/ Chapter 2 – Frank /

December, 1963

"FRANK! I need you to head out to the north field and check that break in the fence before school!"

The loud voice of Frank's father carried from outside the house, through the front door, up the stairs and straight through his closed door, making Frank flinch, followed by a grimace. He glanced at the clock, seeing 6:45 on a cold, winter morning. He'd been about to sneak out to his workshop in the barn, so he was already awake. Unfortunately, it looked like those plans were on hold.

Currently in his workshop was his most recent experiment, which wasn't technically authorized by his father. It was a distillery that created high-concentration hydrogen peroxide, and his first batch yesterday had worked perfectly. The problem was that peroxide stills were rather dangerous and his father would most likely frown on it. A book he had found described how to turn the cheap 3% peroxide that colored a woman's hair into 80% peroxide that was much more potent – rocket potent. Of course, the book had many dire warnings about exploding stills, as well as numerous skull-and-crossbones symbols. Frank was confident, but he wasn't reckless – or, at least, he tried not to be, as much as an exceptionally bright eleven-year-old can be safe. He had salvaged a lot of old steel car chassis panels to build a primitive, but effective blast cage, and only made small amounts at a time. If he was honest, his motivation for the caution was equal parts fear for his safety and fear of his father's reaction if he managed to blow up the barn. But a definite bonus of the blast cage was that it hid the whole thing from his father, who often wasn't as supportive of his projects as Frank would like – whether they were safe or unsafe. Getting forgiveness was definitely easier than permission in most cases, though forgiveness wasn't given all that willingly, either.

Frank glanced at a picture of his mother on his desk. She'd been much more tolerant of Frank's "hobbies" as she called them, even giving him a rare smile when she thought he did something particularly clever – at least the ones she understood. Those rare memories were like gold to Frank, who kept them safely locked away in his mind. But she was gone, buried in Autumn Grove Cemetery for two years now. The picture Frank kept was one of her smiling in a very similar way, hence the reason it was his favorite.

"FRANK!" his father bellowed again.

Frank sighed. He cracked open his door and called down, "Coming, Pa! I'll do it in a minute! Just let me get dressed!" Of course, he was already dressed, but it bought him a little extra time to pull himself together.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his thoughts returning to rockets for a few precious minutes. The hydrogen peroxide was going to power an experimental rocket he was working on, based on plans he'd found digging through the university library. He was sure it would work, but as he well knew from experience, theory didn't always lead to success – at least, not at first. Frank was an optimist, or at least he tried to be one in his secret heart. The rest of his life often felt like a windstorm blowing him around like a leaf, giving him about as much control. But in his workshop, with his projects, he was in command and he considered every one, whether success or failure, a stepping stone to where he wanted to go.

He looked out his window, which happened to have a view of the north field his father wanted him to check. It was currently covered in a thin layer of white snow, though in a matter of months the snow would clear and by spring it would be time for planting. He and his father would begin planting corn, as they did every year as long as he could remember. His father loved the spring, because he could plant, and he loved autumn because he could harvest. In short, his father loved farming and everything about it.

Frank hated farming.

He'd think those thoughts, but he'd never say them out loud. He was too afraid of his father hearing; even if his father was miles away, he might hear it, somehow. His father knew he wasn't enthused about farming (that was obvious, despite Frank's best effort), but he suspected his father didn't understand the depth of his loathing for it.

He glanced at a picture of Isaac Newton on his wall. Once Sam Walker had asked Frank who "that long-haired guy" was. Frank had sighed internally, but told him that it was Newton, who happened to be considered the greatest genius in human history. His father had given him an "oh" and moved on. Frank had his own reasons for having a picture of Newton. First, Newton had given the world the laws of motion, which were crucial for rocketry. But second, and Sam Walker would never be told this – Newton was also pressured at one time in his youth to be a farmer, and he had loathed farming as much as Frank did until he was able to escape off to school. Newton felt like a kindred spirit.

"FRAAAANK!" Sam Walker bellowed once again.

