by Sally J. Pla
“I don’t like to swim in the deep end. Plus those guys were interesting.”
“Half the girls in the seventh grade were there. That was interesting.”
I look at the hair-flippers in the front seat, shrieking along to the radio, and cover my ears. Joon sinks down in his seat, looking gloomy.
Finally, the bus pulls into the school drive. And at the same time, Olga’s radio goes:
GLONNGGGG!!
Electric Blue Oblivion cuts out, and a smooth, deep voice comes on instead. It’s kind of a cross between Severus Snape and a monster-truck announcer.
“Greetings, comics fans! Some call me the greatest comic artist of all time. But what is time? Time, dear fans, is fluid, more fluid than the ink with which I draw and create my Galaktikan-Metropole worlds.”
Joon and I snap to attention.
“Whoa,” Joon says. “Is that—it can’t be—is that—”
“It is! It’s the Master!” I say, feeling giddy. One of the biggest names in comics is speaking to us on the radio! He’s got movies, graphic novels, you name it. He’s got his own TV show. Big stuff. We stare at each other in disbelief.
“Comic Fest is coming soon, and to celebrate, I’m announcing something new this year: Trivia Quest! A giant trivia treasure hunt that will take place all around downtown San Diego! Enter Trivia Quest, solve all the clues, and you will receive a super-VIP behind-the-scenes pass for the following weekend to . . . Comic Fest!!”
Win a pass to Comic Fest? That’s the biggest comics convention in the country. Cool costumes! Famous people! Fan gear and gizmos! I follow it online and on TV every year, like gazillions of others. But the odds of scoring tickets are about the same as getting bitten by a mutant spider and turned into Spider-Man.
“Finish the Quest,” says the Master on the radio, “And get into the Fest! And what’s more—”
Olga snaps the radio off. “Outta here, lollygaggers,” she yells.
“Dude!” Joon’s eyes are barely focusing. He points a trembling finger at the radio. “That . . . Trivia Quest thing? We. Are. So. Doing. That!” Then he puts up both fists for a bump.
I nod and smile. Blood is beginning to pound in my ears. I almost can’t breathe, I’m so excited. Because no one knows comic book trivia like I do. It’s my one and only superpower. This Trivia Quest thing is made for someone like me to enter! And Joon knows it!
For once, he’ll totally need me!
But . . . but . . .
Wait.
The Quest is all the way downtown. It sounds hard. And crowded. And long. And exhausting. And noisy. And . . .
Joon is 100 percent pumped.
“YES!” I say, fist-bumping him. “We are SO doing that!”
My stomach’s a little queasy, but I can overlook it. Because as we’re leaving the bus, Joon kind of jumps on my back and punches me on my shoulder, and then he grins at me like the Joon I used to know. The Joon who used to be proud to be my friend.
4
“PEOPLE, PEOPLE!”
Once we’re inside, we see Mrs. Green standing in the middle of the sixth-grade hall and clapping like she’s trying to scatter pigeons. “Get what you need from your lockers and head right down to the auditorium for a surprise assembly!”
Nooo! Not again!
As if on cue, Principal Coffin’s voice booms and crackles out of the speakers. “It’s Monday morning, and it’s Tiiiime for Safety!”
Principal Coffin throws these extreme-edition assemblies and drills all the time, and the whole middle school is forced to go. We never know when they’re going to happen. She likes to keep us guessing.
Rumor has it that some hideous catastrophe happened at her old school, and they were totally unprepared. So now it’s her personal mission to prepare us. Earthquake, fire, tsunami, flood, blackout, gas leak, first aid, CPR, stranger danger, bomb threat: you name it, we drill it at Peavey Middle School of Panic. I mean, being prepared is important, but Principal Coffin is over-the-top gonzo.
When I get to the auditorium, Joon’s nowhere in sight, and of course I end up stuck in the back row next to Kyle Keefner.
“Get away from me, Fart-in-bra,” he barks.
Kyle Keefner hates me. He decided to hate me back in kindergarten, and it’s been that way ever since. Joon figures Kyle will finally beat me up someday, and it’ll be over. But I think Keefner enjoys hating me too much for it ever to be over.
