by Sally J. Pla
The Master’s bushy eyebrows shoot up when he sees the back-and-forth sketches Doc and I did of John Lockdown. I think my chest is going to burst with pride. Then he laughs at the one where Doc steps into the utility room portal, brandishing his galactic-supercharged mop and pail. And he frowns, when he sees Doc’s and my rendering of all the branches in my worry-tree.
We talk some more. He asks me a lot of questions. Then, the Master calls Doc into the room. They start talking. They talk some more. They talk about some business stuff . . .
I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks actually hurt. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop grinning!
49
A WHILE LATER, DOC and I finally make our way back out to the plaza. Joon’s lying on a bench, Green Lama hood up over his face, two big shopping bags of Comic Fest merchandise at his feet.
I nudge his foot and he jumps. He rubs his eyes, and looks from me to Doc, and back to me. “What the heck, dude? You disappeared. I thought for sure you were having one of your fits, so I came out to look for you. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s so crowded in there.”
It is, but I can barely listen to Joon talk—I’m so excited, I’m jumping up and down. Finally, I explode: “Doc and I just pitched John Lockdown Is in the Building to the Master!” I shout. “And he liked it!”
Joon’s mouth drops open.
“Well, he said he’s going to confirm within a few weeks,” Doc adds. “It’s a conditional first-level approval.”
“That means a trial issue of John Lockdown!” I am practically shaking Joon by the shoulders. “Maybe a whole new superhero series!” I shout. “And it’s all because of the Sketchpad of Mystery!”
Joon keeps looking from me, to Doc in his costume, back to me. “Sketchpad of what?” he squeaks. “And what do you mean, John Lockdown? Hey, aren’t you that custodian from school?”
Oh, right. Joon’s missed out on a few things lately.
50
DOC STAYS WITH us while we wait for Mrs. Lee to come get us. Meanwhile, I fill Joon in on some of the stuff he’s missed. The safe room at school. The Sketchpad of Mystery. The back-and-forth cartooning.
“Wow,” Joon says. “So, can I see the stuff you drew?”
“Soon,” I say. And to Doc, I add, “Joon’s into cartooning, too. He’s a way better artist than me.”
“Really?” says Doc. “Maybe we should look into forming a school cartooning club or something.”
“Yesss!” says Joon.
“That’d be great!” I say.
Which is pretty funny, because when Mom suggested I start a comics club, I thought it was the stupidest idea in the world.
When we pull up at my house, I feel like I’ve been gone for eons. I’m suddenly exhausted. Like I could lie down on my bed and sleep for a year. I get out, thank Mrs. Lee, and head around to the back door—where I hear loud voices. Mom, Gramps, and Cal are standing in the yard by the chicken coop.
“Hey!” I call out to them. “Comic Fest was epic!”
They look up, but no one says a thing. A few more steps forward, and I see why.
One part of the chicken wire is all loose and bent, with a ton of scattered feathers lying around, and dark patches of what I guess is chicken blood. It looks like something pulled our chickens right out from under the sharp wires of the fence.
My stomach squirms like I swallowed a bunch of worms. I think I might throw up.
“They got Henrietta!” Cal shouts it at me, as if it’s my fault. “And Chick. And Fil-A!” He waves his arms around. “They snuck right up in broad daylight. I told you so, Mom. I told you this coop wasn’t secure!”
I try not to look at the bent wire fencing. The rest of the flock struts around our ankles, as if to say, “Hey, when’s dinner?” It’s a good thing chickens are dumber than Albert Einstein. I guess they’re not traumatized.
Mom heads for the workbench in the garage. “Come on, Dad,” she says. “Help me fix this.”
Cal is glaring at Mom’s back. When she’s out of earshot, he mutters, “And who’s going to fix those stupid coyotes?”
I look at my brother carefully. His fists are clenched, and his face is bright red.
“Why are you so obsessed with the coyotes, Cal?” I ask.
