“It was a car door,” he said between clenched teeth.
“It was Beatrice. Don’t you remember? She attacked you for punching Donovan Curtis.”
“Curtis!” Hashtag practically spat. “This is all his fault! I’m going to get back at that guy if it’s the last thing I do.”
People always said that the Academy was much harder than Hardcastle Middle School, but this was a perfect illustration of why they were wrong. This situation couldn’t be solved like an equation. It required a higher level of analysis—social analysis:
(1) Hashtag wasn’t threatening me at all. He liked me. Everybody did. But (2) I owed it to Donovan to warn him that the captain of the lacrosse team had it out for him. Because (3) when you had friends, you had to be loyal to them, even when it wasn’t your problem.
Thus (4), what I said to Donovan at school the next morning:
“Hashtag is going to get even with you,” I told him. “I don’t think you have to worry about it right away, though. He said it’s going to be the last thing he does.”
Donovan sighed. “Yeah, I kind of figured what happened in the park wasn’t over yet. Especially when I heard that he might be out for the whole lacrosse season.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
A shrug. “I’ll steer clear of the guy. He’s just a bully. Not much else I can do.”
“I once saw a YouTube video called ‘Stand Up to Bullies.’”
He shook his head. “Not an option. Hashtag’s parents have pictures of the bite marks on his arm, and Mrs. Taggart pretty much threatened to report Beatrice to Animal Control. If there’s another scrape between Hashtag and me, you can take that to the bank.”
I could see it was a real dilemma for poor Donovan. He was being wronged, but he couldn’t take action to right that wrong without putting Beatrice’s life in danger.
Then something strange happened. When I solved an impossible math problem or came up with a flawless argument for an English essay or explained an anomaly in a chemistry experiment, it was always the easiest, most natural thing in the world, like flicking a bug off your arm. This was different. When I came up with the solution, it was completely unexpected, a sudden sunrise over a mountain range, a brainstorm.
“I’ll do it for you!” I exclaimed.
“Do what for me?” he asked.
“You can’t stand up to Hashtag because of Beatrice,” I exclaimed breathlessly. “But I can!”
Donovan laughed in my face. “Don’t be crazy. He’ll kill you.”
“He would today,” I agreed. “That’s why it’s a good thing we have plenty of time. I intend to use mine wisely.”
His eyes narrowed. “Wisely how?”
“The key to any confrontation is having the best strategy.”
“No,” he told me, “the key is a hard right to the head.” He rubbed his jaw, which was still a little bruised. “Hashtag has it. I’m living proof of that. You don’t want to join the club.”
“When the time comes,” I promised, “I’ll be ready. I’ll tell Hashtag that he better not be mean to my friend Donovan. It’ll be just like ‘Stand Up to Bullies.’”
He grabbed my arm. “Cut it out, Noah. This kid could do a lot of damage without even meaning to hurt you very much. Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”
I could tell he was 100 percent serious. He wasn’t going to let me go until I gave him my word.
“I promise,” I lied.
Lying was another excellent skill I’d picked up since coming to Hardcastle Middle. There hadn’t been much call for it at the Academy, but here you could make use of it dozens of times every day. For example, when somebody confronted you with, “Hey, dork, are you looking at me?” it was generally better to say no.
Or in this case, where I lied because I didn’t want Donovan to worry about me. I’d be fine. Before confronting Hashtag, I would learn the art of self-defense from the greatest gladiators the world had ever known—WWE wrestlers. And I knew exactly where to find them: in the same place all the true secrets of humanity are just waiting to be accessed.
YouTube.
My YouTube search for keyword WWE yielded over thirteen million hits. With an average length of over four minutes per video, I obviously wouldn’t be able to watch them all. But I was able to see enough to learn how to handle myself if things got ugly with Hashtag.
