“Sort of,” I say. “The jelly bean needs my room.” I shrug and tug at my ear before saying, “I want to be just like you, Superman, but they’re big shoes to fill.” I glance down and see that Superman has got tiny feet in little red boots. After a small cough, I add, “Can you give me any tips on being a superhero that might help me?”
“Have you saved an animal in peril?” asks Superman, scratching his chin. When I shake my head he asks if I’ve saved a life. I tell him I tried both but it was trickier than I thought. Superman nods and says never work with animals and saving a life is the hardest thing of all. “Help an old person across the road instead,” says Superman finally. “That’s a good one, young man. You could do that. That will make people happy. And my last bit of advice is to stay away from green things.” I ask him if he means healthy vegetables because that will be tricky, thanks to my mum, and he says no, he means kryptonite.
“You’re the best, Superman. I’ve got helping an old person on my list, but I haven’t done it yet,” I reply, rubbing my nose. “Just one more question before you fly off on your next mission – on your birthday when you were growing up, did you ever blow out the candles and think of Lara, even though you were happy with the Kent family? I mean, was there a tiny bit of Superman missing? In here?” I thump my chest.
Superman smiles and he’s about to answer when a woman appears and shouts, “Hey, Colin, love, do you want a drink? I’m going to get one because I’m parched. My mouth’s like the bottom of a budgie’s cage.” Superman Colin nods and tells me that he’s got to go and replenish, because his energy is on zero and he’s still got to do a book signing. He tells me to take care and then instead of flying away he walks, in his tiny red boots.
As I watch him go, I see a table set up with a starry tablecloth and there’s a Zorbitan behind it and a queue in front. I crane my neck to get a better look. The Zorbitan is leaning down and I can see the top of his green head, and on his chest is a green emerald and there are three gold stripes on his sleeve. He’s got the emerald heart and everything. I feel a big whoosh of excitement as I realize I’m close to an actual Zorbitan.
I push through a crowd of supervillains who are talking about how their costumes are so tight they’d better not eat or they’ll need elastic waistbands. As I get through their group I catch a glimpse of The Grand Moon Master, which makes me stop in my tracks. He’s the Zorbitans’ creator, so I suppose you could call him their father. What’s more, he’s been missing from their lives for ever and they’re desperate to find him and he’s right here. Right under our noses. What’s more, in real life he’s really tall, even taller than Tiny Eric on stilts, and he’s wearing a long black robe studded with stars and a glossy black mask that covers his whole face. Suddenly he walks into a pillar and then jerks backwards and rubs his mask before staggering off again. I think about going over and talking to him but he heads towards the Gents’. To be honest, I’d never considered The Grand Moon Master needing to pee. He opens the toilet door and gets his black cape caught in it as it closes behind him.
I shake myself and carry on towards the star-covered table, quickly joining the queue behind a girl with a hot dog, who appears to be trying to achieve the world record for boring a Zorbitan. The Zorbitan is looking up at her and nodding and he draws a squiggle on a photograph for her. You can’t really read it because Zorbitans don’t have actual names. It’s probably more of a claw print. The girl leans over with her hot dog and she’s breathing onion fumes everywhere. Zorbitans don’t like onions. They eat zorbits – although this one appears to be eating custard creams. Eventually, the girl says thank you and disappears clutching the photo. When I look at the Zorbitan, he’s rubbing his head.
“I saw The Grand Moon Master,” I say.
“Right,” says the Zorbitan. He doesn’t seem all that bothered. I repeat what I’ve just said, only louder. “You want an autograph, kid?” he fires back.
“He’s in the toilet.”
“Great,” says the Zorbitan, his pointy ears wobbling. “There’s a queue building, so if you don’t want a claw print you need to move on.” I look behind me but there’s no queue any more. It’s just me and a furry wolf boy who’s gone under the table for a sleep.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.
The Zorbitan blinks. “I know what you’re going to ask me next, kid,” he says. “When I find my creator will this emerald heart glow red, and when will that happen?” He points a claw to the emerald heart. “Do you know how many kids ask me that?” I shake my head. “Bazillions!”
