by Sally J. Pla
“Liberty’s mom got worried that she might be feeling sick again. She wanted to be with her.”
I think about Liberty’s transparent skin, watery eyes. “But she wasn’t sick. She just drank too much coffee.”
He smiles sadly. “I don’t know if Liberty talked to you about her cancer.”
A heavy weight of realization starts slowly spreading through my chest. So that’s what it was. “Nope,” I whisper.
He goes over to his kitchen sink, takes down two glasses from the cupboard, and fills them with water. He hands me one, and we sit at the table.
“About two years ago, she had horrible stomachaches. Her mom thought it was nothing, and didn’t bother much with it. They ignored it. Then, when Liberty came to stay with me for a while, I got concerned. We ran tests. It turned out she had a very rare cancer called appendiceal carcinoid. It affected her digestion and hormones.”
“Whoa,” I say. Which is stupid. I mean, what do you say to something like that?
I sip my water so I don’t say anything else stupid.
“We caught it very early. She had the proper surgery and the very best care. She’s lucky. I firmly believe that Liberty is going to be one hundred percent fine,” Dr. Silverberg says. “Still, as you can imagine, it was a very rotten, horrible couple of years. She’s still trying to gain back her weight and strength.”
“Wow,” I say. “So . . . what about her mom?”
He grimaces. “She feels guilty for missing those early symptoms. So now she thinks Liberty needs to be kept safe all the time, kept where she can watch over her.”
He sighs, plays with his water glass. “People deal with stress and worry and love and concern in very different ways, Stanley. . . . But keeping Liberty holed away in her room isn’t going to keep her safe. I’m not sure that’s the right answer for Liberty.”
Wow.
As for me, I love to hole away in a quiet room. It’s pretty much one of my favorite things.
But I don’t tell that to Dr. Silverberg.
That night, I can’t sleep, so I knock on Mom’s door.
She’s in her huge pink bathrobe, her hair and face all messy from sleep. “It’s midnight, honey. What’s up?”
“Mom. Did you know Liberty had cancer?”
Mom’s sleepiness clears from her face in an instant. She nods to herself. “So that’s it.”
“Why didn’t Liberty tell me? It wasn’t right that she didn’t tell me.”
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Well . . . think of this: Why don’t you like the other kids to know why you get so overwhelmed? What’s the reason you don’t like to talk about your sensory processing disorder?”
I swallow hard.
Mom gives me a hug. “Do you think if people knew, they would look at you differently? Or maybe it just feels private. And that’s okay.”
I don’t say anything, but I get it.
“I think Liberty just wanted you to see her first,” Mom says. “There’s no right or wrong here, Stanley. It’s a personal choice, whether to talk about these things, and with whom, and when. There’s no right or wrong to it.”
I think about that as I head back to bed.
46
SUNDAY, THE DAY after the Trivia Quest, I’m like a zombie. I stumble around, and my head feels sick and swirly. I guess it was all the sensory overload.
So I stay in my pajamas and watch the extremely boring history of hydraulics on TV for a while with Gramps, then go back to bed and read comics. Every so often I look at the two VIP passes, which I’ve pinned to the corkboard on my wall.
“Since Liberty’s gone, why don’t you offer that second ticket to your brother?” Mom said when she saw them pinned there. Cal had been right behind her in the hallway, and he immediately fell to the floor and clutched his throat. “Well . . . maybe Joon, then?” she added, swatting at Cal.
I don’t want to think about giving Liberty’s ticket away to anyone right now. I’m still hoping she comes back.
I fall asleep in my bed, surrounded by comics. When I wake up later in the day, the light’s already fading to purple outside my window. Sunday’s almost over.
I hear strange bustling downstairs in the kitchen. There are delicious smells wafting around. As I’m sitting up and rubbing my eyes, Mom calls out: “Stanley? We’re eating in the dining room tonight! Go wash up!”
I do, and when I come downstairs, Mom, Cal, and Gramps are standing behind their chairs, waiting for me with big grins on their faces.
