Rocket Summer

By Chip Street

"...a real page-turner ... riveting and profound" - Binghamton Children's Books Examiner

This might be the dumbest thing they've ever done.

Lacey Patterson just made an exciting - and dangerous - discovery.

She's found an old crate filled with surplus military rockets.

Now, she could do the right thing, like telling her dad... 

Or she could do the fun thing, and talk her friends Kenny and Charlie into building a rocket-powered car on the outskirts of town.

It's not like anybody pays any attention to what they're up to. Her dad is still mourning her mom's passing after three years, so he's splitting his time between working and sitting alone in a dark house.

And Kenny's old man pretty much ignores him and his sister Darlene, unless they forget to feed the chickens... even then all they get is a whack and a bruise. That's why stealing parts from his shop seems like the best and worst part of the plan.

Charlie's dad might be their biggest problem... not only is he all attentive and curious and whatnot, he's the Sheriff. So keeping him in the dark is job one.

Of course, they've got no skills for building cars, and none of them even has a license. But with enough duct tape and baling wire, and a healthy dose of not-knowing-any-better, they're bent on making this a summer to remember... if they can just stay alive long enough to enjoy it.

If you're looking for a YA coming-of-age story that's funny, thrilling, and heart-breaking, this is the one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chip Street
• Release date: Nov 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781386413707

Chip Street

Chip Street wrote and illustrated his first books in elementary school, on lined paper, stapled together and shared with his friends. They were about a boy who really really wanted a dog, and a boy who had a lizard for a pet. He went on to write poetry and short stories all the way through high school. In college, he majored in creative writing -- specifically children's literature -- and art. He was lucky to study with an award-winning children's author who was also a Poet Laureate and a Pulitzer finalist, who inspired him with her friendship and kind guidance. Having children -- and now grandchildren -- has given Chip lots of opportunities to tell bedtime stories and draw pictures. Now, he's able to share his stories and drawings with everyone. His books are all rated 5 stars on Amazon; film rights for one, "Rocket Summer," have been sold.

Book preview

Rocket

Summer

Chip Street

Copyright © 2012 Chip Street

All rights reserved.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For my wife Cheryl, whose unending support of all my crazy distractions is kind of astonishing, and who is vastly more creative and talented than she gives herself credit for. I hope you know your spirit inspires me.

For my kids Alyssa, Jesse, Tyler, and Max, who have always been a constant source of joy and pride. If there are any lessons to be learned or insights to be had from this silly thing I do, they're for you.

For my dad Ernie, who respected yellow jackets, and taught his children to appreciate shoes. Every now and then I open my mouth and your voice falls out.

For my mom Beverly, who loved to write and draw and paint, but was unable to pursue them as she would have liked. Who instead gave me a typewriter and books, paper to draw on, and all the freedom in the world to explore. I wish I’d known you better and longer.

***

Additional thanks to my wonderful reader/editors, Sean Meehan, Brian Sharp, Stuart Ellis, Donna Brodsky, Matthew Galvin, and Jennifer Holm.

ABOUT VIRLAND’S EAR

I wrote Rocket Summer as my first screenplay in 2003.

One big proponent of the script was Virland Stan Harris, an independent film producer here in California. Stan helped me develop the script and gave me lots of notes over the years. In the original story, the kids hung out in a giant roadside armadillo; it was Stan who recommended changing it to a giant ear of corn called Virgil’s Ear.

Stan eventually purchased the screenplay so he could finally make the movie he had championed for so long. He sadly and unexpectedly passed away just months later.

Although I miss the giant armadillo, when it came time to write the book, I took Stan’s advice and left the giant ear of corn.

Now called Virland’s Ear.

Thanks, Stan, for believing in this story almost as much as  me.

See other books by Chip Street.

Things may seem complicated,

but the answers are simple.

Life is not rocket science.

1

WE WILL ROCK YOU

It was half past sunset and still hot, the mountains a purple cutout against a ruddy orange sky. On either side of the highway, long automated irrigation pipes slowly marched down rows of potatoes on six-foot knobby tires, and the sprinklers blew a cool mist across the dusty asphalt.

