by Sally J. Pla
“Hey—here’s something from your father,” she says. “Listen to this. He’s in Nairobi, meeting with micro-finance people. He says, ‘This is turning into a multi-village project and a new cooperative venture for both the financial side and the villagers involved’ . . .” Her voice trails off.
Gramps harrumphs from his spot at the table. “You’d think that man would ask about the home front every once in a while,” he says, moving his jaw like he’s chewing on each word before spitting it out.
I don’t want to think about Dad. It just makes my stomach hurt. I grab my toast and go in the other room to call Joon.
“Stanley.” Joon’s voice sounds surprised. “Hey, funny you should call.”
“What’s so funny about it?” I say. “Saturday’s our playdate day.” A flash of annoyance hits me.
“Dude. Don’t ever say the word ‘playdate’ to me. Not ever again.”
My face flushes hot. “Right—sorry.”
“Thing is,” Joon goes on, “Dylan slept over . . . and we have soccer later.” He covers the phone; there’s muffled talking.
“Well, okay. Come over for a little while, anyway. And bring your Silver Surfers? And some Captain Marvels? That’d be cool.”
It’s so hot, by the time I get there I’m drenched. Joon slides open his window and says, “Dude! We’re coming down. Meet us out back.”
I sit on the edge of a lounge chair under a tree and grab a Silver Surfer at random from my pack. It’s the one about the Ultimate Nullifier—an artifact the Human Torch brought back from Galactus’s world-ship, Taa II. The Ultimate Nullifier doesn’t just destroy, it un-exists things. Which is a very cool idea for a weapon.
What kind of superweapons should John Lockdown carry? Maybe the bottles of cleaning chemicals on the shelves in the utility closet are supernatural solutions that make the stuff he cleans turn invisible. Or bulletproof. Or impervious to pain and suffering.
When I get back to the Sketchpad of Mystery, I’ll work on that.
Ten minutes go by before the back door clicks open. Joon has his old red sports bag slung over his shoulder, and Dylan’s standing right behind him.
“Stan!” Joon says, looking down at me. “Really sorry, dude—it’s actually way later than I thought it was. Dylan and I have soccer later, and we have to go over to his place to pick up his stuff.” Joon shifts the bag around, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Sorry about the change of plans.”
I wait for him to say, “You want to come with?” or “How about tomorrow?” But he doesn’t say anything. He—they—just stand there, staring at me, like they’re hoping I’ll disapparate like Harry Potter or something.
My heart starts pounding. It’s not a Red Alert. It’s Red Anger. “What about preparing for the Trivia Quest?”
Joon looks quickly away. “I still care about the Quest,” he says.
“Wait—are you talking about that Trivia Quest they keep advertising? That thing where you win tickets to Comic Fest? You guys are doing that?” Dylan asks.
We nod.
“That’s cool!” Dylan says. “I’d totally do that.”
“Really? You would?” says Joon. His eyebrows shoot up into his new, spiky hairline, and he breaks into a big smile. Bigger than any smile I’ve seen on his face lately.
Then Joon turns back to me. “Stanley, really sorry about today. You want to just lend me those comics, and we’ll pick it up later?” He reaches out his hands for the stack I’m holding.
But I don’t hand them over. Instead I clutch them to my chest and turn away. (True, they’re mainly just Silver Surfers from the 2014 series and some relatively unimportant Captain Marvels, but there are a couple of really good ones in there, and I don’t feel like sharing anymore.)
I turn and go. I walk really fast down his drive and break into a run on the sidewalk. I blow past the mail guy and leave Mrs. Martinez, the fastest power-walker in the neighborhood, in my dust.
All I want is to be back in my room. Immediately.
As I fly by, I see Liberty Silverberg sitting in a big chair on her porch, reading. She stands up and smiles at me. She raises her hand and shouts, “Hail, Norm!”
The whole Norm thing? Not funny.
I ignore her. I slam the back door behind me and fly up the stairs and down the hall to my room, my safe space. I shut the window blinds, fling myself down onto the bed, and cover my head with a pillow.
