by Sally J. Pla
Mom’s mouth opens and shuts but nothing comes out. Then she looks down at the gun in her hands. She storms upstairs, where we hear the slamming and locking of closet doors.
Cal slams out the back door.
Gramps, muttering, starts shuffling back to the kitchen. He waves his hand around as if he’s had it with the whole business.
And I’m still standing right where I came in, clutching my comics in my cramped fingers, my mouth hanging open.
What the heck am I supposed to do now?
Mom solves the problem. “Stanley!” she shouts from upstairs. “GO FEED THE CHICKENS!”
The coop’s past the garden beds, alongside the detached garage—a green, slanty-roofed wooden hut with eight hens. Gramps built it for us after he got here last year, and Dad, when he came over to help, teased him. “Keeping chickens? Why don’t you just mail all the neighborhood coyotes an engraved dinner party invitation,” he’d joked.
But somehow, miraculously, we haven’t lost a chicken yet.
I head out there with a bowl of kitchen veggie scraps and whistle for Albert Einstein, who is snuffling in the underbrush. “Stay away from there, Albert Einstein! That’s coyote territory!”
He totally ignores me.
“ALBERT EINSTEIN!” He is too busy circling and snuffling. Finally, he chooses a primo piece of real estate and squats. When he’s done, he won’t come back to me, so I have to drag him by the collar.
He’s lucky he’s at least good-looking.
I put down the scrap bowl and I’m just turning to pry open the chicken feed bin when I hear a small cough—and what do you know, there she is again, the Axi-Tun warrior girl, standing by the corner of our garage.
Liberty.
Great.
“So, why you are yelling at the top of your lungs for Albert Einstein?” she asks. “Urgent physics questions?”
I point to the dog, who stares at me with his glazed, buttonlike eyes. “That’s his name. It’s ironic.” I grab a scoop of pellets, pick up the scrap bowl, then open the latch of the run with my elbow. The flock squawks and gathers around my ankles, ruffling their feathers.
“Wow,” she says. “I’ve never seen chickens this close up—except on my plate.”
“They really like their pecking order,” I tell her. “See that big one? That’s Henrietta. She’s the bossy, popular girl. She makes sure she gets fed first.”
“Huh,” Liberty says. “There’s one of those in every school, too, isn’t there?” She snorts. “So, say, which one would be the school bully?”
I laugh. “Probably Omeletta. Watch out. She’ll go after you.” We probably should have named her Kyle Keefner.
“What about those two?” Liberty points to the newest flock members, two poor puny hens we’ve nicknamed Chick and Fil-A. Chick is missing some feathers—Gramps says she plucks them out herself, from stress. Birds can do that.
“Well,” I say, “they’re at the end of the line. I guess they’re a bit like me and my friend Joon to be honest. Although Joon is moving up in the pecking order.”
Liberty takes the scrap bowl from me, wrinkling her nose at the tangy smell coming off the potato peels and rotten apple rinds. “So he’s moving up, but you’re not?” She nudges the two straggler chickens with her foot. “Seriously. Why even keep track? Pecking orders are for chickens.”
Try telling that to Joon, I think to myself. But I don’t say anything.
On Monday morning, we’ve barely set foot in the building before Principal Coffin calls an all-school pep rally and sports safety presentation.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
I head straight to the main office, down the little hall to my Ready Room.
It’s been a week since I’ve left it. The sketchpad is still there, and I don’t waste time breaking out the markers. I shut the door against the buzz and noise of kids in the hall, heading down to assembly.
Might as well kill time drawing.
Joon and the Trivia Quest are heavy on my mind. This contest is something that should be fun, right? I know a ton of trivia! But I have this feeling, like Joon is throwing it down as an unspoken dare. Do this with him, or else. Prove myself. Or else.
Every time I think of doing the Quest with Joon, worries sprout in me like tree branches. I’m like Groot, the tree creature from Guardians of the Galaxy. I can sprout worry-branches so fast, it’s—worrisome.
9
THINGS HAVE BEEN pretty quiet this week. Cal’s been too busy with football and soccer to spend much time torturing me. Mom’s been working constantly. We haven’t heard from Dad in a while. And I don’t see Liberty around at all. At home, it’s mainly just Gramps and me, hanging out in different parts of the house.
