The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [46]
With a screwdriver he pried the face off his stolen clock. There, inside, glued to the back of the clock, was a tube of liquid and a little folded piece of paper. The paper read, in faded black ink, “Here is some more radium paint to touch up your clock! Enjoy!” This was too good to be true. This was better than finding a hundred old clocks. Enjoy!
He picked up his Geiger counter and switched it on, holding it up to the vial of paint. The flashing light went wild. He switched it off and sat back down, and feeling that the occasion called for a celebration, began cackling and rubbing his hands.
Then he heard something else, someone else, close by, laughing, a throaty chuckle, imitating him. Nobody was at either window. He jumped up, unlocked the padlock on the inside of the door, and threw it open. There, at the top the driveway, with her back to him, walking briskly away, was the old lady who’d been hanging out at his house, the one who’d found the key to his shed and locked Granddad inside.
“Hey,” he yelled at her. “Old lady! What do you want?”
She turned around and waved but kept walking.
He stood there in the doorway, gazing out at the lush backyard without seeing anything, holding his breath. She must’ve been spying on him. Surely she wouldn’t be able to figure out what he was doing, a ditzy old lady like her who belonged in Grandma’s Attic. But maybe she wasn’t ditzy at all. Maybe that was an act. Maybe she was some sort of government agent, reporting on his activities. Who would suspect an old lady of being a spy? The government wouldn’t want a kid like him accomplishing what none of their scientists were able to do.
Otis stepped back and slammed his shed door closed. Another reason to hurry and complete his project. For some reason, he thought of Rusty, imagined telling her about this development. He wanted to tell her. He would tell her. Beatrice. Rustifer.
But first, there was the radioactive paint to open.
Part Three JUNE 2006
Turned out it happened at a nothing game, an early morning scrimmage with the Trojans, a fairly kick-ass team, which was, like Suzi’s team, made up of girls from a few different middle schools. It was on a Saturday, and Soccer Dad was there, pacing and yelling from the sidelines—fortunately Suzi couldn’t hear what he was saying. Nance had come to watch, too. She’d driven out to the field by herself and had brought her own lawn chair and was sitting at midfield holding a goofy-looking umbrella over her head. Poor woman must really have no life. Why couldn’t it be Mom sitting there, watching her? Mom, as usual, had better things to do. She had to take Ava to support group and then out to lunch so Ava would feel good about herself even though she had to go to a support group. You had to be autistic—and whine about it—to get her mother’s attention.
The fourth quarter started and Suzi’s team, the Sharks, were behind by four. Their coach, Annika, eight months pregnant, was sitting on the bench, legs spread, chin in hand, like she’d already given up. Her goalie coach, Jorge, was pacing around, yakking on his cell phone, probably telling his son to clean up his room. Important stuff.
All the action right now was down at the Trojans’ goal, where the ground, being in the shade, was still damp. For the whole game the Sharks kept driving it down but couldn’t get it in. The Trojans’ goalie was Suzi’s friend Mykaila, who sprang around the goal box like some demented kid’s toy: Mykaila in a Box.
Suzi, from her post, called out directions. “Maddy, mark up!” It was so hot the ground was doing the wavy thing.
She was hoping, praying, that the Trojans wouldn’t bring the ball down to her goal box again. Her knee was hurting. In the past she’d had other injuries,