I need darkness. Silence. My head is banging and pulsing with heat and anger. I need silence in order to process what just happened at Joon’s:
I just got un-existed by my best and only friend.
13
I DON’T EMERGE from my room until almost dinnertime, when I can’t ignore the fact that unusual smells are wafting under my door. Ah, yes. If my distant memories of days gone by are correct, that is the distinct aroma of . . . home cooking!
“There you are,” Mom says, darting me a quick glance as I come in the kitchen. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Then wash these greens. I’ve asked our new neighbors to dinner. Chicken parm, and a cake’s in the oven.”
Chicken parm! Cake! We haven’t had a meal this good since Cal’s birthday! My heart lifts! Then it sinks again, at the thought of Liberty. “Did you have to ask them?” I say. “Can’t we just eat it all ourselves?”
Mom ignores me and digs in the back of the cupboard for spices. “Should we ask the Lees, too? I’ve got plenty of food. Liberty could meet Joon.”
Woop. A panic blip. “No!” I shout. “I mean, I think they’re already busy.”
“If you say so.” Mom wipes her hands on her apron and frowns at me. “Everything okay with Joon?”
“What? Yeah,” I lie. “Of course! Totally fine.”
Mothers are psychic.
At exactly six, Gramps, Cal, and I are all in clean shirts, looking miserable, and Mom’s whipping off her apron as the doorbell rings.
Liberty and her uncle are almost as tall as the doorway. She’s clutching a box of chocolates in her bony hands. Her T-shirt says Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come.
Dr. Silverberg is huge, with stooped shoulders, balding red hair, and a big grin. He hands Mom a bottle of wine and starts chatting away before he’s even in the door. Not only is he big, but he also has very big expressions—his eyes widen and his brows shoot up a lot when he talks. His face is like an exclamation point.
“Thanks so much for having us!” he says. “So glad to be part of the neighborhood!” Liberty mimics him behind his back as he goes on and on. I try not to smile.
Over dinner, Dr. Silverberg tells us he’s a new doctor at the hospital—it’s his first job out of med school. He tells us all about his work! And about how he found an Excellent! Homeschool! Tutor! For Liberty! Through the university! She rolls her eyes at the word excellent, and chomps down harder on her piece of garlic bread.
Then Gramps starts talking about the weather. How bad it is in the Midwest compared to Pennsylvania, where the Silverbergs lived before here. “I can sure feel the weather and dampness in this bum shoulder of mine,” he grumbles, and actually gets Dr. Silverberg to get up out of his chair and examine it, right there in the middle of dinner, while Mom tries to politely protest.
After Gramps’s shoulder is looked at, Dr. Silverberg sits back down and takes second helpings. He mentions wanting to learn how to surf, and Calvin tells him about a few good spots.
Meanwhile, every time I catch her eye, Liberty imitates her uncle. It’s not mean—you can tell she likes him. But I’m trying hard not to laugh.
“Liberty, honey, would you like more?” Mom says.
“Yes, please, ma’am.” She passes over her empty plate. “Everything’s delicious.”
“My mom’s an excellent cook when she cooks, which is never,” says Cal in a way deeper voice than usual.
“It’s so nice to see Liberty with a good appetite again,” says Dr. Silverberg, sitting back and patting his own b
elly.
“Again?” says Mom, smiling politely, eyebrows raised.
There’s an awkward pause. Liberty stops with her fork halfway to her mouth. Dr. Silverberg looks at her, and then at Mom, and his face flushes red. Neither of them says anything more. And Mom quickly changes the subject.
But after that, Liberty stops smirking and mimicking and trying to make me laugh. She just stares straight ahead and waits for the visit to end.
14
MONDAY MORNING, I don’t even try to sit with Joon on the bus. Dylan’s in my usual spot. I sit farther back so I can bore Superman-eyeball heat-vision laser holes into the backs of their two stupid heads.
I spend the ride to school thinking about what galactic weapon I’d use to eradicate Bustamante’s existence. If I had Mjolnir, Thor’s hammer, I’d summon a storm, or send him hurtling into some hideous new dimension where the evil forces of the universe would punish him for not knowing superhero trivia. If I had Wolverine’s adamantium claws, well, I’m probably a little too squeamish for the Wolverine approach.
