On the Move

By K.V. Flynn

Seven middle school kids, living in Surfside, CA, are best skateboard buddies. When the oldest of the gang, Justice, gets permission to take the bus down to the city, the whole posse decides to join him. They’re supposed to be just skating around their high school then studying for finals, but if they’re back in time, no one will know. It is a sweet trip full of laughs and tricks until Justice crashes on a 9-stair, crushing his shin and dislocating an arm. The boys are NOT supposed to be 25 miles from home, so they try to smuggle the bleeding buddy back on to the public bus and up to Surfside Urgent Care. But when the bus driver dials 911, their secret is blown. They are almost grounded from 8th Grade Promotion and all the celebrations marking the end of middle school.

The whole town sobers up when Justice goes missing on the eve of exams. The sheriff and counselors come to his home room and lay a rose on his desk; the kids are sure this is one of those “Every 15 Minutes” exercises to scare them all into drink-free driving and a sober prom. But wait: they aren’t even in High School yet! They don’t have Prom. This must be serious...and it is. Justice’s car has been found flipped into the surf at Matador Beach and burned; only his crutch and cast were recovered.

The kids’ band, Heart Attack, was slated to perform at promotion. Instead, they play Justice’s wake, then organize a paddle out to send his skateboard off to sea. Summer’s somber start does have one great light on the horizon, however: PEAK Skate Camp in Visalia. Two perfect weeks of skating and buddies, 24/7.
It is a blast: tricks with the pros, nature hikes that end in a skate launch off into the cool lake, late-night edit sessions and videos, more practice right after breakfast. Perfect—until our narrator, Callum, gets a crazy package at mail call that includes a mysterious note.

The boys are freaking out, not sure who to tell as they go over and over every possible meaning, when suddenly life becomes very complicated. The War that’s been brewing between Iran and Israel, then Israel and China, then China and the U.S., has escalated with the summer heat. The boys have seen the reports, heard their nervous parents, huddled with the camp counselors. But when the War moves home, and major cities all across the country come under attack, the boys don’t have their own parents to turn to about what to do next.

A second clue sends them on the road, headed north to meet their Native American buddy Obbie, who seems to have escaped the city with his cousin, Suri. They have a car at least, and maybe some additional information about their families, too. Obbie’s dad lives near Spokane, on a reservation—they were headed there for summer break, but now this becomes a possible safe haven where the boys can sort out a world gone crazy while they are on the move.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.V. Flynn
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311651013

K.V. Flynn

K.V. Flynn is a writer who lives in Southern California, kind of near Manhattan-Huntington-Malibu Beach. His action-adventure book ON THE MOVE is about 14-year-old skater friends who are stranded at skate camp when a War breaks out. Follow the news about it at www.OnTheMoveBooks.com.He’s currently writing the prequel, ON THE RIM. His favorite ride is an 8.25" Krooked deck, Independent trucks, and 53 mm Spitfire wheels. He is half Spanish and half Irish. K.V. has a dog, and has been watching "Pretty Sweet" by Chocolate Skateboards, "Stay Gold" by Emerica, and "The Deathwish Video" by Deathwish Skateboards. What about you!?He and his bros regularly cruise Venice, Stoner, Skatelab, and Van’s. Talk back: [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter One

We were all up at PEAK Skate Camp when it happened. Well, okay, not all of us. Some of the crew, we hooked up with them later. But all of us guys had dreamt about spending our summer up at PEAK together for the entire year. Skateboarder’s paradise. High up in the woodsy mountains. Maybe a six-hour drive from home.

On that shocking Tuesday morning, it was mid-July. Breakfast time. Everybody chowing down in the Commons. Usual pulpy OJ. Soggy toast. Halfway-decent eggs. Martin was yapping about where’s the French toast, when all of a sudden my buddy Levi told us all to shut up.

Wait — Sal! — turn that up. He waved to the big guy who manned the snack-shack.

The odd snack shack guy always had the radio on inside the Commons. Nonstop rock oldies during mealtime. But that morning, it was not playing music.

"…Air Force jets have been scrambled out of Langley Air Base and Fort Bragg, broke in to the Led Zeppelin set. It was a man’s newsy voice — static-y, though. Kind of in and out. … enemy planes… he blurted, …Atlanta and Chicago airspace."

Then we heard a second voice jump in. A woman’s, but also like a bulletin, sharp and straight-talking.

