by Bruce Hale
What if Mr. Chu was becoming something like that?
“Howzit, boys? Help you with something?”
Back behind the glass cases where they keep all the really pricey stuff, I spotted the owner, Mrs. Tamasese. She’d bought the place from Amazing Fred a few years ago but liked the name so much she’d kept it.
“No, thanks,” said Benny. “We’re good.”
“We are?” I said. “We don’t even know where to start.”
Benny cocked his head. “Sure we do. Follow me!” And he plunged into the bins of comics the way he plunges into most things—blindly and without a second thought.
Me, I like second, third, and sometimes even fourth thoughts. A guy can’t be too careful.
Heading straight to the Incredible Hulk section, Benny pulled out the first volume of collected comics. He swatted it with the back of a hand. “Origin story.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So?”
Benny gave me his man-are-you-slow look. “It tells how radiation changed Bruce Banner into the Hulk. Duh. If we look up all superheroes created by radiation, we can see if Mr. Chu’s symptoms match.”
“You mean, like Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, and those guys?”
“Exactly.”
I frowned, and my eyes strayed to the bookshelves where Mrs. Tamasese keeps the magic and supernatural books. “But how would someone in Monterrosa get zapped by radiation?”
Benny shrugged impatiently. “Drinking contaminated water, getting bit by a spider, eating a nuclear muffin—the usual.”
“But what if there was no radiation?” I said. “What if Mr. Chu’s sick?”
“Don’t be morbid,” Benny scoffed.
“Or what if he’s not becoming a superhero?”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
I lowered my voice. “What if it’s something worse?”
He spread his hands. “Then we check that out next. Jeez, Carlos, don’t be a worrywart. Go grab Spider-Man Volume One. Chop-chop!”
When Benny gets into his bossy mood, sometimes it’s easier to just play along. I wandered down the row, searching for the Spidey comics. Eyes on the bins, I was startled when something smacked my shoulder and spun me halfway around.
“Watch it, wetback.” One of the high school kids towered over me. He was pale and pogo-stick skinny, with greasy hair and enough zits to make a relief map of the Rockies.
“Um, sorry,” I mumbled.
What a punk. I burned to tell this too-tall dweeb that I’d been born right here in California, and that even my dad hadn’t been born in Mexico. But I couldn’t get the words out.
The puffy-eyed girl with him sneered. “Nerd alert!”
I wanted to point out that she and her friends were in the same store as me, so technically, they were nerds, too. But this didn’t seem like the wisest move.
I cut my eyes toward Benny, but he was far down the row, leaning over a bin. No help there.
The high schoolers’ chuckles grew nastier. “Aw, what’s wrong, little taco nerd?” said Pogo Stick.
“You kids lost?”
Mrs. Tamasese’s voice was low and calm, but the three jerks gave a guilty start and stepped back.
“Whaddaya mean ‘lost’?” said Puffy-Eyed Girl.
The store owner wheeled up to them. “Earlier, I heard you say comics are for babies, and that you only read graphic novels.” She pointed to the rear of the store. “Which are back there.”
Cowed, the three kids skulked away without another word. You might not think a woman in a wheelchair could be intimidating, but you would be wrong.
Mrs. Tamasese is the most famous person I’ve ever met. My dad says that years ago, she used to wrestle for WOW (Women of Wrestling, if you’ve never watched it) as the Samoan Slammer. But then she got hurt or something and she’s been rocking it from a purple wheelchair ever since.
She still looks like a superhero from the waist up.
“Doing some research?” she asked me.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Thanks for—”
Mrs. Tamasese brushed aside my thanks as if scaring off snotty teens was part of her job. (And maybe it was.) “What are you investigating?” she asked.
I liked that she said investigating, like I was Sherlock Holmes or something. But suddenly I felt a little silly.
“Our teacher…umm…”
From down the row, Benny cut in, waving a comic book. “Superspeed, check,” he called. “Nothing about supersmell, though.”
