Warp Speed (9780545543422) Read online

  This book is dedicated to Arthur Levine.

  Special thanks to Matt Cunningham for sharing his infinite knowledge of Star Wars and Batman; Ed Masessa, who explained why wearing a red shirt is not recommended when appearing on Star Trek; and Curtis Sponsler, my projection-booth expert extraordinaire. Also, a shout-out to Benny for going over this book with me when he could have been skateboarding.

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ALSO BY LISA YEE

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

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  61

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  “Marley was dead, to begin with.”

  Marley was dead, to begin with? What kind of stupid opening line is that? A Christmas Carol is supposed to be some sort of classic novel about a ghost, but I didn’t have to read another word to know that it was a classic waste of my time.

  My name is Marley. You know, like that famous dog. However, my mother claims I was named after Crandall Marley, the writer whose book swept the literary world … after he committed suicide. So there you have it. I share my name with a dog, a dead guy, and a ghost. Is it any wonder my life sucks?

  The sun is starting to set as I approach the school parking lot and spot a bunch of donkeys. They don’t look very happy. I’m sure they’d rather be out in the woods, or on a farm, or wherever donkeys hang out — but instead they’re going to be forced to play basketball.

  I’m not a basketball fan. I don’t even know why I’m here. I hate basketball. There’s still fifteen minutes before the Hee-Haw Game begins, but as I make my way into the gym I can see that it’s already packed. I spot Ramen off in the corner by himself. He’s my best friend by default, since neither of us really has any other friends. It looks like he finally got a new Star Wars T-shirt. I duck behind some kids before he sees me. I don’t feel like listening to him talk about Star Wars all night. A guy has his limits.

  As I push my way up the bleachers, I get punched in the arm three times. This started last year. Some guy hit me for no reason, and now he and his two idiot sidekicks do it all the time. I call them the Gorn, after the evil slow-moving beasts who first appeared in “Arena,” Star Trek: The Original Series (a.k.a. TOS), Season One, Episode 18. The biggest Gorn is the leader. His head looks like a giant pink grapefruit, he’s got a beak nose, and he’s missing a front tooth. The middle Gorn is missing part of his left eyebrow. He hits the hardest. The smallest Gorn is crazy scary, laughs like a little girl, and appears to be missing a brain. All of them have shaved heads and wear letterman jackets with no letters on them. They used to play football, but got kicked off the team for not playing by the rules. Each time any of them lands a punch, they high-five. Forget touchdowns — just hit Marley instead.

  From up here I can see swarms of kids buzzing around, checking each other out. The eighth graders control the left side of the gym. Some of them are bigger than the teachers. The football players are huddled together near the front door. (At our school, the only thing bigger than football is basketball. Basketball is huge.) The kids who look like preschoolers are the incoming sixth graders. They’re really short and don’t even try to disguise that they’re thrilled out of their minds to have finally made it to middle school. Everything is exciting to them. The lockers! The cafeteria! Tiggy the Tiger, our school mascot!

  The row I’m sitting in is full of popular kids. No one seems to mind that I’m here. For once I feel sort of cool. Coach Martin stands in the middle of the gym. Why are all the P.E. teachers out of shape? He adjusts his Dodgers cap, then blows his whistle until everyone quiets down. Coach Martin loves that whistle. I’ll bet he sleeps with it. I’ll bet he blows his whistle when he takes a dump.

  “Tonight’s the big Hee-Haw Game,” he shouts into the microphone. There’s a high-pitched squeal. Everyone covers their ears. Coach Martin is standing too close to the loudspeakers, causing them to re-amp and give off feedback. He takes a few steps back. “It’s the A-Team against the faculty, and as you know, everyone rides donkeys. Hey, guys,” he says, motioning to the basketball players, “if you give us teachers a break we’ll go easy on you when school starts tomorrow.”

  The crowd laughs like he’s said something funny. I try laughing too, and turn to Dean Hoddin, who’s on my left. We sat next to each other in science last year and were partners on the earthquake project. I did most of the work. Dean’s popular, meaning he can’t walk down the hallway without a dozen kids saying hi to him.

  “Coach Martin’s pretty funny, don’t you think?” I say to Dean. Maybe we’ll be partners again this year in some class. It went pretty well last year and he was thrilled when we got an A. He even said to me, “You’re okay.”

  Dean stares at me blankly. Maybe he didn’t hear me. The acoustics in this gym are awful. Everyone’s talking and Coach is tapping on the microphone. I repeat louder, “Coach Martin’s pretty funny, don’t you think so, Dean?”

  “Do we know each other?” he asks, loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

  I feel my face heat up. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I mumble.

  As Coach Martin babbles on, the girl on my right taps me on the shoulder. Everyone thinks Julie is the most beautiful girl at school. From the way she acts, it’s clear she agrees with them.

  “Do you mind if we change seats so I can sit next to Dean?” Julie asks as she flings her blonde hair over her shoulder. She used to do this all the time in math. It’s her signature move.

  “Oh. Oh, yeah, sure,” I tell her. I have to admit she is beautiful. My heart is racing, and I hate myself for that. “We had math together last year.”

