Supergifted

by Gordon Korman

  “Depends who you talk to,” I told her. “If you go by Noah, he’s doing amazing. He got his first D last week, and his counselor is threatening to put him in remedial classes.”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “Don’t they understand how brilliant he is?”

  “He’s too brilliant for anybody to understand,” I replied. “Least of all me. I can’t even paper-train a baby dog.”

  “They’re called puppies,” she reminded me. She seemed worried. “Noah told Abigail he joined the cheerleading squad. That can’t be right, can it?”

  “He’s number one at everything, for thirteen years. Now he’s determined to do everything he’s bad at. Cheerleading might be his crowning achievement.”

  She picked up Marie, who had fallen asleep on the grass. “When you think about it,” she said with a sigh, “it can’t really hurt him. He’s Noah. Even if he flunks the whole year, he can teach himself everything he missed in two weeks.”

  Suddenly, the sprinkler system burst to life, drenching everyone with a fine shower of water. We all scattered.

  “What the—?” Brad turned his back to protect Tina from the spray. It was too late. The baby was bawling from the shock of the cold drops on her face.

  Only Kandy stood there, bewildered, gazing around in wonder, his big ears dripping.

  We looked to the sprinkler controls. Beatrice still had the tap in her teeth, a defiant expression in her brown eyes.

  Brad used to think it was clever that Beatrice had figured out how to turn on the sprinklers when she wanted a drink. Now he was furious. “Bad dog!” he shouted.

  It only made Tina cry harder. There was nothing wrong with that kid’s lungs.

  The upstairs window opened and Katie stuck her head out, her nap interrupted. “What’s going on?”

  That was enough to draw my mother into the conversation. She stormed out on the back porch. “Donnie!”

  That was what passed for math at our house. Brad’s dog + Brad and Katie’s daughter + our sprinklers = my fault.

  I caught a quizzical glance from Chloe, which told me that her 159 IQ couldn’t figure it out either.

  I pointed to Beatrice at the tap. “It was her!”

  “Take the dog for a walk!” Mom ordered.

  “Why me?” I demanded. “She’s Brad’s dog!”

  “In the Corps,” my brother-in-law lectured, “we do what needs to be done, and everybody pulls their own weight.”

  It was never good news when Brad began a sentence with “In the Corps . . .” For sure, he’d be about to make another comparison between the real world and the Marines, where reality just didn’t measure up. As much as he loved his family, he really missed military life. I almost felt bad for him—except that I was the part of the real world that didn’t measure up the most.

  “We’re all taking on a little extra responsibility these days, Donnie,” my mother added from the window. “It wouldn’t kill you to pitch in.”

  So Kandy went back inside, and I took Beatrice out on the leash. Chloe and Marie Curie walked with us for a while.

  Chloe tried to make me feel better. “It’s basic psychology. Beatrice is acting up because she’s jealous of the new baby.”

  Chloe had some kind of scientific theory for everything.

  “It doesn’t explain everything,” I grumbled. “Brad is out to turn me into a junior marine. If he doesn’t get redeployed soon, I’m going to have to find a new family.”

  Chloe and Marie Curie turned off on Zinnia Street, and Beatrice and I continued to the park. Beatrice was calmer now that Brad and Tina were out of her line of vision. Score one for science.

  “Hang in there, girl,” I said to the dog. “One of these days you’re going to like Tina. We’ll bring her to the playground together.” My eyes found the jungle gym—the little kids swarming over the equipment.

  That was when I noticed that one of the little kids wasn’t a little kid at all. He was a big kid who just happened to be little. It was Noah, and he was throwing himself around in the wood chips that surrounded the climbing apparatus and slides. Why was he hurling himself to the ground like that, his arms and legs splayed out wide like he was a starfish or something? It took a while, but I figured out what he was up to. Hardcastle’s newest cheerleader was trying to teach himself to do a cartwheel. And Noah being Noah, it wasn’t going very well.

  All at once, a burly muscular kid on a bicycle came tearing into the playground, stopping with the front tire half an inch from Noah’s belly button. Then the big guy was down off the bike, hauling Noah up by his shirt.

