“Well, Noah’s really modest,” I murmured.
“Really?” He raised two perfect brows. “I don’t get that impression at all. If you ask me, I’d say he’s even gotten a little carried away with the spotlight. He loves the attention. Which begs the question: Why did he shy away at first when the whole town was looking for him?”
He had a point, and I probably would have given it some serious thought if I cared—which I didn’t. Who could guess what drove Noah? He was like a roll of the dice. Anything could come up.
Aloud, I said, “He’s on my squad, but I really don’t know him that well.”
The reporter took out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it up. The video showed a lacrosse field at halftime, with the cheerleaders performing. We were all in tripod formation, looking really together.
Then Noah came along. He took the feet out from under Claire, clocked Judy with an elbow, and came within a few inches of stomping on my face after they dropped me. It was almost as painful to watch as it had been to survive the first time around. But the worst part was the crowd. They barely even noticed that Noah had ruined our routine and had nearly put his sneaker-prints on my forehead. They were rooting for their superkid, chanting his name while I lay flat on my back, with the wind knocked out of me, hyperventilating through what was left of my perma-smile.
I could feel my eyes narrowing at the TV reporter. What was his angle? Was he trying to trick me into saying Noah was a lousy cheerleader so he could make me look ungrateful on The Russ Trussman Hour?
“Some of his cheer skills are a work in progress,” I ventured carefully. “He’s gotten better.”
“Skills can be taught,” he told me. “But jumping in the window of a moving truck—that takes natural athleticism. Some of us have it.” He paused the video on his phone, freezing Noah in mid-stumble. “Some of us don’t.”
I stared at him. “You don’t believe Noah did it! You think it was somebody else!”
He didn’t say yes or no.
“You’re dreaming!” I laughed. “It was Noah, all right. One hundred percent.”
“How can you be certain?” he asked.
It just slipped out. “Because I couldn’t get that lucky.”
There. I said it. I would have given anything for the superkid to be someone else. Dracula. Jabba the Hutt. Some intelligent moss from outer space that came to Earth on the tail of a comet.
Anybody.
Russ Trussman pocketed his phone, flipped his notebook shut, and started for the gate. “Thanks for your time, Megan. See you Sunday.”
“Sunday?” I echoed. “I’m busy Sunday. It’s my—”
“I know, your birthday party. I’m coming back with a camera crew to shoot the superkid’s return to the place where it all happened. Great human interest angle—at least, that’s what your mom said.”
And he was gone, leaving me standing there with smoke coming out of my ears. Bad enough I had to invite Noah. Now Channel 4 was going to turn my birthday into a celebration of his super-ness. And my own parents were in on it.
Go, Mom and Dad.
“All done, miss.”
I was so lost in my misery that when the pool guy came up behind me, I almost took off like a rocket.
“Oh—uh, great,” I managed. “Thanks.”
“I found this in the filter.” The guy handed me a bright purple doggie toy shaped like a hand-weight. When I took it, the thing emitted a waterlogged squeak.
“I guess your dog lost it,” he added. “Funny name for a dog.”
“We don’t have a dog.” I turned the plastic toy over in my hand. Across the plastic was printed: KANDAHAR.
18
SUPERJEALOUS
NOAH YOUKILIS
There’s a principle of radiation physics called decay. All radioactive material slowly loses its radioactivity. It never drops to zero, but it constantly diminishes according to a formula called half-life.
I was beginning to believe that decay applied to friendships, too.
When I first met Donovan, my life was an endless loop of learning, understanding, internalizing, and predicting. He showed me that knowing a lot was fine, but it was overrated. I needed unpredictability, randomness, fun.
So, like the radioactivity of an isotope, our friendship would never go all the way down to zero. But it was getting harder and harder to keep it up.
