Stanley Will Probably Be Fine

by Sally J. Pla

  “Agreed.” I think about the busty, crazy-shaped women they have in a lot of those old issues. “A lot of stuff in the history of comics hasn’t been fair to girls.”

  “A lot of stuff in history hasn’t been fair to girls,” Liberty says, jabbing me in the arm with her bony elbow. “But let’s get back to the clue.”

  I look at the ocean, sparkling right out there, beyond the harbor’s cluster of boats and ships. I imagine Aquaman and Aquagirl somewhere out there, swimming in their magical undersea world—looking for . . .

  . . . the best lunch spot? Seriously. Weird clue.

  “Let’s go find food,” says Liberty, turning inland toward the city and a nearby park. “Are you at least somewhat sure Lorena Marquez is Aquagirl?”

  “Yeah.” I glance back at the ocean. “In fact, I think she was the Aquagirl in this cool series Joon has, called Sub Diego.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Okay . . . Imagine a typical sunny San Diego day like today. Lorena Marquez is a teenager, hanging with a friend at the zoo. Suddenly, there’s this level-one-million-on-the-Richter-scale earthquake, and—boom—half of San Diego drops into the ocean.”

  Liberty’s eyes bulge.

  I stare at the calm, still water beyond us, and think back to when Principal Coffin had a tsunami drill. We had to get on school buses and drive really fast uphill and inland, as if we were trying to outrace the rising monster tides.

  I shudder. I didn’t like this Aquaman/Aquagirl story line. Joon laughed at me, but I didn’t want to read about my own town getting wiped off the map. Could it happen? It’s happened to other places in the world. It’s happened to people my dad has helped get back on their feet.

  Liberty nudges me. “Go on. Does everybody die?”

  “No. They don’t die. They morph—they grow gills, and end up creating a whole underwater city called Sub Diego, submerged off the coast.”

  “Gills,” says Liberty, whistling. “So they adapt and evolve, happily ever after?”

  “Not exactly. The gills are because—unbeknownst to them—the people of Sub Diego have been genetically manipulated for evil corporate aims of world domination—you know, the usual drill. Aquaman and Aquagirl try to fix everything.”

  “Cool,” Liberty says, getting out her phone to text her mom again. “A submerged city.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sub Diego.”

  Click.

  I look down at the small card in my hand while Liberty texts not dead yet to her mom again.

  Click.

  Lorena Marquez’s favorite lunch spot . . .

  “Hey. Remember when we were studying in my room and talking about all the food trucks around here?”

  “Yeah. Phil’s BBQ, the sushi truck.”

  “Yeah. And the sub sandwich truck. Sub Diego.”

  Our stomachs growl at the same time. We both smile.

  32

  WATERFRONT PARK IS a big, long stretch of public green space, benches, fountains, playgrounds, and walking paths. But all Liberty and I care about are the food trucks parked around its borders.

  Or, to be more precise: one particular food truck.

  “Let’s split up,” says Liberty. “You take that side, I’ll take this one. First one who finds the Sub Diego sandwich truck, texts the other.”

  Meanwhile, people are pouring into the park from everywhere, in groups, laughing, talking. A police siren wails. I hate that noise. It makes the pulse of a headache start up behind my right eye. “Shouldn’t we just stay together?” I say. “It’s getting crowded.”

  “It’s downtown! What do you expect?” Liberty pats me on the head. I hate being patted on the head. “Just text me if you find it.” Then she slips out of sight behind a big group of people carrying coolers and lawn chairs. She’s gone, like she fell into a crack in the earth or something. Just like in Sub Diego.

  Nothing.

  I can’t believe she just ditched me! I feel suddenly panicked. It’s like someone just ripped me out of a warm coat and left me shivering, exposed, on the sidewalk.

  Alone. I’m all alone.

  Okay, okay. I need to stop worrying and start scouting food trucks. But first, I think I need to find a bathroom.

  I wander around until I spy a row of electric blue plastic port-a-johns at the far end of the park, just past a big outdoor stage. Security guys in headphones are strolling around near it. Guys in black T-shirts are testing speakers and checking cables. And I realize that this is where all the people are heading. It’s filling up by the minute! I guess there’s going to be some kind of concert or show.

