The Adventures of Beanboy

by Lisa Harkrader

  The man wheeled it to a stop beside Beecher, lifted the pumpkin into the back, and set the bag of apples behind it to keep it from rolling over. He placed the handle in Beecher’s palm.

  “Now you can drive that pumpkin of yours around in style.” He gave the lopsided pumpkin an admiring look. “It sure is a beauty.”

  “Yep.” Beech ran a hand over the nubbly pumpkin. “Beauty.” He beamed up at the man.

  Mom did, too. “We’ll haul the pumpkin to the car and bring the wagon right back.”

  The man waved a work-browned hand at her. “No hurry.”

  We rumbled off, Beech pulling the wagon with both hands, the pumpkin and bag of apples bumping along in the back, me making sure they didn’t bump out onto the pavement.

  We made it to the parking lot, and while Mom unloaded the apples into our car, I braced the wagon so it wouldn’t roll away. My nostrils drifted in the direction of the doughnut stand—

  —and I found myself, once again, staring straight into the eyes of Sam Zawicki.

  She was marching across the parking lot toward us, feet pounding so hard I swear she left boot prints in the asphalt. She thumped to a stop, cut a look at my mother’s legs (half dangling from the back seat as she wrestled Beecher’s pumpkin into a seat belt), and held out a bony hand.

  “Give it,” she snarled.

  I took a step back. “What?”

  Sam rolled her eyes toward the sky. “The wagon, Beanboy.”

  The wagon?

  “No.” I pulled the handle closer, suddenly feeling protective of our rickety, rusty pumpkin-mobile. I squared my shoulders. “We promised to take it back.”

  Sam leaned in till we were practically nose to nose.

  “I said, give it.” She ripped the handle from my hand.

  Which just made me mad. What kind of person steals a wagon? From an old man? She couldn’t want the tumble-down thing. Or need it. She was taking it out of pure meanness.

  But we were talking about Sam Zawicki here, the girl who once dumped Spencer Osterholtz’s lunch tray into his lap when he said his carrot sticks were squishy. Who gets that worked up over a carrot?

  No. The big surprise wasn’t that Sam Zawicki was stealing a wagon. The big surprise was that she wasn’t any good at it. I mean, if you would’ve asked me who, of all the people at Earhart Middle, would make the best wagon thief, I would’ve said, “Sam Zawicki.”

  But now here she was, right out in the open, swiping a wagon in a public parking lot. From me, the one person who could identify the culprit. A pretty pathetic start to her criminal career.

  But she didn’t look pathetic. She looked like she always looked: crackling mad.

  She speared me with a Zawicki Glare of Death, then turned to go, rusty wagon handle gripped in her white-knuckled hand.

  This was my moment, I realized. The moment I could reach inside and find my superhero heart. The moment I could stand up for truth, justice, and rusty wagons everywhere.

  I swallowed, opened my mouth, and—

  “Well, hi there.”

  My mother had finished buckling the pumpkin and was now looking at Sam. Wearing her how-lovely-to-meet-you smile.

  I closed my eyes. I knew that smile. Things could only spiral downhill from here.

  “I don’t think we’ve met before. Tucker, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

  Friend?

  Friend?

  I sincerely think I lost consciousness for a moment, right there in the parking lot. It was almost as humiliating as the third grade bathroom incident.

  Sam Zawicki gaped at my mother in pure horror. “No. I’m—I’m”—she edged backward—“just here for the wagon.”

  “Well. Isn’t that sweet?” Mom unzipped her purse.

  Sweet? I stared at my mother. She was clearly more vitamin-deficient than I had realized.

  Because here’s what she did next. She reached into her purse and pulled out a dollar. A real live actual dollar bill that could have been put to good use in our pickle jar.

  But did she put it to good use? No. You know what she did?

  She held it out toward Sam. Sam Zawicki. And said, “Such a thoughtful deed deserves a reward.”

  I froze.

  No way.

  No.

  Way.

