Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers

by Gretchen Kelley

  He pulls the door shut before I can respond.

  I look around. The hallway is starting to fill up around me, and I hear Grant call my name from the other end. I push my face up against Mr. P’s door for one last peek.

  Through the narrow window I can see him. He’s back at his desk, the phone receiver in his hand. And then I see something else.

  The leather chair, turntable, and tower of books are all gone.

  So is the coffeepot.

  Even the smell of bacon has vanished.

  I turn and bolt toward my locker, goose bumps tap dancing across my skin.

  CHAPTER

  15

  For the first part of the morning, I have a hard time focusing. I can’t stop thinking about everything Mr. P. said, about power and catalysts and gifts. By lunchtime my head is spinning, and I’ve completely lost my appetite.

  I peek into the cafeteria, but Franki’s seat is empty. I wonder if she’s mad at me for not walking with her to school this morning. I tried to call, to tell her I had an early morning project to work on, but her phone was still disconnected.

  I’m thinking about heading to the library, when I hear someone call my name.

  “Charlie!” Stella waves at me from the front of the lunch line, surrounded by a group of giggling girls. “Over here!”

  Great, I think. The last thing I need right now is to do something stupid in front of a bunch of cheerleaders.

  “We were just talking about Boomer,” she says as I walk up to her. “Have you heard?”

  I shake my head.

  “He got three days of in-school suspension,” says the tall blond girl standing next to me. She throws her hair over her shoulder. “And Dr. Moody told him that if he ever pulls another stunt like stripping in school, he’ll have to sit out the next two home games.” The girls shake their heads, and I’m not sure if it’s because they can’t imagine getting three days of in-school suspension, or if they’re wondering how the Gatehouse Vikings could possibly play two home football games without their best defensive tackle.

  Stella narrows her eyes at me. “Rumor has it that Boomer is blaming you for what happened to him.”

  The blond girl twirls a piece of her hair. “Pretty brave, messing with a guy like Boomer,” she says, looking me up and down. “Not bad for a sixth grader.” The two girls next to her giggle and nod.

  I look at Stella. “Me? Why would he blame me?”

  Stella grabs the front of my T-shirt and pulls me to the side. “Listen, Charlie,” she hisses into my ear, “I’m not a big fan of Boomer’s, either. But if you think that trying to get revenge is the best way to be more popular around here—”

  “Revenge?” I squeak. “Who said anything about revenge?”

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “He pantsed you on the first day of school. He stuffed one of your best friends into a locker. And I don’t know what happened between him and Franki at the dance, but people are saying it wasn’t pretty.” She looks around and lowers her voice. “I don’t know how you got him to strip naked, but you took it too far. Boomer’s not a rocket scientist, but he’s going to put two and two together and realize you had plenty of reason to get him back for the stuff he’s been doing to you and your friends.”

  I think I’m going to puke. If Boomer Bodbreath thinks I am the reason he’s sitting in suspension, I’m toast.

  “Stella!” The tall blonde calls from the lunch line. “We’ve got your salad!”

  Stella waves, then looks down at me. “Listen, Charlie. Being more popular is the best way to survive middle school. But taking on the school’s biggest bully is not a good idea.” She pokes the front of my shirt. “You better lie low for a while, okay?”

  I’m about to tell her that lying low is what I’ve been trying to do all along, but she’s already walking back toward the lunch line. “I want fat-free ranch!” she calls out.

  * * *

  For the rest of the week, my appetite stays gone, and I can’t stomach more than a couple of bites of my dad’s whole wheat pancakes. He makes me drink lemon balm tea instead.

  Something’s off with Franki, too. She stops meeting me before school and spends our lunch periods in the library, claiming she’s behind on homework. On Saturday, when I stop by to see if she wants to go to the beach, no one answers the door. I decide to wander down to the soccer field instead.

  When I get there, I see Grant. He’s kicking ball after ball at the net, but he’s missing it every time.

