Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (12 page)

“‘Words can be powerful,'” I read. “‘Believe in their magic and anything can happen.'” I look up. “You left this on my computer. Why?”

She closes her eyes. “It was something your grandfather used to say whenever he was wrestling through a difficult experiment or working on a new invention. He said someone special had shared it with him when he was young. I thought I'd share it with you.”

Just then, Stella appears in the doorway.

“Hey, guys! Everyone ready to—Oh!” She stops and points a long fingernail at me. “What's wrong with him?”

Pickles waves her off. “Just hungry, that's all.” Stella walks over and puts a hand on my forehead, and I don't have the energy to swat it away.

“You look like death,” she says. “Maybe we should call—”

“He's fine,” Pickles says, pulling me out of the chair. She throws an arm over each of our shoulders. “After a few ham on rye sandwiches, we'll all feel as good as new!”

 

CHAPTER

21

Vikings are Number One!

It's Monday afternoon, and the banner hanging from the side of the bus announces our fake confidence as we roll down Route 128 to our biggest game of the season. The Peabody Patriots have been the district champs for three years in a row. With an offense that can score from midfield and a goalie named Mark “Hands Man” Mansfield, they are unstoppable.

That is, I hope, until today.

“Grant?” I poke the lump sitting next to me. Grant can't make it for more than five minutes in a moving vehicle before he's sound asleep, his head lolling against the window and his mouth wide open. It normally makes him a crummy seat partner, but today it's exactly what I need.

I reach into my gear bag and pull out my journal.

I've got work to do.

I showed up at school early again this morning, hoping to catch Mr. P before the first bell. I had more questions, ones that had been rolling around in my head since Saturday.

Was he the science teacher who had given my grandfather his journal?

Was it a catalyst like mine?

But when I got to Mr. P's room, the door was locked. I peeked in. Beakers lined the back counter, and stools were scooted neatly under the lab tables. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

I went to the front office. Ms. Carson, the secretary, shook her head as soon as I said his name.

“Terrible tragedy for Mr. Perdzock. There was a death in his family over the weekend. He's off to retrieve the body.”

“Retrieve the body?” My throat tightened. “Where?”

“Not sure. He said something about an island in the Pacific.” She peered at me over the top of her glasses. “Look, kid, when someone calls in sick, my job is to track down a substitute, not keep track of the teacher.”

I thought about what Stella said, about how Mr. P would leave for somewhere exotic around fall break. I started to sweat. He couldn't leave now. Not when I finally had some questions to ask.

“All right, boys!” Coach's voice booms at us from the front of the bus. “You got ten minutes until show time!”

I flip open my journal, knowing I have to hurry.

After my visit with Ms. Carson this morning, I headed straight to the eighth-grade hallway. I realized that if Mr. P wasn't around to answer my questions about Gramps, I needed to try to get some answers about Coach. If I hadn't changed that last journal entry in time, Ms. Carson might be looking for a substitute for him, too.

As I rounded the corner, Linda Prattsworth, a cheerleader, was coming out of the math room.

Mere mortals don't talk to Linda. Especially not sixth-grade ones like me.

“Um … hi … Linda, it's Charlie Burger.” I shot her a smile that I hoped was more charming than cheesy. “Stella's brother?”

Her movie-star lips turned downward. “Stella has a brother?”

“Never mind that,” I said. “I saw you coming out of Mr. Crenshaw's room just now. Did you notice anything strange about him today?” I paused. “Like, was he acting funny, or did he sound different?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Why are you talking to me?”

That did it. I beat it out of there faster than she could recite her locker combination.

Now, hearing Coach's voice, it's obvious that nothing's changed. Coach is fine. His voice is, too.

I have to try something else. If I don't, we're sure to get pummeled by the Patriots. Not only did we lose the game he made me sit out, but according to Grant, Coach screamed so much that one guy started crying and another puked right in the middle of the field. And as for Grant? I heard his shots didn't even come close to the net.

Grant needs this win. We all need this win.

I take a deep breath and start writing. I've made a decision. I hope it's the right one.

October 5

Episode 5: An Intergalactic Space Scum Scramble

He was halfway through his double chocolate pudding cake and his third comic book when he heard trouble from the field below. He frowned. Was Croach back? Even though he hadn't exterminated the cockroach, Dude was sure he had taught him a lesson. Would he dare step foot on Planet Splodii again?

But it wasn't Croach. It was the voice of Grangor, Dude's closest ally and friend.

Grabbing his cape, he took off, knowing he only had seconds to spare. Grangor was smart and fast, but since he was human, he was less than half the size of any intergalactic space scum. Something was threatening Planet Splodii again, and this time it was Grangor who was in trouble.

Thanks to Dude's supersonic speed, he made it in record time.

As he rounded the corner, he saw them. Five space cadets from a rival planet had cornered Grangor, pushing him up against the wall, blocking his path and preventing him from running. Though he kept calling for help, no one was a match for these guys.

Except, of course, Dude Explodius.

“Okay, scum. Party's over,” Dude announced, tossing them aside like rag dolls. One by one, they hit the hard ground, then crawled backward, out of his path.

His comrade looked up.

“Dude Explodius.” He sighed. “Once again, you came through for me. I was about to be lunch for a bunch of galactic—”

“You can thank me later,” Dude growled. “Right now, you've got work to do! Now go and

“Okay, everyone, off the bus!” Coach barks. “This ain't a trip to the nail salon.”

I cringe when I see how little I've written. I doubt it's enough, but I'm out of time.

“Let's go, let's go,” he says, motioning for us to file toward the front. “And don't look so terrified. It's just soccer.”

I reach for my gear bag just as Grant opens his eyes. He spies my journal.

“What're you carrying that around for?” he asks, nodding at it.