Donovan had changed. He was angry at me for being the superkid. Didn’t he remember I was doing all this for him? I tried to get him to come forward and take credit for being a hero. He wouldn’t do it. He was too worried about being caught in Hashtag’s neighborhood. And when I saw how worried he was about being caught, I did what any good friend would do. I stepped in and took the pressure off him. No one would look for a superkid if they already had one—me. How was I supposed to know how great it was going to be?
A know-it-all would have known. But that was the old Noah. I wasn’t such a know-it-all anymore. I got a D on my salad bowl. I was being considered for remedial classes.
Besides, there had been no data to analyze, no scientific method to follow that would have enabled me to predict how awesome I was about to become. Or that I would love it as much as I did.
Just walking through the halls at school, the air practically crackled with ions at two or even three times their usual positive charge. When I made eye contact with someone, it was like a spark from a Van de Graaff generator. Girls left sweet-smelling notes in my locker. Guys wanted to be my friend. Hashtag was talking about running me for student body president as a freshman next year in high school. It was paradise.
There was only one problem: Donovan.
“But, Noah”—we were on the bus—“can’t you see it’s all based on a lie?”
“I see that it started out based on a lie,” I admitted. “Now it’s based on the fact that I’m the superkid.”
“Which is a lie!” he insisted.
“Not at all,” I explained. “The lie is that I saved the Mercury house. Saving a house is something you do, and I didn’t. Being the superkid is something you are. And I am.”
My theory was that—even though Donovan didn’t want to be the superkid himself—he resented the fact that my life had become fantastic and his was still nothing much. I hadn’t had much experience with jealousy before now. At the Academy, all anyone cared about was grades, or summer internships, or awards, or IQ points. I always had the most of all those things, so I was out of the envy loop. But at Hardcastle Middle School, I was starting to see what a corrosive emotion jealousy could be.
“It’s not jealousy, you little maniac!” Donovan rasped at me. “You’re riding so high that you’re bound to screw up and say the wrong thing! Especially to that Trussman bloodhound! And then we’re both toast.”
I was kind of insulted that he would think that I couldn’t handle myself around a few harmless questions. Donovan had the idea that Mr. Trussman was trying to trip me up. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
No one appreciated the superkid more than Mr. Trussman. Not even the Hardcastle papers had given more attention to my story than The Russ Trussman Hour. He visited our house so often that Dad had started to joke about charging him rent. He’d even stayed for dinner a couple of times. He was like family. And not just to us—the Mercurys invited him to bring a camera crew to Megan’s birthday party. Mr. Trussman was going to do a special on my triumphant return to the place that made me famous.
For some reason, that really freaked Donovan out. “Don’t you get it? He’s stalking you! You’ve never been to a party in your life. Your guard will be down, and you’ll let slip something he shouldn’t know! Please, Noah, stay away from that party.”
“I can’t,” I told him honestly. “I promised Megan I’d be there. She’s my head cheerleader. She’d be devastated if I didn’t come. I’m the most popular person in our entire school. I know that sounds like fun and games to someone like you, but it’s also a big responsibility. I
f I don’t show up, the whole party will be a flop.”
Then he said something really mean. “If your 206 IQ meant anything more than a locker combination, you’d know that Megan Mercury would rather see you at the bottom of the ocean than poolside at her birthday party.”
“Megan likes me!” I protested.
He stared me down. “She doesn’t, Noah. She pretends to. But to her, you’ll always be the guy who ruined her cheerleading squad.”
I was outraged. “I’m a great cheerleader!”
He shook his head. “You’ve gotten better. You might even get to be good someday. But you’re never going to be a great cheerleader.”
I forgave him for that, because it was just the jealousy talking. I could see, though, that it was the beginning of the end for our friendship. My superkid status had brought me a lot of happy moments. When I looked to the future, I saw so many good things ahead, like being famous and having a lot of friends. But standard probability analysis told me that Donovan wasn’t likely to be one of them.
I missed him already.
Megan’s party was scheduled for noon. But I didn’t want to be late, so I got there at 11:05 just to be on the safe side.
