In the thinning crowd exiting the cafeteria, those two boys named Daniel sauntered over to us.
“Hey, Donovan,” called Daniel Nussbaum. “How was your weekend?”
“Do anything special?” added Daniel Sanderson. “You know, apple picking, video games, clipping your toenails, saving a house from going up in a fireball . . . ?”
I was so shocked that I almost blacked out, but Donovan wasn’t even surprised. “Shut up, you guys! I’m in big trouble if this gets around.”
“But—but—but—” I stammered at both Daniels. “How could you know?”
“Oh, please,” D. Nussbaum told me. “I saw you over on Staunton Street Saturday morning, dressed like a circus clown, so I called Donovan to keep you away from Hashtag. And, lo and behold, there’s an almost-catastrophe on the same street at exactly that time. Who do we know who’s crazy enough to jump onto a runaway propane tanker?”
“He wasn’t being a hero,” put in D. Sanderson. “He was just being Donovan.”
That made me mad. “Donovan was so a hero! I mean”—I dropped my voice—“if he did the thing, which, of course, he didn’t.”
Donovan held his head. “I wish I’d never seen that propane truck.”
“Nice talk,” D. Nussbaum clucked. “Sure, a whole family might get barbecued, but Donovan’s not in a heroic mood today—”
“Obviously, I don’t regret saving the house,” Donovan interrupted. “But now nobody’s going to rest until they’ve found their superkid—not Megan, not her family, not the cops, not Schultz. I’m going to swipe Brad’s fatigues and deploy back to Afghanistan in his place. I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hiding out in his tank. That’s the only place they won’t look for me. How do I get myself into these messes?”
“Oh! Pick me!” D. Sanderson waved his hand. “Remember that time at the preschool book fair when you dumped all that superglue into the Clifford suit and Mr. Biaggio got stuck in it for three days?”
D. Nussbaum sighed. “Good times. Remember all the money we raised went to pay for a new Clifford suit because they had to cut a hole in the old one so he could go to the bathroom?”
“This is the same thing,” D. Sanderson concluded. “You’re older, but you aren’t any smarter. And just like you were terrified that someone was going to notice that your fingers were glued together, now you’re afraid that someone’s going to find out you’re the superkid.”
“Don’t say that word!” Donovan pleaded.
“What word?” D. Nussbaum asked innocently. “Oh, you mean superkid? Don’t worry, you definitely won’t hear me saying superkid.”
And the two of them danced off down the hall, chanting, “Superkid . . . superkid . . . superkid . . .”
The bell rang, sending us to our next classes. I watched Donovan trudge away, slumped under the weight of his worry. He seemed to trust the two Daniels, even though I found it hard to, since they were doing the polar opposite of what they’d just promised. Maybe that was because the three of them had been friends since preschool. Maybe I was missing something.
No, that couldn’t be it.
I owed so much to Donovan. If it hadn’t been for him, remedial classes would be a distant dream for a guy like me. I’d still be in the gifted program, getting straight A’s and hating them. He was the person who first showed me YouTube and opened my eyes to a whole world that couldn’t be predicted by mathematical equations or scientific formulas—not even by me.
I had to find a way to help him.
10
SUPERPHONY
DONOVAN CURTIS
It was still dark out when Brad tapped on my bedroom door. “I’m heading out for a run,” he informed me.
I rolled over and murmured something about catching all the details on CNN. Or maybe I just dreamed that part.
“Any chance you’ll be joining me?”
He never gave up. Where was Beatrice? Asleep? It was her job to protect me from her owner before the sun came up. I tossed my pillow at her usual spot on the floor.
There was a canine squeal of outrage—an octave too high to be coming from Beatrice. I sat bolt upright just in time to see Kandy wriggling out from under the pillow bomb, yapping excitedly.
Brad barked a sharp command for silence, which might have worked if Kandy had been a Marine. The puppy upped the volume, circling the room like a mad dervish. That jarred Beatrice awake, and she added her howling to the chaos.