Kenny Kingman rode through the spray on a tiny mini-bike. It was little more than a chain saw with wheels, a boom-box taped to the handlebars blasting music. At twelve, he was already long and gawky, and his legs were folded against his chest like a lawn chair. He was wearing that shiny motorcycle helmet with the flames he painted on the sides, and his trench coat flapped like a cape, the spray swirling behind him in a corkscrew vortex as he passed.

The mist was cool relief as it beaded up on his face and he opened his mouth to catch a drink on the fly. He wiped the moisture off his old aviator goggles with the back of a gloved hand, and peered into the distance. Up ahead, high banks of blazing white lights drowned out the sunset and emerging stars, and somewhere under the glare people cheered.

He was late, but he’d had to finish wrangling the stupid goats out of the back field and microwaving dinner for his dad, so he’d just got loose, and now he was head down and hoping to get to the track before the race was over.

Darlene’s race.

He broke into a big grin, and sped up toward the lights.

***

Under those floodlights the fairground was bright like noon. The grandstand trembled as four hundred people screamed and whooped and stomped in time to We Will Rock You, waving colored towels and paper flags at a dozen muddy  stock cars roaring around a dirt racetrack, banging and crashing and battling for the lead.

Sliding sideways around the far end came a battered Chevy Camaro, spattering slag as it skated by the cyclone fence with wheels chattering, spray painted in spotty black primer and a skull and crossbones on the door.

Strapped into the racing bucket with a three-point harness was Darlene Kingman. She had her long blond hair stuffed inside a full face helmet and mud was dotted across her goggles. At seventeen years old she was already a three year veteran of these Wednesday night races and the only girl who wrenched her own ride. Half the men here had raced her dad back when, and though they didn’t seem to hold that against her they didn’t cut her any slack either, that’s for sure. But that made winning all the sweeter, and she was no stranger to that, if she could just keep the car running right and the wheel pointing left.

Her mouth was firm but there was a trace of a grin at the corner, and she was wrestling with the wheel to keep the car on the track when:

Her head snapped back and the car lurched, jammed from behind by another driver, a wiry guy with no front teeth called Boo. Boo had a grin like a yellow picket fence with the gate open, and he aimed it at Darlene as he passed, gave her a gotcha finger pistol and pulled the trigger, then slid his car right down in front of her.

Darlene smiled quietly. They’d played this game before and Boo was weak on turn three.

She shifted gears and slammed the accelerator. The engine roared. Pressure gauges red-lined. She drifted sideways on the slick mud, pulling past Boo as they rounded the far end of the track.

It was a cat and mouse game then, Darlene and Boo trading paint as the crowd cheered its approval, not-so-secretly hoping for a good crash; maybe not killing anyone but still giving that old second-hand hearse they used for an ambulance an excuse to roll. There was no crash as Darlene pulled into the lead and pointed her car at the empty track in front of her, so the crowd cheered that instead, and stomped.

We Will Rock You.

Suddenly, Darlene’s car sputtered and lurched; the engine struggled, losing speed. Pressure gauges all dropped to zero.

Aw, cra—

Her head snapped back again as Boo slammed her, and the Chevy went spinning across the infield and into the hay bales. The car rocked to a stop in a haze of straw and dust as the rest of the cars disappeared past the pits.

She stared at the dead gauges in disbelief. She felt her face go hot as the frustration boiled up, and it found its way down her arms and into her fists and she sprayed spittle through clenched teeth as she pounded on the wheel.

The engine replied with a hiss and a tick. It was done.

***

Five minutes later the tow truck dragged the dead Chevy into the pit under a yellow flag, Darlene standing on the running board. She was an easy five foot ten, somehow striking even under the mud and sweat, with strong hands and strong cheekbones and piercing green eyes. She stepped off before the truck came to a full stop, and was greeted by two smaller scrappy looking kids about her age. She shoved her helmet at the red-haired one, the boy with the big head, the crew cut and the wide-set eyes. What was that all about, Dwayne? she growled. She pronounced it like Doo-Wayne. She seized like a pig!

