They’d started out with simple equipment that Rey pulled from the back of the limo: jump ropes, elastic bands in various lengths and thicknesses, tennis balls, and dumbbells. Rey showed the boys that with these inexpensive tools, you didn’t need a fancy gym for a solid workout. Then he taught Shawn a martial arts form to use to center his balance. From there, he brought the boys into the stadium and had them leap from bleacher to bleacher to build agility. After that, he demonstrated simple stretches for their biceps, pecs, glutes, and hamstrings.
Finally, he had them run the stadium steps. That was where Shawn nearly keeled over.
“Hey, SuperFan-to-be,” Rey said softly as he approached, trailed by Alex and Peter. It had taken him quite a while to hobble down the stairs with his cane. He offered Shawn a bottle of water, which Shawn drank gratefully. “How do you feel?”
Shawn made a face. “I couldn’t even get halfway.”
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that. You’ll make it to the top if you train every day. No excuses.”
“No excuses,” Peter promised. “Or I’ll kick my brother’s buttocks.”
Rey peered closely at Shawn. “Alex and Peter, can you guys run back to the limo? Ask Rodrigo for the white binders and bring them back?”
Shawn smiled. If Rey had asked them to crawl to the limo on their hands and knees they would have been willing.
“You’re quiet,” Rey observed when the boys were gone. “What are you thinking?”
“How I suck.”
“You don’t suck. You’re just starting.”
Shawn shook his head angrily, but his voice was matter-of-fact. “Peter is two years younger than me, and he can run faster and jump higher. He’s right. In a fight, he’d kick my butt. About the only things I’m better at than him are art and guitar. Alex is a great athlete and knows way more about WWE than me. I think maybe the WWE goofed.”
Shawn still couldn’t look Rey in the eyes. “Look at me,” Rey commanded, his dark eyes intense.
Shawn looked up.
“I want you to do one thing,” Rey demanded. “Take those poison thoughts and stick them where the sun doesn’t shine. Can you do that for me?”
Once again, Shawn was honest. He didn’t say yes. “I can try.”
Rey nodded as Alex started up the bleachers with the white binders in hand. “If you try your hardest, that’s good enough for me.”
“These weigh a ton!” Alex exclaimed. He carried two of the white binders while Peter handled the other one.
“Playbooks,” Rey said knowledgeably.
Shawn had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”
Rey took a binder from Alex and handed it to Shawn. “Football players have playbooks with their team’s plays. This is your WWE playbook. Alex and Peter have theirs so they can test you.”
“There aren’t plays in wrestling!” Peter exclaimed.
“True,” Rey acknowledged. “But there’s a ton to learn, especially if you haven’t been a fan for very long. Shawn, memorize this.”
“Memorize it?” Shawn was aghast.
“Memorize it,” Rey repeated. “When you’re not doing schoolwork or volunteer work or training or reading Tom Sawyer, that is.”
Shawn was about to ask when Rey expected him to sleep, but thought better of it and flipped through the binder. There were hundreds of pages covering WWE history, wrestlers, matchups and rivalries, matches and moves.
“I’m supposed to know all this?” Shawn was incredulous.
“Yep,” Rey said.
“You know everything in here?” Shawn challenged.
Rey laughed. “I know all the parts about me. Come on, let’s head back to the limo.”
The scene that greeted them in the parking lot was far different from when they’d first gotten there. They’d arrived to an empty parking lot. Now, the limo was surrounded by vans with antennae on their roofs and a gaggle of adults. The crowd was shouting questions at Rodrigo.
“Who are these people?” Alex exclaimed. “They weren’t here before.”
Rey smiled wryly. “Word must be out.”
“Reporters?” Alex guessed.
“You’re a cerebralty, Shawn!” Peter exclaimed.
“Celebrity. And no, I’m not. I’m just a kid,” Shawn countered.
“Actually, Shawn, you’re gonna be at least a little famous.” Rey reset the mask on his face. “Gotta look my best with the media.”
Shawn felt stage fright creep up his chest. “I don’t want to be interviewed!”
“I’m not sure you have a choice,” Alex observed. “Here they come!”
Alex was right. The journalists were in a dead run, and everyone was shouting questions.
