Waylon! One Awesome Thing

by Sara Pennypacker

  “No, wait! Cells are made of atoms, and atoms rearrange themselves all the time!” Waylon told Neon about hearing the tiny buzzy sounds of himself living, and then…not. “I think all my cells are de-materializing and then re-materializing somewhere else for split seconds. I need you to watch to see if I disappear. Don’t blink.”

  Before she could argue, Waylon jumped under the stairs and clamped on the earmuffs.

  Neon heaved a withering sigh, but then she squatted beside him and propped her eyes open with her fingers.

  And it happened again. First, Waylon heard himself living, then every few seconds…he didn’t. “So?” he asked.

  “So nothing. You didn’t go anywhere.” Neon stood up.

  Waylon scrambled out. “Maybe you missed it. You try, and I’ll watch.” He shoved the earmuffs at her. “Please?”

  Neon gave Waylon another eye roll, but she clamped on the earmuffs.

  Waylon watched hard. His sister didn’t disappear.

  But after a few minutes, the corners of her mouth twitched. One after the other, they lifted the slightest degree. Waylon realized her lips were trying to smile, something he thought they were no longer capable of.

  “So?” he asked. “Did you hear your living-sounds? Did they disappear?”

  Neon nodded. She looked dazed, but definitely happy.

  Waylon, on the other hand, didn’t know how he felt. He hadn’t blinked once. He was positive Neon hadn’t rearranged herself anywhere. No teleportation, which was a pretty big disappointment.

  On the other hand, knowing that she’d had the same experience made him feel surprisingly great. These days, Neon seemed determined to live in a different world, locked in her room, typing away on a secret project nobody was even allowed to ask about.

  Waylon missed his sister. A lot.

  He sank down beside her. “What do you think it is?”

  “You’ve discovered the negative void of doom,” she told him in an impressed voice. “It’s devouring us little by little from the inside. Nice work.”

  Wednesday morning, something happened that made everybody completely forget about teams for the day. Just as Mrs. Fernman was handing out the spelling lists, there was a knock on the door.

  Waylon’s third grade teacher, Mr. D’Matz, stood outside with Principal Rice. They looked grim as they beckoned Mrs. Fernman into the hall.

  At first, even the kids who climbed onto their desks couldn’t see anything except the three grown-ups’ backs, huddled together. When the huddle broke, the kids in the front row passed the word that Mrs. Fernman’s face was as white as the papers she still clutched, and her other hand was patting her chest, as though telling her heart to calm down.

  Clementine went to the door and fake-sharpened her pencil. “‘Disaster Boiling,’” she reported as she hurried back to her seat. “That’s all I heard, but it was definitely a threat. Mrs. Fernman’s in big trouble.”

  The door opened. Mrs. Fernman was pale and shaky, but she wore a smile. The smile looked painful, though, as if someone had nailed her lips open.

  “Class,” she said, “a new student will be joining us tomorrow.”

  Later, waiting for the buses, all anybody could talk about was the new kid. New kids were always popping in and out of classes, no big deal, but this one coming seemed different. Why did Mrs. Fernman have to warn them about it? What kind of a threat was Disaster Boiling? And why was Mr. D’Matz involved?

  “Maybe it’s his new baby,” Rasheed said. “Yesterday he was bragging about how smart it is—maybe he’s trying to get his new baby into fourth grade.”

  “I hope not,” said Charlie. “Kid geniuses are one thing. Diapers are a whole ’nother story.”

  Everybody laughed at that, but it was kind of a nervous laugh. More kids offered suggestions, but nothing seemed likely until…

  “Maybe it’s Baxter,” Clementine said.

  And the crowd of kids went silent.

  “Maybe he’s coming back,” Clementine went on, “and Mr. D’Matz was warning Mrs. Fernman about him.”

  Waylon’s lunch lurched in his stomach.

  Baxter had only been in third grade for a few days last September, but a couple of days were enough. When he’d left, the rumor was that he’d been sent away to prison. Everyone had agreed that it would be a good place for him.

  “Well, you have to admit,” Clementine said, “we were never bored those days he was in our class.”

