Superhero School

by Alan MacDonald

  The rest of the class had moved to one side of the room, well out of the line of fire. Tank had climbed on to a desk so he could get a better view. He looked as if he was enjoying this.

  ‘Ready?’ said Miss Marbles.

  Stan took a deep breath as Miss Marbles pushed the lever up to level four.

  Something shot from the machine and whizzed past Stan’s left ear. A dinner plate smashed against the back wall. More missiles followed in rapid fire. Random kitchen objects were spitting out of the chute like bullets from a machine gun. There was nothing Stan could do. His ears were on red alert and burned every time he needed to duck. He raised his head for a second.

  ‘Don’t just stand there! Work together! TEAMWORK!’ Miss Marbles yelled above the din.

  ‘It’s too fast!’ gasped Stan. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We need a shield!’ Miles shouted as another dinner plate whizzed past.

  ‘Brilliant!’ replied Stan. ‘See any lying around?’

  He glanced behind him. Come to think of it, lots of things could act as a shield: a chair, for instance. He rolled over and grabbed one, holding it in front of him.

  ‘Good! Now you’re thinking!’ cried Miss Marbles.

  A cereal bowl shattered against the chair. Minnie copied Stan’s example and they closed ranks, sheltering behind their shields as objects zipped past them like bullets.

  ‘Wait, I’ve got an idea,’ said Minnie.

  She pulled the frisbee from her belt.

  Stan stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘We haven’t got time for games!’

  ‘Just give me a few seconds,’ said Minnie. ‘I think I can put it out of action.’

  Stan was baffled. Surely she’d gone mad. What did she have in mind – challenging the machine to a game of extreme frisbee? Minnie crouched on one knee and peeped out, dodging a flying fruit bowl. The next moment Stan saw her dart out into the open and draw back her throwing arm. The frisbee hummed through the air, curving towards the machine.

  It struck its target with a loud thud, sending the control lever lurching to the left. There was a dull clunk and a whirr – followed by a sudden silence.

  Stan cautiously lowered the chair he was holding. The hailstorm of objects had dried up. Incredibly Minnie’s deadly accurate frisbee had managed to put the machine out of action. The three of them got slowly to their feet and looked at the wreckage of broken crockery and bent spoons littering the room.

  ‘Splendid! Well done!’ cried Miss Marbles, starting to clap. The rest of the class joined in with the applause while Stan and his new friends stood there slightly dazed, like survivors of a shipwreck.

  ‘Nice going,’ said Stan.

  ‘You too,’ nodded Minnie.

  Miles felt his head. ‘It was nothing,’ he said.

  Meanwhile, in the damp, dark kitchen below stairs, Mrs Sponge, the school cook, was preparing lunch for the staff and children. She was just stirring the soup (turnip and treacle) when there was a knock at the back door.

  ‘Delivery,’ said one of the men outside.

  Mrs Sponge frowned. ‘But I didn’t order anything.’

  ‘This is the address. I just do what I’m told,’ he said. ‘Crate of cabbages. Sign here.’

  Two delivery men carried in a crate as big as a fridge, panting and grunting with the effort. They dumped it in the middle of the kitchen floor and departed. Mrs Sponge stared at it and shook her head. It was probably some mistake at the suppliers, but she could always make something out of cabbages – cabbage stew for instance, or cabbage surprise. She went back to peeling turnips.

  ‘Mother!’

  Mrs Sponge looked around. There was no one there – only the damp walls. It must have been the door creaking, she decided, going back to her work.

  ‘Mother, it’s me!’

  This time the voice made her jump. It seemed to come from the crate. She crept closer, clutching her ladle just in case.

  ‘Hello?’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘Mother!’

  Mrs Sponge gasped. The crate contained talking cabbages! They seemed to be under the impression she was their mother!

  ‘Are you . . . are you all right?’ she asked, speaking to the crate.

  ‘Of course I’m not all right. I can’t breathe!’ snapped the cabbages ‘Get me out!’

  With trembling fingers, Mrs Sponge undid the catch and slowly lifted the lid. Inside were dozens of perfectly ordinary green cabbages. She poked one gingerly with her finger to see if it would speak. It didn’t, but suddenly the entire top layer wobbled and a head rose up, sending cabbages bouncing across the floor like footballs.

  ‘Shut up, Mother! It’s me!’

  Mrs Sponge stared in surprise. ‘Kenneth?’ she said. ‘You scared me half to death. What are you doing in there?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m hiding.’

  ‘In a crate of cabbages?’

  ‘No, in a cheese and pickle sandwich. Help me out – my legs have gone to sleep.’

  Mrs Sponge helped her son to climb out of the crate. Close up, he didn’t smell so great – like someone who’d spent far too long in the company of cabbages.

  He stood up and stretched.

  The effect would have been more impressive without the cabbage leaf on his head. It fell off as he stamped around the kitchen trying to get some feeling back into his legs.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Mrs Sponge. ‘You’ve never come before.’

  ‘Mother, I’ve been in prison. They don’t let you out at weekends.’

  She tutted. ‘Oh, Kenneth, have you been stealing sweets again?’