“Listen, Brad,” I pleaded. “You can yell at Beatrice and me, but lay off Kandy! He’s just a baby!”
From down the hall, a new cry joined the chorus—the other baby in our house, Tina.
Brad glared at me. “Way to go, Donnie.”
“I haven’t done anything!” I defended myself. “I was sleeping!”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” Brad asked. “It’s always ‘I’ and ‘me.’ But I know one kid in Hardcastle who isn’t so self-centered. He always puts others first and himself second, and is willing to risk his life to do what’s right.”
My ears started to burn. I knew exactly where he was going with this.
In the five days since last Saturday, the mysterious hero who saved the Mercury home had gone from uplifting human-interest story to the town legend. You couldn’t be anywhere in Hardcastle without overhearing that name on somebody’s lips. From the school halls to the checkout line at the market to Channel 4 news, it was all superkid, all the time. Senior citizens discussed his great deed in cafes. Kindergartners played superkid in the park, sliding down slides, rescuing imaginary houses from imaginary disasters. Adults traded theories of who this star could be, and why he was choosing to keep his identity secret. Yesterday, I actually overheard a mom telling her two-year-old, “Eat your carrots and you’ll grow up to be just like the superkid.” It was like Batman lived in town. Better than Batman—there were people in Gotham City who didn’t like him. Everybody loved the superkid.
It wasn’t just Brad. Out of an entire superkid-obsessed community, my family turned out to be the biggest fans. Did it hurt that I couldn’t reveal myself to them? You bet it did. What made it even harder to take was that they used him against me, holding him up as a shining example of everything I wasn’t. I was selfish; the superkid thought only of others. I was whiny; the superkid never complained. I was afraid of a little exercise; the superkid put his life on the line.
Brad was constantly lecturing me: “A workout routine is a commitment to physical fitness. I’m sure the superkid would agree with that.”
I knew for a fact that the superkid strongly disagreed. Honestly, I spent so much time biting my tongue that I’m amazed I didn’t chew it off and choke on it.
For the next hour, I struggled to get Beatrice and Kandy settled while listening to Katie trying to calm Tina. Brad chimed in with updates: “All right, little girl, it’s oh-five-thirty. Lights out, hit the sack . . .” Or, “Eyes shut, on your ‘six,’ pacifier deployed, diapers secure . . .”
I almost laughed at that one but swallowed the sound because Kandy had finally drifted off, sprawled out in his usual position. Seriously, the only thing missing was the chalk outline from the police department.
Diapers secure. Somehow, I doubted that appeared anywhere in the official Marine Corps training manual.
At last, the house was quiet again—except for me. I tossed and turned while everybody else slept. I got out of bed, padded down the hall to the bathroom, and flicked on the light.
Brad sat on the lid of the toilet seat, still in his jogging clothes, snoring softly, holding his slumbering daughter against his chest. I rushed to turn the light off again, but it was too late. His tank commander’s eyes—trained to be alert for any sudden danger—were open and on me.
He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Just got her back down.”
I nodded, thinking of Kandy. Baby humans and puppies weren’t much different in that way. Once awake, they were ready for action.
Brad shot me a piercing gaze that mad
e me grateful for Tina’s presence. Without her, I’d be getting chewed out again.
But no—his expression wasn’t angry. He seemed stressed and even . . . sad?
“Everything okay, Brad?” I asked in a low voice.
He replied, “I’m not good at this.”
It was the last thing I expected to hear. Going by Brad, Marines were good at everything. It was part of what made them Marines. “What are you talking about? You got her back to sleep, didn’t you?”
“Because she cried herself into exhaustion. Outstanding.”
I shrugged. “Whatever gets the job done.”
He heaved a sigh. “When I’m deployed, I always know exactly what to do. In a potentially hostile situation, there are rules of engagement. If the tank breaks down, I’m ready for it. If the latrine backs up, there’s a plan for that, too. But here—with my own family—I’m lost.”
“I guess the real world isn’t much like the military,” I offered.