  “He was a juvenile delinquent, Clementine!” Waylon cried. “We were never bored because we never knew what crime he was going to commit next.”

  Clementine’s mouth dropped open. “Creamed corn in the soap dispenser? Clocks running backward? Those weren’t crimes. They were pranks—great ones. Baxter’s really resourceful.”

  “Being resourceful isn’t such a great recommendation,” Waylon said. “Viruses are resourceful. There’s one that wants to live inside a cat’s brain, but it can’t get inside a cat, so it’s figured out a way to get inside a mouse’s brain instead. It makes the mouse not afraid of cats. So the virus gets into the mouse, the mouse thinks, ‘Oh, yawn, here comes a cat, whatever,’ and the cat eats the mouse, and then—boom!—the virus is inside the cat. What if Baxter’s resourceful like that?”

  When Waylon stopped to catch his breath, he noticed that Arlo Brody had taken a step back and was eyeing him the way Waylon’s father eyed a tomato in the market: as if he was worried about rotten spots. “Anyway,” he tried, “what about that ‘Disaster Boiling’ threat you heard? Are you forgetting about that?”

  Clementine scuffed the ground. “Well…Baxter’s last name was Boylen. Maybe I didn’t hear ‘Disaster Boiling’—maybe what I heard was ‘It’s Baxter Boylen’ instead.”

  Just then, Clementine’s bus pulled in and she got on.

  Waylon’s bus was next in line, but for a long minute he stayed rooted to the school steps. If what Clementine really had heard was “Baxter Boylen,” it would definitely be a threat.

  It was Baxter, all right.

  Principal Rice delivered him after the Pledge and then took off fast, as if she’d just remembered she’d left her office on fire.

  “Is that a beard?” Charlie jumped up and demanded.

  Waylon had been so transfixed by the jagged scar streaking across Baxter’s face that he hadn’t noticed the beard. Knife fight, that scar practically shouted. Prison. You should see the other guy. But Charlie was right—the lower half of Baxter’s face was peppered with black speckles.

  Mrs. Fernman shot Charlie a look, but you could tell she was biting her tongue against the beard question, too. “Class,” she managed through clamped teeth, “please welcome our new student, Baxter Boylen. Some of you may remember him from Mr. D’Matz’s class last year.”

  Some of the kids sure did remember him, and anyone passing by room 4B would’ve had no trouble picking out who they were. They were the ones flattened against the backs of their chairs like paint. Their eyes skidded all over the room as if they were searching for something desperately important—jewels, maybe, or one of their lungs. They looked everywhere except at the new kid sauntering to the empty desk in the back row.

  The other half of the class dared to sneak peeks, but nothing too obvious. They’d heard the rumors.

  Mrs. Fernman took advantage of the nervous silence to launch into a lesson on arctic tundras, and for the first time all year, nobody fell asleep behind a geography book. Half an hour later, when she turned her back to erase the board, Waylon risked a look.

  Baxter slouched across his chair, eyes closed. The scar, bright pink and ropy, zigzagged up his cheek. As Waylon studied it, Baxter lifted his hand and slowly peeled it off his cheek. He rolled it into a ball and popped it into his mouth. Then he opened his eyes, stared directly at Waylon, and chewed.

  Waylon suddenly knew how a cobra’s prey felt, hypnotized by a cold, snaky gaze. Even when Baxter blew a big pink bubble, Waylon could not tear his eyes away.

  Only when Bax
ter popped the bubble with a flick of his fingers was the spell broken. Waylon dropped his head into his book and shivered as if an arctic tundra wind had just blown down his back.

  Baxter didn’t come outside for recess because, just before the bell, Principal Rice barged in and called him to follow her to her office for “a little welcoming chat.” For the first time all week, the boys didn’t separate into teams. In fact, nobody separated from anybody else, not even the boys from the girls. Everybody from 4B stood together whispering.

  “He’s twelve, at least. Maybe fifteen.”

  “I heard he rode a motorcycle to school. Which he stole.”

  “And that scar!”

  “It was fake,” Waylon explained. “I saw him roll it off his cheek and chew it.”

