D. MacHale - Raven Rise

Courtney’s comment was, “You look like some old-dude banker from the ‘burbs. Perfect.”

Mark was afraid that an “old-dude banker” would look odd riding a bike, so he chose to make his way to the bank on Stony Brook Avenue on foot. It was only a few miles, and he wanted to take the opportunity to observe any other changes that might have occurred on Second Earth.

Most of the walk was through suburban streets that didn’t look any different from what he remembered. The houses looked exactly the same. The lawns. The sidewalks. The cars. Pretty much everything. Though something did feel different to him, and it took him a mile of walking before he realized what it was. All the telephone poles were gone. Every last one. His neighborhood used to be full of overhead lines that carried power, telephone, and cable TV. Not anymore. He was surprised that he didn’t realize it right away, but figured he was looking for something new, not something that wasn’t there. Once it clicked, it was obvious. He wondered what had replaced them. Was everything underground? Or was it all sent through signals in the air? Since the main changes on Second Earth were about technology, he figured that anything was possible.

Though he did wonder where the birds were going to hang out.

Stony Brook Avenue looked pretty much the same as well. It was the closest thing that Stony Brook, Connecticut, had to a “main street.” It was lined with shops and restaurants. The cool kids used to hang out there, which was why Mark didn’t. He’d go to the Garden Poultry Deli, get his daily dose of fries and Mountain Dew, and eat as he walked home. He was never a “hanging around” kind of guy.

Mark was also pleased to see that his old friend Ms. Jane Jansen still worked at the bank. Every time he saw something that hadn’t changed about Second Earth, it gave him hope that things weren’t really as bad as he feared. He was a little nervous though that the woman might recognize him and start asking difficult questions about where he’d been so he made a point of going to another bank officer to get the key to his safe-deposit box.

The bank had just opened for business for the day and was next to empty. In no time Mark was in the vault, peering at the journals that he and Courtney had put there for safekeeping. There were two items of note that he hadn’t seen before. One was a journal from Bobby: #28. Courtney had placed it there on First Earth. He was tempted to read it right then and there, but was sure that Courtney had already filled him in on everything Bobby had written. The other item was what he had come for. It was a deposit slip. An old one. It had been sitting in the vault for so long, it had turned yellow. It didn’t matter. All Mark needed was the account number. His dad had deposited twenty thousand dollars. Back then it was a fortune. It wasn’t so bad on Second Earth either. It would be plenty.

Attached to the slip was a handwritten note. It said, “We love you. Good luck. Mom and Dad.” Mark smiled and slipped the note into his pocket. He closed up the box and walked back to the lobby to fill out a withdrawal slip. He didn’t want to raise suspicion, so he decided not to take out a big amount. He figured that four hundred dollars would be enough to start. He could always come back for more. Mark filled out the slip and went to a bank teller he didn’t know. He picked a pretty blond girl wearing a turtleneck. She looked as though she might go to Davis Gregory High, but Mark never hung out with pretty blond girls in turtlenecks, so he figured she wouldn’t recognize him.

“G’morning!” the girl greeted with a bright smile.

“Hi. Just making a withdrawal. Not a lot. Just four hundred. No biggie, right?” Mark realized he was jabbering.

“No problem,” the girl said. “Can I see your ID?”

Uh-oh. Mark had his wallet with his student ID. He’d taken it from his desk at the last second, but he didn’t want to have to flash it. He was the Mark Dimond that people must have been talking about. His parents were killed, and he disappeared three months earlier. Stony Brook was a small town. If she recognized him, it would be all over.

“Y-You sure you need it?” he asked.

The girl gave him an innocent smile. “Yeah, sorry. Policy.”

Mark fumbled through his wallet. “I’m n-not sure what I have.” Mark suddenly wished that the girl was not only cute, but more concerned with being cute and popular than watching news stories about local tragedies. The girl stared at him, the first hint of doubt creeping into her eyes. Mark realized he had to take the chance. He handed her the plastic ID and held his breath.

The girl looked at it and beamed. “Hey, you go to DG?”

“DG?”

“Davis Gregory! I just graduated. What year are you?”

“Uh, senior. I think. I haven’t been around much. I’ve been, uh, traveling.”

“Really? Where?”

Mark figured it was better not to lie. He wasn’t a good liar. “New York, mostly. But I was in England.” He left out the part about it being in 1937.

The girl looked at her computer and said clearly, “Mark Dimond.”

Mark didn’t get it. Why was she saying his name at the computer? He quickly realized it was the new technology. There was no keyboard. It was all about voice recognition. The girl looked at the screen and scowled. Something was wrong.

“Is there a problem?” Mark asked.

“No. But I have to clear this with my manager.” She looked up and called out, “Ms. Jansen?”

Uh-oh. Mark heard her before he saw her. The sharp sound of quick, clicking heels on the marble floor meant the uberefficient Ms. Jane Jansen was incoming. He put his hand up to his face in hopes that she wouldn’t get too good a look at him. He figured that surely she must have heard what happened to him and his family. Ms. Jane Jansen was the picture of perfection. She wore a dark, conservative suit, and her hair was tied back so tightly into a bun that Mark wondered how she moved her lips. She looked over her half-glasses at the computer screen and frowned.

“There hasn’t been activity on that account for quite some time,” she said with clipped perfection. “Is there a reason for that?”

“It was opened a long time ago,” Mark answered. “By my grandfather. It was kind of a legacy for his grandkids. I’m just starting to use it now.”

Mark had no idea where that semi-made-up story came from, but he was grateful for it, because it seemed to do the trick.

“Very well,” Ms. Jane Jansen said, then added in a loud voice to the computer, “Approved.”

Mark could breathe again. Apparently Ms. Jane Jansen didn’t follow the news either. Maybe, he figured, she never left her desk at the bank. Mark didn’t care. He was golden. Ms. Jane Jansen took Mark’s ID from the cute girl as the teller counted out Mark’s money. She eyed it quickly, then held it out for Mark. Mark reached for it, and froze. When Ms. Jane Jansen reached out with the ID, her jacket sleeve ran up her arm. There on her forearm, as plain as could be, was a green tattoo. It was the five-pointed star.

Mark stared at it without moving.

“Here you are, young man,” Ms. Jane Jansen chirped.

“What does that mean?” Mark asked without thinking. “That mark. What does it signify?”

Ms. Jane Jansen looked at Mark coldly. The cute girl seemed to shrink away. Whatever Mark said, it was definitely a faux pas.

“Answering personal questions at a place of business is not part of my job description,” she said coldly. “Good day.”

The woman spun away and clicked off. She was ticked. Or insulted. Or something. Mark didn’t know exactly what.

“Here you go,” the cute teller said, handing Mark the money. “I gave you twenties and fifties, is that okay?”