“How does it feel to be a finalist, Shawn?”
“Are you named for Shawn Michaels?”
“Do you think you can win?”
“Is it true your father’s in Afghanistan?”
“Who’s your favorite wrestler?”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Who’s the other friend? He looks like your brother. How come he’s so big and you’re so small? Who’s older?”
The questions kept coming. Shawn felt close to panic. But Rey was used to dealing with reporters. He whispered to Shawn. “I’ll talk. When I turn to you, say, ‘I’m just proud to be a part of the competition.’ Got it?”
Shawn nodded. It wasn’t like he could come up with something to say on his own.
“Quiet, please! Quiet!” Rey held up a beefy arm for silence, and the crowd hushed. “I’m Rey Mysterio. I’ll make a brief statement, then Shawn will make a brief statement, and then we need to go so the boys can do their homework. Middle school is killer.”
The reporters laughed. Rey already had them charmed.
“Shawn Reynolds is a worthy finalist, and I’m thrilled to be his WWE mentor,” Rey continued. “We want our first SuperFan to be an athlete and a scholar, a good friend and a good person, strong of mind, body, and heart. Will Shawn win? I don’t know. But you guys can help him by giving him the space he needs. Shawn, can you say a few words?”
Shawn gulped. This was his cue. But there were cameras. Was any of this live?
Probably not, he reasoned. Not in the middle of the day on a Saturday. But still.
He managed to croak out the sentence Rey had given him to say. “I’m just proud to be a part of the competition. Thank you.”
“Can’t hear you!” a tall, skinny female reporter shouted at him.
“Is that it?” Another writer frowned.
The reporters’ questions and complaints came fast and furious, but Rey took over again.
“Gotta go!” Then he turned to the boys. “Hustle outta here.”
The kids dashed for the limo and scrambled in, with Rey following as quickly as his bum ankle would allow.
“Welcome to the big time,” Rey declared as the limo pulled away.
“You’re a star, Shawn!” Peter was awestruck by what had just happened.
“I don’t want to be a star!” Shawn moaned.
“Good. Don’t think about that. Think about this.” Rey picked up the remote control for the flat-screen TV and pressed a few buttons. “This is what I wanted you to see. Who you’re up against.”
Huh. His opponents. So much had happened since Rey rang his doorbell that Shawn hadn’t even thought about who his competition would be in Atlanta.
That changed in a hurry as Rey started the entry videos of Shawn’s three rivals. There was DeJuan Smith, an African American boy from Baltimore, Maryland, whom Shawn liked immediately. DeJuan was funny, energetic, and did a perfect imitation of Sheamus’s voice as part of his video. He’d be mentored by former champion The Miz. The girl was Jayden Starr from Los Angeles, California. Jayden had somehow recorded her video in a wrestling ring while she did gymnastics across the floor. Like DeJuan, she seemed cool.
“Her mentor is Natalya. She’s been the Divas Champion. Very beautiful, very tough. Now check out the
last one.” Rey frowned.
Up came a video from a kid named Spike Murcer. Spike was from Renton, Washington. He was tall, he was wide, and he was strong. Spike had shot his video in a gym and did bicep curls with heavy dumbbells as he talked. “I want to grow up to be a WWE Superstar. The best way to do that is to be the first SuperFan. That’s why I’m going to win. And everyone else is going to lose.”
Shawn shuddered a bit. There was nothing that Spike was saying that was so bad, but he just had a feeling about the guy. Plus, there were those huge dumbbells.
The video ended as the limo stopped in front of Shawn’s house. “Who’s his mentor?” Shawn asked.
“His mentor?” Rey repeated. “Funny you should ask that. It’s my favorite person in the world: CM Punk.”
Shawn gulped. “Can you play it again?”
Rey reran the video. Amazing. Spike even looked like Punk, with dark hair and brooding eyes. He had Punk’s cocky mouth and slight sneer. All he was missing were Punk’s famous tattoos.
Shawn shuddered. These were the kids he’d have to beat. But how?
CHAPTER TEN
“Hey, it’s the SuperFan!”
“Nah, it’s not the SuperFan. Shawn Reynolds’ll never be the SuperFan!”