  “How do you know it was fake? How do you know he didn’t pick off his scar and chew that?” Rasheed challenged.

  “It was gum. He blew a bubble with it.”

  “Doesn’t talk, been away for a year, eats flesh…he’s a zombie,” Charlie said. “He was away for zombie training.” He raised his arms and lurched around in a circle, lunging at the other kids with his teeth bared. “Chomp, chomp, chomp.”

  “There’s no such thing as zombies,” Waylon said. Which he was almost sure was true.

  “We’ll tell that to your family when they have to gather up your chewed-up zombie-spit-slimy body parts,” Charlie said.

  Waylon clutched his jacket tight in spite of himself.

  Just before Waylon went to bed that night, Neon banged his door open.

  “So?” She flopped down beside him on the bed with a shrug that said I don’t see the point, but I’ll ask anyway. “Are you on a stupid team?”

  Waylon nodded. “Arlo put me on the Shark-Punchers Tuesday.”

  “So now you’re at war with the other team?”

  “Not yet. This new kid came, and that’s all anybody could talk about.”

  “Come on. Even Arlo the Great? Some new kid shows up, and he forgets he’s plotting World War Three?”

  “He did today, at least. Actually, Baxter’s not really new. He was here for a few days last year, then he went to prison in Kansas.”

  Neon rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Kids don’t go to prison. Is that what he says?”

  “He doesn’t say anything this year.”

  Neon dropped the bored act. “He doesn’t talk?”

  Waylon shook his head. “Not a word. He just came in all bad-acting with a beard, and he had a big scar, which I know was actually bubble gum, because I saw him peel it off.”

  “Huh,” Neon said. Twice. She got up and tossed a pillow at Waylon. “Maybe you should leave him alone.”

  Waylon recalled Baxter’s cold snaky gaze, and how terrified it had made him feel. “Don’t worry,” he promised. “I will!”

  “Maybe Arlo should, too.”

  “Fat chance. But Baxter’s pretty scary, so I bet Arlo will put him on the Other team, away from me.”

  “Well, unless he decides he doesn’t want such a scary guy on the opposite team,” Neon said as she left.

  Waylon pulled the pillow over his head. Fourth grade was shaping up to be a mess.

  The scar and the beard were gone Friday, but everything about Baxter still said Stay away! He lounged in his seat with his eyelids lowered exactly halfway—open just enough that Mrs. Fernman couldn’t accuse him of sleeping, and closed just enough that all the kids understood he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to her. His eyes flickered back and forth, as though he were watching a movie playing on the insides of those lowered lids.

  Probably an R-rated movie, Waylon thought. The kind with explosions and flying body parts and words he wasn’t allowed to use, but which he tried out sometimes when he was alone.

  That would be a brilliant idea, Waylon had to admit. Invent internal movie projector, watch movies in secret whenever bored would be a pretty great entry for his new life’s work journal.

  “Students,” Mrs. Fernman called, pointing to the big blue words on the board: SAFE COMMUNITIES MONTH, “I expect by now you’ve each decided on your Community Safety Suggestion. Would anyone like to share it with the rest of the class?”

  As Mrs. Fernman’s gaze swept the room, Waylon looked down and pretended to study his fingernails. He had lots of ideas for making things more awesome—his new journal was going to be full of them—but nothing yet for making things safer. Safer and More Awesome were pretty much opposites, he suddenly realized.

  “I think we should give teachers ‘Teacher on Board’ signs for their cars. That would keep teachers safer, and teachers are the most valuable members of our community!” said Kayley-Anne. She beamed an angelic smile at Mrs. Fernman, fluffed her dress, and then sat down.

  Fingernails, Waylon reminded himself as he stared harder at his, keep growing after a person dies. The Science of Being Human, Chapter Ten, “Corpse Curiosities.” Which meant that if zombies were real, which they probably definitely weren’t, they might have really long sharp claws. If zombies were real, getting rid of them would make the world both Safer and More Awesome.

  Charlie raised his hand and said that the community would be safer if kids stayed home from school and watched television all day. That got a laugh, but Waylon thought it was actually a good suggestion—he sure would have felt safer at home this week.

