Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (11 page)

Later that night I wake up, dripping in sweat. The room feels like it's August and someone cranked up the heater instead of the air conditioner.

I think back to the excuse I gave my dad. Maybe I really am coming down with something.

I sit up and scan my room. My bookshelf sags under the weight of my rock collection and favorite books, and a week's worth of T-shirts and boxers make a mountain next to my hamper. I stand up and yelp when something stabs into my foot. I turn it over. A red Lego sticks to the bottom of it.

I hop over to my desk and push aside the pile of candy wrappers that cover my journal. I open it and squint at the episode I wrote:…
blowing the insect into a billion particles …

I shiver. Mr. P said the journal is only a catalyst. I think back to his words from the first day of school and the note that Pickles wrote me.

“Words can be powerful,” I say out loud, then shake my head. Even if my science teacher knows what he's talking about, there's no way that something I write in my journal could cause my soccer coach to be blown to smithereens.

Right?

I chew on my pencil.

I'm not sure it's a chance I'm willing to take.

I erase the last part. Then I write:

Dude aimed for the insect. “I will spare your life, Croach, but I will render you powerless.” With that, he shot a bolt of electricity straight into the bug's neck, disintegrating his poison chamber. Gasping, the cockroach coughed and sputtered, grabbing at his throat.

“Dude,” he croaked, “what have you done to me?”

Dude glared at the pest. “I have stripped you of your one power—your poisonous tongue. Now, get off my planet before I strip you of anything else.” With that, he turned toward the dining room, suddenly hungry for something salty.

Reading back over it, I feel better. Coach Crenshaw may be a bully, but having him annihilated may be taking it a bit too far.

I walk over to my bed and climb back in, pulling the covers up over my head.

There's a lot of things I have to figure out still, but I know one thing for sure.

Dude Explodius is no murderer.

 

CHAPTER

19

I wake up to barking.

“Wroof!”

I throw the blankets off and jump up. I don't even bother to tiptoe across the squeaky floorboards. I don't care if she hears me coming.

As soon as I get to her door, I see her on all fours in the middle of her bed. Something hangs out the side of her mouth. I squint and realize it's a slobber-soaked bill with the face of Alexander Hamilton plastered across it.

Ten bucks. The tooth fairy brought my kid sister ten bucks, and she's munching on it like it's a dog biscuit.

I walk into her room.

“Lucy,” I say through gritted teeth. “Give me that.” She wags her behind at me and drops the bill onto her quilt. I pick it up. One whole corner's gone.

My voice is not my own. “This isn't a joke, Lucy. I don't know if you're looking for more attention or to get me in trouble, but you need to knock it off. Now.”

She jumps up and clamps her teeth down on the bill, then bolts for the bathroom.

“Lucy!” I try to grab her foot, but she's too fast. “That's real money!”

“Burgers!” My mom's voice booms up the staircase. “You've got ten minutes to be down, dressed, and ready for school. Or else!”

I don't know what
or else
means, but I prefer not to find out. I run into the hall and jump onto the banister. I practically slide right into my mom.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Back it up,” she says, pointing to the stairs.

“Look, Mom, I was just trying to help. Lucy was about to destroy—”

She points again, this time at my feet.

“Those are the worst toenails I've seen in a long time,” she says, her face scrunched up like she just smelled the inside of my soccer bag. “I mean, really, Charlie. When's the last time you … Oh, never mind. Just go. Toenail clippers. March.”

I jump off the banister and slump back up the stairs. Lucy watches me as I pass by her door, and I stick my tongue out at her. She lunges, and I sprint to my room, making a mental note to myself: Always put socks on
before
breakfast.

*   *   *

When I get home that afternoon, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the
Cape Ann Anchor
. It comes out every Friday. She likes to read it cover to cover, starting with the police report. She makes sure every word is spelled right and no detail is missing. Then she moves on to the obituaries.

