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To my children: Mackenzie, Brendan, Sydney, and Riley. You were my first readers and are my biggest inspiration.
And to my husband, Michael. You were my first love and are my best friend.
CHAPTER
1
It’s not like I’m looking for trouble.
I’ve just scored two seats in the back of the cafeteria—as far away from the food-fight starters and wedgie-givers as I can get—when I look up to see a kid with armpit hair and a bad case of acne standing over me.
“You call that a sandwich?” he says. A thick finger reaches down and grinds into what was about to be my lunch. Ketchup oozes everywhere.
“What’s wrong, pretty boy?” he grunts. “You got something to say?”
What I want to say is that he should consider investing in a toothbrush. Instead I stare at the nutrition facts on the back of my milk carton and pretend to be fascinated by how many grams of protein are in a half pint of chocolate milk.
A raspy voice from across the table answers him for me.
“It’s a veggie burger, you idiot.”
I look up and cringe. Franki Saylor may be my best friend, but if word gets around Gatehouse Middle School that a girl had to stick up for me on the first day of sixth grade, I might as well write my own death warrant.
The kid shoves me sideways, knocking me off my chair.
“You talking to me, girl?” he growls, pushing his nose up against hers.
“Who else would I be talking to?” she growls back.
I jump up and try wedging myself between them. “Hey … uh, it’s okay.… I wasn’t g-going to eat it anyway,” I stammer. “I don’t even like veggie burgers. I only bring them because my dad—”
“Charlie…” Franki says my name like it’s a warning, and my stomach tightens in the way that makes me think I’ve pulled the cord on my gym shorts a little too tight.
Acne Guy looks down at me, a creepy grin sliding across his face.
I start to weigh my options. I could make a run for it, but that’ll just call more attention to me. A fake seizure? Probably worse. I know I’m a pretty fast runner, but I’m not too sure about my acting abilities. Maybe if I—
A bell rings and a grown-up’s voice booms from the speaker overhead.
“All right, listen up,” it demands. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m your principal, Dr. Daryl Moody, PhD.” He spells out the last three letters very slowly, as if we’re kindergartners and his first order of business is to review the alphabet with us. A couple of kids boo, while someone throws a half-eaten bagel at the ceiling. “For those of you who don’t wish to know me, I suggest you get moving. Fifth period starts in exactly three minutes. Now scram.”
The kid pulls his finger out of my sandwich.
“This ain’t over, Goldilocks,” he says, flicking one of my curls. I feel a spray of ketchup hit my ear and start dripping down my neck.
“Hey!” Franki warns, but I shoot her a look that thankfully shuts her up.
I swat at the glob hanging from my earlobe and realize I’ve just learned my first lesson at Gatehouse Middle School.
Even the wrong sandwich can put a guy in the hot seat.
And then, as I feel a pair of meaty hands grab my gym shorts and yank them south, I learn my second one.
Never show up at middle school if you’re not wearing underwear.
CHAPTER
2
“Charlie! Do something!”
Franki’s voice sounds warbly and faraway, like it does when it’s summer, we’re swimming in Mill Pond, and she’s trying to tell me a dirty joke underwater.
But we’re not at Mill Pond.
And this is definitely no joke.
I crouch down and grab for my shorts just as Franki dives across the table, coating her arms and legs in ketchup and spaghetti sauce. By the time I get everything back in place, she’s standing next to me, looking like she just got back from a war zone.
A quick peek over my shoulder confirms my worst fear: A gazillion googly eyes stare back at us. Mouths hang open like cellar doors with busted hinges. And except for the ticktock of an old metal clock that hangs over the salad bar, the room has gone silent. I stare down at the orange swoosh on my too-new Nikes and wait for the world to end.
Franki grabs my shoulder. “You okay?” she barks.
I push her away from me, hard. “Jeez, Frank,” I hiss, “try not to make this any worse, okay?”
Somebody in front of us makes a smoochy sound, while another kid starts giggling.
“All right, show’s over.” Franki waves her arms around like she’s preparing to conduct an orchestra. “Get moving, everyone.”
The mob explodes in laughter.
That’s it—I can’t take any more. Ducking under her bony elbow, I push my way through the crowd, ignoring the whistles and catcalls, even ignoring my best friend, who keeps hollering for me to wait up.
I make it to the double doors right as the bell rings. I shove them open and run.
* * *
It doesn’t take long for her to find me.
I’m holed up in the first-floor boys’ bathroom, third stall, my legs tucked up to my chin. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting like that—five minutes? twenty? an hour?—when I hear her voice, snaking around the urinals and under the stall door.
“Charlie? You in there?”
I squeeze my arms around my legs and hold my breath.
“I’m not afraid to come into the boys’ bathroom, you know.”
I can’t help smiling at this. After five years of doing everything together, I know that Franki Saylor isn’t afraid of anything. Hiding from her is no use. She’ll find me eventually. She always does.
