GOOD STORIES

Henley went to bed troubled by the evening’s events. Getchu
had filled the hole in his heart left by Dad, and now it felt like
Mama was trying to take him away. What’s the big deal
about a heart, anyway? he wondered as sleep took him.

That night Henley had a strange dream. He was in
Getchu’s game, working side by side with him, blasting
enemy robots into spare parts. He sped through the levels.
Five…six…seven…eight. Hours and hours they fought. At
level ten, instead of seeing Gorse, the creator of all evil
robots, he saw a large antique mirror hanging on his
bedroom wall, from ceiling to floor, illuminated by a single
spotlight. The mirror’s wooden frame was gnarled and
knotted, and the glass was darkened silver. It looked similar
to one he had seen hanging in Grandpa’s apartment, only
larger.

Getchu and Henley walked up to see their reflections,
blasters still in hand. Henley was sure he would see a row of
medals plastered across his chest for bravery in battle. He
tilted his head to one side, trying to look like a western
gunslinger and even imagined he had spurs clanging on his
sneakers. A tip of his sweatshirt hood let a grateful imaginary
citizen know he was, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.” But the
mirror held an unexpected revelation.

When they swaggered up, only one reflection looked
back at him. Henley was Getchu! In place of medals gaped a
hole where his heart should be—a deep, dark hole in which
light itself vanished. He instantly dropped his blaster and
covered his chest with both hands as he stepped back in
shock.

“What?” His hands began disintegrating into the hole!
This abyss would destroy him if he did not do something
fast. It took all of his strength to pull his hands out. Once
they were free, he noticed his fingertips were still missing.
Not wanting to go through that again, he shoved his hands
out to his sides like an awkward bird ready for flight; he
needed to keep them as far away from the black hole as
possible. “What’s going on?” he said out loud, hoping
someone would answer; but no one did.

Frantically, he turned around wide-eyed to ask Getchu
for advice. He’ll know what to do; he’ll help me. A quick
survey of his surroundings, however, revealed he was alone.
He stood abandoned in inky blackness—his hero left him.
Desperate thoughts flooded his mind. How do I get out of
here? How do I get home?

The only visible light came from the mirror. Henley
slowly backed toward it, still searching for his hero. “Getchu,
where are you?” Hot tears burned his cheeks; the heaviness of
the darkness and the silence pressed him. His thin shoulders
drooped.

“Remember who you are!” shouted an elderly woman’s
voice in a perfect English accent.

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TUG OF WAR

During the next few days, the tug of war for Henley
intensified. His heart swayed from suspicion to hope many
times a day, and it showed in his actions. Everyone steered
clear of this ship without a rudder unless absolutely
necessary.

One morning Henley discovered Mama in the back
room finding a few moments peace doing laundry.
“Hey, Mom, can I play Getchu?” He noticed George
napping peacefully by the dryer and decided peace was not
an option for the cat, so he covered him in a mound of dirty
clothes. George’s displeasure was delivered with a hiss.

“After your homework is done.” She was putting some
clothes in the dryer but looked up to see if he really heard her.

Henley had a way of weaseling out of homework.
“Yeah, Mama, I got it, after my homework is done.”

“And leave the cat alone; you know he doesn’t like that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Henley’s whiny tone suddenly changed.
He unsheathed an invisible sword and turned on the
unsuspecting pet. “He’s not a cat. He’s Gorse’s evil dragon
trapped in a cave.” He addressed the cat while heaping more
clothes on him, “There is no escape, traitor! Die!” George,
who had no intention of giving up quietly, clawed his way
out, leaving behind a scratched floor and torn clothing, then
jetted toward the kitchen door.

“Good job, brave knight! Now go finish your
homework.” Mama was frustrated with his antics but hopeful
that his heart was at last coming out of darkness.

“Yes, ma’am.” Henley trudged off, head hung low and
bangs flapping; the hero blew it—again. He wondered if he
could do anything right. If something went wrong in the
Bankses’ home, he was usually to blame, and he was tired of
it.

Doubt saw his chance and jumped in. “You’ll never
change. Who needs to be a hero anyway?”

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