Patient and steady, Mrs. Tamasese kept her gaze on me.
“Our, um, teacher started acting funny today,” I said. “And we were, uh, worried.”
Her eyes slipped off my face, focusing on something behind me.
“Never mind,” I said. “It was a dumb—”
“Be right back,” said Mrs. Tamasese. She popped a wheelie and whipped along the aisle.
Turning, I saw the three high schoolers strolling toward the door. Pogo Stick’s jacket was zipped up, and one elbow seemed glued to his ribs. His innocent expression wouldn’t have fooled a kindergartner.
I picked up Volume One of The Amazing Spider-Man and started leafing through it for clues. At least Mr. Chu wasn’t shooting gunk out of his wrists. Yet.
But the real-life drama drew my attention.
“Forgetting something?” Mrs. Tamasese rolled up beside Pogo Stick. She thumped the back of her hand against his side, and it made a thonk I could hear across the store.
Busted.
The kid tensed up and gathered himself to flee. Mrs. Tamasese grabbed his wrist. “Book, please,” she said.
With a sheepish look, Pogo Stick slipped the graphic novel from under his jacket and handed it over. I recognized the pink cover from across the room.
“Babymouse?” I said before I could stop myself. “My little sister reads…”
Pogo Stick had a good glare. I shut my mouth with a snap. Stupid, stupid Carlos. This is why we think twice before speaking.
Mrs. Tamasese cleared her throat. Pogo Stick and his friends slunk out the door. If they’d had tails, they would’ve been tucked between their legs.
The store owner wheeled her way back to me. “So, your teacher,” she said. “What kind of funny behavior?”
I put down the Spider-Man and filled her in. She listened intently, her brown eyes serious. I liked that she was the kind of grown-up who actually knew how to connect with kids.
“Maybe he’s sick,” said Mrs. Tamasese at last.
I tilted my head. “I thought so, too, but what kind of sickness makes you superstrong and fast?”
She made a face. “Good point. And you say he reacted to the smell of your dog?”
“Yeah. Almost like he hated it.” A thought struck me. “Hey, is there some superhero who turns into a cat?”
The store owner shook her head. “No actual cats. Catwoman doesn’t count.”
Just then, Benny turned up at my side. “I’ve checked Hulk and Fantastic Four,” he said. “Nobody’s growing hair after getting blasted with gamma rays.”
“That’s because your teacher isn’t turning into a superhero,” said Mrs. Tamasese.
“Oh, no?” said Benny. He sounded defensive. “Then what’s wrong with him?”
“Not sure yet,” she said, crooking a finger at us. “Come on.”
Mrs. Tamasese’s shoulder muscles bunched as she expertly spun her wheelchair toward the paranormal section of the store. Ay, you wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, I thought. One punch, and—pow!—out like a light.
“I used to live in New Orleans, among other places,” said Mrs. Tamasese, scanning the book spines. “And unless I’m reading it wrong, your teacher might be turning into some supernatural creature.”
I felt my eyebrows scale my forehead like a pair of mountain-climbing caterpillars. Did the store owner really believe in that kind of stuff?
“What, like Bigfoot?” asked Benny.
“Bigfoot’s not supernatural,” I said.
�
�Well, he’s not real,” said Benny.
I blew out a sigh. We’d always disagreed about cryptids like Bigfoot. Benny thinks they’re fake, like unicorns or fairies; I think no one’s been able to capture them on film yet.
Mrs. Tamasese reached for a really old-looking book. “No, I’m talking about creatures like what New Orleans folk call the loup-garou.”
“The loogey-roo?” Benny’s nose wrinkled.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Some kind of snot-monster?”
She flipped through the pages. “Not quite. There should a be a picture…ah, here we go.”
Mrs. Tamasese held up the book so we could see.
“Nah,” said Benny.
“Seriously?” I asked.
The store owner looked as grim as the first school day after winter vacation. “Yes, gentlemen. There’s a chance that your teacher is becoming what’s commonly called a werewolf.”
