Read an Excerpt
Alosha
By Christopher Pike Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2004 Christopher Pike
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1440-6
CHAPTER 1
It was the beginning of summer, early morning, and Alison Warner had big plans for the day. A group of lumberjacks were planning to chop down a bunch of trees on the mountains that stretched behind her house, and she was hoping to stop them.
Of course, at thirteen, Ali was old enough to realize she was not going to save a single tree. Her intentions for going were more symbolic. She wanted to make the men who cut down the trees feel bad about what they were doing and, hopefully, force them to think twice about doing it next time. They all knew her. She had been to the site twice to call them barbarians. They had just laughed; they thought she was funny.
Ali hoped to bring her best friend, Cindy Franken, with her on the long road to the logging site. But the problem with Cindy, especially during summer vacation, was getting her out of bed before noon.
Ali braced herself for a struggle as she left her house.
It looked like it was going to rain, she thought, as she stood on her front porch. Gray clouds had blown in from far out at sea. They gathered overhead like a fog bank, filled with menace. Although it was mid June, there was still a chill in the air, a shadow even; it was as if nature herself brooded over what was about to happen to the forest.
Ali had on a sweater her mother had made for her two years ago, and carried an olive-colored waterproof poncho in her daypack. Before she jumped on her bike, she slipped on a pair of black leather gloves. From experience, she knew how the cold air could sting her fingers once she built up speed.
Cindy Franken lived only six blocks away. Ali had known her since kindergarten. They had met over finger paints and sand castles. They told each other everything — well, almost — and always stood up for each other. However, they had completely different personalities. Cindy's mouth was directly tied to her brain. She usually said exactly what was on her mind, which annoyed people. Ali was forever getting her out of trouble. Ali herself seldom spoke without careful consideration. People her age — even two teachers at school — had told her she was more an adult than a kid. That might have been true, but she was still young enough to wonder if that was an insult or a compliment.
Ali did not bother knocking on Cindy's front door, but snuck around the side and poked her head in her friend's window. They had set their plan to ride into the mountains only the night before, but Cindy was fast asleep on her back with her mouth wide open. Watching, Ali saw her closed eyelids twitch, and wondered if her friend dreamed, and if she was there with her in the dreams.
"Wake up sleepyhead," Ali said.
Cindy opened her eyes. "I'm awake," she mumbled.
"Can I come in?"
Cindy rolled over. "You're not a vampire. I don't have to invite you in."
Cindy was shorter than Ali, with long blond hair and a hundred curls the size of gold coins. Her face was more appealing than beautiful, but she managed to stay tan even in the dead of winter, and she laughed so easily and often that she had more friends than Ali. Her eyes were a dark blue, quick and bright, and she was a lot smarter than she acted.
Ali climbed inside and sat beside Cindy on the bed. Her friend had closed her eyes again and was threatening to pass out. Ali shook her gently.
"You know the lumberjacks get up before dawn. They're probably already sawing down the pines and firs on Castle Ridge," Ali said.
Cindy kept her eyes shut. "We're not going to stop them by tying yellow ribbons around the trees."
"I brought red this time."
"Same difference."
Ali hesitated to explain that she had another reason for visiting the logging site. She wanted to say goodbye to some of her favorite trees. Many of the pines and firs that stood behind their town were the same age as she. They had grown up together; they were like old friends. Even her father did not realize how often she rode her bike into the forest. Since her mother had died in a car accident a year ago — on her twelfth birthday, no less — it had become more home to her than the city.
Being in nature did not allow her to completely escape her loss, yet she often felt at peace as she walked beneath the swaying trees. There she could sing, there she could cry. The trees did not judge, they did not speak back. They only listened.
"We have to try," Ali told Cindy.
Her friend opened her eyes and hugged her pillow. "Write a letter to a senator or something," she mumbled.
"I did that already, to both of them. They didn't write back."
"Write the president."
"I heard the guy can't read."
Cindy yawned. "Do you know what time I went to bed?"
"I don't want to know. You said you'd go with me. You promised."
"I was forced into promising." Cindy suddenly grinned mischievously. "Take Karl with you."
"Don't start that," Ali warned.
"You know you like him."
"I don't like him."
"You don't hate him," Cindy said, as if that were a huge plus.
"Why are you in such a hurry to set me up? We're not even in eighth grade yet."
"Because by high school every guy who is not a total nerd is taken."
"I like nerds. Why do you think you're my best friend?" Ali asked.
Cindy smiled. "Why is it so hard to admit you like him?"
"Okay, I like him! I just don't want to marry him is all."
"It could be romantic staring down the lumberjacks and their chain saws with the boy you love by your side."
Ali sighed. "You know what your problem is?"
"I watch too much TV?"