“Well, then. It’s the SuperFraud!”
Shawn’s ears burned as he took his place in the batter’s box of the Columbia East Middle School baseball diamond. It was two weeks after Rey Mysterio had shown up on his doorstep. Two weeks of exercising in the snow, rain, or shine, of studying the white binder with Peter and Alex, and of reading and rereading Tom Sawyer. Literally every moment that Shawn wasn’t doing schoolwork or his chores, he was preparing for the competition. The only thing he did to relax was play his guitar.
Rey monitored his progress by e-mail and made changes to his training routine. To build upper-body strength, he told Shawn to put a pull-up bar in his doorway and use it morning and night. To build balance, Rey had Shawn stand on one leg while Peter and Alex tried to push him over. Two days ago, he’d finally made it to the top of the football bleachers without having to stop.
There was one extra-good part to training that Shawn hadn’t anticipated: It distracted him from the fact that they still hadn’t heard from his father. Carla assured the boys that this was totally normal, but that didn’t make it easier. Shawn still sent daily e-mails so Sanford would come back to a full inbox.
Now it was mid-March and, again, unseasonably warm. The gym teacher, Mr. Marotta, had decreed that they’d play kickball outdoors.
As Shawn waited for Mr. Marotta to take the mound, mean cracks kept coming from the other team. The worst came from Jeff Harrison, who was both a terrible student and the class bully.
“Yo, Weenie Shawn!” Jeff was shouting from left field. “The only ring you belong in is a ring-around-the-rosy. Ashes, ashes, Shawn falls down!”
Jeff tumbled to the ground, flailing his arms and legs. His teammates cracked up.
Shawn gritted his teeth. Rey had warned him that part of being a celebrity—and Shawn was definitely now a mini-celebrity—was that some people would want to knock you down just because they could. Jeff Harrison was one of those people.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Other kids were extra friendly now that he was a SuperFan finalist. Some of them would never even give him the time of day before. It was flattering, but it made Shawn really grateful for a true friend like Alex, who’d be his friend no matter how the competition turned out.
“Hey, Weenie! Why’d they pick you? I know! Because they wanted two boys and two girls!” Jeff pranced around the outfield like a fashion model. “Spike Murcer’s going to smush you!”
Shawn stewed. He didn’t even like to think about Spike Murcer, who’d recently posted a whole series of videos about himself and his greatness on the WWE website. When was Mr. Marotta gonna pitch? As usual, Shawn had been the last one picked when sides were chosen. Wouldn’t it feel great to smash one way over Jeff Harrison’s annoying head? Maybe he could pretend that Jeff was Spike.
Could he do it? After all these workouts, he was stronger. But feeling stronger and smacking one past the pitcher’s mound were two different things.
As if to highlight that fact, Jeff danced in from left field until he stood with the shortstop. “Weenie Boy SuperFraud can’t kick it over an anthill!”
More mean laughter. Meanwhile, Shawn’s teammates were silent. Apparently they didn’t have much confidence in Shawn, either.
Finally, Mr. Marotta came to the mound. “Ready, Shawn?”
“Bring it,” Shawn told him. “And no slow balls.”
Shawn knew that even with his training, if he were going to send one into the outfield, the pitch would have to come with pace. Mr. Marotta fired a speedy roll along the ground. Shawn zeroed in on it and kicked as hard as he could.
He missed. Just like in Jeff’s obnoxious nurseryrhyme chant, he promptly fell down. Jeff’s team howled with laughter, and Jeff did a dead-on imitation of Shawn’s wipeout.
“Ashes, ashes, Shawnie falled-ed down!” Jeff chortled.
“One more strike, Shawn,” Mr. Marotta reminded him as the catcher threw the ball back.
“Same thing.” Shawn was grim.
“If you say so.” Mr. Marotta rolled the ball toward Shawn again, maybe even faster.
Shawn glanced at Jeff Harrison, who was right behind the shortstop, pretending to be asleep. Man! How good it would feel if . . .
With three running steps, Shawn swung with his right foot, trying to angle his kick toward left field.
Boom!
