Secret Identity

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Uh, I don't think I want to interview the mayor, Dad.”

  “Oh. Well, who do you have in mind, Nolan?”

  “Uh…I'm not sure….”

  “How about Mr. Zilch?”

  “Your boss?” I asked. “Why would I want to interview him? I thought you didn't like him.”

  Mom looked at Dad.

  Dad looked at Mom.

  Finally Dad said, “I never said I didn't like Mr. Zilch….”

  “Well, do you?”

  “How about Sergeant Klubb?” Mom hurried to ask. “It would be real interesting to interview a policeman, don't you think?”

  “Say… that would be a great choice,” my dad said. “Sarge is a very nice man. He'd probably let you cruise around Cedar Valley in his squad car.”

  “Urn… let me think about it, okay?” I downed the rest of my milk and picked up my plate. “May I be excused?”

  “To get back to work on your project?” Mom asked.

  I nodded.

  “But, Nolan, if you haven't even picked out who to interview, how can you be working on your project?”

  “Uh… I'm getting the gear together, Mom.”

  “The gear?”

  I nodded. “May I be excused?”

  She sighed.

  I took that as a yes, bussed my dishes, and hurried down to my room.

  The mayor—ha!

  Mr. Zilch—ha!

  Sergeant Klubb—ha!

  Interviews with them wouldn't compare to the piece I was going to do on Bubba Bixby!

  I got back to work, and by bedtime my backpack was converted. My fingers were sore and bloody, but I'd done it! My backpack had a little fold-down flap for the camera lens. It had a backup layer of black nylon to camouflage it. The sides and bottom were padded with a cut-up T-shirt.

  And the cool thing is, it worked.

  I'd made a spy-pack, and it actually worked!

  The next morning, I got up early and practiced taking pictures backward.

  I had to be sly.

  I had to be smooth.

  I had to act like I'm not used to acting.

  At breakfast Mom said, “Forget your hair, Nolan?”

  My hair has a life of its own. I felt around my head. It was sticking out on one side again. “Sorry.”

  “And, Nolan? Your socks go inside your pants, remember?” my dad said.

  I looked down. How had that happened? Again? I pulled my pant leg out of my sock. “Whoops.”

  “Try putting your socks on first, champ. Works for me,” my dad said.

  “I know. I know.”

  My mom kissed me on the forehead. “We're just trying to help you outgrow your nickname, honey.”

  I looked at her. Then at my dad. “You mean Nerd?”

  Dad nodded. “There's a lot you could do to not have people call you that, you know.”

  “Like combing your hair,” Mom said gently.

  “And keeping your shoes tied,” Dad said.

  “And matching your clothes.” My mom looked me over. “Isn't that the T-shirt you slept in?”

  “Huh? I… I don't remember.” I really didn't.

  “Preoccupied with something again?” my father asked.

  “Yeah, honey. You've got bags,” my mom said, zooming in on my eyes. “Did you sleep all right?”

  I shoved some peanut-buttered Eggo into my mouth. “I was thinking about my project.”

  “Ah,” my dad said. “So have you decided who you'd like to interview?”

  “Uh…not yet.”

  “I hope you don't think I was being too pushy last night. I was just excited to be able to help.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Well, let me know when you decide, okay?” He pointed a fork at my plate. “Uh… don't you want syrup on that?”

  “Nuh-uh,” I said, shoveling the rest of the Eggo in my mouth. No time for syrup—I had to get going.

  I had spy tools to try out.

  Bullies to catch!

  Starting today, Bubba Bixby would have to watch out for me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Level 42-e

  I was afraid to run with my backpack on. The camera was in nice and tight, but I was still worried I'd jolt it loose. So I did what Mom calls my power-walk. I use it all the time when teachers or lifeguards are yelling, “Don't run!”

  It gets you places fast.

  People make fun of my power-walk, so I only use it when I really, really, really want to get somewhere quick. And school was someplace I wanted to get to quick!

