Captain Nobody (11 page)

“Nobody used that word.”

“Do
you
think I'm crazy?”

“Well, you wore your Halloween costume to school.”

“Yeah, but . . . ,” I started to say.

“And they're your brother's clothes.”

“He gave them to me, so they're technically mine,” I insisted. “And besides, I feel really super
amazing
in them. It's like magic, Dad.”

“Clothes do not have magical powers, Newt.”

“Really? What about your ‘lucky hat' that you wear to all of Chris's games?”

“That's not exactly the same thing—”

“And Mom? When she's close to selling a house, she puts on those green shoes she calls her ‘seal-the-deal-heels'?”

“All right, all right, I get it,” Dad stammered. “But, still . . . you told people your name is ‘Captain Nobody.'”

“Pretty cool, huh? It sort of came to me.”

“It
‘came'
to you?” Dad looked worried. “This Captain Nobody, what should I know about him? Is he going to try to fly or stop a bullet with his teeth?”

I sighed. “Dad, I haven't lost my mind.”

“You're sure?”

“Behind the mask, I'm still me.”

That seemed to console him. “Okay, then let me ask you: When do you think you'll . . . stop?”

“Stop?”

“Stop being Captain Nobody.”

If Dad had asked me that question two hours before—before I helped Cecil rescue his bass drum and before I saw the light go on in Mr. Clay's eyes—I probably would have had a different answer.

“I'm not sure,” I shrugged, and then I did something I don't remember ever having done in my lifetime: I reached up and patted my dad on the shoulder. “But you'll be the first to know,” I assured him.

Dad smiled. He seemed relieved to end that conversation. His pager beeped, but he punched the button that switches it off and turned his attention back to me.

“So, are your teachers right?” he asked. “Are you thinking about your brother a lot?”

I felt like I'd been poked in the heart.

“Oh, yeah,” I said quietly. “A lot.”

We sat at the kitchen counter and ate sloppy joes that I made from a can. Dad told me how Chris's doctors were “baffled,” but they were continuing to “feel optimistic.” He talked about the machines Chris was hooked up to and the tests they were running, and how there were so many balloons and flowers in my brother's room that the nurses started to distribute them around the hospital.

Then Dad took a picture of me with his cell phone and sent it to Mom.

Suddenly, in the middle of our great conversation, the walkie-talkie in my backpack squealed.

“What's that?” Dad asked.

I jumped off my chair and grabbed my bag. “Sorry! Cecil's trying out this new gadget on me,” I said. “I'll take it in the dining room.”

Once I was out of earshot, I pulled out the receiver in time to hear:
“This is Cecil Butterworth calling Captain Nobody. Come in, Captain Nobody. Over.”

I pushed the “talk” button. “What is it now, Cecil?” I groaned before I added, “Over.”

I stared in disbelief at the walkie-talkie in my hand before I squeezed the “talk” button again. I made hissing and crackling noises, “kshhrkkkkpppfffsshhhh . . .”—sprinkled with fragments of words—“. . . can't hear you . . . pssshhhh . . . losing battery pow . . . bbbbblljjjkkkshhhh.” Then, just before switching off the walkie-talkie once and for all, I said very clearly, “Over.”

I finished my homework and was getting ready for bed when Dad stuck his head into my room.

“Your mom got the picture of Captain Nobody. She says she hasn't stopped laughing, and she's showing everybody in the hospital.”

“Really?” My smile was about two feet wide. It seemed like a good moment to ask the question I had been wanting to ask all evening.

“Dad? When can I come visit Chris?”

Dad sat on the edge of my bed and patted a place for me to sit beside him.

“Right now, kiddo, Chris's doctors still have tests they want to run. They have specialists they want to consult. Until then, they're saying, ‘No visitors.' As a matter of fact, Chris's coach dropped by, and his teammates keep showing up. But nobody gets in.” Dad put an arm around my shoulder. “So, can you give us another day or two before you come by?”

I squeezed my lips together and nodded.

“Sure.”

“But,” Dad said brightly, “just because you can't visit doesn't mean you can't
see
your brother.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, visiting hours are over for the night,” he said, pulling his cell phone out of its holster on his belt, “but look what your mother took for you.”

