Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (6 page)

The last time I went was the Sunday before school started. Pickles had just gotten back from a toy convention in Baltimore and had asked my sisters and me to spend the day with her. Stella had cheerleading camp, but my mom said Lucy and I could go as long as we wore our seat belts, and Pickles promised to have us home before dark.

She picked us up in the Volkswagen, and we headed down Route 128, sharing her bubble gum stash from the glove compartment and singing old show tunes from
South Pacific
. When we got to her store, she flung her arms wide and announced, “Go crazy, kiddos!” then disappeared into her back office. The next two hours were ours.

I started where I always did: the candy wall. Rows of large glass jars held everything from lemon drops to mini chocolate bars. I tried every single flavor of jelly bean until I couldn't stomach anymore. After a while, I plugged a few dimes into the player piano, and we sang along to “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while Lucy redesigned the train track running across the floor and I test-drove the pogo sticks that had just been delivered. We sang at the tip-top of our lungs, because no one was there to say we couldn't.

At twelve o'clock sharp Pickles reappeared, ready for lunch at the diner next door.

Two hours later my belly was full of ham on rye, Lucy was stuffed with egg salad, and both of our arms were full of loot. Pickles had to drive over the speed limit most of the way, but she got us home by dusk. My dad came out to help us carry in our packages, but my mom stayed in the doorway.

“You're spoiling those kids, Pickles,” she warned, but she smiled a little while she said it.

“It's my job,” Pickles replied, pointing her unlit cigar out the window. “I'm the grandma.”

My dad laughed. “Don't be a stranger,” he told her.

“There are no strangers here—only friends you haven't yet met,” she said, which is how she always responds. Then she winked. “That's a quote by Yeats, kiddos. Look him up.”

And with that, she was gone.

But that was all before middle school started, and I haven't seen her until now.

*   *   *

I find her in the kitchen with my dad. They stop talking as soon as I walk in.

“Well, well.” She grins. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

She sets down the onion she was slicing and walks over to me. I notice that her long white hair has strands of purple running through it. Last time I saw her, they were orange.

Stella thinks Pickles moved to Salem because she's a witch. My mom says that's ridiculous, but sometimes I like to pretend it's true.

“Charlie,” she says, putting both hands on my cheeks, rubbing them as if to make sure I'm real. “You are a pleasant sight for this old woman's eyes.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

She pretends to look hurt. “Now, what kind of a question is that for your grandmother?”

“It's just—well, it's a weeknight. You usually come on Sundays.”

“Your father called and said he was making eggplant parmesan. He knows it's one of my favorites.” She grins. “Plus,” she says, crossing her arms, “my only grandson just started middle school last week. Those are both good reasons for a visit, don't you think?”

“Sure,” I say, though I can't imagine going anywhere for eggplant parmesan.

She motions for me to sit down, then does the same. Leaning her elbows on the table, she searches my face like it's a road map. “So, tell me all about sixth grade.”

I shrug. “There's not much to tell.”

“Think of something.”

I pick at a scab on my elbow. “My science teacher wears cowboy hats and says ‘pardner' a lot. He's sort of weird.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Science, huh?”

I nod. “He gave us these journals, but told us to write stories in them instead of science stuff.”

She looks over her shoulder at my dad, then back at me. “Have you written anything yet?”

“Kind of,” I tell her, not sure I want to talk about this. Writing make-believe stories about a superhero in my sixth-grade science journal is a little awkward. But telling my grandmother about it is even worse.

Lucky for me, my mom and Stella walk in. They're fighting. About shoes.

“It's not that I
want
them, Mom. I
need
them. There's a difference.”

My mom unbuckles her police belt and lays it on the bench next to the back door. “Just because Stacey Stalen's mother bought her new shoes to go with the new uniforms doesn't mean I have to.”

“But it's not just Stacey, Mom. Lori Crabtree's mother bought them for her, and so did Betsy Hamilton's, even though her dad just got laid off. Do you know how this is going to look? I mean, I'm the captain!”

