Now I rubbed my finger over the crinkled last line: long-term individual art projects.
Translation: Drawing Beanboy in the art room.
I rustled through my desk and pulled out a pen and pad of stickies. I clicked the ballpoint.
When Beech went to the bathroom, I slipped out of our apartment and down the dark steps, hoping the MacBean Family Sticky Note System was powerful enough to include Rosalie. I pasted the note on the door of her festering sinkhole, then crept back up to the Batcave.
Step One of Tucker MacBean’s Desperate Midnight Scheme: Complete.
Now for Step Two.
I smoothed the Art Club flyer on my desk. At the bottom was a permission slip. I clicked the ballpoint and—before I could talk sense into myself—signed my mother’s name:
Ten
To: BassoonMaster
From: SuperTuck
Subject: Right? Or wrong?
Noah,
If you do something wrong, it’s wrong. Right? And if you do something wrong for the wrong reason, it’s like, double wrong:
Wrong = Wrong
Wrong + Wrong Reason = 2 times Wrong
But what if you do something wrong for the right reason?
Does that make it only fifty percent wrong?
Wrong ÷ Right Reason = 1/2 Wrong?
If the wrong wasn’t that bad and the reason was really, really right, it wouldn’t even be half wrong. It might be like one-fourth wrong. Or one-sixteenth wrong. If something was only one-sixteenth wrong, it would barely be wrong at all.
Right?
Tucker
To: SuperTuck
From: BassoonMaster
RE: Right? Or wrong?
Um, Tuck? I don’t think you can do math with right and wrong.
Just saying.
Noah
Eleven
Late that night, way before my mom got home, I heard the entryway door creak open downstairs. Keys jingled. Footsteps tapped across the entry. I lay in my bed like a mummy—stiff, eyes closed, not daring to breathe.
Finally Rosalie’s door scraped open, then shut again with a firm click.
I threw off my covers and stole downstairs through the dark, bare feet thrumming against the steps.
I found my sticky gone, another in its place. I peeled it off and held it up to the gray light.
Well.
That was that then. Tucker MacBean’s Desperate Midnight Scheme, undone by a single sticky.
I crumpled the note and trudged back upstairs.
And sat at the MacBean Family Kitchen Table, staring at my Art Club permission slip.
There had to be other babysitters.
I just didn’t know any of them.
But my mom did. My mom knew practically everything. If there was a single person in Wheaton, Kansas, willing to watch Beecher MacBean after school, she would know that person’s name.
Finally, I wrote another sticky.
I stuck it on the refrigerator.
Stared at it.
Peeled it off.
Stared at it some more.
Finally tossed it in the trash along with my permission slip. My mom didn’t have time for this. I’d just have to work on Beanboy in the Batcave. And try to distract Beech with the cartoon channel.
I snapped off the kitchen light and started out of the room. The red permission slip caught my eye. A shaft of light from the streetlamp shone over the trash can, basking the paper in its own superhero glow. I pulled it out and flicked off a piece of leftover pepperoni. And almost tucked my sticky note back on the refrigerator.
But I didn’t. I’d been right the first time. My mom already had too much to worry about.
I crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it back into the trash.
It’s almost like elves live in our house.
The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and found a sticky on the fridge:
If I’d known how to do a cartwheel, I would’ve done one right there in our kitchen.
Twelve
I pasted the sticky on our refrigerator, next to the babysitting money Mom had left under a magnet.
Thirteen
“So see?” My voice pinged off the lockers. I lowered it. “I have to join Art Club. I sure can’t get any drawing done at my house.”
We’d gotten to school early to turn my permission slip in, me and Noah. That time of morning, Earhart Middle was a lot less frantic than normal. The lights were softer. The halls bigger. The whole place smelled different. More like institutional pine-scented disinfectant and less like grubby pencil stubs and sweat.
Our sneakers squeaked along the freshly waxed floor tiles.
“Not with Beech around,” I said.
First Rule of Lying: Include as much of the truth as you can. The real facts make the fake facts sound more true. Plus then you don’t have to spend time making up every single thing. So I’d told Noah I wanted to create a comic book. And I told him about the pepperoni.
But I didn’t say anything about Beanboy, and I sure didn’t mention the contest.
Which made me a total traitor. A liar and a traitor. And, with the contest and everything, a cheat.
I couldn’t suck Noah into my big old fat cheating lie. He’d never tell anybody on purpose, but what if he accidentally let it slip? Or, more likely, what if he tried to talk me out of it? I sure didn’t need him giving me his disappointed look, like he’d always thought I was a better person than this, but now it turns out I’m not.
His face knotted in a frown. “But why now?”
Second Rule of Lying? Be prepared for questions.
“Well. See. I was sitting at my desk, and I slid open the drawer, and there he was, which was a big surprise since I’d pretty much forgotten about him, being as how I drew him way back in, I don’t know, probably second grade, but you have to admit, in the comic book department I was pretty advanced, even in second grade, and once I saw him again, once I realized all that potential, just lying there in my desk drawer, well, I couldn’t ignore it, could I?”
