by Bill Myers

It wasn't Denise's fault. She'd just found the weird rock in her uncle's attic. And what better gift to give a weird kid than a weird rock?

How'd she know it would start to glow in her coat pocket? How'd she know by exposing it to the light of the full moon it would send out a distress call to some sort of “alternate dimension”? What'd she know about glowing rocks? Come to think of it, what did she know about alternate dimensions?

Now it's true, a rock for Nathan's birthday probably wasn't the best of gifts. Then again, Denise and Nathan weren't the best of friends. To say that she hated him might be an exaggeration. To say that at least once a week she had a deep desire to punch him in the gut, well, that at least would be the truth.

The problem was that Nathan was big-time spoiled. But it wasn't all his doing. Ever since the last operation - when doctors said his hip would never be normal, that he'd always limp and have those sharp pains whenever he walked - Nathan was treated differently. And, being a fairly bright kid, Nathan did what any fairly bright kid would do. . . .

He milked it for all it was worth.

He milked it when he didn't want to go to school. He milked it when he didn't want to take out the trash. And he especially milked it to get whatever he wanted from his grandfather.

Nathan knew all the tricks.

Shop Talk

Denise rounded the corner and headed up the street toward Grandpa O'Brien's Secondhand Shop. That's where Nathan hung out when his folks were away on business. With any luck, his older brother, Joshua, might be there, too.

Good ol' Josh. A couple years older than Denise, he was always there for her. He was there to pull her off kids before she pulverized them. He was there to help her with the math she could never quite master. He was even there when her father ran off.

Denise was only 4 at the time. She couldn't remember what her dad looked like, but she remembered Joshua. She remembered him playing with her and trying to make her laugh. And she'd never forget the time he held her when she couldn't stop crying. Even with the other kids teasing him, he went right on holding her until she finally stopped.

Good ol' Joshua. If only his little brother could learn some of those traits.

As she moved up the sidewalk, Denise listened to the snow creaking and squeaking under her feet. She loved winter nights - the way the stars were so close you could almost touch them.

Reaching the Secondhand Shop, she pushed open the door only to be knocked aside by two little kids racing out. Their reason was simple. Nathan and his grandfather were going at it again.

“Grandpa, that's the third toy you've given away this week!”

“To be sure, lad, and don't you think I'd be knowing that?”

The stout old man had come from Ireland almost 40 years ago but still insisted on keeping his accent - and his temper.

Even at that, he was no match for Nathan's selfishness. The boy was a pro. Denise stood near the door watching the redheaded kid go after his grandfather with everything he had.

“Grandpa, how do you expect to make a profit?”

“Son, there's more to this life than making a-”

“You've seen the bank statements.”

“Yes, lad, but-”

“You know what Mother's accountant said.”

“Yes, but-”

“It's all there in black and white.”

“I under-”

“If you don't start making a profit, you'll lose the store.”

“Yes . . . but . . . I . . .”

The old man was running out of steam. Denise could see him trying to change gears, searching for a new target. Unfortunately, the one he chose happened to be Nathan's heart - an impossibly small mark for anyone to hit.

“It's the Johnson children,” Grandpa sighed. “You know how they've always wanted a puppy. And since we got them little wooden pop-up ones last week, and since times have been so hard for. . .”

The old man slowed to a stop. The boy wasn't even listening.

Puppy Power

Denise watched as Nathan hopped up on the stool behind the antique cash register. He spotted her and grinned, making it clear that this was all a game to him. A game she'd seen him play more times than she could count. And, if she guessed correctly, he was about to enter phase two - the woe-is-me-self-pity phase.

“Times are hard for all of us, Grandpa.” He glanced over at the stuffed toy on the counter beside him. It was an English bulldog complete with sagging wrinkles and floppy jowls. By the way it was left half unwrapped, it was obvious that it hadn't exactly met up to his standards for birthday gifts.

Slowly he turned to his grandfather. One aspect of the self-pity phase was to make sure you either had a catch in your voice or a tear in your eye. Nathan had both. He was good. Very good.

“Oh, Grandpa, I don't mean to complain.” He threw in a couple sniffs for good measure. “But the Johnsons aren't the only ones who want a real dog.”

“I know, son, but-”

“And if you're always giving stuff away so you don't have enough money . . . well.” He let his voice trail off.

The old man bit his lip. He loved the boy with all of his heart.

“I'm sorry, lad. Maybe in a few months I'll be able to afford a nice puppy.”

Nathan looked up and gave a brave nod.

Denise could see Grandpa's heart melting.

“But for now, this ol' bulldog here, he ain't a bad substitute, is he?”

Nathan managed to smile and get his bottom lip to tremble at the same time. Yes, sir, he knew all the moves.