Frank sighed once again, feeling like he was pushing his luck. He quickly put on his shoes, and ran down the stairs. He put on a heavy jacket, grabbed the keys to the truck and walked out the front door, the screen banging behind him as usual.

"Take the truck –" Sam Walker started, then saw Frank wiggling the keys in his hand. He started again. "The tools are in the truck, with some boards and animal wire. You should be able to patch up that fence before you need to leave. Eat some toast on your way to school."

"Okay, Pa," Frank said placidly. This task wasn't so bad; it could be much worse. He never minded using tools, even on trivial projects like this, though he preferred working when his fingers wouldn't get numb. But driving the truck was always fun, which was legal as long as he stayed on the property. He climbed into the truck, moving the seat as far forward as he could, then grabbed an old phone book they kept in the cab for times like this and plopped down on it.

He drove off to the fence, thinking all the while about how he would design his rocket. The key part needed was a mesh made of silver, which acted as a catalyst for his peroxide, making it decompose and provide thrust. It turned out that the jewelry store in town used silver mesh for various purposes, and he'd arranged a barter agreement to clean out their storeroom in exchange for three sheets of mesh, which were currently sitting in his workshop.

It took about forty-five minutes to fix the fence before he was able to head back in the truck, running the bad heater at full blast. He had just enough time to grab some toast (as Pa had predicted) and head off to school. The morning was brilliantly clear and still, the sky a deep blue as flocks of birds flew overhead. He took a deep breath and let it out, feeling like he wanted to draw inspiration from the birds' freedom, ditch school and work on his project. But the inevitability of enduring school pulled him along down the road.

Frank couldn't decide which he disliked more – working on the farm, or having to deal with school. He loved to learn things – but school was often not so much about learning as it was about rote memorization, conformity and boredom. This was another area of his life where he was blown around, feeling like there was much harried movement but little overall progress.

It took about twenty minutes to trudge the distance to school, with Frank reaching his 7th grade homeroom with about five minutes to spare. He deposited himself in the seat, setting his books down beside him.

"Hey, Walker," Joe Snodgrass snickered. "Seen any little green men?"

Joe and his little gang of idiots had seen Frank reading a copy of Amazing Stories at lunch, which had a green alien on the cover. They thought it hilarious that someone would read science fiction magazines, having very little desire for imaginative reading of their own. Or reading of any kind, for that matter. Or imagination.

"Not today, Snodgrass," Frank said. "But if I do, I'll give them your address so they'll have a small, skinny specimen to take back."

Frank normally tried to keep a low profile with kids like Joe, but today he just wasn't in the mood. Sometimes he would see the rough men who would visit the bars in town and cause trouble, and he wondered what they'd been like when they were his age. Looking at Snodgrass, he thought he had an answer to that question.

"Better watch your mouth, Walker," Snodgrass said. "Or I'll shut it for you."

This was about as clever as Snodgrass got. It was mostly an empty threat, since fortunately Frank had inherited his father's size, and most of the school bullies were afraid to make trouble. Not that it didn't happen. If he pushed them too far, a couple of them would get together and try to pin him down. Try, anyway.

But Frank couldn't resist one last shot. "Better worry about your own mouth. If you open it much wider, you'll get picked up by Bernhard Farms." The latter was famous around the county for their donkey breeding, which was a low blow to Snodgrass because of his unfortunately large front teeth.

Before Snodgrass could reply with most likely another threat, Mrs. White strolled into the classroom, who taught seventh grade. The school was very small and there were only two classrooms of seventh graders. Neither teacher was really inspiring, but Mrs. White was all right. She was mostly just disengaged.

"Good morning, class," She greeted.

"Good morning, Mrs. White," the class replied.

"I hope you all studied for your math test today," she said as took her usual place at the front of the class. "It's a tricky one this time."

