Space Station Seventh Grade

  Finally she goes, “Owww!” and snatches her arm away. “That’s e-nuff.”

  “Gotta—get—it all—out,” I gasped.

  “You were biting.”

  “I was not biting. I was sucking.” My face was getting warm. (I swear, I wasn’t biting.)

  “Well, isn’t that enough?”

  We both looked down at her arm—and my face switched to hot. There it was, all around the cut, purple and red: a hickey. Just like the ones you see on The Lovers’ necks all the time.

  I acted like I didn’t notice. “Yeah,” I said, “that’s enough.”

  Her bike was totaled. We left it there and started walking. It was pretty grim. Nobody said much. Every once in a while I’d try something like, “Too bad about your bike,” or “The cow didn’t even have a dent.” The most she would do was grunt. Other than that the only sound was the click-click of my bike wheels.

  Fields that we zipped by before took forever to pass now. We walked and walked and walked and I couldn’t believe we still didn’t come to the water pipe. The sun fell behind the treetops. I couldn’t believe we had gone so far without seeing a McDonald’s. We stopped to pick some peaches. Pretty soon the sun looked like a giant peach perched on top of the corn.

  Now I was really getting nervous. A plum-colored mist was settling into the valleys. I pictured my mother—or would it be Ham?—calling the police. Sirens. Walkie-talkie voices. Radio description… last seen on yellow ten-speed… thirteen years old… brown hair… none in pubic area or underarms… short.… Mary bawling, “He was the best brother anybody ever had!”

  The moon was a white toenail clipping in the sky. The cars had their headlights on. I knew what I had to do. “Marcy—Marceline,” I said, “our parents—they’re gonna be all bent.”

  She shrugged. “So?”

  “So, they’ll think we’re missing persons. They’ll call the cops.”

  “So?”

  “So, we gotta hurry. We gotta ride.” I stopped and climbed onto my bike. I patted the bar in front of me. “Get on.”

  She got on. I could hardly believe it. I guess cracking up her bike and cutting herself took the fight out of her.

  The downhills were great, but the uphills—they were the killers. I threw my bike into first, and still I had to pump hard. I tried to keep the sound of my breath down. I would stop breathing for twenty or thirty seconds, but the breaths would bunch up and burst out all at once and I’d go, “Paaahh!”

  Sometimes going downhill her hair would come streaming back into my face. I didn’t brush it away.

  Once I said to her, “What’s a trombone weigh?” She said that was a dumb question and how should she know—but that was good enough for me. She didn’t know I was just checking to make sure her jaw wasn’t starting to lock up.

  At last we came to the water pipe. “Let’s have a snort,” she said. Gratefully, I pulled over. She got off and took a drink. I did too, and when I turned around she was on my bike, on the seat.

  “Oh no,” I told her. “No way. I’m driving.”

  “Jason, get on.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jason, you drove half the way, now I’ll do the rest. It’s only fair.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jason, you were wobbling all over the place. Now get on.”

  “I was not wobbling.”

  “Jason, stop being a macho piglet! Get on!” She reached out and grabbed my ear and pulled and twisted and wouldn’t let go till I was seated on the crossbar.

  “By the way,” she said, “thanks.”

  “Thanks?” I screeched, untwisting my poor ear. “For what?”

  “For your lip surgery on my arm,” she grinned, and we took off.

  The stars had all joined the moon and it was really dark out now. At first all I could think about was what if one of the guys saw me being ridden along on my own bike—by a girl. But then I started to think about other stuff, mostly her. She was as hard to figure out as the world. She was a girl, but she could ride a bike like a boy. She loved animals, but she hated McDonald’s. She busted her gut running the mile, but she cried when she crashed into cows. She was tall, but in some ways she was little too. There was a whole mishmash of thoughts and feelings about her churning inside me, and I wasn’t sure about any of them. One thing I was sure of, though: no way could they be written down on a locker room wall.

