Gnarly Wipeout Dude
It was one of those mornings when the sun chased away the shadows and smeared the sky with too much color. A breeze tousled my hair as I sat with my back pressed against an ancient oak tree.
I tried not to think too much about Gramps, but I kept wondering: if the centaurs were real and if all this magical stuff was possible, surely there had to be a way to help him and them at the same time.
An acorn dropped from overhead and left an impression in the dirt.
Prints. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
I bolted to the barn, grabbed my faded red bike, and seconds later my Converse high-tops were creating circular blurs as I pedaled across the yard. I swerved onto a narrower road, racing past cottages, and wooded hills, and pick-your-own fruit signs on white…show more content… He looked like a squat, muscular TV wrestler with a bad case of bed head.
“New shorts,” he explained. That’s what Mason bought with his chore money: clothes.
“Anyway-y-y.” I stretched the word out like taffy. “We’re going to explore the farm.”
“Good. Then we can capture the doohickey? That’ll show him. He’ll be as bad-off as a plastic-nosed woodpecker in a fossilized forest.”
“Wrong.” I jumped on my bike and performed bunny hops to the end of his driveway, then dashed down the street.
Mason grabbed his bike and cruised past me. “Huh?”
“We’re going to look for prints. Because living things leave tracks.”
We rode like the wind through town, crouched beneath a warm sun and clouds billowing in impossible vaulted bends and bows. By the time we reached the barn beside my house and skidded to a halt at the end of the driveway, it was midmorning, and the weather had radically changed. Overhead, heat lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. Then it started to rain, and within seconds, light sprinkles became fat, wet