Kid Normal

by Greg James

  There we go. It doesn’t sound anything like a fast-forward, but didn’t it feel great?

  Anyway, Your Majesty, in many ways, we’re back to where we were a few pages ago, but this time, crucially, we know how the evil Nektar came to be. And you are now in charge of all poodles. Congratulations. You may read on.

  7

  A School for Heroes

  As the day wore on, it became clear to Murph that the story of his dramatic announcement in the CT lesson had spread through The School like wildfire; people were passing it on faster than head lice. And yet, despite this newfound fame, Murph felt very alone. This should have been a pretty normal feeling for him. At his last school he’d spent a lot of time on his own, and after a while the other kids had more or less left him to it. But being alone at The School was an entirely new experience, because here, nobody would stop staring at him.

  Even in a school full of weirdos who can inflate their own heads, I’M the outcast, he thought to himself glumly.

  He didn’t even feel like he could call on his new pal Mary, because, for all he knew, she might want to distance herself too, now that he’d revealed he wasn’t a skimmer like her. A couple of times he’d seen her walking his way with a determined expression, but he was so embarrassed that he’d kept his head down and managed to avoid her.

  Murph’s presence at The School seemed to be a constant topic of conversation, and during the day—whether between classes, at break time, lunchtime, any time really—there was constant side-eyeing and whispering. He pretended it wasn’t about him and tried to ignore it, but that was easier said than done. Particularly when some people decided to confront him directly during an otherwise uneventful math class.

  “How did you even end up here, Kid Normal?” asked TV exploder Timothy aggressively.

  Murph shook his head, wishing he had a decent answer. He couldn’t face embarrassing himself even more by telling the lame truth again. After math, the class shuffled along to their next period, everybody avoiding Murph as if he had three heads, all of which had chicken pox.

  But before they could reach the next classroom, the ax that had been hovering over Murph’s head for the last hour fell. “Who’s Cooper?” a voice shouted.

  Murph looked up. Two much older students were coming down the hallway toward him.

  Now what? he thought.

  They were impressive-looking creatures, a boy and a girl. The boy was handsome, dressed in a cool jacket; the girl was wearing sunglasses and had long, straight black hair. Murph noticed she was fiddling with some sort of phone with a green light on it, but she put it away as she approached the class.

  “Cooper?” she repeated. “Which one’s Cooper?”

  There was no need for him to answer. Everyone else had retreated, leaving him on his own in the middle of the hallway like a sad island.

  “Come on,” said the wavy-haired boy, “headmaster’s office.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb and marched off.

  The others, who were watching from a distance, started mumbling as Murph was ushered away. “Do you think he’s in for it?” someone whispered. “Back to normal school for Kid Normal,” said another voice as he turned the corner. “What’s going to happen to him?” someone else asked. The whole class was quietly simmering with nosey excitement and speculation as he trudged off.

  This is it, thought Murph as he shuffled down the corridor. At least he could claim the world record for Shortest Stay Ever at a Weird School for Weirdos. He suddenly felt frustrated he would never get to know more: he was bewildered by it all, sure, but this school was the most interesting place he’d been in ages. And much like you’d do before leaving for the airport at the end of a vacation, he took one last fond look at his surroundings before they were just a surreal memory.

  They headed past classrooms where the next classes were just beginning. He could hear teachers’ voices, and as he passed one room there was a loud bang and a gasp from his soon-to-be-ex-classmates. The old janitor hurried down the hallway with a fire extinguisher and looked at Murph quizzically. Murph noticed the name “Carl” written on the white embroidered patch on his blue overalls.

  “Just in case,” Carl shouted over his shoulder, barging through the classroom door with the extinguisher at the ready.

  After a while, Murph’s two companions stopped to give him his final directions. “Straight down the main hall to the end and up the stairs. It’s the round part that looks out over the soccer fields. You know it?”

  Murph had indeed noticed a turret-like structure tacked onto the edge of what were otherwise pretty conventional-looking school buildings, and he began climbing cheerlessly to the top of it.