Dwayne cowed a little as he took the helmet and swapped her a sweat-stained NASCAR cap. She pulled the cap on, threading her sweaty hair through the back as the girl in the filthy overalls, Dwayne’s big sister Maggie, helped her into a beat-up NASCAR jacket.

Dude! Maggie flashed a silver-capped smile and gave Darlene a soda. That was so awesome! You almost had ‘im!

Darlene drained the soda in one long draw, let loose a huge belch. "Almost don’t get me no five hundred dollar First." She watched as Dwayne helped the tow truck driver release her wounded car.

Maggie’s smile dissolved into her brown face, and she said quietly, Yeah, well, still, it was cool.

Darlene struggled with the hood, popped it open. Smoke billowed out. Jeeze, she groaned, leaning over the engine. Who taught you guys how to use a wrench?

She turned and bumped into Kenny.

The heck –- she sputtered.

Kenny beamed, his yellow hair a tangle and those old military goggles still draped around his neck. He held up a hand for a high five. That was awesome, Darlene!

"That was awesome, Darlene mimicked back at him in a squeaky voice. Why does everyone think wrecking my car was so freakin’ awesome? I lost, Captain Oblivious. She swatted Dwayne with her hat. Thanks to this idiot!"

Kenny bared his big teeth in a hopeful smile and held out a wrench. Darlene grabbed the wrench and waved him off. She didn’t need him all underfoot and in the way like always; she had another heat coming up. Get lost, Kenny. Work to do.

I can help, Dee -–

Go on home, Stupid, before Dad comes to!

The light drained out of Kenny’s smile as Dwayne and Maggie laughed. He pulled on his motorcycle helmet, straddled his mini bike, and yanked the starter cord.

It sputtered and died. He yanked again.

Nothing.

One more time. The bike refused. He sighed, looked up at the others. You sure you don’t need me?

No answer. They were all under the hood of the car, arguing.

He turned away, and pushed the bike silently out of the pit.

2

BETTER THAN A DEAD ARMADILLO

Kenny lived in a sad old house slumped in an overgrown yard filled with staccato chickens tut-tutting as they scratched for bugs.

The house looked tired, shoulders sagging like it was just too depressed to sit up straight and would rather be back in bed. It gathered a tattered blanket of scrubby waist-high shrubs up close around its peeling face; half drawn window shades made drooping eyelids trying desperately to keep the morning away. From inside, the sound of breaking glass escaped out into the heat, followed by the shouts of an angry man, and the chickens fluttered awkwardly to the safety of the roof.

The screen door slapped open as Kenny stepped out onto the porch and into the sun. He shut the screen and leaned his back on it, trying not to hear the yelling inside. In spite of the heat he wore his trench coat and helmet, the army goggles hanging at his neck.

He looked off into the distance at Lacey Patterson’s house, half a mile away. They’d been neighbors forever, and friends just as long, and while their houses were too far apart for cans and string, they had a way of communicating just the same. He watched as a thin vapor trail rose silently into the air from the field behind her house, scribing a white line into the blue sky. Then a puff of smoke at its apex, and something floated slowly back to earth.

He smiled, pulled on his goggles, and stepped into the sun.

***

Lacey’s front yard was lined with shade trees, the green grass a patchwork of light and shadow. Lacey came round front from the side of the house; she was thirteen, her brown hair pulled back in a braid with the loose parts making parentheses around inquisitive almond-shaped eyes, and her skin looked perpetually tan even though she wasn’t one for sunbathing and rarely went swimming. She was holding a model rocket, folding the parachute into the nose cone, and her dog Puck was right on her heels, one of those smart little tan and white short-haired dogs with the perky ears and the bright eyes.

Charlie Baker, Lacey’s other best friend, the one besides Kenny, was lying on his back on the cool grass, his feet up on a folding chair, writing in a battered journal. He was on the younger side of thirteen, still growing at a reasonable pace instead of sleeping on a rack and waking up in short pants like his dad said, and he was getting outpaced by most of the boys at school and all the girls too. He had dark hair and serious dark eyes, and he chewed on a pencil eraser as he stared up through the lacework of leaves in search of the right words. The words didn’t come, but the