  After a while, he looks up. “Watch this,” he says when he sees me. He places the ball in the grass, backs up a foot, then runs toward it and kicks. I know he’s aiming for the top right corner of the net. Instead, the ball sails over it.

  “I don’t get it,” he mutters as much to himself as to me. “It’s like I’ve lost my mojo.”

  I wonder if this has anything to do with the locker incident. Grant’s ability to score is the best thing our team has going for it. Without it, the Gloucester Hurricanes are going to pummel us on Thursday.

  I raise my fist in the air. “Come on, Grant!” I holler. “The next game’s in five days. We need you!”

  “Thanks for the reminder, pal.” He jogs away from me toward the sidelines and his ball.

  * * *

  On Monday, I wake up to a strange noise. It doesn’t take long to realize it’s coming from Lucy’s room. I try to sneak past it on my way downstairs, but my mom’s voice stops me.

  “Charlie,” she says. She’s sitting on the edge of my sister’s bed, my dad next to her. Lucy squats on the floor in front of them. “Can you come here for a minute?”

  I shuffle in.

  “She’s upset but won’t tell us why,” my dad says, his face pinchy. “Maybe you can try?”

  I look at Lucy. Her brown eyes are watering, and her hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in weeks. Every time she opens her mouth, a howl comes out. I bend down next to her.

  “Lucy,” I say, my voice low, “why are you acting like this?”

  She stops howling and cocks her head to the side.

  “It’s not funny anymore,” I whisper. “Can’t you see you’re freaking everybody out?”

  She leans forward and licks my face.

  “Eww!” I scream, wiping the saliva off my cheek. “You’re disgusting, do you know that?”

  I stand up and look at my parents. “I have no idea what’s wrong with her. Good luck trying to figure it out.” I march out of the room and down the stairs, grabbing a Pop-Tart from my mom’s hidden stash before I bolt out the door.

  * * *

  Later, when I get home from school, my dad’s in the kitchen, the pinched look gone.

  “It took a while, but we finally figured it out,” he says, smiling. “After you left, Lucy started howling again. That’s when I noticed she’d lost a tooth. We looked and looked but couldn’t find it anywhere.” He lets out a chuckle. “Poor thing must have swallowed it in her sleep.”

  He steals a glance at me, but I keep my eyes on the bowl of fruit on the table. “Anyway,” he continues, “I told her not to worry, that the tooth fairy would still show up. And you know what? That calmed her right down.” He waves his spatula in the air like a victory salute. “See? Another Burger family crisis averted.”

  I just nod and grab a banana out of the bowl. My dad’s grin grows.

  “Wise choice, son.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say. I pick up my backpack and head to my room.

  CHAPTER

  16

  I see Franki before she sees me.

  She’s standing on our corner, hopping from one foot to the other. Though the air is starting to feel more like winter than fall, she isn’t wearing a jacket.

  I walk up behind her, not sure what to say. For more than a week, she hasn’t met me here. She’s even been avoiding the sixth-grade hallway.

  “Hey,” I say finally, tapping her on the shoulder.

  She turns toward me, her lopsided grin wide and familiar. “Hey yourself
.” For some reason, my insides feel like I just drank hot chocolate.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says, looking at me funny. “Why wouldn’t it be?” She starts walking, and I do, too.

  “I just … Well, I haven’t seen you around much lately,” I say. I practically have to skip to keep up with her.

  “I’ve been busy.” She sounds irritated, like this is not a topic she wants to discuss. “Did you finish the math homework?”

  I nod, zipping up my jacket. “Did you?”

  “Not all of it. Our power went out, and I couldn’t find the flashlight.”

  I steal a quick look at her. The lights in my house were on all night.

  She swipes a piece of hair out of her mouth with the back of her hand. “Lila didn’t pay the electric bill again last month,” she says matter-of-factly. “They only send three warnings.”