The sort of good thing is that Joon asked me over on Saturday again, to prepare for the Trivia Quest.
The sort of bad thing is that now that I’m here, he’s totally distracted.
“Come on!” I say. “You should know this one. Who’s Martian Manhunter’s archenemy?”
“Wait. Who’s Martian Manhunter again?” Joon says, fiddling with his phone.
“Just mute it. Why does it keep buzzing?”
But Joon ignores me and keeps texting.
I go sit at his desk. I take my own phone out of my pocket and look at the blank screen.
Why do I even have this thing? No one ever calls me. Not even my mom.
There’s a big stack of paper on Joon’s desk—I take a sheet, to kill time while he texts. I’m doodling, just putting down lines, and suddenly, a superhero starts to emerge. I give him a gray spandex suit, a big blue utility belt, and a flowing bright blue cape.
I only look up when Joon hits me in the head with a balled-up sock. “What are you drawing?” He comes to look. I try to hide it but I’m too slow.
“Dude!” Joon says, prying the paper from my hands and laughing. “Good thing the Trivia Quest isn’t an art contest.’”
“It was just an idea I had,” I mutter, jumping for it. But Joon holds it high out of reach, playing keep-away. Since when did Joon get so much taller than me?
“Give it back!” I yell.
He takes a closer look. “You know what?” Joon says, tilting his head and holding the paper at arm’s length. “This is not too shabby, Fart-in-bra. You’ve got the arms and legs the right proportion, anyway.”
“Who are you, Kyle Keefner? Stop it!” I jump for the paper again, and miss.
He ignores me and turns, frowning at the sketch. “Who’s it supposed to be? What superhero?”
“Not your business,” I say, a little too loudly. I’m getting steamed.
“The face,” he says, peering. “You know what? It sorta looks like your dad.”
I stop jumping. I put out my hand and command him: “Gimme that back.”
Something in my voice must finally make him listen. Because he does.
10
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Mrs. Green makes me read my Greek Myth essay aloud. (I wrote about how Prometheus stole fire from the gods, who punished him by having a bird peck out his liver. I said it was about how mankind’s always yearned for superpowers, and she raved about it until all the other kids wanted to peck out MY liver.)
Then, Wednesday, in Accelerated Math, they move me to a new eighth-grade class for a unit on graphs and slopes. Guess where I had to sit? Right in front of Cal. I thought he was going to peck out my liver, too.
On Thursday, Liberty Silverberg skateboards on her driveway until dark, trying kick-flips and wiping out until her uncle opens a window and yells, “Do I have to call your mother?” The sound of her wheels was super-distracting and loud. I could barely do my homework.
Now it’s Friday morning. If I can just get through today . . .
“Surprise!” Principal Coffin says over the PA speaker.
Mrs. Green, in homeroom, tilts her head back and looks like she’s pleading with the ceiling.
“We’ll be having an armed intruder drill in five minutes, folks! It is just a drill! Yo
ur teachers are prepared! There is no need to be worried. . . .”
A flashing dazzle of light catches my eye outside the classroom windows. It’s reflecting off the metal bumper of a police car just turning into the drive.
“Listen to your teachers and follow their instructions very carefully. Afterward, I’d like everyone to head to the auditorium for a breakdown of how it went.”
A restless murmur buzzes around the room. And a tiny Red Alert pings through my system: woop. Woop.
Intruder? That’s like Active Shooter. Evil dude in a trenchcoat. I imagine kids huddled in corners, under desks. Bullets flying down the hall—
Kids huddled together, scared.
Bullets fired down a hall—
RAT-TAT-TAT! BANG! ZOOM! POW! . . .
Mrs. Green nods at me. As I shove my notebook into my backpack, I hear Kyle Keefner mutter, “Stay conscious, Fart-in-bra!” Mrs. Green shushes him, but kids are already laughing.
Principal Coffin continues on the PA as I walk down the hall. “Your teacher will direct you to the designated safe corner of your classroom. You will shelter in place until the all clear is sounded.”