He flipped open his phone, pushed a button, and there, on the tiny screen, was a short, wobbly video of Chris lying in his hospital bed. He looked pretty much the same as when I go to wake him in the morning, except that bundles of wires and tubes snaked out from under his hospital gown and connected him to a bunch of machines with green blips rolling across their screens. Dad explained what every machine was for. Since the little movie lasted only about ten seconds, we played it four more times.

When we were done, my eyes stung and I couldn't think of anything to say. After I closed the phone and handed it back to Dad, he kissed the top of my head. “When the doctors say it's okay, you'll be the first one through the door.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“And now I've got a question,” he said as he stood. “Do you go to sleep dressed like that?”

“Dad.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. Even Captain Nobody needs to rest once in a while.”

“And does Captain Nobody ever give his dad a good-night hug?”

I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed real hard. “Tell me if I'm crushing you.”

Dad laughed for the first time all night.

I dropped off to sleep and dreamed about the Big Tackle again, only this time, I came to my brother's rescue. Just as Chris was diving over the goal line with both teams stampeding behind him, I raced into the end zone dressed as Captain Nobody, held up both hands and shouted, “Ollie ollie oxen
STOP!
” All twenty-one players froze, some of them in midair. Once Chris had a chance to walk off the field and was safe, I snapped my fingers, and they all dropped in a heap on the ground. Then I yelled, “Pizza for everyone!” About a thousand pizzas got delivered, and everybody in the stadium got a slice.

I don't really understand that last part.

It's kind of amazing how quickly people can get used to new ideas. The next day at school, you'd have thought I'd been Captain Nobody since kindergarten. I still got a few stares in the hallways, but nobody made fun of me on the playground. When I raised my hand in class, Mrs. Young called on me by saying, “Yes, Captain Nobody?” And nobody snickered.

At noon, on the playground, I came up behind Cecil as he was explaining to JJ how to operate her walkie-talkie.

“You push this button here, you talk into here, and all you have to say is ‘Come quick, Captain Nobody!'”

“Wait a minute!” I interrupted. “What are you calling me for now?”

“It's just in case,” Cecil explained.

“I'll only call if it's a real, true emergency,” JJ said. “I swear.”

“If it's a real, true emergency,” I said, “you'd better call 911.”

Cecil scowled. “
Anybody
can do that.” He held up his walkie-talkie. “The three of us have our own, highly specialized communication network. Speaking of which, what's up with yours, Captain?”

I pulled the unit out of my backpack. “Nothing. Why?”

“Last night when I called? It sounded like you were at the bottom of the ocean.”

“I don't know.” I shrugged innocently. “This morning I turned it on, and it's good to go.”

“Great!” he declared. “So, now we gotta check that we're on the same channel.” He pointed to two corners of the school yard. “Let's spread out and run a test.”

I leaned over to tell JJ, “And be sure to say ‘over' when you're done talking, otherwise Cecil gets very upset.”

JJ laughed, but Cecil just smacked me on the shoulder. “Get out there!” he ordered.

JJ went to one end of the playground, and I headed to the other, where a football game was in progress.

My walkie-talkie crackled.
“Cecil, can you hear me?”
It was JJ, who quickly added,
“Over.”

“I read you loud and clear,”
Cecil answered.
“And Captain Nobody? Are you hearing this? Over.”

I pressed the button and was about to respond when suddenly a football
boinked!
me on the back of the head. I dropped to one knee.

“Ow!” I complained, rubbing my scalp.

“What's the matter? Aren't you supposed to be tougher than steel?”

I looked up. A hulking seventh-grader glowered down at me. Under one massive arm he held the football that had just bounced off my skull. Behind him, a posse of his classmates stood, arms crossed.

My heart was pounding as I got up, but I looked this guy straight in the eye and asked, “Who wants to know?”

“Ricky Ratner. Name ring a bell . . . Newman?”

Startled, I blurted out, “Are you related to
Reggie
Ratner? Over at Merrimac High?”

“Reggie's my cousin.”