Stanley Will Probably Be Fine

by Sally J. Pla

  “Yeah,” Dylan says. “Seven clues. Joon and I have it covered. We’ll know where to go.”

  Joon nods, but I think I see a flashing glimpse of deer-in-the-headlights in his brown eyes.

  “I heard that when they held the New York version they ran out of gold tokens and people rioted,” says Keefner. “Total mob scene.”

  Wait, what? I freeze.

  “Yeah,” Keefner goes on. “People go nuts at these events. Some guys in New York got trampled and ended up in the hospital.”

  Is that true? I don’t say anything. Just try to push down my Red Alerts.

  Dylan scowls at Keefner. “Don’t worry! We can handle it.”

  I have a feeling Joon’s staring at me, but I keep my head down—until I hear Dylan’s mocking voice: “Hey, Fart-in-bra! Trivia king! You in this thing, too?”

  The whole table laughs so hard they don’t even see me nod, minutely, yes.

  Then I start to get mad. I think of what Liberty would say. What John Lockdown would do. I grip the sides of the bench as hard as I can. “Yes,” I say, as calmly and loudly as I can.

  Keefner and Dylan just keep laughing at me. But Joon’s eyes widen.

  They still don’t hear. So I stand up. I take a breath. “YES!” I shout.

  The chatter around me stops. Everyone stares.

  Then Keefner starts chuckling. “Oh, great! If someone’s gonna end up getting trampled in the mob tomorrow, three to one it’ll be Fart-in-bra here!” he says. And everyone starts talking again.

  I try to pretend I didn’t hear. But inside I think: Keefner’s probably right.

  20

  “TIME FOR THE Heart Health and Defibrillator Use Assembly!” blares Principal Coffin’s static-scratchy voice. “Would everyone please report to the auditorium?”

  It figures.

  I veer into the main office.

  Mrs. Ngozo is by the teachers’ mailboxes. “Your mother tells me you’re competing in that big comics festival competition tomorrow, Stanley,” she says as I walk past. “That’s amazing! We’re very proud of you. Just getting out there and participating in something you care about, that makes you a winner in my book!” She gives me two thumbs ups. “And don’t forget to breathe, Stanley! Aqua, ochre!”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Ngozo,” I say. And head quickly past her to the Ready Room.

  The last comic from the mystery artist showed John Lockdown vanquishing the big dumb bully, then telling me that somehow, someday, my super-senses would turn to superpowers.

  I stare at John Lockdown’s face. Well, at least he believes in me. At least a fictitious, goofy-looking cartoon character believes in me.

  I pick up the black marker and write:

  “Yeah, but will I find my abilities before Trivia Quest starts tomorrow?”

  Actually, never mind the abilities. I’d just be happy to get through tomorrow alive.

  “You look pale,” Mom says during dinner that night. She puts her hand on my forehead. “Try to eat—you’ll need your energy tomorrow!”

  “Yeah, Stannie,” says Cal, sneering. “Listen to your mommy!”

  Mom ignores him. “I talked to your father again,” she says. “He’s sad to miss Stanley’s big contest!” She piles a heaping mass of potatoes onto my plate. “He would have loved to have been around to cheer you on.”

  I don’t say anything. But what I want to say is that she should stop making excuses for him. He’s not around, and she—we—need to just deal with it.

  My stomach’s a knot, so I ask to be excused. I head up to my room, launch myself onto my bed. Why am I even doing this Trivia Quest? I could . . . get lost get mugged melt down overload feel scared lose Liberty lose the contest lose my way . . .

  My worry-tree is exploding out of my head. That does it. I’m backing out. I pull out my phone to text Liberty.

  Maybe we should just bag it tomorrow. I’m thinking it’s probably going to be way too hard for me.

  The answer from Liberty comes almost immediately.

  Be in our driveway by 8:15. OR ELSE.

  Okay, I give up. I’m trapped, I guess. Cornered. It almost feels like I’m still stuck in that stupid dog crate. I sigh, and turn out the light.

  Yip! Yip! AwOOOOO!!! The eerie noises start in the back of my head, then build louder and louder, until . . . I bolt upright and peer out my window. In dim moonlight, I count one, two, three, four coyotes. Their shadows slip and weave around a small dark lump in the grass.

