Free Kingdom Keepers VII by Ridley Pearson Page A

of Los Angeles smog, and yet even at the Bob Hope Airport there’s a hint of citrus and sea in the breeze.
    Or maybe the hint of lemon and sea salt is Charlene’s perfume. She seems to float across the tarmac to greet Maybeck with a hug. He picks her up and twirls her off her feet. Her giggles carry over the roar of a jet taxiing in the distance. Finn and Philby close in to welcome her as well, leaving Willa to deal with the backpacks being handed down the plane’s collapsible stairs by the flight attendant. Willa is transformed into a Sherpa: two backpacks slung over her right shoulder, another clutched in her left hand, her purse somewhere she can’t see it.
    A white extended SUV waits to pick them up. Its driver’s door is embossed with an image of a red-robed Mickey wearing the sorcerer’s cap and waving his magic wand over the words WALT DISNEY IMAGINEERING .

    Willa feels chills, despite the afternoon heat. She’s always wanted to be an Imagineer, ever since she learned about the creative team responsible for the attractions in the park. It was seventh grade—some book she read, or maybe a documentary, or maybe someone just told her. But that had been the dream. Now here she is, stepping off a private plane and being chauffeured by the very same people. Pinch me.
    Philby glances back. It takes him longer than she would have wanted, but at least at some point in that boy’s brain of his, it occurs to him he’s a jerk for forgetting about her.
    He tries to make up for it by helping her with the backpacks, but he just makes a mess of things. All the bags tumble to the tarmac; he and Willa bang heads as they bend to retrieve them. And it hurts. Really hurts. The tears that threaten to spill from Willa’s eyes have little to do with the collision, but Philby would never consider the alternative.
    “Sorry, sorry!” he says. “I’ve hurt you! I’m so sorry!”
    He doesn’t understand what he’s saying.
    Yes, you’ve hurt me, Willa thinks, but hears herself say, “You can be such a blunt instrument sometimes.”
    That stops him. She has two of the backpacks now and she’s headed for the SUV’s open hatchback. The man waiting there wears the offbeat outfit of a creative type: sandals, cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, extremely cool eyeglasses, a French beret. But he has the leathery skin of someone older than her parents, and the long hair of someone from another era.
    Philby is trying to catch up as Willa shakes the man’s hand.
    “Joe,” the man says. He has a smile that makes her relax. He’s intense, but laid-back. Probably brilliant, but dude-who-lives-next-door normal.
    “You surf?” Willa asks, having no idea why and wanting to hide.
    His smile is so genuine she relaxes yet again.
    “The web,” he answers, “but not the ocean.”
    She giggles. He joins her with a chuckle. “You’re Willa.”
    She nods.
    “This whole thing. What you’ve got going,” he nods toward the others. “It’s awesome.”
    “It is,” she says.
    “It’s important.”
    She doesn’t know what to say.
    “We’re at a moment of critical mass.”
    “Brad was telling us.”
    “Yeah, but now I’m telling you.”
    She nods.
    “Critical mass,” he repeats.
    “Hi! I’m—”
    “Philby,” Joe says.
    “Right.”
    Joe studies Philby. Sizes him up as they shake hands.
    “You’re smaller than I thought,” Joe says.
    “Am I?”
    “Your voice is higher.”
    “They made it lower for my DHI. A Disney host thing.”
    “I’m a fan,” Joe says.
    Philby blushes.
    “Of all of you.”
    “Of course!” Philby attempts to recover.
    “I’m blown away by Wayne.”
    “We don’t believe it ourselves,” Philby says.
    “Who said I believe it?” says Joe. “Brad sits in front. The rest of you in the back.”
    “Yes, sir,” Philby says.
    Willa can tell that just slipped out. Philby’s time abroad, living in England, shows up at the strangest times.
    Joe points to the private terminal where the pilots are headed.