He jerks his head back, like I’m an idiot for even asking. “The chickens are one thing. You know they could also gang up and kill Albert Einstein, right? One of them sneaks behind and slits his hamstrings, while the others distract him. Then they close in for the kill. That’s how they take down the bigger dogs. And Albert Einstein’s so dumb and trusting—he’d just stand there and let them. We shouldn’t ever let him out of the house by himself. Not ever.”
Cal’s breathing is ragged. “Look at the chicken coop. It’s a disaster. And it’s Mom’s fault.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Everything is.”
“Everything is Mom’s fault?” I repeat.
“All she does is work. Everything around here is falling apart. Dad’s not around to check on stuff, like he used to be. Gramps can’t help.” Cal glares at me. “She shouldn’t have let Dad go away. She should have stopped him.”
His words feel like they’re twisting around in my chest. For the first time, I see how scared Calvin is. How much he misses Dad, too. But his way is to get angry.
“I miss him, too,” I say. “But how is it Mom’s fault? Maybe she has to work so hard to make more money because Dad’s stupid new job means he can’t send as much. Did you ever think of that?”
Cal kicks at the broken pile of chicken wire. “Figures you’re on her side,” he mutters. “Mommy’s precious Stannie.” Then he stalks into the house.
I had been feeling so great when Mrs. Lee dropped me home. So happy about Comic Fest, and Doc.
Wow—it took like two minutes for it all to go south.
51
I SIT AT SUNDAY dinner in a kind of trance.
It’s been a lot for me. The sensory onslaught of Trivia Quest, then a busy week of school, then the sensory onslaught of Comic Fest. The whole excitement about Doc, and John Lockdown, and then the big chicken disaster. Plus I lost Liberty, just when we’d gotten to be friends.
“Your head’s practically hanging in your soup dish, Stanley,” Mom says, giving me the Look. “You need a recharge. I’m letting you stay home tomorrow.”
So I get to spend Monday in bed, surrounded by glorious silence—only broken by the muffled sounds of Gramps’s TV. I sleep off and on, and stare at the painted planets, floating off-kilter on my walls. It’s nice.
Stan: Hey, Liberty.
Lib: Heya, Stan.
Stan: Where are you, exactly?
Lib: Still LA.
Stan: I mean where are you living? Everything okay with your mom?
Lib: Well sure, she’s happy, now that I’m stuck here under her thumb 24/7. Ugh. We’re staying with her new boyfriend. Mom says once she finds a better job, we’ll get our own place and it’ll get better.
Stan: What about you?
Lib: I’m good. I can walk to a library. The boyfriend is all right. LA’s cool . . .
Okay, now Liberty, she’s been through cancer. And a wild, weird, moving-around life, where nothing stays the same for long. And a mom who seems really unpredictable. She doesn’t even have a regular school to go to.
I don’t think I could deal with all that. I’d be having Red Alerts all over the place, all the time.
But nothing ever seems to get to Liberty Silverberg.
How does she manage that superhero trick?
52
ON TUESDAY, it’s actually kind of nice to be back at school. Mrs. Green is in a good mood, Kyle Keefner’s absent, and there are no surprise drills.
During lunch, Doc, Joon, and I meet with Principal Coffin to get permission for a comic art club.
“I could teach ’em the writing, storyboarding, penciling, inking, lettering, coloring—that is, if they want,” Doc says, sliding our Sketchpad of Mystery across the desk so Principal Coffin can see it.
She puts on thick reading glasses and makes a big show of examining the drawings. The big old wall clock behind her ticks loudly. It makes me think of the clock at Horton Plaza.
“You and young Stanley here? You created this John Lockdown character?” She peers up at us, over her glasses. “From my secret safety code phrase? You’ve lifted, and revealed, the secret Peavey code phrase?” She frowns. “I thought I made it clear that the phrase was to remain a school secret.”
I feel my cheeks start to burn. Doc fidgets with his pencil. Would she fire him for something like that?
“It’s my fault,” I hear myself blurting out. “I was just writing down thoughts on the pad, you know, and I was wishing for—I don’t know. Something good to come out of all the stupid horrible, scary drill stuff. A superhero that could . . . protect me.”
It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. Joon looks kind of shocked. And did I just call our principal’s safety program “stupid, horrible, scary drill stuff”?