Denise wasn't sure what was next, but she'd definitely seen enough. She stepped from the door and started toward the counter.

“Hi, guys!”

“Oh, hi, Denny!” Grandpa exclaimed. “So how are you this fine winter evenin'?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “So where's Joshua? Still at basketball practice?”

“I believe so.”

She turned to Nathan, who was giving her his famous death glare. She tried not to smile. Here he had gone to all this trouble getting Grandpa right where he wanted him and now she barged in and completely ruined the mood.

“Happy birthday, Nathan.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled.

“I brought you a gift.” She dug into her coat pocket.

“You did?” Suddenly he didn't sound quite so depressed.

“Yeah. It isn't much, but I think you'll like it.”

She pulled out the crimson-colored stone and plopped it down on the worn wooden counter.

Nathan stared at it blankly. “A rock?”

“Yeah, but not just any rock. I found it in my uncle's attic. Look at the cool red sparkles in it.”

“Great,” Nathan groaned as he picked it up. “A stupid stuffed dog and now a rock. Some birthday.” He tossed the stone back onto the counter where it rolled into a patch of moonlight that streamed in through the window.

“Nathan,” Grandpa chided, “where are your manners?”

“Well, it's the truth, isn't it? Mom and Dad are off on some vacation-”

“Business,” Grandpa corrected. “They're on a business trip.”

“Whatever. And all you do is look out for everybody but me.”

“Now, that's not true.”

“Isn't it?” Nathan spun around and nailed Grandpa with another woe-is-me look. “What do you call it when you give away so much stuff that you can't afford to buy your own grandson the only present he's ever really wanted in his whole, entire life?”

Nathan scored a direct hit. Denise saw the guilt wash over Grandpa - guilt over giving the toy dog to the Johnson kids, guilt over not buying Nathan a real puppy, guilt over the boy's parents always being away.

“All right, all right!” he exploded. He turned and headed for the cash register.

“What are you doing?” Nathan asked innocently.

Grandpa punched the buttons on the old machine and the money drawer rolled out.

“You want a puppy? I'll be gettin' you a puppy!”

Nathan slipped Denise another smile as Grandpa grabbed the bills from the drawer. “I'm takin' whatever money we got here and buyin' you your puppy!”

“But Grandpa,” Nathan protested.

“No,” the old man said as he stormed toward the coatrack and threw on his cap and scarf. “You've been whinin' and complainin' all week and I'll be havin' no more of it.”

“But not all the money.”

“I've made up my mind, lad.” Grandpa slipped into his wool coat, hiked it up onto his shoulders and headed for the door. “I'm goin' to Smalley's Pet Shop to buy you a puppy, and that's final!”

Just before Grandpa shut the door, Nathan squeezed in one last protest. Well, it really wasn't much of a protest. “Make sure it's the black one with the white spots!” The door slammed, once again jingling the bell, and the room fell silent.

Stone Glow Denise could only stare as Nathan grinned. Finally, she was able to speak.

“You had that all planned, didn't you?”

“Not the part about the rock,” Nathan shrugged. “But that worked out pretty good. Don't you think?”

Denise was stunned.

Nathan laughed. “Come on, lighten up. You'd do it too if you thought you could get away with it.”

“No way.” Denise could feel the tops of her ears starting to burn like they always did when she got angry.

“Gimme a break,” Nathan said. “Of course you would; we all would. That's the only way to get ahead in this ol' world - figure out what you want and go for it.”

Sounding like some sort of professor with all the answers, he plopped his feet up on the counter and continued his lecture. Denise watched, both awed and repulsed.

“The way I see it, there are only two types of people,” he said. “The haves and the have-nots.”

Once again she had this overwhelming urge to punch him in the gut. But this time something other than self- control stopped her.

It was the rock. It had started to fill with red, sparkling light. And the more Nathan talked, the brighter it grew - as if his words somehow gave it energy.

“You think billionaires get that way by looking out for the other guy?” he asked. “No, sir. They get there by looking out for No. 1.”

By now the glow lit up the entire counter. Denise tried to shout, but she was too frightened to speak. She tried to back away, but she was too scared to move. So instead of shouting or backing away, she just stood there pointing.

But it didn't matter to Nathan. He wasn't looking. He was too busy giving his speech. Eyes closed and leaning back, he went on and on . . . and just when she thought he had finished, he went on some more.

All this as the red stone behind him continued to grow brighter and brighter, lighting up more and more of the room.

Excerpted from The Portal, book one of the “Imager Chronicles” series by Bill Myers, and is reprinted by permission of Tommy Nelson Publishers. Read the rest of The Portal.

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