Captain Nobody (17 page)

And that's why I stuffed them into my backpack before I dashed out of the house.

In the school yard, a bunch of kids crowded around to peer through the bars of the ferret cage. Basher poked at Ferocious with a twig.

“Hey, c'mon, Basher,” I said, “don't hurt him.”

Basher sneered, “And who's gonna stop me?”

It was a valid question. Without the security of the Captain Nobody mask, I suddenly felt very vulnerable. I didn't have to answer, though, because JJ and Cecil joined me at that moment, and Basher scoffed and wandered back into the school yard crowd.

Cecil frowned as he regarded my street clothes.

“What?” I asked.

“I'm not gonna lie,” he shrugged. “I miss Captain Nobody.”

I looked to JJ. “Do you?”

She crinkled her nose. “When I was five, y'know? I woke up one morning and announced that my name was now Princess Zarzuela and that, because I was of royal birth, I would never brush my hair again, and I would only eat white foods. For one whole week, I ate rice and milk and bread with the crusts cut off, and my hair got so wiry and tangled that I started to pick up radio signals. The morning after that happened, I announced that I was JJ again. So . . . you don't have to explain to me.”

I nodded, grateful for the support.

“You know what?” Cecil asked, looking between me and JJ. “You guys are two cups of crazy.”

I thought that my new appearance—or rather, my
old
appearance—might trigger more comments from my classmates, but they didn't seem to notice one way or the other. They just ignored me the way they always had. Even after I returned the ferret cage to Mrs. Young and she presented me with a scroll naming me a “Friend of Ferocious,” they were unimpressed.

“Well, whoop-de-doo,” Basher teased as I passed him on my way back to my desk.

“I want Ferocious next,” a voice called out, and that was the cue for everyone to wag their hands and chime in: “No! It's my turn!” “I want him!” “Me me me me me!”

I returned to my desk and looked up to find Ferocious still watching me through his bars.
You're just going to leave me?
he seemed to be saying.
After all we've been through?

He had a point. In the single day I'd had custody of him, we had faced death together, and I had told him my two biggest secrets—how badly I missed Chris, and how Darryl Peeps was the one who had hit my brother. Those were secrets I hadn't even shared with JJ and Cecil. And they were supposed to be my friends.

Geez. At this moment, my best friend is a ferret.
And although I was surrounded by a room full of people, I'd never felt so alone.

On the way to lunch, I passed Principal Toomey, who was deep in conversation with Mr. Brockman, our guidance counselor.

“Hey, Mr. Toomey, Mr. Brockman,” I waved.

They nodded quickly and continued walking. “And what's that student's name?” I heard Mr. Toomey grumble as they passed.

“Beats me,” Mr. Brockman replied.

Right about then the sirens began. A single wail started in the distance, but it was quickly joined by many more. The racket grew deafening as police cars and ambulances and fire trucks zoomed past our school and howled down Broad Street.

JJ and Cecil rushed past in a tidal wave of students racing out to watch the emergency vehicles go by.

“What's happening?” I shouted.

“Probably something awful,” Cecil said excitedly.

I spotted a lot of teachers hurrying into the faculty lounge, so I peered in the doorway and found them all crowded around the TV. Mrs. Marcus, the school nurse, exclaimed, “Oh, will you look at that poor, tortured boy!” just as, from the television, I heard, “The victim is identified as Reggie Ratner.”

Reggie Ratner?
I thought.
A victim? Of what?

I climbed on a chair at the back of the lounge to get a look at the TV over the teachers' heads.

“I'm standing at the base of the Appleton water tower, the tallest structure in town,” the reporter Mary Myron was explaining as, all around her, emergency vehicles screeched up, sirens wailing and lights flashing. “Sometime early this morning, Merrimac High School senior and celebrated football player Reggie Ratner climbed onto the roof of this tower in what authorities fear is a suicide attempt.”

I practically toppled off the chair.
Suicide? Why would Reggie want to do that?

“Why, you might ask,” Mary Myron continued, as if she'd heard the voice in my head. “Why would this young man want to harm himself? This question is on the minds of the many people gathering here right now.”