Up on stage, Principal Coffin’s talking with two firefighters. She’s a big plump lady with grizzled gray hair and a booming voice. She’s usually nice—but don’t get her angry, or she’ll go full-scale Hulk on you. At least, that’s what Cal says. Me, I’m too scared of getting in trouble to ever get in trouble.
Right now she taps the microphone, and I cover my ears. “Take your seats, darlins!” she says. “We have potentially lifesaving information this morning, so we need everyone’s attention immediately. I’m serious, chickens. This info could mean Life. Or. Death.”
Why does she have to say life or death all the time? Also, why does she call us chickens? We keep chickens at home—we have a coop with eight hens behind the house. Chickens are all right, but you should smell their poop. Ugh.
“Let me introduce these hometown heroes,” she says, pointing at the firefighters. “These brave folks have seen children just like you perish in fires. Terrible, painful tragedies. And why?” Principal Coffin cocks her ear to hear our answer. “WHY do people die horribly in fires?” Behind her on the projection screen, photos of burning homes flash.
I can already imagine flames leaping around my feet.
“What do I always tell you we need to be?”
“Prepared!” someone shouts from the front row.
“That’s right, my adorable, plucky little chickens!” Principal Coffin beams out at us. “Because they were not prepared. But we are not going to let that happen to anyone in Peavey Middle School! Peavey is PREPARED! Say it with me!”
Mrs. Coffin raises both arms up, casting a giant, evil-looking shadow on the burning-inferno screen behind her. “Peavey is safe! Peavey is prepared! Say it with me, people!”
A few loser kids mumble it.
“Now I need a volunteer to come up on stage,” calls Principal Coffin, shading her eyes with her hand and peering out at us. “To help in a little demonstration. How about one of you boys? In the back row, sticking out of the aisle, there, who’s that?”
Oh no—
“Is that Stanley I see? Little Stanley Fortinbras, come on up here, Stanley!”
Kyle Keefner, next to me, is shaking with glee. “Go on, little Stanley Fart-in-bra!” he snorts, giving me a shove.
Kids turn and stare. My stomach clenches. My heart rabbit-thumps against my ribs.
Red Alert!
Red Alert!
But there’s no way out. I hear deafening claps and cheering as I wobble forward in a daze. Kids’ hands reach out into the aisle to push me along, or try to slap me five. Why are they acting like I’m the lucky one or something? This is not a good thing! I—I can’t see—as usual, my glasses are smudged, so everything looks foggy.
Principal Coffin’s hand reaches down and pulls me up the steps. Before I know it, I’m standing under the stage lights. A firefighter slams a hat on my head, and another puts me in a giant coat that weighs a ton. Sensory alert! Sensory alert!
They hand me a stick of some sort. Everything’s muffled, like I’m in a dream. The lights and sounds have me in a sort of state of shock. Is that roar I hear coming from out in the audience, or from inside my own brain?
“Okay, kiddo, we’re gonna demo this here super-fast extinguisher. We’ll set that torch you’re holding on fire,” the first firefighter says into her microphone, looming toward me with a big red canister. “And then we’re gonna put you out! Fun, right?”
Wait—did she say “put it out” or “put me out”? Suddenly I have a gross metal tang in my mouth. The back of my throat is dry, and my hands feel tingly. All the faces ou
t there in the dark, watching me, watching! Noise! Lights! Heavy coat! Heat! Can’t see! World is blurry! Are they planning to set me on fire? Has everyone at Peavey gone insane? Why, oh, why can’t I be homeschooled like that new neighbor girl, what’s her name?
My knees feel funny.
Woop! Woop!
My vision starts fading, turning black at the edges . . . My legs are Jell-O. . . .
Somewhere in a distant fog I think I hear Kyle Keefner shout: “Hey, cool, look! Fart-in-bra’s fainting! He’s goin’ down!”
5
THEY DRAG ME backstage onto a metal folding chair that’s stuck in the folds of a giant, dusty black curtain. I immediately start sneezing.
Principal Coffin and a firefighter are bent over me. Their voices buzz and catch in the curtain folds. What are they saying?