Frank looked out the window, resting his head on his hand. He wasn't particularly worried about the test, math being both Frank's favorite and least favorite subject. Math had always come easy for him, and so was typically very boring. On the other hand, it took little mental effort so he was able to get it done quickly and have time in his head for thinking about other things. He considered math very important to his future goals, but the school didn't seem to notice that he wasn't much challenged. On his own, he had already worked his way through the high school math textbooks, completing algebra, trig and pre-calculus, and had recently started a college-level calculus book.

In general, he'd found his teachers not all that engaged with him, probably because he wasn't that engaged with school, since it seldom interested him. It only took a small amount of effort to get decent grades, and getting perfect grades required effort that didn't seem justified. He did recall his 2nd grade teacher, who taught him a valuable lesson about keeping his head down. She didn't like him and didn't seem to like the questions he asked, but it all came to a head when she said something he was sure was wrong. When he brought in a book the next day to show her before class and prove it to her, he was sent to the principal's office for being "disrespectful." The principal was sympathetic when Frank explained it, but was just told to "let it go." After that, the teacher pretty much hated him. School teaches a lot of lessons.

Mrs. White wasn't so bad. But Frank had learned through painful experience that school was something to endure. Just get through the day so he could go home to what really mattered.

A stack of test papers appeared over the shoulder of the girl in front of him, bringing his attention back to the classroom from the window. He grabbed the stack, took a sheet and passed it back behind him. The test took about five minutes to complete, which allowed him to spend the rest of the time mentally going over the design for his rocket.

After an interminably boring grammar lesson, they moved on to writing. Frank actually enjoyed creative writing, though once again, he found himself at odds with his teachers. He would write crazy stories of rockets, aliens and the future. His future would often consist of Utopian societies, with robots and towers and moving sidewalks. He would usually get a generic "Very Imaginative" on his paper with a B grade. The grade didn't seem based on anything that Frank could determine; while grammar bored him, he was usually pretty reliable. The story wouldn't have a lot of red marks or comments. It was just a B, as though the teacher didn't quite know quite what to make of it, so gave it the default grade.

The best way to an A, as near as Frank could determine, was to write as tragically and pretentiously as possible. These papers were often read in class – with sometimes shaky grammar – and the subject was nearly always depressing in some way. This got Frank worked up about as much as anything did in school; yes, he could appreciate a story about a pollution-choked world going to hell as much as the next kid, but couldn't they have an occasional optimistic story? About a world where technology makes things better, as it had in so many ways? But apparently pessimism was the price of an A grade in Pittsfield Middle School.

Staring out his classroom window once again, Frank reflected that if he were smart, he would just crank out a nuclear holocaust story and collect his A. Maybe he would, just to test his theory once and for all. But then, he would waste a chance to let his imagination run wild and torment his teacher with optimism. Or wait… I have an idea, he grinned to himself. For once, Frank was feeling slightly engaged with school.

For the rest of the morning, Frank worked on a Utopian story related to the daily topic, but with a twist. At the end of the story, among the gleaming towers and flying cars, suddenly technology went bad! Like the Titanic, mankind paid the price for its arrogance (he actually used those words) and they were just too dependent. Their power sources failed and society suddenly collapsed into ruin! One thing about reading pulp Science Fiction is that he was very familiar with sometimes overcooked bad writing. His final tragic paragraph was a masterpiece, in Frank's opinion:

The Titanish family crawled from the wreckage of what was once their home, looking stunned at the rubble of the towers around them. The flying cars had all fallen to the ground, smashed to pieces. The drivers lay dead in the streets. The family huddled together, the boy and girl crying, while the parents looked at each other wondering how they would survive. They could see no one else. Why had they been spared? Perhaps it was to pass a message. Perhaps it was to warn future generations to remember the lessons learned that day. As the sun set on the dying city, the family walked hand-in-hand through the smoking ruins – hoping to find more survivors. Hoping that mankind might survive this terrible, terrible mistake.

Frank looked at the paragraph and only through superhuman control did he keep himself from breaking down in laughter, which might spoil the joke. He almost didn't double up the word 'terrible,' but at the last second, he thought he might as well drop-kick caution out the window and do a full and proper job of bad writing.

