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OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
SHREDDERMAN: SECRET IDENTITY, Wendelin Van Draanen
SAMMY KEYES AND THE HOTEL THIEF, Wendelin Van Draanen
I WAS A RAT!, Philip Pullman
THE FLUNKING OF JOSHUA T. BATES, Susan Shreve
THE CRICKET IN TIMES SQUARE, George Selden
BLACK-EYED SUSAN, Jennifer Armstrong
NIM’S ISLAND, Wendy Orr
BABE: THE GALLANT PIG, Dick King-Smith
MANIAC MONKEYS ON MAGNOLIA STREET, Angela Johnson
HOW TIA LOLA CAME TO VISIT STAY, Julia Alvarez
CONTENTS
Shreddin’ Sidekick
Toasting Peanut Butter
Duuh!
Toilet Bowl Spy
The Can Turns Up
Old Town
Fighting Back
Along for the Ride
Mapping Out Evidence
Spraying Cyberspace!
Mistaken Identity
Mom and Dad Boot Up
Dirty Disguise
Trash Sack Hero
Up, Up, and Away!
Busted!
Truth and Justice Prevail!
CHAPTER 1
Shreddin’ Sidekick
My name’s Nolan Byrd, but I have another name, too. A secret name.
Shredderman!
Everyone at school has been to shredderman.com, but no one knows that Shredderman is me. And maybe a lot of kids at school call me Nerd, but Shredderman they call cool.
Okay, not everyone thinks Shredderman is cool. Alvin “Bubba” Bixby hates Shredderman.
Bubba’s the reason I built the Shredderman Web site. He’s a big bully with killer breath and rocky knuckles. Bubba used to flip over lunch trays.
Steal stuff!
Pound money out of little kids!
And since Bubba’s sly—and a really good liar—no one could ever prove anything.
Enter Shredderman!
I converted my backpack into a spy-pack.
I hid my digital camera inside it!
And I started catching Bubba in the act—on camera!
Which is how Bubba’s Big Butt—and a lot of his other dirty deeds—got posted on the Web for the whole world to see.
Serves him right for underestimating underdogs!
And it sure got teachers—and even Dr. Voss, our principal—to watch Bubba’s every move. Cedar Valley Elementary is a much safer place since Shredderman came to town!
There is one person who knows that I’m Shredderman.
My sidekick.
My sidekick isn’t younger than me.
Or smaller than me.
Or weaker than me.
Actually, he’s got a lot more power than I do.
He’s my… shhhh… teacher!
Everyone calls Mr. Green a hippie because he has long hair and drives an old Volkswagen van with dolphins painted all over it.
Mr. Green also plays the guitar. He loves his guitar! He plays it like crazy for music and then for all sorts of other reasons during the day.
He “punctuates” his points.
“Interludes” his lessons.
“Segues” his subjects.
“Crescendos” his comments.
What he really does is make tons of noise! Man, you should see his fingers fly! When Mr. Green plays, even Bubba Bixby listens.
People may make fun of Mr. Green and call him the Happy Hippie, but I think he’s the coolest teacher ever. He’s funny and smart and nice. And while everyone else may think I’m nerdy or geeky or dweeby, Mr. Green thinks I shred.
Which is what gave me the idea—and the courage—to become a secret cyber-superhero.
Everything was going great, too! Shredderman had exposed Bubba for the bully he is and no one had a clue that I was Shredderman. Not even my mom or dad! Well, Mr. Green figured it out, but instead of turning me over to Dr. Voss, he begged to be my sidekick.
“I’m going to be the best sidekick ever, Nolan!” he said.
“But, Mr. Green…” It seemed too weird. Like I should be his sidekick.
“And I’ve come up with a great name, too!”
“A name?”
“Yeah! The Bouncer!”
“The Bouncer?” I asked him. “Why the Bouncer?”
“Don’t mess with Shredderman, man, or the Bouncer’ll getcha!”
“Oh,” I said, trying to picture it. “So what do you look like? A big ball?”
“No, man!” he laughed. “I look like a bouncer! Like one of those big cats that stands at the door to keep troublemakers out? Big muscles. Thick neck. Like a pro wrestler with tattoos.”
“The Bouncer has tattoos?”
He shook his head. “Skip the tattoos. But you’ve got the idea, right?”
“Right.”
“You’d better draw me with short hair.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, why don’t you make me bald all over.” He grinned. “No one’ll ever suspect it’s me!”
I went with the strong urge to rub my chin. “But why does Shredderman need a bouncer? He’s Shredderman!”
He leaned in close and whispered, “You need a bouncer, Nolan, and I’m your man.”
I shrugged. “Whatever you say, Mr. Green.”
“Hey! What if I come up with a theme song?”
“A theme song? But that’ll give away that it’s you, won’t it?”
“Nah… I’ll write something electric. Distort it…pitch-shift it… add special effects… I promise—it’ll be outtasight!” He eyed me. “You can load song clips on your computer, can’t you?”
“Uh-huh…”
“So let me see what I can do. You’re the boss, though. If you don’t dig it, I’ll trash the idea.” He grinned at me. “Or write something better.”