"Massive destruction, Carl, we heard, as she suddenly came in more clearly. Severe damage reported from sporadic sources in target cities. Major broadcasters and transponders are critically damaged, as well."

Carl came on again. Gave some call numbers, said he was from a SoCal radio station.

"He’s near us. Levi gulped. I hear that guy all the time. Driving around with my mom."

I honestly thought we were listening to a play or something. Everybody sounded frantic.

Snack shack Sal banged on the AM box, twisting its wires. The Carl voice still came in scratchy.

"…hear from NBC affiliates, Jana… six black aircraft over New York City… explosions… train stations — Penn, Grand Central. And black clouds over Wall Street…"

We knew all those places, too. That’s when I guessed this had to be something real.

Sal flew across the dining hall to the television. Yanked out the DVD wires. Jammed a spikey cable into the back of the machine. The whole week-and-a-half we’d been at PEAK, we’d all assumed the set didn’t work. That the TV was just there to watch skate videos at night. But it roared to life.

C’mon. I pulled my best buddy, Apollo, and his little brother, Kaspar, closer to the snowy screen. Levi perched on a torn sofa. Other camper kids folded cross-legged on the floor, staring at the fuzzy-sounding box.

Is that National News Network? Levi asked.

Sal fiddled until the image was halfway decent. We could just barely make out a woman’s face. The words, Katie Solis, NNN Los Angeles, were typed below it, along with a flashing red band that said Breaking News. Next to her sat an African-American announcer in dark-framed glasses. Jon Karz, his card said.

Whoa! some kid blurted. A parade of big black planes flew across the screen. Five jets wide, dozens of rows deep. Like out of a Roger Waters concert. "Where is that?"

"…this dramatic footage just in from NNN Atlanta…"

The Latina anchor, Katie, broke in. "Looks like Mikyann 1.44 fighter jets, Jon." The footage was crappy — like somebody shot it on their phone. But still, it made a crazy loud rumble.

The heads on TV kept telling us where they saw planes: first here, then in another city way over there. But not actually what was happening. We saw things flying too, sure. Mostly on shaky camcorders, and blurry. No real theories or explanations were coming from the program. Still, we got the message.

Foreign planes, Apollo deduced.

Attacking our country, Levi added.

Suddenly Katie gasped. "Is that a mushroom cloud?" The screen behind her went black. All that was left to see was she and Jon, staring blankly at one another.

"Bye-bye, blue sky…" Levi hummed. I think he was in a trance.

Then a computer map suddenly filled the screen. Red lights and white, flashing on cities across America.

"Chicago reporting catastrophe... Ms. Solis trailed off as she listened to her earpiece then, like she suddenly remembered we were watching, said, Major damage downtown. Both airports. Something else…"

The white lights meant they had reports from the ground.

"Hearing now from Miami, Tampa, New Orleans."

Flash. Flash. Flash. Like a Christmas tree.

Martin connected the dots of lights. It’s like there are little paths.

Of da bomberth? Apollo’s brother lisped.

The radio guy blurted, "Every major city with a population over 500,000… East of the Sierras, same story…"

Our minds worked a mile a minute. It was summer. Our families took trips all over the place. We had cousins on the east coast. Grandparents in major cities near the Great Lakes. And, what about our side of the country?

"Denver calling in, Katie." A big white light lit up on the TV board.

Levi suddenly woke up. My grandma’s there!

Then, it went red. NNN had lost them.

Counselors started to herd kids away from the set. The littler ones were melting down. Older boys stayed transfixed by the inky explosion poofs. The loud blasts. The march of lights across America. Clouds grew out of the earth like fast black bushes. Bombs from underground seemed to eat whole city blocks. Smoke and debris rained down on people or swallowed them along with the camera guys.

I nudged Apollo. Better get Kaspar outta here. He was only seven. But, just then, my best buddy, A, smooshed closer to the screen instead.

Man, that looks like Ontario, he said, almost touching the screen. That’s … oh! He winced. A Cucamonga neighborhood in Southern California had taken a pounding.

Guasti Park… I confirmed. Trees, swings, a pedal-boat pond. They were all across the street from Apollo’s house, basically. By the big airport there. I’d been to his block a bunch of times. Suddenly, the nearby runways and everything else around crumbled in front of our eyes.