He did a bit more polishing of the story, getting it just right before the lunch bell rang and it was time to turn it in. He plopped it into Mrs. White's basket on the way out of the door of the classroom.

He walked over to the school cafeteria and got in line. Today was Tuesday, so it was most likely Meat in Gravy Day. The school called it "Salisbury steak," but that was allowing the meat to have delusions of grandeur. When he got to the front of line, the side dish was corn that hadn't seen a farm in a very long time and watery mashed potatoes that was more like some kind of potato soup.

As usual, Frank found a place a table where he could sit by himself. He pulled out the notebook that he usually kept in his pocket and started jotting down some notes from his earlier thinking while he ate.

Some kids were unfriendly to him, while others were somewhat friendly, but there was no one in Pittsfield he could really talk to about his goals and dreams. It was a farming community and the vast majority of kids expected to do whatever it was their mothers or fathers did. For the boys, this was generally working at farming in some way, and for the girls it meant marrying one of those same boys. A few kids here or there decided to go off to college, but usually this was to learn Farm Science in some way and then they came back. But a very few others went off to do bigger things.

Frank wanted to be one of those people, desperately. But while there were a few of those kids in high school (the age they usually woke up and decided they wanted more), they were much older than him and thus even though he could relate to them on this basis, it wasn't a circle he could really enter.

The other problem was that kids who looked to other things outside the experiences of people in the community were often looked at with suspicion and ridicule, and not just by the kids. There was a definite desire by many to pull down people who got too big for their britches or thought they were better than us.

So Frank generally figured out it was best to keep his head down until he could escape. He was friendly with kids, but didn't generally try and talk to them about his bigger plans. This made for a somewhat lonely existence, since he did want to share things that he made and talk to people about the future, but that wasn't a fruitful way to go. At some points, he had tried to fit in better with kids, but ultimately they just didn't have much in common and the other kids thought he was weird in general.

His general plan once he got to high school was to really kick it into gear and get excellent grades, with an eye to getting into a great university. Perhaps M.I.T. – but deep in his mind, he was thinking a school in California, as far away from the farm as possible, so that he could never be called back on a moment's notice.

After lunch, Frank returned to the classroom to spend a boring afternoon with the French Revolution. He felt like the story could have been interesting in the right hands, but his textbook seemed designed to strip anything interesting out of history and just present it as a set of facts that must be memorized and upchucked on the test – then promptly forgotten.

With fifteen minutes to go, Frank kept glancing at the clock, wishing it would move faster. He idly wondered if Einstein had covered how slowly time moved in the reference frame of a school classroom. Finally the bell rang, granting the permission to finally leave. He gathered up his stuff, another day mercifully completed, and started to head toward the door.

"Frank," Mrs. White called. "Just one moment."

He stopped, surprised, and walked back to her desk at the front of the class.

"I read your story earlier," she said. "I'm not handing them back until tomorrow, but I just wanted you to know how great it was. Definite A+!"

It took all of Frank's self-control to keep a straight face. "Oh, really? Thanks, Mrs. White!"

"Yes! I'll definitely want you to read it to the class tomorrow, so fair warning," she said with a sly eye. "In fact, I was going to suggest you enter this in the writing fair coming up."

Frank's theory was proven, but this was an unexpected bonus. The writing fair. Frank felt like he needed to exit the classroom before he burst open laughing. "Wow! I'll think about that, Mrs. White. Thanks again!"

Walking away, he clenched his mouth closed, desperately trying to hold himself together. Once he got outside, he ran down the corridor and around a corner, finally allowing himself to laugh out loud. A couple of girls passed him and gave him a strange look, but that somehow made it funnier.

The next day, Mrs. White was true to her word. She called Frank up to the front to read his story, with a voice of pride that sounded odd to him, since it had never been directed at him before.

He began reading his story. Being able to articulate one of his visions of the future in front of an audience inspired him to be more animated than usual, and he noticed that a few kids actually seemed to perk up and pay attention. That was a rare thing for stories in Mrs. White's class.