“The real world isn’t military enough,” he complained. “When you can take out a moving target thirty-five hundred meters away, do you know how it feels to look at your own daughter and not have the faintest idea what to do with her?”
I was blown away. Brad came across as the most confident, capable master of the universe you could ever meet. But here he was, almost human, just like the rest of us.
“Well, you could try baby talk,” I suggested. “You know, goo-goo, ga-ga and stuff like that. It works for Katie.”
He looked disapproving. “Verbal commands should be simple and concise, and convey exactly what you want to communicate in as few words as possible.”
“But you’re not communicating,” I reminded him. “You’re chilling. Baby style.”
He actually seemed to consider my advice.
There was a first time for everything.
When I got to school later that morning, there was a bottleneck of kids at the main entrance. That was unusual. Unlike the Academy, the students of Hardcastle Middle weren’t generally so eager to get educated that they’d line up for the privilege.
When I got close to the front, I could see what was going on, and it turned my blood to ice. There at the door stood three adults—Principal Verlander, Dr. Schultz, and Mr. Kaminsky, the driver of the tanker truck. They were looking into the faces of every boy as they entered the building. The purpose was clear—to give the one person who’d seen the superkid a chance to recognize him again.
My first impulse was to slip out of line and take off down the street. But if anybody saw me do it, I’d be putting extra suspicion on myself and then I’d get caught for sure. No, I had to brazen it through—walk right past the guy, head held high, and pray that he hadn’t gotten a good look at me on Saturday.
As we shuffled forward, a familiar gnawing spread outward from my stomach until my entire body was vibrating with it. I’d spent so much of my life cowering in terror because I’d done something awful. Now I’d finally done something good—great even. And here I was, still cowering. Chloe would have called that irony. She got straight A’s in English.
And then the driver’s eyes were on me. My breath caught in my throat. My heart skipped a couple of beats. But then the eyes shifted to the kid behind me. Zero recognition—hooray! I practically collapsed into the school, bowled over with relief. I’d made it.
My relief lasted less than the distance to my locker. A sharp burst of laughter made me jump.
“Dude, you look terrible!” Nussbaum exclaimed. “What is this—Zombie Day?”
“That would explain the mystery meat in my sausage biscuit from the cafeteria,” Sanderson added.
“I’m thrilled my sleep deprivation is giving you so much enjoyment,” I said sarcastically. “There’s a newborn baby at my house. It isn’t all Pampers and peekaboo, you know. That kid’s got a set of lungs like an air raid siren.” I told them about my morning—Brad waking me, me waking Kandy, Kandy waking Beatrice, and the two of them waking Tina.
They had a nice long laugh at my expense. Having friends was a wonderful thing. No wonder Noah was so gung ho about it.
And speaking of Noah . . .
“Have you guys seen Noah today?”
Sanderson shook his head. “I think he might be absent.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “He loves regular school so much that he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. He’s usually the first one here and the last to go home.” That was another reason Noah was totally unique in the history of Hardcastle Middle.
“Maybe his perfect attendance record is spoiling his shot at remedial classes,” Nussbaum suggested.
“Well, if you see him, let him know I’m looking for him.”
They gave me a hard time about that, too, but it didn’t matter because Noah really was absent. The other big news was that Mr. Kaminsky didn’t recognize anyone else as the superkid. That came as no surprise to me. So there was no wild celebration in the building—not unless you count Megan Mercury’s reaction when she realized Noah wouldn’t be at cheerleading practice.
When I got home, the door was locked, and I had to pound on it for close to five minutes before anybody let me in.
“Sorry, Donnie!” Mom tossed over her shoulder as she dashed into the living room. “We’re all watching TV.”
“What’s on?” I asked without much interest.
“Breaking news!” she enthused. “They found the superkid!”
So help me, I actually turned around in the foyer, half expecting to see a news crew with TV cameras pointed at me.
“So when you say they ‘found’ him,” I ventured cautiously, “you mean they know who he is, and they’re about to announce the name . . . ?”
“Get in here, Donnie!” Mom was practically giddy. “You don’t want to miss this.”
