No Passengers Beyond This Point

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1 - A CLOCK STOPS

  CHAPTER 2 - THE BROKEN LOCK

  CHAPTER 3 - OUR EX-HOUSE

  CHAPTER 4 - AIRPORT EXPLOSION

  CHAPTER 5 - MY SOLAR SYSTEM

  CHAPTER 6 - TIME CHANGE

  CHAPTER 7 - BEYOND THE JETWAY

  CHAPTER 8 - TRAVELS WITH CHUCK

  CHAPTER 9 - A COOL MOM

  CHAPTER 10 - COURTESY PHONE

  CHAPTER 11 - INDIA’S CAT

  CHAPTER 12 - THE RUMBLING

  CHAPTER 13 - AN ELEVATOR UP

  CHAPTER 14 - THE HEART FACTOR

  CHAPTER 15 - BIRDS

  CHAPTER 16 - PLUM-COLORED PANTS

  CHAPTER 17 - THE EMPTY SCREEN

  CHAPTER 18 - THE MARVINS

  CHAPTER 19 - A CRANE

  CHAPTER 20 - PASSENGER TIME

  CHAPTER 21 - WEATHER ALERT

  CHAPTER 22 - BIRD’S NEST PASSAGE

  CHAPTER 23 - MEMORY LOCKER

  CHAPTER 24 - THE BLUE TRAM

  CHAPTER 25 - TUNNEL DOGS

  CHAPTER 26 - PASSENGERS WAITING

  CHAPTER 27 - PERMANENT RESIDENT

  CHAPTER 28 - BOOM

  CHAPTER 29 - WELCOMER STATION

  CHAPTER 30 - RED ALERT

  CHAPTER 31 - PERIPHERY ROAD

  CHAPTER 32 - PROPERTY OF FB

  CHAPTER 33 - THE BLACK BOX

  CHAPTER 34 - FIREBALL

  CHAPTER 35 - BLUE SHOE

  Acknowledgements

  DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by The Penguin Group

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  Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Text copyright © 2011 by Gennifer Choldenko

  Art copyright © 2011 by Tyson Mangelsdorf

  All rights reserved

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Choldenko, Gennifer, date.

  No passengers beyond this point / by Gennifer Choldenko.

  p. cm.

  Summary: With their house in foreclosure, sisters India and Mouse

  and brother Finn are sent to stay with an uncle in Colorado until

  their mother can join them, but when the plane lands,

  the children are welcomed by cheering crowds to a strange place where each of them has a

  perfect house and a clock that is ticking down the time.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-56643-5

  [1. Fantasy. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C446265No 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009051661

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Glenys, Grey, Jody, and Herb—

  time stood still

  in the backseat

  on the way

  to Red Mountain

  BLACK CROWS

  You have to wait for good things to happen—wait and wait and work so hard—but bad things occur out of the blue, like fire alarms triggered in the dead of night, blaring randomly, a shock of sound, a chatter of current from which there is no turning back.

  There’s only the day that starts like any other, and when it ends, it leaves you shaken, wobbly, unsure of where you stand, the patch of ground that holds your feet dissolving, disintegrating from under you. Often there’s a sign, a harbinger of what’s to come. Sometimes there are many signs, like black crows scattered in the road, but they blend into the scenery on the path ahead. You can only spot them when you look back.

  CHAPTER 1

  A CLOCK STOPS

  My mom says worry is like a leaky faucet—every drip makes you imagine something bad on the way . . . trouble . . . trouble . . . trouble . . . do something . . . do something . . . do something.

  But when you’re twelve and the only guy in the house, you’re responsible for an awful lot. It isn’t just catching mice and taking out the garbage either. You’ve got to be aware.

  My sisters don’t worry at all. And my mother? She keeps her concerns to herself. When I ask her what’s wrong she just says nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.

  Still, the evidence is stacking up. The phone rings and my mom dives for it when the caller ID says Home Fi, short for Home Finance, which is the people we pay for our house. At dinner there’s mac and cheese and spaghetti and soup—but never chicken, steak, or takeout Chinese. And when it’s team night, there’s no money for pizza. I have to borrow from my six-year-old sister, Mouse, who counts five bucks from the dimes she tapes to the inside of her shoe.

  My older sister, India, has her head in girl world. On a good day, she resembles the crabby cafeteria lady who guards the ketchup with the voice of God. On a bad day . . . let’s not go there.

  It’s amazing how little penetrates India’s head. She doesn’t see how jumpy Mom is. She doesn’t notice how Mom spends all her time on her cell under the McFaddens’ big oak tree. Sure, the reception in our house is iffy, but we have a landline . . . why wouldn’t she use that?

  Mom’s not limping or coughing or skipping meals. There are no new doctor appointments on the calendar. But nothing else is written down either.

  India rolls her eyes when she talks to me about this. “She put the calendar online, Finn, get a grip, you’re like a little old man the way you worry.”

  “She hasn’t been using her credit cards either, have you noticed that?”

