The Power Potion

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  Goats, you see, are quite intelligent and, consequently, intensely inquisitive. And to satisfy its curiosity, a goat will explore things with its prehensile upper lip and tongue. (These two appendages have, over time, adapted, allowing goats to grasp and hold things.) (And quite firmly, I might add.) So any consumption of, say, shirts or shoes or delivery-boy bicycle seats is simply the unintended consequence of a goat’s need to check things out.

  And these goats were clearly intent on checking Dave out.

  The circle tightened.

  The goats sniffed.

  Their top lips pursed and wagged and quivered.

  Goat tongues made their way toward Dave.

  “Aaaah!” Dave cried (because, really, what else was there to say?).

  Now, you may be wondering why Dave didn’t just push right through this brash blockade of bearded goats. After all, goats are not predators.

  Goats don’t circle and attack.

  Or stalk and assault.

  (They do, it’s true, assault stalks, but that’s an entirely different matter.)

  It was the eyes. The golden eyes with long, slitty, sideways pupils. They reminded Dave of tiger-eyes.

  Living, blinking, sideways tiger-eyes.

  And tiger-eyes (to make a long story short) reminded Dave of Damien Black, and thinking of Damien Black petrified him.

  However, the bleating and groaning and grunting and baaing that the goats were doing also kept Dave from pushing through them.

  Plus, there were horns.

  Large, curled horns.

  You don’t just blithely push through a hard-horned herd of bleating, baaing, grunting, groaning goats.

  You just don’t.

  And then Dave noticed that one of the goats had not just two but six horns coming out of its head.

  Six horns?

  Dave was now way beyond discombobulated or panicked.

  He was freaking out.

  “AAAAH!” Dave cried again, but as he backed away, he rammed right into a second six-horned goat.

  “AAAAHHH!” he cried once more, because the goats were now upon him, nibbling at his shoes, his handlebars, his tires, his bike seat, his sweatshirt.

  “HELP!” he yelped from inside the herd of side-eyed nibblers. “HELP!”

  “Hey!” came a voice from Dave’s right. “Hey, leave him alone, you two-toed turkeys!”

  It was a girl, no more than eight.

  A girl who reminded Dave of his little sister, Evie.

  A girl brash and pushy and loud.

  One who knew how to get her way.

  “Back off!” she said, whacking the goats with a stick. “He’s not edible. Go! Go!”

  “Thanks,” Dave choked out after the goats began retreating, but he felt terribly embarrassed to have been rescued by a little girl. (Especially one so much like Evie.)

  “Watch out for Hilda,” the girl said, nodding at the tree branch above. “She’s a prankster.”

  As if on cue, the goat in the tree let loose a spray of pellets, raining little poopy nuggets all over Dave.

  “AAAAHH!” Dave cried (yet again) because (yet again) what else was there to say?

  He shook out his helmet, then pushed forward, asking the girl, “How do you get back to the main road?”

  “Jackaroo?” she asked.

  “Yes!” he called over his shoulder (as he was, once again, too impatient to wait for decent directions).

  “Second right, right, right!” she called after him.

  “Second right?”

  “Right!” she shouted.

  And so off Dave pedaled, escaping Moongaze Maze as fast as he could.

  Chapter 4

  A THREE-PRONGED FORK IN THE ROAD

  After Dave escaped Moongaze Maze, he still did not go directly to Raven Ridge.

  Instead, he went directly home.

  “Sticky!” he called after he’d made sure his parents and sister were not in the apartment. “Sticky, where are you?”

  Well. We’ve reached the point in the story when I worry about telling you more. Either you already know everything I’m about to tell you or you know none of it. If you know everything, you’ll say, Yeah, yeah, I know all that—now get on with the story! And if you know none of it, well, chances are you’ll roll your eyes and go, Oh, right, and I’ll have to jump through a bunch of fast and fiery hoops to convince you that this isn’t just some silly make-believe story—that it’s true, authenticated, documented, and (in fact) factual.

  You see, what I’m about to explain is so unbelievable that not believing it is (I admit) a realistic (and, actually, rational) reaction.

