~ * ~

Ben kicked his school bag down Uncle Rick’s path, gray dust coating the black vinyl as it clattered ahead of him. The bag tumbled over and over, beating a rhythm on the crumbling concrete steps. Brain-dead, zom-bie, thick-o, nerd.

Not that the kids at school said it to his face. But their smirks were enough. And the stifled giggles as he’d run from the class, too embarrassed to continue. Even Alexi, the one friend Ben could usually rely on to understand, had stared down at his desk, his wing commander ears growing pinker by the minute. The words of the Three Minute Speech had turned to alien jabber in Ben’s head and refused to budge. It wasn’t fair. He’d practiced the speech at home with Mum until she reckoned he could say it in his sleep. Trouble was, he’d spent all night awake in a nervous tangle of sweaty sheets, knowing full well that when he stood in front of all those kids he’d stuff it up. Always did.

And now when Mum came to pick him up after her Law lecture, all chirpy and ready to share his triumph, he’d have to watch as her eyes tried not to water, and she pulled her usual "Oh-well-it’s-not-the-end-of-the-world" routine--with the standard "Think-of-all-the-other-things-you’re-good-at" ending. Name one, he longed to shout, but he hated the bleached, hurt look on her face whenever he argued.

His school bag crashed into the rotting post that supported Uncle Rick’s letterbox. A glass milk-bottle flew out into the air to explode like a silver firework against the rough concrete, the plastic token skittering off into the blackberry. Man! Why did everything he touch go wrong?

Ben snatched up the bag and sidestepped the broken glass. As he walked around the veranda towards the front door, he could hear his uncle’s voice. With luck, Uncle Rick would be on the phone, as usual.

"…obviously knows we’re onto him." Uncle Rick looked up as Ben slipped in through the open door. He folded his hand across the mouthpiece. "Gidday matey--won’t be a minute--the shite’s starting to hit the fan!" He widened his eyes dramatically, his red eyebrows dancing like flames towards his straw-like mop of hair.

Ben ditched his bag on the armchair already overflowing with unfolded clothes. Uncle Rick never remembered whether they were clean or dirty. It drove Mum bananas when she caught him giving something the Sniff Test before he put it on.

He searched the bathroom for the brush and shovel. It seemed like a logical place--with the washing machine and everything--but you could never be sure with Uncle Rick. "Logic Smogic!" was one of his favourite sayings. Mum was the opposite--so well organized that sometimes it was hard to believe they were brother and sister.

The dark green Formica along the back of the bath was smeared with lop-sided, soapy words. There were huge numbers with lots of zeros and dollar signs. Ben didn’t bother trying to read them--he was used to finding things written there. Uncle Rick had chosen the dark green specially--claiming his most brilliant plans came to him while he wrinkled. Once Ben had invented special soap-holding tongs to make the writing easier, but Uncle Rick had lost them almost straight away.

There was plenty of dust in the bathroom, but no sign of the brush and shovel. Then, by sheer fluke, Ben’s foot kicked the shovel as he stumbled to avoid a bundle of files in the hallway. He scrabbled through the enormous stack of newspaper beside the bedroom door until he found the brush as well. Truly a miracle, to find them both together.

As he walked back past Uncle Rick, he heard him mutter into the phone, "Call Rimu and tell them the Hawks are circling."

Ben swept away the broken glass beside the letterbox, and replaced the milk-bottle and token. He was rummaging through ant-infested cupboards for the peanut butter when Uncle Rick finally hung up the phone.

"You look like you’ve had a lousy day too." Uncle Rick had this way of asking a question without making it seem like one.

"My speech," Ben muttered. "A mega stuff-up." He shrugged, knowing no further explanation was needed. Dyslexia (Mum said the label meant ‘word blindness’ in ancient Greek) ran in the family. Him, Uncle Rick, Great Aunt what’s-her-name in Holland.

"Hey--Tish happens!" Uncle Rick grinned, perhaps hoping their private joke would help take some of the sting out of Ben’s day. He was like that. "You think you’ve got problems, Nebby boy! Some A-Hole messed with my computer while I was out this morning."

"What!" Ben dropped the peanut butter jar onto the bench and turned, shocked, towards Uncle Rick.

