by David Lubar
That actually sounded like fun. And it was definitely something a spy would do. A guy and a girl strolled past us, holding hands. They looked like college students. This would be easy. They were so busy staring at each other that they wouldn’t notice an army marching behind them.
I let them get four or five yards ahead of me before I left the bench. I am silent. I am invisible. I pretended I was a ninja slipping through the darkness, wrapped in black clothing and slinking across the pathway like a stalking panther.
Before we even reached the corner, the guy looked over his shoulder and stared at me.
“What do you want, kid?” he asked. “
Uh, nothing.” I turned around and scurried back to the bench.
“Not very impressive,” Mr. Murphy said. He seemed to be struggling to keep from laughing.
“What’s so funny? I thought you said people wouldn’t notice me.”
“They won’t. Unless you act too much like a zombie.” He lost the struggle and let out one of his annoying giggles. “You’re shuffling your feet.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” He held his arms straight out in front of himself and swayed from side to side. “You could be auditioning for a cheap horror movie.”
“That’s not how I walk. Look.” I took a couple steps, making sure to lift my feet.
Mr. Murphy turned his right hand palm up. I noticed he was holding a phone. “Come see how you walked when you were following those people.”
After I watched the video, there was no way I could argue with him. I looked like I’d stepped in dog poop with both feet and was trying to scrape it off.
“Let me have another chance. Okay?”
“Certainly. That’s why we call it training.”
An older woman came by, carrying a shopping bag in one hand and a cane in the other. I slipped behind her. This time, I made sure to lift my feet.
It didn’t help. She turned around before I’d gone even five steps.
“Back off, sonny boy,” she said, raising her cane and jabbing it toward me like a sword. “Or I’ll smack you all the way into next week.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I slunk over to the bench and plopped down next to Mr. Murphy. “I lifted my feet. I know I did. How come she noticed me? Maybe Dr. Cushing was wrong.” I felt like I had a giant flashing sign over my head with a big arrow on it pointing right at me.
“You kicked a stone,” he said.
“I did?” I definitely hadn’t felt it. Though, now that I thought back, I sort of remembered hearing something. This was going to be a problem. I needed to watch my step.
“Try it again,” Mr. Murphy said.
We kept at it until it was so late, there was nobody left to follow. I never managed to go more than a block or two before being spotted. I’m not clumsy—Mookie’s the one who’s always falling over stuff and knocking into things—but I guess, thanks to my numbed senses, I was just awkward enough to keep from being good at following people. I might be okay at noon in a noisy city, but I wasn’t going to be following anyone along quiet streets at night.
As Mr. Murphy got up from the bench, he said, “Perhaps stealth is not one of your skills.”
“Probably not.” I slumped down and put my chin on my hands.
“Don’t be so glum, lad,” Mr. Murphy said. “There are plenty of other spy skills you can learn. And there are plenty of things you can do that nobody else can accomplish.”
“It’s not that,” I said. I realized something had been on my mind all night.
“What is it?” he asked.
I told him about my doctor’s appointment. When I was finished, he said, “Wednesday? Too bad it’s so soon. I’m sure, given a little more time, our labs could whip up some devices to help you fool the doctor.”
I thought about how all their inventions seemed to explode or catch fire. I could just picture myself in Dr. Scrivella’s office with flames shooting out of my ears. “That’s okay. I’ll get through it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Mr. Murphy said. He got up from the bench, and we headed back toward the Civil War Veterans’ Social Club.
“Can you tell me anything else about my mission?” I asked.
“Not yet. Just be prepared. We’ll probably have to spring into action on short notice. But anything we can do to stop RABID will be worth the effort. Whatever they’re planning, I’m sure it’s unpleasant.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Until then, we’ll meet each evening to continue your training.”
“At BUM headquarters?” I asked.
Mr. Murphy shook his head. “Absolutely not. Patterns are deadly in the spy business. I’ll get a message to you.”
“Oh, great. Try not to burn my house down. Okay?”
“For a young boy, you really have no sense of adventure,” Mr. Murphy said.
I have no sense of lots of stuff.
When we got back to BUM, Dr. Cushing met us. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Badly,” Mr. Murphy said.
“Oh, Peter, don’t be so hard on the boy. Give him some time to get used to all of this,” she said.
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Mr. Murphy said. He walked off.
Dr. Cushing gave me a hug. That took me by surprise, but it was sort of nice. “Don’t feel bad,” she said after she’d stepped back. “It’s his job to be hard on you. It’s also his job to keep you alive.”
“Alive?” I asked.
She smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Sort of.” But I still felt pretty bad.
I took the elevator to East Craven, then walked home. I was skinny enough that I could shimmy up the drainpipe to the garage roof without any trouble. At least I managed to sneak back to my room without being spotted. I stayed there until it was time to get up for school.
I had to be careful not to go downstairs too early. It isn’t natural for a kid my age to be awake and alert before the sun comes up. Sometimes, I pretended to be asleep in the morning so Mom could wake me. This morning, even if I had been asleep for real, her scream would have gotten me right out of bed.
