Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (17 page)

“Wait!” She points at the orange pass that I'm holding. “You must be here to see one of the boys.”

“I … Well, yeah, kind of…” I sound like an idiot.

“I'm Nurse Amy,” she says, grabbing my hand. She pulls me off the elevator. “And you don't have to be scared. With the proper protection, you'll be fine.”

I hope you know what you're talking about, lady,
I think as I stumble down the hall behind her.

We make our way down a long corridor. At the end, we come to another set of double doors with a sign above them that reads:
QUARANTINE AREA. AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY
.

“You need to slip this on,” she says, grabbing a jumpsuit from a cart next to us. “It's for your own protection.”

I take it and struggle into something that looks and feels like an oversize garbage bag. When I'm done, she nods at me, then snaps a pair of goggles over my eyes.

“Leave these on, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Which one are you here to see?”

“Bodbreath,” I say before I can change my mind.

She nods again and pushes a button. The doors swing open.

“He's in there,” she says, pointing to a single door on our left. I start to move forward, then stop, looking back at her.

“Go on,” she says, smiling. “It's fine.”

Fine like walking into a lion's den,
I think as I walk over to the door and pull.

*   *   *

At first, everything's blurry, and I think about pulling off the goggles, but then I remember what the nurse said. After a few seconds, my eyes start to adjust to the dark, and I look around.

In the far corner, I see the outline of a hospital bed. A panel full of lights hangs on the wall behind it, blinking like a Christmas tree. A faint beeping is the only sound in the room. At the foot of the bed is a small table littered with wads of tissue.

“Hello, there.”

I swear, I jump twenty feet. Now I really have to pee.

A dark figure emerges from the corner.

“Thanks for coming.”

I blink. The voice is soft and small. I squint through the goggles.

“I am Mrs. Bodbreath,” she says, “Sherrel's mother.”

I blink again.
“Sherrel?”

She smiles, and I can see a space where a tooth should be. “I know, I know. He's so embarrassed by his name, always telling me it was meant for a girl. But it's been in my family for many generations. It was my grandfather's.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to imagine Boomer being embarrassed about anything.

She goes on. “I'm so glad you've come to visit.” She presses her lips together. “How did you manage that, anyway? I thought only family was allowed.”

I think fast. “Uh … my mom's a police officer. She got special permission.”

She beams as if this is the best news she's heard all week. “Oh, that's so nice. And what position do you play?”

It takes me a minute to realize she's talking about football. My face gets hot.

“I don't,” I say, shaking my head. “Play on the team, that is.”

“Oh? Then how do you two know each other?”

“Chess club,” I blurt out. I want to shoot myself. Really, I do.

“Chess!” She glances over at the bed. “I bet he's good. He's always been very strategic, you know.”

Not exactly a word I'd use to describe Boomer, but I nod anyway.

“Well, you boys will be playing together again before you know it.” She says it like she's trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. “Now come say hello.”

I hold up a gloved hand.

“Uh, that's okay, Mrs. Bodbreath.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my bladder about to explode. “I just … Can you just tell me … The rash. What color is it?”

She doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, she leans over the lump in the bed, cooing. “Peanut,” she says, “you have a visitor.”

Peanut?

She looks up. “What did you say your name was, dear?”

“Charlie.” It comes out before I can stop it. I rack my brain, trying to remember if there is another Charlie at our school. There isn't.

“Charlie's here,” she whispers to the lump. “He misses playing chess with you.”

Oh jeez … If Boomer survives this, I'm so dead.

“Come here, dear,” she says, holding her hand out to me. My feet shuffle forward like they're not my own.

I look down. An eerie light radiates from Boomer's skin, as if he's swallowed a pack of purple glow sticks. “Wow,” I say, “he's purple, all right.”

Mrs. Bodbreath nods. “That's what has the doctors most concerned.” She leans toward me, whispering. “They're worried it may be blood poisoning.”

I gulp.

“But he's going to be fine,” she says, her voice so full of peppiness, it would put my sister's cheerleading squad to shame. “Yes, you are, Peanut. Don't you worry.”

Boomer grunts.

“Don't try to move,” she says, then looks at me. “His neck is very stiff.”

He grunts again.

“I think he's trying to say something,” she says. “What is it, Peanut? What are you trying to say?”

It's faint, but it's undeniable. “Charlie,” he whispers.

My blood stops moving.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Mrs. Bodbreath says. She pushes me toward the bed. For someone so tiny, she's stronger than she looks.

“Get closer,” she demands.

Any closer and I might as well kiss him,
I want to say. I can practically count the freckles on his purply skin.

His eyes are buggy, like someone's shoving on them from the inside out. They dart back and forth, searching my face.

“My mom,” he mumbles. “She thinks … we're … friends.…”

I nod.

“Friends…” His eyes dart around some more. “Get it?”

And suddenly, I do. Boomer Bodbreath might be Gatehouse Middle School's biggest bully, but he still wants his mom to be proud of him.

“What's he saying, Charlie?” Mrs. Bodbreath pokes a bony finger into my back. “Can you understand what he's saying?”

I straighten up but keep my eyes on Boomer's.

“I understand him perfectly.”

She closes her eyes. “Oh, thank you.” I have a feeling this isn't meant for me.

I wiggle my way out from between the two of them. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Bodbreath, but I really need to go.”

“Already?” Her eyes snap open. “But you'll come back, yes?”

I bolt toward the door. “Hopefully, I won't have to.”

*   *   *

Outside, the sky has grown darker. A few snowflakes are falling again, and I can taste sea salt on my lips. I zip up my jacket and jump onto my bike. I've got to get that journal. I speed across town but screech to a stop when I see Gatehouse. It looms in front of me, looking more like a Hollywood movie set than my middle school. Spotlights blaze in the parking lot, and television vans are parked next to a row of black town cars. Two guards dressed in khaki military duds stand in front of each set of doors, and a man in a dark trench coat paces back and forth, a cell phone stuck to his ear. A reporter pops out of one of the vans, and I grab her before she can go by.