Hellboy’s Samaritan gun? Daredevil’s billy club? Or maybe something from Batman’s utility belt—there’s a crazy treasure trove of stuff in there. Batarangs, a grapple gun, a cryptographic sequencer, tracers, smoke and gas pellets, a tranquilizer gun, glue, line launchers, lock picks, a laser, various grenades, sonic devastators . . . even Kryptonite.
I bet Joon and Dylan couldn’t name one-quarter of what’s in Batman’s belt.
I cruise up the walk past Joon and Dylan, who pretend not to notice me, and stomp down the hall into Mrs. Green’s homeroom.
“Gooood morning, Peavey Schooool!” booms Principal Coffin over the scratchy PA.
Now I feel like smacking my head on my desk.
“Surprise! You never know when it’s time for a safety drill! Remember, we must always be prepared for the worst! Expect the best, prepare for the worst, that’s our Peavey motto,” she says.
I can’t wait to go to the office, escape the madness, and visit the Sketchpad of Mystery. But I’ve only just raised my hand when the classroom door bursts open.
Everyone gasps.
My brother, Calvin, of all people, is standing there. And he has smears of blood on his face.
Red Alert!
Red Alert!
“Oh my God!” Some of the girls let out a quick, surprised shriek. Because in his two outstretched arms he’s carrying an unconscious kid.
My heart starts pounding like a bird got trapped in my chest and is trying to flap its frantic way out. I grip the sides of my desk so hard the joints in my fingers ache.
Calvin has a strange expression on his face—grim, but his mouth’s twitching like he’s trying to keep from smiling. He rushes forward into our classroom and clunks the injured kid down on the front table. The boy’s head lolls off the edge. Cal yanks him back by the ankles.
It’s a CPR dummy, of course. Ugh. Seriously, did they have to use fake blood? Principal Coffin is going to end up giving me an actual heart attack. That’s going to be the only real emergency at Peavey: me, having a heart attack from an overdose of emergency preparedness.
The CPR dummy boy lies sprawled out on the table. Cal jerks his thumb at it, then at us. “WHO IN THIS CLASS COULD STEP UP RIGHT NOW AND DO PROPER CPR ON THIS KID, IF THIS WAS A REAL EMERGENCY?” he says in his big-shot, eighth-grade, know-it-all voice.
There are sounds out in the hall of other classrooms getting their CPR dummy visits. Clunk, clunk, go dolls on tables. I know this is just a super-dramatic way to make a point, but still—STILL! I’m starting to feel seasick. I imagine putting my mouth on that gross rubbery doll mouth. The fake, clotted blood that looks like lumpy dark ketchup.
Uh-oh.
I think I’m gonna barf.
I lurch up from my desk. My gag reflex is kicking in. My stomach is telling me I have about five seconds to get to the boys’ room. I stumble blindly past desks, sprint down the hall. I almost make it.
But not quite.
“Oh, Stanley, you poor thing,” Mrs. Green says, coming out of our classroom and over to where I’m crouched, miserable, near the water fountain. “I’ll call for cleanup. Do you think you can get yourself to the office?”
By the time I’ve straightened up and pulled myself together, the custodian is already on his way, wheeling along one of those mop-and-pail carts. Same guy from when I fainted in the fire drill. It figures.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble at my shoes, which miraculously missed getting barfed on.
“You better be sorry, dork.” It’s Calvin’s voice ringing out from behind me. “Your teacher just told me to walk you to the office. Thanks for ruining my talk.”
I don’t say anything. I keep walking. But Calvin grabs my shoulder and yells. “Do you have to be such a weenie? Why are you the only kid who can’t hack it?”
I stop in the middle of the hall. It’s hard to breathe, but not just from panic. Also from shock at Calvin’s anger.
“You barely talk! And everything upsets you,” Cal shouts. He gives me a small shove so I stumble back against the cinder-block wall. “You’re an embarrassment, Stannie. And don’t hold your hands up by your chest like two little paws.” He squints at me, disgusted. “You’ve been doing that your whole life, and it’s so stupid! You’re almost thirteen. You’re in my school now. Grow up!”