I heave myself off the can and unlatch the stall door. She walks into the bathroom right as I’m shuffling up to the row of yellow-stained sinks, and watches while I flip on the first faucet.
After a minute, she leans back against the tile wall and clears her throat.
“Can we just drop it, Frank?” I ask. I run my hands under the water and grab a paper towel. I don’t bother with soap.
Her face breaks into her lopsided grin, showing me the hole where she lost her fourteenth tooth last week while we were clam digging at Good Harbor Beach. We buried it alongside a half-mangled starfish, since the Tooth Fairy stopped showing up at Franki’s house years ago.
“No, we can’t just drop it.” She blows a piece of hair out of her face. “I’ve got the perfect plan for getting Boomer back for what he did to you—”
“Boomer?” Uh-oh. The drawstring is tightening around my gut again.
“Yeah, Boomer Bodbreath,” she says. “He’s the kid who pantsed you. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Of course I know who he is.” I try to make my voice sound normal. “But he’s supposed to be in high school th
is year.”
Her eyes twinkle like they do when she’s about to let me in on something big.
“Got held back. They’re making him repeat eighth grade.” She slaps me on the back. “So, here’s my plan.…”
I turn from the sink and glare up at her. Franki may be taller than I am, but my dad says I’m catching up fast. “Listen, Frank,” I say. “I got my own plan. And you want to know what it is?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “It’s to stay as far away from guys like Boomer as possible. I don’t need to get back at him. In fact, I don’t need to get back at anyone. I just want to make it through sixth grade in one piece. Got it?”
I lob the paper towel over her head but miss the trash can.
“Charlie.” She says my name in a whisper-voice that makes the inside of my chest go all achy. “If somebody doesn’t put a stop to guys like Boomer, they end up doing way worse things than just pantsing people.”
I look at her, the dried ketchup stuck to her forehead and tiny spaghetti sauce splotches dotting her favorite Green Day T-shirt, and shudder. Franki’s plans have a way of putting both of us in the spotlight, a place I do not want to be this year.
“That’s great, Frank,” I tell her, “but that somebody isn’t going to be me.”
She stares at me for a second, then turns and walks back toward the bathroom door, slapping both palms against it. She starts to push on it, then stops. She spins around, the excitement of her plan drained from her face.
“You know what your problem is, Charlie Burger?” she says, glaring.
I glare back better. “No, Frank … but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“Your problem,” she says, pushing the door so wide that everyone in the hallway can hear, “is that you’ve got a lot of heart—but zero guts.”
She swings out of the bathroom, and I kick the wall so hard, my left big toe hurts for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER
3
Showing up late to fifth period is not going to help me stay out of the spotlight. Especially since I’m now the Just-Got-Pantsed Guy.
I think about sicking out and heading to the nurse’s office, but decide against it. She’ll probably insist on calling my dad, who will show up with a protein shake and a van full of his homemade veggie burgers that still need to be delivered. My dad is a caterer, and almost every house on Cape Ann orders a dozen of his famous veggie burgers, baked beans, and organic coleslaw for their backyard and beach cookouts. So even though it would be great to have him all to myself for a few hours, I’d have to ride shotgun while he made his runs around the cape, and we’d spend the whole time discussing my poor eating habits and how my stomachaches would go away if I’d just make healthier choices.
No thanks. I’d rather deal with a bunch of gawking sixth graders than hear that lecture again.
Standing in the doorway of the science lab, I scope out the room. Four guys in the back are engaged in an all-out spitball war, while a group of girls in the middle huddle together, giggling and smearing shiny stuff on their lips. The nerds are at the front table, their heads already buried in books, clueless to what’s going on around them.
I’ve just spied the last empty seat near the back when a man in a gray cowboy hat and perfectly pressed blue jeans saunters up behind me.
“Howdy, pardner,” he says, nodding at me. A large cardboard box fills his arms, the bottom looking like it’s going to bust wide open at any minute.
Everyone stops what they’re doing. Even the nerds look up from their books, curious.
He waits for me to say something.
“Uh … hi,” I mumble, craning my neck up to see his face. It reminds me of a piece of beef jerky.
“I reckon you’re Charlie Burger,” he says.
I blink at him. “You already know my name?”
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. They twinkle like they hold a special secret.
“I guess I do,” he says. “I’m Mr. Perdzock, your sixth-grade science teacher. Most kids call me Mr. P for short.” We stand there for a full minute—him looking me up and down, and me thinking maybe I should’ve gotten a haircut this summer.
“Had a little trouble in the lunchroom, I hear,” he says. His eyes grow darker, like the ocean right before a Nor’easter blows in.
Someone snickers, and Mr. P’s head snaps up, scanning the room. No one moves.