  First of all, who uses the word “deed” besides my mother? And possibly the Cub Scouts?

  And second of all, Sam Zawicki was stealing a wagon right out from under our very noses, and my mother was paying her to do it.

  I love my mother, but I do not know what planet she’s from.

  Then I heard Sam say, “No. Really. No.” She backed away from my mother’s dollar like it was radioactive. “I couldn’t.”

  My mom shrugged. “Well, thank you anyway.” She tucked the dollar back into her purse. “You saved us a trip back to the stand.”

  Oh, sure. And saved that farmer from having to pack the wagon up and take it home again where it belonged. Just liberated him from that whole responsibility.

  Sam and the wagon rattled away. I stood there and watched. Me and my superhero heart.

  Mom shut the car door, I pushed Beecher’s glasses up, and—

  Dun. Dun. Dun. Dun duh-dun, duh-dun, duh-dun.

  Beech froze. I froze. Even Mom froze for a tiny second.

  It was the Death March, blaring from Mom’s purse, and don’t tell her boss, but that’s the ringtone she programmed to go off only when he called.

  Mom closed her eyes. The little knot of worry popped up between her eyebrows.

  Don’t answer. I beamed brainwaves at her. Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer.

  She dug her phone from her purse, flipped it open, and turned her back so she could talk.

  Beech looked up at me. “Bad news?”

  I shrugged, like I didn’t know. But I knew.

  Mom flipped her phone shut and turned to us, a pained smile plastered across her face.

  “You have to go to work?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “No.” Beech’s fists clenched at his side. “Day off. You promise.”

  “I know, Beech-man.” She pulled him to her side. Ran a hand through his hair. “But something came up, and they need me.”

  “You work all the time,” I said. “Can’t they get somebody else?”

  “I wish.”

  Mom opened the car door again and strapped Beecher in the back.

  He slumped against the pumpkin. “Bad news,” he told it. “Real big bad news.”

  Seven

  Mom drove me and Beech home.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She unbuckled Beech. “If I get home early enough, we can still do something this afternoon.”

  Beech perked up. “Really?”

  Mom nodded. “Really.”

  She sputtered off to work. Beech and I wrestled the pumpkin and the apples up to our apartment.

  Beech climbed up to the living room window. Scanned the street below for Mom’s car.

  “Beech. Dude. She’s not going to be home for a while,” I said. “Plus you’re wrinkling the curtains.”

  I turned to the cartoon channel. Sat Beech on the couch and tried to watch TV with him. Glanced out at the empty street. Wandered back to my room. Thought about doing my math homework. Thankfully, that thought passed pretty quickly. Wandered back to the living room.

  Still no Mom.

  I slumped onto the couch. Pulled the fuzzy throw over my shoulders.

  The MacBean Family Apartment was pretty much empty most of the time, with just me and Beech and a couple sticky notes rattling around. And we were used to it. Mostly.

  But now, today, knowing that Mom was supposed to be here, the whole apartment seemed . . . hollow.

  My cell phone jangled.

  It was Mom.

  “Hey, Tuck.” Her voice sounded really tired.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Mom!” Beech clamped his jabby little fingers around my arm. Tried to wrest
le the phone away.

  “Stop it,” I hissed. I wrangled my arm back.

  “Bad news, buddy,” Mom was saying.

  I swallowed.

  Beech pushed his ear to the phone.

  “We’ve got a mess here.” Her sigh floated through the line. “The computers went down, and we just now got them back up. I’ve got a ton of work.”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “So . . . looks like I won’t be home till late. Will you tell Beech-man I’m sorry?”

  “Um, yeah.” I don’t know what was wrong with my voice all of a sudden. I needed to swallow a bunch of times just to push the words through. “We’ll just, you know, hang out here. We’ll just be here. When you get home.”

  “I know you will. That’s what keeps me going.”

  The line went quiet, and for a second I thought she’d hung up.

  Finally she said, “You know you’re the reason I’m doing this, don’t you? You and Beech? I want you to have everything you need. Make sure Beech is always taken care of. And save for your college.”