“That’s not even a word,” I say.
“It is on my planet. Look around you, kid. Everyone here is going to ask me that same question about when I’ll find my creator. They’re all obsessed with my heart glowing. You know, this one doesn’t glow though, so even if I see The Grand Moon Master coming out of the toilet it won’t work.” He nudges me in the belly and then winks. “I got the cheap costume.”
I hear myself muttering “Oh” and my heart droops a little. I wanted to see the Zorbitan’s heart glow when he finds his creator. It’s supposed to be perfect and they’re supposed to find each other and hug and the Zorbitans will have a home with The Grand Moon Master and they won’t be roaming around looking for him. I want to tell the Zorbitan that I’m adopted and looking for my creator too, but the Zorbitan is too busy flicking his pointy ears, and then a bit falls off and lands on the table.
We both look at it.
“You’ve lost the tip of your ear,” I say, staring at it. The Zorbitan doesn’t respond but I suppose he can’t hear without it. Eventually I pick it up and hand it to the Zorbitan, who puts it back on again before continuing: “So, yeah, you can get costumes that glow, but they’re hard to find.” He laughs. “A bit like The Grand Moon Master. But keep reading the comics, eh? You never know when the Zorbitans will connect with him.” He mumbles something about it probably being on the last page of the last ever issue, not that he’s cynical. “So, kiddo. Thanks for the heads up about The Grand Moon Master being in the toilet and it’s five pounds for a signed photo.”
I pass the last of my money across the table and the Zorbitan picks it up and puts it in a cash box before picking up a pen and a photograph. He does a squiggle on it and passes it to me. I pick it up, making sure not to smudge the signature. “Mr Zorbitan, one last question…” I look down at him. It’s the most important question in my head at the moment. “Why did The Grand Moon Master leave you in the first place? I mean, it’s never explained in the comics. He was the person who made you and he should have loved you. Without him, you must feel like a piece of you is missing.”
“Great question, kiddo. And one I’ve never been asked before. I have no idea. Why would anyone leave someone as loveable as me behind?” The Zorbitan points his claws to himself and shakes with laughter and the tip of his ear falls off again.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I really don’t know.”
The rest of the evening could be described like this:
Dad appeared five minutes later and handed me a chilli hot dog and after a few seconds asked me why my eyes were watering, and I said the chilli nearly took the roof off my mouth. Then Dad looked down at my hot dog and said I hadn’t even had a bite yet. After that I scoffed half of it in a hurry and it was as if a volcano erupted inside my head. “See,” I said to Dad, pointing to my face, which I guessed was as red as a baboon’s bum. “Even my eyeballs are sweating.” The thing is, the tears had nothing to do with the chilli and everything to do with Mum and Dad wanting to rehome me and the Zorbitan not knowing why his creator left him.
We looked at all the comics on the stands and Dad spent ages speaking to a stall owner who sold these wish kites shaped like superheroes, and I watched as Spider-Man strolled past. I thought about stopping him for a chat but I felt so fed up after talking to the Zorbitan that I didn’t bother.
On the way back to the car park to go home, I spotted an old lady with a Bag for Li
fe trying to cross the road on a mobility scooter, and I remembered what Superman aka Colin said about helping an old person across the road to be a superhero. I could do this with ease. But as I ran after her, shouting that I was going to help her, she took off like a rocket, weaving in and out of the traffic to escape me. Then I noticed she’d dropped the Bag for Life, which must have been an accident because you’re supposed to keep those for ever.
Shouting, “You’ve dropped your Bag for Life,” I picked it up and it nearly broke my arm. I looked inside and it was full of old tins and dirty clothes. When I got back to Dad he said we should leave the bag where she’d dropped it. But as we flung it on the ground, a man who came out of Comic Con carrying an ironing board on his back pointed to the wall, where a sign said: NO FLY-TIPPING. Dad squared up to him and said who did he think he was, interfering? The bloke said he was Iron Man and Dad nodded and said he’d take the bag straight to a bin.
