by Gary Urey
I squirmed, twitched, and convulsed, trying to keep from busting up.
Principal Cyrano looked at me, raised one eyebrow.
“Andy, is there something wrong with you?”
“He’s practicing a new dance we learned in gym class,” Jimmy said, coming to my rescue.
“It’s called the Hamster Twist. Let’s show him.”
All the guys in the bathroom started bopping around like wild chimps. Except for TJ, who was still running his hand under the tap, moaning over the hamster bite.
“That’s enough, boys,” Principal Cyrano ordered. “Get to lunch. Now.”
When the coast was clear, I plucked Dumpster from my pants and handed him back to Jimmy.
“Schnoz, you’re all right,” Jimmy said. “I owe you one.”
Inside, I beamed. Finally, my nose was good for something other than making people laugh.
6
COMIC BOOK CLUB
The halls were buzzing the first week of December. Not because of the upcoming Christmas vacation, but because we could sign up for winter after-school clubs. Outside the front office was a big table filled with registration forms for all the different activities.
For the kindergartners and first graders there was Play Dough Club, karate, Reading Club, and Lego Construction Club. The second and third graders got to pick from Drama Club, origami, dance, Gym Games, and Science Club. Fourth and fifth graders chose from Magic Club, Technology Club, Knitting Club, Choir, Fitness Club, or Comic Book Club.
Before school I hovered around the sign-up table, waiting my turn to register. The line was huge. My bus was late, so I ended up in the very back. I really wanted to be in Magic Club. A rumor was going around that members learned how to yank a rabbit out of a hat. With my massive honker, I could hide a rabbit in each nostril and blow everyone’s mind!
By the time I made it to the table, all but two clubs were full: Knitting Club and Comic Book Club.
My heart sank. I wasn’t into knitting or comics. Still, I grabbed a Comic Book Club registration and took it home for my mom to sign.
The following Monday after school was the first day of clubs. Comic Book Club met once a week in Mr. Colby’s room. He was a third-grade teacher and coached the junior varsity basketball team at the high school. When I tramped into the room, only three other kids were there—Jimmy, TJ, and Mumps.
“Well, if ain’t Schnoz,” Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair, dirty sneakers propped on the desk.
“I hope you like comics,” TJ said to me. “We take this club very serious.”
“Super serious,” Mumps added.
The guys had stopped teasing me as much after the hamster incident. Sure, they still called me Schnoz—everyone did—and occasionally Booger Beak, but it wasn’t in a mean way like before. We weren’t exactly friends or anything, but I was definitely no longer their enemy.
Mr. Colby walked into the room and welcomed us to Comic Book Club. He explained that we’d be reading comics, talking about comics, and writing and drawing our own comics. He pulled out a box from underneath his desk. “I brought these old comics from when I was a kid.”
We rummaged through the box. It was filled with comics I had never heard of before—Archie, Jughead, Betty and Veronica, Richie Rich, Chip ’n’ Dale. From the looks on the other guys’ faces, they hadn’t heard of them either.
Have fun with these comics,” Mr. Colby said. “Richie Rich was my all-time favorite.”
While Jimmy, TJ, and Mumps huddled in the back, I spent the rest of Comic Book Club reading some of Mr. Colby’s comics.
He was right. Richie Rich was really good.
“Forget this wimpy stuff,” I heard Jimmy say. “The next time we meet, I want to read about real superheroes.”
A minute later, Mr. Colby dismissed us. I had no idea what Jimmy meant by real superheroes, but the possibilities made my nostrils flare.
7
SUPER SCHNOZ
The next time Comic Book Club met, we had a new member—Vivian Ramirez. She was wearing all black as usual.
“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked. “Shouldn’t you be in the Vampire Lovers Club?”
“Or knitting,” Mumps added.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Vivian said. “For your information, I love comics. I wasn’t here on the first day was because I had a dentist appointment.”
Mr. Colby walked into the room. He was carrying another big cardboard box.
“Vivian!” Mr. Colby said enthusiastically. “I was hoping you’d show up. You’re so talented in art. I can’t wait to see what comics you come up with.”
