Arcade Catastrophe
Page 3
The experience of biting a Moon Rock was not comfortable—it felt like a jolt of electricity, made your ears ring, and left you temporarily dizzy. But your body suffered no lasting damage from the sudden stop, and the results were very reliable. The knowledge that biting a Moon Rock served as instant brakes had allowed them to attempt some risky stunts with the candy. You had to make sure to bite only when close to the ground, because after you unfroze, all the antigravity effects of the Moon Rock would be gone and you would fall like normal.
“She’ll probably win,” Lindy said.
Nate stared at the redhead. Less than a year ago, Lindy had been an aging magician named Belinda White. She had originated the formula for Moon Rocks and several other magical treats. Mr. Stott had raided her notes and learned to replicate many of her creations, adding them to his growing menu of supernatural candy.
But Lindy retained no memory of her previous life. At the same time as she had sipped water from the Fountain of Youth, she had also unknowingly consumed a Clean Slate—a potent confection of her own design that had completely erased her identity. She currently lived with Mr. Stott, who had adopted her after John Dart had provided the necessary paperwork. She had joined Nate and his friends for most of their fifth-grade year and now routinely spent time with them during the summer. They called themselves the Blue Falcons, and they regularly experimented with magical candy.
“Don’t count us out,” Pigeon said. “Ironhides might still prove to be the best candy for downhill racing. Summer fell a long way, but I’ll fall faster.”
“Hopefully I won’t fall at all,” Nate added.
The walkie-talkie crackled. “She made it to me. Just over one minute.”
“That’ll be hard to beat,” Pigeon conceded.
“We’ll see.” Nate pulled out a stick of Peak Performance gum. Unlike Pigeon and Summer, who had bought junky secondhand bikes for this contest, he was riding his own bike. To be safe, he had on elbow pads and a helmet, but he expected that the heightened state of awareness and coordination provided by Peak Performance would allow him to make it down without any mishaps.
He put the gum in his mouth and started chewing. It was hard to feel the effects of Peak Performance unless you were in motion. He had used the gum on many occasions, and it had never failed him. “Tell Trevor to start the stopwatch,” Nate said.
“Ready with the time?” Pigeon asked into the walkie-talkie.
“Just a second,” came the reply. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“On your mark,” Pigeon said into the walkie-talkie. “Get set. Go!”
Nate started down Dead Man’s Run. It still looked freaky, but now that he was moving, he had an instinctive sense for where to guide his bike. Subtleties of balance and momentum that he had never perceived suddenly felt like second nature. He pedaled hard but resisted going as fast as he could. He could sense the limits of what he could handle without losing control.
With the wind in his face, Nate rode as he had never imagined possible. He let his rear wheel slide as he rounded tight corners. He took jumps to avoid rocky patches. When the way was straight, he tucked forward, zooming with suicidal confidence, only to hit the brakes and fishtail around a hairpin corner. Dirt sprayed. Rocks tumbled. His stomach lurched as he jumped to a lower portion of the trail, shortening a switchback.
He knew he should be terrified. Without Peak Performance, he would have wrecked his bike a dozen times. Yet somehow he managed to enjoy the exhilaration rather than fear the danger.
The exertion did not tire him. Chewing Peak Performance meant you could run at a full sprint without ever feeling winded. Maximum effort seemed like no big deal for as long as the magic lasted.
Trevor and Summer came into view. Trevor was quite a bit taller than her now, having gained a few inches during the school year. The way was getting less steep, so Nate pedaled with everything he had, skidding to a stop after he passed Trevor.
“A minute twenty-one,” Trevor reported.
“What did Summer get?” Nate asked.
“A minute six,” Trevor replied. “You looked awesome coming down, though. I wish I had it on video!”
“It felt pretty awesome,” Nate admitted, disappointed that he had come in second. Still, coming in fifteen seconds behind somebody who had glided most of the way down the mountain wasn’t too bad. And unlike Summer, he hadn’t trashed his bike in the process. Now the only question was whether Pigeon would put him in last place.
Trevor relayed the exact time through the walkie-talkie.
“Pretty quick,” Lindy replied. “Pigeon is ready to go. Is the timer set?”
“Ready when you are,” Trevor responded.
“Great. Ready, set, go!”
Trevor tapped his stopwatch.
Nate looked up the hill. The contours of the landscape currently hid the top of the trail from sight. The brush on the hill was golden brown in response to the dry summer weather, interrupted by jutting rocks, patches of dirt, and an occasional oak tree. Evening was fading. They had timed their contest carefully, hoping the hillside would be deserted by sunset, since most bystanders would have had questions about a girl flying hundreds of yards through the air. So far, nobody had disturbed them.
Pigeon was sucking on an Ironhide as he came down the hill. The jawbreaker would prevent his skin from tearing and his bones from breaking. It made him no stronger or faster, but while the candy lasted, it would be just about impossible for him to get injured.
When Pigeon first came into view, he had clearly already fallen. The Ironhide did not prevent him from getting dirty, nor did it prevent his clothes from ripping and accumulating prickers from the weeds.
Of the five friends, Pigeon was the least confident on a bike. It showed. He took a corner too fast and plowed into a small boulder, catapulting over the handlebars and landing in a cloud of dust and sliding rocks. He was on his feet instantly, scrambling up the trail to retrieve his bike.
Back astride the bike, he reached the steep run where Summer had left the trail by jumping off the banked turn. Pigeon hit the same ramp at a high velocity, but instead of floating a ridiculous distance through the air, he demonstrated what gravity was supposed to do when somebody rode a bike off a cliff.