Later that evening I stood in my bedroom with my whole face pressed against the glass. And I saw a million stars blinking across the night sky and they were like all my birthday candles put together and I imagined blowing them out and making a wish. Actually two wishes, which I hoped wasn’t cheating. “I wish I could be a superhero and put a smile back on Mum’s face.” Even though I was annoyed that they were rehoming me, I couldn’t sulk for ever. Superheroes aren’t like that – they want to make others happy. Anyway, Mum still looked sad and I didn’t want to make things worse for her. That’s how a true superhero would behave. “And I wish I could find my real mother and live with her,” I whispered and my warm breath left a cloud on the cold window and I traced a heart in its centre. “And while I’m at it, I wish I could make a great family tree.” Oh, that was three wishes. I’ve never been any good at maths. And through the heart I saw stars that went on for ever and lit up the darkness and it felt like anything was possible.
The next day at school Mrs Chatterjee gives us a permission slip for a trip to the library to get signed. Then she goes on to tell us there’s been a miracle. Everyone stares at her like she’s baby Jesus. “No, I haven’t got twenty-eight fully correct maths homework exercises in my possession. But I have secured us a front page article in the Pegasus Park Packet.” I don’t know how Mrs Chatterjee imagines miracles, but I was expecting a bit more, to be honest. “A reporter will be coming to our exhibition and they’d love to take photos and feature someone’s family tree, so that means you could be in the paper with your family. They’ll want heart-warming, interesting stories though,” she continues, “so make sure your tree is the best it can be.”
I glance around the class, thinking that I’ve probably got the most interesting story of all. I could tell the reporter about how I decided to become a superhero to make everyone happy and how I also went looking for my long-lost mother and she gave me a home when I needed one. And that she came along to the exhibition to see the family tree I’d done specially for her. I can imagine it now: a photo of us together on the front cover. Only, in my head, my real mother’s face is fuzzy. No matter how much I try to imagine her, I don’t know what she actually looks like. And no matter how many times I try to think of my real mother, Mum’s face keeps popping into my mind instead.
Mrs Chatterjee gives us each a new luggage tag and says she’d like us all to imagine we are the person who has our story on the front page of the Pegasus Park Packet. “Now, let’s try and make it exciting. I want you to write a headline. Perhaps your dad has won an award or your mum has an exciting job or there’s a sporting achievement in the family that you could highlight. I want a headline and not the whole story, please. This is simply a quick exercise.”
I think about Dad, because he’s won Best Key-Cutter in Pegasus Park every year since 2010 – there’s a silver key award on the counter at his shop. Then again, Dad’s the only key-cutter in Pegasus Park. Mum used to work at the Broken Egg Cafe and they once won an award too, for being the best greasy spoon cafe in the local area – the prize was an actual greasy spoon.
Then I think about my real mother and I start chewing the inside of my mouth, before I realize that it doesn’t taste all that great. I don’t know what her achievements are but I know she’s done something incredible because she had me. Smiling, I write on the tag: AN ACE SUPERHERO TRIES TO FIND LONG-LOST MOTHER. WHAM!
I tap my pocket, hoping it’ll make the drawing of the four-leaf clover spread more good luck to help me in my search for my real mother. That’s when I have a thought.
I hoist my hand up in the air and Mrs Chatterjee glances towards me. “Miss,” I say, “what do you think about believing in something even if it’s hard to achieve? I’m asking for a friend.” Mrs Chatterjee perches on the edge of her desk and says that’s a good question. There’s a flush of heat in my face as Tiny Eric glances my way.
“Okay, well, in my opinion, believing in something is important. And the fact that it’s hard to achieve makes it sound like it’s something…” Mrs Chatterjee pauses. “…Your friend really wants.” I scratch under my bobble hat as Mrs Chatterjee continues. “I have a little saying: if you believe you can do something, then you’re already halfway there.” Mrs Chatterjee rises up off her desk and adds, “But there’s one thing I think the whole class should believe in. Does anyone know what that is?”
Everyone shakes their heads until Nish pipes up, “Believe in making money and having a good job and being famous? So, if you believe you’re famous you’re halfway there.”
