Mr. Xanadu had tried to stay standing up but I’d really bumped him quite hard. He fell into Monsieur Martinet. Monsieur Martinet fell into Samson One, Samson One crashed into all the children and the next thing I knew everyone—even Dr. Drax—was rolling round the floor like huge orange marbles, all yelling and shouting for help. I did try and help Dr. Drax back onto her feet, but she batted me away.
“Deflate your suits!” she yelled. “Do not try to stand up until you have deflated your suits!”
I thought suit deflation was going to be hilarious. I thought we’d pull the plugs on our suits and then go jetting off around the room like balloons. Sadly it didn’t work like this. We didn’t jet anywhere; we just sort of wilted.
I can see now that I probably should not have tried to make up for the disappointment by running round and round with my arms out making raspberry noises. I can see now that this was hardly dadly behavior, but at the time I sort of expected other people to join in.
Monsieur Martinet snarled, “You’re acting like a child again, Mr. Digby.”
I snapped back at him, “Well, someone has to. And it’s not going to be these so-called children, is it? Look at them. They all look so cross. They’re not like kids at all. They’re like unusually small teachers.”
I knew I wasn’t making much sense and for some reason that depressed me even more, so I curled up on the floor and went to sleep.
On reflection, that wasn’t one of my better days. But I think I was right about the children. Hasan fretting all the time about money. Max always making sure he was first. Florida too, going on about color coordination and stuff. They weren’t proper kids. They were like trainee grown-ups.
They’re like kids now though. Now that they’re lost in space.
When I woke up I was in bed. This was so unexpected that at first I thought I’d been abducted by aliens. Especially as someone seemed to be trying to drill a hole in the top of my skull. Then I thought I was probably in Bootle and that the whole Infinity Park thing had been a dream. So I shouted, “Dad!”—which really hurt my head—and then Florida came in and said, “I have had the best afternoon!”
“What happened? Why is this bed so small?”
Florida ignored me. “Everyone was really lovely to me. They felt sorry for me because they thought I had a horrible, useless alcoholic dad. You do realize you got totally drunk, don’t you?”
“Drunk? How?”
“Mr. Xanadu’s flask. He said he tried to stop you….”
“He didn’t.”
“Everyone was so nice to me. It was like having three dads. And I’ve got the best space suit. It’s blue. Like the Blue Power Ranger. I look great in it. It’s definitely my color.”
I groaned. “Do we have to?”
“What?”
“Have a girly conversation about clothes and colors and stuff.”
“Space suits aren’t clothes, idiot. Space suits are equipment.”
“Oh really?”
And Florida told me all this amazing stuff about the history of space-suit design. I’ll say that again. Florida Kirby told me about the history of space-suit design. This was actually more unexpected than being abducted by aliens.
She explained that because space is such a hostile environment, the space suit has to be like a kind of mini Earth, like a wearable planet, giving you oxygen and keeping you at a constant temperature when space is freezing or when it’s boiling, shielding you from radiation and keeping you at the right pressure. On Earth the air is pressing down on you all the time, and that’s sort of what keeps you in one piece. But there’s no pressure in space so you have to make your own. Usually that means you have to wear a big suit, like a bag, full of gas, so you’re walking round inside a big bubble of air pressure. It works but it’s clumsy and people are always looking for something better—like a really tight suit that puts pressure on you just by being too tight. Like a wetsuit but tighter even than that. The trouble is, anything that tight would be really painful and difficult to put on. But Dr. Drax had come up with a solution—literally. Liquid space suits. Space suits that you spray on. Apparently they’re like thick paint, quite sticky at first but then they cool into something hard but supple—like rubber. Florida showed me a photo on her Draxphone. She really did look like a Power Ranger. Apparently, before they spray the paint on, they put these wires all over, with tiny motors in them, which you activate by twitching. Stick-on muscles, in other words, so that you can jump like five feet on Earth—and maybe twenty feet in space. There are also pipes and stuff so that you can wee and so on without taking the suit off—because to take the suit off you need a solvent spray and about an hour. Much too long if you’re really desperate.
