Steven Gould: Jumper:Griffin _s Story

I did three units of math.

Mum and Dad were talking about an upcoming business trip at dinner so I didn't have to say much. I knew if I didn't eat, they'd really begin to suspect something. I ate as much as I could but it sat in my stomach like lead.

"What are you thinking about, Griff?"

"What? Uh, nothing, Dad."

"You've been staring at the wall for five minutes. No moving fingers, I hope? Mene mene tekel upharsin and all that."

Dad's a bit odd sometimes. "Math, I guess. And I was thinking about karate today. And when we did paintball out in the desert." All true. All lies.

He nodded. Both of them watched me and it felt like the truth was written across my forehead. I could feel my ears heating up. "I don't understand why things repeat sometimes to infinity."

It was my best distraction. When in doubt, always ask a math question or a question about Le Petit Prince. Either could occupy them for hours, avoiding whatever they'd been on about. The downside was, well, it could occupy them for hours.

"What do you mean?"

"Like ten divided by three. You know-the answer is three point three three three three three three three and so on. For ever, I guess. But does it go on for ever? How do they know? Maybe after enough times it becomes two? Or four? They call it a rational number, but really-what's rational about that?"

So Mum pulled down a pad of paper and Dad pulled out an old textbook and by the time I escaped to my room, an hour and a half later, they were showing each other that it was really a function of a base-ten numbering system. "Yeah, if you divide ten by three in base nine, you get three."

I shut the door to my room and flopped facedown onto my bed. I should have told them. I wanted to tell them. But I didn't want to move again.

I changed for bed early, and tried to lose myself in reading, in drawing, even math. Later I brushed my teeth without being asked, causing more comments from Mum. She came in and kissed me good night. Dad stood in the doorway, said, "Good dreams, Griff."

Mum asked, "You want the door shut?"

"Yeah."

"Bonne nuit, mon cher."

Normally I'm asleep in minutes but this time I couldn't get it out of my head. I'd lied about it. I'd broken the rules.

So they'll never know. Only Paully saw and who would believe him, even if he talked?

I buried my head under my pillow but it didn't help. I'd know. Didn't matter if Mum and Dad found out. I'd always know.

I got up. I could hear them-well, I could hear the TV. They always watched the late news together and drank a cup of herbal tea. It was part of their routine, their last thing before bedtime. Sometimes I'd sneak down the hall and watch from the corner. Half the time Mum would doze off during the sports and Dad would tease her about it.

I eased open my door. I had to tell them. Whatever happened, I had to tell them. I took a step out into the hall and the doorbell rang.

I felt a jolt in the stomach. Paully? His parents? Someone from the school?

Dad turned off the TV before he went to the door, followed by Mum, yawning. She hadn't fallen asleep yet-the news was on the weather. She saw me in the doorway and blinked, started to frown.

I heard Dad open the door-it was around the corner past the kitchen so I couldn't see it from the hall.

"Mr. O'Conner?" It was a woman's voice. "I'm so sorry to drop by this late, but I'd like to talk to you about Griffin. I'm from the Homeschooling Administration Department at SDSD."

Mum's head snapped around. "No, you're not."

"Beg your pardon?" the woman's voice said.

"You're not. It's not the SDSD. It's the San Diego Unified School District or the San Diego City Schools. And there is no department for homeschooling. It's done through the charter schools."

"Fine. Have it your way," said the woman. Her voice, previously warm and apologetic, went hard like granite.

Mum took a step away from the door and I saw her eyes get really big. Her hand down at her side jerked toward me and pointed back, a clear indication to go back into my room.

I took a step back but I left the door open so that I could still hear, but what I heard was Dad saying, "Put the knife down. We're not armed. What do you want?"

There was a crash from my parents' room, at the other end of the hall.

Back at the door a man's voice, a Brit from Bristol by the accent, said, "Where's your kiddie?"

Dad shouted, "Griff-" There was a thud and his voice cut off. Mum screamed and I jumped – - into the living room, magazine pages flying through the air, books falling off the bookshelf.

Dad was on his knees, one hand to his head. There were two strange men and the woman in the living room and they all twisted as I appeared, much faster than Dad ever managed, odd-shaped guns coming to bear. I flinched away, into the kitchen, plates and cups shattering against the wall and sink, and heard the guns fire, muffled, not unlike the paint gun, but there was an odd whipping noise, and they were turning again, right to me by the refrigerator. Mum screamed "Go!" and shoved one of the men into the other but the woman still fired and it burned my neck and I was standing by the boulder, the moonlit, paint-splattered boulder two hundred miles away.

I jumped back, but not to the kitchen. I appeared in the dark garage below and scrambled up onto the workbench, to reach the shelf above, where Dad kept the paint gun. Steps pounded down the outside stairs and then someone kicked the door, to force it open, but there was a drop bar-it was that kind of neighborhood.

I put a C02 cartridge in the gun. The top of the door splintered but held. I fumbled a tubular magazine of paintballs into the gun as a chunk of door fell into the room. The fat barrel of one of the weird guns appeared in the gap and I jumped, this time to my room.

Steps pounded down the hall and I jumped again, back to the living room. A man held a knife to Mum's throat and Dad lay on the ground, still.

I shot the man in the eyes, point-blank.

He screamed and fell backward, clawing at his eyes. A gun went off and something tore at my hip and I jumped sideways again, shooting the man who was coming up the hallway in the forehead. One hand went to his face but he fired his weapon and multiple projectiles with wires between them tore through the air over my head. I jumped behind him and he whirled and I shot him in the bollocks, twice.

He doubled over and as he did, I saw Mum.

She was lying on the floor, slumped to one side, and the blood was everywhere.

Plaster exploded next to my head as a trio of projectiles thudded into the wall, wire trailing, lashing at the paint. I dropped to my knees, half flinching, half numb.

Dad's puddle of blood was even bigger and there was a knife sticking out of his lower back.

The man I'd shot in the bollocks was twisting around, bringing his gun up. I shot him in the face again, hitting his cheekbone. He fired his gun but the cables flew down the hallway, over my head, tearing pictures off both walls. I hit him with the paintball gun barrel, hit him hard, and again, and again. He dropped his gun and his eyes rolled back.

I turned back to Mum and Dad and the door. I could hear footsteps on the stair. I lifted the paintball gun but there was a flash from the door and a projectile caught the gun, slammed it up into my forehead.

I fell back, my vision dimming, dropping into some dark and formless place, but instead of hitting the wall, I fell all the way back onto sand and gravel.

The Empty Quarter. Mum. Dad. Empty.

I tried to lift my head and the moon dimmed and blinked out.

Empty.

Lost (and Found) Someone was trickling water into my mouth and, startled, I inhaled it. Wracking coughs produced a stabbing pain in my head and side, but I couldn't stop. The sun was high and blinding. I squeezed my eyes shut, still coughing. There was something wrong with my forehead and the side of my neck and my right hip.