There’s a long silence. Principal Coffin frowns even harder and says: “What do you mean, exactly, by ‘stupid, horrible, scary drill stuff?’” She makes a point of crossing her arms. Her forehead’s full of puckered, wrinkled lines.
Oh, boy.
“I didn’t mean to be rude. I mean, the drills are good. It’s good to be safe. I get it. But sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes what?” She leans forward.
“Sometimes they totally go overboard with too much drama. Like, totally over the top. It’s awful! Ma’am.”
She gasps. Joon gasps. Doc takes a small step back toward the door.
“I mean—I know they’re necessary. But always being reminded about all these terrible things that could happen any minute at school? I just can’t handle that level of impending doom.”
I shrug, and look down at the floor. I hold my eyes wide so no one notices there are tears forming in them.
I’m a wimp. Just like Cal says. And now I’ve gone and insulted the principal. It just all came rushing out of nowhere! She’ll hate me now. With three years of middle school left to go.
Principal Coffin gets up from her chair. She comes out from behind her desk and stands over me, frowning harder than ever, hands on her wide hips.
And then she bends down and puts her hands on my shoulders.
“Thank you, Stanley,” she says. Her eyes are giant and misty behind her reading glasses. “Here I thought I was just spicing things up, to make it fun for the kids! Telling me how you really feel about it? That was brave, Stanley. And I appreciate it.”
I just know Joon is smirking like crazy, standing behind me.
“So what do you think about the comics club idea?” Doc says softly.
Principal Coffin smiles—and nods.
53
Lib: How was the first club meeting?
Stan: Bad. We have to advertise better. Dylan Bustamante was the only one who showed. And Joon still acts stupid around him.
Lib: How so?
Stan: They had a spitting contest into the garbage pail every time Doc wasn’t looking. I’m still kind of mad at Joon. I thought since I took him to Comic Fest, maybe he’d change back to the old Joon.
Lib: People don’t change back—or stay the same. Not even you. And if Joon wants to spit, he’s gonna spit.
Stan: It’s not all bad. It’s just not like before. How about you?
Lib: Well, Mom keeps flubbing auditions. The only acting she’s doing is acting upset. And a breakup’s coming with the boyfriend.
Stan: Bummer!
Lib: She knows this theater company in Portland. We might go there.
Stan: Portland, Oregon?
Lib: Portland, Maine.
Stan: Ouch. That’s far . . .
Lib: Yup.
54
THE PAST TWO Saturdays have been epic—first Trivia Quest, then Comic Fest. But I’m super happy that this Saturday is back to being a normal one. A calm one. A lazy one. A hang-out-at-home-and-vegetate-into-a-stupor Saturday.
Gramps is parked in his recliner, watching a show about doomsday preppers. They’re these people who think the world’s ending, so they stock up on ammo and make all these elaborate warlike preparations.
I can only handle watching it for a few minutes. “This is awful!” I tell Gramps. “I mean, there’s a million ways the world could end. How are they gonna prepare for all those possibilities? Canned goods and firearms? I’m having a panic attack. Seriously, it’s worse than sitting through a Principal Coffin safety assembly.”
He says, “I tell you, Stanley, I been in the war, you know. The world can get crazy out there. People cope in different ways.”
That’s true. People do cope in different ways. Sometimes they desperately prepare, like Principal Coffin. Or they get kinda bitter and grumpy, like Gramps. Or they get mad, like Cal. Or they tune it out with work, like Mom. Or they find a good reason to leave, like Dad.
And then, there are much worse ways to cope. Drugs and drink and whatnot.
My way, and Doc’s way, and Joon’s way, is to escape into comics. Not the worst coping skill, truly, when you think of some of those alternatives.
Gramps lets out a huge belch of lunchtime hot dog. Ugh. Albert Einstein lunges into his lap and sniffs, making Gramps wave his arms and legs around wildly. “Dang dog! Get him the heck out of here!”
I grab Albert Einstein by the collar and try to wrestle him up with me to my room to do homework, but he slips back down to stay with Gramps. Fine.