Like I said, all this stuff was amazing. But the really amazing thing was that it was Florida who was telling me. Florida Kirby was talking about air pressure and gravity and stuff. I said, “Florida, how do you know all this?”
“That’s what we’ve been talking about all day.”
“Yeah, but how did it go in?”
“I’m not thick, you know. The other dads were amazed that I didn’t know about pressure and gravity already. And even more amazed when they found out I couldn’t swim.”
“I didn’t know you couldn’t swim.”
“Exactly. That’s what Monsieur Martinet said. He said you were a drunk who took no interest in me. We had to swim in this special pool to show that we could use the suits in weightless conditions. They were really shocked that I couldn’t swim. They said that one of the main functions of being a dad was teaching your kid to swim. They taught me to swim—Samson One explained about buoyancy and stuff and Monsieur Martinet threw me in the deep end. Mr. Xanadu said he’d buy me my own pool if I swam a length. They all said it was a tragedy that a unique child like me should have such a thoughtless father like you.”
“Can I just remind you that I’m not your real dad? I’m just someone who used to sit behind you in Year Six. The person who didn’t bother to teach you to swim, that’s your real dad, not me.”
I knew right then that I’d said the wrong thing because she went quiet. Not quiet like Sunday morning. Quiet like Varimathras, Dreadlord of the Plaguelands, uploading a terrible new weapon.
I said, “Florida…”
She said, “Don’t speak to me.”
“I just…”
“Don’t speak to me.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Don’t speak to me.”
“I’ve never even met…”
“Don’t speak to me!”
“But…”
“Don’t you ever ever ever talk about my dad again. Okay? Not now. Not ever. Never. My dad, let me tell you, is amazing. My dad travels all over the world. That’s why he named us after faraway places. He buys me presents. He calls me Princess. He does not forget my birthday!”
She stormed out, slammed my door, then slammed her own door.
Talk to Your Teen has one thing to say about what to do when your teenage daughter slams a door—leave it slammed. Don’t go near her. Let her calm down. The book made it sound like if you tried to open the door you’d dematerialize or something.
I just sat by myself and watched another repeat of Celebrity Séance—the one where Dracula comes on and complains about being misunderstood. “All I ever did was impale people on wooden stakes, which wasn’t that unusual at the time. My negative image was all media spin, et cetera.”
Suddenly Florida’s door banged open again and she yelled at me, “Excuse me. I’m upset. You’re supposed to come and cheer me up.”
“Errrm, no. By slamming doors, you’re marking off some personal space for yourself and the best thing is for me to respect that need.”
“What are you on about?”
“It’s in this book.” I showed her the bit about banging doors in Talk to Your Teen.
She said, “That’d work if you had a TV in your room. But I was getting bored in there.”
“You could always r
ead a book.”
She stared at me. I said, “Joking.”
Then she stared some more. “You really think I’m thick, don’t you?” Her bottom lip was starting to go. “Maybe I am thick.”
I was really scared that she was going to cry. I said, “Florida, don’t cry. I’ve read the bits about when teens cry and it says you have to hug them. Please don’t make me hug you.”
“Well, reassure me then.”
I said, “You’re not thick at all. Who said that? You know loads of stuff—just not the right stuff, that’s all.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, you’re really good at remembering things. You know all those celebrities’ names, and who they’re going out with and everything. You’re very good at storing and retrieving information. It’s just that it’s not very useful information.”
Florida was starting to look a bit better. “It was good today when they were all sitting round explaining to me about buoyancy and pressure and stuff. I was like—so that’s why we don’t just fall into millions of pieces. I never even thought about it before. Did you know all that already?”
“Some of it. I’m in Gifted and Talented, you know.”
“Maybe you could teach me stuff. You are supposedly my dad after all, and dads teach their kids stuff, don’t they?”