  A couple of older kids called, “Hey, Nerd! Slow down,” as I trucked onto the playground. I just ignored them, though. I don't think they even know me.

  Bubba was nowhere. I checked the upper field.

  The lower field.

  I checked the four-square courts and the basketball courts.

  I looked behind and even between all the “portables,” which are the classrooms that look like flat-roofed mobile homes, only they never go anywhere.

  I even checked in all the boys’ bathrooms, just in case.

  Mr. Hoover, the janitor, must have noticed me running around because he grinned and asked, “Lose another sweatshirt, Nolan?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” I said. “Just looking for someone.”

  “Ah,” he said, and walked away, still grinning.

  Then I spotted Bubba, cutting across the lower field, with Kevin on one side and Max on the other. They were laughing about something, and for some reason it made me mad. How come a bully like Bubba had friends and I didn't?

  The last bell rang, so I went into our classroom. I didn't want any of the other kids to think there was something strange about my backpack, so I hid it under my desk. I took out my pencil box and homework folder, my dictionary and all my books.

  Randy shook his head and said, “Why do you take all that stuff home every day, Nerd?”

  I looked right at him. “So nobody steals it.”

  “Steals it? Who's gonna steal that stuff? You think I'm gonna steal it? You couldn't pay me to steal that stuff, Nerd.”

  Trinity Althoffer whispered, “Don't be so mean, Randy.”

  Randy shrugged. “I'm not being mean. Am I, Nerd?”

  He wasn't really. Not compared to some kids. But in my head, something happened. Something snapped. “Well, you're not exactly being nice” I told him. “And would you mind? My name's Nolan.”

  His eyes got sort of big. “Yeah? Then why's everyone call you Nerd?”

  “Same reason people call you Ricardo-Retardo. Same reason people call her Pony-girl and him Pee-boy.” I looked from Trinity to Freddy to Randy. “I don't call any of you those names, so stop calling me Nerd.”

  Randy looked across the table at Freddy, then back at me. “Whatever you say…Nerd!”

  He and Freddy busted up.

  Trinity went back to coloring the pony on her folder.

  I got madder than ever.

  I didn't let them know that. I kept my anger inside. But instead of staying in my throat like it usually does, it started burning through me. All around inside me. I felt hot. And sharp. Like I would zap people if I touched them.

  I snuck out a finger and touched Randy's sleeve.

  Nothing happened.

  During the flag salute, I watched Bubba out of the corner of my eye.

  He had scissors.

  Miriam had hair.

  I knew what he was thinking.

  I reached down for my backpack. I tried to be smooth. Sly. Cool. I could catch him digitally! I could nail him.

  Instead, I stepped on my shoelace and crashed to the ground during “… with liberty and justice for all.”

  My chair went flying.

  Miriam's hair had a chunk missing.

  So did my rear end, where I'd clipped the chair. At least that's what it felt like. It hurt bad.

  “You okay?” Mr. Green asked.

  “Yeah. Fine,” I lied, sliding back into my chair. “Sorry.”

  “That's
all right.” He watched me a second, then called for absences. When that was done, he held up a stack of papers and said, “Fractions time-trials are graded, gang. Some of you have work to do. Some of you,” he looked my way, “ought to be in high school.”

  Randy said, “Nerd,” under his breath.

  I almost said, “Retardo!” back, but I didn't.

  Mr. Green started handing out papers, saying, “You need a seventy-five to go to the next level, gang. Seventy doesn't cut it anymore.”

  He gave back the papers at our table, and before anyone could see mine, I folded it in half.

  Trinity got seventy-five on level 7-a. That's where most kids were. Somewhere on level 7. Randy folded his, too, but I saw the score. Fifty on level 5'd. Freddy said, “Hey! I passed!” and showed everyone his eighty. Level 8-b. Then he looked at me and said, “Get another perfect, Nerd?”

  “My name's Nolan,” I said quietly.

  He ignored me. “What level are you on, anyway?”

  I ignored him. But I was dying to know what my score was, so I peeked inside.

  One hundred percent.