  Her son rolled his eyes. ‘How many times, Mother? I’m not six years old. I am the Green Meanie, internationally famous supervillain. Why do you think I’m dressed like this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Aren’t you hot in that mask? Anyway, you haven’t answered my question: why are you here?’

  ‘Where else was I to go?’ said the Green Meanie. ‘They’re looking for me.’

  The truth was he needed somewhere to lie low for a while. He’d spent almost a year in Darkmoor Prison after that meddling super-twerp Captain Courageous had foiled his plot to rob the Bank of England. (Who knew that place had burglar alarms?) Finally, after many attempts, he had escaped. It had cost him an entire night bumping around in the back of a lorry inside a box, but at last he was free. All he needed now was a suitable hideout, somewhere the police would never think to look for him.

  ‘What are you doing in this dump?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ replied his mother. ‘Mighty High. I am cook and head dinner lady. Actually I’m the only dinner lady.’

  The Green Meanie laughed meanly.

  ‘You – a cook? You can’t even make toast!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dumpling, I don’t make toast,’ said Mrs Sponge. ‘I make nice hot soups and stews. Are you hungry?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said the Green Meanie. He had already looked into the saucepan, where turnip peelings were bubbling in a gloopy brown soup.

  He glanced at the stairs. ‘So, who else is here?’

  ‘Just the staff and the children,’ replied Mrs Sponge. ‘Though I must say, they’re a funny lot.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the things they do,’ she said. ‘The other day I saw one come in through a door.’

  ‘What’s funny about that?’

  ‘The door was shut. And there’s another who can change colour: red, green, blue – he’s like a traffic light.’

  ‘You’re imagining things,’ said the Green Meanie.

  ‘Of course I’m not, you silly sausage.’

  The Green Meanie frowned. Children who could walk through doors or change their skin colour? If it was true, there was only one explanation. These weren’t ordinary brats, they were super-brats. He had stumbled on some sort of secret training school for superheroes. Mighty High – of course, the clue was in the name!

  He paced up and down the kitchen. This was terrib
le, the worst news since the day he found out the Tooth Fairy didn’t exist. It was bad enough that muddling fathead Captain Courageous saving the world every time you opened a newspaper. But now they were breeding a new race of superheroes – little, annoying ones who would bite your ankles. He had to get out of here, and quickly.

  But wait, perhaps he didn’t. Come to think of it, this was the answer to his problems – the perfect hideout. A school was the last place on earth the police would come looking for him! He could lie low and start planning his next attempt to take over the world. There was no reason the snivelling super-brats should get in his way. In fact, they might even turn out to be useful.

  ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘does anyone else come down to the kitchen?’

  ‘Not really, dumpling.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll be stopping here. You can make up a bed for me. And while you’re about it, clean this place up – it stinks of cabbages.’

  His mother stared. ‘But, fruit drop, you can’t stay here!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Someone might see you. What if they discover you’re, you know . . . the Green Moanie?’

  ‘The Green Meanie!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Sponge. ‘If I’m caught sheltering an arch-criminal I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mother. You forget – I am a master of disguise,’ said her son. ‘No one will recognise me. And you never know – while I’m here I might even try my hand at teaching.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dumpling,’ said Mrs Sponge. ‘What on earth could you teach children?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said the Green Meanie with an evil smile.

  Stan was worried. On the desk sat the various items Miss Stitch had said they would need for today’s lesson: scissors, a tape measure, pins, and needle and thread. Somehow he had assumed that superhero costumes would be provided, but it turned out that they were expected to MAKE them.

  Their teacher was a tiny, silver-haired woman who looked as if she could fit in someone’s pocket. Right now she was reminding them of the importance of a well-fitting costume.

  ‘What is the first thing you notice about a superhero?’ she asked. ‘Is it their dazzling smile? Their broad shoulders? Is it the fact that they just crashed in through the skylight instead of using the door? No, what you notice first is what they’re wearing. The costume tells you instantly that they’re a superhero. Take away the cape, the mask, the skintight suit, and what would you be?’

  ‘Naked, miss,’ Tank shouted out. The class dissolved into giggles.

  ‘That will do,’ sighed Miss Stitch. ‘Turn to your textbooks. In Chapter 4 you will find some useful tips on choosing your costume.’

  Stan opened the large red book on his desk. He started to read . . .

  For a superhero, nothing is more important than choosing the right costume. Well, OK, scratch that – avoiding a horrible death is more important. And saving the world from total destruction – and remembering your mum’s birthday. But choosing the right costume is right up there with life’s big decisions. Get it wrong like the Beige Anger and you will never be heard of again. (Never heard of the Beige Anger? Exactly.)

  A good outfit will make an impact and get you in and out of burning buildings. A bad one will mean you’re mistaken for a hot-dog seller. Here are some common errors you need to avoid.

  A mask creates an air of mystery. But don’t fall into traps like these:

  FIG 1 Over-elaborate mask

  FIG 2 Who forgot the eyeholes????

  FIG 3 Wrong sort of mask

  A superhero without a cape is like a hamburger without the ham. Capes are great for rippling in the wind when you are flying or just drying your hair.