  “We’re broke.” India shrugs. “What’s new about that?”

  There’s no telling what Mouse makes of all this. Mouse is like Einstein on a sugar high. If Emily Dickinson and Galileo had a kid, that would be Mouse.

  And then there’s Bing, her invisible friend. We’ve told her scientists don’t have invisible friends, but she insists we’re wrong. I don’t know where she gets her information. Do all invisible friends know each other? Is there a clearinghouse for invisible facts? A social network? A chat room? These are the kind of questions you find yourself asking around Mouse.

  On the other hand, it makes sense that Mouse’s best friend is imaginary. What other six-year-old thinks the Internet is the secret way zeroes travel at night and the problem with prime numbers is they can’t have babies.

  And together, how do Mouse and India get along . . . like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing against each other.

  Still, part of me keeps hoping India is right. Maybe we are just broke . . . which isn’t that unusual.

  I’m headed for the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal—it’s a little-known fact
that guys can’t think without cereal. Only, all that’s left is one lone piece of shredded wheat so stale you could build a bunker with it. I toss the box in the recycling and Mouse pounces on me. She’s holding a picture she made of the backyard with our dog, Henry, and my basketball hoop. All of the refrigerator space down low is taken, so she orders me to put her drawing under the top magnet where my mom keeps PTA forms and permission slips.

  That’s when I see how many field trip forms are late. My mom is a teacher. She gets everything back on time.

  I track her down walking back from the McFaddens’, cell in hand.

  “Mom.” I wave the permission slips in her face.

  She nods as if she understands.

  My mom has long, straight brown hair like India’s and the same brown eyes as her too—big like in cartoons—only people don’t stare at her the way they stare at India. Coach P. said that’s because India’s “drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Not what I want to hear. It would be a lot easier to keep an ugly sister out of trouble, believe me.

  Mouse takes after our father’s side of the family. Her hair is a mess of red curls like a football helmet two sizes too large for her tiny freckled face. I resemble both sides: straight brownish reddish hair, lighter skin than my mom’s and India’s, but not freckly like Mouse. I’m short too—we’re all short.

  I could grow, though. It could happen. If you’re a short basketball player, you have to be three times better than anybody else. I’m not three times better than everyone else—not even close . . . but I’m working on it.

  I’m out there every morning before school doing drills, and I go to practice every afternoon. I help out so I don’t have to pay the league fees. I make myself useful, as my mom always suggests. I keep track of the water and the snacks and the drills we do each day. If Coach P. needs help rolling the basketball hoops to the parking lot to create an extra court, I’m the guy.

  At school I’m the person you borrow an eraser from or call for the homework assignment. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a teacher’s pet or anything. Kids like me okay. If you’re inviting a bunch of kids, you include me, but if you’re inviting one, I’m never the one. Everybody knows my first name: Finn. No one knows my last name: Tompkins.

  We’re inside now and my mom’s scanning the kitchen, her eyes skittering from cupboard to cupboard as if she’s developed a nervous tic. Oh no! What if she has MS? She’s not going to up and die on us like Dad did. Is she?

  “What’s the matter?” I ask her.

  She holds her breath, then lets the air out in a nervous burst. “Family meeting.”

  Family meeting? Why couldn’t she just have said nothing, like she usually does?

  I try not to hyperventilate as we head for the living room, which is also the den, the dining room, and my mom’s bedroom.

  Mouse is skipping and hopping next to Mom. In Mouse World, family meetings are fun.

  “India.” My mom raps on the bathroom door.

  “Do you mind? I’m peeing,” India snarls.

  “No she’s not,” Mouse calls. “She flushed already.”

  “Shut up, Mouse!” India shouts, tossing something against the door—the toilet paper roll probably, but a minute later the knob turns and she’s out. The skin around her nose is red and irritated as if it’s been freshly tortured.

  Mouse is jumping around like Tigger, and India is picking at her zits. At least my sisters are acting normal.

  Mouse snuggles next to Mom on the sofa bed. I sit in the overstuffed chair with Henry curled at my feet. Henry is part German shepherd, part who knows what else. The shelter said she was a boy, which is why we named her Henry. You would think the shelter would know the difference.

  India doesn’t sit anywhere. She wants to be able to make a quick exit. Quick exits are her specialty. “I have homework,” she announces. “How long is this going to last?”

  “I didn’t tell,” Mouse whispers to Mom.

  “Good girl.” Mom squeezes her hand, but her voice sounds as if it has been pounded flat.

  “Didn’t tell what?” I ask.

  “About the moving boxes,” Mouse says.

  Moving boxes!

  My mom’s eyes dart to me. She takes a ragged breath. “I should have told you sooner. I kept hoping I could make it go away.”

  India scowls. “Make what go away?”

  “We’re moving to Colorado. Fort Baker, just outside of Denver. We’re going to live with your uncle Red.”

  “WHAT?” The question explodes out of India’s mouth.

  My mother clears her throat. “We’re losing the house.”

  “What do you mean losing?” India demands.

