by Sally J. Pla
It’s been maybe thirty seconds, and my T-shirt, wrapped around his foot, is already soaked through. The blood looks like the red that seeps from packages of raw steak.
Cal sits up again, trying to peel away the bloody shirt and look. “No! Just hold it tight and don’t move!” I command him in a deep voice that doesn’t even sound like me.
I run inside and call 911. Then I race next door, but Dr. Silverberg’s not home. I race back to Cal with a stack of kitchen towels. I press down hard on the wound. Compression. It’s bleeding like crazy.
“Lie back!” I tell Cal as he scrambles to sit. “Stay down on the grass and breathe. Deep, from your stomach. In, out, from your belly. Breathe slowly. What’s your favorite color?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, before he passes out.
55
WAAAAH, WAAAAH, WOOP, goes the siren, and then it’s in our actual driveway, and the back doors swing open. Two medics in blue scrubs come toward us. “Here!” I shout, waving my arms like a frantic windmill. “He’s over here!”
“Talk to us.” One of the medics squats down by Cal. He has big sideburns like Wolverine. His partner, an older lady with a crew cut and huge arms, is already checking Cal’s blood pressure and stuff.
I tell them everything. I feel like I’m standing next to my body, watching myself acting like a calm person. I tell them all the facts, finishing with his allergies to penicillin and aspirin. Oh yeah, he had his appendix out when he was ten.
The EMT lady clutches my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “You did good, kid,” she says. “You did all the right things. Not many people could keep their cool like that.”
I nod, but I barely hear her words, I’m so numb.
Once I’m in the ambulance, with Cal in the back on an orange plastic stretcher, they let me call Mom on their phone. But when I hear her voice, I lose it. I hand the phone back to Wolverine, and he explains the whole situation.
“I have to say,” he adds, before hanging up, “props to Stanley here. You’ve got a pretty brave kid.”
I’d say thanks, but I’m too busy throwing up in a bucket.
56
IN THE ER, they wheel Calvin behind a curtain, and tell me to stay in the waiting room until my mother gets there.
The waiting room is bad. Sticky plastic chairs, people coughing. It’s worse than the Metro bus during Trivia Quest. Thank God it’s only a few minutes before Mom rushes in and hugs me.
“I was just upstairs with your grandfather! What on earth is happening?” she shrieks.
Then she sprints down the hall to find a nurse.
Gramps ambles in a little later. He’s got his arm in a tight black sling, and he eases himself into the plastic seat next to mine with a groan, propping his cane on the armrest. He smells a little funky—it’s been a rough day. “Well, here we are, Stanley,” he says, staring at the TV bolted onto the wall. “What in heck was your fool brother thinking? See, this is the very reason why your mother should’ve let me teach him to shoot.”
“Or it’s the reason you shouldn’t have given him that stupid gun in the first place, since Mom didn’t even want you to,” I say.
“When did you get so full of sass?” Gramps mutters, clicking the channel to something about mega-tornadoes.
We don’t talk much after that.
An hour later, Mom comes back. “Calvin’s having foot surgery,” she says, plopping down in the nearest plastic chair and rubbing at her eyes. “The bullet nicked a toe bone, and they need to check an artery and do cleanup. But he’s lucky. It’s just minor. He should be fine.”
Gramps juts his stubbly chin toward Mom. “I’ll tell you something. Your brothers were all wild hellions, but even they’d never have pulled a stupid stunt like Cal’s today.” He sits back and crosses his arms. “This has to do with his father being missing, here at a what-you-call critical juncture in the young boy’s life.”
Mom sits up very straight. She looks really pale. “I’m not talking about this,” she says to Gramps, carefully pronouncing every word. “I’m calling a cab to take you home.”
Gramps looks at me like I’m with him on this. But I’m not.
I mean, I can see ways in which they’re both right. Mom’s right about the gun being stupid, and deadly dangerous in the hands of someone as dopey as Cal. I mean, he could have killed himself.
And Gramps is right about Dad not being here when we need him.
57
Stan: Liberty, why don’t you ever worry about anything?
Lib: Because I dunno. Well, maybe because I have no expectations. Then you’re not disappointed when stuff doesn’t happen.
Stan: Still don’t get it. Don’t you worry? For me, it’s like a trap I can’t avoid.
Lib: But think about the stuff you’ve handled. The Quest. The Fest. Cal’s stupid foot. You’re a hero! THE WORRY-TRAP IS IN YOUR MIND.
Stan: So how do I get it out of my mind?
Lib: Eh! Don’t ask me. Go ask John Lockdown.
58
EVEN THOUGH IT’S super late when the cab drops us home from the hospital, I can’t sleep.
Gramps, on the other hand, took painkillers for his shoulder, and he’s been snoring for hours.
I stay up.
At one point in the night, I hear the coyotes again, faint and far away. I shudder.
But then I imagine John Lockdown, flying tight circles around the house, weaving an invisible force field so nothing can get through to hurt us.
It’s well past sunrise when the sound of Mom’s car in the drive wakes me. I scramble outside to help.