  The hot chocolate feeling turns ice-cold. “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  Franki looks at me like she can’t believe she’s friends with such a moron. “What do you think we’re going to do, Chuck? Lila will ask Mr. Richard for an advance, like always.” Mr. Richard owns Wowee Hair Salon, where Franki’s mom works. It’s no secret that he’s had a crush on her ever since she started working there. Once, he even asked her to marry him, but Franki says Lila would never marry a man who actually likes her. She married Carl instead.

  “I don’t guess Carl could…?” I trail off, knowing before I even finish the sentence that this is the wrong thing to say.

  “Could what, Chuck? Get a job? Help out? Or maybe just do something other than open beer bottles with his teeth and make fart jokes?” She throws her head back. “Do you want to know what Carl did last night when the power went off?”

  I nod, not sure if I want to know or not. The prickly feeling plays at the base of my neck.

  “He was sitting on the couch, finishing his fourth beer and watching Wheel of Fortune when the television flickered off. He was so mad that he chucked the bottle across the room and started yelling about how lousy my mother is at managing money and that she’s too dim-witted to remember to pay the bills on time. Then he stormed out. Lila locked herself in her room, and I fed Rose ice cream for dinner since everything in the freezer was going to melt anyway. So no, I didn’t finish the math homework.”

  She starts walking.

  “Frank…” Without thinking, I reach out and grab her hand. For a second she stops and lets me hold it. We stand like that—me squeezing her fingers, and her looking like she’s ready to punch something or maybe cry. Instead, she shakes herself loose from me and starts running.

  “Come on, Chuck,” she calls over her shoulder. “I can’t afford another tardy just because you want to stand around and hold my hand all day.”

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, Dr. Moody makes an announcement that Gatehouse is starting a chess club. I look over at Grant and grin. Pickles taught us how to play chess when we were in fourth grade, though she claims my grandfather was the master.

  The notice hangs outside Mr. P’s science lab: CHESS CLUB. TODAY. ALL WELCOME. My soccer game starts at six, but I only have a little bit of math homework and twenty Spanish words to memorize by tomorrow. I think about what my mom said—about expanding my horizons—and go in.

  There are six people total—Grant, Dolores, and me, plus an eighth grader named Simon who keeps to himself and two seventh-grade girls whose names I still haven’t learned. Mr. P stands in the front of the room, nodding as each of us walk in.

  “I’ve already put the boards out for you, so pick a partner and sit down. You’ll play for ten minutes, then move to a different table. Between matches, we’ll discuss the reasons you made the moves you did, what the consequences were, and what you will do differently next time.” His eyes land on me. “The beauty of chess is that it’s kind of like magic. The possibilities are endless.”

  I plunk down opposite Grant, and we start to play. He’s normally a little better than I am, but today I have him in checkmate after only six moves.

  “Lucky start,” I say, and we set the pieces back up. This time, I have him in checkmate after four.

  “What gives?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Grant,” I whisper. “Something’s wrong, I can tell.”

  His eyes shoot daggers at mine. “Oh yeah? Then why don’t you clue me in, Mr. Brilliant?”

  “You’re playing chess like you’ve never seen a board before. This weekend, you were shooting like you’d never seen a soccer goal before.” I glance around, but everyone’s concentrating too hard to pay attention to us. “Does this have anything to do with what happened? You know”—I point toward my crotch—“Boomer and the locker?”

  He stands up so fast, his kneecaps bang the board and pieces go flying. “Shut up, Burger. Just shut up. Why don’t you go back to minding your own business?”

  Mr. P looks up from the book he’s reading but doesn’t say anything.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  Grant grabs his backpack off the floor. “Exactly what it sounds like. You’re usually so busy keeping a low profile, you don’t have time to worry about anybody else.”

  “That’s not true!” I say.

  Mr. P looks up again. “Everything okay, gentlemen?”

  Grant walks to the door. “Everything’s fine. We’ve got our first soccer match today, and I’ve got to go get ready.”

  “But it’s only three thirty,” Mr. P says, looking at his watch. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

  Grant shoots me a look. “Not today, Mr. P. I’ve got to go practice. Seems like there’s a lot of people counting on me.”

