By Cea Green
“Look! It’s Spark Spaulding!”
Lachlan looked instead at his little sister, since one of his life goals was to avoid a repeat of last year’s “look, a flying corgi” humiliation. Angelica’s face beamed “ga-ga fangirl,” so he scanned Marine’s crowded open-air market.
“We’re meeting Chris Prattsworth,” he dad-voiced. “Spark Spaulding is a character from a Ben Wolf novel.”
“I know!” Angelica huffed. She pointed toward Raja’s Grab-n-Go. “But that guy in chartreuse looks just like Spark. See how the sleeveless tunic shows off his muscles? He even has the little curl in his hair. My favorite actor playing my favorite character from my favorite book!” she gushed. “Thank you for bringing me to meet him!”
“I don’t know, Angie. Why would he be in costume? And why wouldn’t he wait for me at the dock?”
They were on their way to meet Chris Prattsworth because he was also Lachlan’s boss’s favorite actor. Donahue had gotten wind that Chris, who was filming Sparkacus on location in the Aqua-Marine area, hoped to do the slightly famous “Marine Island Fish Pie Tour.” She’d contacted his agent and offered a local-boy pilot—Lachlan—to be Chris’s fish pie tour guide in exchange for an autographed pic for her granddaughter.
Lachlan had been enjoying a semi-peaceful breakfast with his mom and sister when Donahue called, interrupting his vacation with orders to meet the actor at the Marine ferry terminal. Angelica had swooned, and Mom had “suggested” that a nice big brother would take his little sister with him.
So there they were, walking toward Maybe-Chris in his gaudy, anachronistic Sparkacus costume while Mr. Raja offered him a sampling of Indian food.
Chris’s voice carried above the market sounds. “Ugh! I hate pickles!”
“But, sir, this is satranga achaar.” Mr. Raja held up a colorful glass jar. “Imported all the way from Earth!”
“I. Don’t. Care.” Chris waved his hand in Mr. Raja’s face. For an actor, Chris had really awful fingernails. “Pickles are—”
“Excuse me,” Lachlan interrupted, hoping to rescue poor Mr. Raja. “Chris—”
Angelica elbowed him. “Call him ‘Spark.’ He’s in character.”
Lachlan sighed. “Spark Spaulding, I’m … Lucky Lendur.” Donahue had said to use his callsign.
Chris narrowed his eyes at the pilot uniform—another of Donahue’s orders. But when Lachlan said, “If you’d come with me,” the actor’s eyes went wide.
Chris grabbed the enormous pickle jar from a dumb-founded Mr. Raja and thrust it at an equally dumb-founded Lachlan, who couldn’t manage to catch it.
Crash!
Splash!
Mmm! The pickle juice coating their pants and boots smelled like mango and cumin.
Mr. Raja wrung his hands. “Oh, sirs, breaking a pickle jar is extremely unlucky!”
Chris pushed past Lachlan. “You’ll never catch me!”
“Let’s chase him, like in the book,” Angelica squealed. “Come on!”
Lachlan resisted her tugging long enough to pay Mr. Raja for the pickles. Across the square, the vivid chartreuse tunic darted back and forth amid screaming shoppers. Lachlan started to run, thinking his VIP was being attacked by fans, but the slippery pickle oil coating his boots sent him to his knees. Then the crowd pulled back, and Chris skidded across the pavement toward him, arms windmilling and feet ablaze.
Angie gasped. “Rocket skis in town? That’s a 500 IP fine!”
Lachlan yanked Angelica down and covered her as Chris jumped over them. The rocket skis sparked and sputtered, and flames from the exhaust crawled up the boots. The oily pickle juice!
“They’re out of control.” Lachlan stood and helped Angelica up. “He doesn’t even have his poles out.”
People scrambled out of the way as Chris zigzagged across the market square, skied halfway up the courthouse wall, and somersaulted over a cheering teenager before skittering back toward Lachlan. Chris managed to extend his poles just as the left ski flamed out, sending him spinning. He recovered as well as any stuntman, evaded Lachlan’s outstretched arms, and skied toward Ferry Street.
“You’re not taking me in!”
Lachlan’s pickle-oiled boots were as slick as rocket skis, but without rockets, so he kicked them off and took chase in his socks. He turned the corner onto Ferry Street and groaned. Toppled scooters and angry tourists filled the road and sidewalks. The chartreuse tunic was already a block away; then it dropped from sight.
Despite his aching knees, Lachlan hobbled onward. Donahue would blame him if he let the crazy actor get himself killed. Less than a block from the boardwalk, Chris rocketed out of a cul-de-sac, broke a ski pole on the building right in front of Lachlan, and resumed his downhill course.
The maniac could apparently take care of himself, so Lachlan paused to help an elderly man back onto his scooter. Miraculously, nobody seemed seriously injured, but people’s nerves were going to need days to recover.
A long horn blast signaled the ferry’s departure for Aqua. Lachlan stumbled across the boardwalk as the runaway actor headed down the pier, still riding a single rocket ski with a single pole and both pant legs on fire.
Chris shot through the ferry terminal. He scattered the newly-arrived passengers, hopped the ticket stiles, and rocketed full-speed toward the departing ferry. Angelica caught up to Lachlan just as Chris shot off the end of the pier. He soared over the water and landed on the ferry’s upper deck with a perfect one-legged swoosh.
“Freedom!” he shouted, pumping his fists. He whipped off his burning boots and pants, tossed them into the churning wake, straightened his tunic, and disappeared into the cabin.
Lachlan and Angelica stood still for a flabbergasted minute.
“He’s a really committed actor,” Angelica whispered.
Lachlan thought Chris should probably be committed, but instead he asked, “How do you know the fine for rocket skis?”
A man in a ball cap, hoodie, and sunglasses approached them.
“Lucky Lendur, right?” He smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Chris Prattsworth.” His smile faltered when he noticed the oily boots in Angelica’s hands and Lachlan’s battered socks. “Rough morning?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I can’t be the only person who wants to see Sparkacus!
I think it would be VERY different from historical events. Almost certainly in a good way. And probably a funny way.
Lucky Lendur #3 (and my favorite so far!)
Love the ending! Rough morning, indeed!
More embarrassing for the corgi, I bet.
Very funn. A great version of Spark, and a fantastic use of the pickles.