  Across the hall, I hear Cal’s bed creak. A moment later he opens my door, rubbing his eyes. “They’re at it again, huh?” he whispers.

  “Yup,” I say. “They’ve got something.”

  Cal practically falls on me while tugging open my window. Then he sticks his head out and screams loud enough to wake half the town: “YAHHH! GIT! GIT!”

  A few sets of glinting yellow eyes turn toward us for a frozen moment. Cal is hanging so far out the windowsill, I have to hold on to his legs. “YAHH! YAHH!”

  One coyote, twice the size of the rest, stares up at us while the rest slink off down the canyon slope. Then he slowly follows as Cal pretends to aim an invisible rifle at him.

  Meanwhile, the small dark lump is still in the grass.

  “What is that, Cal? Does it need help?” It’s hard to catch my breath and talk right.

  He shrugs. “Just a rabbit,” Cal says, already on his way back to his room. “Probably died of fright. Fear alone can kill rabbits, you know.”

  I imagine what that would feel like: your heart thumping in such a panic-frenzy, it actually seizes up and stops. Will that happen to me tomorrow?

  It seems like moments later when Mom knocks at my door. But the sun is bright. Birds are chirping.

  “Stanley?” She peeks her head in. “It’s Trivia Quest time!”

  I groan and pull the blankets over my head.

  She comes over and peels them back. “Let’s take it step by step,” she says. “Just wash up and come downstairs. That’s all you have to do. We’ll take it from there.”

  Before I get up, I check the yard through the window. The dead rabbit is gone. Or it was a dream.

  When I come downstairs, Mom’s in the kitchen in her bathrobe, scrambling eggs and talking on the phone. Albert Einstein is sprawled over her feet, so she has to shuffle around him. He lifts his head, thumps his tail, and rubs the drool off his flubber-lips onto my pant leg as Mom hands me the phone.

  “Stan?” It’s Dad.

  “Where are you?”

  “Nairobi airport.”

  “Does that mean you’re coming home?”

  “No, no, no. I’m picking up a late supply shipment. I just—well. Your mother told me what you’re doing today, and I wanted to say I’m proud of you! You’re getting out of the house, doing stuff. That’s great!”

  I glare at Mom, who’s concentrating hard on scrambling eggs.

  “I’m sure you’ll do great. I’m proud of you! And I love you.”

  Something inside me loosens toward Dad. Just a little. A small nudge of loosening. Still, I can only grunt a short thanks, then hand the phone to Mom in exchange for a plate of eggs.

  “You’d better get a move on,” she says. “Mrs. Lee mentioned to me the other day that Joon was entering, too—I told Dr. Dan so you could all carpool. He’s driving the whole lot of you. And Mrs. Lee’s picking up.” She looks at her watch. “I’ve got to get to work, kiddo. Time for you to go.”

  I freeze. “J-Joon?” I finally stutter. “In the same car?”

  Here comes the Mom Look. “What’s wrong with that, Stanley?” she says.

  “Nothing,” I mumble, grabbing my backpack and heading out the door.

  Honestly. Mothers.

  21

  DR. SILVERBERG and Liberty are already sitting in their car, idling out in front of their house. Dr. Silverberg is so tall his head hits the car ceiling. I hop in back and mutter my good mornings, and through the front windshield, we watch Joon and Dylan walking down the street towa
rd us.

  Which means Dylan probably slept over at Joon’s. I wince. Seems like forever since I used to do that.

  “You’ll have to squeeze in—sorry about the leg room back there,” says Dr. Silverberg. “It’s Joon, is it? And Dylan? Glad to meet you! Glad we could carpool!”

  That makes one of us.

  Dylan takes the hump, blocking Joon completely from my sight. Not that I want to see him.

  “Isn’t this an exciting day?” Dr. Silverberg goes on, in total hyperenthusiasm mode, as he pulls out onto the road. “Comic book trivia! I used to love comics when I was your age!”

  “It’s gonna be awesome! A whole day to hang out downtown!” Dylan says, nodding and leaning forward.

  Liberty turns to look at him. “Oh! Is this just about hanging out downtown?” she says with an evil grin. “I thought it was about competing to win those VIP badges to Comic Fest. I know I’m feeling pretty lucky Stanley’s on my team!” Then she winks at me.