Ten minutes later, there’s some sort of wild commotion with Gramps shouting again. He’s always yelling at the TV, so at first, I ignore it. But then there’s a shout so sharp and strange I come running.
Mom, Cal, and I all get to the living room at about the same time.
Gramps is moaning on the floor by his chair, while Albert Einstein whines at him. “Stupid fool of a dog jumped right in front of me when I was getting up. Dang it, I think I dislocated my bum shoulder again!”
Uh-oh.
“Oh, Dad!” Mom cries out. “Not again! Stanley, get the ice pack.” Meanwhile, she runs for the first aid kit. She bandages Gramps’s arm to his body to keep it from moving around. She’s gotten good at this—he’s dislocated it before.
“Let’s get you to the hospital for an X-ray,” she says. “Boys? Hold down the fort! Fend for yourselves for dinner if we’re not home!”
As Mom helps a wincing Gramps to the car, she’s still shouting directions back at us. “Cal, find yourself another ride to football practice! Stanley, fold the laundry. And order a pizza or something. Lord knows how long we’ll be. Oh my gosh, wait a sec, let me help you with that seat belt, Dad.”
“Fend for ourselves,” Calvin mutters. “What else do we ever do around here?”
“Aren’t you worried about Gramps?” I ask.
“Of course I am, stupid.” Cal opens the fridge and stares gloomily at the empty shelves. “But it’s not the first time he popped that shoulder out. He’ll live.”
I leave him in the kitchen and go to my room. Albert Einstein follows me, head down, his toenails click-clicking obediently on the stairs, like he knows he did something bad.
I’m working on some John Lockdown comics to show Doc. Not the drawings so much as the story lines. I want to be in on the action when the Master tells Doc he’ll publish John Lockdown for real.
Also, Principal Coffin wants the school paper to run a John Lockdown comic strip. She’s totally bought into the idea—she thinks “our school superhero could offer kids helpful safety tips of what to do in a crisis!”
So I’m scribbling away when I notice Calvin clomping around in the hall.
“Don’t you have football practice?”
“Not today,” he grunts.
I hear him go into Mom’s room, which is a little weird—then downstairs to the kitchen. A minute later, the back door slams.
I’m just starting to really get into this John Lockdown story line when a loud crackin
g noise comes from the backyard.
Albert Einstein hurls himself downstairs like a rocket, toenails scratching and slipping, barking like crazy.
Above the barking comes this strange howl. At first I think: a coyote! But then the howl turns into a human scream.
My brother’s scream.
I fly downstairs and out the back door. “Cal?” I yell, scanning the yard.
The chickens are flustered, flapping around in their coop.
I spot Cal in the far back corner of our yard, where it slopes down to the canyon. I gasp when I see what he’s holding. So that’s what he was doing, banging around up in Mom’s room. He was searching for that rifle!
And apparently, he found it.
He sways in place. Then he drops.
I run, skidding in the rocks and sand, and stop at the edge of the slope.
Cal is sitting on the ground now. As I get closer, I see some blood oozing out of his sneaker. Not some. A lot of blood.
My heart starts pounding full force. Red Alerts pang through me at top speed and pressure—my stomach’s a pit of writhing snakes—oh no—oh no—
—But somehow, I’m not sinking to the ground like Cal. No. Instead, I’m in a hyper state of super-alertness. “Don’t move!” I shout. “I’m going to . . .”
I stop and think.
I’m going to . . . what?
Calvin’s eyes roll around in his head. He lies all the way down, pale as a ghost.
I’d give anything right now to see John Lockdown streaking through the air toward us, ready to take charge. John Lockdown, or anyone—Wonder Woman, Batman, X-Men, Avengers, Captain America, Agent Carter, Iron Man—heck, I’ll take Mighty Mouse.
But no one’s coming to the rescue. There’s only me.
Whipping off my T-shirt, I wrap it around his bloody foot, and press. Compression. That’s the word. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Then, looking around, I see a plastic bucket by the chicken coop—I pull it over and prop Cal’s leg up. Somehow, in the back of my brain, from one of Principal Coffin’s assemblies before I started going to my Ready Room, I remember you’re supposed to raise the wounded part up.