“A werewolf?” said Benny.
I sagged against the bookshelf. “I really would’ve preferred a superhero.”
“BUT IT’S ONLY a chance, right?” I said. “Mr. Chu isn’t for sure turning into a wolfman, is he?”
I really didn’t want to lose my favorite teacher ever. To say nothing of the fact that if he bit me, I’d become a werewolf, too—and I wasn’t sure how my parents would take that.
“Too early to say,” said Mrs. Tamasese. She flipped through a few more pages, and then reshelved the book with a sigh. “There are so many different kinds of shapeshifters—panthers, wolves, jackals, bears, sharks….”
“Were-sharks?” said Benny, his eyes widening. “Really? That’s a thing now?” Like me, he’d been a bit spooked by that shark movie.
Suddenly the Darth Vader theme played, and I’m not ashamed to say I jumped a little.
“I don’t have the right books here,” said Mrs. Tamasese, glancing over at her newest customer, a helmet-haired man in a navy-blue suit. “Gotta check my personal collection tonight. Can you come around tomorrow, after school?”
“Yeah, but—” I began.
“What do we do about Mr. Chu in the meantime?” Benny asked.
Mrs. Tamasese was already wheeling herself toward the customer, who stood with his hands folded together, smiling expectantly. “Watch him carefully,” she tossed over her shoulder, “but don’t get too close until we know what’s what.”
“Don’t get too close to our teacher?” I said.
“Right,” said Benny. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sure,” I said. “We only spend six hours a day with him. No problem I can see.”
We hung around awhile longer, but Mrs. Tamasese had her hands full—first with Mr. Helmet Hair, who’d placed a huge order of magic supplies, even though he didn’t look much like a magician. Then came a steady stream of other customers who needed her help.
After browsing through the supernatural section and not finding much about shapeshifters, Benny and I headed home. As we passed through downtown Monterrosa and peeled off into our neighborhood, we discussed our options.
“We can’t wait for Mrs. T to help us,” said Benny.
“Why not?” I was all in favor of getting some assistance on this one. The more, the better.
Benny grimaced. “You kidding? After how weird Mr. Chu was today? We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t go full-frontal wolf—”
“Or bear,” I said.
“—or panther, or wildebeest, or whatever,” he said, “by lunch tomorrow. There’s no time. We’ve gotta be proactive.”
Benny and I crossed the street to avoid the house with the Rottweiler that often got loose.
“‘Proactive’?” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s what my dad says when he’s on a case—‘Can’t be reactive, gotta be proactive.’”
Benny’s dad, Albert Brackman, was the head detective for the Monterrosa police. He was a smart, tough guy, and full of wise sayings like that.
“Okay,” I said. “But since we don’t know whether Mr. Chu is turning into a coyote, a panda, or Miss Muffet’s spider, what kind of proactivity do you suggest?”
Benny was silent for a few strides, a rare thing for him. We cut through the Little League diamonds, empty except for two girls playing catch.
“Research,” he said at last. “Mrs. Tamasese said he’s probably becoming a shapeshifter, right?”
“Right.”
“So we Google ‘cures for shapeshifters’ or something like that. Maybe the different cures have something in common.”
I saw what he was driving at. “And if we find some cure that’s the same for werewolves, were-panthers, and were-whatevers, we try it on Mr. Chu.”
“Bingo,” said Benny. “Houston, we have a plan.”
“Don’t do the Houston thing,” I said.
“What?” said Benny. Ever since he saw that space movie, it’d been “Houston this” and “Houston that.” Don’t get me wrong—Benny’s great, but he can really overdo a catchphrase.
We headed for my place, since, thanks to my dad’s work, we have the faster computers. Banging through the front door, I called out, “Hey, Abuelita! We’re home.”
The honk of her saxophone cut off, midphrase. My grandma’s voice reached us from the living room, “Hola, mijo. Don’t slam the—”
Wham! The door blew shut behind us.
“Sorry!” Benny and I chorused.