  Mrs. Fernman didn’t see it that way. “That’s enough sharing for today,” she decided. “On Monday we’ll write our reports. Tuesday, we’ll make posters in Art. And on Wednesday we’ll present our excellent suggestions at the police station.”

  At that, Baxter Boylen’s head snapped up so sharply you could actually hear it. Everybody spun around to stare.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Fernman,” he said, as if he were used to participating in class all the time, “we’re going to the police station?”

  All through recess, kids zipped back and forth across the playground sharing theories about why Baxter had suddenly come to life. Baxter himself slouched alone against the school wall, coolly eyeing all the zipping back and forth as if it were a Ping-Pong match.

  Waylon eyed it too, sticking close to Arlo and listening carefully as the king learned pieces of gossip from his subjects.

  “I bet he wants to steal a cruiser,” Maria guessed. “Last year he told me he could hot-wire a car.”

  “We sure wouldn’t want someone like that on our team, would we?” Waylon asked after Maria zipped away.

  Arlo surprised him. “Hmmm…You’d have to be pretty smart to hot-wire a car,” he said as he squinted over at Baxter. “Maybe he could give my team some battle strategies. On the other hand, what if he steals my battle strategies?”

  “Baxter drew a picture of a jail cell right after he learned about the police station,” Rasheed said. “Maybe he’s been in one before.”

  That didn’t decide Arlo, either. “Was it any good?” Arlo asked. “Maybe my team could have a second logo, for when we do stuff. Like, ‘Look out, we’re putting the Others in jail.’”

  Even when Charlie reminded everyone that last year Baxter had stolen his sandwich and hidden it so well no one found it until May, Arlo didn’t make up his mind. “Well, maybe not everyone should be on a team” was all he said.

  When the bell finally rang, Waylon still didn’t know what Arlo was going to do. King Arlo was taking his time issuing his royal decree about Baxter. But that wasn’t all.

  Waylon had stood right beside Arlo all recess long. But not once did Arlo refer to the Shark-Punchers as “our team.” Every time, it was “my team.”

  Was it his imagination, or was Arlo reconsidering him?

  And was it his imagination, or did that make him feel really anxious?

  That night, Waylon cleared his microscope, his biography of Madame Curie, and his pigeon skeleton from his bedside table. The light from his rocket-ship lamp now spilled a perfect buttery yellow circle on the empty space.

  Which wouldn’t be empty tomorrow. For weeks he’d give
n up his Saturday cupcake from Rosie’s—chocolate with marshmallow frosting, three dollars each—to save for his journal. Now he could imagine the lamplight flashing off the special gold ink he was going to label it with:

  SCIENTIFIC LIFE’S WORK OF WAYLON JENNINGS ZAKOWSKI.

  He lay back and smiled. His whole life, he’d known he was destined to do something so great, he’d be famous. Except for his parents, all the grown-ups he’d ever told had misunderstood. “You’re going to fly and time-travel and turn into other things?” they would ask. “You’re meant to be superhero?”

  “No, a science hero,” he used to explain patiently. “I’m going to control gravity, ride the time-space continuum, and transmogrify. Things like that.”

  Lately, though, he didn’t bother correcting them. Because maybe they were right: maybe a science hero was a superhero.

  Just as Waylon turned off his light, his father knocked on the door and stuck his head in. “You were pretty quiet this afternoon, buddy,” he said. “All week, in fact. Anything wrong?”

  Waylon sank back into his pillow and sighed. “When you were in school, did everybody start ganging up on each other?”

  Waylon’s dad came in and sat at the end of the bed. “They did. I’d forgotten that. All the boys in my school ganged up in packs. Well, all except me. Nobody wanted a film geek in their group. Nobody!”

  Even in the dark, Waylon could see that his dad was smiling, as if the memory made him happy. “Didn’t that make you feel terrible?”

  “At first, sure.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I happened to find a beat-up camcorder in a secondhand shop, and I got obsessed with making a movie. I joined the local community theater so I could learn things—set design, lighting, acting—and there I met kids from all over the city. So then I had a bunch of new friends.”

  “And after that, you didn’t care about the kids at your school?”