Third Rule of Lying? Once you start, it’s hard to stop. It’s like my mouth was a runaway train. It just kept thundering down the track.
Finally, to give my mouth a break, I held up my drawing of Captain Hygiene—exhibit A of my cover story.
Noah took the drawing. “Oh, hey. I remember him. So”—the frown knotted tighter—“this is your big hot project?”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to be humiliated by the dental floss dispenser. “This is my big hot project.”
Noah looked at me. Just looked at me. So hard I could practically see those brain cells beeping and blinking as they computed my truth quotient.
Fourth Rule of Lying: I suck at it.
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal.”
And I spilled my guts right there in the Amelia M. Earhart Middle School hallway. The contest. The scholarship. Everything.
I slid the Beanboy drawing out of my backpack and showed it to him.
Noah studied it.
“I know,” I said. “I’m a disappointment as a human being. Tricking a scholarship out of a comic book company for my mom is wrong.”
“Yeah.” Noah looked up. “But an apartment without any parents seems more wrong.”
He was still studying Beanboy. “Beans used as a power source.” He nodded. “Plant life is sorely underrepresented in the comic book world. You could totally win.”
He hiked up the bassoon case. I slid Beanboy back into my bag. We squeaked around the corner toward the art room—
—and almost ran smack into the shiniest girl in all of Wheaton.
Emma Quinn, all shimmery hair and glimmery teeth and glittery eyes, the fur on the hood of her sweater glistening across her back.
She was standing between the Kaleys—Kaley Timbrough and Kaley Crumm. They were taping orange sheets of paper to the walls and lockers. Kaley T. held the tape dispenser, Kaley C. slapped the paper against th
e wall, and Emma taped it at the top and bottom. Then they moved down the hall five feet and taped up another.
I lurched to a stop. Noah and the bassoon lurched into me. Just being in the same universe with Emma Quinn makes that kid flat-out clumsy.
Case File: Emma
(She only needs one name. All you have to say is “Emma,” and everyone at Earhart Middle knows who you’re talking about.)
Status: Superhero
Base: Heaven, probably. I mean, that’s probably what Noah thinks.
Superpower: The superhuman power to paralyze brain cells, even big brain cells like Noah’s.
Superweapon: Blinding shininess.
Real Name: Emma Quinn
Noah hiked up his bassoon case. “Hey, Emma.”
She turned. “Hey, Noah.” Her voice shimmered in the empty hallway. “Hey, Tuck.”
“I-uh-uh-hey,” I said. What was up with my throat?
Emma gave us her half-dimple smile. Her glance landed on Captain Hygiene, still clutched in my hand. She tipped her head to see better. Shiny hair bounced across her face.
“Oh.” She nodded. “Superhero. That makes sense.”
Now, most people saying that? It would come out mean. It’d come out: “Oh. Superhero. That makes sense.” Translation: What else would a loser dweeb like Beanboy have under his armpit?
That’s how it would come out if one of the Kaleys said it. All they did was look at us, the two Kaleys with their pink sweaters and their tape dispenser and their stack of colored papers. Just looked at us, then shot a sideways look at each other, a look that all by itself said, “Loser dweebs.” Or, if we’re being honest, more like, “Are you kidding me? How did we get stuck on the same planet as these loser dweebs?”
But coming from Emma—not mean.
See, me and Noah didn’t always used to be just me and Noah. A long time ago it used to be me and Noah . . . and Emma. We all lived on Van Buren Street. Back when the tire swing was still a tire swing and not a flower pot. When we started kindergarten, our parents took turns driving us to school, and when we got there, we didn’t know any better—we just piled out of the car and stuck together. Me and Noah and Emma.
That was before Emma’s mind-jamming, brain-control superpower kicked in. Before anybody had ever heard of loser dweebs and hadn’t yet figured out who would turn out to be one. Before first grade, when Emma moved to the other side of town. Way before my dad moved to Boston and we had to leave our house on Van Buren.
Emma handed one of the orange papers to Noah and another to me. The words FALL FLING marched across the top in big letters. Pictures of leaves floated down the edges.
“We’re the planning committee for the dance. It’s over a month away, but Ms. Flanigan put us in charge. It’s the first time she’s ever trusted seventh-graders with dance planning, and we can’t let her down. We can’t let the seventh grade down.” She flashed a smile, beaming more shininess over us. “Are you guys going?”
The Kaleys rolled their eyes so hard I thought for a minute their eyeballs must’ve gotten wedged in the backs of their heads. They shot each other the look, which this time meant: “Are you kidding? It’s not like anyone would dance with them, except maybe other loser dweebs, and how revolting is that?”
“I’m sure I will.” Noah folded the flyer into a neat square and slid it into the pocket of his bassoon case. “Dancing isn’t my best talent, but I hate to miss a school activity.”
“I—uh.” I clutched my dance flyer. “Eeeergh.” Man. This throat thing was getting worse. I was going to have to take some vitamins or something when I got home.