  I hurry past, almost tripping on a bright yellow power cord.

  And then, when I’ve found the least disgusting port-a-john in the row, and I’m finally relieving myself:

  BLAM!

  It sounds like a speaker just exploded. The whole port-a-john vibrates. I jump two feet in the air. And, as I jump, the unthinkable happens . . . My cell phone tumbles out of my shorts pocket and into the open hole.

  Noooo!

  I grab for it in horror-movie slow motion, but it’s no use. The phone’s already sliding down, down into oblivion.

  I let out a startled shriek as the loudspeaker explodes into action again. A voice booms: “Electric Blue Oblivion, folks! Our musical guests for today’s Saturday Concert Series will be Electric Blue Oblivion! Join us on the south stage, now!”

  I knew there was a reason I hated that band that’s always playing on the school bus radio. Electric Blue Oblivion, just like where my cell phone’s ended up. It figures. No wonder their music stinks!

  I stumble out of there, gulping fresh air. There is now a line waiting in front of the row of port-a-johns. I feel dazed and confused. I tell the next person—a stocky dude in mirror sunglasses and a Mickey Mouse shirt—“My phone! It fell into the, uh, the . . .”

  He steps backward away from me.

  “I need my phone!” I cry out.

  “And I need to pee before Electric Blue Oblivion starts playing,” the guy says.

  I veer away, trying to remember where I left Liberty. But now the crowd’s grown into a giant mob. I get swept up in a wave of people and carried off into a roped area by the stage, where we all just stand still. Nowhere to go.

  “Excuse me,” I shout. “Let me through, please!” But no one moves. It’s like I’m invisible. Red Alerts are wooping through my chest.

  “Excuse me!” I say, louder now, and a lady budges about six inches to the right. I squeeze through—only to face a mass of more people. In fact, this whole roped-in area around the stage has somehow magically turned into a solid block of wall-to-wall humanity. We’re all jammed in together, and everyone’s buzzing and talking and pushing and shoving me around in their quest for the best spot to see Electric Blue Oblivion.

  Boy, what those goofy girls on my school bus would probably give to see this.

  But me? I need to get out of here.

  More people arrive every second, flowing in impossible waves. I push against the tide like a salmon struggling upstream. Strangers’ arms and legs press into me as I get bumped and tossed.

  Red Alert!

  Red Alert!

  My heart thumps and thumps. I make a strange bleating cry, and a few bewildered faces flash in my direction, then turn away.

  If I fall, I’ll get trampled.

  Maybe I’m having a heart attack.

  It’s like when I was five, and I lost Dad once, in a crowd at a rally. The same panic has my chest in an iron grip.

  The drums from Electric Blue Oblivion jump-start the beat. One—Two—Three—Four—

  My heart is exploding in my chest. I’m choking, drowning! I need my dad! My mom! Somebody! Liberty!

  I need John Lockdown! What would John Lockdown do?

  I close my eyes and imagine him flying overhead. Commanding the crowd to part in his booming voice.

  I need to command the crowd to part.

  Suddenly I’m sucking in air, then shouting: “LE
T ME THROUGH!” I yell at the top of my lungs, tears streaming down my face. “LET ME THROUGH!”

  Next to me a sweaty man in an Electric Blue Oblivion shirt finally notices me. “Hey, kid,” he shouts over the noise, looking confused. “Don’t you want to see the concert?” I shake my head and point toward the exit. He turns sideways and lets me squeeze past.

  “Hey!” he calls out to the next person in the crowd. “Let this kid through, will you? He doesn’t look too good!”

  And then, as if by some miracle, the chant goes along the line, like a telephone chain, one person calling after the other. “Hey, let this kid through! He’s sick! Hey! Let him pass!”

  It’s weird. The crowd is my worst nightmare, but instead of getting devoured and un-existed by them—the crowd helps me.

  “Kid coming through!” people keep calling out.

  A scary biker dude with piercings and tattoos puts his hands under my armpits and lifts me high up in the air, which is terrifying—until he pivots me around, points me past him, and puts me gently back on the ground even closer to the exit. I’m too stunned to even react.

  But I keep moving.