In the center of the table is a platter of spaghetti and raisin meatballs—my favorite homemade Mom-dinner. Homemade Mom-dinners are rare as comet sightings, so this is awesome. And next to the spaghetti is a big round cake that says Congratulations, Stanley! On it are seven yellow frosting coins.
There’s even a replacement phone, sitting by my place at the table.
I can’t stop grinning. My head feels swirly again.
But not in a sick way. In a really, really, really good way.
Lib: Hey from LA.
Stan: Hey. Everything okay?
Lib: Yup. But I’m sorry. I’m not gonna be back in time for Comic Fest.
Stan: Dang. Well, how’s your mom? You feeling okay?
Lib: She’s fine, I’m fine, we’re fine. Uncle Dan said he told you about my stupid cancer. I guess I should have told you.
Stan: You don’t have to talk about it. It’s cool.
Lib: GOOD! I’d rather not. For now. So tell me: Is Joon taking my ticket? Is he happy?
Stan: Is he happy!? Is the Green Lama a crime-fighting Buddhist?
Lib: What?
Stan: Never mind. YES, he’s excited. And I hope LA is okay. And that everything is cool with your mom . . .
There’s a lot more I want to say to her, but I don’t know how. Yet.
The day of the great, the long-awaited Comic Fest dawns bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. And before I know it, I’m standing with my friend Joon on a rowdy, shuffling line of cosplayers, superhero wannabes, and people in nerdy T-shirts, all of us waiting to get into the best fest on the planet.
Dream come true.
Joon’s got on his Green Lama cape from last Halloween. Every few seconds, he flashes me a grin and says, “Hey, thanks again, dude.”
“Thank Liberty,” I say, shuffling forward with him in the line. “Not me.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m just—glad you still want to hang out. I know I’ve been acting like kind of a jerk.”
I don’t say anything. But it’s nice to hear.
When we get to the front of the line, we’re so excited to flash our VIP passes! A big, bored-looking guy waves a wand over us. Another one hands us convention booklets, and big freebie tote bags plastered in logos and ads, and boom, we’re in.
This is the dream. We. Are. Living. The. Dream.
WE’RE AT COMIC FEST!
Famous actors! Just standing around! Celebrities, standing like ten feet from us!
And tons of booths filled with vintage comics of every possible era. Fans poring over huge stacks to add to their collections.
Massive lines of people snake around the edges of the hall, waiting to get into special discussion and film sneak preview panels.
I look at my VIP pass. It includes entry into an exclusive lunchtime panel with the Master himself. Epic!
And the costumes! We look around and see Wonder Women and Obi-Wans, Professor Xs and Magnetos, Hulks and Princess Leias, Batmen and Spider-Men, Game of Thrones–ers, Ms. Marvels, and Captain Americas, male and female. And some people—whoa—I have no clue what they’re dressed as. There are a lot of super-skimpy costumes, and super-weird ones, too.
And . . . if I wasn’t sure it was impossible, I could swear I’ve just seen someone in a silver-gray jumpsuit and utility belt disappear around a corner, with a swish of a bright blue cape. I whip around to do a double-take.
“What’s the matter?” Joon asks. “What are you looking for?”
“I th
ought—never mind,” I say. “Too much to explain.”
Joon’s goal is to look for vintage Green Lama comics. He’s got the hood up on the cloak his mom made him for Halloween two years ago, and he’s already been asked twice if he’s supposed to be the Green Arrow, which really ticks him off.
I’m not wearing a costume. Too uncomfortable. Plus I have a hard enough time just figuring out how to be myself. I smile, nod, and pretend the roaring noise and pressing crowds don’t bug me. But my ears are pounding—despite the fact that I’m wearing a pair of Mrs. Ngozo’s earplugs—and my skin’s already crawling.
“Isn’t this awesome?” Joon asks, and I give two wobbly thumbs ups.
With Liberty, I could complain about the sensory overload. But with Joon, I always need to act cooler than I feel.
The longer we spend wandering around the main exhibit floor, the buzzier my head gets. When Joon tries to talk to me, I can only see his lips moving against the dull roar of the room.