“They’re supposed to, yeah.”
“Only my dad’s been too busy. Because he’s so important. But you’re not busy or important. You could help me get to know stuff. And I could show you how to be a better dad. Because this book is rubbish.”
“Okay.”
Florida looked thoughtful for a bit and was surprisingly quiet. Then she said, “You know when your in-box is full on your mobile and you delete old messages? Can you do that with your brain, do you think?”
“Mmmm…not sure. Why?”
“Cos my brain is full of un-useful information and I was thinking of deleting all of it and filling it up with useful information instead. What d’you think? Or maybe new good stuff could just force out the old stuff. Like if I learned about gravity, I’d forget about Jennifer Aniston’s alleged struggle with depression.”
“You wouldn’t need to delete anything. Your brain’s got loads more storage capacity than a mobile phone. You can put new information in with no need to take old information out.”
Florida smiled. She looked different. Happier than I’d seen her look in ages. “So I can be clever and stupid at the same time? Cool!”
Oh. Strangely, someone voted for me that day. Everyone got one vote. I assumed that mine was from Florida, but she said it wasn’t. It must’ve been someone whose idea of a good dad was someone who couldn’t work his own trousers.
* * *
SCORES
EDDIE XANADU 5
M. MARTINET 1
SAMSON ONE 1
ME 1
* * *
The Vomit Comet
When the alarm woke me the next morning, it still felt like there was someone trying to drill into the top of my head. Florida explained that it was a hangover. You get them from drinking too much alcohol. She said the best cure was a big fried breakfast. “But we’re not supposed to eat this morning. We’re going on one of the rides.”
“My thrill-ride days are over.”
“Liam, you’ve got a hangover. It’s no big deal, not if you’re a grown-up. Grown-ups get them all the time. Just drink some coffee and when you see the others, make a joke about it.”
“Okay. And Florida…thanks.”
Even though it wasn’t finished—there were still diggers and workmen everywhere—you could see Infinity Park was definitely going to be the World’s Greatest Thrill Park. There were gardens and lakes and lots of half-built rides in the shape of rockets. The entrance was a huge arch in the shape of two rockets crossing each other. Outside the gates was just endless beige desert and mountains. Inside, everything was bright colors and trees and waterfalls.
As we drove around in the little Caterpillar minibus thing, Dr. Drax acted as our tour guide. “In Infinity Park,” she said, “some of the rides are not ordinary fairground rides. They can be demanding and dangerous—that’s why you have to train to go on them. And that’s why you have to do exactly as you are told at all times. Sorry. The insurers make us say that. Any questions?”
Hasan put his hand up. “Can we have a proper breakfast now?” he said.
“No. Any more questions?”
“What about a packet of crisps?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Come and see.”
She took us to a kind of meadow with rockets instead of trees, like a rocket orchard. At the far end was a plane.
“Looks like an ordinary plane,” said Dr. Drax. “Not too different from the kind of plane that takes you on holiday. Except it doesn’t have any windows. And it’s not taking you on holiday. It’s taking you on a parabola. Quite a few parabolas, as it happens. Does anyone know why?”
Samson Two’s hand shot up. “Zero gravity.”
“Oh, Samson Two, aren’t you clever?”
“In fact,” said his dad, “he’s officially a genius—”
“Today,” Dr. Drax went on, ignoring him, “you are all going to have a little taste of how it feels to be weightless. Excited?”
We were.
“Any more questions?”
“Can we have just one packet of crisps between us?” said Hasan.
“Hasan,” Dr. Drax said, “this plane is officially called the Draxcom Zero Star. But the people who’ve been testing it have been calling it something a bit more informative—the Vomit Comet.”
“Oh.”
“Because most people who ride on it throw up.”
“Ah.”
“So no crisps.”
“No.”