My mom bites her thumb. “Money doesn't grow on trees, Stella.”

“I know that.” Stella rolls her eyes like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “But what you don't realize—”

Pickles stands and walks over to my sister. “What you don't realize, Stella dear, is that your mother's working hard to keep you in the shoes you have on your feet right now.” Stella looks down. “Now,” she continues, “if you'd like to earn some money to buy those new shoes yourself, I've got a big shipment coming into the toy store two weeks from Saturday.” She glances over at my mom. “If it's okay with your parents, you could come help me sort and organize it before the afternoon crowd shows up.”

“Sounds fine by me,” my mom says as my dad raises his spatula in agreement.

Stella throws her arms around Pickles's neck.

“Oh my gosh, Pickles, really? That would be great!”

“Good.” She turns to me. “You come too, if you want.”

I nod, but I doubt I'll go. I love spending time with Pickles, but after last week's mall trip, the idea of another Saturday inside any store makes me feel squirmy, even if it is the best toy store on the planet.

After dinner, I'm loading the dishwasher when Pickles comes into the kitchen. She grabs a dish towel and begins to dry the casserole dish. Her hands shake a little.

“So, other than this science teacher, do you like it? Middle school, I mean.”

I think about my run-in with Boomer, and Grant getting stuffed into his locker. I think about the order of operations and how if you don't follow certain rules, the answers will be all wrong. And I think about Franki and the fall festival and how Stella said middle school was going to change everything between us.

“I don't know,” I say, turning on the faucet. “Everything seemed a lot less complicated before.”

She sets the dish down. “You know, you remind me a lot of your grandpa.” She taps the side of her head. “You got his smarts. His eyes, too.”

“What was he like, Pickles?” I ask. “No one talks about him much.”

She stares out the window into the backyard. “He was one of the good guys. Kind, curious, brave…” She smiles, but her face looks sad. “They don't make many like him anymore. Not many at all.”

“What happened to him, Pickles?” I ask.

“It was an accident.”

“In his lab? Was he working on a new invention?”

“The details aren't really important, Charlie, but this part is.” She turns and looks at me. “He would have been very proud of you and the person you're becoming.”

I look down at the suds in the sink. “Too bad I don't have a clue who that person is.”

“You don't have to right now. Let your imagination be in charge of that for a while.”

A prickly feeling plays at the back of my neck, and suddenly the kitchen feels too hot. I pull at the collar of my T-shirt.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It's just that Mr. P said something like that when he gave us the journals.”

“The science teacher?”

“Yeah. He told us we should let our imaginations run like a pack of wild ponies.”

She laughs. “Sounds familiar.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your grandfather always said that until people understand the importance of their imaginations, they have nothing to offer the world of science.” She wags a finger at me. “Just remember, Charlie. Things aren't always what they seem. And the answers aren't as obvious as you think.”

“What answers?” I say, confused. “I don't even know the questions.”

She taps her head again. “You're a smart cookie. You'll think of some good ones. I'm sure of it.”

*   *   *

That night, after Pickles leaves, I'm heading to my room when I hear a chewing noise coming from Lucy's. I tell myself to ignore it, to keep walking, but I can't help myself. I peek around the corner.

“Lucy!” She looks up at me from where she's lying in the middle of her rug. “Is that … Are you…?”

One of my soccer cleats sits on the floor next to her. I walk in and pick it up. The top of it is soaking wet.

“Have you been chewing on this?” I demand. She lets out a whimper.

I'm about to yell for my mom, but change my mind. Instead I shove the shoe in her face.

“Stay out of my room and away from my stuff, do you hear me?” I wave it under her nose. “Or next time, you're going to get it.”

A low growl comes from somewhere deep inside her. I bolt out the door, holding the slobbery shoe in front of me.

When I get to my room, I slam the door and lean against it. My head is swimming as I start looking around for my other cleat. And that's when I see it.