A camera shot showed a single figure sitting, sad and alone, way up on the conical roof of the tower.

“From our conversations with Reggie's parents, classmates and teachers,” Mary Myron said, “we've learned this much: For the last week, Reggie Ratner has grown increasingly depressed as students and fans of Fillmore High School have repeatedly harassed him and his family.”

That's what this is about?
I wondered.
Kids dumped garbage on his lawn, so he's going to kill himself?

“Apparently, those Fillmore students accuse Reggie, a successful defensive end, of delivering the critical blow that knocked popular Fillmore football star Chris Newman unconscious at last Friday night's championship game.”

He didn't!
I wanted to shout.
It was Darryl Peeps!

I jumped down from the chair and stumbled out into the hallway. My legs were shaky. This was terrible! Somebody had to tell Reggie that it wasn't his fault. But who could do that?

After all, I was the only person who knew the truth.

As I wandered down the empty hall, my mind was churning. Who could I tell about Darryl Peeps? It would have to be somebody who could get Reggie Ratner's attention, somebody with enough authority to convince him to give up his dangerous plan and to come down off his tower.

I thought about Dad; he's good at getting people to listen. But he and Mom were pretty tied up at the moment.

How about Chris's teammates? Weren't they the ones who had been torturing Reggie all week? Maybe, I thought, I could race over to Fillmore High School, burst into the football players' classrooms and tell them exactly what I had remembered about the Big Tackle. Then they would rush to the water tower and shout apologies up to Reggie, wouldn't they?

But what if they didn't believe me?

Or what if they accused me of betraying my brother by blaming Darryl and siding with Reggie?

Or what if all of that took too much time?

Who else? Mr. Toomey?

No.

Mrs. Young?

No.

Somebody else.
Anybody else!!

Then it hit me: There was nobody else. Because nobody else had seen what I had seen, and nobody else was Chris Newman's younger brother, and nobody else could deliver the news that might make Reggie Ratner reconsider his jump.

After I'd breathlessly told Cecil and JJ what I had to do, Cecil screwed up his face. “Okay, once you get to the water tower,” he wondered, “how're you going to talk to Reggie?”

I had no answer.

“I bet somebody'll have a bullhorn,” JJ suggested.

“That's it!” I said. “I'll use a bullhorn!”

“So you're gonna walk up to a policeman,” Cecil said, “and say, ‘Hey, officer, let me use your bullhorn, because I want to tell Reggie Ratner about a dream I had'?”

“Oooh, yeah,” I winced. “That probably won't work.”

“How's this?” Cecil proposed. “I got a cousin in the Navy who showed me how they flash light signals from ship to ship with mirrors. It is so awesome.”

“Do you know the code?” JJ asked him.

“Well. No.”

“And, even if
you
did, what are the chances that Reggie would know the code?” she continued.

“Okay, okay, you made your point!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Seems to me the only way you're going to get Reggie Ratner's attention is to sit down and talk to him, man to man.”

“How?” I exploded. “He's on the roof of the tallest building in town!”

“Which means,” JJ reasoned, “that there must be a ladder that goes all the way to the top.” She noticed my shudder. “Oh, I forgot. You're scared of heights.”

“Petrified.”

“It's no big deal,” JJ assured me. “I'm afraid of spiders.”

“Me?” Cecil scrunched up his shoulders in fear. “Plastic garbage bags.”

“Garbage bags?”
JJ looked surprised. “Why?”

“They're . . .
slimy
,” Cecil winced.

“Is that why you sent me into the Dumpster to get your drum?” I asked.

Cecil shrugged. “Guilty as charged.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait a sec! You had no problem climbing up on that garbage pile. And that was pretty high.”

“Yeah, but that wasn't me,” I moaned. “That was . . . well, you know . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” said Cecil slyly. “We sure
do
know who that was.”

“And we all know what he's capable of,” JJ added, stressing every word.

They folded their arms and waited.

“No,” I shook my head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

But they kept staring until I had to accept that they were right. And when I did, my stomach flipped like a pancake.