All those stadium steps paid off. The rubber ball exploded off his foot, heading toward left field like a red rocket. By the time Jeff Harrison figured out what was going on, the ball was heading for the fence. He turned and gave chase as Shawn’s teammates screamed at him, “Run, Shawn, run!”
Shawn was in such shock that he hadn’t budged from the batter’s box. With a start, he bolted toward first base.
“Run, Shawn!” his teammates urged. As Shawn rounded first and headed toward second, he could see that Jeff was only now approaching the ball. “Run!”
Shawn bore in on third. Jeff fired the ball to the third baseman. Safe! Shawn came in standing up as his teammates shouted with glee.
It was amazing. He’d never made so much as a single before. If he’d run the moment he’d kicked it, he would have had a home run. If only Alex were in his gym class and could have seen this. Well he’d have to tell him all about it.
Mr. Marotta called out approvingly, “Nice shot, Shawn!”
“Thanks!” Shawn called back, still a little dazed.
“Total luck! He couldn’t do it again in a million years!” Jeff scoffed and kicked at the dirt.
Shawn didn’t know whether what Jeff said was true or not, but it didn’t matter. He’d done it once, right here, right now. It felt great. If this was what SuperFan was doing for him, he was loving it.
“Show of hands—how many of you have finished your book for your book report? Oral reports begin next Friday! Has anyone finished yet?” Mrs. Wolfenbarger stared at her class.
Shawn looked around the English 7-A classroom. He was on his fourth reading of Tom Sawyer, but if no one else was going to raise their hand, he sure wouldn’t.
Not a hand went up.
“No one?” Mrs. Wolfenbarger was obviously unhappy. She was the most senior teacher on the middle school faculty and had the gray hair and tough attitude that came with that status. Shawn liked her, though. All she wanted was for her students to do their work and do it well. “Not a single person?”
No one. Most of the kids got really busy studying their desktops.
Mrs. Wolfenbarger marched to the whiteboard. “Gee. That’s too bad. Because if you can prove you’ve read the book by now, I’ll give you an A and you won’t have to do the report.
The class gasped as their teacher wrote an A on the whiteboard and circled it. “That’s how much I hate letting work go until
the last minute.”
Shawn was stunned. Did Mrs. Wolfenbarger just say that there was a way for him not to do an oral report?
Before he could change his mind, he flung his right hand skyward.
“Shawn Reynolds, yes?”
“Mrs. Wolfenbarger, I’m reading Tom Sawyer for my report. I mean, I’ve finished it.”
Jeff Harrison, who sat in the back of the classroom, protested immediately. “That is totally unfair. That’s the book he has to read for SuperFan!”
The teacher glared at Jeff. “Jeff, did I call on you?”
“No.”
“Then cease the verbal diarrhea. I don’t recall ever saying that you couldn’t read the same book for two purposes. Did I say that, Jeff?”
“Nopers.”
“Excuse me? A word in actual English?”
“No, ma’am,” Jeff muttered.
“Exactly. In your case, it might be nice to read a single book for a single purpose—namely, this book report. And it might be nice for it to be at least one reading level up from The Cat in the Hat. So, let’s see whether Shawn has, as he claims, read Tom Sawyer.”
She spun back around, faced Shawn, and fired off a string of questions. “Who wrote the book? What was the author’s real name? Where did Tom and Becky find themselves toward the end of the story? What was the name of Tom’s best friend? What did Tom get the other kids to paint?”
Yikes. Shawn felt anxiety flood the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t the same thing as giving an oral report, where he had to stand in front of his class and talk for ten minutes. But it was almost as bad.
When he spoke, he was so nervous that he barely even stopped between the sentences. “Tom Sawyer was written by Mark Twain. The author’s real name was Samuel Clemens. Tom’s best friend is Huckleberry Finn. Tom gets the other kids to paint a fence. Near the end, he and the girl named Becky get lost in a cave.”
For a moment, Mrs. Wolfenbarger stood in silence. Then she went back to the whiteboard and re-circled the letter A.
“Congratulations, Shawn. That’s your grade. Even if you could have enunciated better. And class? If it took SuperFan and WWE to get Shawn to prepare like this?” Her eyes flitted from face to face. “I advise all of you to become wrestling fans.”
SuperFan Page 4