So that’s how I got myself a sidekick.
And a theme song.
The song’s only about fifteen seconds when you boot up shredderman.com, but I like it.
It shreds.
Mr. Green has also helped me do new things with the site. It used to be “All Bubba, All the Time,” but now it’s got other stuff, too. Like a new Mystery Student every week, and joke contests, and riddles, and crossword puzzles. I keep Bubba’s Big Butt posted for insurance, and I told Bubba in a Shredderman e-mail that it stays there until he starts being nice to people.
Shredderman also gets e-mails from kids wanting me to add a joke to the Jokes link, or just asking, Who ARE you? Sometimes I even get messages from kids who want Shredderman to watch out for someone that’s causing them trouble at school. Usually girls do this, which can get a little embarrassing.
They always sign off, LOVE.
So for a while everything was going great. Only kids from school knew about the site, which was fine with me. It kept me plenty busy, and besides, I didn’t want all of Cedar Valley wondering who Shredderman was.
But then something happened. Something that cried out, “Shredderman, we need your help!” And in the name of truth and justice I couldn’t just stand by and watch.
I had to do something!
CHAPTER 2
Toasting Peanut Butter
My dad’s a reporter for the Cedar Valley Gazette. He works every day, even when he’s not
supposed to. He has a cubicle at the Gazette with pictures of me tacked up everywhere and a bubble gum dispenser that only costs a penny.
My mom writes missile-tracking software. She’s got a computer at home and another one at Tech-Key, the company she works for. She works both places so she can be home when I am, since I’ve got no brothers or sisters or even a hamster to keep an eye on me.
I tell her I’m halfway through the fifth grade and can take care of myself, but she doesn’t believe me. She always says the same thing: “You’re not old enough, Nolan.”
Sheez-Just what every superhero wants to hear.
But one Monday morning, Mom was all stressed out about a project deadline at work, so I said, “Don’t worry about getting home for me, Mom. I can take care of myself after school.”
“Nolan, you’re not old enough.”
“Mo-om! I am too!”
“No.” She was packing my lunch, but she kept dropping things on the floor. First the baggies, then a knife, then the box of plastic spoons.
I handed the stuff up to her, saying, “I’ll come straight home, do my homework, watch The Gecko and Sticky Everything’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know, Nolan….”
Wow! Something other than “no"! I jumped up and said, “I can take care of myself, Mom. Let me prove it!”
She shot a worried look at the clock. “Start by proving you can make your own breakfast while I clean this up.”
“Sure!” I started zooming around the kitchen.
Eggos out of the freezer—check!
Peanut butter out of the cupboard—check!
Butter knife out of the drawer—check!
I smeared peanut butter all over two Eggos. I love peanut butter, and especially on waffles.
Yum!
Eggos in the toaster—check!
Toaster on medium—check!
Toaster lever down—check!
“Nolan? Nolan?”
“Yes, Mom?” I was getting down a plate.
“Nolan!” she screamed as she yanked up the toaster lever. Eggos went flying. She grabbed them out of the air. “Nolan Byrd, how many times have you seen me make waffles?”
“Uh… a lot?”
“Hundreds?”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Thousands?”
“Thousands?” I asked. “No… thousands means you would have made me Eggos every day for a minimum of five-point-four… five-point-four’ eight years, and I don’t think—”
“Nolan!” She wagged my waffles at me. “Have you ever seen me put the peanut butter on before I toasted them?”
I think those waffles would’ve come zinging at me like peanut butter Frisbees if Dad hadn’t come into the kitchen. “Good morning!” he said, then checked us both over. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right!” Mom said.
“Take a deep breath, Eve,” my dad said to her. “A deep, deep breath.” He took the waffles from her and inspected them. “Peanut butter on, waffles frozen. Hmmmm.” He turned to me. “Trying to make your own breakfast this morning, Nolan?”
I nodded.
Mom was taking deep breaths, but it wasn’t helping much. “He’s trying to show me that he can take care of himself.”
Dad pulled two new waffles from the Eggo box and said to me, “Toast first, champ. Butter later. Otherwise the peanut butter melts and drips in the toaster and makes a stinky mess.”
“Or starts a fire,” Mom added.
Dad held the new waffles out to me. “Try it again.”
So I did. And I didn’t ruin the toaster. Didn’t burn down the house. The waffles came up a perfect golden brown.
Dad seemed to be fine—he even micro waved the first two waffles and gobbled them up—but Mom barely ate anything and didn’t say a word.
Then Dad’s pager went off. He checked the number and said, “That’s Mr. Zilch,” and got up to call him back.
Mom sighed, then sighed again and looked at me.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.
She touched my cheek with her hand and said, “I just worry, honey. You are so smart, but sometimes I’m afraid you’re living in your own world.”
“But, Mom, it was just a little mistake!”
She sighed some more, and then Dad came back, saying, “Looks like I’ll be doing a piece on graffiti.”
Mom turned to him. “Graffiti? In Cedar Valley?”
“Some hotshot sprayed red paint all over the shops in Old Town Square.”
“Gang graffiti?”
“No. Apparently it’s some childish picture and a long line of red paint.”