5
MP Free
As I ran downstairs, I heard a crash and a second scream. Mom was standing by the kitchen sink, staring at the floor. Her favorite mug—in the shape of a bear with the words STUFFY WUFFY WUVS ITS WORKERS on its belly in pink—was shattered on the floor. A steaming puddle of water spread out from the pieces, flowing around a soggy tea bag and a dark, slimy blotch.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Mom nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scream. I got startled by this.” She shuddered as she pointed at the goop.
“I’ll take care of it.” I grabbed a handful of sheets from the paper towel roll and started to mop up the spill.
“Don’t get cut!” Mom said.
“I’ll be careful.”
The blotch looked like the same goop I’d seen in the shower. I told Mom how it had dripped out of the showerhead yesterday.
Mom fanned the air in front of her face and wrinkled her nose. “How can you stand that awful smell?”
Smell? I hadn’t even thought about that. I took a small sniff. Ick. It was like a combination of an open sewer on a sunny day and a sweaty T-shirt that had been stuck under a bed for a whole year. And maybe just a touch of cheese.
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s pretty bad.”
“That does it.” She grabbed the phone book from the top of the fridge. “I’m calling a plumber.”
I’d hoped to take another shot at convincing her I didn’t need a doctor’s appointment, but this didn’t seem like a good time for that. It looked like she’d be on the phone for a while. All the plumbers she called were busy. I poured myself some cereal. Mostly, I shook the box and made noise, but I let some flakes fall into the bowl. Then I added milk and went to the table. I hurried through my pretend breakfast, then grabbed my backpack and left for school.
When I got there, I told Abiga
il and Mookie, “I have a real problem.”
“That’s awful,” Mookie said. “But I bet this will cheer you up. Look what I got!” He held up a white plastic stick about the size of a five-pack of chewing gum. It had a small display screen at the top, and a couple buttons.
I realized he wouldn’t listen to my problem until he finished showing us whatever it was he had. “What is it?”
“It’s an iClotz. My mom won it,” he said. “It’s like the most awesome music player ever made. Isn’t it cool?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” I tried to sound excited, but I was pretty sure whatever he was holding would turn out to be the opposite of awesome. Mookie’s mom was always winning stuff, but it was never the sort of stuff you’d want to win. Last summer, she’d won a year’s supply of frozen anchovies. As far as I was concerned, one anchovy was more than a year’s supply. And then there was that fried pizza jacket.
“Where are the headphones?” Abigail asked. “I don’t see anywhere to plug them in.”
“The good ones don’t use headphones. This has a miniature speaker system built right in so you can share the music with your friends. Check it out.” Mookie shoved it in her face, then held it up to mine.
I could see a bunch of tiny holes in the bottom half, and something round and shiny behind them. “Nice. Real nice. So let’s hear it.”
“I don’t have any music for it yet.”
“Can’t you download some?” Abigail asked.
“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” Mookie said.
“So how does it work?” she asked. “Is it wireless? That would be awesome.”
“Even better. Watch.” Mookie walked over to where Shawna Lanchester and her friends were listening to a radio and dancing. They glared at him, but I don’t think he even noticed. He pushed a button on his iClotz, then held it next to the radio. He stayed there for a moment, swaying to the music, then came back.
“Listen to this.” He pushed another button.
I heard the same music that was just playing on the radio. “So it records music? That’s how you get songs?”
Mookie nodded. “I can put any piece of music in the whole world on it—as long as it’s playing somewhere. I can choose from billions of different songs. How cool is that?”
“Just amazing. Do you have anything else you need to show us?” I asked.
“Nope. This is awesome enough all by itself. This is giga-awesome.”
“You sure you’re all done?”
“Positive,” Mookie said. “Did you have something cool to show us, too?”
“I wish.” I told them about my appointment with Dr. Scrivella.
“We’ll figure something out,” Abigail said.
“You mean you’ll figure something out,” Mookie said. “You come up with all the ideas.”
Abigail started to say something, then shrugged and said, “True.”
“Hey,” Mookie said. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m wrong. I have good ideas. Lots of them. I’m the one who figured out Nathan could win money at eating contests.”
“And how exactly did that turn out?” I asked him.
“It worked out great,” he said. “I got a whole bag of candy. Remember?”
“I’m still trying to forget,” I said.
“Face it,” Abigail said. “Your ideas don’t make things easier for Nathan.”
“They will. Maybe I’ll even find a cure for him. As a matter of fact, I’m doing important scientific research,” Mookie said.
“You? Research? Science?” Abigail snorted. “How?”
I guess the news reduced her to single-word sentences.
“Sure, make fun of me,” Mookie said. “But I’ve been watching every single zombie movie ever made. Even the bad ones. The answers to all of Nathan’s problems are in them somewhere.”
“That’s not science,” Abigail said.
Mookie laughed. “That’s exactly what they told the Mad Doctor of Zombie Gulch. But he showed them who the real scientist was when he brought all the dead cattle back to life.”
“Agh!” Abigail screamed. “I give up!”
“Cool,” Mookie said. “That means I win.”
“Fine. Great. You win. Let’s get back to the problem.
What was your last appointment like?” Abigail asked.
“What did the doctor do?”
“The nurse weighed me and measured my height,” I said.
