Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars by Cory Putman Oakes Page A

called her, sir, just like you told me to. She’s a big soccer fan. I had to tell her I’d gotten a ride to Mars with Sylvia Juarez!”
    â€œYour mother was your only call?” my grandfather growled.
    â€œUm, well, yes, sir. But I have a feeling she may have called a few more people. Like, maybe the radio station that gave me the ticket.”
    â€œI have a feeling you’re right,” my grandfather said, letting out a deep sigh.
    The Martian police eventually returned to let us out. By then, we had all decided that we should spend the night at Sylvie’s apartment. It was nearby and conveniently empty, since Sylvie’s mom was on Earth and Sylvie’s dad was still missing.
    By the time we got there, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. But since this was my first time in a Martian apartment, I managed to notice (and be disappointed by) the fact that it looked pretty much like a regular Earth apartment. Sort of. Except that almost everything was made out of metal. The walls, the furniture, and even the floors were all gleaming and metallic. Between those and the large windows, which looked out over another apartment building next door, the place felt a little bit like a giant aquarium.
    I went to sleep that night in camel position. But even so, I felt a bit like a hamster. Or a maybe a lizard. Or some other animal that lived in a glass cage…
    â€¢ • •
    The next morning, sunlight was streaming through the humongous floor-to-ceiling windows in my room.
    My brain registered that as odd, since we were underground, but then my stomach called attention to itself with a warning growl. My dinosaur appetite was not something to be trifled with, and I had eaten rather lightly yesterday. Today, it seemed, my stomach was taking action to make sure that didn’t happen again.
    On the other side of the bed, Elliot was still asleep. Flat on his back, with one arm thrown over his eyes. His feet were hanging so far off the end of the tiny, Martian-sized mattress that he looked like one of those melted clocks in the Salvador Dalí paintings we had studied in art.
    I tiptoed out of the room so as not to wake him.
    Across the hall, the door to Sylvie’s room was shut. She must still be asleep too. The heap of blankets outside her door (Venetio’s bed, since there was no actual bed within ten meters of Sylvie’s) was empty. The Plutonian at least was awake.
    I found him sitting awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.
    The Juarezes’ kitchen was one of those weird, fancy, ginormous kitchens where it’s hard to find the refrigerator. I guess the fanciness made sense, considering that both of Sylvie’s parents were trained chefs. There were several rows of cabinets without any obvious way to open them and two large islands. There was also a very serious-looking stove, which my grandfather was standing in front of. He raised a spatula to me in greeting and then continued muttering to himself as he banged around several skillets.
    I looked back down at Venetio. He had a plateful of eggs balanced on his lap. I gestured to the empty kitchen table on the other side of the room.
    â€œWhy—” I began.
    He raised one arm in the air—the one with the tracking bracelet the Martian customs official had put on him yesterday. Then he very deliberately moved his wrist an inch farther from the door.
    The bracelet emitted a high-pitched beeping sound, which made me jump. Venetio pulled his arm back and the beeping stopped.
    â€œThis is as far from her as I’m allowed to go,” he explained. Then, raising his voice and angling his head so that his words rumbled down the hallway, “So I’ll just sit on the floor ! Until somebody decides to get her lazy, Martian butt out of bed!”
    â€œBite me, Pluto!” came an enraged voice from down the hall behind Sylvie’s door. “I’m getting my beauty rest here!”
    â€œGood luck