Read Online Rockets Versus Gravity by Richard Scarsbrook - Free Book Online Page A

Khalid by his actual name; when he and his mom immigrated to our little town a few years ago, he was immediately nicknamed “the Sheik.” Nobody was being nasty, or racist, or anything like that, though. Faireville is made up of ninety-nine percent white people, so Khalid seemed kind of exotic to them, I guess. When one of the girls noticed that Khalid looks sort of like that old black-and -white movie star Rudolph Valentino, who was nicknamed “the Sheik,” well, the name just kind of stuck, I guess.
    Khalid doesn’t mind the nickname, anyway. He says that in Pakistan, the term “sheikh” is used to signify Arab descent and is reserved for people with great wealth and status. Khalid isn’t Arab, and if he had any money or power he wouldn’t be working at the Gas ’n’ Snak every night after school to help his mom pay the rent on their one-bedroom apartment. So, I suppose the nickname is really kind of a compliment, right?
    â€œThe Sheik” is better than anyone else’s nickname, anyway. The kids at Faireville District High School aren’t very imaginative. They call Jimmy Rogers “ Zig-Zag ,” because that’s the brand of papers he uses to roll his joints. They call Marty Apostrophes “Farty Marty,” not because Marty is any more or less flatulent than anyone else, but simply because “Farty” rhymes with “Marty,” I suppose.
    My own nickname is “Wheelie.” Because I’m in a wheelchair. Ha ha! Get it? Pretty creative, huh?
    A t the moment, my wheelchair is being a bigger pain in the butt than usual. Somebody is out there hollering at my best friend, and there is nothing I can do to help him, because my rear wheel is jammed underneath the washroom’s sink. Again.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” Khalid says, “but this is the third time this week that you have parked in the spot reserved for people with disabilities. I will not serve you until you move your car to another space.”
    â€œLook,” the other voice says, “don’t play the ‘poor handicapped people’ card on me, okay? It isn’t fair that the best spot in the lot is reserved for the retards. Most of ’em can’t drive, anyway, and I guarantee you, I pay more taxes than any of them do. So just gimme my smokes, my lottery tickets, and my burritos, and I’ll move my car to my nice, heated garage at home. Mmm-kay , Gandhi?”
    Khalid persists, ignoring the Gandhi comment. “As soon as you move your car to an appropriate parking spot, we can complete your transaction.”
    â€œWhat the hell difference does it make?” the other voice moans. “I don’t see any handicapped people around, do you?”
    This would be an ideal moment for me to burst out of the back room and roll out into the fluorescent light.
    I rock my chair back and forth to get myself unstuck, but this just lodges the wheel in even deeper. If somebody at Gas ’n’ Snak corporate headquarters had issued a directive requiring wheelchair-accessible washrooms in all of their stores, I would already be out there helping their employee, my friend.
    I stretch my arms as far as they’ll go, hyperextending my joints to reach the liquid soap dispenser that is nailed loosely to the wall. I’ll use some soap to lubricate my jammed wheel and get myself unstuck.
    I grip both rear wheels in my hands, and I wrench them back and forth as hard as I can, until the soap-lubricated tire finally springs free from underneath the sink.
    I ram my chair’s footrests against the door, over and over again, until it springs open with a dramatic crack.
    I wheel myself out into the fluorescent glare of the store, where Khalid is standing face to face with a barrel-bellied man in a business suit, with only the cash counter between them.
    They don’t notice my dramatic entrance, though, because I’m mostly hidden behind a tall cardboard