  “Hey!” I was on the run toward them, Beatrice loping at my side. It was the kind of bullying I’d been on high alert for since Noah’s day one at our school, but that had never quite materialized beyond a few snide comments and a sudden burst of enthusiasm for dodgeball in gym class.

  I recognized the kid—Hash Taggart, who was kind of the über-jock at Hardcastle Middle. He wrestled Noah to the ground and straddled him, a knee pinning each arm. They were pretty loud, too—the lacrosse star’s booming voice and Noah’s answering squeaks.

  “I gave you a million chances to back off!” Hashtag was raving. “An imbecile could have figured it out!”

  “Are you sure?” Noah replied seriously. “An imbecile has an IQ between twenty-six and fifty. My IQ has been measured at two hundred and six—”

  “Shut up!” Hashtag bellowed. “I’m not listening to you! You make people crazy!”

  “—although of course these days the idea that IQ tests provide a true measure of intelligence is considered fundamentally flawed—”

  “Shut up!” Hashtag bellowed. He drew back a meaty fist, about to pulverize skinny Noah.

  I left my feet in a desperation dive and tackled Hashtag. It hurt like mad when my nose slammed into his shoulder, but not as much as when I slid through the wood chips, picking up splinters over at least half my body.

  Hashtag turned his attention away from Noah and onto me. Sure, he was five times bigger than Noah, but he was still at least twice the size of me. Funny that I should only consider that when it was too late. It was my fallout blindness the Daniels found so entertaining. I was great at taking action, but not so great at thinking about the consequences first.

  “Curtis?” he roared, springing back to his feet.

  “Pick on someone your own size!” I shot back, which was probably stupid because there weren’t any sumo wrestlers in our neighborhood.

  And then his fist was coming at me. It made contact with the side of my face, and everything went gray.

  The next thing I heard was a bark of outrage, and a cinnamon-brown bundle of fur was airborne. Her jaws clamped onto the arm of Hashtag’s windbreaker.

  The lacrosse star let out a scream that easily eclipsed anything that had come out of either Noah or me.

  “Beatrice! Let go!” To be honest, I was kind of stunned that the chow chow would go to war for me.

  She hung on like a crocodile.

  “Bad dog!” I scolded.

  “Bad?” Hashtag howled, trying in vain to shake his arm free. “That’s the best you can do? How about ‘nightmare hound from the deepest, darkest . . .’”

  He went on and on, scaring the little kids, and—worse—attracting the attention of their parents. Not good.

  What could I do? I took out my phone and called Brad.

  First Lieutenant Bradley Patterson, United States Marine Corps, came running in a full-on sprint to his chow chow’s side.

  By the time he arrived on the scene, Hashtag’s parents were already there. “Are you the owner?” Hashtag’s father demanded.

  “Yes, sir. Bradley Patterson—”

  Mr. Taggart cut him off. “I’m a volunteer fireman, so I know what happens to pets that pose a danger to the public. First, the dog is quarantined by Animal Control to check if it has rabies—”

  “I assure you that Beatrice doesn’t have rabies,” Brad put in fervently. “She’s up-to-date on all her
shots.”

  “Second,” Hashtag’s dad went on as if no one had spoken, “there’s a hearing to determine if it should be declared vicious and put down.”

  “The technical term is euthanized,” Noah supplied helpfully.

  All color drained from Brad’s face. You could even see it underneath his Marine Corps buzz cut. This was a guy who drove a tank through hostile territory for a living. But the thought of anything happening to Beatrice turned him to jelly.

  To be honest, I wasn’t too thrilled about that part myself. If I hadn’t tried to save Noah, Hashtag wouldn’t have punched me, and Beatrice wouldn’t have bitten anybody. It was my fallout blindness coming back to haunt me. Only this time, the fallout wouldn’t be coming down on me. Brad’s dog might be the one to pay the price.

  “Hashtag started it,” I exclaimed angrily. “He was pushing Noah around. And when I tried to get him to stop, he practically knocked my head off.”

  “Let’s see what Animal Control has to say about it,” Mr. Taggart replied smugly.

