Free Texting the Underworld by Ellen Booraem Page A

be in the game cupboard forever.
    He read and read, searching for anything that would help. His nose was three inches from the screen, hand cramped on the mouse.
    â€œBanshees again?” The shock of Javier’s voice just about drove Conor’s spine through the top of his head. “Is there some new game I don’t know about?”
    â€œHoly macaroni, creep up on somebody.”
    â€œI didn’t creep.” Javier pulled up a chair and sat down. “You’re the one who’s acting weird, remember?”
    â€œI’m not acting
that
weird.”
    Javier picked up the bicycle helmet and presented it as Exhibit A.
    Conor said, “There’s something wrong with my brain, remember?”
    â€œYeah, right.”
    Javier-silence. Conor went back to surfing for banshees, but it was like trying to act normal with a black hole sitting next to you.
    At last, Javier said, “Mr. Phillips wants to know how you’re doing with American heritage.”
    â€œI got a book out. I’m working on it.”
    More Javier-silence. Then: “This is nuts. Conor, why are you freaking out about banshees?”
    He didn’t believe me before. He won’t now.
But then Conor had a brainstorm. “I’m making up a game about them.”
    The black hole closed with a snap. “You are? That’s great, why didn’t you say so?” Javier scooched his chair closer. “I could write the computer code. I got that book for my birthday.”
    â€œYeah. Cool.”
    â€œThis is awesome. It could be in the Land of Shanaya, right? I could help with the story line if you want.”
    It was getting late. Conor logged off the Internet, grabbed his backpack and helmet. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    â€œDid you ever see
Darby O’Gill and the Little People
?” Javier asked as their bus lumbered away from the curb. “It’s this old, old movie about this Irish guy, and a banshee comes for his daughter. He has a wish left over from a leprechaun and he wishes to die instead of her. Then the leprechaun rescues him from the death coach.”
    â€œI don’t think I believe in leprechauns.”
    â€œWell, you don’t believe in banshees either.”
    â€œNo. Right.” Conor leaned the front of his helmet against the window and watched a paper cup dance down the windy sidewalk. A kid caught up with it, stomped it flat, and left it there.
    Javier-silence, a long one. Then: “You’re not really making up a game, are you?”
    â€œNo.”
    The bus hit a pothole and the other passengers hooted at the driver, who was laughing. This was good, because the noise swallowed up the silence from the other half of the seat. But the silence was still there when everybody calmed down.
    Then: “I don’t see why you have to lie about it,” Javier said.
    â€œHey, I didn’t ask you to butt in.” Conor closed his eyes, wished for a time machine to take him back to Tuesday. “Go . . . go talk to Olivia about her dance poster and leave me alone, okay?”
    â€œJerk.”
    They were silent the rest of the way home, a double black hole. They got off the bus without a word, parted with neither good-byes nor promises of texting.
    Conor couldn’t worry about Javier. Halfway home, he stopped dead (but not really) and thought about Darby O’Gill. It came to him what a brave O’Neill would do—like Darby, he would go to the Other Land in place of his loved one.
    Maybe Ashling would find a way to make death not hurt.
    If the loved one was Glennie, it made sense that her older brother would step up to protect her. If it was Grump, though . . . Even Conor had to admit that there was something unnatural about a kid taking the place of an old man.
    But wasn’t that an excuse? Could he stand by and watch Grump die, knowing he could have prevented it? Wouldn’t he hate