I yank my hands down to my sides and say, “Leave me alone, Cal.”
“Gladly,” he says. And with a loud pivoting squeak of his sneaker, he takes off back down the hall.
The school secretaries glance at me over their reading glasses as I slip past, to the Ready Room.
Cal’s words still burn and roil around inside me. I’m pretty used to him being a jerk. But this was the worst ever.
The Sketchpad of Mystery sits in the corner, closed. I can’t bear to open it until my churning stomach and angry head settle.
But when I finally do go uncover the pad, this is what I see.
15
JOON CALLS RIGHT before dinner that night.
“Stan?” he says. “I’m sorry about Saturday.”
My shoulders relax for the first time in days. I take a deep breath. “Whoa. Me too! I’m so glad you called. It’s just—”
“Yeah. It’s just, you know, I’ve been thinking. Really thinking. About the Quest.”
I hold my breath.
“Maybe it’s better if just Dylan and I enter it.”
I freeze. Time stops.
“—I mean, you’re great at the trivia, Stan,” he goes on. “We all know that. Really amazing at trivia, and thanks for helping me with all those charts and stuff.” Joon’s words are coming out in a rush. “But let’s face it. You’d never survive the day downtown. It’s too much for you, right?”
My heart hammers. My voice cracks. “But—it’s Trivia Quest! You need me to win!”
“Yeah, well,” Joon says softly. “I also just want to have fun!”
My whole world stops. Goes silent. “I’m fun!” I say, but it comes out as a croak. “Name one time I wasn’t fun.”
“One time?” Joon actually laughs. “Just one? How about, for starters, the school dance last month?”
“What did I do?” I whisper.
“You complained the music was too loud—”
“It was!”
“—So we went outside to get away from it, and then Kyle and Dylan followed us, and we wanted to have a rolling race down the back hill in those empty garbage pails. Remember?”
“Filthy garbage cans, dude. That was dangerous.”
“You told on us!”
“Well, the chaperones asked where you went! What was I gonna do, lie? And I was worried. You could have gotten hurt!”
“See? That’s what I mean. Why couldn’t you just roll with us?”
I sputter. But I was saving him from danger!
“—And then there was last year, when I explained to you who likes who. And you turned it into a flow chart.”
&nbs
p; I groan.
“—With arrows and boxes, and, like, ten different colors, to explain what girl liked what boy. And everybody saw it, and some girls cried. You made girls cry, dude!”
My insides are curdling with humiliation. My face is on fire. “Okay, I agree. That was really stupid, I know.”
“Stanley. Come on. We’re at Peavey now. You have to learn how to handle stuff.”
First Calvin. Now Joon? I clench my hands, jump up, and suddenly I’m shouting back at him. “I can handle stuff! You have no idea!” My heart is pounding. “And you know what? You stink at being a friend! And you know what else? I can do the Trivia Quest all by myself, Joon! And win it, too! I don’t need you! In fact, you’d hold me back! I’m going to enter it and beat you! So there!”
“FINE!”
“FINE!” I slam down the phone and listen to the blood pound, pound, pound in my ears.
When the waves of outrage finally stop crashing, a super-heavy sadness drifts down and settles over me.
I wish John Lockdown were real. If he were here, right now, maybe he could weave some kind of magic power over me and Joon, and make things go back to how they used to be. Before Peavey.
But John Lockdown doesn’t exist. And we’re not younger. We’re older. And I’m all out of ideas how to fix this mess.
I guess from now on, as to Joon and me? We’re done.
And another thing:
I think I’m stuck entering the Trivia Quest.
16
MOM’S LATE for dinner again. Really late. We’ve been keeping the delivery pizza boxes warm in the oven for such a long time, the kitchen smells like hot cardboard, not pizza. I pull the boxes out before she even takes off her red blazer.
“Boys. There’s new coyote scat all over our driveway,” Mom says, dropping her briefcase and giving Albert Einstein a pat. “When you see that out there, you should clean it up.”