  “Mind if I have a word with my brother-in-law for a second?” Brad put an iron arm around my shoulders and steered me away from the Taggarts.

  I was still speaking up for Beatrice. “That’s the only reason Beatrice bit him! She was protecting me —”

  “Quiet!” he hissed. “Beatrice can’t go before a hearing.”

  “But she’s innocent—”

  “Listen! Back when Beatrice was with my mother, there was an incident. These kids were playing Frisbee, and one of them ran into her and knocked her over. Well, Beatrice thought it was an attack—”

  “She bit someone else too?” Well, what did you know? Beatrice had a past. She was a criminal—and a repeat offender, no less.

  Brad’s speech was clipped. “Don’t. Say. The B-word. So whatever we do, we can’t let this go before Animal Control.”

  “Yeah, but how can we stop it?” I asked in a low voice. “Mr. Taggart’s almost as big a jerk as his kid.”

  “We apologize,” he whispered. “You apologize.”

  “For what?” I demanded. “Smashing my face into his delicate little fist?”

  Brad ignored my protest and dragged me back to the Taggarts.

  Hashtag’s mom was taking pictures of her son’s injured arm—probably evidence to use in doggie court or whatever. There were teeth marks and swelling, but the skin was unbroken.

  “That’s good news,” Noah offered wisely. “It’s impossible for rabies to be transmitted unless there’s blood.”

  “Since when are you the big expert?” Hashtag exploded. “It really hurts! What if I can’t play lacrosse? You need forearm strength, you know!”

  “There’s no rabies, I promise,” Brad insisted.

  “Even so,” Mr. Taggart countered, “you can see how hard this is on a sensitive boy.”

  “Yeah”—it just slipped out—“Hashtag looked real sensitive while he was getting ready to beat the snot out of Noah.”

  If looks could kill, the one I got from Brad would have vaporized me as surely as a shot from his M1 tank.

  Mrs. Taggart wasn’t too pleased either. “We could sue.”

  “You could,” Noah agreed, “but you wouldn’t get much. I don’t think tank commanders make a lot of money.”

  “Tank commanders?” Hashtag’s father looked at Brad in surprise. “You’re a military man?”

  Brad stood up even straighter than his usual ramrod posture. “Marine Corps, sir. On furlough between tours in Afghanistan.”

  Mr. Taggart was impressed. “Really? I was Army myself—quartermaster corps. Never saw any action, though—unless you count the time the women’s barracks ran out of shampoo.” He reached out a hand. “Thank you for your service.”

  I didn’t think my brother-in-law would be too anxious to shake hands with someone who’d threatened to have Beatrice put down. But he swallowed his pride and pumped the man’s arm.

  Hashtag chimed in. “But we’re still calling the cops on the mutt, right?”

  “Mutt is an erroneous term,” Noah corrected him. “It refers to a mixed breed, while Beatrice is a purebred chow chow.”

  “Kid, do you ever shut up?”

  “Not when I have something informative to offer” was Noah’s response.

  “Let’s just chalk this up as an unfortunate incident,” Mr. Taggart decided. “I’d hate to make trouble for one of our brave fighting men.”

  I could see Brad relax. “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “But I don’t want that dog anywhere near my son,” Hashtag’s mother warned, “or we will have her declared vicious. Don’t think we won’t.” She glared at me. “And you stay away too.”

  And that was it. Beatrice was off the hook. Brad was off the hook. Even Noah was off the hook. Mr. Taggart gave his son a lecture about “picking on a little guy.”

  The only person who wasn’t off the hook? Me.

  “I’m not going to forget about this, Curtis,” Hashtag whispered. “That shot in the face—consider it a down payment.”

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Brad blamed me for the whole thing. “I asked you to do one thing, Donnie: take Beatrice for a walk. I guess that was too hard for you.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” I protested. “Let Hashtag pummel Noah?”

  “There you go again,” my brother-in-law accused. “Nothing is ever your fault. There’s always some excuse.”

  “But it really is an excuse!” I protested.