“It's important to know who's died each week,” she likes to explain. “Criminals like to target the homes of bereaved families. Can you imagine?” She will shake her head like she definitely can't. “I mean, what kind of sicko would take advantage of a family during such a time?”

Today, she looks up as soon as I come in.

“You're already home?” I ask.

“I'm doing a split shift,” she says. “Gargotti's got the flu, so I'm going back out tonight.”

I open the fridge and peer inside.

“Charlie, come sit down for a minute.”

Uh-oh.
I think back to this morning. Now she probably wants to inspect my fingernails.

Instead, she pats the chair next to her and smiles. “How's school going?” she asks.

“It's fine.”

“Do you like your classes?”

“They're okay.”

She takes off her glasses and lays them on top of the paper. “I'm sorry, Charlie.”

I blink, not expecting this. “For what?”

“For this morning,” she says. “It's important that you start taking more responsibility for your personal hygiene, but I didn't have to be so hard on you.”

I shrug. “They were pretty gross.”

She continues as if she didn't hear me. “I know that starting middle school can be a big adjustment. Growing up can be tough and—”

“I'm fine, Mom.”

She nods, but her face is still frowning. “Okay. I'm sorry—I just worry, that's all.”

I fiddle with the pen in front of me. “Maybe you worry too much.”

“Maybe it's part of my job description.” She grins. “I think it's on the list, right below making dentist appointments and buying Christmas presents.”

I laugh. “It should definitely be below buying Christmas presents.”

Just then the back door flies open, and Stella storms in. Dark stains cover the front of her cheerleading uniform, and dirt-colored water drips from her hair. She looks like she's been shot with a mud gun.

“Mom!” she wails. “Look what the mail truck just did to me!”

My mom jumps up and grabs Stella's arm. “Come on. We need to soak that sweater before the stains set.” She starts to steer my sister out of the room but stops in the doorway and winks at me. “And laundry. Add that to my job description list.”

 

CHAPTER

20

I wake up early Saturday morning, but instead of heading to the basement and the TV, I head to the laundry room. Shoving a week's worth of clothes into the washing machine, I turn it on, dumping what seems like the right amount of detergent inside. Next, I grab a rag and some cleaning supplies. Twenty minutes later, my shelves are dusted, my bed is made, and every Lego has been picked up off the floor and dumped into a box, along with my rock collection and my Matchbox cars. I look around and smile.

I'm carrying the box downstairs when Stella comes out of the kitchen. She stops and leans against the wall.

“What's that?” she asks, eyeing the box.

“Just stuff,” I say.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Stuff that I don't need anymore,” I say. “Kid stuff.”

“Put it in the basement storage room,” she says, walking to the hall closet. She opens the door and pulls out my mom's leather jacket, the one she knows she's not supposed to wear. “That's where Mom likes to keep those things.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever, I guess. A couple of weeks ago, I found her down there rifling through a box of our old baby clothes.” She turns sideways, studying herself in the hall mirror. “At first, I thought she looked upset, but when she saw me, she said she was just trying to figure out what was worth keeping and what she should send to the holiday clothing and toy drive at the precinct this year.”

“Oh,” I say. I can't imagine my mom being upset over a bunch of baby clothes.

Suddenly, Stella's face lights up. “It's inventory morning at Pickles's store, remember? You coming?” She tugs on my sweatshirt, her voice cheery. “It'll be so fun.”

I look at my sister, knowing exactly what she's up to. Stella figures by getting me to come along, she'll have someone she can boss around all day. My sister wants those cheerleading shoes, but she doesn't want to actually work for them.

“Nah,” I say, opening the door to the basement. “I've got other things to do.”

“What kind of things?” she says, the cheer gone.

“Important things,” I say.

“Suit yourself,” she says, “she'll be here in five minutes if you change your mind.”