  “The bank is taking it.”

  The words enter my brain, making me feel distant, as if my ears need to pop. My mom couldn’t have said we are losing our house, could she?

  “Banks don’t own houses,” Mouse says. “Otherwise our mailbox would say BANK OF AMERICA and it doesn’t, it says TOMPKINS. That’s how the mailman knows where we live. Five-four-one Morales Street, Thousand Oaks, California.”

  “Shut up!” India hisses.

  “India,” Mom warns, her fingers automatically forming bunny ears, which is her school’s hand sign for quiet. “Mouse is just trying to understand in her own way. Now hear me out, all of you.

  “This house isn’t ours anymore. We can’t live here.” She waits, letting her words sink in. “You can’t believe how hard I tried to work out a deal with the bank. I kept us here through the holidays. We had Christmas in our own house, but—”

  “We always have Christmas in our own house,” Mouse interrupts. “Where else would we have Christmas ?”

  “But why are we going to Colorado?” I manage to speak through the wind tunnel in my head.

  My mother’s left eyelid begins to twitch. “Uncle Red has a lot of room and he really wants us to come.”

  “Uncle Red? I hardly remember Uncle Red,” India says.

  “You liked him. Both of you did.” Mom nods to India and me.

  “I liked him when I was six. What difference does that make? I’m not moving to some stupid hick state,” India snaps.

  Mouse raises her hand, waves it in front of my mom. “Did I like him? What about me?”

  “Just let me finish, all right?”

  Mouse climbs up on Mom’s lap. “Bing doesn’t remember Uncle Red. He’s worried Uncle Red won’t be nice. But I told him Mommy’s going to be there. Mommy is nice.”

  Mom runs her tongue over the edge of her teeth. “I will be there . . . but not right away.”

  The room is suddenly quiet. Not even the clock is ticking. We all stare at her.

  “Where will you be?” I ask.

  “I’m going to stay with Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito. I have to finish the school year. If I leave them high and dry mid-semester, I’ll never get another teaching job—not only that, I’m not accredited to teach in Fort Baker. In the summer I can take the classes I need to get credentialed in Colorado.”

  “You’re shipping us off by ourselves to some uncle we hardly know?” India asks.

  “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to be hard on everybody. But Uncle Red is happy to have us coming. He’s been calling every day full of ideas for how we’ll get settled in with him. He’s putting up a basketball hoop.” She tries to smile at me. “He’s found a poster of the planets for Mouse and a place where the teenagers all go.”

  “A poster and a hamburger stand . . . that’s supposed to make us feel better?” India asks.

  “India, do you think I did this on purpose?”

  India’s eyes register the break in my mom’s voice. “No,” she mutters.

  My throat is so tight I can hardly swallow. “When exactly are we leaving?”

  My mom takes a deep breath. “You’re flying out tomorrow night. Uncle Red has arranged to have you picked up at the Denver airport.”

  Now we all talk at once—pelt her with reasons why this is
impossible. The game next week, battle of the books, outdoor ed, the oath I signed for Coach P.’s team. Some party India’s going to with Maddy. Bing doesn’t have time to pack. We need to stop the clock so he won’t have to hurry.

  Mom lets us wind down.

  “Tomorrow night,” India squeaks. “That’s a joke, right?”

  Mom shakes her head slowly as if she doesn’t want to jiggle her brains.

  “Look, this makes no sense.” India’s voice is suddenly reasonable. “We can’t leave in the middle of the school year, any more than you can. We’ll all stay with Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito.”

  My mom shakes her head, harder this time. “No room.”

  Aunt Sammy’s house is tiny; one room on top of another, each one smaller than the last. All the boys sleep in one room, Aunt Sammy and Uncle Tito in the other. But if I can’t stay in my own home, I’d rather be at Aunt Sammy’s house than any other place in the world.

  “I can sleep in the boys’ room on the beanbag chair. I do it all the time,” I tell her.

  “I’m staying with Finn on the beanbag chair,” Mouse announces.

  “Thanks a lot,” India snaps.

  “Finn’s nicer than you are,” Mouse tells her.

  “Stop! This is hard enough without you two fighting. Finn, you can’t stay at Aunt Sammy’s. You will all three stay together, no matter what.”

  “You heard them. They don’t want me. I’ll stay with Maddy,” India insists. But she must know Mom will never agree to this. She won’t even allow double sleepovers.

  “Mouse needs you,” Mom says.

  “Mouse can’t stand me.”

  “She’s right. I can’t stand her,” Mouse agrees.

  Henry’s cowering under the coffee table. She hates it when we fight. I run my hand down her fur to the spot under her chin she likes me to scratch. “It’s okay, Henry,” I say as she puts her big paw over my hand to keep it there. That’s when my heart stops cold. “Henry! What about Henry?”

  “She needs a ticket,” Mouse offers.

  “You need a special traveling crate and shots, Mom. Remember when you had that kid in your class that moved to Hawaii? He had to put his dog in quarantine for three months. Remember?”