  I can feel blood rush suddenly into my face.

  But Dylan isn’t offended or anything. He laughs, then claps once, loudly. His elbows and knees are everywhere—he’s taking up more than half the backseat. “Are you throwing down a challenge? Seriously? It’s ON! You two, prepare to be totally destroyed.” Then he and Joon slap five, laughing.

  Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe, breathe. Aqua. Ochre.

  I pretend to be fascinated by the scenery of dry brown hills, buildings, glimpses of ocean, and traffic. The highway ticks by under the car wheels. Joon and Dylan talk about soccer and football and a party someone is throwing in a few weeks. Liberty and her uncle pretty much ride in silence. And all too soon, outside the window, the city skyline looms.

  I imagine John Lockdown flying between those shiny buildings, surveying the harbor, keeping watch on this Quest. Keeping watch over me.

  If only.

  22

  THE GREAT San Diego Comic Trivia Quest! Best Quest in the West!

  That’s what the gold banner at the drop-off point says. It snaps in the wind above the plaza, and behind it, the convention center rises like a crazy spaceship of glass and concrete.

  Bright red trolley cars whir past. Cars honk. People are everywhere, crossing the street on their way to the plaza.

  This is it. We’re here.

  I’m so nervous, my teeth are chattering.

  “See that sign? Mrs. Lee will pick you up right on that corner,” says Dr. Silverberg. “Stay in touch with us, okay? Liberty? Call and check in. Your mom insists you call or text her every hour on the hour today. You hear me?”

  Liberty groans and pretends to faint.

  “Have fun! Good luck!” Dr. Silverberg seems almost as nervous as me. Then he veers over to the curb—and suddenly, we’re dumped out on the sidewalk, and his car is swallowed up by the traffic. Gone.

  People, noise, heat, exhaust—it hits me at once. A jolt. My heart pounds. My knees go wobbly. My skin crawls.

  Liberty looks me straight in the eye. “You okay?”

  I’m not sure I am, but I nod anyway. And we follow Joon and Dylan into the plaza.

  People are everywhere. The air is thick with the smell of deodorant and sunscreen. And even though the Quest instructions said no costumes, I spot some cosplayers: Deadpools, Ant-Men, Yodas, Harley Quinns.

  Liberty points to a group of them. “Those people are hard-core.”

  Dylan says, “Yeah! Those are real fans. Not like us. We probably won’t make it past the first clue.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Liberty sneers. “And don’t forget Stan’s like the comics trivia overlord of the century.”

  “Hardly anyone will win passes,” Joon says. “It’s supposed to be really hard.”

  “Well, we’re going to,” Liberty snaps back.

  “Stop it,” I whisper, holding my ears. The last thing I need right now is their trash talk.

  We head into separate lines for registration. The officials check our paperwork, then hand us contestant badges, as well as this little blue plastic brick with an LED screen on the front. It fits in the palm of Liberty’s hand.

  “This is called a pager,” the registration guy says. “In a little while, your starting clue will scroll onto that little screen. The Quest committee came up with about twenty different starting clues so everyone doesn’t go to the same place at once. Anyhow, just hold on to this, and get ready to start!”

  Liberty herds me through to the central platform like a crowd-parting machine. “Come on, Stanley! Let’s go!” Her grip on my wrist is like an iron bird claw. I look around, trying to locate Joon and Dylan, but we’ve lost them.

  As we weave through the horde, I try to squash down my flashes of crowd-panic. I try to remember I’m not a little lost kid. I’m in control. I can do this. I think of Dad’s words. I think of Mrs. Ngozo, and aqua, and ochre. And I imagine John Lockdown, standing on top of the convention center, hands on hips, cape flying. Watching over me, making sure I’m okay.

  By the time Liberty finds a spot she likes, the opening music is starting.

  GONGGGGG!

  The crowd comes to a standstill. Up on the platform, a black-caped figure in a gold mask steps up. He raises the sides of his cloak, Dracula-style, then turns around so we can see that across the back, in gold lettering, it says: THE MASTER. There’s wild cheering as he turns again to face us.

  “Greetings, Questers!” The familiar, deep voice booms through the sound system and vibrates in my jumpy gut. “What a most MARVEL-ous day!”

