Grrrrrr, rumbled Grit.
The back of Brady’s neck prickled. He slid his eyes away from Grit and stuck his head out the window. It opened onto a narrow strip of shingled roof. A metal drainpipe stuck up at the end: his escape route.
Brady licked his lips. Guys did things like that in books. Not in real life.
He peeked over his shoulder. Grit stared at him, his yellow eyes unblinking. A thin thread of saliva hung from the corner of his mouth. He yawned, showing a mouthful of deadly looking teeth. With a grunt, he flopped down on his stomach. His eyes never left Brady.
Brady made up his mind. He scrambled through the window and squatted on the shingles. He kept one arm hooked over the windowsill. It was as hot as a furnace on the roof.
The houses on Gramp’s street were close together. They had neatly mowed lawns and picket fences. All but Gramp’s. A rusty barbed wire fence surrounded Gramp’s yard. The grass was long and brownish. Gramp called it his hayfield. Mom said if Gramp didn’t let her cut it soon, the man from City Hall would complain.
Brady looked at the grass with interest. The City Hall man was probably due any day now. Too bad. The hayfield was one of the few things he and Gramp agreed on. It was a great place for building forts or pretending you were an explorer. You could get lost in Gramp’s hayfield for days.
Laundry fluttered on the clothes-line at the yellow house next door. A woman opened an upstairs window and shook out a cloth. The people had been away since the beginning of the summer, but they must have got back last night.
Brady took a deep breath and inched along the roof. A shingle broke loose and clattered over the edge. He gulped and fixed his eyes on the piece of drainpipe sticking up at the end. He’d be okay if he didn’t look straight down.
Brady looked. Just one peek. Down. Way down. Into the tall grass of Gramp’s hayfield. A wave of dizziness swept over him. The hayfield swirled into a brown blur. His stomach lurched. He pressed up against the side of the house, closed his eyes and counted to ten.
A heavy thud interrupted his counting. He opened his eyes and looked back. Grit’s two front paws rested on the windowsill. His eyes blinked in the bright sun. When he saw Brady, a low growl rumbled in his throat.
With a yelp, Brady scuttled on his hands and knees the rest of the way. He grabbed the top of the drainpipe with both hands. His heart thumping wildly, he slid his legs over the edge and wrapped them around the drainpipe.
Roooo, howled Grit.
Brady closed his eyes again. The drainpipe slipped through his sweaty hands. Halfway down he heard a ripping sound. He felt himself swing out into the air. He landed with a thump on his back.
For one whole minute Brady thought he was dead. Then he wiggled his toes. He wiggled his fingers. Slowly he sat up. He pushed the piece of broken drainpipe off his legs.
He had made it! Brady glanced nervously at the house. The vacuum cleaner roared from the living room. A wide grin spread across his face. He raced through the long grass to the old garage.
The garage door creaked when he pulled it. For a second Brady froze. He looked back at the house again. Then he slipped inside.
Pale light filtered through the dusty window, but he couldn’t see much. Just a big black shape in the shadows. Brady opened the door wider, letting in a shaft of sunlight. It gleamed on shining chrome and metallic red paint.
“Wow,” said Brady softly.
A monster truck sat high up in the air on huge tires. A big black “67” was painted boldly on the door. Golden lightning bolts zigzagged along the sides. Across the hood, in red-and-orange letters that looked like flames, flashed the words Desert Racer.
Desert Racer. Wow. A truck like this could go anywhere. Brady’s heart thumped. How could Gramp have kept this a secret?
Brady opened the door and slid onto the seat. The truck was open at the front with no windshield. He gripped the steering wheel and pressed his back into the seat. Hot wind blew against his face. The crowd roared.
Brady licked his lips. He’d give anything, anything, for a ride in Desert Racer.
A shadow fell across his face. A voice said, “Hey! Cool truck.”
Brady spun sideways. A witch stood in the doorway. Brady blinked. The witch stepped inside. She was just a girl, a girl with a black hat and green hair.
The girl smiled. “I’m Abra. I live next door. We heard you were coming.”
“Oh,” said Brady. He stared at her. She looked weird.
“Does your grandfather ever drive this thing?”
“Of course,” said Brady stiffly. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t have a clue. “But no one except Gramp and me are supposed to know about it,” he added quickly, “so don’t go telling people.”
Abra shrugged. “Sure.”
Brady climbed out of the truck. He had a wild hope that Gramp would leave the garage door open from now on. He could sit in Desert Racer whenever he came to visit.
“Come on,” he said to Abra.
Brady closed the door carefully behind them. The open padlock dangled on the latch. For a second Brady considered slipping it into his pocket. But Gramp might get suspicious.
“Aren’t you going to lock it?” said Abra.
“No.”
Abra flicked a piece of her green hair. “How come you were on the roof?”
Brady looked startled. She asked a lot of questions. He said in a low voice, “I was locked in the attic. Without oxygen. And an alien was guarding the staircase!”
Abra tilted her head and gave him a long hard look. Her eyes were green, like her hair. Brady sighed. It was just his luck that a girl lived next door. A weird girl.
On Jupiter there were probably no girls. And no dogs.
And then Brady froze. A movement in the middle of Gramp’s hayfield had caught his eye. The day was hot and windless, but the tall grass was moving.
Brady stared harder. Something was creeping through Gramp’s hayfield. It rippled through the grass like a snake, and it was heading right towards him.