They help me stand, slowly. “Easy, now, kiddo,” someone says. Then they help me totter out the stage door and into the brightness of the main hall, where a custodian is waiting with a walkie-talkie; he keeps hold of my arm as we walk to the main office. I keep my head down, staring at floor tiles in total humiliation. At least I didn’t have to do a walk of shame past the kids in the auditorium.
It’s starting to sink in, what just happened. I fainted in front of the entire population of Peavey Middle School.
I’m doomed.
In the office, a tall lady with dark brown skin smiles kindly down at me. She’s wearing a purple Peavey tracksuit with a name badge that reads Mrs. Ngozo, Guidance Counselor. “Thank you, Doc,” she says to the custodian. “You may go.” She ushers me into the health room, and forces me to lie down on this disgusting pink leather sickbed they’ve got in there.
She puts a cold cloth on my head and shoves a thermometer in my ear. I’m so nervous, from the stage, the fainting, and now the couch, that I’m still kind of panting. So she gets this paper bag and puts it in front of my face. It smells like someone’s tuna fish sandwich and banana just got dumped out of it. “Breathe, Stanley, breathe!” she urges.
Then Mrs. Ngozo does something even worse: she calls my mom. I can hear them talking in the next room. “I see. The poor boy,” I hear Mrs. Ngozo say. “Tsk tsk. Uh-huh. I do agree . . . anxiety . . . sensory issues . . . need to support . . . suppose we could consider . . . yes.”
When she comes back in, I’m sitting up. I’ve pushed down all the stress, all the worry, everything I’ve been feeling. I’ve swallowed it, and I’ve put a fake smile on my face instead. I’ve got to get out of here.
“I’m great now, Mrs. Ngozo,” I whisper in a small, dry voice. My heart’s still pounding, and I’m sweating in all kinds of new places. But I just want the day to go back to normal. I want to be like those ice-skaters you see on TV who fall, then get up so fast and continue on, so you barely register that they even fell. Maybe if I get back to class quick, kids will think it was no big deal.
Mrs. Ngozo perches on the edge of a chair near me. Her perfume is so strong I have to inch back toward the wall and hold my breath. I distract myself from the aroma-onslaught by staring at the tiny brown braids that loop and twist like a crown on the top of her head.
“You’re shaking, young man. I can practically see the stress coming off you in waves. Okay, put away that paper bag; I will teach you a better self-calming technique. Think of a color you like. A soothing color.”
I sigh. For some reason, Aquaman pops into my mind. “Aqua?” I whisper, to humor her.
“And what’s a color that you hate, Stanley?”
I once found this Crayola crayon the exact color of chicken poop. “Ochre.”
“I want you to do a little exercise. Breathe in good thoughts and good air, thinking about aqua. Then slowly expel your bad thoughts and bad air, thinking ochre.”
Aquaman. Chicken poop. Strangely, it works.
“Excellent,” she says. “See? Now you’re breathing calmly. And so, let’s talk. Your mother is wondering if our Peavey safety assemblies might be rather too, er, intense for you.” She gives me a deep, solemn look.
I shrug. The lump in my throat gets bigger.
“Your mother informed me, confidentially, that you have sensory processing challenges. Things seem too loud, too strong, too bright, too tight, too much . . . Too much noise, too many crowds, these types of things are hard for you, yes?”
Why would Mom tell her about that? I don’t like anyone to know.
“Don’t worry. I won’t mention it to anyone. But here’s the thing . . . your mother thought perhaps we could find a quiet zone for you here at school, somewhere safe, for when things get to be too much. What do you think?”
I shrug again. My brain is still buzzing, so the thought of no noise or trouble for a while is nice. I feel sapped, like if Superman had been lounging around green Kryptonite.
Mrs. Ngozo smiles, and leads me out to a beige-carpeted back hallway. Just past an office with her name, there’s an unmarked door. She turns the knob, and clicks on the switch.
A desk, a chair, empty gray bookshelves, and one of those big meeting-presentation-type easels with a giant sketchpad on it. That’s all that’s in there.
“What if you were able to come here whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed? It’s quiet. You can bring your schoolwork. It’s safe. And if you feel as if you want to talk to me, my office is right here. We don’t want to cause you to feel faint again! Do you think this could be helpful to you, Stanley?”
I feel like an idiot. But I nod.