  Take care, though, over the length of your cape. Too short and it’ll look as if you’re wearing a napkin, too long and you’ll run the risk of nasty accidents when using lifts or escalators.

  FIG 4 Dangers of cape-related accidents

  Boots should be knee-length, shiny and have a firm grip. Not too firm a grip, though.

  While Stan, Minnie and Miles were meant to be looking at the textbook, they talked in low voices.

  ‘How did you learn to do that?’ said Stan.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Minnie.

  ‘Throw a frisbee like that. It was deadly.’

  ‘I practise a lot,’ said Minnie. ‘My mum calls me Frisbee Kid. What does your mum call you?’

  ‘Dangerboy, because of my ears,’ said Stan.

  ‘You’ve got dangerous ears?’

  ‘No, I get this funny feeling when something’s going to happen,’ explained Stan. ‘As if my ears are going crazy.’ He scratched them out of habit. ‘Anyway, what about you, Miles?’

  ‘Me?’ Miles’s cheeks flushed. ‘I can’t do anything. I’m just ordinary.’

  ‘You can’t be,’ said Minnie, ‘or you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Well, OK.’ Miles sighed. ‘I know stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’ asked Stan.

  ‘All kinds – dates, names, numbers, information – it just sort of sticks to my brain like chewing gum.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Stan. It sounded the complete opposite of his brain, where things just slipped through like sawdust. ‘What’s 24,372 divided by 40?’ he asked.

  ‘609.3,’ answered Miles without even blinking.

  ‘Mega!’ said Stan. ‘You didn’t even use your fingers!’

  He looked up. Mrs Stitch was talking again, but he’d missed most of what she’d said.

  ‘And once you have all your measurements, you’re ready to start,’ she finished. ‘Everyone clear?’

  ‘Start what?’ whispered Stan.

  ‘Making our costumes,’ replied Minnie. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

  ‘Blue,’ said Stan.

  ‘Brown,’ said Miles.

  ‘Mine’s yellow, but I think we’ll go with blue,’ decided Minnie. ‘Brown’s a bit boring, and if we wear yellow we’ll look like a bunch of bananas.’

  ‘Er, who’s we?’ asked Stan.

  ‘Us,’ said Minnie. ‘If we’re going to be a team, we’ll all need the same costume. Keep up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Stan.

  That seemed to settle the matter. Stan had never considered being one of a team, but now he thought about it, it was a pretty good idea. Being a superhero on your own was hard work. But if they were in a gang, they could go on daring missions together. Besides, Minnie seemed a lot more organised. Organisation had never been Stan’s strong point – he was much better at things like panicking.

  ‘So we’ll need a name. What shall we call ourselves?’ asked Minnie, as she ran a tape measure along Stan’s arm.

  It was a good question. Every superhero gang had its own name, usually something that sounded strong and dynamic, like the Magnetics or the Avengers.

  But nothing seemed quite right.

  ‘How about the Fearless Three?’ asked Stan.

  ‘The Fearless Four is better,’ said Minnie.

  Stan frowned. ‘But we don’t have four,’ he said. ‘There’s you, me and Miles – that makes three.’

  ‘Don’t forget Pudding.’

  ‘Pudding?’

  ‘Yes. He’s my dog.’

  ‘You can’t have a dog in a superhero gang!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s a dog!’ said Stan. ‘Name me one superhero who’s a dog.’

  ‘He’s not just any dog,’ said Minnie. ‘He’s my dog, and he’s Pudding the Wonderdog.’

  ‘Really? What’s wonderful about him?’ asked Miles.

  ’He’s got X-ray vision. He knows if you’ve got a biscuit in your pocket.’

  ‘All dogs can do that,’ said Stan. ‘And it’s not going to be much use if we’re fighting some evil mastermind.’

  ‘Not unless he’s got a biscuit in his pocket,’ said Miles.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ said Minnie. ‘He can lie really still. You wouldn’t even know he was there.’

/>   Stan laughed. ‘I bet I would!’

  ‘OK, I’ll prove it to you,’ said Minnie. ‘And if I do, Pudding’s in the gang. Agreed?’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Stan.

  Miles nodded. ‘Fine by me.’

  Minnie folded her arms. ‘Look under the table,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on, take a look.’

  Stan and Miles bent down and looked. They stared in disbelief.

  ‘How did he get there?’ asked Stan, amazed.

  ‘That’s one of his superpowers,’ Minnie grinned. ‘He’s invisible to teachers. So we’re all agreed then? Pudding’s in?’

  Stan sighed. He had a feeling he was going to regret this. But at that moment Miss Stitch, who had been flitting around the class, appeared in front of them.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What have you three done? Let me see your work.’

  Minnie showed her the list of measurements, which was as far as they’d managed to get.

  Miss Stitch tutted and waggled her head, taking a pair of scissors from her top pocket. The next few minutes were a blur of movement as she measured, snipped and sewed pieces of material on a machine. When it was done she handed them three bright blue costumes. They put them on and squashed in front of the mirror on the wall to look.

  The effect was astonishing. ‘Wow!’ gasped Miles. ‘We look amazing – like real superheroes.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Minnie.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Stan. ‘I know what we should call ourselves.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Invincibles!’