Is Roy Ray's new resolve from the last chapter for real?  Does it last into this chapter? When a character makes an important decision, like our hero did at the end of Chapter 18, he usually is presented with a test soon after.  Roy Ray's test is coming up now: he has to take a stand, and then make a move.  Which of those do you think would be harder to do?

First he has to figure out what kind of "message" he just received through Gyorgi.  As you'll soon see, it's a diagram.  Can you see it from the description?  One way to tell is to try to draw the diagram from the description given.  If you want to try it, draw two egg-shaped ovals and then write in the numbers and symbols as described in the first seven paragraphs.  If you can't do it, then I have to write a better description.  Give me your thoughts here.  

Chapter Nineteen

BREAKOUT

Is this a joke? he wondered.

            Bat Boy's joke, not the coach's.  Gyorgi could rip a page out of magazine as easily as anybody.  But then . . . there was some kind of marking on the paper: very faint, mere scratches.  Looking closer, he could see they actually were scratches, made with a pin and some kind of brown stuff.  Like coffee, maybe?  Or . . . blood?

Over the bald scalp, he made out the numbers 1 through 6, each with a box around them.  Over the hairy scalp, 7 through 12.  There was an X at about seven o'clock on the bald scalp next to the 1.  In the middle was scratched a G - 4, with a bent line running from it to the edge of the guy's head.  On the other head, right at noon, was a rough sketch of a pair of wings, and the number 12.

The numbers with boxes had to all mean the same thing.  What about . . . "Floors," he whispered.  Levels, within a building.  The two heads were a diagram of the building he was in!  

That had to be it: X marked where he was, on level 1.  He remembered scooting down a tunnel behind Gyorgi and the sound of machinery in his ears, like the heating or air conditioning units they usually put either on the very bottom or the very top.  So if the boxed numbers were levels, the G - 4 would be where Mr. G was.  "Yeah!"  Kind of in the middle, and the bent line was the air duct he'd crawled along to get to his teacher's cell. 

Which left the wings, on level 12.  What would that be?

He noticed two lines scratched between the wings--no, three.  They didn't seem to mean anything until he saw they were arranged in the rough shape of an A.  A is for . . . A is for . . .

"Avial!" he shouted, and immediately froze, at the unmistakable clicks of the keypad outside his door.

He rolled off the bed and stuffed all his secrets between the mattress: map, transmitter, remaining roll of bread.  Not a moment too soon, for the second after he slid his hand out from under the mattress, Jody--or Buffy--popped around the corner of the bed.  "Hiding from us, are you, little man?"

Her sister meanwhile had crossed to the sky-blue wall beyond the arches, where dishes were scattered like pieces of pipe bomb.  "Oh, dear.  You've been terribly naughty, Roy Ray.  Luke won't like this at all, especially after your other little prank."

"Who's Luke?" he asked.

The other twin sank beside him on her knees, so close he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent.  "Somebody we don't talk about.  What are you doing, throwing your food away?"

"I didn't want it," he muttered.  "It's sucky food."  The pizza, ice cream, and cookies had turned into a jelly-ish gray smear on the wall.  And they expected him to eat that?

"It's special food," she insisted.  "Specially formulated for your . . . um . . . special needs.  All the others--"

"Buffy!" snapped like a whip from the other side of the room.

"I mean," Buffy went on, "all our specialists agree it's the proper diet for you, Roy Ray.  Because of your special qualities."  She reached out and tickled him under the humerous joint.

"Stop it!"  He squirmed out of her grasp.

Jody touched a blob of the "food" with her fingertips.  "Yech.  We'll have to call a scuz-bucket in here to clean up."

"She's supposed to come in today anyway," Buffy remarked.  "Change the sheets and all that.  So, Roy Ray--" She caught him by the foot as he scooted up to the bed to escape her.  "How come you're not eating like you're supposed to?"

He kicked his foot free.  "Leave me alone."

"Oh, now you've done it.  As soon as somebody says 'Leave me alone,' that's the last thing I want to do."  She pinched him on the leg.

Jody marched toward the bed, all business.  "We brought a milkshake and a couple of brownies for a snack, Roy Ray."

"Chocolate-cherry," Buffy said.  "My absolute favorite."

"And we're not going anywhere until you eat them."  Jody picked up the plate of brownies and set them on the bed within his reach.  "Eat."  She folded her arms.

Roy Ray folded his arms right back at her.  "No."

"You stubborn thing."  Buffy tickled him again.

"We're not kidding, Roy Ray.  You eat or else."

"Or else what?"

Jody sighed.  "Or else we make you.  Open up."

She picked up a brownie in one hand and with the other grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.  It happened so fast he barely snapped his mouth shut in time.  The brownie smashed against his teeth and crumbled.

"You bad boy!" Jody yelled.  "Hold him down, Buffy."

For girls, they were pretty strong.  One of them would have been a match for him, let alone two.  But (it occurred to him, while trying to wiggle out of their grasp) he did have one rather large advantage.

He worked his elbows free and hesitated half a second, for both his parents had drilled into him he should never, never hit a girl.

