Part 4 (1/2)
”Remember, young readers-pop quiz tomorrow!”
Amid the stampede for the door, Jeremy Mintz couldn't resist- ”Then it's not pop!”
”NO INCOMING CALLS.”
Becker's Blinker flashed the same disappointing message it had moments earlier, so he clipped it back on his belt, got on his bike, and began the short trip home.
Highland Park was (and always had been) Becker's hometown, and as the sign on Route 27 declared, it's ”A Nice Place to Live.” There are crookety sidewalks and tree-lined streets and a nice little main drag with shops and stores and a post office. Becker had spent the last three years bopping back and forth between HP and the IFR and just as Fixer Blaque had promised, Training had been a pretty wild ride. It not only taught him the art of Fixing but literally changed the way he looked at The World. Whereas once it was just a place to hang out and go to school, now all he could see around him were the amazing creations of the various departments. And judging by the way the sky, the clouds, the very sound of the wind through the trees were coming together to create this perfect autumn afternoon, someone was on their game today.
Anyhow, Becker dropped his bike on the front lawn of 12 Grant Avenue and bounded through the wide front door.
”Anybody home?”
”I'm in the kitchen!”
Samantha Mitch.e.l.l was one of the most sought-after babysitters in town, because a) she gave the kids a pretty long leash, and b) she was one of the prettiest girls at HPHS. Currently, she was locked in a conference call regarding invites to her Sweet Sixteen.
”Where's Benjamin?”
”Up in the playroom.”
Becker trundled up the stairs, barging in on his brother, who sat guiltily in front of the third-floor TV. Ben was six to Becker's twelve, but that didn't stop him from indulging in another round of Juvenile Delinquent Juvenile Delinquent.
”Dude, I just toilet-papered the Senior Center!”
In the bestselling video game, it was your mission to vandalize as much of an unsuspecting town as possible before getting busted by parents, teachers, or the local 5-0. They had gotten a bootlegged copy from Kyle Fox, the infamous black-marketeer of M-rated vids, and though it was far from appropriate for a child of Benjamin's age, that's what afternoons with the babysitter were all about.
”Put it on two-player!” Becker picked up a controller and quickly entered the fray. ”Faster, B, he's right on your tail.”
A heavy-set truant officer was chasing Benjamin down a back alley.
”I'm trying!”
Becker pressed the ”A” b.u.t.ton and ”Quentin”-the sketchy burnout he'd created as his alter ego-suddenly popped from behind a garbage can and emptied a case of thumbtacks onto the concrete. While the hapless officer fell to the ground in agony, a message onscreen flashed ”10,000 Bonus Points,” and the brothers made their hasty escape.
”Thanks, dude.” Benjamin breathed a sigh of relief.
”No sweat.”
They high-fived each other (onscreen and off-), then Quentin fired up his motorized scooter.
”Now let's go egg City Hall!”
Wednesday nights were movie night, when Benjamin went to bed early and Becker got to log some QT with Samantha Mitch.e.l.l. Though Samantha was four years Becker's senior (and dating Tommy Vanderlin6), he was working his deep-cover strategy of convincing her that even though the age difference between them now seemed insurmountable, it wouldn't always be that way.
”Pa.s.s me the popcorn, would you?” asked Samantha, reaching across the cus.h.i.+ony L-shaped couch.
Becker handed it over, then casually took another peek at the Blinker on his belt.
”STILL NO INCOMING CALLS.”
b.u.mmer. It had been five long weeks since Becker had received his promotion to Fixer, but he still hadn't gotten a call. A regular working Fixer gets about one Mission every two to three weeks, which is about how long it takes for the Rotation to turn over, and Fixer #36 (aka ”No-Hands Phil”) had been called in to lift a Cloud of Suspicion over ten days ago. That meant Fixer #37 (aka Becker Drane) was next up on the list, and he was chomping at the bit to get his first Mission.
”This is a really good flick,” interrupted his babysitter. Becker shook off his preoccupation with The Seems and returned to his living room couch.
”Cool. I thought you might like it.”
Tonight, Becker had selected The Real Thing The Real Thing for their viewing entertainment, an obscure indie feature about a young girl who struggles to find love, until the quirky yet strangely perfect man of her dreams sweeps her off her- for their viewing entertainment, an obscure indie feature about a young girl who struggles to find love, until the quirky yet strangely perfect man of her dreams sweeps her off her- ”I can't sleep!”
Benjamin appeared on the landing with his blankie in hand.
”Well, go back up and try again!” Becker was motioning to him like ”get lost, you're blowing my rap,” but Benjamin was oblivious. (Or at least pretending to be.) ”Becker, go upstairs and help your little brother.”
Becker dropped his head, defeated-then jumped off the couch and chased the little mongrel up the stairs.
”You better hope I don't catch you!”
Though the Drane house was fairly well kempt, the two brothers had worn a path on the wool carpeting that lined the stairways and halls. One set of feet was small (but quick), while the other was big (but even quicker), which lent Becker a decided advantage in the race.
”Don't hit me! I'm gonna tell Mom!” screeched Benjamin, as he tucked and rolled into his room.
”Not if you're already dead!”
Even Becker had to admit his brother's bedroom was the sweetest in the house. Benjamin had gone through about a hundred phases already in his short life and all the residual evidence from those periods was scattered about hither-nither. He had a race-car bed (from when he wanted to be a race-car driver), glow-in-the-dark planets on the ceiling (from when he wanted to be an astronaut), and a host of giant canvases (because now he was in his ”artist phase”).
”Back in bed, Benja-bratt.” Ben got into the driver's seat, while Becker took up a position on one of the Pirelli tires. ”Now, what's your problem?”
”I couldn't sleep. I swear, it's not my fault.”
”Then whose fault is it?”
”She's too old for you, anyway.”
Becker lunged at his little brother, who ducked under the blankets. But when he came back up for air, he had clearly s.h.i.+fted gears. Gone was the abominable snowchild, and in his place was a charming little bro.
”Will you tell me another story about The Seems?”
Talking to Benjamin about The Seems was semi against the Rules, but Becker had shared select pieces with him because a) he was young and got afraid a lot, and b) even if he ever did say something to someone, they would probably just think he had a great imagination. Which he did.
”What do you wanna know?”
”I want to hear about the Night They Robbed the Memory Bank.”
”I already told you that one.”