  He storms out of the room like his pants are on fire, leaving me to pick up all the chess pieces that are now rolling onto the floor.

  CHAPTER

  17

  When I get home, my dad’s working on his menu for the upcoming Cape Ann Harvest Day. Every year, his pumpkin strata and lentil stew are two of the best sellers at the festival.

  As soon as I see that he’s up to his elbows in pumpkin guts, my heart sinks.

  “Tonight’s a big game, Dad. You’re coming, right?”

  He wipes his hands down the front of his stiff white apron. “These stratas don’t make themselves, Charlie.” He smiles and taps his spoon on my nose.

  I move my head away. “But it’s the Gloucester Hurricanes. I was hoping you’d be there.”

  His face starts to pinch up. “I know, pal, but I still have a lot of work to do. I promise I’ll be there next time. No matter what.”

  I wish I could tell him that his lentil stew tastes like dirt. Instead, I go pack my gear bag before his face can get any pinchier.

  Whenever my dad is cooking, my mom is the one who gets the job of hauling us around, which means I’m almost always guaranteed to be late. Last month, I missed a dentist appointment because there was a kid with arm tattoos and a motorcycle hanging around outside the bank when we drove by. It took him twenty minutes to convince my mom that he was the bank president’s nephew and was waiting to give his uncle a ride home. “You can never be too careful,” she’d tried to explain as we pulled away.

  Today, we make it to the field without a hitch. My mom screeches to a stop and checks her watch.

  “Good luck, sweetie,” she says, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

  “What? You’re not staying?”

  She leans over and pats my knee. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I can’t miss this meeting with Lucy’s new soccer coach. I tried to reschedule it, but he’s so busy right now, you know?” I don’t know, but I nod anyway. She smiles at me. “I promise I’ll make it back for the second half.”

  I nod again and slide across the seat. I haul my bag out of the back as she throws the squad car into gear and starts to move, waving to me out the window.

  I wave back, a knot growing in my stomach.

  “Burge
r!” I hear, and look toward the field. Most of the team is already warming up, and Coach stands on the sidelines, glaring at me. I forget all about my mom and her meeting and break into a sprint.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t my star defender,” Coach says as I plop my gear bag on the ground and bend over to double knot my cleats. I wait for him to say more, but he’s already hollering at someone else.

  It’s no secret that Coach Crenshaw thinks soccer is a sissy sport. Four years ago, when he was hired at Gatehouse to teach eighth-grade math, he wanted to be one of the football team’s coaches, but all three spots were taken. Since the soccer coach had just quit after seven seasons of finishing last in the league, Crenshaw agreed to take the team, but only until a football position opened up. He might be waiting a long time, seeing how the Gatehouse Vikings’ football team has been undefeated since my parents were in middle school. My mom says someone will have to croak before one of those spots becomes available.

  So that leaves a guy who hates soccer, coaching a team that stinks. Not a great combination, if you ask me.

  I finish tying my cleats and start to head toward the field.

  “Not so fast.”

  I turn and look at him, trying not to appear nervous. Coach Crenshaw can smell weakness a mile away.

  He circles around, sizing me up.

  “You know, Burger,” he says, “I’ve been watching you.” He stops and crosses his arms, which remind me of two greasy drumsticks. “You’re a decent athlete for a scrawny kid. You got some good foot skills, and you’re fast. But you know what I don’t think you got?” He sneers at me. “I don’t think you got any guts.”

  Join the club, I think, remembering what Franki had said to me.

  “You paying attention, Burger?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, forcing myself to look back up at him. “Heard every word.”

  This seems to irritate him more. “Do you think this is a joke? You think I enjoy coming out here, wasting my time, watching a kid who seems like he could not care less if he’s on the field or on the bench? Well, guess what,” he says, his face now uncomfortably close to mine. “I don’t. Not one little bit. So, if you can’t go out there and show me something new, then you might as well go home.” He glares at me. “What do you say?”