  Slightly out of breath, Murph arrived outside Mr. Souperman’s study. He found himself in a small, cluttered waiting area lined with bookcases. The tops of these bookcases held a selection of rather strange ornaments. There were a few carved wooden animals, but Murph also noticed what looked like a shark’s jawbone and a black metal dial that could have come from an old-fashioned airplane. A yellowing poster showing a snowy mountaintop was tacked to the wall, beside a black-and-white photograph of a large waterfall.

  It was as though he’d wandered into a junk shop by mistake, but he didn’t say that to the old lady who was sitting at a desk in the middle of all the clutter. It would have been rude. Instead he gave the international noise for “Please stop tapping at your laptop and look at me”—which sounds exactly like a small, nervous cough.

  The lady stopped tapping at her laptop and looked up at him. She had fluffy white hair that made her head look like someone had smeared it with glue and rolled it in cotton wool. (But you shouldn’t do that to old ladies; it’s cruel.) Her eyes, set inside deltas of wrinkles, were very bright and seemed kind.

  “Hi,” she said to Murph simply.

  “Hello,” replied Murph, “I’m here to see . . . you know . . .”

  “Mr. Souperman? He won’t be a minute. It’s Murph, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Have a seat for a bit, why don’t you?” Murph looked around and saw a row of hard plastic stools in front of one of the bookcases. Once he was uncomfortably seated, an uncomfortable silence grew, just to add to the general air of uncomfort.

  The lady with white hair, whose name was Flora, by the way, although she hasn’t told us that yet, didn’t go back to her typing—instead she gazed at Murph intently as he balanced on his plastic perch like the world’s unluckiest gnome.

  “Well, you’re one for the books, aren’t you?” she said after a moment.

  Murph only raised his eyebrows in reply.

  “How did you manage to end up here, I wonder?” she went on absently, almost to herself.

  She smiled at him, and her kind face crinkled up like a friendly, crumpled bag of chips—and suddenly Murph was telling her everything. His mom’s job, the friends he missed, the awful new house: it all came spilling out. As he spoke, he realized that he’d wanted to say a lot of this out loud to his mom for a long time. But he’d been keeping it bottled up, as he knew she felt guilty enough as it was. But now he just couldn’t help himself. This nice, grandma-ish lady had appeared, and he let it rip.

  “And now that they’ve found out I don’t have one of these dumb ‘Capabilities,’ I suppose they’re going to throw me out,” he finished.

  For a nightmarish moment, Murph thought he might be about to cry, but he’d become an expert at cutting that feeling off and pulled himself together just in time. The white-haired lady smiled at him again.

  “Well, you’re quite the worrier, aren’t you? But it always helps to have a chat about it, I find.” She inclined her head respectfully. “Picking the right people to share your worries with—that’s the important bit. These things have a way of coming out in the wash anyway,” she went on, which is the sort of thing that older ladies often say.

  In fact, it was a favorite saying of Murph’s grandma, though he hardly ever got to hear her say it because they’d had to move so far away.


  “My name’s Flora, by the way,” confirmed Flora. “You’ll usually find me here outside the headmaster’s office—so if you feel it’s all getting on top of you, you come and let me know, all right? I’m here to listen if you need me. I’ll go and see if he’s ready.” Flora gave him a reassuring wink and disappeared through the headmaster’s office door.

  Even though he was still convinced he was about to be told to find a new school, Murph had started to feel about 2 percent better, which was a significant improvement on the last few weeks and took him to a grand total of 5 percent. But it had been good to talk to someone about it all, he realized.

  He sighed and prepared himself as Flora came back out of the office and gestured to him encouragingly. When he stepped inside, Flora nodded kindly, shuffled out and closed the door behind her.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Cooper, come in, come in,” said the headmaster, ushering Murph over to his desk and striding across to a window, which he’d decided to stare out of in order to appear more impressive. Murph just thought he was being odd, and as he didn’t have a face to look at, his gaze wandered around the room, taking in his surroundings.

