Kid Normal

by Greg James

  In the nick of time he stuffed the photograph back into the stack, on top of a picture of a smiling girl with long silvery hair, and grabbed his broom just as Carl appeared in the doorway.

  “Cup of tea, Captain?” the janitor asked.

  Murph composed himself, but found his voice coming out higher than usual—the universal indicator of guilt. “Yes, please.”

  “Right you are,” replied Carl. “Try not to start any more fires while I get the kettle on, eh? That’s a good kid.”

  15

  Heroes to Zeroes

  At Ribbon Robotics, Nicholas Knox was sitting in an extremely comfortable office chair. It was upholstered in the finest leather and shone almost as brightly as his shoes, which were tucked neatly underneath him. Above the desk in front of him were three enormous computer screens, each of them displaying a patchwork of different video feeds. His gray-blue eyes flicked across them, scanning for likely prey.

  Knox’s drones, formally Penny Percival’s drones—tiny robot wasps equipped with a camera—had been sent out far and wide, searching for people to control.

  He had tried gyms, army camps, universities—but Knox was not satisfied. You see, he was an ambitious man—but he was ambitious for all the wrong things, as most ambitious people are. He was the sort of person who would demand the most expensive thing on the menu whether he liked it or not. If you plunked a can of cold beans in a bowl but charged two hundred dollars for it, that’s what he’d want for lunch. So when it came to building his own private army of human servants—Nektar’s private army, Knox reminded himself, at least for now—it had to be made up of the very best recruits. He was looking for something . . . special.

  Knox reached forward with a long, mean-looking finger and tapped on one of the squares of video. It enlarged to focus on a military exercise going on in the hills on the outskirts of the town. Tough-looking soldiers were trekking up a slope with heavy backpacks, sweating despite the cold winter air.

  Knox sighed. He’d been tracking this unit for a few days now—they were training to join the army’s special elite forces and they seemed like the best. But somehow he still wasn’t satisfied. If he brainwashed these soldiers and used them to try and seize power—if Nektar used them, he reminded himself again, at least for now—they’d just be met by other soldiers, many more of them. It wasn’t going to be enough.

  He leaned forward and spoke into a microphone on the desk: “Drone 445, disengage. Track alternative targets.”

  There was a small, pleasing ping and the soldiers on the video became smaller and smaller as the robot wasp abandoned its spying mission and flew onward, searching for something more interesting to film.

  A few weeks on from his first day working alongside Carl, Murph had arrived at The School early as usual and taken up his customary position at the “early drop desk.” It was a miserable day outside, rain hammering down—one of those days where you’d actually sprint into school just to get dry. As he sat there shivering, Flora appeared with a cup of tea and a chessboard. She’d taken to dropping in on Murph at his early-morning position, and had been teaching him chess in between chats about how he was managing at The School.

  That morning, Flora was explaining what a “bare king” was as they waited for his friends to arrive. This usually happened in a very particular order.

  Billy was always late, and he always had an excuse. To be fair to him, it was normally because he’d accidentally inflated a part of his body to such a degree that he couldn’t get out of the house, let alone into his long-suffering mom’s car. Mary was always prompt, though Murph now knew that the first day they’d met was one of the last times she’d traveled into school via her yellow umbrella. Soon afterward, Mr. Flash had caught her on the sports fields, preparing to fly home, and had shouted at her for a full ten minutes.

  “ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF CAUGHT, YOU RIDICULOUS YELLOW CREATURE?” he’d bellowed, almost turning the umbrella inside out. “DO YOU WANT TO BRING THE CLEANERS DOWN ON US? NO. FLYING. OUTSIDE. MY. CLASSROOM!”

  Mary had walked to and from school after that, except on very cloudy and wet days, when she was confident she wouldn’t be seen by anyone, least of all Mr. Flash.

  After Mary, Hilda would be next, dropped off in her father’s old, green, but absolutely pristine Rolls Royce. It purred as it pulled up outside The School gates. It was the sort of car you’d imagine the queen to travel in, and Murph always found it odd that it was Hilda and not Her Majesty who jumped out, pigtails swinging, clasping a lunchbox—round-faced and rosy-cheeked Hilda, oblivious to everything around her. Even the rain. Just the very sight of her made Murph smile.