The average wrestler was six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds. I wasn’t going to be able to bulk up to that level on such short notice. So I zeroed in on the concepts that applied to everybody—speed, explosiveness, focus, muscle power, and the element of surprise. There were important moves to be mastered—chokeslams, piledrivers, sleeper holds, spinebusters, clotheslines, and frog splashes. Also, it never hurt to have a steel folding chair handy just in case you had to break it over somebody’s head.
Every day after cheerleading practice, I’d rush home and spend hours in front of the computer, drinking it all in. At night, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I practiced against my pillow. Once, while taking out the garbage, I powerbombed a green bag. It exploded, sending chicken bones and orange peels all over the lawn. My mother said our property smelled like the town dump, but to me it smelled like victory. And anyway, she helped me clean it up, so it only cost me forty-five minutes of YouTube research.
I considered the best place to make my move on Hashtag. School had its advantages—for one thing, there were always a lot of chairs around. But also a lot of people. Too many, in fact. No, this had to happen somewhere more private.
I didn’t know where he lived, but that was no problem. I hacked into the school computer and got his address—42 Staunton Street, about half a mile away from my house. I calculated that the optimal time would be early Saturday morning, around seven a.m., when most people would still be in bed.
Once my plan was set, keeping my excitement to myself was almost more than I could bear. I was dying to tell someone about it, but the only person I could think of was Donovan. And the whole reason for the lie was to keep him in the dark.
I woke up at five-thirty that morning with great singleness of purpose. I had my outfit all set. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find my Speedo, so I substituted long underwear from when I was eight—super-tight, very WWE. Up top, I wore a sweatshirt that I’d carefully cut open with a pair of scissors, so it was only closed by a few threads. It took me hours, but it was totally worth it. If Hashtag got physical, I could tear it off in a heartbeat, just like the real superstars did. Since I had no wrestling gloves, I substituted the gloves Mom used for gardening. I tried to cut off the fingertips, but the fabric was really thick. On my feet I wore patent leather dress shoes, but I blackened the bottom of my long underwear with spray paint, so it would look like boots.
I was ready by 5:45, so I had to cool my heels for a while. If I got there too early, Hashtag might still be in bed, and maybe his parents wouldn’t want to disturb him.
At 6:45, Mom and Dad were sleeping when I tiptoed downstairs and eased myself outside, careful not to bang the folding chair under my arm against the storm door. Jackpot! The neighborhood was deserted: no kids outside playing, no parents around.
All the way from my house to Staunton Street the only sign of life was a single car. It drove past me, screeched to a halt, then backed up. The rear door opened and one of those kids named Daniel jumped out—I never could tell the two of them apart.
“Noah, is that you?” he demanded. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I retorted. He was in a suit and tie. He had no chair, obviously—not unless the seats in the car counted.
“We’re on our way to my cousin’s bar mitzvah,” he explained. “Where are you going so early? And what’s up with the folding chair?”
I hesitated. This was supposed to be top secret. “I’m a morning person,” I told him. “I’m just—taking a walk. The chair is in case I get tired.”
“Don’t give me that! What are
you up to?”
“Nothing,” I said casually, but he didn’t seem convinced.
“Come on, Daniel,” came a woman’s voice from the car. “We’re going to be late.”
“Yeah, Mom, but remember when I told you about this kid—”
“Now!” It definitely wasn’t a suggestion.
He got back in the car. Even as they drove away, I could see him, face pressed against the window, staring at me. They disappeared down the road, turning toward the highway.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
My plan was still on.
7
SUPERHERO
DONOVAN CURTIS
For a surefire alarm clock, you couldn’t do much better than dog slobber.
“Cut it out, Beatrice,” I complained, burying my head deeper into my pillow to avoid the chow chow’s slimy tongue.
It did the trick—for about thirty seconds. The next thing I knew, I felt a strange buzzing against the back of my neck, pulsing on and off like—
“My phone?”
I flipped over in bed, dislodging my cell phone from the dog’s mouth. It was set on mute, but there was no mistaking the vibration of an incoming call.