But Buffy tickled him again, and his elbows shot out practically on their own.

"Ouch!"  He'd caught Jody on the chin.

"Oof!"  Buffy got it in the stomach.

In the instant their grip loosened, he bounded off the bed and sprinted to the other side of the room, where he hovered just above their heads when they came at him.  For a few rounds he dodged them easily, but staying in the air was more work than operating on the ground.  They'd wear him out soon if he couldn't figure out a way to run them off. 

His eye fell on the tray beside his bed.  Aha!

Swooping to the nightstand, he picked up the tall glass on the tray.  As Jody rushed him, he hoisted the glass.  "Food fight!"

Half a milkshake splashed Jody, who let out a very girl-like scream, like you'd hear on any playground.  "Ooooh!  My best dress!  You ruined it, you little--Get him, Buffy!"

Buffy leapt up and caught his foot as he darted by, but he kicked free.  Hovering in the corner just above the farthest arch, he grinned at her--until she reached into a hidden pocket of her girlish flowing gown and took out a serious-looking handgun.  "Ready to go nighty-night, Roy Ray?"

He sprang behind the arches and skimmed along the blue-sky wall.  Reaching the wreck of his food tray, he scraped a blob from the wall, spun around and threw it at Buffy.  It caught the side of her face and startled her long enough for him to slam another handful between her eyes.

Buffy dropped her weapon and frantically rubbed her eyes.  Just what he was hoping for!  He scooped up the gun in time to hold off a couple of feisty, furious females.  "No closer," he told them, while balancing on the ledge.  He tensed his knees, ready to spring if they rushed him.  Because all he knew about a gun was how to point it.

"You are in big trouble, you jerk," Buffy spit at him, "Big, big trouble. Just wait till--"

"Shut up, Buffy," hissed her twin.  "He's made us look like idiots.  The first thing we have to do is figure out how to explain this."  They started backing up together, eyes fixed on him.  "But she's right about one thing, buster," Jody went on.  "You are in big trouble.  Enjoy this little break while you can.  Eat a brownie."

They had backed all the way to the door, which she reached behind her to open, watching Roy Ray like he was an animal with rabies.  Then they were gone.

Roy Ray nearly used up all his reflection time in a panic.  "Big trouble" was right: his next visitors would probably be tinheads who'd been told they didn't have to be nice to him.  Or maybe "Quentin" himself, wafting in on an artificial breeze, or this mysterious "Luke" nobody was supposed to mention.  Roy Ray bounced up to the ceiling and pushed on a tile, hoping he could squeeze through like Gyorgi.  But the tile didn't budge, nor did the next twenty or so he pounded.  Rats!  Bat Boy must have loosened some screws on the outside to get in. 

What about that loose panel under the arches, where he had got out the first time?  He flashed over the ledge and crouched by the panel, grasping the edges with his fingertips.

It wouldn't budge either.  They must have fixed it while he was asleep.  Fixed it from the other side--not even a screw showed.  Though he didn't have a screwdriver anyway.  He squatted on his heels, the panic rising from his gut to his stomach and crawling up his throat until he could feel it choking him . . .

Get ready.

The message was so clear it seemed to come from outside his head.  He leaned against the wall, heart pattering, feathers bristling.  Get ready how?

How did he get ready to go to school, baseball practice, work in Aunt Agnes's garden?

Grab your cap, put on shoes, get stuff together--

What stuff?

"I have a map," he said out loud.  "I have some bread.  I have a transmitter to Delphi and the radio, if she's listening."

Pack it up, he told himself.

He glided softly over to the bed and slipped his provisions from under the mattress.  Having no pockets, he pushed the bread under his tiebelt, rolled the map inside his sleeve, and the transmitter . . . after trying other options, he tucked it back in a fold of his jacket, within easy reach of his left hand. 

It looked like the only way out was through the door.  What if he stationed himself there, and when it opened to let in the goons, he'd flex his knees and spring over their heads and be halfway down the corridor before they even knew what hit them?

It just might work: if there weren't too many of them and the ceiling wasn't too low and they didn't blast him with stun guns and--

There it was!  A rattle at the door.  He checked his supplies one more time and took up a position.  The second the door cracked open, he'd grab it and fling it back and make his move.

Someone was fumbling with the lock.  It was a pretty good plan, he assured himself.  But once he was out, how would he find his way to . . .

There's the door: focus!

The lock sprang, the knob clicked and the door cracked open.  He reached up and threw it back so hard it bounced against the wall, then found himself face to face, not with a band of surly guards, but with a very surprised cleaning lady.

This, he decided, was good.  Even though she was roughly the size and weight of Bill the Lizard, he definitely had the advantage of surprise.

"Sorry, lady," he said, while grabbing her by the bib of her apron and upsetting her balance.  They performed a little do-si-do in the doorway and once he was outside he slammed the door on her, made a spring in the air and tripped over the mop bucket.

Water splashed the corridor, spreading to a soapy pond.  Shaking his foot loose from the bucket, he gave a mighty flap and sailed away, free as the proverbial bird.    

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