“Happy birthday!” I announced at the door, and she looked at me like I had two heads. I added, “Is that what you’re wearing to your party?”
“These are my pajamas, Noah. You’re a little early. Can’t you, you know, go someplace for a while, and come back when the party’s supposed to start?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Where do you want me to go?”
She turned bright red, but didn’t offer any suggestions.
“Here!” I thrust my gift bag into her hands. “It’s a biography of Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, also known as the father of the atomic bomb.”
“Just what I always wanted,” she said flatly.
I walked around the neighborhood for a while, but there was a queen bee that kept chasing me, and I had a bad allergy to stings from pollinating insects.
So I knocked on Hashtag’s door.
“Youkinator!” he greeted me. “Come on in, man! The guys are here!”
He was talking about Zane and a couple of other lacrosse players. They were invited to the party too, since they were also popular, like me.
Hashtag ushered me into the living room. “Yo, look who I found!”
“Superkid in da house!” hooted Zane, and everybody high-fived me.
This happened to me all the time now that I was famous.
“Make yourself comfortable, Youk,” Hashtag invited. “We’re just doing a little pregaming.”
“There’s a game?” I was alarmed. “What about Megan’s party?”
As it turned out, pregaming just meant hanging out before a party, because “only losers show up early.”
This was another thing I never could have learned at the Academy, even though the curriculum there was supposedly so advanced.
The guys were playing something called Bangladesh, which had more to do with punching people than with the real country in Asia. One player would declare, “Bang la —” followed by the name of a body part, like “Bang la chest” or “Bang la knee,” and then he would hit the other person in that spot. As the superkid, I didn’t have to participate, but I said I would, because I didn’t want special treatment.
I got “Bang la stomach,” and Zane punched me so hard that I couldn’t breathe and I almost threw up the cereal I had for breakfast. Then everybody got mad at Zane and I couldn’t tell them I was okay because all the wind was knocked out of me.
“But guys—I barely touched him!” Zane pleaded. “I was going easy!”
It took three of them to hold Hashtag back from attacking Zane. “You could have hurt the Youkinator!”
“Just a diaphragm spasm,” I managed to croak, “brought on by a blow to the abdomen that put pressure on the solar plexus.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it is,” Hashtag seethed at Zane, “don’t ever do it again!”
But as angry as everybody was, they all made up when it was time to hide the smashed china figurines that had been on the coffee table I fell over.
Hashtag kept asking me if I was sure I was fine. I don’t think Donovan was ever this concerned about my welfare. Hashtag even said we couldn’t play Bangladesh anymore, because it was too dangerous. Then everyone got bored really fast, so we decided it was time to go to the party.
By this time we were a little late, which was okay because Hashtag liked to make an entrance when the party was already in full swing. Since I was the superkid, my entrance made his entrance even better. The camera crew from Channel 4 filmed the whole thing, and Russ Trussman made all the guests sign release forms if they wanted to be on TV with me. Everybody signed.
I’d never been invited to a party before, so I’d spent the past week researching them on YouTube. It wasn’t very helpful, though, because there were so many different kinds of parties—tea parties, costume parties, political parties, Tupperware parties, toga parties, sleepover parties—a plethora of parties, in fact. There was one party in Texas where everybody had to ride a mechanical bull. I hoped Megan didn’t do that here. My solar plexus still hurt.
Mostly, this was a swimming party, although it could also be considered an eating party—mostly pizza and chips and a big birthday cake. Megan blew out the candles, but I didn’t eat my piece, because what if she sprayed?
I was hoping to avoid going in the pool, but the girls made me. So many of them had helped me pick out my bathing suit, and they insisted on seeing it in action. I did okay in the shallow end, but pretty soon, Shayna and Vanessa tugged me out into the middle. When I tried to touch bottom with my toe, I went under. I inhaled a lot of water and started choking and flailing around. My memory is a little hazy on what happened next, because of the panicking and all that. There was definitely a lot of yelling. Vanessa wailed, “He’s drowning!” and someone—possibly Hashtag—bellowed, “The Youkinator went under!”