  However, I can’t go forward without first going back, and so here we are at a little three-pronged fork in our road.

  You do, however, have choices, and here they are:

  One: If you already know what Dave’s tippity tip-top secret is (and what those beans were that he didn’t dare spill to Lily Espinoza and her sassy, saucy friends), either read this chapter really fast (so you’re sure you’re not missing anything you might not know) or just go to the beginning of the next chapter.

  Really.

  Go ahead.

  You have my permission.

  Two: Just forget about this story and get on with another one.

  (You may find, however, that on the way to doing this, you somehow stub your toe, or run into a doorway and give yourself a bloody nose. Or perhaps you’ll have some sort of freak falling incident and scrape up your knee. Then again, maybe none of these things will happen. I’m just saying. For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Make decisions in your life wisely.)

  Three: Just give me the chance to get this out so we can get on with the story.

  So.

  You’re still with me?

  Then here we go with the third prong:

  Dave, you see, was much more than a dorky delivery boy.

  He was also much more than an all-knowing thirteen-year-old boy who lived on the seventh floor of a high-rise apartment in a poor neighborhood with one annoying sister and two loving parents.

  He was a superhero.

  Of sorts.

  He didn’t wear spandex pants or a fancy cape. What he wore was the ancient wristband of a once fearsome Aztec warrior. (A wristband that, on Dave, fit much better as an armband.)

  The wristband itself had no special powers, but when combined with the coin-shaped ingots that clicked into it, it gave the wearer superpowers. There were ingots for super-strength, invisibility, flying—

  But let me stop right there, because the only ingot that matters here is the one Dave had in his possession, and that was Wall-Walker, which gave him the unnatural ability to walk on walls.

  Yes, Dave’s tippity tip-top secret was that he was the mysterious person known throughout the city as the Gecko.

  (As I said, he was a superhero…of sorts.)

  The other half of the third prong of our fork in the road (and the very tip of his tippity tip-top secret) involves Dave’s sidekick.

  Of course he has a sidekick. How could he not? It’s a well-known fact that every superhero has a sidekick. And Dave (or, more accurately, the Gecko) is no exception to this rule.

  But being a superhero of sorts requires only a sidekick of sorts, right?

  So perhaps you won’t be too surprised to learn that the Gecko’s sidekick happens to be…a gecko.

  As in a lizard.

  So what good is a lizard for a sidekick?

  Well, this isn’t just any sidekicking gecko lizard.

  This is a kleptomaniacal talking (sidekicking) gecko lizard (who, for the record, cannot explain why he can speak, or why no other animal on earth is able to do the same).

  A kleptomaniacal talking gecko lizard named Sticky who stole the ancient Aztec wristband (along with the Wall-Walker ingot) from an evil treasure hunter and gave it to Dave. (So, really, Dave wouldn’t be the Gecko were it not for Sticky.)

  Now, this treasure hunter did not like t
o be beaten at his own game, and he certainly didn’t like losing his most powerful treasure. This was a man who would never (trust me, ever) rest until he had the wristband back on his deadly, diabolical (and oh-so-dastardly) wrist.

  This despicably deceptive man lived high above the city in a monstrous mansion, and his name struck instant terror in the heart of Dave Sanchez.

  And his name was (as I’m sure you’ve already deduced) Damien Black.

  So!

  Now that we’ve reached the end of the third prong of the fork in our road, let’s get back to Dave and Sticky, shall we?

  After all, they have a package to deliver….

  Chapter 5

  A STICKY SITUATION

  Dave did not find Sticky basking in the flower box that hung outside his apartment’s kitchen window.

  Nor did he find him behind his bedroom bookcase (which was Sticky’s other usual spot).

  “Sticky!” Dave called again. “Where are you?”

  “Over here, hombre,” came the lizard’s sleepy voice.

  Dave spun in a circle, looking for his buddy. “Where?”

