“Charlie got pantsed at school today,” my little sister singsongs, bouncing up and down on her seat. “And … guess what else.”
“Here we go,” I mutter into the burger. Lucy’s only in fifth grade but always manages to know stuff, especially if it’s about me.
“My brother,” she says, so loud that I bet even the lobstermen down at the wharf can hear, “wasn’t wearing any underwear!”
Even though I can’t see his face, I’m pretty sure my dad is grinning. “Charlie?”
“I couldn’t find a clean pair,” I mumble.
“I mean, come on,” Lucy continues. “What kind of moron doesn’t wear underwear to school? Especially middle school!”
I look up and shoot her my most evil stink eye, wishing for the millionth time in my almost twelve years of life that Lucy Burger had never been born.
The passenger door flies open, and my older sister climbs in, waving to her gang of groupies like they’ve just crowned her Miss Massachusetts.
“Did you hear, Stella?” Lucy bounces higher, eager for as much attention as she can get. “Did you hear the big news?”
Oh, great. The last thing I need is the Queen of Coolness knowing about this. “Lucy,” I say, shaking my fist in her face. “If you say another—”
Stella turns and flashes her bright-white smile in my direction. “Getting pantsed isn’t a big deal, Charlie,” she says. “It happens.”
Like she would know. No one would even think about pantsing Stella Burger. She’s been on the student council for three years in a row and on the dance team for two. She’s so bent on becoming the most popular person ever to walk the halls of Gatehouse Middle School, I’m surprised she can even remember my name.
My dad pulls the van away from the curb and looks at me in the rearview mirror. “So … how was the rest of your day?”
“Weird,” I say.
“Weird?”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s just … well, science class wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be.”
His eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. “But you love science.”
I come from a long line of scientists. My great-grandfather was a chemist who helped create nitroglycerin, which was later used to make dynamite. My grandpa Burger was a chemistry professor at Harvard. According to my dad, Gramps never invented anything but was willing to “die trying.” Whenever I ask what that means, my dad gets this pinched look on his face and says it doesn’t really matter, because things worked out for the best. Which I guess is sort of true, since instead of becoming a scientist, my dad went to cooking school and invented a veggie burger that’s so popular, people drive from all over New England just to eat one. A Burger’s Best Veggie Burger is a local favorite around Cape Ann.
Still, I think I’d rather invent stuff that blows up than a burger made of bean sprouts. I guess that’s just me.
“It’s my science teacher,” I say, digging a half-eaten box of Nerds out from under my seat. “He gave us these journals and told us that we’re supposed to write stories in them instead of lab reports. And…” I mumble, “he looks like he’s older than dirt and just stepped out of the Wild Wild West.”
Stella kicks off her sandals and laughs.
“Oh … you got Mr. P,” she says, putting her feet on the dashboard. “I never had him, but I’ve heard he does the same thing every year—hands out a bunch of fancy leather notebooks to all his sixth graders, then tells them stuff like, ‘Your stories will change the world,’ and ‘Writing is magical,’ right?” She studies a bright-pink toenail. “Don’t worry—he’ll disappear around fall break and come back ready to teach science.”
“Disappear?” My dad glances over at her, then back at the road. “Where does he go?”
Stella shrugs. “Somewhere exotic, like the Caribbean or Cambodia … I don’t really pay attention to stuff like that.”
“So what happens to the journal writing?” I ask. Maybe things are looking up.
“Finito,” she says, picking off a piece of polish. “Everyone says that eventually he loses interest in the whole writing thing and starts teaching about gravitational pull and the speed of light … junk like that.”
Great, I think—staring out the window as we pass the wharf, Wowee Hair Salon, and Hampton’s Hardware—two months of torture before we get down to the good stuff. What a waste.
My dad glances back at me again. “Cheer up, Charlie. In celebration of your first day of middle school, I’m cooking meat tonight.”