I sure didn’t. I rushed into the living room. Mom, Katie, and Brad were on the edge of their seats, staring with bated breath at the screen, which showed the empty briefing room at Hardcastle City Hall. Even Tina, in Katie’s arms, seemed riveted to the TV, although nothing was going on. Ditto Beatrice, who seemed to pick up on the supercharged expectation that something huge was about to happen.
Only Kandy was immune. According to Mom, the puppy was inconsolable every minute I was at school—like he thought I was gone for good or something. Overjoyed at my return, he made his usual bull run at me, tripping over his huge feet, and rolling into a skull-rattling collision with my ankle. He finally came to a stop with all four legs clamped around my jeans. I shook him off before he could make a liquid deposit on my shoes.
Everyone was frozen in anticipation, nobody more than me. So the driver had recognized me after all. Why didn’t they just talk to me on the spot? Why ignore me then and wait seven hours to announce my name on TV to the whole town? Was this supposed to be a happy surprise for me, a reward for my heroics?
My dad burst in the front door and hustled past me into the living room. “What’s going on? Did it happen yet?” He almost never came home from work in the middle of the day.
Mom pointed to the screen. “Here comes the mayor. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited.”
Mayor DaSilva was beaming as he assumed the podium. “I know I speak for every citizen of Hardcastle when I say that we’ve all walked a little taller and felt a lot of pride since learning about an impressive young hero in our community. At long last, this remarkable teenager has stepped forward to receive our appreciation and gratitude. Superkid, come on out here and receive the applause of a grateful city.”
Wait—the kid was there? How was that possible? I was here!
My relief was dwarfed by my bewilderment. This “hero” was a phony! Why would some random guy come forward to try to take credit for what I did? What was his angle?
Obviously, he was looking for fame and glory—and maybe some reward money. But wasn’t that risky, knowing the real superkid was out there somewhere? I mean, I couldn’t come forward—but he didn’t know that. He could go from
hero to goat in the blink of an eye. Plus, he could get in serious trouble if he accepted a cash reward. You’d have to be really stupid to take a gamble like that.
The imposter appeared in a doorway and took his place onstage beside the mayor. There he stood, basking in the cheers and the camera flashes.
I nearly dropped dead right there in my own living room.
“Hey, Donnie,” Dad piped up, “isn’t that your little friend from genius school?”
I couldn’t answer.
Noah Youkilis.
Mom fixed me with an accusing stare. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“This is—news to me too,” I managed to stammer.
Noah! What was he trying to pull? Did he think people would just take his word for it that he’d leaped into a moving truck? He couldn’t run—not without kicking himself in the butt with his flailing heels. Man, he couldn’t cross a schoolyard hopscotch court without tripping over the number five. Anyone who’d ever seen his cheerleading routines would know that! Why would he expect anybody to believe him?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver necklace on a broken chain. The TV cameras zoomed in on it. It looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen it before.
“What have you got there, son?” asked Mayor DaSilva.
Noah looked nervous as he shifted his praying-mantis posture. “This is the St. Christopher medal that was hanging from the visor in the propane tanker,” he explained, a little stiffly. “It snapped off in my hand when I jumped in through the window and grabbed for the steering wheel . . .”
Oh, no.
I’d totally forgotten the St. Christopher medal! Why, oh why did I let him keep it? He said he just wanted it for a souvenir! How was I supposed to know he’d use it as Exhibit A to prove he was something he wasn’t?
Why was he doing this? So he could be a celebrity? He was already a celebrity at the Academy! He could have been a titan just by doing his homework and not working against his own natural abilities!
Noah went on to describe the events of last Saturday morning. He knew every detail because he’d been there, watching me. And of course, he added all this extra science info like the density of liquid propane, the acceleration of a truck down a driveway pitched at twenty-seven degrees, and blah, blah, blah. He sounded nerdy but also authoritative. Then the mayor took over again and said that in addition to being this great hero, Noah was also the owner of the highest IQ in the history of Hardcastle.