“Hello, Mr. Colby,” Vivian replied. I was starting to notice that all the teachers loved her, from Mrs. Field to Ms. Thurston and now Mr. Colby.
Spread out on a table next Mr. Colby’s desk were drawing pads, colored pencils, and the stack of Archie and Richie Rich comics. He instructed us to grab a pad and pencils.
“Your comic books are only limited by your imaginations,” Mr. Colby said. “I want you to think about the story first. Plan it out frame by frame, then start drawing.”
“What’s in the box?” Jimmy asked.
“Well, I started thinking. Although I enjoyed comics like Archie and Richie Rich back when I was a kid, they weren’t the most popular. I remember most of my friends liking the ones about superheroes. I still had money left in the budget and got a good deal at Sonic’s Used Comics downtown.”
Mr. Colby dumped the contents of the box onto the table. Vivian, Jimmy, Mumps, and TJ gushed at what was inside. Dozens of old comic books—Batman, Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, Flash, Thor, X-Men, Captain America, Silver Surfer, and a bunch of others I had never heard of before. I could tell by their tattered covers and low price that they were ancient. Some of them were as cheap as twenty-five cents!
“These are great, Mr. Colby,” Vivian said.
“Awesome!” Mumps said. “Thanks.”
“All of my favorites,” TJ said. “The golden age of comics. When men had real superpowers—full body elasticity, super strength, mind control, vaporizing beams.”
“And don’t forget about the superheroines,” Vivian said. “Wonder Woman, Super Girl, She-Hulk, and the Invisible Woman could kick some serious butt.”
Mr. Colby smiled. “You can work alone or in teams. Understand?”
We nodded.
“Good. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.” Mr. Colby sat down, grabbed a Richie Rich comic, and started reading. Vivian started sketching on her pad right away. Jimmy, Mumps, and TJ grabbed a stack of Fantastic Four comics and went back to their desks. I browsed through the collection, trying to find one I liked. One called Generation X caught my attention.
“Generation X is a spin-off of the X-Men published by Marvel way back in the nineties,” Vivian said. “It’s about a gang of mutant teenagers.”
“Wow,” Jimmy said to Vivian. “You really know a lot about comics.”
“I’ll show you my collection someday,” she said. “I even have an old Barbie Batgirl doll still in its box. It’s worth almost a hundred dollars.”
While Vivian and Jimmy discussed the value of comic book memorabilia, I picked up a few issues of Generation X and went back to my desk. Before long, I found a character named Skin I could identify with. He possessed an extra six feet of skin that could stretch. Because of the extra skin, he looked like a melted crayon and people made fun of him.
Kind of like me and my nose.
I picked up a pencil and started doodling. I thought the art wasn’t very good, but my idea for a comic was genius. It would be about me and my nose, fighting crime and saving the world from the forces of evil.
The first sketch was of a kid that looked like me with a huge nose. He wore a cape, a mask, pointy boots, and tights. When I finished the sketch, I tried to think of a name for my superhero—Nose Boy, the Head Honker, the Mighty Mucus Maker, the Schnozinator. None of them sounded quite right. I scooted from my desk and walked to the pencil sharp
ener at the front of the room. That’s when Jimmy sat up and checked out my drawing.
“This is great!” he said. “TJ, Mumps, check it out.”
TJ and Mumps wandered over and howled with laughter.
“A superhero with a huge nose,” Jimmy said.
“It looks just like Schnoz.”
“Give that back,” I said, slightly miffed. I had just started drawing and wasn’t ready to share it with anyone.
“Schnoz, you have to let me work on this with you,” Mumps said. “It’s a great idea.”
“Way better than the one we’re working on,” TJ said. “I want to help too.”
“Me three,” Jimmy said. “We’ll call the comic…Super Schnoz!”
8
JANNA, THE SORCERESS OF ALTHORIA
The guys and I spent the entire nine weeks of Comic Book Club drawing Super Schnoz. Since Vivian knew so much about comics and was such a good artist, we asked her to help us. She refused and worked on her own comic.