  “Here,” Sticky said, emerging from behind the bedroom window’s half-drawn shade. “You gotta do something about that crazy gata, señor. She came at me again with those fishy-hooked feet! I was taking a nice, sizzly siesta in the flower box when—”

  “Not now, Sticky. I’ve got—”

  “You don’t care that that squooshy-faced monster almost killed me?” Sticky scowled at Dave from the windowsill. “You cut me to the quick, señor.”

  Dave rolled his eyes. “I care, but I—”

  “She tried to open our window! Ay-ay-ay! You should have seen her!” Sticky clawed his hand through the air. “Rreeeer, rreeeeer, rreeeeer! Señor, if she could open our window, I’d be dead right now. You have to do something about her!”

  “Right, right, okay, okay,” Dave said, producing the cardboard mailing tube. “But first we have to do something about this.”

  Sticky’s eyes grew wide as he read the label. (He could, in fact, read, though he had never explained to Dave’s satisfaction how he had learned.) “Holy tacarole!” Sticky gasped. He looked at Dave. “You’re telling me you have to make this delivery?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Dave said, then quickly told Sticky about the strange elephant-eared man in the strange circus wagon in the strange goat-infested neighborhood.

  “Holy guaca-tacarole!” Sticky gasped. And then, after a brief moment of chin tapping, he cocked his head and said, “So…what’s inside it?”

  “How should I know?” Dave snapped. “I don’t open the packages I deliver.”

  Sticky scratched the back of his little gecko neck. “For this one, señor, I think you should maybe break that little rule.”

  “But…” Dave shook his head. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t. It’s got this weird wax seal, see? If I open it, he’ll know.”

  Both caps of the tube did, in fact, have a hardened wax seal dripped over their edges. But the stamp imprinted in the wax was a simple five-pointed star, and as Dave and Sticky studied the seal in silence, they simultaneously reached the same conclusion:

  They could open the tube, inspect the contents, and then close it back up and reseal it by reheating the wax and making their own five-pointed star.

  Like, with a paper clip.

  Or something.

  “Do it!” Sticky whispered, as he could see the gears clickety-clacking inside Dave’s head.

  And so, in a moment of rash impulsiveness (as, no, he hadn’t thought through the possible repercussions), Dave pried up one end cap, breaking the wax seal.

  Ah, poor Dave.

  He had just opened a Pandora’s box.

  Your classic can of worms.

  (Or, perhaps more accurately, a tube of tantalizing trouble.)

  “What is it?” Sticky whispered as Dave carefully removed the straw packing material that surrounded a small amber bottle.

  The lid of the bottle had a built-in eyedropper, and there was a small note attached to it with a thin piece of twine. The writing on the note was shaky and rough, and Dave struggled to make out the words as he read the note aloud: “One drop. Two at most. Tested. Works.”

  Dave turned to Sticky. “What do you think it does?”

  Sticky shook his little gecko head. “Beats me, señor, but if I had to guess? Something evil.” He looked up at Dave. “Maybe it’s a death potion.”

  “A potion?” Dave frowned. “C’mon, Sticky.”

  Sticky crossed his arms. “Okay, amigo. So what do you think it is?”

  Dave shrugged. “Maybe some sort of medicine? Maybe that guy was, you know, a medicine man?”

  “That black-hearted ratero is sick, all right,” Sticky muttered, thinking of Damien Black. He considered the situation for a moment, then said, “There’s only one thing to do, señor—you need to dump it out.”

  “What?” Dave’s face scrunched and twisted. “And then what? I have to deliver something.”

  Sticky shrugged. “Then you refill the bottle with water, put on a disguise, and deliver it to that evil hombre like nothing’s wrong.”

  “But…when he opens it, he’ll know right away that it’s water!”

  “Look, señor,” Sticky said with a sharp eye on Dave, “that evil weevil is up to no good. What if he’s planning to use that potion on you?”

  Dave thought about this short and hard. (He was, after all, under time pressure and didn’t have the luxury to think about it long and hard.)

  “Okay,” he said firmly. “Let’s do it.”