"I didn’t notice it at first," Uncle Rick explained. "I came back from the library and sat down to work at my desk. Then I realised that the drawers had been gone through--and when I booted up the computer, there was an old disk in the floppy drive that I haven’t used for years."

"Did you ring the police?" There was no point asking if the door had been locked--it never was.

"Yeah--they said they’d come later and take a few fingerprints, but they won’t find anything. It’s pretty obvious who would’ve done it--and the cops don’t want to get caught up in that. Things are getting pretty hot…" Uncle Rick clapped a hand over his mouth and jerked his head towards the door.

"Safer out here," he whispered, once outside. "Less likely to be any little electronic ears!" The fire in his eyes sparked and flared, as it always did when he talked ‘spies’, then died to a simmer as he continued, "But it’s time to be very careful. Knowing sensitive stuff about corrupt politicians, ’specially our mate Slimeball, is a dangerous business. He has a lot to gain by keeping this all very quiet."

"And a lot to lose if he doesn’t…?" Ben guessed.

Uncle Rick allowed himself one wicked chortle before slinging an arm around Ben’s neck to pull him into a secretive huddle. "Loose lips sink ships, Nebby boy. Mr. Jeremy Trainor, our Slimeball Minister, isn’t just greedy--he’s clever with it. Things are at a crucial stage--if I muck up now it’ll be goodbye to Ecolands Forest forever." Uncle Rick’s eyes smouldered.

"But how’re you going to stop…"

"Afternoon all! How’d the speech go today, love?"

Ben felt his face boil as his mother, Marika, came round the corner of the house. She wrapped one thin arm around Ben and the other around Uncle Rick.

"Well, Your Honour…" Uncle Rick loved to tease her about going back to study Law "…the general consensus is that speech-making sucks!"

Ben noticed the corners of his mother’s mouth droop, before Uncle Rick tugged at her arm. "Now, Sis, if you really want to worry about someone, forget about him, he’s a fine specimen of a near-human being! Now me!…let me tell you about my day…"

Uncle Rick, to Ben’s relief, led Marika into the kitchen. They sure looked alike, Ben reflected, even if they were so different in lots of other ways--like the tidiness thing. They both had the same wild hair, which had faded from the rata red of the old photos on Ben’s wall at home to that coppery corn colour. And the same slender-limbed, freckled look that reminded Ben of summer--though he wasn’t sure why. But Mum was tiny compared to Uncle Rick. So small that Ben, at only thirteen, towered over her. He loved to pick her up and spin her around until she shrieked for him to stop. She’d seemed so strong and invincible when he was little. But now, the taller he grew, the more responsible he felt for her--as if somehow their roles had begun to swap around.

Ben leaned against the veranda rail and watched a small yacht tack across Wellington harbour. He could hear Uncle Rick repeating a full, dramatized version of his break-in.

"For God’s sake, you twit," Ben heard his mother laugh, "a herd of crazed elephants could rampage through this place and no one could tell the difference! Why the heck would anyone bother to sift through this rat’s nest for information, when they could stand outside the door and listen to you yack away for hours on the phone?"

Uncle Rick’s voice grew louder, like it always did when he wanted Mum to take him seriously. "Look, Mari, I know you think I’m paranoid but--"

Marika’s snort of laughter interrupted him. "You are paranoid, you big kid." Maybe she saw something in his face, because her voice did a definite shift. "Okay--I’m sorry. I know what you’re doing’s important. But there’s a world outside of all this cloak and dagger stuff. Please just be careful not to freak Ben out. You know he believes every single thing you say."

Ben’s hands clenched. He hated anyone criticizing Uncle Rick, ’specially Mum who should know better. His Uncle Rick Lienicker was one of the most ‘noisy’ protesters in the whole of New Zealand, particularly on conservation or peace issues. People should be glad he worked on their behalf, not calling him a "woolly haired stirrer" who "couldn’t get a real job if he tried" like Ben had once heard a neighbour of Uncle Rick’s mutter at the bus stop. At least Uncle Rick didn’t give a stuff what people thought or did to him. All that mattered to him was what people did to the planet--and Uncle Rick cared about that more than anyone else Ben knew.