Woof-woof-woof! With a clatter of toenails on wood floor, my dog, Zeppo, came running up to cover us with slobber. His ears flopped, and his wavy blond-brown fur seemed to be on auto-shed mode. After accepting his doggie kisses, I thumped his flanks and scratched him behind his ears, the way he likes it.
My grandma appeared in the living room doorway. “You boys…”
“I’ll remember next time,” I said. “Promise.”
The look on her face said she believed me about as much as she had the last 287 times I’d said that. Still, she came up and kissed my cheek.
“I’m practicing for our next gig,” she said. “You boys hungry? Want something?” My abuela played sax in a ska band. Her solos were even hotter than her salsa.
“We’ve got a lot of research—uh, homework to do,” I said.
“But I wouldn’t say no to some of your empanadas.” Benny gave my grandma his angelic smile. She fell for it, as always.
“Ay, Benito,” she said, patting his cheek. “You’re too skinny. Pumpkin empanadas, coming right up.”
It always seemed to make Abuelita happy to cook for us. And who were we to mess with her happiness?
I led Benny to our family room. My dad’s hand-me-down computer, a slick iMac, was perched on a desk, surrounded by snowdrifts of papers and magazines. The room smelled of roast chicken and wet dog. (Not surprising, since that was where Zeppo liked to hang out and chew stuff. Including chicken.)
After a good hour of research and a full plate of empanadas, we discovered three very important things:
1. Most shapeshifting cures date back to the Middle Ages, when sticking nails into someone’s hands or hitting them on the head with a knife was considered a good thing;
2. The Internet is full of distractions (did you know there’s a guy called Cat Man, who’s actually had surgery and gotten his face tattooed to look like a tiger?); and
3. My grandma’s empanadas are irresistible.
But we also found one idea that Benny was eager to try on Mr. Chu.
“Looks like surgery might work,” he said.
I gave him my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding face. “Surgery?”
“What?” he said.
“You seriously think Mr. Chu will let us operate on him?”
“Why not?”
“I’m your best friend, and I’m not sure I’d trust you to take out a splinter with tweezers,” I said. “So he’s supposed to just let us hack away at him, in front of the whole class?”
Benny frowned. “Okay, I didn’t think that through. But maybe we could talk him into letting a doctor do it?”
“Dream on.”
“Okay, scratch surgery.”
I scrolled down the browser window and clicked on a link. “Ooh, how about we exorcise him?”
Benny’s nose scrunched up. “You mean, take him for a run?”
“Not exercise, exorcise. You know, when they drive the evil spirits out?”
“Like in that movie The Exorcist?” he asked. “With the priests and the cross and the girl’s head spinning around?”
“Not exactly.” I read further. “Looks like there are all kinds of exorcism to cast out demons and heal shapeshifters.”
“Let’s do it, then,” said Benny.
“The only problem is, how do we pull it off?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “We can’t just walk up to him and say, ‘Hold still, we’re gonna exorcise you.’”
Benny’s forehead crinkled. “Hmm…”
We stared at each other, stumped. Then his face lit up. “Hey, we could slip it into our social studies project!”
“I dunno…” I said. Our project, due tomorrow, was supposed to be about the origin of fireworks. “Exorcism and fireworks?”
“Don’t worry,” said Benny. “I’ll handle everything.”
I had my doubts. But desperate times call for desperate measures. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s round up some exorcism things from a few different cultures. That way it’ll look more like a real report.”
Benny rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! I’m almost sure I can borrow a chicken or two from our neighbors.”
“A chicken?”
“Yeah, for sacrificing and stuff,” he said.
“No chickens,” I said. “No sacrifices.”
“Right. We’ll use a goat.”
“No goats.”
We spent another hour gathering and organizing the materials we’d need. When we’d finished, it was almost dinnertime. Before Benny went home, I looked over everything we’d collected and all the research we’d done.
“You know,” I said, “if we put this much effort into our homework, we’d probably be getting straight As.”