At the bottom of the stairs, I open the door to the storage room. In front of me are stacks of boxes, each with something written on the outside in black marker. I shove over a box labeled
DRESS-UP CLOTHES
and slide mine in next to it. I'm about to close the door when I think of something. I grab a marker off the shelf and scribble:
CHARLIE'S STUFF—NOT FOR TOY DRIVE!
on the outside.

I may be too old for Legos and my rock collection, but that doesn't mean I want some other kid to have them.

I hear panting and turn around. Lucy's sitting in my favorite spot, watching
Scooby-Doo
cartoons. Her head is cocked to one side as she follows the images across the screen. She's chewing on my soccer cleat.

I walk over, ready to rip the shoe out of her mouth, when Stella yells from upstairs.

“Charlie! Pickles is here! Last chance!”

I look at Lucy. She lets out a low growl.

“Wait up!” I say, leaning over. It takes some tugging, but eventually I pry the shoe from her jaws. She starts howling as I make for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

With Franki babysitting all day and Lucy playing king of the couch, spending the morning at Pickles's store doesn't sound so bad. Even if I am going to get bossed around.

*   *   *

Stella doesn't boss me around. For three hours, she does nothing but eat cinnamon jelly beans and text her friends. When Pickles comes out of her office, my sister stuffs her head inside a box and mutters something about how we need to find a place to put the board games and jigsaw puzzles.

“You all have done some fine work,” Pickles says, looking around. “I never could have done this alone.”

Even without Stella's help, I've managed to get most of the boxes unpacked, sorted, and organized in the stock room. My stomach growls, and I realize it must be close to lunchtime.

As if she can read my thoughts, Pickles winks at me.

“Ready for the deli?”

Stella blows a piece of hair out of her face. “Sounds fantastic—I'll meet you guys out back.” She grabs her purse, then heads off toward the bathroom.

Pickles rolls her eyes, then smiles at me. “Can you grab my wallet from the office? I'll just lock the front door, and we'll be on our way.” I nod and follow my sister toward the back of the store.

In the office, I spot her wallet on the desk. I'm just about to grab it, when I notice a photograph lying next to it. I pick it up.

“It's your grandfather.”

I jump. Pickles stands in the doorway. “I was going through some old papers and found it.” She nods at me. “Thought you might like to have it.”

I study it closely. His hair is thick, but white as snow, and his eyes are the same green as mine. He grins at me like he's got some great secret he's dying to share.

Pickles walks over to me. “This was taken in his lab at Harvard. He loved that lab—would sleep there if I'd let him.” I look at the picture again. He's leaning against a table, a row of beakers lined up behind him. His arm rests on something, a pad of paper, maybe, or a notebook—

“Pickles, did Gramps have a journal?”

“Yes, he did,” she says. “He loved that thing, almost like it was a part of him. Took it everywhere he went.”

My pulse quickens. If I can get my hands on Gramps's journal, maybe it will help answer some questions about mine. “Do you still have it?” I ask her. “The journal?”

She shakes her head.

“Unfortunately, no. During the accident there was a fire. Almost everything in his lab was destroyed, including the journal.”

“Did you ever read it?”

She smiles, but her face seems sad. “No, but sometimes I wish I had. He was so attached to it that I always wondered if there was more on those pages than just science data. It was as if his very existence was somehow tied to what was inside that journal.”

I flop down onto the chair, something inside me deflating. What if Gramps's journal had been a catalyst, too? Mr. P said that maybe this gift runs in—

I sit up, thinking of something else. “Pickles,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Did Gramps ever tell you who gave him the journal?”

She nods. “A teacher.” She looks down at the photo. “Your grandfather said he was the person who taught him what it meant to be a true scientist.”

My heart flutters in my chest. “Do you know what happened to him? To the teacher, I mean.”

She chuckles. “That was a long time ago, Charlie. I'm sure he's long gone by now.”

My stomach rumbles, but I reach in my back pocket and pull the now-crumpled piece of paper out.