"Yes. Are you coming or not?"
"Will you go if I don't go?"
"Yes."
Cindy closed her eyes and smiled sleepily. "Have fun."
Ali left the house in disgust.
Breakfast was not a big deal to her — she usually skipped it — but she had a hard climb before her and knew she would be starving by the time she reached the logging site. Before heading out, she decided to stop by Sam's Subs, which had the best sandwiches in town.
Breakwater, the city where she lived, was small, population a measly three thousand, maybe twice that at the height of the tourist season. Its only landmark was a turn-of-the-century steeple church that had recently been painted a tacky green by the new mayor. An article in the local paper said the guy was color-blind.
It was the Interstate — and the cheap motels and all-night diners that lined it — that fed Breakwater. There weren't many jobs in town, and most of them were lousy. That was why her father had to leave the city in his truck to keep a roof over their heads.
Ali rode to the sandwich shop with her hair tied back; it was a good thing. Her maroon hair — her mother used to say it was fine as wine and exactly the same color — reached all the way to her butt. A favorite silver clasp kept it from her eyes. Later in the day, though, on the mad dash down the mountain, she would let it fly like a witch's cape over her shoulders.
Sam Carter — owner and manager of Sam's Subs — looked like one of his sandwiches. A six-foot-long ham and cheese, Cindy called him, although Ali thought he was more of a steak man. The guy was nice and everything — especially to kids — but he ate up all his profits. He weighed four hundred pounds.
Ali ordered a medium-sized turkey, with lettuce, tomato and cheese — and asked for a can of Coke. She would eat it when she was high up on the mountain, and could see up and down the coast, and far out over the ocean. Sam threw in a bag of chips free.
"You don't have to do that," Ali said.
Sam waved his hand. "Your mother always bought you chips."
Sam had gone to high school with her mom, had played football on the team when her mother was a cheerleader. He had cried at her funeral.
She smiled and stuffed the food in her daypack. "Thanks, Sam."
"Any time, Ali."
She had just left the store when she ran into a strange little man. He was hanging around the parking lot, looking either lost or up to no good. He was dressed in a green coat and a yellow bow tie, and wore a green wool cap over his head, covering his ears. He must be a midget, she thought, he couldn't have been three feet tall.
Yet his proportions were odd. His head was bigger than her father's and his hands were long and bony like a skeleton's; never mind his hook nose, which was shaped like a bent hanger and dotted with dozens of tiny bumps.
He appeared to be wearing women's makeup; the stuff was thick and poorly applied. It gave his skin a sickly yellow color, or else, she thought, that was his natural color and he was trying to cover it up.
Whatever, she didn't like the look of him and tried getting on her bike when she saw him staring at her. But he called and came running over, and she felt she had to stop. She did not like being rude to people.
Still, she glanced around for support, and was relieved to see Sam watching her from inside his sandwich shop. She preferred to trust people, but she was not careless. If the tiny man tried to harm her, she would shout out, and Sam would be there in a second.
"A second, Missy. Need to ask you a few questions," he said as he approached. Close up his eyes were as weird as the rest of him. Large and deep set, they were bright green but splintered with gold streaks that seemed to swim around black pupils. Peering at her from beneath brown eyebrows that were so bushy he could have combed them like mustaches, his big eyes seemed to glow. She wondered if he was nuts, if he had decided to dress up for Halloween a few months early. In his left hand he carried a white pillowcase that appeared loaded with goodies.
"Yes?" she said.
He glanced at her sandwich that stuck halfway out of the pack on her back. "What's that?" he asked, interested.
"Lunch. What can I do for you, sir?"
He offered his right hand. "Paddy O'Connell, a pleasure to meet you, Missy. It is I who would like to serve you."
She shook his hand quickly; it was hairy on top of everything else. "I'm sorry, I don't need any service today, thank you."
She turned to go. He blocked her path.
"A moment, Missy. I have here items I know you're going to like. Items I'd be willing to part with — for you — for less than a fair price."
He lifted his pillowcase, drew forth an elegant gold watch and held it out for her to inspect. "Note the fine workmanship, the gold band and the many diamonds set in the exquisite face. This watch must be worth a thousand dollars. But I'd be more than happy to give it to a young lady such as yourself for ... oh, three hundred dollars." He stopped and grinned; his crooked teeth were as yellow as his weird skin. He added, "What do you say, Missy?"
"I don't have three hundred dollars," she said.
He stopped, scratched his big head. "How much do you have?"
"None of your business. If I had a thousand dollars, I wouldn't buy that watch. It's obviously stolen."
He drew back, shocked. "Stolen? How dare you say such a thing? Paddy may be new to these parts, but that gives you no reason to judge me so harshly."