Mom reaches in the car for a set of crutches as Cal slowly emerges from the backseat. He’s got a huge black plastic cast on—it looks like the boot from my old toy Megazord. He stands, shakily, then takes the crutches from Mom. It takes ten minutes for the three of us, hobbling and wobbling, to get him safely inside the house.
“Thank you, Stan,” says Mom as my brother sits heavily in Gramps’s recliner. We prop his Megazord boot up, and he moans. It’s a soft moan, sort of like those midnight coyotes.
“I’ll have to make up a bed on the couch for him,” Mom says, rubbing her temples, trying to think. “No stairs for a while. I’ve already ordered the wheelchair. . . .”
“You rest. I’ll do the couch,” I say.
Mom’s skin is so pale, she looks waxy. She slumps into a chair and covers her face. When a good five minutes have gone by and she hasn’t moved, I go over. “Mom?” I put a hand on one of her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’ll be just fine.”
She laughs a little, and puts her hand over mine. “Yeah?” she says. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Stanley.”
59
ALL THE NEXT week at school, Cal’s eighth-grade friends come up and talk to me. Everyone wants to know about him. How’s he doing? How did it happen? When will he walk again? When will he be back? Will he play football again? He was—is—was—pretty good at football.
There are rumors going around, too. Dylan heard he did hand-to-hand combat with the coyote. Keefner thought they had to amputate his foot.
Olga the bus driver gave me a get-well card for him, with a pamphlet on gun safety inside.
And Principal Coffin stopped me in the hall to say she heard I acted quick and maybe saved Cal’s life.
Wow.
The truth is, Cal is doing fine. He’s slowly getting around, getting better. He’ll probably be back to school soon.
When Friday comes, I’m glad for two reasons: the week’s almost over, and it’s time for comics club. Last week it was only Joon and Dylan and me. But this week Doc had us do a major advertising push. We put up flyers and a big notice in the school paper. I’m wondering who will show.
We wait anxiously in our room as kids bustle past on the way to the bus. Doc hung his John Lockdown costume on a hanger by the door, just to attract attention, and the blue cape wafts in the breeze every time a group of kids passes by.
Eventua
lly, two seventh-grade boys hesitate in the doorway. They’ve got long, shaggy hair and plaid flannel shirts, and they give us quick nods as they grab the farthest-away seats. Doc hands them each a pad of paper and a pencil.
Then this eighth-grade girl arrives. Darcy. I know her by sight, because she’s the one who designed the mural by the library media center. She’s a really good artist. She’s got short black hair with a bright blue streak in it, and thick black eyeglasses.
We wait a few more minutes, but it looks like the six of us are going to be it. That’s double our numbers from last week—not too bad.
Doc pairs us up for a project. Joon and Dylan push their desks right together. And the two new seventh graders are already in a huddle.
That leaves me with Darcy.
At first, we just look at each other suspiciously. But then, I tell myself that I can do this thing. If I could talk to Liberty, then I maybe I can talk to this girl.
“Hey, Darcy,” I say softly. “What about a story about a girl who, after she heals and recovers from this terrible illness, gains these amazing superpowers? But her family, they’re overprotective and refuse to let her out of their sight. They lock her away, so she has to escape, out into the night, every night.”
There is a flicker of interest in her eyes. “How does she escape?” Darcy asks.
“She climbs out the window into a tall tree that looks out over everything. The town, the ocean. Everything.”
“Okay,” she says. “What then?”
“So she flies around town saving people. Everyone thinks she’s fragile. They don’t realize that she is really made of steel, with superstrength. This girl, she can handle stuff.”
Darcy loves the idea.
She’s drawing the girl to look like her. We’re calling the comic Blu-Streak Girl.
Doc asked me if I wanted to think about a comic featuring a boy with super-sensitive sensory abilities that lead him into adventures. . . .
I told him I’m not ready to tackle that story yet.
But maybe soon.
60
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, at comics club, Doc clears his throat. “Well, troops, I finally got an email back from the Master.”
My pencil stops in midair.
“They’ve signed on for one issue of John Lockdown Is in the Building! If they like it—and it’s a big if—then maybe—maybe—they might order more. Still, this is great news!”
“Wow!” Darcy shouts.
“Cool!” says Joon.
The two seventh graders slap five. Doc is grinning. I’m so proud I think I might burst.
“Yesss! Chest bump!” says Dylan. No one gives him one.
When Mom picks me up after school, she’s smiling, too—in a very mysterious way. “Guess who just called me from the airport?” she asks.
I swallow hard. I have to work to find my voice. “So—is—is he really coming home?”
“For a few weeks, anyway. Long enough for some quality time together. He’ll be back tomorrow night.” She flashes a quick glance at me. “He’s worried about Cal’s foot, of course. And he wants to hear all about your comic book contest exploits, Stanley. Lots to catch him up on.”
Dad, home . . . Wow. I can hardly remember what that’s like. It almost seems like part of a past life.
But that’s okay. Because my present life has been going along okay these days. Cal’s been way quieter and calmer. School’s okay. And now there’s comics club.
If only Liberty were around. But nothing’s perfect.