We’re outta here. Levi and Martin tugged me and my buddies away. Kids clung to their cabin counselors, they were so weirded-out. Kaspar tucked his whole head beneath Apollo’s knees like a joey in its mom’s pocket.

PJ Steele, the rich kid at camp who we knew from our town, Surfside, looked at the insanity and just announced, I’m calling my dad to come get me.

Gotta stick together, bro, I reminded him. I was sure of that. Between the nervous anchors and the jittery cameras, we didn’t know what we’d been seeing half the time. But we needed to hang with one another, figure it out. At least until we knew if stuff was happening everywhere, or just in spots. Whether if it was some punishment or supposed to scare us into doing something in particular. Grab your boards.

Chapter Two

I gotta go back. That day of the bombings blew our minds. But the craziness hadn’t started there. In fact, three weeks before we’d gotten to PEAK camp, my friends and I had already been in a bad situation. One of our skate buddies actually died.

In a way, it had all begun on a normally great day. Maybe the best kind of skate day, if you ask me. Unfortunately, it had ended up as our worst in a long, long time. It was a Sunday, just before the last days of middle school. I’d met up with two of my other pals, Mateo and Obbie, to skate our school. Of course, skateboarding wasn’t allowed at Surfside High. And SSHS has a sleepover caretaker. But we were experts at eluding him. We still had some homework to do back home that weekend. And our final exams were coming up soon. But the local skatepark didn’t open until 1:00, so an early Sunday, skating the school, should have been righteous. Even the weather had been perfect, with just enough cloud cover for rolling tricks on asphalt without a blasting heat…

****

Mom dropped me off around eleven. It looked like nobody was around yet, but then, I heard the clatter roll of boarders behind the humanities block. A cheer went up. And then some laughter drifting through a gap in the locked fence. I promised Mom that I’d be home by three for sure.

My best friend, Apollo, was already there. His little brother, Kaspar, was with him, like always. The two of them were coasting down a handicap ramp next to the music room and then jumping the handrail. My band buddies, Mateo and Obbie, lumbered down the grass slope from where Mateo lived above the baseball diamond, their boards under their arms. Obbie seemed to tower over Mateo from that distance. Just then, our high school friend, Justice, arrived. He opened his dad’s car door before it had even come to a stop.

Can I have the camera? I saw him ask his father through the window. His eyes were hidden like a sheepdog’s under curly bangs. And some money? Already six feet tall, Justice had to fold down to his father’s level. His little blonde stepsisters passed him a beat-up HD camcorder case from the back seat. He ignored them, too.

I gave you fifty dollars already.

Did not, Justice was arguing as I rolled up. Twenty.

Hi, Mr. V. I peered into the car and grinned at the kids behind him.

That’s Layne’s brother! the preschool girl squealed.

Hi ya, Callum. The other sister waved.

I gave her a salute.

What do you need it for? The bus is only a dollar fifty…

That, lunch… and, what if I need something?

Honestly, Justice. His dad threw him another twenty, like he never believed a word his son said. At least be careful with the camera.

Justice was always on the verge of being kicked out. Of class. Of school. Of something. I’d heard moms whisper about him, as though he was already somebody to be afraid of. But to us, he was just a fierce skater.

"Ugh, Justice exhaled then kicked onto his board as Mr. V drove the family out of the parking lot. Let’s hit it."

And we did just that. Apollo had grabbed Obbie and Mateo as they snuck into our high school from the sports field side. They were warming up together on the handicap ramps, doing little gap jumps into the grass.

Wha’sup? Apollo bumped my fist as I rode up with Justice. The day had just gotten even better. For the past twelve years — since we were two and a half — Apollo had been my best friend. His hair was as wavy and golden as mine was straight and dark. His eyes were pale blue like stones under water. He could do anything athletic — skate, surf, play tennis — but he was also a really good student. Since preschool, we’d had endless fun together. There wasn’t anything I didn’t love doing if Apollo was there. He moved away from Surfside around kindergarten, but we still got together every few weeks to surf or skimboard. We’d race around playgrounds in his town or mine, nailing the slides or inventing goofy games. And we even rode matching kick scooters at the same time, before getting into the skater thing.

Moving! We followed Mateo as he snaked around our concrete amphitheater. Over by the loading docks were big green dumpsters that swallowed up our lunch detritus on school days.

You in town for a while? I asked Apollo, cruising next to him along a concrete walk way.

Yeah, school’s out for us. Apollo zigzagged back to do a front feeble on the music-room rail.