  “Whatever,” she says as she scoots next to Dean. I sit down on her other side.

  Someone else taps me on the shoulder. “Do you mind changing seats so I can sit next to Julie?” one of her followers asks. She smiles at me and bats her eyelashes, then blows a bubble-gum bubble almost as big as her head.

  “Sure,” I say as the bubble pops. She gives me another smiles as she stuffs the gum back into her mouth and changes seats with me.

  This happens four more times, until I’m sitting at the end of the bleacher. It’s so crowded that I’m almost falling off. I hear laughter and look around to see what’s so funny. Then it hits me.

  Everyone is laughing at me. I’m the joke.

  I laugh too, like I’m in on it instead of being made fun of again. Besides, what are my choices? If I didn’t do anything, they’d keep laughing, and if I cried, well … that’s not an option.

  I climb to the top row of the bleac
hers. I can see better from up here anyway. I reach into my pocket. Yep, I’ve still got my Captain Kirk action figure. Kirk’s so cool. He’s courageous and confident, and he commands total respect from his crew on the USS Enterprise.

  Coach Martin introduces the basketball A-Team members. Stanford Wong is last. He gets the biggest roar from the crowd, even though he’s the only seventh grader on a team full of eighth graders. Stanford’s some sort of hero just because he can throw a ball through a hoop. Big deal. Those donkeys play basketball too and nobody treats them like royalty.

  I remember when Stanford was a nobody. We used to be best friends, if you can believe that. It was long before he ever picked up a basketball. We could talk Star Trek for hours. I’ve even been to Stanford’s house. He has one of those refrigerators that make ice, plus there’s a two-car garage. We don’t even own a car. A lot of years have passed since Stanford Wong has invited me to his house. Now he pretends he doesn’t even know me — not that I care.

  I retrieve a small red leather-bound notebook from my pocket. On Star Trek, Captain Kirk records his voice onto his Captain’s Log to keep track of what’s happening on his missions. I sort of do the same thing, only instead of recording my voice, I write and sometimes doodle. My Captain’s Log is all worn out. At the start of every new year, I write a word that describes me. In the past I’ve written “hopeful” and “adequate.”

  The basketball game is actually pretty entertaining. Stanford is the best player. He scores a last-minute shot that’s unbelievable. Even I’m cheering, until I realize it’s not like he cured cancer or anything.

  Afterward Stanford waves to the crowd. Just who does he think he is? When he scans the bleachers, our eyes lock. Then he does something I can’t believe. Stanford Wong gives me the Vulcan salute. It was our signal when we were little kids. When we were friends.

  Slowly, I raise my hand to return the salute. Stanford starts toward me, but is mobbed by fans. Then he’s gone.

  I probably just imagined the Vulcan salute. Or that we were ever friends.

  I’m almost home. We live in the upstairs apartment of the Rialto Theater. I reach for my Captain’s Log to record an entry … but wait … my Captain’s Log is missing!

  Quickly, I retrace my steps. By the time I get back to the gym, it’s empty. I race up the bleachers to where I was sitting. I look everywhere but can’t find it. It’s nowhere, like it vaporized.

  “How was the basketball game?” my mother asks. She’s stirring the vegetable soup on the stove and I can smell the onions. It’s pitch-black in the kitchen, so I turn on the light.

  “It was okay.” I pour myself some lemonade and drain the glass.

  Mom brushes the hair off my face. “Almost time for a haircut,” she notes. Her fingers flitter across my brow. “You seem worried.”

  “I’m not,” I tell her as I pull away. Even though she’s blind, it’s impossible to hide anything from her.

  “Did Stanford Wong play?” Mom asks. She’s wearing a blue shirt and a denim skirt. All her clothes are blue or white, so she can mix and match. With her shoulder-length black hair and no-nonsense style, my mother looks like Bonnie Bedelia in Heart Like a Wheel. Dad showed the movie in the Rialto last year during his Speed Week Marathon.

  “Yeah, Stanford played,” I tell her.

  “How did he do?”

  “Great, like always.”

  “You should invite Stanford to dinner sometime,” my mother says as she slices a thick wedge of her homemade bread. “He used to love my cooking.” She ladles the soup into a big bowl and I watch the steam rise, then disappear. “It seems like forever since he’s been here.”

  That’s because it has been forever, I start to tell her, but then stop myself. Why waste the energy? Stanford Wong is never coming back. Besides, I don’t have time to think about him. I’ll bet someone stole my Captain’s Log and is reading it right now. “Loser,” they’re probably saying. “Marley Sandelski is a loser.”

  “Take this to your dad for me,” Mom says, handing me a tray. “Be careful not to spill.”

  My father is in the projection booth of the Rialto. It’s cramped and loud, but I love it. When I was a baby and had trouble sleeping, my mother would bring me here, knowing that the steady purr of the projector would lull me to sleep.

  The previews are just ending. My father cues the theater music, then closes the heavy red velvet curtains that flank the screen down below. There are only a handful of people in the Rialto tonight. Still, he makes sure they get a good show. Dad fades the lights, then, three … two … one … the curtains reopen and the feature film begins. I hand him the soup. He eases down into his swivel chair and cups the bowl in his hands. “Tell your mother thank you,” he says as he dips a piece of the bread into it. “Want to stay? It’s Casablanca.”