  That day was no exception. Mary was first as usual, dashing in out of the rain and flumphing her umbrella just as Flora was finishing her chess tutorial: “And that’s called a ‘bad bishop.’”

  “Right,” said Murph. “Bare king, bad bishop. Better than a bad king, I guess.”

  “Or a bare bishop, for that matter,” replied Flora. “Well, see you later.”

  Hilda came through the door at that moment, and she and Mary cornered Murph for an update on the mysterious photo he’d seen in Carl’s workshop.

  “Have you found out anything else about him? Do you think he used to be operational?” Hilda wanted to know. Despite Mr. Flash’s contempt for her horses and Mr. Drench’s refusal to say any more about his days as a Hero, she was still fascinated with the mysterious world of the Heroes’ Alliance.

  “I haven’t managed to find out anything else yet,” Murph said, “but I’m keeping my eyes open, don’t worry. How’s CT going, anyway? What’s Flash been doing now he hasn’t had a muffin to torch in weeks?”

  “Well, it’s all just P-CAT, P-CAT, P-CAT, nonstop,” said Mary, “but he still won’t tell us anything about it. He just says we’ll need our wits about us.”

  “I know it’s going to be awful,” said Billy in a panicky voice. He’d just puffed his way damply through the doors and caught the end of the conversation. “I heard some of the older kids laughing about it. Hero Day, they call it. I’m no Hero! I bet it’s some really scary tasks we have to do. It even sounds terrifying—P-CAT. Like a fierce alien robot cat. From space!” Billy was working himself up into a frenzy.

  “Calm down,” Hilda soothed him. “They’re not going to give us anything we can’t deal with.”

  Hilda, Mary, and Billy said goodbye to Murph and began heading off toward their CT lesson. Murph was just about to brave the weather and make his way down to Carl’s sheds when something caught his attention outside the rainy front windows of The School.

  A small figure darted across the schoolyard and disappeared into the coatroom, followed by five much larger figures.

  “What’s going on there?” Murph wondered out loud.

  “What did you say?” called Mary, who had overheard him down the corridor.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Just something weird over in the coatrooms. I’ll have a look on my way to Carl’s,” replied Murph.

  Mary seemed eager to come back and see, but Billy tugged her away, terrified to be late for Mr. Flash.

  Murph got up from his desk and headed across the front yard.

  As he peeked into the coatroom, his heart sank. He recognized them instantly: it was the goons from his lunchroom plate-smashing incident. There they all were: Gangly Fuzz Face, Pork Belly Pig Breath, Corned Beef Boy, Crazy Eyes Jemima, and Frankenstein’s Nephew. He still didn’t know their real names.

  Then, with a sinking heart, Murph spotted the smaller figure they had followed into the coatroom. It was Nellie, the girl with green ends to her hair who could control storm clouds. Murph was worried she wouldn’t be able to get herself out of this one. She wasn’t the greatest talker; in fact, Murph couldn’t remember a time she’d ever spoken, so she certainly wasn’t going to start outwitting this gang of lumps now—who, incidentally, were now surrounding her at the back of the otherwise empty coatroom.

  “Come on, then,” grunted Pork B
elly Pig Breath, “make the rain disappear if you can—we want to go down to the shop and spend all your money.”

  Frankenstein’s Nephew laughed. Nellie tried to push between two of them and run out of the coatroom, but stopped abruptly as if she’d run into an invisible force field.

  She had. Gangly Fuzz Face had used one of his force fields on her.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” sneered Gangly Fuzz Face as he used his Cape to drag Nellie back until she was pinned against the wall. “Come on, weather girl. If you can’t stop the rain, we’ll settle for your lunch money.”

  Nellie was glaring at them as if she was about to say something really rude but couldn’t quite make the words get past her lips. Murph wanted to help, but didn’t know how. The five of them would crush him into a jam, put him in an attractive jar, and sell him at the annual Christmas Craft Fair. And Murph hated Christmas Craft Fairs. He hated the fact that he couldn’t pluck up the courage to do something. He was so frustrated with himself that he made a small growling noise.

  “Who’s there?” barked Gangly Fuzz Face.

  Before Murph knew it, a meaty hand had plucked him out of the coats like a claw picks up teddy bears in one of those carnival machines. Unfortunately, unlike the claws at carnivals, the hand didn’t drop him.

  Instead he was plunked down beside Nellie by Corned Beef Boy. He looked even more meat-like up close.

  Murph realized there was no avoiding it: he was going to have to stand up for himself and Nellie. It was five against two. And the five were as big as the two were small. He thought he’d lead off with that fact.

  “Oh yeah, really heroic, guys—five of you picking on two of the new students,” said Murph.

  “What are you talking about?” snarled Crazy Eyes Jemima. “We’ve got four of you now.”

  “No, we haven’t,” sighed Gangly Fuzz Face quietly. “Why don’t you ever remember your glasses?”

  “Great,” said Murph. “One of you can count at least.”

  “Easy now, little buddy. Don’t get cocky with us. Remember what happened the last time,” said Gangly Fuzz Face. “And as we’ve just established, there are only two of you.”

  “Make that five!” said a voice behind him.

  Mary, Billy, and Hilda were silhouetted in the doorway.

  “You guys are pathetic!” jeered Mary to the assorted freak show. “You really think the Alliance is going to be impressed? ‘Oh, great, I’m in trouble. I know what I’ll do. I’ll call for those bullying idiots that think stealing people’s money is okay.’”

  It’s a good thing there was no sarcasm detector nearby. It probably would have exploded.

  “Well, look who we’ve got here. A little yellow birdy,” sneered Gangly Fuzz Face, taking in Mary’s yellow dress and umbrella. “What’s your name—Mary Canary?”

  “Well, normally they just call me Mary,” said Mary confidently.

  “Do you live in a dairy?” guffawed Corned Beef Boy.

  “Er, yes, how did you know that?” asked Mary, momentarily confused. But she rallied admirably. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you abusing your Capes by bullying new students and trying to steal from them. Can’t wait to let Mr. Flash know what sort of Heroes he’s training in your grade.”

  Amazingly, Mary’s words seemed to have hit home. The bullies shuffled about awkwardly. Mary didn’t know, but they were actually some of Mr. Flash’s favorite students and he had them tagged for great things. They were indeed hoping he’d recommend them to the Heroes’ Alliance.

  “We were only joking. We weren’t really going to take her money,” mumbled Gangly Fuzz Face.

  “Well, let me tell you, that is a stupid joke,” replied Hilda tartly. “Come on, Murph, come on, Nellie, let’s leave these creeps hanging around the junior coatroom.”

  Murph sailed past Frankenstein’s Nephew and Corned Beef Boy like a tiny tugboat between two ugly old battleships. Nellie trailed after him with her hair hanging over her face and one damp untied shoelace flapping behind her.

  All five of them walked out of the coat room unscathed.

  “We did it!” enthused Hilda in a whisper. “We stuck together and defeated the forces of evil! We’re Heroes!” And there was definitely a spring in their step as they marched away from the coatroom. Mary, in high spirits, put up her yellow umbrella and used it to leap over a large puddle.

  “Can you even fly without that stupid umbrella, Mary Canary?” came a cruel voice from behind them.

  Gangly Fuzz Face and his cohorts had gathered in the coatroom doorway to get the last word. “You think we’re never going to make it as Heroes? What about you losers? A kid with no Cape and his dumb friends? Heroes? ZEROES more like! HA HA! There they go, look. The SUPER ZEROES!”

  The rest of his herd started laughing too.

  “Yeah, Super Zeroes! Good one!” chortled Crazy Eyes Jemima. “You’d better stay out of our way, Super Zeroes . . . all ten of you!”

  16

  Expectations

  It was February, and Murph’s hands were nearly frozen to the broom as Carl sent him to sweep the front porch of the wooden shed that stood at one side of the soccer fields.

  The shed was used by Mr. Flash to store the accessories he used for outdoor CT lessons: special catapults that fired large clay discs into the air for target practice, huge sheets of corrugated iron, piles of old traffic cones, and the like. The porch itself was scorched and gouged with what looked like huge claw marks.

  As Murph moodily flicked piles of frozen dead leaves out onto the grass, his heart sank. His whole class was heading across the field toward him, led by Mr. Flash himself. Despite the cold weather, he was wearing his normal uniform of army fatigues and a tight black sleeveless shirt. His muscled arms were bare, and his breath steamed underneath his red mustache in the frosty morning air, making him look a bit like a cigar-smoking walrus.

  “WOW, ALL THE SUPER ZEROES TOGETHER, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!” yelled Mr. Flash delightedly as he approached. Gangly Fuzz Face and his friends had wasted no time in telling as many people as possible about their nickname for the kid with no Cape and his friends, and Mr. Flash, predictably, had found it hilarious. Murph caught Mary’s eye, and she made a lemon-sucking face. “Normal, grab us a bucket of nails, will you? Make yourself useful.” A couple of Flash’s favorites giggled.

  Murph dropped his broom and trudged into the shed. He grabbed a bucket filled with metal nails and marched back outside, where Mr. Flash was waiting with his hand held out.

  “Excellent fetching capability, Normal,” he leered, “positively doglike.”

  More giggling. Murph gritted his teeth.

  “So,” continued the teacher, “let’s see how Natalie’s coming on, shall we? You get on with the sweeping, kid,” he added as an aside to Murph. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  Turning back to the rest of the class, Flash roared, “RIGHT! Natalie tells me she would like to attempt to develop her Cape to an operational standard. Great to have ambition. Always aim to have ambition, that’s what I say. As long as you know that you have an almost completely non existent chance of achieving that ambition. ALL RIGHT?” He shouted the last word so loudly that he startled a cow fully half a mile away.

  “In fact,” continued Mr. Flash, “let me manage your expectations. Imagine this muffin represents your expectations of becoming a Hero.”

  He turned to Murph and held a hand out, clicking his fingers.

  You have got to be kidding me, thought Murph, pulling his break-time muffin out of his large coat pocket, where he’d been keeping it safe like a baby hedgehog, and reluctantly handing it over.

  Mr. Flash threw the muffin high into the air. The class squinted into the bright winter sky as it reached the top of its trajectory and started to fall back to earth.

  “So, the muffin is your expectations, right?” clarified Mr. Flash, adopting a kung-fu stance with his left leg in the air. The muffin was almost at head height.

&nbs
p; Then he moved so fast that there seemed to be at least eight separate muscly, mustachioed men chopping at the muffin with their hands. That’s not a sentence you read every day, and here comes another one.

  The air was so thick with crumbs that it was like a scene from the horror film that cakes would make if they had video cameras and thumbs.

  “Expectations managed?” asked Mr. Flash, licking a stray crumb from the eastern branch of his mustache. “Even if you pass the P-CAT and you’re in my classes from next year, your chance of becoming an operational Hero—of joining the Alliance—is still practically zero.”

  Mr. Flash was not what you’d call an inspirational teacher.

  “Where was I?” he went on in more measured tones. “Ah yes, Natalie’s been developing her Cape—which is technically known as magnetic manipulation.” He picked up the bucket of nails, irritably swatting away a wasp that was buzzing around his head.

  Natalie, a neatly dressed girl with dark hair cut in a bob, marched confidently to the front of the class and took up her position in the middle of the scattering of muffin crumbs.

  “Right, see how many you can get,” shouted Mr. Flash, flinging the bucket forward and upward so that the nails flew into the air. Natalie screwed up her face in concentration. Murph watched in amazement as the nails stopped in their trajectory, as if a huge magnet was pulling them toward Natalie. Some of the nails closest to her flew to the palms of her outstretched hands and stuck there sideways. Others fell to the ground.

  “Now concentrate,” said Mr. Flash. “See if you can get a few more.”

  Natalie’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Her eyes bulged as she strained as hard as she could. Murph could see a nail on the ground not far from him begin to quiver.