I push open the main office door and see two police officers standing at the counter. In their black uniforms, gun belts, and gear, they look like two of Gotham City’s finest. Batman and Commissioner Gordon could show up any minute now and I wouldn’t be surprised.
“I am going to say a code phrase,” Principal Coffin continues over the intercom. “Remember, this is a drill; this is only a drill. But if you ever hear me say this code phrase again, it means we are having a real crisis, and you need to do exactly what your teachers tell you.”
Woop. I try not to let my stupid branching fear-thoughts in. Intrusive thoughts of intruders.
“Never repeat this phrase to strangers,” Principal Coffin warns. “If there’s ever serious trouble afoot at Peavey, these are the secret code words you will hear . . .”
There’s a long pause, like she’s hearing an imaginary drumroll or something. Then Principal Coffin announces, in a bold, crisp voice:
“John Lockdown! Please report for duty!”
John Lockdown. That’s funny. I imagine a James Bond type in a tuxedo, drinking a martini. Or ducking down the sixth-grade hallway, brandishing a revolver. A suave, school catastrophe–averting superhero dude. “The name’s Lockdown,” he’d say, turning to look at the camera. “John Lockdown.”
The intercom clicks off. There’s the faint sound of hundreds of chairs scraping back as kids all over the school get up from their seats. Then the alarm system starts beeping, like the whole building is having a panic attack. I watch as Gotham’s finest police officers stride quickly out into the hall with Principal Coffin.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. I jump.
It’s Mrs. Ngozo. She hands me a brochure called Intruder Alert! School Under Attack! Here’s What to Do! as well as a package of soft, squishy earplugs. “Look,” she says. “I’ve got them in, too.” She pulls back her braids to show me.
I stuff them in my ears and head to my Ready Room. It’s just as I left it: desk, chair, easel, sketchpad. I shove the brochure into a desk drawer. Then I flip open the pad.
Wait.
There’s nothing, no name. It’s a mystery artist. Who did this?
And what do they mean about their super-senses turning into superpowers?
Look at that superhero they drew. A gray suit. A blue utility belt. His bright blue cape . . . It’s almost the same outfit I drew on my superhero doodle, back at Joon’s house the other day.
What are the odds of that?
The skin on my neck and the backs of my arms starts to prickle. Maybe there really is a real, live, school catastrophe–averting superhero out there! Someone who can keep bad guys out! Make sure kids don’t get bullied or hurt. That they’re not forced into sensory overload. A real superhero. A real . . . John Lockdown.
Yeah.
A superhero who stands up for the little guy. For kids who are human targets in dodgeball. The ones not invited to parties. The gossiped about. The lonely lunch-eaters.
John Lockdown.
A shiver runs down my back.
I turn the page, pick up a marker, and start drawing like crazy. Before you know it, I’ve got a few rough frames. It’s basically stick figures, but it’s the start of a story—my first real comic.
I call it:
The third-period bell rings before I know it.
On my way out Mrs. Ngozo looks up from her desk. “Everything good?”
“Huh? What? Oh, yes, ma’am.” I quickly take out my earplugs.
“Did you do your breathing?” she says. “Aqua, ochre?”
I nod. Then I pause by her door. I really want to know who this mystery artist could be but I don’t want to reveal anything, either. The sketchpad, I want it to be my own secret.
“Mrs. Ngozo,” I ask, “who else uses this room? I mean—does anyone else spend time in here?”
“Ahhhhh,” she says, closing her laptop and looking at me meaningfully. “I see what you mean.”
My heart quickens.
“I’m sorry. The answer is no, Stanley.” She smiles. “No one else uses that room. You’re the only one. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with needing a safe, quiet zone at school. You have a legitimate disorder! A sensory disorder! So do not worry. Believe me, young man, you have absolutely nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of.”
“Oh yeah,” I say quickly. “Okay. Thanks.”
Yeah, shame. I’d almost forgotten about shame.
11
“FART-IN-BRA!” KYLE SHOUTS the minute I perch my butt at the edge of the bench in the lunchroom. Why didn’t Joon save me a seat? He’s all the way at the other end of the table, next to Dylan Bustamante. I try to catch his eye, but he’s too fascinated by his sandwich.