  I was thinking about these things when she pulled off the road. “Excuse me,” she said, getting off, “I have to pee.” Just like that. Off she went into the bushes, while my face did a great imitation of a red giant star.

  When she came back she took a swig of water. This time she didn’t bother to wipe off the mouth of the canteen before she drank.

  “Jason?” she said once we were rolling again.

  “Yeah?”

  “The raccoon’s not dead.”

  “What about the bottle?” I said. “I heard it hit.”

  “The raccoon is okay.”

  I don’t know—just the way her voice sounded, just because it was her saying it—it sounded true. It felt true. “You sure?” I said.

  “I’m sure.”

  I kind of settled back then, relaxed. I was really enjoying the ride. The hills were flattening out and we were mostly cruising. In the distance I could see the faint glow of the town. I wished it was still five hundred miles away.

  I heard a sound behind me, a soft, beautiful sound. She was humming.

  I tilted my head back so that all I could see was the sky. The universe. I remembered my dream, of how Pioneer came to my bedroom window and waited for me to put something on board. Suddenly I knew what I would do. The gold figures of the man and woman from Earth—I would etch two names in the gold beneath them:

  JASON MARCELINE

  And we would go sailing out to the stars.

  For more great reads and free samplers, visit

  LBYRDigitalDeals.com

  JERRY SPINELLI is the author of over thirty immensely popular books for young readers, including Eggs; Stargirl; Space Station Seventh Grade; Newbery Honor Book Wringer; Maniac Magee, winner of more than fifteen state children’s book awards in addition to the Newbery Award; and the picture book I Can Be Anything! He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Eileen. His website is jerryspinelli.com.

  Also by Jerry Spinelli

  Eggs

  Maniac Magee

  Space Station Seventh Grade

  Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush

  Jason and Marceline

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of the Newbery Award–winning novel MANIAC MAGEE

  1

  Maniac Magee was not born in a dump. He was born in a house, a pretty ordinary house, right across the river from here, in Bridgeport. And he had regular parents, a mother and a father.

  But not for long.

  One day his parents left him with a sitter and took the P & W high-speed trolley into the city. On the way back home, they were on board when the P & W had its famous crash, when the motorman was drunk and took the high trestle over the Schuylkill River at sixty miles an hour, and the whole kaboodle took a swan dive into the water.

  And just like that, Maniac was an orphan. He was three years old.

  Of course, to be accurate, he wasn’t really Maniac then. He was Jeffrey. Jeffrey Lionel Magee.

  Little Jeffrey was shipped off to his nearest relatives, Aunt Dot and Uncle Dan. They lived in Hollidaysburg, in the western part of Pennsylvania.

  Aunt Dot and Uncle Dan hated each other, but because they were strict Catholics, they wouldn’t get a divorce. Around the time Jeffrey arrived, they stopped talking to each other. Then they stopped sharing.

  Pretty soon there were two of everything in the house. Two bathrooms. Two TVs. Two refrigerators. Two toasters. If it were possible, they would have had two Jeffreys. As it was, they split him up as best they could. For instance, he would eat dinner with Aunt Dot on Monday, with Uncle Dan on Tuesday, and so on.

  Eight years o
f that.

  Then came the night of the spring musicale at Jeffrey’s school. He was in the chorus. There was only one show, and one auditorium, so Aunt Dot and Uncle Dan were forced to share at least that much. Aunt Dot sat on one side, Uncle Dan on the other.

  Jeffrey probably started screaming from the start of the song, which was “Talk to the Animals,” but nobody knew it because he was drowned out by all the other voices. Then the music ended, and Jeffrey went right on screaming, his face bright red by now, his neck bulging. The music director faced the singers, frozen with his arms still raised. In the audience faces began to change. There was a quick smatter of giggling by some people who figured the screaming kid was some part of the show, some funny animal maybe. Then the giggling stopped, and eyes started to shift and heads started to turn, because now everybody could see that this wasn’t part of the show at all, that little Jeffrey Magee wasn’t supposed to be up there on the risers, pointing to his aunt and uncle, bellowing out from the midst of the chorus: “Talk! Talk, will ya! Talk! Talk! Talk!”