Ali felt a pang of guilt. He might be telling the truth. It was possible he made his living selling stuff out of his bag. She couldn't see him working in a normal store.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "I shouldn't have said that. But I don't need a watch and I couldn't afford one even if I did." She turned to walk away, but once more he stopped her. He brought a Walkman out of his bag, held it out for her to study.
"I'm sure you could use one of these," he said. "I'd be willing to part with this for a much smaller amount."
Ali was curt. "I already have a Walkman."
"But this is a brand-new ... Walkman." He added, "I wager it could help you walk your man much better than the one you own."
At first she thought he was joking. "Walk your man?" But then she realized the little guy had no idea what a CD player was. He continued to stare at her eagerly. Once again it made her think the items were stolen.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
He was cautious. "Why do you ask?"
"You said you were new to these parts. Where are you from?"
He slipped the Walkman in his bag and averted his eyes. "The old country. I only just arrived a few days ago. I mean you no harm." He paused and stared at her sandwich again, adding, "I haven't had lunch today."
"You're hungry?" she asked.
"Very hungry. I've not had breakfast yet, either. I'm sure a bite or two of your bread would satisfy me." He added hopefully, "If Missy wishes to share it?"
Ali handed him the sandwich. She could always buy another before she left town. "Take it, that's fine," she said.
He took a step forward and grabbed it, ripped off the wrapper in a second. His mouth, when he opened it all the way, was gigantic. He put an entire end of the sandwich in his mouth and chewed hungrily. Then he started to sniff her daypack.
"You have chips?" he asked.
"Yes."
He set down his own bag. "May I have some, please?" Before she could answer, he grabbed the bag of potato chips — and the Coke — and began to stuff himself. Ali had never seen anyone eat so fast. "What else do you have?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"I'm not giving you any more food."
He waved the sandwich. "Now, now, Missy, I meant no offense. Just a starving traveler, I am." He reached for his bag. "Could I interest you in a wallet or purse? I have a fine selection."
"No. Take that stuff to the pawnshop if you want to get rid of it."
He paused, interested. "A pawnshop? Where is that?"
"On Hadley. That's around the block from here."
"They buy things there? They pay go ... cash?"
"Yes. Don't you know what a pawnshop is?"
"I do indeed," he said, putting the remainder of the sandwich in his pillowcase. "It's been a long day for me and I really must be on my way. Thanks for your time, Missy."
"No problem," Ali muttered as she watched him disappear in the direction of the pawnshop. Even the way he moved was odd; he was like a squirrel on two legs. What a strange fellow! He almost didn't look human.
Ali turned and walked back toward Sam's Subs, reaching in her pockets for her money. She had brought a twenty with her, and knew she had over fifteen in change.
But her pockets were empty.
It took her a moment to realize what had happened.
"That guy stole my money!" she exclaimed.
She fumed. Fifteen bucks — that was a lot of money to her. Paddy had probably swiped it when he had grabbed the sandwich. For sure, he must have stolen all the watches and wallets he had in his pillowcase. She wondered if she should call the police.
In the end, though, she did nothing. She didn't even bother asking Sam for a free lunch, although she knew he would have given it to her in a second. The day was wearing on, trees were dying. Suddenly, she was anxious to get up in the woods.
Turning her bike in the direction of the forest, Ali rode out of town.
CHAPTER 2
Later, high on the mountain, she found herself surrounded by trees so green they seemed to breathe fresh air, and a silence so deep her thoughts sounded like spoken words in her head. Already, the forest was working its magic on her; she felt much happier.
Yet she had come to an obstacle, a roadblock. A wooden bar — yellow as that weird man's putrid makeup, and high as her neck — stretched all the way across the road. The roadblock had not been there before, and she wondered if the logging company had put it up to keep her out. The sign on the bar said no trespassing, go away nosy girl, stop hassling us with your stupid guilt trips. Well, not exactly, but something like that. It sure wasn't a friendly sign.
Ali stopped and got off her bike to catch her breath. She had been about to take a break anyway, but was disturbed by the roadblock. She realized she could get in trouble if she went on, yet she was not in the mood to give up. She had always been headstrong and, ever since her mother had died, had made it a point not to quit anything she started.
The sign was a square of hard cardboard, not metal. Feeling rebellious, she tore it off the bar and folded it and stuffed it in her daypack. If she got caught, she could always deny she had seen the sign. She hated to lie to anyone, but these were the same guys who were murdering her forest. It was not like they would arrest her or anything.
"They might," she said aloud. They might do exactly that. Then she would have to call her father, raise bail, appear before a judge, and maybe have her picture on the front page of the local newspaper. Worse things could happen, she decided.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Alosha by Christopher Pike. Copyright © 2004 Christopher Pike. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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