Who could be trying to reach me now? Which of my friends would even be awake at—I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and stared at the lit-up screen—6:52 on a Saturday morning?
I squinted to bring the caller ID into focus: DANIEL N.
Nussbaum.
I snatched up the unit, wiped the drool off on my comforter, and mumbled, “What?”
“Donovan—are you asleep?”
“Yeah.” My reply was bitter. “I’m right in the middle of a bad dream about some idiot waking me up at the crack of dawn.”
“Listen, I just saw Noah.”
“And I should care about this because . . . ?” I prompted with a yawn.
“He was dressed all funny in, like, thermal ballet tights, and—forget it. I’ll never describe it right. And he had a chair—”
“A chair?”
“—and that look on his face. You know, the one where he’s about do something dumber than usual—?”
Noah’s IQ was actually higher than the two Daniels’ put together, with mine thrown in for good measure, but I let it pass. “I thought you and Sanderson were done looking out for Noah,” I interrupted. “It was too much of a hit on your image, remember?”
“We were! It’s just that—well, he was just starting down Staunton Street.”
“So?”
“So isn’t that where Hashtag lives?”
The pieces fell into place with a painful clunk. The world’s greatest genius was making good on his promise to stand up to my bully for me—after I specifically made him swear he wouldn’t! The ballet tights and the chair were a little confusing. But, hey, this was Noah. There didn’t have to be a reason! And if he showed up on the Taggarts’ doorstep at this hour to fight with Hashtag, what was left of him would be delivered to his parents in an eyedropper!
“I’m on it!” I wheezed at the phone and broke the connection. I leaped out of bed and threw on jeans and a shirt. Kandy was asleep in his usual position—on his back with his giant paws splayed in all directions. But Beatrice was watching me in keen interest, as if she’d never seen a human act so agitated before.
Beatrice—
Oh, no.
Thanks to Beatrice, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near Hash Taggart. If I went over there to protect Noah and Hashtag and I got into a beef, that could be curtains for Beatrice—and definitely curtains for me when Brad found out. No way could I go there.
On the other hand, how could I not? It was my fault Noah was at Hardcastle Middle School. Sure, he got himself kicked out of the Academy. But if it hadn’t been for me, he never would have managed it. If he got himself beaten to a pulp by Hashtag, in the end, it was on my head.
I couldn’t let it happen. I headed for the door.
Squeak!
I looked down. The bowwow bone peeked out from under my sneaker. My eyes traveled to the slumbering Kandy. He was stirring. If he woke up, he’d head straight for his favorite toy. When he really got going with that thing, it could disturb the whole house. The last thing I needed was for Brad to search for me and find me on the one street I wasn’t supposed to go to.
I carefully tweezered the bowwow bone between my thumb and forefinger and eased it silently into my pocket. Kandy rolled over and returned to sleep.
I tiptoed out the door and hit the sidewalk running. Staunton Street was at least a mile away, but I sprinted the full distance. Maybe I should have taken Brad up on a couple of those early-morning runs. My lungs were on fire when I rounded the corner, hoping against hope that I wasn’t too late.
No—there he was, plodding up the sloping pavement, the weight of the chair under his arm bending him over to the right. Nussbaum wasn’t kidding—those tight pants were practically spray-painted onto the skinniest legs in Hardcastle. From the bottom of the hill, he looked like a candy apple with an extra stick in it. Even among geniuses, Noah was special.
Struggling for breath, I rasped, “Noah!”
He turned, spied me, and hurried on. What a kid. He was determined to get himself massacred on my behalf.
Gasping for breath I no longer had, I pounded up the steep street. “Stop!” I tried to call, but it came out a pathetic wheeze. Forget it. I was going to have to physically tackle the kid on Hashtag’s front walk.
Half dead, I overtook Noah from behind and clamped my arms around his puny shoulders. I had no wind left, so I just stood there, sucking air and holding on to him for dear life.
