Cries from the Lost Island - Kathleen O'Neal Gear Page 0,4

your phone.” Thrusting his hand closer to me, he snapped his fingers. “Right now!”

I stuffed the phone in my shirt pocket and threw down the proverbial gauntlet. “You’ll just have to beat it out of me when I get home, I guess. I’m leaving, Dad. I’ll be at Roberto’s.”

With that, I shoved out of the chair and started for the door.

“Hal, wait.” Dad’s stern expression transformed into serious worry. “Are kids really chasing you down the halls at school? You didn’t get beat up again, did you? Is that why you’re so surly today?”

Unfortunately, I did get beat up a lot. Nobody liked me much, which meant they enjoyed ganging up on me. Just last week my obsession with history became an issue when my archenemy, Alexander the Gross, got me in a headlock at lunch. Alex was studying demonology with the local whacko cult in Denver. While he wrung my neck, he announced to the other boys at the table that I was the reincarnated Julius Caesar, and he needed three of my pubic hairs to use in a magical warding-off ceremony against some other Satanists in San Francisco who were psychically attacking him. Two football players jumped on me to hold me down. What a fight that was. For five endless minutes, I got the holy crap knocked out of me while I fought to keep my pants on. There was no question in my mind but that if I lost the fight the nickname “Pubic-hair Hal” would be all over the Internet before I could escape the cafeteria.

When I finally knew I was doomed, I screamed, “KARNAK! KARNAK!” at the top of my lungs. Only two people in the world know my secret emergency code.

Fortunately, my best friend, Roberto, was standing in the food line when he heard it.

Roberto came crashing through the crowd with something in his hand, yelling, “Out of the way! Out of the way! Corpse powder!” When he blew the red powder from his hand into the Gross’ face, Alex shrieked and ran off crying. Turned out to be chili powder, but—

“Did you hear me, son? I asked if you’d been fighting at school.”

“Nothing major, Dad. Now, please, I just want to go over to Roberto’s. I’m late, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. You’re grounded for today. When your mother gets home, maybe she can explain to you why you can’t spend all your time . . .”

Stamping to the front door, I threw it open and slammed it closed behind me with enough force to shake the house, and then I ran hard for the street before he could get outside. I only glanced over my shoulder when I was far enough away that I knew he wouldn’t chase me. He was standing in the open door frowning at me as I blasted around the corner and out of sight.

CHAPTER TWO

I found Cleo in our usual meeting place in front of Starbucks. Clouds had moved in, as they often did on May afternoons in the Colorado high country. The muted light gave her white T-shirt a bluish tint that complemented her jeans. She’d tucked her shoulder-length black hair behind her ears and was biting her lip.

When I trotted up breathing hard, my phone chimed. I pulled it from my pocket and read Dad’s text: Sorry, son. I know you’re at Starbucks. Come home. Let’s talk. Shoving it back in my pocket, I sat down next to Cleo. Years ago, my parents had installed an app on my phone that allowed them to find me no matter where I was, just in case I was abducted by a crazed pedophile.

“What happened, Halloran? Did you get another lecture about me?”

“Yeah, Dad pulled me aside to tell me you were totally insane, and I was crazy to believe any of your stories, and, oh-by-the-way, ‘For your own good, your mother and I have decided to ban Cleo from visiting here for one week’.”

Cleo blinked and looked away. “What did you say?”

“I told him I loved you.”

For several long moments she stared up at the mountains with a sad expression. Finally, in a faint voice, she said, “I love you, too.”

“You okay?”

“I just . . . it hurts. I know I’m not always . . . here . . . but your mom really helped me. I—”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care what my parents think.”

Cleo clutched her canvas bag in her lap and stared at me with tormented green eyes. I could tell she was trying to