It felt weird not to know that he and his little brother were down for the weekend. It used to be, whenever I went to Cucamonga or he came to Surfside, we were there to hang with one another. He knew all of my buddies, of course, from birthday parties or surfing club. But today, he seemed to be spending the weekend with friends other than me. That was strange.

Check it! Justice had found a funky used gym pad poking out from behind the bins. Positioned off the metal dock, this could be a wildly fun landing spot.

Justice and I muscled the pad out into the open. Mateo chased Obbie up the steps to the loading area, ready to be the first at trying the new jump. Little Kaspar hovered close behind Apollo’s leg. He was only half our height, but always kept his eyes trained on the movements of the bigger boys then gave them a shot himself.

Obbie skittered down the concrete dock, built some speed, nosed his board upward, then rotated it like a helicopter blade. Ollie in the air! His long black hair flew straight out from his head. Reaching down with one hand, he grabbed the edge of his flying board. Apollo gave him five when he hit the mattress and flashed a white grin.

We launched more aerials off the dock then tried tricks along the muddy little steps that led up to the dumpsters. After half an hour, we were sweaty, and pretty much over that spot.

Let’s climb up to the Boys and Girls Club, Mateo urged. He was short and wiry, always ready to move on to something new and different. The ramp is great now, and no one is around to bug us.

Surfside B&G was a bunch of pre-fab buildings hooked together next to the water polo pool.

And no one to make us put helmets on, Apollo added, guzzling a water bottle.

B&G has a chain across it, I reminded them.

We can hop that. Justice had already snatched up his board and was heading toward the hill.

"No — like, laid across. All the way across the half-pipe."

Can’t be skated, Obbie said, bummed, as he threw some coins in the machine for a soda. He was a tall Native kid who was always eating or drinking or planning his next snack.

Mateo bristled with nervous energy. "We just need to do something great... He had a little accent from his hometown in Oaxaca, unlike his older sister, Emma, who just sounded like all the rest of us. We aren’t going to be together for, like, months."

Except for skate camp, I said.

PEAK! Apollo’s little brother, Kaspar, said, almost under his breath. This was a lot out of Kaspar. The kid could out-skate kids twice his age, but he wasn’t much of a talker.

Totally. Apollo was so ready for two rocking weeks at PEAK. And me, I’d been waiting for it all year. Especially the chance to ride with pros from our favorite companies like Lakai, etnies, Chocolate, and Girl.

"Yeah… without me, man. Mateo pouted, sounding bummed as usual that his mom never had the money to send him. Instead, she always took him with her to help at her summer job, cooking for a junior blind camp. You headed to PEAK, too, Apollo?"

Yeah. ‘Cuz my dad is a rep for Volcom, they let us go on scholarship.

Sweet! Obbie whistled. He’d told me how bugged he was that he couldn’t go with us, either. He spent all of his summers on a reservation with his dad and cousins. Both you guys?

Kaspar popped up on his tail, down on his nose. Up on his tail, down on his nose. No answer. But he was the most nimble seven-year-old ever.

Hey, my brother’s the same age, and he would never jump off a three-stair or do a fastplant on an empty pool. On the other hand, my brother actually talks in complete sentences, which is more than I could say for Kaspar.

Nah — your brother, he’s too little, Mateo answered. Isn’t he?

He goes where I go.

Mateo nodded. It was understood about the Loomars. Obbie’s mind was working, though.

"So before we split for summer, let’s go do something! How about this?"

We all circled round Obbie, and he threw out his plan.

Chapter Three

Obbie’s idea was to take the bus to the city east of ours, down the coast, and hit the much, much bigger high school there. Then, meet up with our parents back in Surfside that afternoon like we had never left. Justice already had permission to go down to town. And studying for exams didn’t matter much to him, anyway. He was this close to being pushed out of Surfside High for tardiness and arguing.

I have to do my science packet at three, I threw out there. But I was still up for a road trip, for sure.

We’ll so be back by then, Obbie calculated. It’s what, thirty minutes to get down there...?

Once the bus picks us up…

"And they love to pass us by," Mateo grumbled.

Especially when it’s raining… Bus drivers seem to hate Surfside kids for some reason.

That’s on Fridays, guys, when there’s a crush of us after early out, Obbie argued. C’mon, for sure they’ll stop for just us today.