I sit up straighter. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
He nods. “You betcha, buddy. Bacon lasagna cooked to order by yours truly.” Having a dad who’s a vegetarian chef means meat gets cooked in our house only on special occasions.
“Ewww,” says Lucy. “Animal flesh is revolting.”
“Hey now,” says my dad, turning off the main street and onto our narrower one. “This is a special day for your brother.” He winks at me. “First day of middle school means lots more responsibility, right, son?”
I force the corners of my mouth to turn up.
“Maybe he could start with being responsible enough to put on underwear,” murmurs Lucy.
“Button it, freak show,” I tell her.
She leans up against the seat, and I can smell her strawberry lip gloss. “Just because I am two years ahead of my class in math and a way better soccer player than you doesn’t make me a freak, Charlie,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me. “It makes me gifted. Big difference, buddy boy. Big.”
“All right, you two. Enough.” My dad pulls into our gravel driveway and cuts the engine. “Everyone, out.”
Lucy and I unbuckle at the same time, then race for the mailbox. I get there first, lift open the front flap, and snatch out the envelopes, holding them high above my head so she has to jump for them. It’s a battle we’ve waged for years.
But today, something other than a bill or a piece of junk mail falls out of the pile and drops onto my sneaker. It’s a regular envelope, but right away I recognize the gold seal in the corner and the return address: Cape Ann Soccer Academy, Gloucester, MA.
Lucy stops jumping.
I flip it over, and my stomach does a flip, too. It’s addressed to me, Charles Michael Burger.
Lucy’s mouth hangs open, her eyes all buggy. “You got the Letter.”
Stella, who had been walking with my dad, stops and turns to us, her face looking like she just took a swig of sour milk. Even though Stella couldn’t care less about soccer, she knows what this means. Rejections from the academy come in the mail. Acceptances come over the phone.
“Open it,” Lucy demands.
“Nope,” I say.
Lucy stomps the ground, her curls bouncing like springs on her shoulders.
“Come on, Charlie. I promise I won’t—”
A sudden string of four-letter words from the front porch cuts her off. We both turn in time to see my dad’s grocery bag split open. Onions, celery, and a bag of organic apples spill onto the front porch. My special-occasion bacon lies in a puddle of goat’s milk.
Stella rushes to help, and I make a run for it.
“Charlie, wait up!” Lucy may be a better soccer player, but I can beat her in a footrace any day. I cut to the left, swing around the side of the house, and hightail it for the back door. Darting through the kitchen, I snag an oatmeal cookie from the fresh stack on the counter and then beeline it for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I make it to my room and slam the door behind me, but my victory is bittersweet.
Stuffing the cookie in my mouth, I rip open the envelope. Right away I see the first line: We regret to inform you …
Shoving a pile of dirty clothes off my bed, I flop down and cover my face with the letter. I stay like that until it no longer smells like fresh ink.
Trying out for the academy was my mom’s idea, not mine. She said that I should give it a try, that it would help me stretch outside my co
mfort zone, take a risk, stuff like that. But I knew I wasn’t good enough to make it—as much as I knew Lucy was.
“Charlie?”
I sit up, and the paper floats to the floor. My dad stands in the doorway, holding his cell phone in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, which drips a dark brown liquid down the front of his KISS ME, I’M VEGAN apron. His face tells me the news.
“She made it, didn’t she?” I ask. “Lucy got a spot on the academy team.”
He presses his lips together, hard. “Listen, Charlie…”
“It’s no big deal, Dad,” I say, jumping up and walking over to my desk. “I’ll just play for the middle-school team. They stink so bad, they’ll be thrilled to have me.”
“Charlie.” Now he’s frowning. “You’re as good a soccer player as the next guy.”
“That’s not what they think,” I say, scuffing my foot on the piece of paper. “That’s not what Mom thinks.”
My dad sighs and rubs his head with the dripping spoon.
“That’s not fair, Charlie. Your mom just wants to see you live up to your potential,” he says. “We both want you to be the best you can be.”