Frank was really building a head of steam when he approached the part where his Utopia would collapse. Suddenly he just felt that he couldn't do it. It had been a joke, but now that he was up there reading his story aloud, it felt like he was giving a talk on his actual feelings about the future. And if he read his ending, it would represent that he did feel that pessimism ought to win the day. Even though these were a bunch of kids that he didn't particularly care about, and they wouldn't particularly care about his story in the end, he cared.

At the last second, Frank made a spontaneous decision to go for broke in probably his one opportunity to read a story. He pretended to read from the paper, but in reality he just started pulling details from earlier papers, science fiction stories, or just whatever popped in his head. He painted a picture of a future where environmental issues where gone, endless energy was available and the world was fed. Science had cured most diseases and people lived to ripe old ages. He described a future where everyone got along, both men and women could do any job they wanted, racial strife was done, wars were a thing of the past, and education and science ruled the day. Ethics and respect for all was a fundamental component to society, and people felt confident to become whatever they wanted to be.

His new last paragraph described his Titanish family now watching the sun rise over the city as a healthy, happy family, secure in the knowledge that their future would be even better.

He wrapped up his story and looked over at the class. Most of them had actually paid attention, probably because few of them had actually heard a Utopian story before. Though, Frank hoped a little bit that it might have been his story, rather than just the novelty of optimism. A few kids even looked like they might be smiling, imagining his world, though Frank wasn't sure he'd take any bets on that.

He'd been afraid to look over at Mrs. White during this but he stole a glance over at her. Her eyes were wide and mouth was slightly open, the latter suddenly snapping shut as she realized Frank was done.

"Thank you, Frank," she said automatically. "Very, um, imaginative."

Frank went and sat down. The reading part was a bonus and his A+ should be locked in, so his little rebellion shouldn't affect his grade. At least, he hoped it didn't.

A couple more students read their more typical stories, which brought them up to lunch period. As Frank arrived in the cafeteria for lunch, a couple of girls that'd been in class, Doris and Jane, came up to him.

"Do you really think girls will be able to do boy jobs in the future?" Doris asked. "Like doctors or scientists or lawyers or whatever? I mean, I know there are some now, but a lot of them?"

"Sure," Frank said. "Why not? A lot more girls are having careers now."

"I guess," the other girl, Jane, said uncertainly. "I don't know any girls from around here getting jobs and going to college and stuff."

"What about Mary Lou Johnson?" Frank said. Mary Lou was the sister of a boy in 8th grade that they all knew who had gone to Brown University.

"Yeah, but she's different," Doris said. "She was smart. I guess I mean – normal girls."

"I think if 'normal' boys can have careers, then normal girls can, too," Frank said. "I think in the future, everyone who wants to can work toward doing bigger things. I mean, women can right now. How long ago did hardly any women go to college, just back in the 1950s? Lots go now. You two could go, if you wanted."

They both looked very shy at this. "I don't think I could," Jane said. "I'm not smart like Mary Lou. Or smart like you."

Frank shrugged. "That's why we go to school and learn things, to get better and think better. College is just another step. Mary Lou didn't just get lucky. Remember how everyone teased her because she studied all the time and was in the library? They called her a bookworm and said she'd be an old maid? She wanted to get out of Pittsfield and now she's studying to be a doctor."

Doris bit her lip. "I guess. I really liked your story," she said. "It made me think that maybe anything really is possible."

"That's what I think," Frank said earnestly. "That's what I want to do. I want to invent things and make the world better. I think everyone can contribute to that."

The girls smiled at him. "I think you will," Jane said. "I don't know about me. But maybe I'll actually go to that college fair thing when it comes around to the school."

Author's Note: The girls felt a bit anachronistic here, but keep in mind this is 1963 and in rural farm country. Girls did NOT typically go to college. Please review!

Come and visit me at the official story site www. frankandathena .com for discussions of the story and which will generally get updated first. - T.K.