  The office was round, with large picture windows on all sides overlooking the fields at the back of The School and the patch of woods behind them. In between the windows was a series of framed pictures of a much younger Mr. Souperman in a tight-fitting red costume. One showed him shaking hands with a lady with puffy hair in a neat blue suit outside a black door with a number ten on it. In another, he was holding a small kitten and looking very pleased with himself. A third showed him with his hands on his hips, one foot planted on what appeared to be a gigantic unconscious clown. A collapsed and scorched circus tent smoldered in the background.

  Mr. Souperman spun around and saw Murph staring. “Party Animal, he called himself. Catchphrase: ‘It’s my party and you’ll die if I want you to.’ Nasty piece of work. Do have a seat.”

  Murph sank into one of three comfortable leather chairs that were arranged in front of the large wooden desk. The desk was bare except for a phone that looked very much like the one the girl with sunglasses had been using—but it wasn’t a model Murph recognized. Mr. Souperman turned away from him again and gazed out over the grounds.

  “I expect this all seems a little strange to you, Mr. Cooper.”

  Murph nodded, thinking privately that the word “strange” didn’t even begin to cover it.

  “You and your, ah, charming mother have stumbled across a school that is not for ordinary children.”

  This is it, thought Murph. This is where they call Mom and get her to pick me up, and we start Operation School Search all over again.

  “But, after much deliberation, I have decided that I will allow you to stay with us for the time being. After all, a touch of outside perspective might help our little community,” blustered Mr. Souperman. Murph had no idea what was going on—but he kept his mouth shut, which was a tactic that had often served him well.

  At this point Mr. Souperman turned back around once more to face him. His arms seemed to be bulging more than usual underneath his gray jacket. It looked as if his biceps might make a bid for freedom at any moment.

  “I just need to know,” he said, fixing Murph with a steely gaze, “that we can count on your discretion.”

  Based on the earlier “flying” episode, which got him into this sticky pudding of a problem to begin with, Murph thought it would be best to ask for clarity: “When you say ‘discretion,’ what exactly are we talking about?”

  Mr. Souperman picked up a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the windowsill and drained it. It had gone cold and tasted disgusting, but he hid it well.

  “I mean . . . ,” Murph continued, “do you mean that if I accidentally let slip a couple of things about what goes on at this school to my mom, you’ll be slightly miffed?”

  “Not quite, Mr. Cooper,” replied Mr. Souperman with a raise of an eyebrow and a ripple of an arm.

  “Or is it more like ‘Don’t, under any circumstances, breathe a word to anyone about the secret school or you’ll be killed’?” suggested Murph.

  “HA HA!” replied Mr. Souperman, banging a hand on his desk and denting it. The smile suddenly vanished from his face. “Yes, the latter.” He seemed to relent slightly. “Well, probably not killed,” he added kindly, “but certainly, um . . . well, as I say, I’m sure we can count on your discretion.”

  There was a silence as if they’d both forgotten their lines in a terrible school play. Murph volunteered the start of one. “I—”

  He was cut off immediately. It wasn’t his turn to speak.

  “Cooper. It’s perfectly simple. Do not tell anyone outside of The School about The School. Do you understand?”

  There was a crunching noise as Mr. Souperman absentmindedly crushed his coffee cup into a fine powder with one hand, before pouring the remains into the trash. Murph thought he got the message.

  8

  The Ultra Spoon

  Ribbon Robotics headquarters was situated on the outskirts of the town, at the edge of a large and mostly deserted industrial park. The company’s founder had chosen it deliberately because it was so isolated; Arabella Ribbon had been developing a range of combat drones, which she was hoping to sell to the army.

  Her grand idea was that her flying robots could be sent out onto the battlefield to fight instead of soldiers, communicating with one another like electronic insects. But of course Arabella Ribbon wasn’t in charge any more. And in the six months since she had disappeared, company policy had changed.

  On the top floor of the Ribbon Robotics head quarters was a long, bright room that Arabella had used to hold meetings. But in the large leather chair she used to occupy at one end of the room, there now sat a repulsive-looking creature. Once he had been a young robotics engineer called Clive Meeke. But he was using a different name these days.