The outside of the Vomit Comet might look like an ordinary plane, but the inside certainly doesn’t. There’s only one seat—a long bench thing with lap belts. The walls are completely covered with giant white cushions. There’s nothing else in there but a big empty space. “You could think of it,” said Dr. Drax, “as a kind of giant soft-play area flying through the air. There. That’s a nice, cuddly thought, isn’t it? Sick bags are under the seats. Good luck.”
While we were strapping ourselves in, Florida whispered, “What does she mean, weightless? We’re going to lose weight?”
“Sort of….” I started trying to explain about gravity but then the engines started up. And we were taking off. I don’t mean like a normal takeoff. The Comet seemed to be heading straight up into the air for ages. We had to hold on to the bench so we wouldn’t slip off. And the ringing in our ears was so loud we thought we’d never hear anything else again. I felt like my head was going to explode. It was not enjoyable. Everyone was trying not to think about what was going to happen, which wasn’t easy because Samson Two was trying to impress Florida by describing the whole thing—how we were going to climb to some amazing height and then dive faster than we would fall if we were shot down.
Max wailed, “Dad, tell him to stop talking!”
Monsieur Martinet looked at him sternly and said, “Max, there is no point trying to hide from fear. Fear will find you. You have to look fear in the eye, say hello and keep walking by. Remember, Fear is the Enemy of Courage.”
“Yes,” shouted Samson Two, “you must understand that you feel more fear than normal partly because of the unusual amount of gravity acting on your pituitary gland. It’s being squeezed and is therefore pumping out more adrenaline than usual. You should just enjoy it.”
Max stuttered. “But…”
“Max,” snapped his dad, “I insist that you ENJOY IT!”
“LET ME OFF!” wailed Hasan.
“You know,” said Eddie Xanadu, “there are rides like this in America. Only they cost four thousand dollars each time. Don’t think of it as a scary experience. Think of it as a bargain.”
Florida was gripping my arm. But I didn’t fee
l too bad. The higher we climbed, and the more my ears hurt, the more I thought I’d had this feeling before. Then I remembered where. I turned to Florida and said, “The log flume.”
“What?”
“It’s just a big log flume. You remember, how it takes you ages to chug up to the top of the ride and then you roll over the top and…”
“Oh yeah,” said Florida. And she relaxed her grip a bit.
“It’s a twenty-thousand-foot log flume. The only difference is, you won’t get wet at the end.”
She grinned at me. Thinking of it as a log flume made it feel different. Suddenly the feeling in our ears wasn’t just horrible air pressure—it was excitement filling our heads like a balloon. A voice on the loudspeaker said, “We are now approaching the crest of the curve. Please unfasten your safety belts and prepare for a zero-g interlude.”
“This is it!” said Florida and she let go of me completely, put her arms in the air and screamed, just like on the log flume. Unlike Monsieur Martinet, who grabbed my other arm even tighter.
“I remind you,” said the loudspeaker voice, “that your sick bags are under your seats.”
Monsieur Martinet still didn’t let go. He hadn’t undone his seat belt and he didn’t go for his sick bag. He was just sitting there, breathing deeply with his eyes shut, gripping my arm. I tried to prise his fingers off me.
Then it happened.
I stood up, pulling myself out of Monsieur Martinet’s grip, and tried to walk. The first step was longer than I expected. The second was a lot longer and on the third I just took off.
For a whole second I was flying headfirst down the plane like Superman. But my feet kept going upward so I ended up doing the first double somersault I’d ever done in my whole life. I said, “Whoo hoo!” or something. And when I came up I was facing Florida. She jabbed me and shouted, “Tag!” and the jab sent me spinning back the other way. When I came up this time, I was facing Samson Two. Before I even thought about it I tagged him. He looked completely surprised and confused. Like no one had ever tagged him before. I tried to swim off—that’s what it felt like, swimming in the air—but suddenly it was all over. One of my feet touched the floor and before I knew it everyone was standing on the floor again. Except Monsieur Martinet, who was still strapped into his seat.