D. MacHale - The Lost City of Faar

No, he had to play this out slowly. Hopefully Mitchell would lose interest and just leave him alone. That was his best and only hope. So he slid the drawer closed, made sure it was locked, placed Journal #6 in his backpack and started on his way to Stony Brook Avenue.

It was late Saturday afternoon by the time Mark arrived at “the Ave,” as all the kids called it. It was a busy street, full of shops and restaurants and people strolling the sidewalks in search of bargains and their next latte. But it was just past six o’clock, closing time for most stores. The crowds were getting thin.

Mark hurried along the sidewalk, past his favorite shop, a deli called Garden Poultry. They made the best French fries in history. The smell of hot cooking oil always hovered around the place like a delicious, salty cloud. Normally Mark couldn’t resist the temptation and would always go in for a box of fries. (They always came in boxes, like Chinese food.) But not today. Today he had other things on his mind.

He got to the pocket park that was a few doors down from Garden Poultry. They called it a pocket park because it was nothing more than a space between two buildings, like a pocket. At one time there was probably another building there, but Mark couldn’t remember seeing one. The town had turned the space into a miniature park with grass, a stone walkway, flowering trees, and several wooden benches where people could eat their boxes of French fries from Garden Poultry.

It was a pretty little place except for one thing: Andy Mitchell was sitting on one of the park benches, waiting for him. Actually, he was sitting on the back of the park bench with his feet on the seat.

“You’re late!” shouted Mitchell the instant he saw Mark.

“You didn’t give me much time,” answered Mark.

“You got the — ” He didn’t finish his own sentence. Instead he grabbed Mark’s knapsack away from him and dug inside to get the journal.

“Take it easy!” scolded Mark. “You gotta treat these with respect.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Mitchell unrolled Journal #6 and began to read. Mark sat down on the bench next to Mitchell’s feet, settling himself in for a long wait. He knew Mitchell was about the slowest reader in history.

As with the last journal he read, Mitchell had to ask Mark the meaning of several words. Mark still couldn’t believe that a guy could live to the age of fourteen and still not know the meaning of words like “manipulate” and “elaborate.” What a loser. It killed Mark to watch Mitchell clutch the valuable pages with his greasy, nicotine-stained fingers like a week-old newspaper. It also turned his stomach every time Mitchell pulled in one of his signature snorts and hawked it out on the sidewalk. Didn’t this guy ever hear about Kleenex?

Finally, after what felt like forever, Mitchell was done.

“Jeez,” he said with a touch of awe.

Mark’s first sarcastic thought wasCould you be any less articulate? But he wouldn’t daresay it for fear of getting pummeled.

“You think this is all really happening?” Mitchell asked.

“I do,” was Mark’s simple, honest answer. He wanted to be home.

“Did you get the next one yet?”

Mark thought of how to answer this question, but came to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth lying. He was tired of lying.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t want to read it,” Mitchell said.

Huh? Mark suddenly perked up. Could it be true? Was Mitchell actually losing interest? Maybe reading the journals was too hard for him. Maybe all the big words were taxing that raisin-size brain of his beyond capacity. Or maybe he was getting freaked out by what the journals meant and wanted to pretend like he had never seen them, like the ostrich who sticks his head in the sand. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter so long as Andy Mitchell left Mark alone and never asked to see another journal again.

“I don’t want to read it until I see journals one through five. I feel like I’m picking up a story in the middle. I want to know how it all started.”

Mark was crushed. The little bit of hope he had that Mitchell would go away, just went away.

“And I want to read ‘em all at once,” added Mitchell.

“No way!” shouted Mark. “I am not going to bring all the journals out at the same time. I can’t let anything happen to them. The best I can do is show you one at a — “

Mitchell tossed the pages of Journal #6 into the air.

“Hey!” shouted Mark in horror as he dove for the pages that scattered across the park.

Mitchell laughed as Mark frantically chased the pages now blowing around in the wind. Finally Mark got them all together and brushed off the bits of dirt.

“You don’t get it,” said Mitchell. “You only got two choices — do what I tell you, or I go to the police.”

This was going from bad to worse to total disaster. Andy Mitchell wasn’t going to go away. That much was clear now. He had gotten a taste of Bobby’s adventure and he wanted more. All Mark could do now was try to control the situation as best as he could.

“Okay,” Mark said. “But I don’t care what you say, I’m not taking all those journals out at the same time. The best I can do is have you come over to my house to read them.”

The idea of Andy Mitchell setting foot in his house made Mark feel like termites were digging into his flesh. It was a nightmare of untold magnitude. But he couldn’t think of any other solution.

Mitchell smiled. “Okay,” he said. “I can live with that. When?”

“I don’t know,” answered Mark. “It’s gotta be when my parents are out. I’ll let you know.”

Mitchell walked over and stuck his nose in Mark’s face. Mark could smell his stale cigarette breath and nearly gagged.

“I like this,” he chuckled. “We’re becoming regular partners.”

Mitchell then snorted, wheeled, and walked away. Mark couldn’t take it anymore. The snort put him over the edge. He gagged a couple of dry heaves. He then sat down on the park bench and looked at the rumpled pages of Journal #6. I’m a failure.

The next week in school Mark did everything in his power to avoid Mitchell. He went to school late because Mitchell knew he usually went early. He went in a different door every time, just to avoid following any patterns. He carried all his books with him so he wouldn’t have to go to his locker. He didn’t even go close to the Dumpster area behind the school where so many kids went to smoke. That part wasn’t so hard; he never went back there anyway — unless of course it was to jump in the garbage and search for a lost page of a journal sent to him by his best friend who was on the other side of the universe. He didn’t like remembering that little adventure.

With all of his planning, Mark had actually gotten through an entire week without seeing Andy Mitchell. But the stress was crushing him. His schoolwork was going south, too. Something was going to have to give soon.

On Saturday it did. Mark’s parents had both left for the day and he was looking forward to a long morning of cartoons. It was a guilty ritual he was sure most of the kids at school still practiced, but would never admit to. He had just settled down into the couch, ready for anything Bugs Bunny, when the doorbell rang. For a second he considered not answering it, but if it were a Federal Express delivery for his father, then he’d be in trouble. So he went to the door and opened it. It wasn’t FedEx.

“I’m getting sick of you ditching me,” Andy Mitchell said as he backed Mark into the house. “What is your problem?”

Mark knew exactly what his problem was. It was Mitchell.

“M-My parents have been around all week,” stuttered Mark nervously. “There w-wasn’t any g-good time.”