Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (20 page)

“Franki!” my mom hollers. I turn and see her coming down the stairs.

“You better go,” I whisper. “We're on lock-down around here. She'll freak out if—”

My mom grabs Franki's hand. “Why are you standing in the cold?” she asks, pulling her inside. “Come, get warm.”

“Mom, I thought no one was allowed in or out until—”

Grinning, she grabs my hand, too. “All the reports are back. Whatever those boys had, it's not contagious, and it's certainly not fatal. In fact, they're being released from the hospital as we speak.” She wraps her arms around both of us, smashing our heads together. “See? Everything's going to be just fine.”

*   *   *

My mom goes upstairs to take a shower, so Franki and I go into the kitchen. I make cinnamon toast and pour orange juice, and Franki sits on the barstool and listens while I fill her in on Thursday's details. I'm just telling her about the fire alarm and how I got everyone out of the building, when she interrupts me, her mouth stuffed with toast.

“I hate him.”

I stop pouring the juice and look at her. Franki has some strong opinions, but I've never heard her use
that
word before.

“Come on, Frank. Boomer's done some pretty mean things, but I'm not sure if hating him—”

“Not Boomer.” She picks at the crumbs on her plate. “Carl.”

Suddenly, my heart starts to beat faster. “Your stepdad?” I ask.

She takes a swig of her juice.

“Franki…” I search for something to say. “You want to talk about it?”

“It's not that big of a deal,” she says. She sits up straighter. “Can we play Zombie Smasher now?”

We spend the rest of the day sitting in my basement, eating Pop-Tarts and shooting zombies. We even let Lucy join us. Franki doesn't go home until after dinner on Monday, and is on our doorstep before breakfast on Tuesday. By Wednesday, my dad gives her a key so she can let herself in.

It turns out to be a pretty great week.

 

CHAPTER

34

My mom insists on driving us to school on the first Monday after break.

“But I want to walk,” I tell her. “Dad lets me do it all the time.”

She looks at me like I just told her I want to wear underwear on my head. “Can you just humor me for once? It's not every day I get a chance to drive you to school, Charles.”

Stella floats past us and jumps into the front seat. My older sister would never refuse a ride.

“Fine,” I tell her, “but I'm drawing the line at an escort to the bathroom.”

When we pull up in front of Gatehouse, we all stare out the windows.

“Business as usual,” Stella says.

She's right. The camera trucks, police cars, and reporters are gone. Instead, the courtyard is full of kids stomping their feet and blowing on icy fingers, waiting until the last possible minute before going inside.

I jump out of the van and wave over my shoulder to my mom, who shouts her “have a nice day!” and “be careful!” through the window. My feet crunch across frozen grass as pieces of conversation whip past me and I make my way to the double doors at the top of the stairs. I need to get to the science lab and see Mr. P before the bell rings. I want to tell him that even though I've decided to retire Dude, I'm glad I got to be a part of the whole experiment.

“Hey, kid.”

I stop dead, my hand on the door handle. Slowly, I turn and see a guy in a dark-gray hoodie leaning against the brick wall next to me.

A gloved hand motions for me to come closer.

I try to remember what my mom told me about drug pushers—how they lurk outside middle schools and prey on dumb kids who don't know any better. I try to sneak past him, but when he pulls off his hood, I stop in my tracks.

“Calm down,” he says as I choke back a scream.

This is no pusher. This is Boomer.

 

CHAPTER

35

“You never came back to visit.”

He stares at me, waiting for an answer. I stare down at his shoes.

“You promised my mom,” he growls. “What kind of guy breaks a promise to another guy's mom?”

There's a hole in his left sneaker near his big toe. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “I meant to … I really did. But things got kind of crazy, and—”

“Shut up, kid.” He reaches inside his jacket pocket, and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is it—I'm done for. I hope it's over quick.

“Here,” he says. I open my left eye. He's holding out a scrap of paper folded in half. He shakes it at me.