  After what seems like ten eons of struggling past arms and legs and bellies and sweaty bodies, my heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears, my throat parched and tight—I sense I’m nearly out. An old hippie lady with long, curly gray hair turns to me with a kind smile. “Here you go, honey,” she says, lifting up the final rope barrier.

  I’m out! I’m home free!

  I run away from the concert pavilion toward the open green space, sweating and panting and having Red Alerts like crazy. Finally, I throw myself down under a tree and curl into a small ball.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  I cover my ears but the whiny guitar strains and drumbeats of Electric Blue Oblivion still waft around me. The crowd back there is still roaring, but at least it’s a dull roar now. “Hold on,” the song goes. “Hold on, baby, hold on.”

  I’ve heard it before on the school bus. Hold on.

  You know what? I really, really hate Electric Blue Oblivion.

  33

  SINCE MY PHONE got port-a-johnned, I can’t call Liberty. Who knows where she went? I slump down on a bench near where we split up.

  I’m done. I want to go home. I close my eyes and pretend if I shut out the world, it will leave me alone.

  But the sun’s too strong, a pulsing red under my eyelids. The voices of people buzzing around me are too nerve-racking. With a sigh, I sit back up.

  Mom is probably going to kill me for losing that phone. Now I don’t even know what time it is. Must be well after two. And Liberty and I will probably never finish the Trivia Quest. I’m nothing but a big loser, yet again. I’ve lost Liberty. I’ll lose the contest. I’ve lost Joon as my best friend. Lost my dad. Lost my phone. My stomach tightens. My fists clench. I want to scream, but it’s myself I’m angry at.

  I don’t know how much time goes by like that, with me on the bench, eyes shut, hands over my ears, before I sense a shadow across my face.

  I open my eyes.

  It’s Bustamante. He slides onto the bench and nudges me in the side. “Dude,” he says. “What up?”

  I sit up straighter, feeling both glad and not-so-glad to see him.

  Then, out of the crowd, there’s Joon. He sits down on the other side of me and nods, like nothing’s unusual. He picks at a hangnail.

  “Electric Blue Oblivion’s playing,” Joon says.

  I grunt.

  “Why are you in the park? Is there a clue in the park? How many clues have you solved?” asks Dylan.

  “Where’s Liberty?” Joon asks.

  “I don’t know. I lost her,” I say. “AND my phone.” I hold out my empty hands. “It hasn’t been that great a day so far.”

  “I hear you,” Dylan says, sighing loudly. “This Quest thing is miserable, isn’t it? Who could figure this stuff out? It’s nuts! We solved the first clue. Since then, we’ve been stumped.”

  “Yeah,” adds Joon. “Since then we’ve just been hanging out. Checking out the shops, walking around the boardwalk. This park’s pretty cool.”

  “You solved one clue?” I whisper.

  “Yeah. At Petco Park,” Joon says. “A baseball clue about Batman. Get it? Bat man. A ticket taker named Robin gave us the gold coin.” He digs in his pocket and holds it up, watching it reflect the light. “Our only coin.”

  “You shouldn’t tell me the clue,” I say, frowning. “We’re not supposed to share information. What if I get that one later on?”

  Joon rolls his eyes. Dylan says, “Later on? So—you’re still in the running? How many clues have you solved?”

  “We’re working on the fourth.”

  Joon and Dylan look at each other. Dylan whistles. “Seriously?” Joon says. “Show us the coins.”

  “I can’t. Liberty has them.”

  “Yeahhhh,” says Dylan. “Riiiight.” He winks knowingly.

  “No, really,” I say. “She does. But I lost her.”

  Joon shakes his head and sighs.

  And that’s when I get mad. “You act like I’m such a screwup. But I’m not! Look!” I pull the small gold envelopes out of my pocket and fan them out like playing cards.

  When Joon and Dylan see the envelopes, they sit up a little straighter. Which makes me feel a little better.

  “And don’t worry about Liberty,” I say. “She’ll be right back. We have the rest of the Quest to finish!”

  Joon studies my face for a minute. Then he shrugs. “Okay, Stan. Whatever.” He stands and dusts off his hands.

  “Yeah!” adds Dylan. “We’re going over to the concert. Good luck!” They head off into the crowd.