“Well, no sense worrying about that now.” He looks back down at me, and his face seems to soften a little, even though his eyes stay the same. “A little adversity is good for a guy, right, pardner? Keeps us in the saddle, so to speak.”
Pardner? Saddle? It’s like this guy just stepped out of one of those John Wayne Westerns my grandmother likes to watch.
When I don’t say anything, he points toward an empty chair at the front table. “Why don’t you mosey on over there and join the rest of the class.” I have to climb over an outstretched leg, and I practically trip over someone’s backpack before plopping myself down smack-dab in the middle of the front row. A chubby girl with greasy hair and a bad sunburn sits next to me.
“Loser,” she whispers under her breath. I stare at her like, Who’re you kidding? She rolls her eyes at me and looks away.
“All right now, where was I?” Mr. P asks.
The chubby girl raises her hand. “You were telling us you had something important to hand out.” She waggles her big bottom like she’s a superstar for having remembered this, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I have a feeling I don’t want to be on her bad side.
“Yes, right. Stay focused, Perdzock,” he says to himself. He glances around the room, then sets the box down. “Your writing journals.” He pulls out a pile of dark leather notebooks and starts walking down the aisles, slapping one in front of each of us, the heels of his cowboy boots click-clacking on the tile floor. “Make sure you put your name on the cover.” He stops when he gets to me. “You don’t want to lose these.”
I pull a pencil out of my backpack as he continues, “Everyone in this room has a story to tell. These journals will be an important part of your first … experiment.” His voice is slow and thick, like maple syrup. “And who knows? Maybe your experiment will be the one to change the world.”
He drops a notebook in front of me.
“Or,” he says, winking, “at least make it an easier place for a few folks.”
I sneak a glance at Grant Gupta, who is my second best friend after Franki. Grant is the best striker on our soccer team and has been the school-wide spelling bee champ since third grade. He’s also the shortest kid in our class and wears glasses as thick as the bottom of a soda bottle.
A hand shoots up across from me. It’s Dolores Bryant’s, the self-appointed Queen of the Nerds. Anybody who wants to keep a low profile knows to steer clear of her. “I have a question. Quite a few, in fact.” She stares down at something in front of her. A list, I bet.
Mr. P pulls a toothpick from his pocket and nods at her. “I like questions,” he says, popping it into his mouth. “Shoot.”
“Yes, well … can you tell us how exactly this journal will be graded? Do you have a syllabus, or some sort of rubric? I’ll definitely need a rubric.” Groans are heard around the classroom, but Dolores ignores them. “I am planning on going to medical school, and this class is very important to me.”
A spitball flies past my ear and lodges itself in the back of Dolores’s braid. Whistles are heard from the back row.
Mr. P puts his hands out as if he’s stopping traffic.
“Now listen up, y’all,” he says, rolling the toothpick around with his tongue, “there is no rubric for this assignment, only one rule, you hear?” He surveys the room, his eyes growing cloudier. “You’ve got to write stories that come from your gut.”
My own gut doesn’t feel so good. What’s wrong with this guy? We’re supposed to be dissecting frogs and mixing chemicals, not writing stories in some stupid journal. I look around to see if anyone else is as
weirded out as I am, but if they are, they’re sure not showing it.
He balls his hand into a fist and pushes it against his stomach. “I want you to open those gates and let your imaginations run as wild as a pack of ponies on a wide-open prairie. Set your ideas free, and see where they take you.”
The bell rings, and everyone grabs their book bags, stuffing the journals inside. As I pick up mine, a sharp jolt of electricity zips up my arm and through the hairs on the back of my neck, making me drop the journal to the floor. Mr. P bends over and picks it up.
“You like writing, son?”
I shrug. “It’s not my favorite subject.”
He nods. “More of a science guy, huh?”
“Science just makes more sense to me.”
He smiles, and the cracks and crevices on his cheeks grow even deeper. “I want you to listen to me carefully, Charlie. A true scientist won’t spend time on the things that make sense. He will ask questions about the things that don’t. And even when he’s figured out the answers to those questions, he still won’t be completely satisfied. He’ll always come up with more.”
I’m trying to make sense of what he’s saying, but the room is getting hot, and Grant’s standing in the doorway, waving at me to hurry up. No one wants to get caught talking to a teacher, especially not on the first day of school.
“Mr. P, if I don’t hurry—”
He holds the journal out to me. “Words can be powerful. Believe in their magic and anything can happen.” His eyes sparkle like someone lit a firecracker behind them. “Do you believe in magic, Charlie?”
I blink. “You mean, like card tricks and stuff?”
“Not exactly,” he says, moving his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You better get a move on. No sense in being late to another class.”
CHAPTER
4
“So, how was it?” my dad asks as I slide open the door of his minivan and dive in, face-planting onto a leftover veggie burger.
A voice from the backseat answers for me.
Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers Page 1