He had the nerve to pretend to be surprised to see me. “Hi, Donovan. I didn’t know you got up this early.”
There were a lot of things I could have said to that. But all I had breath for was “Go home!”
He tried to spin away, and his entire sweatshirt tore down the middle and wound up in my hands. All at once, I realized what his getup was supposed to be. The folding chair was the telltale sign. He was a WWE wrestler—bare chest, tights, and “boots.” Except he didn’t have much of a chest. He had ribs, though. You could count every last one of them.
This mental giant honestly believed that if he dressed like a wrestler, he could intimidate a guy like Hashtag. I would have laughed in his face, except for the fact that he was doing all this for me. In my family, I may have been lower in the pecking order than a deranged chow chow and her mongrel pup. But to this crazy kid, I was worth risking life and limb for. How could I yell at him? You know, if I had enough lung power left for yelling.
“Noah,” I said gently, “if you take on Hashtag, you’ll be a grease spot on the sidewalk.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I’ve been training.”
“Watching the Undertaker on YouTube isn’t training!”
A tanker truck came laboring up the hill, gears grinding. I guided Noah back a few steps, and the truck made a wide three-point turn and reversed onto the sloped driveway just ahead of us. The logo on the tank read: OGDEN PROPANE DELIVERY.
In an obvious hurry, the driver jumped down from the cab and snaked a long hose around the side of the house, disappearing from view. A moment later, a mechanical pump began to hum.
Noah frowned. “That truck’s not safely parked.”
“Look who’s thinking about safety all of a sudden,” I retorted. “You’re about to fight a grizzly bear—”
“I heard only partial application of the parking brake,” Noah explained. “The slope of that driveway is at least twenty-seven degrees. Which means the weight of the tanker is exerting considerable force on the truck’s transmission.”
“Noah,” I began warningly.
Noah didn’t miss a beat. “Since it’s early in the day, logic dictates that this must be one of the first deliveries. We therefore conclude the tank is mostly full. So, based on the average density of liquid propane—”
“Worry about the average density of Hashtag’s fist,” I interj
ected.
“—and assuming a tank capacity of six thousand US gallons, the maximum capability of the braking system should be exceeded just about”—he paused to calculate in his head—“now.”
“Don’t change the subject, Noah—”
There was a snap, and the truck lurched. With a crunch of tires, the big propane tanker began to roll forward down the steep driveway.
Uh-oh. “Mister!” I called around the side of the house. My breath had not fully returned, so I wasn’t sure I could be heard over the sound of the pump. “Hey, mister!”
The tanker rolled out into the street, picking up speed. Heart sinking, I watched as the slope of the hill aimed it across the road toward a large Tudor-style home on the other side of Staunton.
“Mister!” Where was the driver? I could see the hose unrolling from its spool as the truck headed for the opposite curb. The guy had no idea of the disaster that was unfolding out here. When the tank smashed into that home . . .
There was no time to think. In a full-blown panic, I took off after the truck. I jumped up onto the running board right when the front tires bumped onto the lawn, heading straight for the house. I reached my arms in the open window and grabbed at the steering, tearing a dangling St. Christopher medal off the visor. I got both hands on the wheel and yanked in an attempt to avoid the building. The steering mechanism was locked. The truck continued on its path, rumbling down the grade of the lawn toward a large picture window set into a brick wall.
Desperately, I scanned the cab. The engine was set in park, which explained why the wheel wouldn’t turn. I threw myself forward, got my hand on the gearshift, and yanked the control into N for neutral. My momentum sent me tumbling headfirst into the tanker, with my legs still flailing out the window. By the time I lifted my face out of the seat, the brick wall filled the windshield, coming up fast.
There was only one second to act and I did. I wrenched the wheel hard left. The truck responded instantly. It shaved the corner of the house, snapping off the passenger side mirror. It smashed through a wooden fence, roared across the backyard, and took a nosedive into a large swimming pool.