To top off all this good stuff, a four-day weekend, thanks to teachers’ conference, is about to start. Four days of relaxing, sleeping in, and goofing off . . .
And starting tomorrow night—Dad time. After all this time, it’s going to be weird to see him. But weird-good. I think. I hope.
The next morning, right after breakfast, the doorbell rings. Joon and Dylan walk in like it’s no big deal.
“We thought we’d come hang out. You know, since it’s Saturday,” Joon says, taking off his jacket. “Since Saturdays are traditionally kind of our thing. Right?”
“Yeah, thanks for having us,” says Dylan.
“Um, okay,” I say, trying to act like this is no big deal.
We go up to my room. Dylan tries throwing a tennis ball for Albert Einstein, who lets the ball bounce off the top of his head. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think your dog’s very smart,” Dylan says.
“Four days off! Maybe we can go to the comics store. Or the movies, or the mall,” Joon says, giving me a careful glance.
“Yeah, maybe just one of those things,” I say. “If I space it out with some downtime.”
“It’s a deal,” Joon says, punching my arm.
Out the window, I see Gramps in the yard, feeding the chickens. He’s got plans for a new, state-of-the-art, doomsday-proof, coyote-secure chicken facility. Once Dad gets home tonight, we’re all going to start building. Even Cal said he’d help.
While Dylan tries to play ball with Albert Einstein, and Joon listens to music, I glance at my phone. There’s a text from Liberty, with a photo this time—she’s standing by her mom, and they have their arms around each other. They have the same exact smile, the same big green eyes. And Liberty’s got on a green T-shirt that says What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Except for bears. Bears will kill you.
Lib: Theater job’s a go. We’re moving to Maine.
Stan: That’s bad news! Or is it?
Lib: I’ve never been to Maine, so how would I know?
Stan: You gonna find a tree to climb so you can see the other ocean?
Lib: Yeah, and my mom might even let me do it. She’s loosening up a bit. And I’ll be back, of course. So . . . Trivia Quest, next year: Do we have a date?
Stan: You bet.
Lib: And mail me a copy of the John Lockdown comic, will you? Also, that Blue Streak thing you’re doing with Darcy.
Stan: Will do.
Liberty: I can’t wait to see all the new stuff you come up with this year, Stanley Fortinbras.
I smile to myself as I put down the phone. Who knows what could happen before the next Trivia Quest? Could be anything, really. I pick up a freshly sharpened pencil and open my sketchpad.
I guess I might as well begin.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the sidewalk pothole in Troy, New York, into which I fell and broke my leg right before San Diego Comic-Con. I had scored a ticket, and really wanted to go, but I was worried—about the leg, the crowds, so many things. Worry is my middle name! So I stayed home and started writing this book instead.
Warmest gratitude to the staff and students at Lake Country School in Hartland, Wisconsin. I volunteered for years at LCS, and it was an absolute privilege. LCS is like a giant family. Two of its many wonderful staff members contributed directly to this story:
Doc, the building and grounds manager. He’s patiently opened milks for kindergarteners probably every day for about twenty years. Doc’s quiet, compassionate, smart, and trustworthy, and prefers life under the radar, so I hope he doesn’t mind that I borrowed his name, and a little bit of his goodness, for this book.
Mr. Peter Kopfhammer, one of the kindest, most well-meaning school principals ever, deserves all the credit for being the original creator of the intruder drill code phrase, “John Lockdown Is in the Building.” That phrase, and the drill along with it, caused some anxiety at our house, even though we completely accept and understand the need to be prepared. Anyhow, thanks for planting that story seed, Mr. K.
Deepest, warmest thanks are owed to amazing editors Jessica MacLeish and Rosemary Brosnan. I cannot believe how lucky I am to have their support. Thanks also to David Curtis, Alison Donalty, Veronica Ambrose, Emily Rader, Alana Whitman, and Mitchell Thorpe, as well as Taylor Martindale Kean at Full Circle Literary for her gracious, ever-cheerful support.
I can hardly believe my luck to have Steve Wolfhard’s ridiculously awesome cover and interior art. He brough
t Stanley to life! And I would be remiss not to thank fellow author Darcy Miller for suggesting the title of this book, which I think is (probably) perfect!
Finally, thanks to my amazing family, friends, and fellow writers, especially Fred, Alec, Andrew, Steph, Nate, Cindy, David, Judy, Janice, Ona, Abbie, Lynda, Carolyn, Anne, and Merriam. There are many, many more wonderful names—you know who you are, all of you: my superheroes and a force for all the good there is.
About the Author
PHOTO BY STEPHANIE SUNDELL
SALLY J. PLA is the author of The Someday Birds. She has English degrees from Colgate and Penn State and has worked as a business journalist and in public education. She has three sons, a husband, and an enormous fluffy dog and lives near lots of lemon trees in Southern California. Stanley Will Probably Be Fine is her second novel. You can visit her online at www.sallyjpla.com.
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Books by Sally J. Pla
The Someday Birds
Copyright
STANLEY WILL PROBABLY BE FINE. Copyright © 2018 by Sally J. Pla. Illustrations © 2018 by Steve Wolfhard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