“You missed it!” Kyle goes on. “One of the cops showed us his gun. He said he was actually at a school shooting. It was awesome.”
The other guys just grunt, busy slurping their milk and cramming pizza in their mouths. Joon still doesn’t look up. I try to act cool, like I don’t mind being called Fart-in-bra and talking about school shootings.
“We’re all supposed to run away from the building if we can,” Dylan says. “Or if not, then the second thing we’re supposed to do is hide. Or if not, and it’s life or death, then we’re supposed to gang up and attack the shooter. Last-ditch effort. Maybe take him down.”
“Ha!” says Keefner. “Can you imagine Fart-in-bra ganging up on an armed suspect?” Keefner screws his face up like a baby crying, and mimics me beating up a bad guy, like I’m shaking tiny maracas. Everyone laughs.
Even Joon.
It takes forever for the seventh-period bell to ring. I go to the bus, thinking about how Joon’s going to flip when I tell him about the mystery artist. About John Lockdown, and the Sketchpad of Mystery.
But as I head down the bus aisle, I can’t believe it! Dylan Bustamante is in my seat!
I don’t want to be jealous but, come on, the guy raps his pencil on the edge of his desk in Language Arts, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, over and over, and it drives everyone crazy. Also, he laughs at everything Kyle Keefner says. He wears muscle shirts for gym because he’s deluded and thinks that he has good biceps. And he reeks of Cleaver body spray.
Joon’s laughing at something Dylan said. I catch his eye. He gives me a thumbs-up and the quickest flash of a guilty look. “Catch you later, Stan . . . It’s cool, right?”
Cool? That Dylan Blubber-Head Bust-a-Face Bustamante is sitting in my seat?
The kid behind me knees me, and I stumble on. “Sure, no big,” I call back to him. “Hey—I have something interesting to tell you tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
I stare at him, unbelieving. “Saturday? Hanging out? Trivia Quest?” I thought that was our thing now.
“Oh yeah,” Joon says, frowning, and scratching at his gel-spiked hair. “Great!”
I keep walking to the back of the bus.
Something’s up. The way Joon just said “great”?
It wasn’t so great.
When Cal and I get home, Mom’s out by the garage, in her work clothes, and she’s talking to the neighbor girl, Liberty. Who I haven’t seen in almost a week. She’s got a baseball cap on, and a T-shirt that says, If you see someone crying, ask them if it’s because of their haircut.
Mom’s got Dad’s toolbox out, and the tall ladder is leaning against the garage. A big cardboard box is open on the grass. “Calvin, Stanley, come look!” she calls. “I ordered motion-sensor lights! Maybe they’ll keep the coyotes out of the yard at night!”
As we walk over, Liberty says, “Hope it works. The noises at night around here freak me out. Those weird, creepy yips.”
“Yeah, they do that to surround their prey,” says Cal. “They disorient it before closing in and tearing it to shreds. We’re talking rabbits, opossum, sometimes cats and small dogs.” He’s using his bossy, know-it-all voice. Liberty pretends to listen politely. Then, when Cal’s not looking, she turns to me and crosses her eyes.
I try not to smile.
She steadies one side of the ladder, and I hold the other.
“This isn’t going to work,” Cal says as Mom climbs. “The only thing they’ll respect is a rifle.”
Liberty frowns. “Respect?”
Mom looks down sternly from the top step and points Dad’s electric drill in the general direction of Cal’s forehead. “If you’re not going to help with our non-violent solution, Calvin, go inside and start your homework. Stanley, hold this ladder steady!”
“Coyotes don’t attack people, do they?” Liberty asks.
“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Mom says firmly.
“Then why are you installing motion sensors?” I say.
Mom just sighs and starts up the drill.
12
WEEK BY WEEK, day by day, the Trivia Quest approacheth. It’s Saturday morning, so I’m making toast and getting ready to call Joon so we can study. Calvin is slurping down cereal and milk. Gramps is clutching his coffee mug and muttering about the stock market, and Mom’s scrolling through her phone screen.