  “Now you’re making an excuse about an excuse,” he snapped. “Listen, Donovan, I see you roll your eyes when I talk about the military life. But it’s not all about tanks and weapons systems and combat. It’s about the kind of person you’re going to be—having high standards for yourself and living by a code of honor, integrity, and discipline.”

  “If this is about me getting a buzz cut,” I interjected, “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “The haircut is just a symbol. It’s a token of your commitment to be a part of something greater than yourself.”

  “I have enough trouble just being me,” I retorted. “Didn’t you notice that a three-sport varsity athlete almost took my head off back there?”

  He frowned. “Fine. I’m just some jarhead marine to you. I don’t care about that. But if you screw up, you put Beatrice in danger. You are going to stay away from that Hashtag. You don’t fight with him; you don’t talk to him; you don’t even breathe the air in his zip code.”

  “But how can I help it if he comes after me?” I appealed.

  “That’s your problem, Donnie. Whatever happens to Beatrice is on your head. If she suffers, you suffer. Is that clear?”

  Hey, this was a guy who made his living blowing stuff up with his tank and driving over the wreckage. And the next wreckage might be me.

  Was it clear? You bet.

  6

  SUPERLOYAL

  NOAH YOUKILIS

  The lacrosse field resounded with the roar of the crowd, the referees’ whistles, and the shouts of the players. I was really doing it—cheerleading—and it was the greatest experience of my life.

  There could be no more amazing sport than lacrosse, which combined all the best elements of the other sports. The ball was baseball-ish, the pads were football-ish, the nets were hockey-ish, the cleats were soccer-ish, the shorts were basketball-ish, and the sticks were kind of butterfly-nettish, because they had little webbed pouches for passing and catching. With all it had to offer, I couldn’t understand why lacrosse wasn’t the national pastime. On YouTube, which was normally so sensible, there were far fewer lacrosse videos than all those inferior sports. I guess even YouTube could fall short every once in a while.

  The only thing better than lacrosse was cheerleading for it. I only got injured once, when the integrity of my cartwheel disintegrated. As I collapsed, my foot slammed into something hard, and I experienced sharp pain in three of five metatarsals.

  But I carried on bravely. The loud “Ow!” came not from me, but from
Vanessa Mulcair, whose face turned out to be the something hard I’d injured my metatarsals on.

  “Will you get a clue?” Megan yelled at me. As head cheerleader, it was her job to provide helpful coaching while the game was going on.

  There was this YouTube video called “Playing through Pain” that inspired me to ignore my throbbing foot and cheer louder, even when my throat began to hurt worse than my toes. In the world of sports, this was known as “giving 110 percent,” although that was a mathematical impossibility.

  When the clock ran out, I jumped for joy, throwing my pom-poms in the air—although they didn’t go very high.

  Megan, our captain, turned furious eyes on me. “Shut up! Everyone will think we’re nuts!”

  I was mystified. “We’re cheerleaders. It’s our job to lead the cheers for our glorious victory.”

  “We didn’t have a glorious victory! Can’t you read a scoreboard?”

  “Indeed I can,” I replied. “When your team scores a plurality of goals, you win. Arithmetic dictates that fifteen is greater than three. Therefore, we are the winners.” I almost added quod erat demonstrandum, but I remembered at the last minute that Latin wasn’t too popular in the cheerleading business.

  Megan’s face was a thundercloud. “Only we didn’t have the fifteen. We had the three.”

  “But it says H for Hornets!”

  The look she gave me would have melted steel. “H is for home, not Hornets. We’re the visitors, Noah. The V number.”

  Obviously, there was a lot more to cheerleading than I’d previously thought. It certainly explained why the girls had seemed so subdued on the sidelines.

  On the bus back to school, I apologized to my fellow cheerleaders. “I’m researching this whole home/visitors thing. I’ll get it right next time.”

  “Next time,” repeated Vanessa, holding the ice pack to her cheek.

  The only other boy on the bus was Hash Taggart, with his arm in a sling. He couldn’t play today, so he didn’t have to stick around for Coach Franco’s postgame session.

  For some reason, he told everyone that his injury came from getting his arm caught in a car door.

  “No, it didn’t,” I told him. “You were bitten by a dog.”