We divided the Super Schnoz comic duties. Jimmy and I came up with the story. TJ and Mumps were the artists. The first part of Super Schnoz was about his origin. I suggested the true story of my nose; the doctor mixing up my mom’s prenatal vitamins with a steroid for nasal congestion, but the guys said it wasn’t dramatic enough. We came up with a tale of how when Michael Mitchell (the future Super Schnoz) was a fetus, his nuclear scientist father accidently exposed him to toxic waste. The nuclear contact rearranged his molecules and caused Schnoz’s nose to grow.
Super Schnoz also has the power of flight and fire. He can fly around and shoot nuclear-fueled, boogery flames from his nose. Super Schnoz learns from a mysterious old man who owns a crystal shop that the evil Doctor Diabolical is responsible for Schnoz’s parents’ death over a decade ago. Super Schnoz is rabid for revenge.
Doctor Diabolical kidnaps the president’s wife and threatens to kill her if the U.S. government doesn’t pay a ransom of fifty billion dollars. He destroys the Empire State Building, the subway system, and most of lower Manhattan. His minions ravage the city, looting and impaling innocent victims on street signs. The president calls on Super Schnoz to rescue his wife and destroy the doctor. After an epic showdown in Central Park, Super Schnoz kills the doctor and his minions with a blast from his atomic nose. The president’s wife is safe and Super Schnoz becomes a national hero.
“I love it!” Mr. Colby exclaimed when he finished reading. “The drawings and story are excellent. I especially like how you named Doctor Diabolical’s second-in-command after me. Great job, boys. Good teamwork.”
Vivian’s comic blew us all away. Her artwork was amazing. It was full-color and looked like she had just bought it from a store. The title was the Unicorn Avenger starring Janna, the Sorceress of Althoria. It was page after page of Janna riding a magical-winged unicorn and fighting the evil Bloborg and his army of zombie gargoyles. The three main gargoyles—Klutzo, Mutzo, and Butzo—looked a lot like Jimmy, TJ, and Mumps.
“I’m speechless, Vivian,” Mr. Colby said. “Your work is stunning. Isn’t it, boys?”
We nodded.
“How did you come up with such an awesome story?” Jimmy asked.
Vivian shrugged. “Don’t know. It just popped into my head.”
“You’re a real artist,” TJ said. “Maybe you can work for Marvel or DC when you get older.”
Mr. Colby packed up his comic books. “You all are real artists,” he said. “I think all four of you have a real future in the superhero biz.”
“Maybe we can do a comic together,” Jimmy suggested. “We can team up Super Schnoz and Janna.”
“It’s just like that old issue of Batman when he teams up with Wonder Woman to find out who kidnapped Robin,” Mumps added.
“I’d love to,” Vivian said. “But I don’t think you could afford my fee. I’m pretty expensive.”
We all laughed and helped pack things up.
“Hey, Schnoz,” Jimmy said. “My birthday’s next weekend and I’m having a party. Want to come?”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound as chill as possible. But inside I was exploding with joy.
We had had so much fun together creating Super Schnoz, so I guess the invitation meant we were friends. And I hadn’t had a real friend since I moved to New Hampshire.
9
HOMER BY A NOSE
Jimmy’s birthday was on the seventeenth, St. Patrick’s Day. It was a pretty warm day for March. The snow was almost melted and tulip bulbs were popping out of the ground.
When my mom dropped me off in front of Jimmy’s house, I saw a familiar face sitting on the porch of a house directly across the street.
It was Vivian, dressed in all black.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Sitting on my porch,” she said. “What does it look like?”
“I didn’t know you and Jimmy were neighbors.
Are you coming to his party?”
“Can’t. I have a guitar lesson. I’m a bass player.” She stood up, zipped up her black windbreaker, and went into the house.
I bounded up the cement steps to Jimmy’s front door. Since I was holding his present with both hands, I rang the bell with the tip of my nose.
Jimmy’s mom answered the door. When she saw me standing there, her eyes grew as wide as paper plates. She just stared at my nose, like the gigantic appendage in the middle of my face was hypnotizing her or something.
“You must be…uh…Schn…I mean…Andy,” she said.