  “All hail Nektar!” proclaimed his servant, whose name was Gary, entering the room carrying a tray loaded with sweet fizzy drinks.

  In fact, Gary wasn’t really a servant; he was a student who’d been sent to Ribbon Robotics on an internship placement. He was supposed to be spending three months learning how a real working robotics factory operated. Instead, on his first day, he’d been ushered into Nektar’s presence, which had been quite a shock. But when a man who appears to be half wasp announces that you are now his personal servant, it’s probably just as well to agree.

  Bright sunshine streamed through the windows that lined the length of the boardroom. Nektar’s bulbous black eyes seemed to greedily suck in the sight of the brightly colored cans of drink, and he reached out a long-fingered hand and selected one. He opened it and held it up at chest height.

  Gary tried not to look too repulsed as a long, flexible tongue flopped out of Nektar’s mouth and began to slurp at the sickly sweet liquid. It was truly gross.

  “All-powerful Nektar,” began Gary, swallowing back a small globule of vomit that had forced its way up to the back of his throat, “the applicants are waiting in the antechamber whenever you are ready to receive them.”

  For Nektar, taking over the robotics factory had just been the start. He was simply buzzing with evil schemes, and now he’d decided to appoint a second-in-command to help implement them.

  Of course, most of the staff at the factory weren’t aware they were now working for the product of a hideously botched experiment that had fused the brain waves and DNA of a man with those of a wasp. They’d probably have complained to Human Resources about it. No, they thought they still worked for the haughty and unavailable Arabella Ribbon, who’d never been much of a mingler at the best of times and now seemed to be more reclusive than ever. But a few carefully chosen members of staff knew the truth, and it was from these select few that he was going to pick his head henchperson.

  Apart from anything else, Nektar had thought, making them go through a stressful interview would completely take up the middle of their day. And if there’s one thing th
at wasps love, it’s spoiling people’s lunch.

  “Should I send them through to the boardroom?” asked Gary.

  “Not yet!” snapped Nektar in his petulant, reedy, buzzing voice. “Go through to the antechamber and I shall summon them when I am ready.”

  By now his long, hollow tongue was getting to the end of the first can of soda, and it made that horrible plughole noise as it slurped up the last drops. Gary’s cheeks bulged. He bowed and left the room.

  Nektar waited for a few seconds, then leaned forward to the intercom on the desk in front of him. He pressed the button.

  “Are you in the antechamber yet, Gary?” There was silence.

  Nektar snapped open another can of soda. He tried to wait patiently and lasted about three seconds.

  “Gary!” he shouted, jabbing the intercom button again.

  “Yes, all-powerful Nektar?” said the intern kid. His voice was distorted by the speaker, but he still sounded like he’d just been sick in a potted plant.

  “Send the candidates through to the boardroom, would you?” buzzed Nektar. He leaned back in his chair like a great, sugar-crazed loon. This ought to be fun, he thought.

  After a moment, three people trooped through the double doors and stood at the other end of the room. Each placed an object covered with a white cloth on the table in front of them.

  Two of the candidates—a woman and a man—were dressed in white lab coats. The third, a pale man with a pointed nose and carefully arranged hair, was wearing a slick suit and very shiny black shoes that ended in sharp points. They were the sort of shoes you should never trust. He brushed some dust off his chair before sitting down carefully, pulling at the front of his pants so as not to spoil their creases. The other two looked nervous, fiddling with the files they’d brought in with them, but he gazed coolly at Nektar and waited politely for him to begin speaking.

  “Welcome, my trusted servants,” began Nektar. “As you know, I have decided to honor one of you with a very special opportunity.” He broke off and sucked ravenously at his can of soda. “But this job can only go to one who is worthy. Who among you can impress me enough to become my head henchman? Person! Henchperson!” he corrected himself quickly, seeing the female candidate bristling. Even a giant wasp needs to know where to draw the line. “Who wants to go first?”