“Then I’ll fill your teachers in. And remember: aqua and ochre!” She closes the door gently.
I slump into the desk chair and put my head in my arms. I’m not going to cry or anything. I’m just sick and tired of being in this stupid new school. Why can’t I be homeschooled, like that neighbor kid? Why can’t I just be home, right now, where it’s safe?
I can still faintly hear the chaos of that assembly through the open intercom channel down the hall. There’s music blaring—burn baby burn, disco inferno!—and kids are clapping and screaming as Principal Coffin’s voice booms out like a commando of doom: “Stop, drop, and roll! Stop, drop, and roll!”
I sigh. So what do I do? I could review my homework that’s due today, but I already know I got everything right. I always get everything right. I never make a big deal about it, but it’s another reason why Kyle Keefner hates me.
I poke around in the desk drawers. They’re pretty empty—except for half a pink eraser, a bunch of old staples, and in the big bottom drawer, some big boxes of markers. I take a black one out, uncap it, and inhale the sharp tang of the wedged felt-tip. Then I look over at that giant sketchpad, standing on the easel in the corner.
It’s open to a new white page. Funny. I could have sworn that pad was closed a few seconds ago. I bring a box of markers over to the easel, and touch the black marker tip to the blank page, and do what I always do when I can’t think straight or when my heart feels weird and heavy.
I draw.
I draw me wearing that heavy fire coat, curled up in Albert Einstein’s dog crate, while flames surround me, closer and closer, under a big sign that says Peavey Middle School of Panic, and I write in the speech bubble, “HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”
At lunch a few hours later, I sit in a free spot by Joon. Across from us is Dylan Bustamante, Keefner, and some kids from 6-G and 6-S I’ve never talked to. Actually, most of the kids from 6-G and 6-S are kids I’ve never talked to.
“You were late to math this morning. What happened on stage?” Joon asks.
“You were all slumped over,” says Dylan Bustamante. “Did you faint for real?”
“I bet it was an act,” Joon says, shrugging. “But, hey, hey, do you guys think we’re really going to dissect worms in science today?”
Is Joon trying to change the subject for me? I flash him a look of relief, but he’s only looking at the other guys.
They start talking worms and what the inside of a worm looks like, and everything’s okay. I’m off the hook, and the worm’s on.
When lunch is over, I try to walk out with Joon, saying, “Hey, thanks—”
But he skips ahead with the others, like all of a sudden he’s mad at me or something.
See, this is why I don’t talk to people. I have no idea what’s going on with them half the time.
6
THAT AFTERNOON, I walk home from the bus stop full of worry because now I’m supposed to go ring the doorbell of that new neighbor girl.
It never works out when your mom forces you to be friends with someone. In second grade, my mom did PTO stuff with Kyle Keefner’s mom, and made me come along so I could play with Kyle. They’d have coffee in the kitchen while Kyle pinned me to the floor of the playroom and stuffed the yellow heads of mini LEGO people up my nostrils. “See? Didn’t I tell you it’d be fun?” she’d say on the way home. Yeah. Thanks, Mom.
But I did promise to obey Mom’s command to go say hi to this girl. So I stop at the curb in front of her house to try to get up enough courage to go ring the bell, get the whole thing over with . . . when I see something weird.
There’s this giant pine tree that grows between our driveway and theirs. And all the way up near the top, its branches are rustling. I see a flash of bright red.
At first I imagine some kind of weird parrot or something. But then there’s a human arm, in a red T-shirt, grabbing for a branch. Then two dirty purple sneakers, scrambling by the trunk.
What do I do? Shout “Hello, welcome to the neighborhood” up the tree, where she’s dangling, now? What if I startle her and make her lose her balance?
Better just tiptoe past.
I’m about to do that when she shouts, “Who’s down there?”
I clear my throat a couple of times, then call up into the branches, my voice all croaking and weird: “You should probably try not to fall. Also, my mom told me to say hello to you.”
I cringe. Was that okay?
Nothing from her. No response.
Just as I’m turning to go, and feeling really stupid, the voice calls back. “I’m not falling. And why do you care what your mom tells you?” The purple sneakers and stork legs struggle even higher, up into the very topmost branches.