I run the toe of my sneaker along the scratches in the floorboards, carved deep from years of soccer cleats and Matchbox cars. “Yeah, well, maybe this is my best. Maybe this is as good as it gets.”
Dad leans over and puts both of his hands on my shoulders. His eyes are see-through green, like mine. “Part of growing up is taking responsibility for yourself, Charlie. If you want something bad enough, you’ve got to put your mind to getting it. And remember, there’s always next year, right?”
For some reason this makes me feel worse, but I smile anyway.
“Sure, Dad,” I say. “Next year.”
His face loosens. Standing up straight, he pats me on the back and then starts toward the door.
“That’s the spirit! Now, why don’t you get started on your homework? Your mom will be home soon, and then we’ll have dinner.” He turns around and grins at me. “You’re still in the mood for bacon lasagna, right?”
I nod, then listen as his footsteps head down the hall toward Lucy’s room. I hear a light rap on her door. I press my palms against my ears, but her eardrum-splitting scream at the good news is unavoidable.
Flopping backward onto my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and think about what Mr. P said earlier today.
Words can be powerful. Believe in their magic and anything can happen.
I sit up and reach for my backpack on the floor. Pulling out the science notebook, I flip to the first page and start writing.
September 8
The Adventures of Dude Explodius, Ruler of Everything
By Charlie Burger
Episode 1: The Greatest Dude Alive
Even through the darkness that surrounded him, his superhuman vision allowed him to take it all in: the ten-story compound that had been built specifically for him, the regulation-size soccer field and dodgeball court where he always got to pick his team first, and the cozy cafeteria where seating was limited to a select few and his favorite foods were only a command away. Sitting on top of his custom-made beanbag chair, he smiled, satisfied that all was as it should be on Planet Splodii—his planet, his domain.
He had too many powers to count. After all, he was not just a superhero—he was a superdude: Dude Explodius, Ruler of Everything.
It didn’t get any better than that.
He had ruled Planet Splodii for as long as anyone could remember. Stories of his remarkable strength, skill, and pure awesomeness were shared from generation to generation, not to mention his geniuslike intellect, amazing athleticism, and jaw-dropping good looks. Girls adored him, guys worshipped him, and any creature with half a brain knew to stay on his good side. That went for his enemies as well as the people of Splodii.
He was, after all, a generous ruler.
Except when forced to be otherwise.
CHAPTER
5
When you live in a beach town, the best Saturdays of summer come after Labor Day.
I wake up early and look around my room. My backpack sits next to my desk, where I dropped it after school yesterday. I pick it up and shove it into my closet. I’ve just made it through my first four days of middle school. I’m not planning on looking at that thing until Monday.
Now that the tourists have all gone back to Boston and the lifeguards have all left for college, Franki and I will have the beach to ourselves—which is how we like it best. We’ll spend the morning checking out the tide pools and climbing the rock faces, since no one’s around to tell us not to. After lunch I’ll talk my dad into biking to Mill Pond with us, since his catering business slows way down after tourist season. We’ll hunt frogs in the marsh around the pond and fish for black crappies until it gets too dark to see our hooks and my dad starts worrying that someone is going to stick one through a finger. Franki did that once, and believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight.
I pick up a T-shirt off my floor and sniff it. Not bad, I decide, and pull it over my head. As I tiptoe past Lucy’s room, I pray she’s still asleep. Luckily, it works: Forty million stuffed animals stand sentry around the lump in her bed, and a thick trail of drool slides out of the corner of her mouth and onto her bright-pink pillowcase. I resist the urge to sneak in and dunk one of her curls into the slobber pool. If I wake her, my plans are toast.
I bolt downstairs and inhale a bowl of Froot Loops before anyone’s awake. My dad thinks processed cereals are equivalent to poison, but my mom buys them anyway. She tries to support my dad’s healthy habits, but it’s pretty obvious she thinks he takes things a little too far.