  No one knew it then, but it was the birth scream of a legend.

  And that’s when the running started. Three springy steps down from the risers—girls in pastel dresses screaming, the music director lunging—a leap from the stage, out the side door and into the starry, sweet, onion-grass-smelling night.

  Never again to return to the house of two toasters. Never again to return to school.

  2

  Everybody knows that Maniac Magee (then Jeffrey) started out in Hollidaysburg and wound up in Two Mills. The question is: What took him so long? And what did he do along the way?

  Sure, two hundred miles is a long way, especially on foot, but the year that it took him to cover it was about fifty-one weeks more than he needed—figuring the way he could run, even then.

  The legend doesn’t have the answer. That’s why this period is known as The Lost Year.

  And another question: Why did he stay here? Why Two Mills?

  Of course, there’s the obvious answer that sitting right across the Schuylkill is Bridgeport, where he was born. Yet there are other theories. Some say he just got tired of running. Some say it was the butterscotch Krimpets. And some say he only intended to pause here but that he stayed because he was so happy to make a friend.

  If you listen to everybody who claims to have seen Jeffrey-Maniac Magee that first day, there must have been ten thousand people and a parade of fire trucks waiting for him at the town limits. Don’t believe it. A couple of people truly remember, and here’s what they saw: a scraggly little kid jogging toward them, the soles of both sneakers hanging by their hinges and flopping open like dog tongues each time they came up from the pavement.

  But it was something they heard that made him stick in their minds all these years. As he passed them, he said, “Hi.” Just that—“Hi”—and he was gone. They stopped, they blinked, they turned, they stared after him, they wondered: Do I know that kid? Because people just didn’t say that to strangers, out of the blue.

  3

  As for the first person to actually stop and talk with Maniac, that would be Amanda Beale. And it happened because of a mistake.

  It was around eight in the morning, and Amanda was heading for grade school, like hundreds of other kids all over town. What made Amanda different was that she was carrying a suitcase, and that’s what caught Maniac’s eye. He figured she was like him, running away, so he stopped and said, “Hi.”

  Amanda was suspicious. Who was this white stranger kid? And what was he doing in the East End, where almost all the kids were black? And why was he saying that?

  But Amanda Beale was also friendly. So she stopped and said “Hi” back.

  “Are you running away?” Jeffrey asked her.

  “Huh?” said Amanda.

  Jeffrey pointed at the suitcase.

  Amanda frowned, then thought, then laughed. She laughed so hard she began to lose her balance, so she set the suitcase down and sat on it so she could laugh more safely. When at last she could speak, she said, “I’m not running away. I’m going to school.”

  She saw the puzzlement on his face. She got off the suitcase and opened it up right there on the sidewalk.

  Jeffrey gasped. “Books!”

  Books, all right. Both sides of the suitcase crammed with them. Dozens more than anyone would ever need for homework.

  Jeffrey fell to his knees. He and Amanda and the suitcase were like a rock in a stream; the school-goers just flowed to the left and right around them. He turned his head this way and that to read the titles. He lifted the books on top to see the ones beneath. There were fiction books and nonfiction books, who-did-it books and let’s-be-friends books and what-is-it books and how-to books and how-not-to books and just-regular-kid books. On the bottom was a single volume from an encyclopedia. It was the letter A.

  “My library,” Amanda Beale said proudly.

  Somebody called, “Gonna be late for school, girl!”

  Amanda looked up. The street was almost deserted. She slammed the suitcase shut and started hauling it along. Jeffrey took the suitcase from her. “I’ll carry it for you.”

  Amanda’s eyes shot wide. She hesitated; then she snatched it back. “Who are you?” she said.

  “Jeffrey Magee.”