A plain orange envelope leans against my computer screen.

I slide my finger under the flap and pull out a single piece of paper. Right away, I recognize Pickles's handwriting:

WORDS CAN BE POWERFUL. BELIEVE IN THEIR MAGIC AND ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN.

I sit down. It's the same thing Mr. P said when he handed me my journal. Pickles didn't come here tonight just for my dad's eggplant parmesan or to grill me about middle school. My grandmother and my science teacher are both trying to tell me something, but what?

I reach down and open my backpack. As soon as my fingers touch the journal, the now-familiar shock runs from my fingertips up the inside of my arm. I stare at the journal for a minute, thinking about experiments and words and magic. I think about what happened today with Boomer, and what Franki said about kids like him growing up to be guys like her stepdad.

Unless, maybe, someone has the power to stop them.

I open my journal and start writing.

September 14

Episode 3: The Big Blowup

The space monster advanced quickly, his suit of armor clanging against the rocky ground. His mouth was pulled wide in an evil grin, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth and a barbed tongue. He was three times the size of any creature on Planet Splodii and a bazillion times more powerful.

His mission? Ingest a superhero for lunch, then claim galactic domination by dinnertime.

The menacing creature's name was Bloogfer, and he had a secret weapon that no other being in the universe possessed: Bodyodor Blowout. He could let off a smell that would invade victims' bodies through their nostrils, mouths, and ear canals, an odor so grotesque, their eyes would water uncontrollably, their bodies would be thrown into bone-shattering convulsions, and their mouths would fill with a taste so disgusting that no amount of spitting or even upchucking could get rid of it. It was a superpower that had served him well on his rampage of slaughter throughout the universe.

Until today.

As Bloogfer prepared to unleash his killer stink upon Planet Splodii, Dude and his new dog, Bill, appeared on the horizon. Closing his eyes, Dude called upon Superpower #34: Biological Manipulation. As Bloogfer's smell crept across the planet, everyone began to cough and writhe on the ground. Luckily, Dude's ability to control his urge to react kept him protected. He stood his ground. The monster stopped for a moment, shaking his head.

“You don't belong here, Bloogfer,” Dude growled. “Time for you to crawl back into your underground hole before I do something we'll both regret.”

The evil grin reappeared on the monster's face. He loved a good challenge. Taking a quick whiff of his armpit for reinforcement, he clanged toward Dude, the sound of metal grinding on metal, causing Dude's sensitive ears to burn. As he reached to cover them, the monster lunged, his arms as thick as tree trunks.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Dude called on Superpower #45: Inhuman Reflexes. He ducked, easily avoiding the potentially fatal blow.

“Come on, you big oaf,” Dude teased. “Can't you do better than that?”

Bloogfer raged. Again, he hurled himself toward Dude, his eyes blazing, his lips curled. Dude waited—then gracefully slid to the left, causing the raging monster to fly past and crash head-on into a stone wall behind him. As he roared in frustration, Dude grinned, enjoying this more than he had thought he would.

“You know what, Bloog?” Dude said, eyeing the mass of metal lying on the ground. “Your antics bore me. I've had enough for today.” Extending his right arm, he aimed at the creature's metal-plated chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited. It was time for him to call on his shape-shifting powers and transform his arm into his most secret weapon—the Exterminizer.

Zap!
His fingers quivered for less than a nanosecond before the blast shot out of him, straight toward his target's chest. The sizzling sound reminded him of bacon grease, and the snapping and popping as the electricity zipped through the air made his stomach growl with memories of that morning's breakfast. The jolt collided with Bloogfer's armor, and the sound was spectacular, the Exterminizer's power smashing into the metal armor. A stream of fireworks began to zip and zing off Bloogfer's chest, making him shimmy uncontrollably across the rocky surface. Within seconds, the show was over, and as the last of the sparks died out, the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle began to clap wildly, hooting and whistling for their leader who had—as always—once again saved the day.