“Take it.”

I do and unfold it. Inside is an address that I recognize as being two streets over from Franki's house. I look up and notice a faint smudge of purple still circling Boomer's left eye.

“My mom wants you to come over after school,” he says. “She wants us to play chess together.”

I take a step back. “You want me to come to your house? Like, to hang out?”

“No, doofus. To play chess.” He rolls his eyes. “And maybe eat dinner.” He squints at me. “Depending.”

“Depending on what?”

He leans forward. “Depending on how much more of a doofus you are.”

I fold the paper and stick it into my pocket. “Okay.”

He blinks.

“Okay, you'll come?”

I nod. “Yeah. I'll come.”

I start to walk past him, but he sinks a meaty hand onto my shoulder. I wince.

“Charlie.”

I look up at him, surprised he remembered my name. “Yeah?”

“Not a word of this to anyone. Or else.”

I nod and start to open the door, then turn back around.

“All your secrets are safe with me, Sherrel,” I say. He stares at me, his mouth hanging open.

I go in the door, grinning. Not bad for a doofus. Not bad at all.

*   *   *

I walk into Gatehouse and pass a group of sixth-grade cheerleaders. Today, instead of slinking past them, I glance over. The one with a dark bouncy ponytail smiles at me.

“Hi, Charlie,” she says, waving.

“Hi, Emma,” I say, hoping my fly isn't open.

“How was your break?” she asks.

“Good. Yours?”

“It was loud.” She sighs. “My mom just had a baby, so there was a lot of crying in my house. For something so tiny, he makes a lot of noise.”

“Well, if you ever need a place, like, to study or something…”

My face flushes hot. Where did that come from?

“Really?” she says, and I notice her eyes light up when she smiles.

“Really.”

“Okay,” she says. “I'll remember that.”

I practically float down the hallway.

As soon as I get to the science lab, my mood takes a nose dive. On the door hangs a note, typed on school letterhead and signed by Dr. Daryl Moody, school principal.

It reads:

Due to an unexpected family emergency, Mr. Maury Perdzock will be taking an extended leave of absence for the remainder of the school year.

Please join us in welcoming Nathan Wiseman as our new sixth-grade science teacher.

I lean up against the wall, then let my body slide down to the floor.

Mr. P is gone.

Dude is gone.

The experiment is really over.

 

CHAPTER

36

Franki's sitting in her usual spot, forking through a glob of creamed corn and peas when I walk into the cafeteria.

“Did you bring it?” She snags my lunch sack out of my hands and starts rooting through it. She whoops and pulls a veggie burger out of my bag. “Do you have any idea how much I've missed these?” She rips open the wrapper and takes a bite.

“You just ate one at my house two days ago.”

“I know,” she says, her eyes half closed. “But for some reason, they taste better when they're surrounded by crummy cafeteria food.”

“Charlie!” I look up as Grant races in. “Did you hear?” His eyebrows disappear into his bangs. “You're not going to believe this.”

“Believe what?” Franki says, her mouth full.

“We've made the playoffs.” He raises his arms into the air. “We did it! The Gatehouse Vikings are going to the playoffs!”

Franki stops chewing.

“You're joking,” I say.

The words tumble out of his mouth. “Dexter just told me. Since we beat the Patriots, it moved us up in the rankings enough to earn a spot. No one's beaten the Patriots for three seasons.”

Franki lets out a low whistle. “Not bad, boys.”

“Not bad?” Grant squeals. “Not bad? People, this is the best news ever. Do you know what this means?” He grabs the front of my shirt. “We could make it to the championship! We could be district champs! Nobody messes with champs!” He runs circles around the cafeteria, slapping hands and hollering so loud, Dr. Moody threatens to give him detention if he doesn't knock it off.

For the rest of the day, I walk around with a grin so wide, my face hurts.

Wait until my parents hear about this.

 

CHAPTER

37

“Take the shot!”