“How are you going to make a story about a long line of red paint?” I asked him.
Dad shrugged. “I’ll interview the shop owners— I’m sure they’ll give me a lot to work with.” He looked from me to Mom and said, “We okay here?”
She nodded. “Of course. We just take it one little step at a time.” She gave me a worried smile. “Right, honey?”
I was dying to say, I’m not a baby, Mom! Maybe I don’t know how to make my own breakfast. Maybe I button things wrong or tie them backward. Maybe I miss whole conversations because I’m thinking about something else. But under all that, I’m Shredderman! I’ve saved Cedar Valley Elementary from the evils of Bubba Bixby! I’m strong and I’m smart and I’m brave! I’m a cyber-superhero!
What’s toasting an Eggo compared to the fight for truth and justice?
But I couldn’t tell her. It’s against the Superhero Rules to give away your secret identity. It must be. That’s why they call it a secret identity.
So I just tried to smile back and said, “Toast first. Butter later.”
She gave me a kiss on my superhero forehead. “That’s my boy.”
I wiped it off, then heard the morning bell ring across the street. School was open! Morning recess had begun!
I zoomed down to my bathroom.
I brushed my teeth!
I zoomed up to my bedroom.
I grabbed my backpack!
I zoomed to the kitchen.
I snagged my lunch!
I zoomed out the front door, calling, “Love you, Mom!”
“Love you, too, honey!” Mom called back. “See you after school!”
But the minute I zoomed onto campus, I could tell that something was wrong.
And what it was turned out to be a whole lot worse than toasted peanut butter.
CHAPTER 3
Du-uh!
From clear across the blacktop I could see that my teacher was not being the Happy Hippie—he was madder than the Green Hornet. He was storming toward the teachers’ parking lot, surrounded by kids.
I caught up and asked, “What’s wrong, Mr. Green?” because I’d never seen him mad before. Testy, sure. Or annoyed. Or even a little grumpy.
But mad?
Not Mr. Green.
“I cannot believe it!” he said, marching along the blacktop. He had a rag in one hand, a bottle of clear liquid in the other.
“Believe what?” I asked. “What happened?”
Mr. Green didn’t answer me, but all of a sudden he stopped and turned around and said to everyone, “This is not cool. And you can tell whoever did it, they won’t get away with it!” Then he started marching again, straight for his van.
I was next to Ryan Voss, so I asked, “What did they do?” I figured he had to know—not only is he a sixth grader, he’s the principal’s son and knows everything.
“Beats me,” he said.
“Dude, didn’t you hear?” Carl Blanco said to me. “Someone tagged the Green Machine!”
I said, “Tagged Mr. Green’s van? What do you mean?”
Carl pulled a face at me. “Not like the game, Nerd. They tagged it with spray paint.”
“Seriously?” Ryan asked.
Carl nodded. “I heard it’s bright red.”
“Red?” I stopped walking. The same color as the graffiti in Old Town!
Wow.
I shifted int
o my power-walk and caught up to Mr. Green. But he didn’t want to hear about my dad’s assignment for the Gazette. He just wanted to get to his van.
When we got there, Nica Parker said, “Oh, that’s awful!” and it was. Someone had spray-painted a great big dumb-baby face right over Mr. Green’s dolphins. Red circle. Red eyes rolling up. Red buckteeth going left and right.
And coming out of the giant dumb-baby mouth was a talkie balloon with a great big red Du-uh! inside it.
Mr. Green wet his rag and started scrubbing.
Everyone crowded around.
The paint didn’t budge.
Then the warning bell rang and Mr. Green said, “Get to class! All of you. Shoo!”
No one moved. We just kept watching him scrub.
“Now!” he shouted. “Go to class or you’ll be tardy!”
“Du’uh!” someone from the left side said.
Mr. Green froze mid-swipe. Everyone held their breath. Eyeballs went boinging all around.
Mine spotted Carl, smirking. And some other sixth graders around him were smirking, too. Like Ryan Voss. And Brad Waxton. And Richie Hatini.
“Who said that?” Mr. Green asked.
No one breathed a molecule.
“Who said that?” He stood straight up. “So. You’re a vandal and a coward, huh?”
“Braaawk-Brawk-brawk,” came a voice from the other side of the crowd.
Everyone turned.
But before we could figure out who’d made the chicken sound, Dr. Voss appeared, her voice cracking like a whip. “Children! Get to class. You’ll all be tardy!”
Everyone charged out of there. Everyone but me. I ducked behind the back bumper of Mr. Green’s van and waited.
When Dr. Voss got over to Mr. Green, she said, “I understand you’re upset about this, Elmo, but there’s no reason to make a school-wide spectacle of it.”
Elmo? My teacher’s name was Elmo.
Wait. The Bouncer’s name was Elmo?
I fell flat on my butt.
Mr. Green was saying, “Someone did it this morning. Right here, in the parking lot.”
I peeked around the back of Mr. Green’s van. Dr. Voss was giving the dumb-baby a stern look. “We’ll see what we can do.”
She started to walk off, but Mr. Green stopped her. “Exactly what does that mean this time, Ivana?”
Attack of the Tagger Page 1