Next, a pit stop at the bathroom. No one’s around, so I don’t lift the seat. My aim is always spot-on. Almost always.
With the coast clear, I jump down the basement stairs two at a time and leap over the banister. I grab the remote off the side table, vault the cushions, and bam! The screen comes to life before my butt even hits the couch.
Dude Explodius would be proud, I think, and I can’t help but chuckle over the ingenious plan I came up with for my science journal. Sure, a bunch of made-up adventures about an imaginary superhero aren’t really going to change the world, but hopefully, they’ll keep this Mr. P off my back until he takes off for that exotic place. Afterward he’ll come back and teach me some stuff that matters.
Thinking about the first adventure I wrote makes my fingers start to tingle again, like they did in science class. I look down at my hand, but it’s the same hand I’ve had for the last eleven years. I shrug and click through the television channels until I land on an old X-Men episode and think about what Dude would be doing on a Saturday morning, and what he’d eat for breakfast—salami, probably, and a T-bone steak. I close my eyes. He’d wash it down with a tall glass of—
“I want to watch something else.”
I open my eyes. Lucy stands in front of me, hands on her hips. Her hair hangs perfectly in tiny ringlets around her shoulders, and a gigantic pink bow perches on top of her head. She’s wearing her favorite soccer jersey and a frilly purple skirt. Lucy refuses to wear pants or shorts, even when she’s playing soccer.
I can’t believe it. Ten minutes ago, the kid was drooling in her sleep.
“Get out of here, Lucy.”
She crosses her arms.
“That show is too violent. Mom says.”
I wave the remote at her. “Too violent for babies. So scram.”
She sits down on the edge of the couch, spreading her skirt out around her like a fan.
“Let’s watch Princess Academy.”
“Can’t you bug someone else for once?”
She twirls a curl around her finger. “Everyone else is busy.”
“Go call a friend.”
“No one’s answering.”
Lucy may be smart at math and good at soccer, but she’s pretty lousy at making friends. My mom says her peers haven’t learned to appreciate her leadership skills,
and my dad says she needs time to grow into her personality. I think she’s just a prissy know-it-all whose classmates are sick of her bossing them around.
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Change the channel now, and I won’t tell Mom you’ve got your feet on the couch.”
“I’m going to say it one more time,” I tell her. “Get. Out.”
She scoots closer. “Make me.”
I shove her with my foot. She wails like I stuck her with a cattle prod.
“You touched me!” she shrieks. “You probably haven’t washed those things in a week.”
“You’re right,” I tell her, wiggling my toes in her face. “And I walked barefoot through Mr. Everson’s yard yesterday.” I duck as she hurls a couch pillow toward me. “That place is swimming in dog turds.”
“I’m telling. I’m so telling,” she cries, jumping up to head back upstairs. “When Mom hears about this, you’re going to be oh-so-sorry.”
“You’re going to be oh-so-sorry,” I mimic, turning back toward the TV. Less than a minute later, my mom’s voice fills the basement.
“Charles Burger!” I look over at the clock on the table next to me. It’s not even ten. Doesn’t that woman ever sleep in?
“Charlie?”
I sink lower into the couch cushions.
“Charles, I know you’re down there. Front and center, buster.”
This is the part I don’t understand. Why is it that she’s allowed to stand at the top of the staircase and holler for me, but when I do it, I get the don’t-you-dare-yell-at-me-like-that speech?
Maybe I should try it on her.
Hey, Mom! I’d call out. I’m sitting on my butt watching Cyclops try not to get annihilated by Apocalypse, so if you have something to say, you’re gonna have to come down here and say it to my face.
Yeah, right.
I aim the remote at the screen and flop back on the cushions, thinking about what Mr. P said, how words can be powerful and that if I believed in their magic, anything could happen.
Anything? I wonder.
“Charlie!” Lucy’s voice bellows down the stairs. “Mom says now!”
I sigh and drag myself off the couch. Who am I kidding? I don’t even have power over my bratty kid sister.
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