to e-mail to Johnny from my computer with the same note that would go to her. As far as Miranda’s message, all I had to do was sneak into Johnny’s room again and send it from his computer: