SuperFan (9 page)

“Here's the thing, Shawn,” Rey said. “You can go through life and go through life and no one notices you. Then you earn the right to be noticed. It may sound crazy, but I had to earn the right to wear this mask. Not from another person. From myself.”

Shawn stretched out his hamstrings as Rey had taught him. His legs were tight from the morning's race. “How did you know you were ready to wear the mask?”

“I did hundreds of 619s before I hit it right. Hundreds of hurricanranas. Frog splashes. Flying spinning kicks, flying neckbreakers, flying back elbows, powerbombs, missile dropkicks, and planchas. You know what? Even when a professional misses those moves it hurts. You talked about Kane beating me at SummerSlam. Did I quit? No. It cuts the other way, too, amigo. When I got lucky in the Royal Rumble, did I get all mopey and dopey? Did I say, ‘Hey, man, I don't deserve this, please take my championship'?”

Shawn was silent. He knew the answer: No.

“Neither will you. But sometimes a competitor needs a little short-term incentive.” Rey smiled mysteriously.

What could be a better incentive than being SuperFan?

“This is what I mean.” Rey reached in his back pocket, took out a folded piece of leather cloth, and handed it to Shawn. As Shawn opened it, his eyes grew wide. It was a Rey Mysterio–style wrestling mask. Silver and black, with the SuperFan logo across the top, flanked by two tornados. The difference was, this mask had the initials
S R
on each cheek. For Shawn Reynolds.

“Wow.”

“You like it?”

Shawn nodded without taking his eyes off the mask. “I love it.”

“Good. Just like mine, it's in the tradition of
lucha libre
from Mexico. Now give it back.” Rey put his hand out. “You don't get to wear it until the final event. Incentive.”

Shawn reluctantly handed over the mask. Rey wouldn't even let him try it on. But his mentor was right. He was already picturing himself in the finals, wearing this mask, competing with Spike. He was sure it would be Spike, too. How would Spike feel if he saw Shawn in this mask?

He'll probably call me Weenie Mask Boy,
Shawn realized.
But it would freak him out
.

“I'm going to get to wear this,” Shawn promised his mentor.

Rey laughed and draped an arm around Shawn's shoulder. “You'd better. It's not exactly recyclable. Come on, you've got your community service tonight. Let's head back.”

The sleek guitar felt great in Shawn's hands. It was a Takamine acoustic, much better than the cheap one he had at home. But Shawn hadn't given it a moment's attention since they'd moved into the suite on Thursday night. Now, playing it seemed like the perfect way to chill before the community service hospital visit.

He unconsciously started picking out the notes to Rey Mysterio's theme song, “Booyaka 619,” but gave it a twist of his own, adding a riff here, jazzing it up there.

A gentle tap at the door interrupted Shawn's playing.

“Come in!” Shawn called.

“You sound great,” his mom declared as she stepped inside. Then her voice turned gentle. “Maybe you can play that again for me?”

“I don't think so. Thanks,” Shawn said sheepishly.

“Not to worry,” his mother assured him. “How was the walk with Rey? Helpful?”

Shawn nodded. “Very. He made a mask for me. I can only wear it if I get through this next challenge.”

Carla chuckled. “Incentive, huh?”

“That's what Rey said!” Shawn exclaimed.

Carla nodded knowingly. “All adults think alike.” She hesitated. “I don't want to sound all sappy here. But I wonder sometimes if grown-ups emphasize all the wrong things. To get good grades, to make lots of money. When the most important thing of all is what you already are, Shawn. I saw it when you stopped to help your friend in that race. A good person.” Carla's eyes twinkled. “Mask or no mask.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Shawn meant it. “Any news from Dad today?”

There was a strange look in his mom's eyes. “Nothing to report.”

“I think I'll send him another e-mail.”

Carla smiled. “No matter where he is when he reads it, I think he'd like that very, very much.”

WELCOME, SUPERFANS! YAY SHAWN! YAY JAYDEN!

A hand-lettered banner greeted Shawn and Jayden when they stepped out of the elevator onto the pediatrics floor of the Atlanta Peachtree Hospital. Then the banner was somehow cut loose and fell to the ground. Behind it was a cheering group of fifteen kids of all ages. Some stood with IV poles, others were on crutches or in wheelchairs. “We love you guys! Welcome to peeds!”

Shawn and Jayden looked at each other, not really sure what to do.

The two of them, plus their families, had been shuttled from the hotel to the hospital by minivan. DeJuan was visiting a senior center, and Spike was at the zoo, which Shawn felt was sort of appropriate.

The cheering continued until a boy around Peter's age rolled forward in a motorized wheelchair. He was very thin, African American, and had close-cropped hair. “I'm Taylor Swett, and I'm the prez of this floor.”

“I'm prez because I'm here the most and the longest.” Taylor was beaming. “I've got juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. You don't want it. I'm here for hand surgery. I had foot surgery a few weeks ago. That's why I'm in a wheelchair. Check out my digits!”

Taylor lifted his right hand. Shawn could see the middle and ring finger knuckles were badly swollen. “Everyone here loves you guys. We hate that Spike dude.”

“Spike stinks!” one of the kids shouted to much laughter.

“Follow the rolling wheelchair, SuperFans! We've got a party planned in the lounge.” Taylor expertly spun his wheelchair around, and everyone followed him toward the lounge.

The lounge had been decked out in WWE gear. There was juice and chips, and the patients put on a show for the guests of honor. Accompanied on guitar by a goateed male nurse named Clarence, they sang the arena entrance songs of various Superstars. Then Taylor played
Wii Raw vs. SmackDown
against a
Latina
girl named Mariah. Mariah insisted that Jayden be her assistant; Taylor got Shawn to coach him. Mariah won easily. The party finished up with an autograph session. Jayden and Shawn found it amazing that their signatures could be so meaningful.

When Clarence announced that it was time to wrap up, the kids booed but complied. Mariah hung back and then asked Jayden if she would sign a poster in her room. Jayden said she'd be thrilled to, and she took her family along. That left Shawn and his group alone with Taylor.

“Shawn, how about we meet you by the elevator?” Carla asked.

“Sounds good. I'll come . . . soon.”

Carla moved off, leaving the two boys alone. For the first time that evening, Taylor seemed shy. Shawn knew he should take the lead.

“Are you going to get to see WrestleMania?” he asked.

Taylor nodded. “I think so. On TV. If my operation isn't on Sunday.”

“I wish you could be at the Dome,” Shawn told him sincerely.

“I wish I could, too.” Taylor's voice was sad. “I like Jayden, but I'm rooting for you.”

A crazy idea was forming in Shawn's head. Maybe, just maybe . . .

“Why can't you come? I mean, if you can get a ticket, and if you haven't had your surgery?”

“They won't let me out. This isn't my first operation.”

“How many have you had?”

Taylor started ticking off numbers on his fingers. “One, two, three . . . I think this is number eight. This year.”

Taylor laughed. “I'm kidding! Not eight this year. Eight in all.”

“Oh.”

There was silence again. Shawn knew that he ought to rejoin his family, but he also realized that Taylor, in some way, needed him there. Just for something to do, he got the acoustic guitar that Clarence had played and plucked idly at the strings.

“You play?” Taylor asked.

“Do I what?”

“You play? The guitar?”

“A little,” Shawn admitted. “But not—”

He was about to say, “But not in front of other people,” but Taylor interrupted.

“Play me something.”

Shawn froze, feeling the too-familiar knot in his stomach.

“Come on, Shawn,” Taylor cajoled. “I want to hear you. I bet you're good.”

“I'm not good,” Shawn told him.

Taylor faked playing an air guitar. “Well, I can't play at all because of my joints. So you're better than me.”

Shawn sat and strapped on Clarence's guitar. Taylor couldn't play even if he wanted to. Shawn could play. All he had to do was want to. Though sweat dripped from his armpits, Shawn started the version of “Booyaka 619” he'd created in the hotel suite. Taylor broke into a broad smile when he recognized the riff.

“Six-one-nine! Keep going!”

Shawn kept going. He added new notes as Taylor bopped happily along.

It was the weirdest thing. He couldn't pinpoint the moment, but the moment definitely happened. At some point, playing for Taylor stopped being scary. And when it stopped being scary? It started being fun.

Shawn came home from the hospital to a voice mail from Rey.

“Shawn, this is Rey. When's the last time you looked at
Tom Sawyer
? I don't know if you're gonna need it tomorrow, but you're gonna need it eventually. Prepare, my man.”

That was enough for Shawn to set his alarm an hour early, shower quickly, eat a breakfast of instant oatmeal, and settle down with the book to test himself. What was Tom's aunt's name? Polly. Who did Tom fight to impress Becky? Henry. How did the book end, exactly?

Yikes. Shawn realized he didn't know. Not exactly. So he turned to the very last page and read carefully.

CONCLUSION.

So endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a BOY, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a MAN. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop—that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.

Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present.

THE END.

Huh. That's not what he thought. He thought it had ended with Tom and Huckleberry Finn talking about forming a gang of robbers, since robbers were so much cooler than pirates.

Well, now he knew. If the question came up, he was ready.

“Can you draw at all?” Jayden asked Shawn.

“I'm decent,” Shawn admitted.

“Me too. If we can get through the first part, I think we can send Spike home.” Jayden's eyes shone at the possibility.

“So do I.” Shawn looked over at Spike, who was discussing strategy with his father and CM Punk. It was more than discussion. Spike's father was right in his son's face. “He deserves to lose. Look what I found outside my hotel door.”

Shawn dug out a folded sheet of newsprint. It was a faked front page of a newspaper. The two-word headline was gigantic: WEENIE LOSER!!! Under it was an Internet photograph of Shawn.