A tiny cough escapes from Mrs Chatterjee’s lips. “Um…it’s a little simpler than that. Believe in yourselves. You can change the world if you believe in yourself.”
Mrs Chatterjee’s right, if I think about it. If I believe in myself changing into a superhero, then I can change the world. When Mrs Chatterjee asks if she’s answered my question, I nod and say, “Yes, miss. I’m going to change the world one day.”
“I’m sure you will,” says Mrs Chatterjee, smiling. “But can you concentrate on your schoolwork before then?”
I nod. After what Mrs Chatterjee’s said, I believe I’m going to be the best superhero ever, so that means I’m already halfway there. I look down at my tag and rub out my headline and instead I write: AN ACE SUPERHERO FINDS LONG-LOST MOTHER AND SHE GIVES HIM A HOME.
Mrs Chatterjee says she’s so happy with the work we’ve done today that she’s going to get us to do more over the weekend. I’m not sure that’s much of a reward.
“For homework, pick a special person close to you – one you’ve mentioned on your family tree – and write a poem about them,” says Mrs Chatterjee. “And write it from the heart.”
I think about Mum for a second and there’s a warm feeling in my tummy like I’ve just eaten a steaming hot bowl of spaghetti hoops. But then I think about my real mother and how it will feel when I’ve got a home with her instead. This poem about a special person is going to be important, and I’ve got to consider exactly what I’m going to say. I chew on the wrong end of my pen before realizing I forgot to put the lid on it.
“Everything’s a catastrophe at the moment,” I mumble to myself as I lie on my bed after scrubbing the ink off my lips and nearly taking all the skin with it. I’ve finished writing the poem for homework and I pull out the four-leaf clover drawing and stare at it. “And you’re not much good either. You really haven’t done much recently. Lazy four-leaf clover. You were meant to help make me a superhero, but a fat lot of good you’ve been, because I’m still not one. My lifesaving was so useless that I was the person who needed saving.” As for saving the world…well, in desperation, I pushed Mrs Chatterjee’s globe off the desk and then tried to save it, but I wasn’t quick enough and it broke and she gave me lines saying I MUST NOT DESTROY THE WORLD, which is the precise opposite of what a superhero wants to do. “And now I have to find my real mother to give me a home, so I need even more luck than ever.”
“OMG, talking to yourself is a sign of madness,” says Minnie as she walks past my bedroom door. She pauses
and comes back, lounging against the door frame. When I tell her I’m not talking to myself, I’m talking to a drawing, she says, “It’s worse than I thought then – you’re talking to a piece of paper! What is it you’re looking at, The International Book of Stupid?”
“You’re hilarious,” I mutter.
Minnie stops. “Oh, I know.” She undoes her ponytail and her dark hair spills onto her shoulders. “Seriously, though. Why are you talking to a piece of paper?” When I tell Minnie it’s a four-leaf clover and it’s going to bring me lots of good luck, she says, “And you think it can?”
“Well, it hasn’t worked properly yet,” I mumble. “I think it needs some new batteries.”
Minnie laughs. “So, you’ve got a piece of paper that’s supposed to bring you luck but it hasn’t worked. Dad says the same about his lottery ticket – that’s never going to work either, the odds are like a billion to one.” Minnie comes into the bedroom properly and looks at the drawing. “It looks like a shamrock,” she exclaims.
“It’s a four-leaf clover, I told you. Anyway, I think it looks like four hearts joined together,” I say, squinting at it. “For your information, it is going to work eventually. All I have to do is keep staring at it until my eyeballs hurt and nearly fall out.”
Minnie is doing some staring of her own but it’s at her fingernails and it’s as if they’re the most interesting thing she’s ever seen and then she casually sashays towards my desk – before suddenly snatching my homework notebook which is sitting open on top of it. Ambush! Ambush! I tell her to give it back to me because it contains valuable information, but she holds it out of my reach and flicks through the pages.
“Ooh, that’s a soppy poem… And what the heck is this big ball?” asks Minnie, flashing my drawing in front of my eyes and away again before I can catch it.
Just Call Me Spaghetti-Hoop Boy Page 7