  I swallowed again. “Don’t worry about me. I can maybe get a scholarship. Like Rosalie.”

  “A scholarship.” Her voice went quiet. “Yeah. A scholarship. That would help.” She stopped. “A scholarship.”

  The line went quiet again.

  “Mom?”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  The phone clicked, and she was gone.

  Eight

  I rustled Episode Nine open to the contest rules again and ran my finger down the crinkly page.

  Judges’ decisions final—check.

  Prize nontransferable—check.

  Entry postmarked by October 15—check. I circled the day on the calendar over my desk. I only had a few weeks.

  I booted my computer and surfed to the Dark Overlord website. I clicked to the contest page, downloaded the entry form, and hit PRINT.

  Because I, Tucker MacBean, was entering the Dark Overlord Sidekick Contest.

  Or at least, my mother was.

  Only she didn’t know it.

  And neither would anyone else. If my mother was going to win a scholarship, quit her cruddy job, and maybe spend a Sunday at home for once, nobody could ever know I was the true genius behind the prize-winning sidekick.

  Not even my mother—until she absolutely had to. That was going to be tricky. One thing about my mom. She was a real stickler for following the rules, telling the truth, doing The Right Thing. All the stuff that makes you a better person and a respectable human being.

  I rattled open my bottom desk drawer and pulled out a folder full of sketches.

  I wasn’t going into this thing unarmed. I’d been drawing comic books almost as long as I’d been reading them, and I’d created a whole gallery of superheroes. All I had to do was pick the best one and, with a few adjustments, turn him into the world’s greatest sidekick.

  I paged through my sketches.

  First up: Ultraman. I set him aside. Too much like Superman.

  Next: The Bulk. Nah. Too much like the Hulk.

  LiquaMan. Too much like H2O.

  Cosmic Cowboy. Too lame.

  SweatSock Man. Too creepy.

  See-Through Guy, composed entirely of plastic wrap. Too much . . . cold medication. (I was home sick from school the day I dreamed up that guy.)

  Captain Hygiene. Please. Did I really draw that? How old was I?

  I stared at the desk full of sketches. Maybe I was going in unarmed. What had happened to my superheroes? I remembered them being a lot more . . . super. And way more heroic.

  See-Through Guy? Clinging to bad guys till they gave up in sheer annoyance? And Captain Hygiene? Wielding possibly the most feeble weapon in superhero history: Dental Floss of Steel. And no, the handy belt dispenser didn’t ramp up the cool factor at all. What had I been thinking? This was worse than Sam Zawicki’s lame fake superhero nickname: Beanboy. At least a bean could—

  I stopped. A bean could do a lot of things, actually. Growing up with a last name like MacBean, I’d picked up more than your average amount of bean trivia, and I knew that beans were strong. Hardy. Full of protein. Bean plants enriched the soil and protected other plants.

  And a single bean, if given enough water, could double in size overnight. In fifth grade science, we’d watched a germinating bean crack a rock in two. Not all at once, like an explosion. Gradually, over a few days’ time. Which made me proud, given the affinity I feel for the bean. It proved that beans are both strong and relentless.

  I tapped the end of my marker against my teeth. Watched the afternoon sun slide down the window of the Batcave.

  Beans.

  Strong and relentless.

  Protector of others.

  Works well with water.

  I pulled a sheet of paper from my backpack and started to draw.

  Nine

  I studied my Beanboy sketch. Snapped the cap off my marker and fixed a wobbly line on his mask. Even when I liked something I drew, I could always spot something I wish I’d done better. Like maybe Beanboy needed a better superhero hairdo. Something a little more super. And maybe less flat on one side.

  Still, even with a flat head, Beanboy had turned out pretty well. He had a good cape. And a good logo on his stretchy crime-fighting shirt. In the superhero department, that was half the battle right there—the costume.

  The other half was the coolness factor of his superpowers. I still hadn’t figured that part out. But he already had a steadfast commitment to use his powers for good, which is pretty much mandatory in a superhero. And a strong chin. A superhero has to have a strong chin.