I nodded my nose and she invited me inside. Mumps and TJ were already there.
“Schnoz!” they yelled in unison.
Since baseball season was just around the corner, we went outside and played a couple games of wiffle ball. Jimmy and I played against TJ and Mumps. They beat us ten to one the first game because my giant nose kept messing up my swing. I struck out every time. The next game was more of the same, until Jimmy came up with an idea.
“Schnoz, they’re killing us by five runs and it’s only the third inning,” Jimmy said. “Ditch the bat and use your nose.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Use your nose as a bat. You might do better.”
I shrugged my shoulders and said okay. Jimmy had smacked a double into the weeds behind his house. It was my turn to hit. Mumps and TJ busted up laughing when they saw me standing there without a bat.
“Schnoz, don’t tell me you’re hitting with just your nose,” Mumps said.
“That’s exactly what he’s doing,” Jimmy announced.
“He’ll strike out for sure!” TJ shouted from the outfield.
“Just pitch,” I said. Mumps wound up and whizzed a zinger right past my honker. The rush of wind from the ball made my nostrils flare like a whale’s blowhole.
“Swing next time!” Jimmy yelled. “That was a perfect pitch!”
The next pitch came right for my nose. I closed my eyes and swung my honker with all my might. The ball cracked against my left nostril and flew into the air. TJ ran back to catch it, but slipped in the mud. The ball landed in the lawn next door. Jimmy scored and I rounded the bases for my first home run.
I hit four more dingers and we won the game eleven to seven. When it was time for cake, Jimmy carried me inside on his shoulders like we’d just won the Little League World Series.
10
HIDE-AND-SNIFF
My nose sometimes came in handy for things other than smelling, hitting home runs, and inspiring comic books. I also used it to block a teacher’s sight line when Jimmy, Mumps, or TJ wanted to sleep in class, draw comics instead of read, or just goof off. A simple flare of my nostrils was enough to keep at least one of my new friends hidden from view.
One day Mrs. Field pulled a pop quiz on us. It was about colonial history. Jimmy asked me to do something about it. I snorted a tablespoon of black pepper and sneezed so hard the fire alarms went off.
No pop quiz.
My special gift also created a new game on the
playground. Instead of hide-and-seek, we played hide-and-sniff. I was always the sniffer; my friends were the hiders. The game was simple. Kids smuggled gross things from home, hid them on school grounds, and I’d sniff them out. When I found everything, I determined the smelliest item and crowned a winner. That meant the fouler the stench, the better odds to win. Jimmy made a fortune taking bets.
Kids hid sandwich baggies full of fish guts, their dad’s smelly socks, cat litter clumps, used diapers, moldy mac and cheese, rotten leftover egg salad, and dozens of other malodorous mixtures meant to offend mere mortals.
But not me, I inhaled everything they threw at me.
Jimmy raised his bet-taking notebook in the air, “Schnoz has to find seven skanky things in less than ten minutes!” he shouted, “On your mark…get set…go!”
I was off. Nose to the ground, butt in the air, hot on the scent.
“Look at him go,” I heard TJ say. “That nose of his is amazing. He really does have a superpower!”
“Go, Super Schnoz!” Jimmy hollered.
The crowd picked up on Jimmy’s call. All I heard were shouts of “Super Schnoz! Super Schnoz! Super Schnoz!”
The first thing I dug up was the arch support for an old sneaker. It was stinky, but not nearly enough to win. The second item, which I sniffed out under the climbing wall, was a plastic bag filled with dog poop—definitely a contender.
I found the other five objects in quick succession. There was a maggoty hunk of decaying bologna under the teeter-totter, a partially decomposed roadkill chipmunk behind the backstop on the baseball field, a pair of skid-mark-stained underwear buried under a pile of leaves, a container of reeking pond scum wedged between two big rocks, and a clipping of greasy black hair stuffed in a thorny bush. A note attached claimed the hair was from Kenny Walters, the grimiest kid in school.
“Who’s the winner?” a third-grader asked when I joined the crowd. “I got all my lunch money on the dead chipmunk.”