But my croak was drowned out by a thunk, thunk, thunk. At that moment, Sam Zawicki, of all people, rounded the corner, combat boots pounding against the floor tiles, straggly brown hair flying out from her head like flames, dilapidated backpack slung over her shoulder. She gripped a paper lunch sack tight in one fist. Glared at the orange dance flyers taped to the wall.
Kaley T. shielded the tape dispenser behind her back. Kaley C. clapped the stack of orange papers against her chest.
Sam thunked past. Or, actually, through. I was sticking out farther in the hall than Emma or the Kaleys. And it was like my power of invisibility had kicked in for real, because Sam plowed through me. Like I wasn’t even there. Plowed her spear of an elbow into me so hard I’m pretty sure she punctured a lung. Her lunch sack got stuck on the strap of my backpack. The sack tore. A big round shiny red apple bounced out.
Sam stopped. Stared at the torn sack.
Narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to do, Beanboy, steal my lunch?”
And you know what I said? After she mowed me over, impaled a vital organ, accused me of being a lunch thief?
I said, “Oh, uh, sorry.”
Then I picked up her apple. Yeah. Picked it up, wiped the floor grit off on my jeans, and handed it back to her. That’s what I did.
It was my mother’s fault. My mother and all that politeness she’d been drilling into my young, impressionable head my whole life. Good manners kicked in before I could stop them.
Sam snapped her head back. Snatched her apple from my hand.
And suddenly noticed Emma and the Kaleys and their stack of flyers, watching her. Her face boiled deep red.
And even though I can barely admit this, even to myself, well, I kind of understood the whole boiled red thing. I’ve been that color. You know, when you’re just wandering along minding your own business and suddenly look up and find the whole world looking back at you?
What I didn’t get, what I never got about Sam Zawicki, was what she did next.
She pierced Emma and the Kaleys with a glare, a glare that—seriously—should have drawn blood. Then she smiled, the Zawicki Smile of Death, turned, and marched back down the hallway, dragging her hand along the wall, ripping the dance flyers loose, leaving a flock of colored papers fluttering behind her.
The Kaleys shrieked.
Emma’s mouth dropped open.
They scrambled to retrieve the crumpled flyers. Noah scrambled to help.
I started to scramble. But mainly I just stood there. Staring after Sam. Thinking how, no matter what happened, she always managed to make it worse for everyone, including herself. Especially herself. Because who wants to hang out with somebody who drowns comic books or rips up dance flyers? Why would somebody go around trying to make people hate them?
So there I was, standing in the middle of the hallway, trying to figure out Sam Zawicki, of all people. Which is how I happened to see what she did next.
She ripped the last flyer off the wall, but instead of letting it flit to the ground, she jammed it down into her combat boot.
That creeped me out, and not because she was stealing a flyer. What creeped me out was, she stuck it in her boot. Don’t get me wrong—the shoe really is the best place to store valuables, no matter what Noah says.
It just creeped me out that Sam Zawicki had figured that out too.
Fourteen
I hunkered over the scarred desk. Around me, seats squeaked, papers rustled, rain thrummed against the window behind Coach Wilder’s desk.
I barely noticed. I shielded my health notebook with one arm and scribbled furiously, black marker gliding across the page. Coach Wilder was no doubt impressed by my sudden enthusiasm for the digestive system. By the sheer volume of notes I seemed to be taking.
And I was paying attention. Mostly. And jotting down stuff that might pop up on a test.
But mainly I was drawing. I had to.
When I’d handed my permission slip to Mrs. Frazee that morning, she’d tucked it into her grade book and said Art Club was for art lovers of all stripes, even those who came late to the table. Whatever that meant. But she also said she’d see me at Art Club after school.
Now it was seventh hour, the last hour of the day, and I was creating Beanboy’s arsenal of superpowers. When I stepped into Art Club that afternoon, I needed to be ready to draw.
I sketched Beanboy s
prouting to giant proportions:
Beanboy, muscles bulked by the Power of the Bean, bold and unflinching in the face of Madame Fury’s freeze beam:
Beanboy wielding indestructible bean tendrils as skillfully as Spidey wielded his web . . .
. . . cinching the tendril tight as he hovered—
My marker scritched to a stop. Hovered? Could Beanboy hover? I studied my drawing. So far, his superpowers—superhuman agility, unbreakable tendril lassos, instant elevation from his sprouting beanstalk legs, the ability to produce massive amounts of oxygen from carbon dioxide in a flash (allowing him to survive underwater, a big bonus in the H2O universe)—all flowed from the Power of the Bean.
Beans couldn’t make you fly.
Could they?
I studied my drawing. Beanboy would make a way better sidekick if he possessed some kind of aerial skill. Even though oxygen would come in handy, and a decent lasso was pretty much a superhero necessity, so far Beanboy possessed lame-o superpowers. Plus he had to battle Madame Fury and her Helicopter of Doom.
I tapped the end of the marker against my teeth. Stared into space.
And I realized I was staring at something. Or, actually, someone—Sam Zawicki.
I snapped my gaze away. Making eye contact with Sam Zawicki never turned out well. Look what happened with H2O and the mud puddle. And the dance flyers.
The Adventures of Beanboy Page 5