“No problem there,” she said. “Then the doctor listened to my lungs and heart,” I said.
“Problem,” Abigail said. “But a problem is nothing more than an opportunity to be creative. I’m sure I can find a solution.”
“That would be excellent.” I could picture myself in the examining room. The lung part wouldn’t make Dr. Scrivella suspicious. I can breathe when I want to. So I could take a deep breath when he asked me. I’d probably also have to pretend to flinch when he pressed the cold stethoscope against my chest. I think he enjoyed that part. But when he tried to listen to my heart, I’d be in trouble.
“Hey—he’ll probably take your temperature and check your pulse, too,” Abigail said. “Doctors usually check for a fever before giving a shot.”
“Temperature and pulse?” I realized Abigail was right. “That’s two more things I don’t have. This is awful.”
“This is great.” Abigail grinned at me. “It looks like I have a lot to figure out. Yay!”
She asked me a bunch of questions, like what kind of thermometer Dr. Scrivella used, and whether he checked my eyes. I guess, for her, having problems to solve was a real treat. She was almost skipping when we headed to home base.
Mookie held up his iClotz again when we reached our classroom. “You don’t even need to record a whole bunch of songs, or even a whole song,” he said, “because it can repeat stuff.”
He put it against my ear, treating me to the same small sample of music over and over until we took our seats.
All morning, Abigail stared at the ceiling. She even got lectured by Ms. Otranto for not paying attention in social studies. She didn’t seem to care.
While Abigail was doing her deep thinking, I tested my ability to stare at people without being noticed. I tried it in class and in the halls. It really worked. Nobody turned around. On the way to science class, I gave it the biggest possible test. I got right behind Ferdinand, who is pretty much afraid of everything, and stared at him as hard as I could. He had no idea I was there.
“Stare at Ferdinand,” I whispered to Mookie.
“Okay. I’m a great starer.” He aimed his gaze at the back of Ferdinand’s neck.
Mookie might as well have been firing spitballs. Ferdinand spun toward us and looked around wildly. Fear flashed across his face until he realized it was only Mookie—and not someone like Rodney—behind him.
All through science class, I watched Abigail. It must be amazing to have a mind like hers. She was the smartest person I’d ever met. Except maybe for Dr. Cushing. And if Abigail was this smart now, I couldn’t imagine what she’d be like when she was Dr. Cushing’s age.
Abigail didn’t let me down. When we were leaving math, which we have right after science in the same room, she spun toward me. “Exothermic reactions!” She grinned like she’d just discovered gold.
“Abracadabra!” Mookie shouted.
I stared at him.
“I thought we were shouting weird stuff,” he said. “That seemed like a good choice.”
“Not stuff. The solution. This is so perfect.” Abigail grabbed my arm. “An exothermic reaction is one that produces heat. Do you see?”
“Maybe . . .” I glanced at Mookie. He was as lost as I was.
Abigail pointed to the closet where Ms. Delambre kept the supplies. “All we have to do is get the proper combination of chemicals that will heat up to a normal body temperature. You mix them in your mouth right before your doctor takes your temperature.”
“That sounds dangerous,” I said.
“No, it doesn’
t,” Mookie said. “It sounds totally cool.”
“It will be perfectly safe,” Abigail said. “We’re lucky your doctor is old-fashioned. I have no idea what we’d do if he used an ear thermometer.”
“Chemicals made me into a zombie,” I said.
“These are different chemicals,” Abigail said. “Trust me, Nathan. I know what I’m doing.”
I looked at the closet. “Can you get some of those chemicals here?”
Abigail shook her head. “I doubt it. They probably don’t keep dangerous chemicals around fifth-graders.”
“I thought you just told me it wasn’t dangerous.”
“Not if you’re careful,” Abigail said. “Look, I can find what I need at the college.”
“How are you going to get in there?” I asked.
“I’ve been helping a couple students with their chemistry homework. And I still have a copy of Uncle Zardo’s key. I’ll run some tests as soon as we get out of school. Come over after dinner. I should be all set by then.”
“I’ll come, too,” Mookie said. “Just in case something explodes. You’ll need me to help pick up the pieces. I’ll bring a big trash bag.”
“Nothing is going to explode,” I said.
But, of course, all through recess, Mookie kept walking behind me and shouting, “Boom!”
Then, he shouted into his iClotz and set it on repeat.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
“Hey, it’s a boom box!” He seemed to think that was especially funny.
Since I’d already come close to blowing up once before, I didn’t really share his amusement. He also made it impossible for me to even try practicing following anyone. Add Mookie’s clumsiness and his booms to my stumbling, and it was hopeless.
“I’m just a total failure,” I told Abigail when we headed in for lunch. “And it’s really killing me.”
“You need to choose your words more carefully,” she said. “But it’s not that big a deal. You just had a problem with one thing.”
“But it was an important thing. I feel awful.”
“I guess I can understand that,” she said. “It feels especially bad because you aren’t used to failing.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve messed up at all kinds of stuff for as long as I can remember.” Some highlights—or maybe they were lowlights—from my life flicked through my brain. I saw sports disasters and social humiliation, along with a bucket full of classroom catastrophes.