"The drivers are so mean." Mateo was bouncing again, talking himself into the idea.

Obbie kept on us. Let’s try it — thirty minutes down then we hit the seven-stair at Huntington High…

"The nine…" Justice piped up as he fiddled with his video camera.

Ok — yeah, if you’re nuts. And how about those rad square rails by the Java Joint? Grab a sandwich, we’re back by…

"By three!" The good thing was I could easily jump right off the northbound bus as it passed by my house going home.

What if they call or come looking for us? Mateo worried. Do we tell them we left the school?

Obbie had that covered. Just say we’re headed down to Daddy-o’s. It’ll seem like we’re right here around Surfside all along.

Apollo and Kaspar had been quiet, jumping a grass gap by the lunch benches.

You in? I asked them. Do you need bus fare?

Nah, we’ll stick around here. Lemme call my dad.

I’ll hang with you.

I borrowed a tool from Justice’s backpack and tightened my trucks while Apollo dialed his cell phone. A few minutes later, a huge, fancy black SUV pulled into the middle school parking lot. The horn honked. A red bristle-haired head popped out of the front passenger window.

Guys! It was PJ Steele, the super-rich sixth grade kid who lived right on the ocean near our school. Send down Apollo and Kaspar.

"That’s PJ’s dad?" Obbie asked, checking out the hip man in a polo shirt behind the wheel.

C’mon, he’s like, twenty, laughed Mateo. "Nah, it’s his driver."

Apollo looked a little embarrassed as he gathered up his stuff. He was an unlikely friend for a twelve-year-old like PJ, who was too old to have any real interest in little Kaspar. But the Loomar brothers loved to go over to the Steeles’ house, anyway. The family had a pool. And a pro-style ramp on their tennis court. All the food you could ever want, any time of day. Every movie and new toy that came on the market. Plus, Mr. Steele was the head of a record company, so they were always being driven off to concerts and cool rock network parties.

Hey, dudes, whazzup? PJ said as we followed Apollo down to the vehicle. He was two years younger than we were. A little stocky in a pit bull kind of way, with coppery hair and perfect teeth. Wanna come over?

Nah, thanks, man. Mateo was already streaking toward the bus stop. Justice was close behind, filming his moves.

I gave Apollo five. Later. With the Steeles on his playlist, I wouldn’t be hanging much with my friend over the next few weeks.

Apollo gave me a happy nod of his head. See you in July.

He was right. PEAK Camp would be excellent, no matter what.

Chapter Four

The guys were the greatest. Unfortunately, except for when we skate together, they don’t all get along.

Mateo and Obbie were already at the light, waiting to cross the highway to the bus stop when I coasted down the hill from Surfside High. As Justice filmed my roll, I did a little kickflip, caught in a crack, and toppled right into him. Mateo didn’t make fun of me, though, for once. He was already half railing, half laughing at Obbie about his English essay.

"You cannot use The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian for Kroos’s final, Obbie. Mateo was sure that Ob was about to make a critical error and not make it out of eighth grade English alive. Your book has to be set entirely outside the U.S."

Dude, it’s all on the rez. Obbie was a year older than us, but had always been in our class. He’d started school back on a reservation in Washington. Now, he lived with his mom and stepdad in Surfside. He was already so tall that he had to lean down to talk to Mateo, who was easily the shortest boy finishing middle school.

That’s by Spokane, right? I jumped in.

Mmm-hmm.

"Spokane, Washington, right? The state of Washington…?"

Yeah…

"A state that’s in the United States!" Mateo crowed.

"But it’s on the reservation," Obbie explained with his last bit of patience. That’s a sovereign nation.

Then he was over it, and stuffed his shoulder-length hair in a blue knit cap. I pushed him and Mateo out onto the crosswalk. The stupid 434 bus would leave without us if we were on the wrong side of the street when it came. No one wanted to miss a half hour at Huntington High, waiting for the next one.

"Then, it’s surrounded by the United States, so it’s in the United States, Mateo kept on. So it can’t be your book for the final."

"It’s a nation, man. Its own country. Can I borrow a quarter, Callum?"

I started to laugh. "It can’t be in the U.S. and not in the U.S. The final’s book has to be not in America."

The bus pulled up.

"You guys laugh all you want. But I’m telling Miss Kroos an Indian rez is not America, and that’s the book I read."

Now everybody was laughing. I was pretty sure that there was no way Obbie’d