Fly.
As they walked down the hall, he stuffed the glider into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. On the trek to the elevator, neither of them said a thing. But Max couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening to Evelyn. And what she had said.
It’s important to remember people after they go. That’s how they live on, inside you.
“I’m scared,” Max finally said, stopping in the hallway.
“Me too,” answered Alex.
“When we started this project, she was walking,” Max said. “Back then, when she had to be in a wheelchair, she turned it into something cool. Even though we were making the hang gliders for the robot, we really planned to test them ourselves.”
“She’s a fighter,” Alex said.
Max nodded. “But now she’s talking like she’s dying. She never did that before. She’s afraid we’re not going to remember her. I want her to know she’s important. I want to do something for her.”
“There’s a nice gift shop in the lobby.”
“I was thinking about Basile’s funeral. Evelyn wants us to go. She knows it’s important to us. Even though she’s so weak, she’s thinking about us. So we should honor that.”
Alex took his arm and started toward the elevator. “I’ll talk to your dad. Maybe he can get us a pilot.”
“We had the jet painted,” Max said. “It would be a shame not to show it off.”
“Good point,” Alex said. “And afterward you’ll go back home—and I’ll go off following the words of Jules Verne, all by myself.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Max said. “Because finding that secret potion thing is scientifically unlikely.”
“And Evelyn’s fate is scientifically certain.” Alex sighed. “Sorry. That’s harsh.”
“But it’s a fact,” Max said softly.
“I’m not being sarcastic. About finding the formula. I want to do this. I don’t see a downside, Max.”
Max pushed the elevator button. “When we followed Jules Verne’s last note, we were kidnapped, attacked by a killer squid, tied to a snowmobile and pushed into the sea, and marooned on an island in the Arctic Circle. That’s the downside.”
“But look what we got out of it!” Alex said.
“No, no, and no.” As the elevator door opened, Max went in first. “Just the funeral. Not the search.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” Max said. Because he preferred to tell the truth unless he was saying he fell off a trampoline.
Alex smiled. “Well, it’s a start.”
4
“YOU can’t make this thing roll?” Max asked the hired pilot, whose name was Brandon. “Or do a loop? Or plunge?”
Max had expected the private plane to feel like a Starfighter, but it was closer to a giant, noisy tuna can. Which got really old when you were going all the way across the Atlantic.
Brandon glanced over his shoulder at Max and smiled. “Actually, I can do all of those things.”
“But you won’t,” Alex piped up, gripping the pilot’s arm. “Because you do not want to scare the person who hired you.”
The reason she could grip his arm was because she was sitting in the copilot seat. This made no sense to Max. For one thing, there was a perfectly nice seat next to him and behind Brandon. For another, Alex didn’t know the first thing about copiloting.
So Max sat behind them all alone, in a navy blue suit that felt like a blanket of invisible mosquitoes. He and Alex had gotten lots of cash at the bank before leaving. He had a wad of Euros the size of a small animal in his pocket. All of which made it hard to concentrate on reading Around the World in 80 Days.
“Liking the book?” Alex asked.
“The best,” Max said. “Fogg is awesome. So is the suspense. But when they’re in India, they ride elephants. They shouldn’t have been doing that. It’s painful for the elephants.”
“They’re cheap to feed, though,” Brandon said. “Wait for it . . . It only costs peanuts!”
He cracked up at his own joke.
“Will you tell him to stop talking?” Max grumbled. “He’s not funny.”
“Does he mean me?” Brandon said.
Alex’s face turned red. As she touched Brandon the Pilot’s arm, the plane jolted. Max’s book slipped off his lap onto the floor and slid across the cabin.
Alex gasped and tightened her grip on Brandon’s arm. “What’s happening?”
“Just a little turbulence as we descend to our final destination,” said Brandon.
“That’s a little?” Alex asked.
“I’m smelling fish!” Max cried out.
“Excuse me?” Brandon said.
“He smells fish when he’s afraid,” Alex explained.
“What?”