A voice a lot like Megan’s screamed, “Dad—do something!”
There was a gigantic splash, and a second later, Mr. Mercury was dragging me over to the side. He boosted me up onto the pool deck, climbed out himself, and pounded me on the back until I stopped wheezing.
I said, “Hey, you saved me just like I saved you! Isn’t it amazing how life comes full circle!”
Obviously, Mr. Mercury wasn’t much of a philosophy fan. He turned long-suffering eyes on his daughter. “You could have let me take my phone out of my pocket before you pushed me in, honey.”
“What else could I do?” Megan defended herself. “He was ruining my party!”
“I get it,” I told her, teeth chattering a little. “Irony. Worrying about a party when someone’s life might be in danger.”
“If you say so,” she muttered under her breath.
Mr. Trussman got a little suspicious after that. “You can’t swim?”
“It’s not among my capabilities,” I confirmed.
His gaze narrowed. “Then how were you able to get out of the truck when it was in the pool?”
But I wouldn’t be ensnared so easily. “When I climbed through the cab window I was able to reach the side of the pool. Then I just hoisted myself up.”
Mr. Trussman gave me a long look and wrote it all down.
19
SUPERSPLASHY
DONOVAN CURTIS
“Donnie . . . Donnie . . . Donnie!”
That got my attention. My sister Katie stood over me, baby Tina in her arms, the way LeBron James carried a basketball. “Why don’t you answer me? I’ve been calling for ten minutes!”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. To be honest, my mind was across town on Staunton Street, at Megan Mercury’s pool party. Noah was there, and so was Russ Trussman. A whole afternoon for the reporter to trick Noah into saying something stupid. “What’s up?”
“Have you seen Kandy’s bowwow bone? I’ve torn the whole house apart looking for it!”
I shrugged. “Who car
es? A new chew-toy costs—what, three bucks? What difference does it make?”
“Oh, none at all,” she said sarcastically. “If you don’t count this!”
I looked up. In her free hand she held the white hat of Brad’s Marine dress uniform. The shiny black brim was mangled and twisted beyond recognition. “Without his bowwow bone, Kandy chews everything he can get his teeth around! Brad’s going to hit the moon!”
I nodded wisely. “And he’ll make Noah march there with him.”
“Don’t be mean, Donnie. Brad’s done amazing things with Noah. He’s a whole new kid now.”
It was a sore point. I liked the old kid better. For one thing, the old kid wouldn’t be at Megan’s party, spilling his guts to Russ Trussman. That could be happening any minute!
I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines. I stood up and kicked into my sneakers.
“Perfect,” she exclaimed. “Walk away from me. I’ve got plenty of time to go to the pet store and pick up a bowwow bone. It’s not like I’ve got a new baby who feeds constantly and never sleeps.”
“Tina’s a great sleeper,” I tossed over my shoulder. “It’s the rest of us who keep waking her up.”
This was my second sprint to Staunton Street to avoid a disaster. The hill didn’t make it any easier, but at least Megan’s house was on the downside of the slope. Panting, catching my breath, I took note of the bikes and skateboards on the front lawn. I could hear laughter, excited chatter, and water splashing. This was party day, all right. Megan’s pool parties were legend at Hardcastle Middle School, not that I’d ever made the guest list.
Cautiously, I scooted around the side of the house, taking note of the chipped brick where the tanker’s side mirror had broken off. The fence was back up, but the gate was open. Inside was a solid wall of kids in bathing suits—dancing, horsing around, and having a great time. It was exactly what we outsiders had always imagined Megan’s shindigs to be like. More important, it was crowded, which meant I might be able to get myself close to Noah without being identified as an uninvited party-crasher.
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