  The afternoon sun had flung its final gasping rays against the Batcave window, and now the streetlight was my only protection against the graying night sky. As I drummed my marker against my desk, light from the streetlamp fell across the page, basking Beanboy in a sort of superhero glow. A glow that made him look fearless. Invincible.

  But I knew Beanboy couldn’t rely on streetlight glow. He had to be invincible without special lighting effects.

  I opened H2O, Episode Nine. Ran my finger down the contest rules. Tore out the part that kept gnawing on my brain.

  H2O’s sidekick must possess the true heart of a hero. Reach deep within yourself, find that heroic heart, and create a sidekick who can rank among the greatest sidekicks in comic book history.

  Find my heroic heart? Good luck.

  I sighed. I’d have to fake it. I’d have to give Beanboy a heart so heroic, so fearless, no one would notice I didn’t have a fearless heart myself.

  I drummed my marker on my desk again. He’d need mind-boggling superpowers, of course. Excellent gadgets.

  And a kick-butt origin story.

  Because your major superheroes, the truly great ones, have great stories about how they got to be superheroes in the first place—stories that give them a heroic heart.

  Take Bruce Wayne (a.k.a. Batman), devoting his life to avenging the murder of his parents. Or Marcus Poole (alias H2O), avenging the death of his faithful assistant, killed in a horrible lab accident. Or Peter Parker, struggling to balance normal life with the Spidey capabilities that brought him great power—and great responsibility. And also avenging the murder of his uncle.

  I studied my drawing. “So. Beanboy. What’s your story?”

  “Beanboy?”

  I jumped. Dropped my marker.

  I’d been thinking so hard, I’d let my Spidey senses down. I didn’t hear Beecher sneak up on me.

  A good trick, considering Beech has zero sneaking powers.

  He squinted at my drawing. “Superhero?”

  “No. Not a superhero. Just a . . . guy.”

  “Not guy.” He jabbed a little pointy finger at Beanboy’s cape. “Superhero.”

  I blew out a long breath.

  “Look. Beech. Beanboy is so super, so completely top secret, nobody can know about him. Okay? That means you ca
n’t tell anybody. Anybody. It’d be like—like if you went around telling people Superman was really Clark Kent.”

  He scrunched his face. “People know that.”

  “Well, yeah. People here know that. They’ve seen the movie. But not in Metropolis. What if you went around Metropolis telling everybody about Clark Kent? Then Superman couldn’t save the world, because everyone would know his true identity. You don’t want to ruin the world, do you?”

  “I not ruin world.”

  “So you can’t tell anyone about Beanboy.”

  “No. Tell. Anybody.” He swiped his hands like an umpire calling a runner safe. “Ever.”

  Right.

  I ordered a pizza and sent Beech to wait for the delivery guy. I pulled out a clean sheet of paper.

  And was really zoning in. Till Beech:

  1. Banged in with the pizza and thumped the door into my elbow.

  2. Squeezed in to see my drawing. With his pizza-greased hands.

  3. Jumped off the bed, clutching his slice of pizza, demonstrating superhero flight.

  “BEECH!”

  “I sorry.”

  I looked at my ruined drawing. Then at my calendar.

  I didn’t have time for this. My entry had to be in the mail by October 15. With Beech bouncing around—with Beech always bouncing around—I’d never make it.

  I unzipped my backpack. Slid out a red piece of paper, crinkled and tattered.

  Mrs. Frazee had passed the flyers out at the beginning of the school year. I don’t know why I hadn’t balled mine up and tossed it in the trash the minute I got it. I couldn’t be in Art Club. Somebody had to take care of Beech. Somebody had to meet his bus and make sure his food had a face on it and wipe the goo off him afterward.

  And there wasn’t anybody left but me.

  Still, for some reason, I’d slipped it into the pocket of my backpack, where I could take it out once in a while and make myself miserable knowing it was something I couldn’t do.