“Synesthesia,” Max said. “Where you associate smells with emotions. I was born with it. Like you were born with an abnormal body temperature.”
Alex’s face was turning red. “Max, don’t go there—”
“I don’t understand,” Brandon said.
“Alex said we had to hire you because you were hot,” Max said.
Alex groaned, shrinking into her seat. “Where’s the Ejector button?”
“You said that?” Brandon asked.
“No!” Alex said. “I mean, yes. No!”
Brandon’s eyes were focused ahead, but he couldn’t hide a big smile. “Don’t worry, we’re coming out of that weather pattern pretty quickly, guys. It’ll be clear sailing from here on in.”
Max could swear he heard Alex say, “That’s what you think.” But he wasn’t sure.
Outside the windshield, the clouds were breaking, and Max could see an airport emerging in the distance. Brandon and Alex were silent the rest of the way.
A line of stretch limos waited just beyond the tarmac at Heathrow Airport. But only one was pink.
Alex paused as she emerged from the plane. “Don’t tell me . . .”
“This was the only color on the drop-down list that wasn’t boring black,” Max said, starting down the ladder. “I call the copilot seat this time! Last one there is a rotten egg.”
As he got close, a craggy-faced limo driver in a crisp gray uniform shook his head and pulled open the rear door. “No copilots, laddie. Driver in front, celebrities in back. Rules of the game.”
Max veered to the left and got in. He expected Alex to be close behind, but she was still chatting with Brandon at the base of the ladder. He was fishing a business card out of his pocket.
“We’re late!” Max called out.
Alex took the card, ran to the limo, and slid in next to Max. “Sorry. I needed to get his contact info for the return trip.”
“You didn’t kiss him,” Max said, waggling his eyebrows.
Alex slammed the door shut. “Stop it. I thought you didn’t understand sarcasm.”
“It’s not sarcasm,” Max said. “It’s teasing.”
“And that’s better?”
As the car sped toward the Heathrow exit, Max and Alex belted themselves in. “Not to put any pressure on,” the driver called over his shoulder, “but according to my schedule, the event begins about now. Just sayin’. So when you’re late, you won’t blame old Gerrold, eh? Heh heh.”
Max was firing up his GPS app, watching as it calculated the fastest route. “At this hour, we’ll get there faster if we take the neighborhood streets.”
Gerrold let out a big guffaw. “In a pink car? We will attract a lot of attention.”
“We’re used to it,” Max said.
“Turn left now . . .” chirped the app.
The car exited the airport and shot out onto the left side of a London street. “You’re driving on the wrong side of the road!” Max shouted.
“Here in England, driving on the left is right—ha! See what I did there?” Gerrold said.
The streets quickly became narrower. Brick buildings crowded either side, all jammed together. Through the car windows wafted some amazing smells, some sharp and some sweet. Alex bre
athed deeply. “Yummm.”
“Coriander, masala sauce, curry,” Gerrold said. “That is the hazard of these streets. They make you hungry!”
A pair of smiling kids ran after the car, asking for a ride. A sage, old woman paused during a very slow walk, eyeing the car and applauding. Shopkeepers came out of their front doors. People waved from windows. Gerrold waved back. “Ha! This limo is doing wonders for my popularity! Isn’t this fun?”
But Max’s eye was on his watch, which was clicking past 11:00. “The service has already started!”
“I’m a driver, not a miracle worker,” Gerrold replied. “Hang on, we’re very close.”
“At the next corner, turn right,” the app said.
Gerrold sped up to make a yellow light. A stocky brick building blocked the view to the right of the intersection. The tires squealed as they lurched through the light and veered right.
The intersection was empty. But just beyond it, a figure moved across the street, a phone pressed to his ear. Not walking exactly but dancing, his shoulders swaying, his feet tracing out a complicated little pattern. As if there were no traffic for miles.
“Blimey . . .” Gerrold said. “Crazy old sod!”
He slammed on the brakes. The car slid. Alex and Max lurched forward, screaming. The seatbelt pressed against Max’s chest.