Wait. Did I just see that flash of blue cape again?
No way.
I’m so small, I’m getting knocked and elbowed constantly. It’s like people don’t even see me down here. They step backward onto me, brush past me. My nose is filled with the smell of fried food and people’s deodorant and perfume and body odor, and this weird plastic smell that’s maybe coming from the carpet.
“Joon!” I call. “Wait up!” I’m stuck behind some Trekkers—he’s gone on without me.
I am sweating in places I didn’t even know I had sweat glands, and breathing fast. Wait—there he is! That man in a silver-gray jumpsuit, mask, and blue cape. He’s by a Dr. Octopus display, and when he turns slightly, I see that on the front of his thick blue utility belt is a golden buckle with the letters JL.
I . . . drew that belt! How does it even exist in real life?
Okay. I have to make a decision. Do I try to catch up with Joon? Or do I follow this . . . this . . . John Lockdown?
Clearly, I go with the superhero. I dodge left and push right like a robotic tracking drone. Even though the crowd is Electric-Blue-Oblivion-concert-level thick.
Still, he’s getting away! He’s slipped between the World of Warcraft booth and a swarm of Firefly fans.
I stop.
I take in a giant breath.
I’ve always been a super-quiet, soft-spoken, stuttering sort of kid. But there’s a time and a place for everything.
I shout—so loudly, everyone around me turns:
“IS JOHN LOCKDOWN IN THIS BUILDING??????”
Then I stand there, panting.
Just visible up ahead, I see him—the man in the blue mask and cape. He looks through the crowd at me, and I wave both arms in the air.
Then the crowd shifts again, and he’s gone.
47
NOW I’VE LOST both Joon and John Lockdown.
I have to get outside for fresh air.
I find a bench, sit, and wait for the buzzing in my ears to settle. I’ve sat on more benches in more public places lately than ever before in my life. My butt’s going to have permanent benchmarks on it, if this keeps up.
I don’t know how much time goes by with me in a daze like that. But eventually I’m interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Mind if I sit?”
A man’s shape is silhouetted against the bright sun.
A man in a silver-gray jumpsuit.
I gulp.
“Excuse me, but you’re the kid—you’re from Peavey. Your name is Stanley, right?” John Lockdown asks, bending over me slightly with a friendly smile. “You called out to me in there, didn’t you?”
Am I dreaming?
Am I breathing?
When he sits, his knees crack, and he grimaces. He takes off the mask, and that’s when I notice the familiar face. The gray hair.
“Wait—you’re Doc! The custodian! Right?”
He gives me a stiff smile.
“So what are you—so why are you—so you were the artist on the Sketchpad of Mystery?”
Doc nods his head and chuckles.
“Is that what you call it? Sketchpad of Mystery?” He snaps his fingers. “I like it. That’s catchy.” He sets a black art portfolio next to him on the bench. “That was me. And now, look at me! I’m John Lockdown in the flesh, yes indeed.” He points a finger at me: “Although I don’t have a portal at the back of my utility closet. Yet.”
I never noticed before—maybe because I never heard him talk before—but Doc has an Irish accent. I break into a huge grin. “I should have figured it might be you! Because of course you’d have the key to the offices.”
He winks. “I was cleaning one night when I saw the markers left out, and I was curious. I opened the sketchpad, and there on the first page, what do I see? The sketch of a boy trapped inside a burning dog crate. Screaming for help. Now, how could anyone let that go unanswered—a cry for help from a fellow illustrator?”
I feel my face go hot.
“Being a school custodian is my day job, Stanley. But I’m hoping someday to break into comics. Do illustration.”
“You’re great at it,” I say shyly. “Finding your drawings on the sketchpad every week? That’s basically been the only good part of middle school.”
“And finding your drawings back to me? Best part of the custodial job. Not counting the paycheck.”
“Come on. My drawings are basically stick figures.”
“But you have a knack for a story line. YOU created John Lockdown! You took those ridiculously scary safety drills and turned that around into something new, something positive. A force for good! A superhero!”