“Hey … uh, can you tell me what's going on?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

She gives me a sideways glance.

“Breaking news,” she says, the wind pushing her words back in her face. “The CDC just arrived.”

“CDC?”

“Center for Disease Control,” she says, trying to swipe the hair out of her face. “You should get out of here, kid. If they find you snooping around, they're going to quarantine you until this whole thing is over. Meningococcal meningitis is big news, especially in a small town like this one.”

She runs past me, and I stare at Gatehouse. If only I could get inside, I could put a stop to all this. But there are so many people, and there's no—wait, what was that? In the window of Mr. P's science lab, a small yellow light blinks at me. Once, twice … then again.

He's in there. Mr. P is back.

I dump my bike next to the streetlight and run across the road. After ducking behind a maple tree, I skirt across the courtyard, trying to stay in the shadows.

I'm almost to the window when I hear voices behind me. I scrunch down behind a bush and try to make myself as small as possible.

“So, you think these kids are really sick?” A thick Boston accent floats over my head, and I look up. Two men dressed in trench coats head up the hill toward Maggie's Coffee Shop.

“Beats me,” says the other. “They say they got all the symptoms.”

I pop my head up and look around. The light in the window blinks again, and I jump up and grab the sill. As soon as I press my face against the glass, I can see him clear as day.

Mr. P sits in his leather chair, reading. He holds a book in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. His cowboy hat dips forward, most of his face hidden from sight.

That's just great,
I think. This place is crawling with reporters and something called the CDC, and my science teacher is sitting in his science lab, sipping cowboy coffee and reading like he doesn't have a care in the world. I'm about to reach out and tap on the glass, when I notice two beady eyes staring at me.

“Ack!” I scream, and fall backward into the bush.

“Charlie?” The top of a cowboy hat leans out the window. “That you, pardner?”

The beady eyes belong to something that is now climbing onto his shoulder. I shudder.

“Is that a rat?” I scramble to stand up.

“What? Oh, you mean Whiz?” He reaches over and plucks it off, holding it out to me. “Want to hold him?”

“No!” I screech, then clamp my hand over my mouth and look around. “What's he doing here?”

“Just keeping me company. Doesn't like to be locked up when there's a ruckus. He's a chinchilla. Part of the rodentia family, similar to his distant cousin, the ground squirrel. These little critters are crepuscular, meaning he's a bundle of energy early in the morning and right around sundown—”

“Mr. P,” I interrupt, my teeth chattering. “Can I—”

“Know where they're from?”

I look behind me. “Who?”

“Chinchillas.” He doesn't wait for me to answer. “The Andes. In South America. Want me to show you on a map?”

I try again. “Mr. P? Is there any chance—”

“You could come inside? Well, sure thing.” He reaches out of the window and grabs ahold of my arms. Before I can argue, he's hoisted me up the bricks and through the window.

I glance around. It could almost pass as our regular science lab. Rows of tables—their stainless-steel tops scrubbed clean—fill the center of the room, six chairs on top of each, like soldiers standing at attention. Beakers and microscopes line the back counters, and the textbooks are stacked neatly against the wall, waiting to be cracked open again. But the leather chair in the corner with the cowhide rug lying next to it throws the whole thing off. And though there's no smell of bacon grease, it's pretty obvious that this room is more than just a science lab to Mr. P.

He jerks his head to the side, motioning toward something on the table next to the leather chair.

“I reckon you've come for that.”

My science journal.

“You found it!” I pick it up and hold it to my chest. Goose bumps explode all over me.

“I didn't find it,” he says, “It—”

I cut him off. “It found me.”

He grins. “Good work, pardner.”

“But it's not good, Mr. P. In fact, it's very, very bad. I stink at this bully-busting stuff.”

His grin disappears. “Why would you say that?”

I plunk down on the leather chair, my head in my hands. “Because every time I think I've figured it out, something comes along to prove me wrong. I've messed up more things than I've fixed, and I can't make sense of any of it.”

He bends down next to me. “Charlie. What was the most important thing I told you on the first day of science class?”

I peek out from between my fingers. “That we should write from our guts?”

He shakes his head.

“That … words can be powerful?”

He puts his hand on my knee. “Think.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to remember the details of that first day. Showing up late, his cowboy boots click-clacking on the tile floor, the shock I felt when I first touched the journal …

My eyes spring open. “You told me that a true scientist will not be satisfied with finding the answers to the things that makes sense. A true scientist will ask questions about the things that don't.”

He pulls a toothpick from his pocket and sticks it into his mouth. “Bingo,” he says, winking.

“But,” I say slowly, “you also told me something else.”

“Go on,” he says.

Suddenly, the room feels too hot.

“You told me that even after a scientist's got his answers, he won't be satisfied.” I stand up. “You're still not satisfied, are you?”

His eyebrows shoot up under the brim of his hat. “What's this have to do with me?”

I think back to what Stella said in the van on the first day of school. “Every year, you hand out a bunch of journals and say all this stuff about magic and power and words, and how everyone should write from the gut. Then you sit back and wait to see who will fall for it.” I wipe my brow. “If no one does, you give up, then start from scratch the next year.”

“Now, look here, pardner—” he says.

I glare at him. “This whole thing … This was your experiment, not mine.”

“You're wrong, Charlie.” He points his toothpick at me. “You're letting doubt get in the way of your imagination.”

“But that's the problem!” My voice is rising. “It's been a figment of my imagination all along. There was no magic or catalyst or special gift—just some dumb kid who wanted to believe that a made-up superhero could change things for the better.”