  “Where are you from? West End?”

  “No.”

  She stared at him, at the flap-soled sneakers. Back in those days the town was pretty much divided. The East End was blacks, the West End was whites. “I know you’re not from the East End.”

  “I’m from Bridgeport.”

  “Bridgeport? Over there? That Bridgeport?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, why aren’t you there?”

  “It’s where I’m from, not where I am.”

  “Great. So where do you live?”

  Jeffrey looked around. “I don’t know… maybe… here?”

  “Maybe?” Amanda shook her head and chuckled. “Maybe you better go ask your mother and father if you live here or not.”

  She speeded up. Jeffrey dropped back for a second, then caught up with her. “Why are you taking all these books to school?”

  Amanda told him. She told him about her little brother and sister at home, who loved to crayon every piece of paper they could find, whether or not it already had type all over it. And about the dog, Bow Wow, who chewed everything he could get his teeth on. And that, she said, was why she carried her whole library to and from school every day.

  First bell was ringing; the school was still a block away. Amanda ran. Jeffrey ran.

  “Can I have a book?” he said.

  “They’re mine,” she said.

  “Just to read. To borrow.”

  “No.”

  “Please. What’s your name?”

  “Amanda.”

  “Please, Amanda. Any one. Your shortest one.”

  “I’m late now and I’m not gonna stop and open up this thing again. Forget it.”

  He stopped. “Amanda!”

  She kept running, then stopped, turned, glared. What kind of kid was this, anyway? All grungy. Ripped shirt. Why didn’t he go back to Bridgeport or the West End, where he belonged? Bother some white girl up there? And why was she still standing here?

  “So what if I loaned you one, huh? How am I gonna get it back?”

  “I’ll bring it back. Honest! If it’s the last thing I do. What’s your address?”

  “Seven twenty-eight Sycamore. But you can’t come there. You can’t even be here.”

  Second bell rang. Amanda screamed, whirled, ran.

  “Amanda!”

  She stopped, turned. “Ohhhh,” she squeaked. She tore a book from the suitcase, hurled it at him—“Here!”—and dashed into school.

  The book came flapping like a wounded duck and fell at Jeffrey’s feet. It was a story of the Children’s Crusade. Jeffrey picked it up, and Amanda Beale was late to school for the only time in her life.

  4

  Jeffr
ey made three other appearances that first day.

  The first came at one of the high school fields, during eleventh-grade gym class. Most of the students were playing soccer. But about a dozen were playing football, because they were on the varsity, and the gym teacher happened to be the football coach. The star quarterback, Brian Denehy, wound up and threw a sixty-yarder to his favorite receiver, James “Hands” Down, who was streaking a fly pattern down the sideline.

  But the ball never quite reached Hands. Just as he was about to cradle it in his big brown loving mitts, it vanished. By the time he recovered from the shock, a little kid was weaving upfield through the varsity football players. Nobody laid a paw on him. When the kid got down to the soccer field, he turned and punted the ball. It sailed back over the up-looking gym-classers, spiraling more perfectly than anything Brian Denehy had ever thrown, and landed in the outstretched hands of still stunned Hands Down. Then the kid ran off.

  There was one other thing, something that all of them saw but no one believed until they compared notes after school that day: up until the punt, the kid had done everything with one hand. He had to, because in his other hand was a book.

  5

  Later on that first day, there was a commotion in the West End. At 803 Oriole Street, to be exact. At the backyard of 803 Oriole, to be exacter.

  This, of course, was the infamous address of Finsterwald. Kids stayed away from Finsterwald’s the way old people stay away from Saturday afternoon matinees at a two-dollar movie. And what would happen to a kid who didn’t stay away? That was a question best left unanswered. Suffice it to say that occasionally, even today, if some poor, raggedy, nicotine-stained wretch is seen shuffling through town, word will spread that this once was a bright, happy, normal child who had the misfortune of blundering onto Finsterwald’s property.