Max let out a scream, and the old guy spun around. His face loomed closer through the windshield, his eyes wide with shock.
Well, one of the eyes was wide.
The other drooped.
5
THE old man seemed to move in slow motion, leaping high like a ballet dancer. As the limo fishtailed, he floated above the roof, then landed on the sidewalk, just past the driver’s side door.
“You nearly killed him!” Alex screamed.
“I didn’t see him, ma’am!” Gerrold’s eyes flickered up to the rearview mirror. “He’s picking himself up like nothing happened. He’s fine . . .”
The driver’s knuckles were white as he navigated the turn and pulled up to the front of the Alfred P. Twombley Funeral Parlor.
As Max got out of the car, the building was vibrating. Or maybe that was Max. Alex quickly took his arm, and they headed toward the door on a rain-slickened brick sidewalk. From the front window, grim but curious faces stared out at the pink limo. The low clouds and steady drizzle seemed to wash out all color, making the neighborhood seem black and white. At the front door, a sour-faced man said, “The Grimsby service, I assume. You’ll find it in the large room to your left. And . . . my sincere condolences.”
Max shook off the shock of their near accident. The front hallway smelled of mothballs, mildew, stale cigars, and old wood. People quietly and glumly milled about, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “This feels weird,” he whispered.
“It’s a funeral, it should,” Alex replied.
“More than that,” Max said. “I keep thinking we’ll see you-know-who here.”
“Who?” Alex answered.
“The Evil Guy with the Skunk Hair and Missing Pinkie Who Must Not Be Named. I can’t really think about Basile without thinking about his boss.”
“Spencer Niemand is in a jail in Greenland, halfway around the world.”
Max cringed at the sound of their kidnapper’s name. “Don’t say that again.”
“What—Spencer Niemand?”
“Stop!”
In front of the room for the service was a huge portrait of Basile on an easel, his smile just as big and friendly as it was in real life. As they stared at it, a voice boomed out through the open doorway. A big-bellied man with a trim beard was standing in front of a closed coffin, addressing a room packed with people: “There was I, on the stage of La Scala opera house, before an adoring crowd, when I first heard the voice of dear, deeeear Basile—in the first row, eating popcorn and shouting, ‘Louder, my good man! And funnier!’”
A big laugh erupted through the dense shoulder-to-shoulder throng. There were massive men with wild, curly hair; women in sequined gowns who looked like they’d come through a time machine from the seventies; people with pink and purple hair and full-arm tattoos; at least three men dressed as women and two women dressed as men.
“Definitely Basile’s kind of peeps,” Alex said with a smile. “I love this.”
“Let’s invite them to our funerals,” Max suggested.
It was so crowded, they could only take a few steps into the room. They stood near a girl about Max’s age. Her face was beaded with sweat, her blonde hair pulled back with a headband. She wore a black dress that matched the one worn by a chic-looking red-haired woman standing next to her. With their broad faces, steel-blue eyes, and thick noses, they looked like thinner, female versions of Basile.
“Don’t stare at people,” Alex whispered.
“Sorry,” Max said. “They look sort of lumpy like Basile, that’s all.”
The woman’s eyes snapped up from a program, pinning Max with a sharp glare over a set of half glasses. As she pulled the girl closer to her side, people began turning toward Max and Alex. The silence gave way to murmuring voices:
“The Americans . . .”
“Found their way to the submarine . . .”
“Filthy rich . . .”
“If it weren’t for them . . .”
Alex clutched his hand. Now she was sweating too.
“Ahem!” The speaker cleared his throat loudly, then boomed out over the crowd: “As I was saying! Dear old Basile was not afraid to speak his mind, but he was never less than kind and helpful. And under that gruff, tough exterior, he was a barrel of monkeys!”
A bearded man shouted, “Hear, hear,” and the crowd applauded.
“He was not!” Max muttered to Alex.
Alex took his arm. “That’s an old-timey expression, meaning ‘a lot of fun.’”