I'm for sure going to throw up. With only ten seconds left in the Cape Ann District Semifinals, I—Charles Michael Burger, the guy who only plays defense—have no choice but to take the shot.

I dribble toward the goal and try to not think about my stomach. I wish I'd skipped breakfast.

The score is one to one. Maybe if I can just stall for a few more seconds, the game will end in a tie, and we can try to beat them in penalty kicks. Grant lives for penalty kicks.

I look up at the clock: eight seconds left. The Warriors' sweeper moves toward me, his teeth bared. He knows I've never played offense in my life. He zeroes in, waiting for me to make that one mistake—then the ball will be his. Confidence oozes from his pores.

“Charlie! The shot! Take the shot!”

I see the goal but can't get there. I glance to the left and see Grant, but he's in trouble, too. Three Warriors are marking him, wrapped around him like duct tape. They know he's the real threat, not me.

“What're you doing, Burger?” Coach's voice is still squeaky, but he's starting to sound more like his old self. “Stop prancing around and
take the shot
!”

And then I see it … my chance. The sweeper's moving toward me—so sure I'm going to screw up that he's willing to leave his goalie unprotected. He crouches, lowering his center of gravity. It's my only chance.

I take a deep breath and head straight toward him. He starts toward me, coming fast—too fast—so I cut to the left, forcing him to move with me. He stabs for the ball, and I pivot to the right. He curses as I fly by.

I'm wide open. Now it's just the goalie and me.

He's in a perfect position, legs splayed, arms out, ready. I glance around one last time, seeing if I can pass the ball off to someone else, but there's no one. Only me.

“Shoot!”

A zap of electricity explodes through my thigh as I pull my leg back. As soon as my foot makes contact with the ball, I look up, knowing exactly where it's headed. It sails through the air, a perfect arch and drops, drops …

Bam!
The goalkeeper dives, and his fingers bat the ball away. I can't believe it. My one shot …

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him. Grant's broken away from the three defenders and is barreling toward the goal. The ball sails toward him, and he heads it, sending it right into the net. The goalie is still on the ground. He never saw it coming.

“We did it!” Grant runs up and throws his arms around my neck as the ref blows his whistle, signaling the end of the game. “We did it, Burger!”

I can't believe it.

We did it!

Our team runs up and joins us as we hoot and holler, chanting over and over again, “Vikings are going to the finals! Vikings are going to the finals!”

Someone grabs me in a headlock and whoops into my ear. I look to the bleachers. My parents wave frantically. There's no sign of my mom's cell phone or my dad's pinched look.

Just two grinning faces that make me feel like a real live superhero.

*   *   *

We walk together toward the parking lot, slapping one another's backs, fist-pumping, and screaming like a bunch of five-year-olds. I've never felt a part of something so important, so big.

“Chuck.” Even with all the noise, I hear her. Franki leans against the fence that separates the parking lot from the fields. Under the streetlamp, her hair's practically glowing.

I run over to her, forgetting about everyone else.

“Did you see it?” My voice is hoarse. “Did you see the game?”

She fiddles with the zipper on her sweatshirt. “I missed most of it. But I saw your shot.”

I hop from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. “So?”

“So?”

The suspense is driving me bonkers. “What'd you think?”

She stops with the zipper and stuffs her hands into her pockets. “I think you were great.”

The breeze picks up a piece of her hair, and it floats across her face. My cheeks burn.

“I got to go,” she says. “I just wanted to say congratulations.”

“Want a ride?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I feel like walking.” She looks over toward the parking lot. “Go back to your team. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait,” I say as she turns to go. “I'll walk you.”

I run over to the van.

“We'll give her a ride,” my mom says. “It's cold out here, and you've been sweating for the past—”

“Honey,” my dad says softly.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes at him. She turns back to me. “But no dillydallying, okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her. I race back to where I left Franki still glowing under the streetlamp.