  Level 42-e.

  Oh, yeah.

  “You did, didn't you, Nerd,” Freddy said. “I can tell by that stupid look on your face. What level? Twelve?”

  “He's in the forties, Freddy,” Trinity said. “And leave him alone.”

  “Forties? There's no such thing!”

  “Leave him alone,” she said again.

  Freddy took another look at his eighty and stuffed it in his desk.

  I smiled a little at Trinity.

  She smiled a little back.

  Then I opened my paper again. Mr. Green had written something on the bottom of it, and I wanted to see what it was.

  I smiled big when I saw it: Nolan—You shred, man! Awesome!

  I shred?! Shred was special. Beyond awesome. He only said that about his favorite guitar players.

  Or bands.

  Or presidents.

  I put the paper carefully in my folder.

  Inside I could feel it— things were changing.

  CHAPTER 5

  Secret Identity

  By the end of the day, Miriam's hair was missing a chunk, Slow Jim, the class tortoise, had a new design on his shell, and Ian and Danielle's green sheets had disappeared.

  I thought I'd gotten a picture of Slow Jim's run-in with the Magic Markers. I really did. But at recess when I hid in a bathroom stall and checked out the shot, all I saw was Bubba's butt. It took up the whole frame.

  I was too slow with Ian and Danielle, too. Their green sheets were gone before I could get ready.

  So I got no good shots the first day. But I didn't give up. I started taking my backpack everywhere with me because one, I didn't want anything to happen to my camera, and two, I didn't want to miss catching Bubba red-handed.

  Kids called me a nerd, but for once I didn't care. Not that much, anyway.

  I was on assignment.

  I was on a mission.

  Bubba started it, I was going to finish it.

  All week during lunch recess I didn't play foursquare. I wore my backpack and tried to get better at taking pictures with my back turned. I wrote down what I was doing in a little notebook. Every shot. Then I went into a bathroom stall with my backpack and scanned through the pictures. Sometimes the remote hadn't worked. Sometimes I was off by a mile. My notes would say, Miriam at fountain, and my shot would be half of somebody I didn't even know.

  Then on Friday I caught him. On camera. In the act of dumping one of the trash cans. Looking over his shoulder. Can in the air. Trash flying out.

  It was the perfect shot.

  I stayed in the stall ten minutes just looking at it.

  After school I got to work. I loaded the picture into my computer, tweaked the color, cut the frame. It was beautiful.

  And now…what? I had to write an article. Actually, according to the green sheet, I had to write a lot of articles. One of which was supposed to be an interview.

  Uh-oh.

  And now that I had my picture, I didn't really know what I wanted to do with it. What was going to happen to me anyway, once I turned my project in? Mr. Green always displayed projects.

  Everyone would see!

  Which was what I'd wanted, only now I was scared. When Bubba saw it, he'd pound me!

  The more I thought about it, the more stupid doing a project on Bubba Bixby seemed. If only there was a way for everyone to see it, but not have anyone know who'd done it.

  But how was I going to do that?

  I took a break to watch The Gecko and Sticky. It was another rerun, but one of my favorite episodes. In it, Chase Morton—who is The Gecko— and Sticky—who is a gecko—save their town from the clutches of Damien Black. It's one of my favorites because in the end Damien falls— aaaaaaaarrrrrr—into a pit of tarantulas. You should see him freak out and call, “Mommy! Mommy!” It's hilarious.

  But after the show was over, I went back to thinking about my project. How was I ever going to do it without Bubba knowing it was me?

  Maybe I should just change subjects. Dad and Mom still asked me about my project, but not as much. And I knew that Dad was sort of upset that I didn't want his help. Maybe I should just forget about Bubba. I'd lived with him this long, I could survive a couple more years, right?

  But something about the past few days had made me feel… strong. Like I was finally doing something about being pushed around. But I didn't know where to go from here. Forward was scary, but back seemed worse.