He fiddles with the edge of the blue cape, and looks a little embarrassed. “I hope you don’t mind that I decked myself out like him. It was just a gimmick, for a meeting.”
“Course I don’t mind!” I say. “It’s so cool to see John Lockdown in real life.”
And to know I’m not hallucinating.
And to hear someone else say that they think those safety drills are “ridiculously scary.”
John Lockdown—I mean Doc—sighs and stretches out his legs in their silver tights. “I was hoping to impress a publisher, to get inside a meeting and show my work. But it didn’t pan out.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Ah well. It’s a tough business.” He sighs again.
We sit there, on the bench, in silence for a moment—and then I happen to glance at my entry badge. Which has a sticker on it, reading Exclusive Lunch Panel with the Master.
I get an idea.
48
DOC AND I walk up and down until we finally find it: the room marked ‘PRIVATE TICKETED EVENT—LUNCH WITH THE MASTER.’ We hear the clatter of plates, the smell of steamy food, and the murmur of voices. Through the open door, we catch glimpses of people milling about a long buffet table.
But just barely. It’s hard to see past the mountain-sized security guy who’s guarding the door.
“Just act confident and walk straight past him,” Doc says, nudging me. “Maybe he won’t notice we’ve only got one pass between us.” My heart starts to thump. “Are you ready?” says Doc, taking my arm. “Here we go!”
But it’s no use—the security goon steps in front of us. “Sorry,” he says with a deep growl. “You both need passes if you both want to enter.”
A weird, desperate, pleading noise comes out of my throat, and the goon gives me a long warning look. I start to take off my badge to hand it to Doc.
Then the goon says, “Nope. They’re non-transferable.”
That’s when I feel a pulse of hot angry energy. “Come ON!” I say. “You have to let us both in! You have to!”
But Doc is shushing me, calming me down. “There, now—it’s all right, Stanley. Thanks for trying. It’s all right.” He takes my shaking hand, and wraps my fingers around the handle of his black art portfolio. Then he winks at me. “How about you take this in? See what you can do, kid. I’ll wait out here.”
&
nbsp; Great. I have to go in there alone? And now, Doc’s whole career in comics depends on what happens next.
No pressure or anything.
Inside the room, the food smells make my stomach heave a little. I’m sweating, and my heart’s still thumping, thanks to the security goon.
I clutch Doc’s portfolio in front of me like a shield, and navigate around the edges of the room, searching people’s faces, looking for the Master. There are a lot of folks with scruffy beards and baseball caps and professional-looking ID badges strung around their necks.
And it’s like I’m the Invisible Man or something. Everyone ignores me.
Finally, I hear a familiar, deep, booming laugh. . . . There he is, at the back of the room! The Master is smaller, older, and balder than he seems on TV, but still impressive, still a legend, standing tall in his sweep of purple cape, the same cape from this morning. He’s standing in a circle of fans, deep in conversation.
I don’t know what to do. So I just start to edge nearer and nearer, until I’m standing right behind him. I tell myself when the moment’s right, I’ll get his attention. Touch his arm, or something.
But after his conversation is done, it’s like I’m paralyzed. I can’t reach out and touch him. I try to clear my throat. I can’t even do that.
I’m a failure.
He starts to walk away.
My heart sinks.
Then, suddenly, the Master teeters, clutching at his throat, gagging! He turns and notices me, and his eyes bulge. His hand flails out to me! Suddenly, I’m thrown off balance— I stumble too—
What is happening?
Oh. I’ve been standing on his cape!
It’s a good thing the Master’s got a sense of humor. He stops gagging pretty quickly after I get off his cape. And after we get all my wild, desperate apologies and stuff out of the way, he even laughs and tells me not to worry.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asks. “Congratulations on your Trivia Quest win, by the way!”
“Thanks. I’m Stanley Fortibras,” I say.
“Well, Stanley Fortinbras,” says the Master. “What’s in the portfolio?”
I don’t have to do much beyond open it and lay out a few quick spreads on a table. The drawings do all the talking.