  “I’ll stay until Victor Lazlo shows up,” I tell him. I like Victor Lazlo. He’s a man of mystery. “Then I have to get ready for school.”

  “I almost forgot,” Dad says. “You start seventh grade tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it?”

  “No.”

  “Marley,” he says, “it’ll be fine. You’ll see. Just be yourself.”

  Excuse me? Being myself all these years is the reason I’m a nobody.

  I go to my room and reach for the Captain Kirk cookie jar on the top shelf. Twenty, forty, sixty … I have over $130. This year the Super Star Trek Convention is in Los Angeles and only a twenty-minute bus ride away. Can you guess who’s going? That’s right. Me. $130 is enough for a ticket, and food, and even a signed poster or two. It’s the one thing I’ve been looking forward to.

  I put the money back and get ready for seventh grade, which basically means I sit on my bed and dread tomorrow. Will I get shoved into the lockers? Will I get punched between classes? Will I get spit on? Oh, wait. The real questions are: How often will I get shoved into the lockers? How many times will I get punched between classes? How much spit will land on me?

  I close my eyes and try to imagine what tomorrow would be like if I lived in an alternate universe. As I drift off to sleep, I can see myself walking down the hallway. Everyone knows who I am. I’m no longer invisible. Instead, I am a somebody.

  All around me, kids are greeting each other like they’re long-lost relatives — smiling, laughing, slapping each other on the back. When Dean Hoddin and Stanford Wong stroll to their lockers, everyone says hi to them. Stanford gets the most hellos. I count seventeen before I stop. He says hi back like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. When someone says hi to you, it means that they see you and that you exist. In Star Trek: Enterprise, the “Vanishing Point” episode, Hoshi starts becoming invisible. Before long, when no one can see her even though she can see them, they just assume she’s dead.

  “Hi, Marley!”

  I whip around, then the smile slides off my face. “Oh, it’s you,” I say to Ramen.

  “Nice to see you too,” he answers. It looks like Ramen’s wearing his new Star Wars shirt again. His old one had holes in it, making it look like R2-D2 had been shot. I’m wearing my second-best Mr. Spock T-shirt, the one with the spaghetti stain on it that looks like blood, but obviously not Vulcan blood, since everyone knows that’s green.

  Spock’s my favorite. He doesn’t get all emotional like some of the others on the USS Enterprise. Don’t get me wrong, I like Scotty and the rest of the gang, and Captain Kirk is the best. But Spock, well, he’s so logical and always in control of his emotions. I’m always trying to channel my inner Spock, and whenever I’m stuck I always ask myself WWSD — What would Spock do? Today I have a Spock action figure in my pocket for good luck. I usually have one of the Star Trek crew with me, in case I need backup.

  “Who do you have for homeroom?” Ramen asks. He stares at a crumpled piece of paper. “I have McKenna.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I tell him.

  We head to class together. People assume we’re best friends because he’s into Star Wars and I’m into Star Trek. How bogus
is that? I could never truly respect someone who’s delusional enough to think Star Wars is the greatest. Everyone knows that without Star Trek there’d be no Star Wars.

  I’m really into the original Trek series. Not to be a snob, but the later shows and the movies just don’t cut it. I mean, they’re still great and I’ve seen them all. But the original series, well, it doesn’t get any better than that.

  “Good morning, class!” It’s our teacher. She’s way too peppy to be taken seriously. Even her hair bounces when she walks. Still, everyone sits up and quiets down. This won’t last. I can already tell that she’s one of those teachers who wants to be “friends” with their students. My theory is validated when I notice she’s wearing red Converse high-tops as if to say, “I may be your teacher, but really I’m cool like you.”

  “Hello, I’m Ms. McKenna. This should be an exciting year for all of us. I’m going to be your homeroom teacher and, for many of you, your history teacher too.”

  I check my class schedule. Yep, I have McKenna for history. Great.

  As she blabbers on about the school rules, I zone out. I wish I had my Captain’s Log. I wonder where it went. Does someone have it? “… and so,” Ms. McKenna is still rambling, “if you need to talk to me for any reason, you can. I’m here for you —”

  Oh please. I give her two weeks before she stops being all bubbly and starts to pop. I check out the other kids in the room. Most of them I recognize, even though I don’t know them personally. Digger Ronster glares at me when he catches me staring at him. He has icy blue eyes and flaming red hair. The corners of his lips curl into the kind of smile I associate with mass murderers.

  Julie sits near me. I watch as she flips her hair over her shoulder. “Stop staring at me. It’s creepy,” she says to me loudly. Everyone around us laughs. I wonder if Ms. McKenna would mark me down if I ran out of the class right now.

  I somehow get through P.E., math, and English when at last the noon bell rings. Julie and Dean Hoddin greet their admirers in the hallway. James Ichida, a kid from the track team, seems to have a lot of friends too. When I retrieve my lunch from my locker, something wet slides down my arm. I turn around as a couple of boys laugh and run away.