  I decided to do an extra credit math puzzle Mr. Green had passed out. They were always fun! But as I was going through my binder, I saw my fractions time-trial. Level 42-e. One hundred percent. Nolan—You shred, man!

  Maybe everyone else thought I was a nerd, but Mr. Green didn't. He thought I shred! It was like he could see the Nolan that was hidden by the Nerd.

  And that's when I got the idea.

  Maybe I could have a secret identity!

  Like Chase Morton was The Gecko!

  And Clark Kent was Superman!

  And Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

  Maybe I could become someone else!

  Someone better than the Nerd! Inside, I had lots of ideas that were cool and funny. Inside, I was strong and quick and didn't trip on my shoelaces. Inside, I had room for lots of friends.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I pictured myself in a superhero's costume. I thought about what superpowers I could have.

  Maybe I'd have an eye that was really a camera lens.

  Cool!

  Maybe I'd have telekinetic powers and could move stuff around.

  Double cool!

  Or maybe I could fly. I've always thought that would be the absolute coolest!

  I opened my eyes and sat up. Flying. Sheez. The only flying I'd ever done was off a swing, and I almost broke my arm landing. That, and one time when I animated a picture of myself so it flew across my computer screen.

  Thinking about that made something in my brain go snap. And for a minute I just sat there with my eyes wide open, frozen in place.

  Then I jumped straight out of my chair.

  Maybe I couldn't fly around the playground or the classroom. But I could fly. And I could have a secret identity.

  On the Internet!

  My mind was spinning like crazy. My legs were walking me all over the room! What if I built a Web site and posted my project on it!

  I could totally shred on Bubba!

  I could put up pictures! Stories! Jokes!

  Evidence!

  It would be All Bubba, All the Time.

  Oh, yeah!

  I logged on to my computer and started typing like crazy. I needed a domain name for my Web site. What was my secret identity going to be? Not nerd.com. No way. More like shred.com. Yeah! I went to a registration site to see if it was taken.

  Drat! It was.

  I tried youshred.com.

  Available, but sorta lame.
/>   The Shredder! How about that? It'd be like The Gecko!

  I typed it in.

  Taken.

  Then all of a sudden I had it. Shredderman. Like a superhero, flying though cyberspace, fighting for truth and justice!

  It was perfect!

  I typed it in with my fingers crossed—not an easy thing to do! But then the screen flashed with… this domain is still available.

  “Oh, yeah!” I jumped up and pumped the air with my fist. “Shredderman!”

  I was on my way to becoming a cyber-superhero.

  CHAPTER 6

  Building the Site

  No one can know a superhero's identity.

  Not even his mother.

  So I wound up promising her I wasn't doing anything bad, wound up begging her to trust me. Wound up on my knees, waving cash in the air, praying for her to give me her credit card number.

  It costs money to put up a Web site, you know.

  I also wound up cleaning my room. “How can I trust a boy with a messy room?” she asked me. I didn't see the connection, but I made it shipshape anyway.

  Then came the refrigerator. Maybe she can't trust a boy with a messy refrigerator? Don't ask me. I just cleaned it. Also the kitchen sink. Then the driveway. Dad came home and they talked it over.

  Dad shrugged a lot.

  Mom shook her head plenty.

  I couldn't hear a word of what they were saying.

  After dinner I cleared the table. Loaded the dishes. Emptied the garbage. Trust was everywhere.

  Finally Mom sat me down and said, “All right.”

  “Wa-hoo!”

  “Only I'm going to type in the number.”

  “No, Mom! You can't. This is top-secret! It's… it's… vital to the operation that I do it myself.”

  “To the.,. operation? Nolan, what are you up to?”

  “Mom, please! Write it down on a piece of paper. I'll give it right back. You can burn it! I'll never use it again. Promise!”

  She just frowned at me.

  “Have I ever done anything that you wouldn't want me to?”

  She was quiet a minute, then said, “We're not talking about recycling paper in the bathroom sink, right? Or microwaving the ice cream carton for five minutes to make a milkshake? Or luring an ant invasion outside with a trail of sugar water?”