Losing his forward momentum, he fell with increasing speed before slamming into a cluster of jagged rocks, his husky body tumbling and cartwheeling, arms and legs flailing loosely. The rusty bike crumpled on impact and bounced along beside him. It was the kind of spine-crushing accident that should have been fatal. Even knowing that Pigeon was sucking on an Ironhide, Nate found himself wringing his hands.
“She’ll probably win,” Lindy said.
Nate stared at the redhead. Less than a year ago, Lindy had been an aging magician named Belinda White. She had originated the formula for Moon Rocks and several other magical treats. Mr. Stott had raided her notes and learned to replicate many of her creations, adding them to his growing menu of supernatural candy.
But Lindy retained no memory of her previous life. At the same time as she had sipped water from the Fountain of Youth, she had also unknowingly consumed a Clean Slate—a potent confection of her own design that had completely erased her identity. She currently lived with Mr. Stott, who had adopted her after John Dart had provided the necessary paperwork. She had joined Nate and his friends for most of their fifth-grade year and now routinely spent time with them during the summer. They called themselves the Blue Falcons, and they regularly experimented with magical candy.
“Don’t count us out,” Pigeon said. “Ironhides might still prove to be the best candy for downhill racing. Summer fell a long way, but I’ll fall faster.”
“Hopefully I won’t fall at all,” Nate added.
The walkie-talkie crackled. “She made it to me. Just over one minute.”
“That’ll be hard to beat,” Pigeon conceded.
“We’ll see.” Nate pulled out a stick of Peak Performance gum. Unlike Pigeon and Summer, who had bought junky secondhand bikes for this contest, he was riding his own bike. To be safe, he had on elbow pads and a helmet, but he expected that the heightened state of awareness and coordination provided by Peak Performance would allow him to make it down without any mishaps.
He put the gum in his mouth and started chewing. It was hard to feel the effects of Peak Performance unless you were in motion. He had used the gum on many occasions, and it had never failed him. “Tell Trevor to start the stopwatch,” Nate said.
“Ready with the time?” Pigeon asked into the walkie-talkie.
“Just a second,” came the reply. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“On your mark,” Pigeon said into the walkie-talkie. “Get set. Go!”
Nate started down Dead Man’s Run. It still looked freaky, but now that he was moving, he had an instinctive sense for where to guide his bike. Subtleties of balance and momentum that he had never perceived suddenly felt like second nature. He pedaled hard but resisted going as fast as he could. He could sense the limits of what he could handle without losing control.
With the wind in his face, Nate rode as he had never imagined possible. He let his rear wheel slide as he rounded tight corners. He took jumps to avoid rocky patches. When the way was straight, he tucked forward, zooming with suicidal confidence, only to hit the brakes and fishtail around a hairpin corner. Dirt sprayed. Rocks tumbled. His stomach lurched as he jumped to a lower portion of the trail, shortening a switchback.
He knew he should be terrified. Without Peak Performance, he would have wrecked his bike a dozen times. Yet somehow he managed to enjoy the exhilaration rather than fear the danger.
The exertion did not tire him. Chewing Peak Performance meant you could run at a full sprint without ever feeling winded. Maximum effort seemed like no big deal for as long as the magic lasted.
Trevor and Summer came into view. Trevor was quite a bit taller than her now, having gained a few inches during the school year. The way was getting less steep, so Nate pedaled with everything he had, skidding to a stop after he passed Trevor.
“A minute twenty-one,” Trevor reported.
“What did Summer get?” Nate asked.
“A minute six,” Trevor replied. “You looked awesome coming down, though. I wish I had it on video!”
“It felt pretty awesome,” Nate admitted, disappointed that he had come in second. Still, coming in fifteen seconds behind somebody who had glided most of the way down the mountain wasn’t too bad. And unlike Summer, he hadn’t trashed his bike in the process. Now the only question was whether Pigeon would put him in last place.
Trevor relayed the exact time through the walkie-talkie.
“Pretty quick,” Lindy replied. “Pigeon is ready to go. Is the timer set?”
“Ready when you are,” Trevor responded.
“Great. Ready, set, go!”
Trevor tapped his stopwatch.
Nate looked up the hill. The contours of the landscape currently hid the top of the trail from sight. The brush on the hill was golden brown in response to the dry summer weather, interrupted by jutting rocks, patches of dirt, and an occasional oak tree. Evening was fading. They had timed their contest carefully, hoping the hillside would be deserted by sunset, since most bystanders would have had questions about a girl flying hundreds of yards through the air. So far, nobody had disturbed them.
Pigeon was sucking on an Ironhide as he came down the hill. The jawbreaker would prevent his skin from tearing and his bones from breaking. It made him no stronger or faster, but while the candy lasted, it would be just about impossible for him to get injured.
When Pigeon first came into view, he had clearly already fallen. The Ironhide did not prevent him from getting dirty, nor did it prevent his clothes from ripping and accumulating prickers from the weeds.
Of the five friends, Pigeon was the least confident on a bike. It showed. He took a corner too fast and plowed into a small boulder, catapulting over the handlebars and landing in a cloud of dust and sliding rocks. He was on his feet instantly, scrambling up the trail to retrieve his bike.
Back astride the bike, he reached the steep run where Summer had left the trail by jumping off the banked turn. Pigeon hit the same ramp at a high velocity, but instead of floating a ridiculous distance through the air, he demonstrated what gravity was supposed to do when somebody rode a bike off a cliff.
Losing his forward momentum, he fell with increasing speed before slamming into a cluster of jagged rocks, his husky body tumbling and cartwheeling, arms and legs flailing loosely. The rusty bike crumpled on impact and bounced along beside him. It was the kind of spine-crushing accident that should have been fatal. Even knowing that Pigeon was sucking on an Ironhide, Nate found himself wringing his hands.