“But it makes no sense,” Max shot back. “The monkeys would be angry and claustrophobic and maybe violent. They’d spit and scratch and scream.”
“Max, chill!” Alex hissed. “These people here? They already don’t like us. They’re blaming us for Basile’s death.”
The blonde girl turned and smiled at Alex. “We don’t blame you. We’re really grateful you took the trouble to come.” She stuck out her hand to Max. “Basile was my uncle. I’m Bitsy. And this is my mom. You’re right, we do look like him, and we’re proud of it.”
Max shook Bitsy’s hand, which felt like a cold octopus. “Why is your hand so wet?” he asked.
“Max!” Alex snapped.
Bitsy laughed. “That’s OK. Honesty is refreshing. I suffer from a very bad fear of crowds. I hide it as best I can. But my sebaceous glands don’t lie.”
“Me too!” Max said. “And I know what sebaceous means. Sweat.”
“Bitsy does very well managing her fear,” said her mother. “I am Gloria Bentham, Basile’s younger sister. From Kensington.”
Alex smiled at them both. “I’m Alex, and this is Max. We’re cousins. I’m from Canada. He’s from Ohio.”
“Darling girl, we know who you are,” sniffed Gloria Bentham.
As the speaker rattled on, another laugh rippled through the crowd. Behind Max, more latecomers were filing in. The room seemed to be getting warmer, the air thick as porridge. “I smell sweaty feet,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Bitsy said, looking downward at her shoes.
“Not yours. He smells sweaty feet when he feels smothered.” Alex took Max by the hand. “Come on, cuz, let’s get you some air.”
“Oh, good Lord, what a sensible idea,” Bitsy said. “I’ll join you.”
Gloria turned to her with a weary glance. “Darling Bitsy, the only way to confront your fears is to—”
Her voice faded into the din of the crowd as the three kids elbowed their way toward the back door. Max squeezed around a woman in a wheelchair, only to be blocked by a scrum of old couples in tweed coats and skirts. He was beginning to feel light-headed. “Sweaty feet!” he shouted. “S
weaty feeeeet!”
An elderly man stared at Max in confusion, until his wife pulled him away. “It’s the fungus, my dear,” she said. “Next time, use your powder.”
Now Alex had Max’s arm. His eyes were beginning to see swirls instead of people, but he did manage to spot Bitsy racing for the restroom. He took in deep breaths and stumbled over the lip of a thick carpet. His hand slipped out of Alex’s and he tripped, bumping into the back of a thin, shabby-looking man.
“Max!” Alex shouted.
The man leaped aside with a graceful little spin. Max scrambled to his feet, to face two black-suited funeral directors heading briskly toward him. One of them veered toward the old man with a stern expression. “Pardon us, sir, are you a guest at the Grimsby service?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” The old man’s voice was hoarse and oddly high-pitched as he turned toward Max with an elaborate bow.
That was when Max noticed his face. And the droopy left eye.
“Y-Y-You’re the guy in the street,” Max stammered. “The dancer—”
“Who the heck are you?” Alex asked.
“Well, to you, I suppose I’d be Uncle Nigel!” the old man said, pulling a yellowed card out of his jacket pocket.
“I don’t have an uncle Nigel,” Max said.
“Fifth cousin twice removed, I believe, is the exact relationship,” the man said. “And how long are you planning to stay, my children?”
“Why do you ask?” Alex said.
“Just for the funeral,” Max said, giving her a nervous look.
The two funeral directors gripped the old man’s arms. “This way, old chap.”
“As you wish.” The man who called himself Nigel held out the card to Max. “But you may want to reconsider your plans.”
6
MAX sat on the front steps of the Alfred P. Twombley Funeral Parlor, the rain dripping off his brow and onto the old man’s note. “What the heck does this mean?”
“I don’t know, but give it a couple more minutes in the rain and it’ll be a nice abstract watercolor,” Alex said.
The door opened behind them and Bitsy emerged. “There you are! Here, I brought you some brollies.”