I shrug and stuff it into my bag. “No reason. Come on, man. You don't want to be the dweeb who has to run laps in front of the whole field, do you?”

He gets up to follow me, but not before peeking out the window. The Patriots file off the bus next to us. “Oh, man,” he mutters, watching them. “Those guys are huge. We are in. For. It.”

Not if I can help it,
I think.

 

CHAPTER

22

Thirty seconds left in the first half, and we've held the Patriots at 0–0. Grant's had four shots on goal—and he's aimed each one right at Hands Man. The six-foot goalie hasn't even broken a sweat.

I, on the other hand, am swimming in the stuff. Every time I stop to catch my breath, another Patriot barrels toward me, juking to the left, the right, trying to find my weakness, a hole that he can slip through. Beads of sweat hang from my hair and drip into my eyes, but I refuse to sub out.

Twice I scan the stands, but don't see my parents. I look for Franki, thinking she might have caught a ride with someone, but she's not there, either.

The ref's long whistle signals the end of the first half, and I have to practically crawl off the field, my body a piece of rubbery spaghetti. My teammates follow, grabbing for water bottles and slapping backs. Everyone's feeling pretty proud of how we've managed to hold off the Patriots so far. Until Coach steps up.

“You guys think that score means something?” he says, pacing back and forth in front of our bench. “These guys are just playing with you, waiting for the right moment to make their move. It's like a game of cat and mouse out there.” He looks right at me. “You're no match for them—and if you don't see that, then you're more clueless than I thought.”

We keep our heads down, our chins practically sticking to the front of our wet jerseys.

He continues to pace in front of us, his voice almost cheery. “Maybe your parents can get some of their soccer fees back once the officials realize Gatehouse signed a bunch of girls to play on the boys' team. Bet that would be a relief, huh?”

At the mention of parents, I look over at the crowd again. And that's when I see her, my mom, squeezed in between David O'Leary's dad and some other guy I don't recognize. She's on her phone, but she waves.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I knew she wouldn't miss another game.

“You think this is funny, Burger?”

Uh-oh.

“Why don't you come over here and let us all in on your little joke.”

The bench shifts beneath me, and I realize someone has stood up.

“Leave him alone.”

Eighteen heads snap up. Who would interrupt Coach Crenshaw when he's on a roll?

Grant stands in front of our bench, his fists balled at his sides.

A small groan creeps out from some place deep inside me, and I feel my gut take a nose dive. I glance back up at the stands. My mom is off the phone and pointing me out to the guy next to her. I look at Grant again.

“Grant,” I hiss, “don't do this. Not now.”

It's no use. He's just getting started.

“I'm sick of your insults, Coach,” he says, his voice almost steady. “We need you to coach us, not holler at us all the time. Just because we're not football players, doesn't mean we don't count. We're not going to take it anymore.”

The guy next to me makes a sound like he's being squeezed too tight. Someone farther down the bench starts whimpering.

Coach bends down, his back to the crowd. His eyes shoot bullets into Grant's.

“Why don't you start over?” Coach growls. “But this time, say it nice and slow so I don't miss a single word.”

“I … I…” Grant sputters. “I just wanted to—”

Coach reaches out and grabs his jersey, twisting it in his fist. I glance around. No one seems to notice except my teammates, who sit wide-eyed, the blood draining from their faces.

Coach's next words run through my veins like ice water.

“You just wanted to
what
?” Coach sputters, spit flying everywhere. “Don't talk to me about wants, Gupta.”

I close my eyes. My skin crackles and pops.

“You want to know what I want?”

I hear someone snicker beside me.

And then a giggle.

“For starters, I never wanted to—”

Coach's voice is rising like he's been sucking on a helium balloon. First one octave, then another. I open my eyes and look around. It's happening! My journal entry about Coach worked! Everyone else hears it, too.

It takes a minute before he notices. He stops—midsentence—clears his throat, then tries again. He lets go of Grant, who flops to the ground like a rag doll. Clawing at his neck, Coach coughs and sputters, but it's no use. His voice is nothing more than a squeak.

The referee blows the whistle, waving at us to get back onto the field. Dexter Honeycutt, our team captain, is doubled over with laughter next to me. He's supposed to be calling out our field positions, but he's laughing so hard, I'm afraid he's going to pass out.

The ref is losing patience. “Vikings!” he calls out. “I need your starting line! Halftime's over!”

A couple of us turn to Coach, but he's useless, too. He's bouncing around like a pogo stick, cursing and squeaking and shaking his head.

A sharp whistle. The Patriots glare at us from the field.

“Vikings!”

I turn to my team. “Okay, same formation as before,” I bark, pointing at the guys like I do this all the time. “Dave, you're center-mid. Josh and Jared, you guys take the wings. Grant?” I look around to see if he's okay, but he's already sprinting across the field.

“I've got it covered, Burger!” He shoots me a thumbs-up over his shoulder. “You just worry about protecting our goal, and we'll be fine!” He gets to the midline and squares his shoulders, staring into the face of the Patriots' top striker.

In the end, we're better than fine. We're unbelievable.

Thirty-five minutes later the final whistle blows.

The score? Three to zero, Vikings.

Grant scored every goal.

Hands Man Mansfield never had a chance.

 

CHAPTER

23

Tuesday night turns out to be pizza night at our house. And I'm not talking the whole-wheat-pizza-with-soy-cheese-and-tofu-pepperoni kind of pizza that my dad likes to make. Tonight it's the real deal.

Any time my dad has a catering gig, I invite Franki over, and we order in from House of Pizza. My mom says our kitchen can only handle one cook, and she's not interested in competing for the job.

Franki and I are sitting on the porch, waiting for the delivery guy to show up. As soon as we hear him rattling up the hill in his beat-up Toyota, we fly down the steps and grab the boxes before he can get out of the car.