  People go wild, cheering and clapping. I cover my ears to dampen the onslaught of noise, and look around for Joon. His idol! He must be going nuts. If only I were standing with him! Liberty’s clearly never even heard of the Master. She stands with her arms crossed, impatient and unimpressed.

  “It’s ten a.m. You have seven hours to solve seven clues and capture seven gold coins. In a few moments, your pagers will start to buzz with your very first clue. Because there are several hundred of you, we’ve taken a few measures to make the Quest run smoothly, so listen carefully.” The plaza goes completely silent.

  “Note that the clues are of equal difficulty, but different. So don’t follow your competitors. Your goal is to solve the clues you get. March to your own drummer; don’t worry about anybody else.

  “And a note on transportation. Nothing is much farther than a twenty- or twenty-five-minute walk. But your Trivia Quest contestant badges allow you free access to the downtown bus and trolley system. So don’t lose them!”

  People are quiet now, listening.

  “And I’d advise you to keep a low profile as you approach a clue locale. You don’t want to tip off other contestants, or accidentally reveal anything to them. This means certain ones among you may want to consider removing your somewhat conspicuous Yoda heads.”

  The crowd laughs.

  “If you think you’ve solved a clue and are in the right location, open your eyes and look around. A Trivia Quest official, who may or may not be disguised as a comic book ‘character,’ should be nearby. Find them and tell them the correct answer, and you’ll receive one of these.” The Master holds up a gold coin about the size of a poker chip. “Collect seven of these, bring them back here by five p.m. tonight, and you’ll earn VIP passes to Comic Fest. Earn less than seven, and we still have some nifty consolation prizes for you.

  “Now,” the Master continues in his deep, mysterious voice, “with no further ado . . .”

  A long drumroll thunders from the speakers while everyone stares, transfixed, at their little plastic pagers. My heart thumps. Liberty’s hand is actually shaking as she holds our pager tight, her thumbnail white with pressure.

  “Don’t hold it so tight,” I tell her. “You’ll crack it or something!”

  BEEEEEP! The speakers pulse out the starting sound—to match the Red Alerts now pulsing through my body—and the pager in Liberty’s hand finally vibrates.

  Then she drops it.

  23

  PEOP
LE ARE SCRAMBLING away in every direction. Legs, feet, stomping all around us. “Pick it up! Get our pager! Before someone steps on it!” I scream. I am going to have a heart attack, and we haven’t even gotten our first clue.

  “I don’t see it!” she shouts. “Where is it?”

  We scramble, darting this way and that. It was blue—I look for blue. Is that it? No! That’s someone’s sneaker.

  Then a flash of blue plastic pops into sight to my left. I dash between the hairy legs of a big man—right before he lowers his shoe onto our pager, I grab it, scraping my knuckles on the cement.

  “Watch it, kid!” says the guy, veering off.

  The plaza has practically emptied by the time Liberty and I hold up our scratched blue plastic pager, trembling, and stare at the little screen.

  The first part of the clue has already scrolled past! The remainder pops up now . . .

  To a certain location . . . Where information . . . Is a-hoardin’ . . .

  We look at each other in disbelief. I scream, “We’ve missed it! We’ve lost already!”

  “No we haven’t! It’s still scrolling!” shouts Liberty.

  . . . By someone name of Gordon.

  That’s ridiculous. Information. Hoardin’. Gordon.

  Wait. That’s not ridiculous.

  A surge of relief washes through me.

  I grab Liberty’s hand. Her bulging green eyes are almost as full of stress as mine.

  “What is it, Stanley?”

  “Someone name of Gordon.”

  Her face goes blank.

  “Seriously? Haven’t you ever even seen a Batman movie?”

  A light sparks in her eyes. “Oh, the police guy? Commissioner Gordon?”

  “Yes! Batman’s ally in the fight against the criminals of Gotham. So what’s Commissioner Gordon’s location, where information is a-hoardin’?” I prompt her.

  My heart’s beating hard now, but it’s not with nervousness. It’s with excitement.

  “Um, that would be . . . a police headquarters?”

  I smile.

  “So where do we go?”

  “You’re the one in charge of the directions,” I say.