  “Don’t try to pretend you don’t care about this, Joon!” I call after them. “Go ahead and listen to your dumb music! I’m gonna win Comic Fest tickets without you, do you hear? I’m gonna finish the Trivia Quest, Joon! With Liberty! I’m winning it! Do you hear me?”

  He must hear. But he doesn’t turn around.

  Electric Blue Oblivion’s been playing for a while—it’s got to be after two. Four more clues to get through in three hours or so. Is that even possible? But without Liberty, it’s all over. If we don’t find each other, I might as well just go down to the convention center and wait for Mrs. Lee.

  Just as I’m starting to seriously consider that, I notice a familiar head bobbing above the crowd.

  “Liberty!” I stand up, shout, and wave—then collapse back on the bench, limp with relief.

  She’s got two take-out bags with the bright blue logo of Sub Diego. “Lunch!” Liberty says, waving them. “And I got the clue! I told them what you told me about Aquaman and Lorena Marquez. And the lady at the grill gave me sandwiches for free! And this!” She digs in her pocket and shows me the newest gold token. “I texted you like a million times—where the heck were you?”

  “Lost my phone. Long story.”

  I think about trying to explain about the port-a-john, the lost phone, and my Electric Blue Oblivion panic attack. About bumping into Joon and Dylan, who aren’t even competing anymore. How a few minutes ago, I was ready to quit, too.

  But not now.

  “Liberty, you’re . . . ,” I say, then suddenly get tongue-tied. I want to tell her she’s great, for helping me through. We don’t even know each other that well, but here she is, going through this whole ordeal with me.

  She hands me a sandwich. I manage to squeak: “Thanks.”

  She smiles. I figure she knows I don’t just mean for the lunch.

  34

  INSIDE THE NEW envelope there is a hard lump that feels like a stubby crayon or something. When we tear the paper and peek in, we see a small carrot. Along with our next clue card.

  Find the Captain of the Crew

  Just’a lotta fun for you!

  “How can a clue seriously be only two lines? Do they expect us to be mind readers? Are we supposed to have some kind of comic-strip clue-solving superpowers? I mean,
you do, I guess. But I don’t. What the heck?” Liberty grumbles, licking mustard off her hand.

  “Captain of the Crew? Maybe that’s another boat reference. Something by the harbor.”

  “Okay. Who else is a captain?” she asks. “In comics trivia, I mean.”

  “There’s a bunch. For starters, there’s the new Captain Marvel. But she doesn’t have a crew, unless you could call the Starjammers a crew,” I say, crumpling up my sandwich wrapper. “Then there’s Captain America. He was part of the Avengers, but I’m not sure I’d call the Avengers his crew, if you know what I mean. Iron Man sure wouldn’t!”

  “So what superhero leads a crew?”

  A memory is bumping around in my head. At Joon’s about a month ago, he was waving around one of those silly Captain Carrot and the Zoo Crew comics. It’s a Justice League of America spoof, with a tagline reading Just’a Lotta Animals!

  I read the clue card again: Just’a lotta fun for you . . .

  I wiggle the orange carrot from the envelope between my thumb and forefinger, and I know I’ve got it! I explain as Liberty crumples up her lunch bag.

  “Well, it’s pretty clear where we’ve got to go,” she says. “But are you up to it? It means another bus ride. And you look kinda pale.”

  I don’t exactly want to but I’ve got to keep going. I need to prove something. To Joon. And Dylan. To . . . Keefner. To Principal Coffin, Mrs. Ngozo, Mom. To Dad. And Gramps, and Calvin. To Liberty.

  To John Lockdown.

  And to myself.

  But mainly to Joon.

  So I nod.

  “You know what they say, right? ‘The only way to get through hell is to keep on going,’” Liberty says. “Uncle Dan used to tell me that, when I was sick.”

  I want to ask her that. About being sick. But now’s not the time. She’s already grabbing my arm and pulling me up off the bench, shouting: “To the zoo!”

  35

  THE SAN DIEGO Zoo is huge. And it’s only one part of Balboa Park, a sprawling, monster campus of museums and parks and such. And it’s far away enough from Waterfront Park to mean taking another stupid bus.