  Instead of dumping the contents down the drain, however, Dave verrrrry carefully unscrewed the eyedropper lid, sucked some of the liquid into the dropper, and then released the liquid drop by careful drop back into the bottle.

  The liquid was blue.

  A little bit sparkly.

  And stinky.

  And the drops were very…stretchy.

  Like they didn’t want to let go of each other.

  “Soap and Scope,” Dave mused.

  Sticky had moved up to his usual spot on Dave’s shoulder, and held on tight as Dave began zipping around the apartment collecting Dawn dish soap (the original-scent blue) and Scope mouthwash (the blue peppermint variety).

  “Genio beanio!” Sticky said with a sage nod of his head.

  But Dave still did not dump the contents of the amber bottle down the drain. Instead, he rummaged through cupboards until he found a small plastic travel bottle stored in a bathroom drawer. It was empty and had a flip-open squirt top. “This is perfect!” Dave murmured, and transferred the stretchy blue liquid into the travel bottle.

  Next, Dave set about trying to match the Moongaze potion. Into a drinking cup he poured (approximately) equal parts Scope and soap, then (after realizing it was too runny) added a generous glob of glue.

  When the concoction was mixed up, he pulled out the spoon and watched as it dripped back into the cup.

  “Asombrrrrroso!” Sticky said. “It looks just like it!”

  “It doesn’t smell like it,” Dave said with a laugh, “but who cares?”

  Dave filled the amber bottle with his homemade concoction, and when the dropper lid was back on tight, he nestled the amber bottle inside the mailing tube, melted the wax, and resealed the tube’s opened end, etching in a star with a paper clip. (He did come dangerously close to starting a fire, but except for the slight charring of one kitchen rug, there was next to no evidence that the seal had ever been broken.)

  And then, with an urgent “Ándale, hombre!” from Sticky, off they flew to Raven Ridge.

  Chapter 6

  VINNIE GETS GRILLED

  Although one of the power ingots for the ancient Aztec wristband did allow the wearer to fly, Dave (as you know) did not have that ingot. (He would really, really, really have liked to have had it, but it was in Damien Black’s possession, stashed with other treasures in a cave deep beneath his mansion, guarded day and n
ight by a cantankerous, carnivorous Komodo dragon.)

  So! When I say “off they flew to Raven Ridge,” I do not mean that they actually flew.

  What I mean is, they pedaled really, really fast.

  Also, when I say “off they flew to Raven Ridge,” I do not mean that they pedaled really, really fast directly to Raven Ridge.

  First, they made a little pit stop at the old-timey service station.

  The axle-greased man was still going by Hal, and when he saw Dave, he called, “Couldn’t find it, sonny?”

  “I did,” Dave said, swinging off his bike, “but I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” the man said with a happy pop out his backside. “Whaddaya need?”

  “Can I borrow a station shirt?”

  “One of these babies?” the man asked, looking down at his gray and greasy front side.

  Dave nodded, then let loose a little lie. “It’s for a costume party.”

  The man’s nose wiggled. “So the name don’t matter?”

  Dave shook his head. “Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

  The man led Dave into the office and dug through a heap of shirts mounded on the floor. “No smalls, but here’s a medium.”

  The name patch said VINNIE.

  Dave swung off his backpack (and, with it, Sticky, who was watching from the safety of a mesh side pocket). He put the station shirt on over the T-shirt he’d changed into before leaving the apartment and said, “How long can I keep it?”

  “Aw,” the man said with a scoff, “as long as ya like, Vinnie.”

  Dave grinned at him as he put his backpack on. “Thanks, Hal.”

  The old man’s backside fizgigged with laughter. “See ya, kid!” he called as Dave pedaled away.

  So off Dave zoomed (and sweated and panted and puffed) up, up, up to Damien Black’s ominous (and, quite frankly, ugly) mansion atop Raven Ridge.

  Now, when Dave operated as the Gecko, he disguised himself in a very generic way. A ball cap, a bandanna, sunglasses, a plain T-shirt—these were the things he used to conceal his identity. At first, that was because they were all he had or could afford, but the simplicity of the disguise had an unexpected effectiveness: