Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (7 page)

Bloogfer lay still, glancing down at his now-exposed flesh. He let out a small whimper when he saw the shiny pink skin where only moments before his steel-plated armor had been.

“What have you done, Explodius? You have stripped me of my protective shields!”

“Yes, Bloogfer.” Dude nodded. “And your powers, as well. No longer will you be a threat to even the weakest of creatures. But I have spared your life, and for that you should thank me.”

Dude aimed again, and with one last blast, shot the monster off Planet Splodii and into the atmosphere beyond.

“But,” he called out as the pink blob grew smaller and smaller in the distance, “should you ever return, rest assured you will not live to see another day!”

 

CHAPTER

10

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm slumped in the corner of the hallway, next to the gym, waiting on Franki. It's the day that I've been dreading all week—the fall festival. Just thinking the words makes me cringe.

After the pantsing incident and my hallway face-plant, I've managed to stay out of the limelight. Too bad I can't say the same for everybody.

On Wednesday, Bennett Kraus left school with a bloody nose after someone tied his shoelaces together in French class and he tripped over Ms. DuCharme's seven-foot replica of the Eiffel Tower. Dr. Moody said Bennett was fine, but he hasn't been back all week.

On Thursday, Allen Foxworthy went home in tears after getting stuck in the boys' bathroom for three hours straight. Literally. Someone decided it would be funny to drip Krazy Glue all over the toilet seats, and it took two teachers, the school nurse, and Dr. Moody to get him unstuck.

Allen hasn't been back, either.

Even though every kid at Gatehouse knows that Boomer Bodbreath is behind these pranks, no one can prove it. So far he's gotten off scot-free.

I reach into my backpack and pull out my journal. Opening it up, I reread the last entry I wrote, the one about Bloogfer, and how Dude blew apart his armor and threatened to do worse if he showed up on Planet Splodii again. Flipping to the back of the notebook, I pull out Pickles's note, reading it for the billionth time.

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

“Hey, Chuck.”

I look up from my journal and grin. My mom says that Franki has the voice of a two-pack-a-day smoker, though I know for a fact she's never touched a cigarette in her life.

“That a love letter?” she says, pointing to the piece of paper. I scramble to my feet, stuffing it into my back pocket.

“Very funny,” I say, forcing out a laugh. I stop when I see her face.

Something's different. Her hair is pulled back, and her eyelashes seem to have grown a mile overnight. She's got something glittery on her eyelids, and her normal T-shirt has been replaced with a lacy tank top.

“You got fruit punch on your mouth,” I tell her, pointing to the red stain across her lips.

“It's lipstick,” she says.

“Lipstick?”

“You say it like it's a bad word.” Franki snorts. She punches my arm. “Don't be such a goob.”

She smells different, too, like the girls who hang out at the mall. I can't quit staring at her.

“Close your mouth, Charlie,” she says, then reaches into her backpack. “Wait till you see what I got!” She pulls her hand out and produces two king-size candy bars. “There's a ton of free food down the eighth-grade hallway,” she says, handing me one. “I've already had a hot dog and three chocolate doughnuts. With sprinkles.”

I rip open the candy wrapper with my teeth. This is more like Franki.

The double doors behind us swing open, and the heavy beat of a popular pop song blasts out. Two girls from Stella's cheer team walk past us, giggling.

I lean close to Franki's ear so she can hear me above the music. “Hey, Frank,” I say, trying not to take a deep whiff of her. “Let's get out of here. We'll grab our pails from my house and head to the cove. It's perfect clamming weather and you can borrow a sweatshirt and—”

She stares at me like I've suggested we rob a bank. “What's wrong with you, Chuck? We're at our first middle-school festival
.
We're supposed to be meeting people, hanging out, having fun. Come on, let's go in and check out the dance.”

She grabs my hand, and I'm too shocked to say no.

She pulls the gym door open, and we enter a whole different world. Bright-white lights strobe on and off, making me feel queasy. The music pulses through my veins, the beat pushes up through my feet, and suddenly my whole body is vibrating. I squint but can't make out anything but a dark mass of bodies in the center of the room. The smell of sweat and bubble gum mix together and make me want to sneeze. Franki yanks me toward the center of the gym floor.

Bodies surround us, bump up against us. The air is thick, like the time my parents took us to Florida for spring break. I feel like I'm breathing through a straw.

“Dance, Chuck, dance!” Franki squeezes my arms and lets out an unrecognizable giggle, jerking and jolting against me like she's having a seizure. She bumps her hip against mine, shoving me off-balance, and I slam into the girl next to me. My armpits are so sticky, I wish I'd listened to Stella when she suggested I wear deodorant.

The girl glares at me like I'm radioactive.

I start looking around for the closest escape route when the music stops and the gym explodes in light.

Franki blinks. She cocks her head to one side, listening as the DJ announces a fifteen-minute break. People start to shuffle toward the bathroom and the food.

“Wow … uh … okay,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “That was great. So…” I say, hooking my finger toward the door, “you ready to go?” I raise my eyebrows, hopeful.

Franki crosses her arms, grinning. “Oh, come on. Wasn't that kind of fun?”

Fun like a lobotomy. I try to think of something, quick. If I don't get out now, I'm doomed.

“How about another hot dog? Or snow cone?” I start toward the door, then peek over my shoulder. She's not budging.

“Franki…” My voice sounds whiny, but I'm desperate.

She lifts her chin and turns away from me. “I want to dance.”

I look around. Kids are starting to wander back in, shoving the last bites of hot dog or greasy pizza into their mouths. “Frank,” I whisper, “this is kind of embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” she says. She leans away from me, her hands on her hips. “Well, gosh, I certainly wouldn't want to do anything to
embarrass
you.”

Then right there in the middle of the school gym, she reaches out and throws her arms around my neck.

“Ack! Get off!” I try to break free, but it's no use. The girl may be scrawny, but boy, is she strong.

“I swear, Charlie Burger, you are such a—”

She drops her arms, staring at something behind me. Every hair on my body starts to sizzle.

I turn, even though I know I shouldn't. As soon as I see him, my insides drop into my sneakers.

Boomer Bodbreath and his baboons are beelining it straight for Franki and me.

 

CHAPTER

11

“What's happening, babies?” The fluorescent lighting inside the gym gives Boomer's skin a strange yellow tint, and his eyes look more sadistic than ever. “Is someone not sharing over here?”

He moves between us, the 44 on his football jersey filling my vision.

He looks Franki up and down in a way that makes me think about the stray dogs that hang around outside Drozdov's butcher shop, waiting for a piece of scrap meat.

“Maybe you're not all babies,” he says, and the two goons behind him snicker.

I clear my throat. “Nothing's happening, Boomer.” If I'd just stuffed my mouth with dirt, it would feel less dry. “In fact, we were kind of on our way out. It's getting late, and my dad's probably waiting for us.…” I stop when Boomer's meaty hand palms my forehead.

“Looks like a lovers' spat to me.” His eyes search my face, like he's trying to figure out what to do with me. I keep my own eyes glued to the blue 44 like it's the most important thing in the room. He drops his palm onto my shoulder. “Though, I think you might be out of your league with this one.”

I gulp.

“I asked you a question.”

Technically, that was a statement and not a question,
I want to say, but instead I nod.

“Uh, sure, Boomer,” I tell him. “You're absolutely right.”

He bends in closer.

“About which part?”

“Huh?” I'm starting to feel dizzy.

Franki steps in between us. “Why don't you leave us alone?” She crinkles her nose. “And take that smell with you.”

This is not going to end well,
I think.

Boomer digs his fingers deeper into my shoulder, and I wince.

“Your girlfriend is not very nice,” he says. “Someone needs to teach her some manners.”

I start to say something, but Franki cuts me off.

“You don't scare us,” she says, the fists at her sides telling me she's past mad. “Now get out of here so the rest of us can dance.”

A crowd has started to gather around.

Boomer tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a snort. “You call that dancing?” His eyes scan the group. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I've never seen dancing like that before.” A few kids snort back in agreement.

“Oh, come on, Boomer,” Franki says. “You've been at Gatehouse for how many years? Four? Five? Guess you flunked dancing, too.”

The room goes silent.

“If you weren't such an idiot,” she says, her voice ice-cold, “I'd almost feel sorry for you.”

Boomer moves so quickly, I don't see it coming. In less than a nanosecond, he's grabbed a chunk of Franki's hair and twisted it into his fist, pulling her so close that her freckly face is pressed right up against his. His lips are against her earlobe, and the only sound is someone's heartbeat pounding in my ear.

I have to do something,
I think, but shake the thought from my head. This is Franki. She knows how to take care of herself. Any second and she's going to make Boomer Bodbreath wish he'd never met her.

But Boomer keeps whispering something in her ear, something that makes Franki just stand there like she's paralyzed. She doesn't argue, or even try to get away. It's like his words have zapped the fight right out of her.

I close my eyes, and goose bumps sizzle across my skin.

You're not a superhero,
I tell myself
. You don't have the power to do anything about this.

Or do I?

 

CHAPTER

12

I squeeze my eyes closed and think about what I wrote about Bloogfer. Dude's face fills the darkness behind my eyeballs, and a billion prickly electrons jump to life inside me. They pulse through my veins, bouncing around like they're on a sugar high.

Without thinking, I reach out my hand and point it in Boomer's direction. My arm shimmies and shakes like my dad's did two weeks ago when he shocked himself trying to rewire his juice machine.

And then—as quickly as it started—it's over. I open my eyes. The image of Dude is gone.

And so is Franki.

I scan the crowd but can't see her anywhere. The room has gone crazy; people are pushing and shoving me aside, jockeying for a spot around something I can't see. I crane my neck, but an elbow in my face prevents me from getting a good look.

“Get a load of that!” I hear.

“Wow…” Someone whistles.

“What's he thinking? Why would he do that in here?”

I stand on my tiptoes, trying to see over the mob of heads, but it's no use. Everyone's angling for a front-row view. Finally, I see an opening in the bodies and duck down, squeezing my way to the front of the pack.

And there—center stage, stands Boomer.

Naked.

Birthday suit naked.

I think about my journal and what I wrote.

Bloogfer lay still, glancing down at his now-exposed flesh.

Did I make this happen?

The crowd explodes. Plastic cups, half-eaten hot dog buns, and candy wrappers hurl past me as people scream, whistle, and stomp the floor. Boomer just stands there, staring down at himself like he's waiting for someone to tell him the punch line. Now
I
almost feel sorry for him.

A brick-shaped kid sporting a bright-blue 32 across his jersey pushes through the crowd. He scoops Boomer's pile of clothes off the floor and shoves it at his chest. Boomer just stares, like he's never seen his clothes before. The crowd roars. The kid next to me is laughing so hard, tears roll down his cheeks.

The double doors fly open, and Dr. Moody marches in, followed by Mr. P and a janitor.

“Enough!” Dr. Moody's voice booms across the gym and hits us like a bucket of cold water. Everyone freezes. He crosses the room and grabs Boomer's arm, pulling him toward the exit and signaling for Number 32 to follow. As they head out, Boomer flashes a full-on shot of his bare backside, which brings the crowd roaring back to life, until Mr. P sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a whistle that shuts everyone up for good.

He tilts his cowboy hat back and surveys the crowd. “Well, I reckon someone best start explaining.” His blue eyes darken like they did before, a storm cloud moving across them.

No one moves.

“Don't make me say it twice.”

Dolores Bryant speaks up first.

“It was wild, Mr. P,” she says breathlessly. She holds her right hand in her left, as if she's afraid it will fall off if she doesn't. “We had just come back from the refreshment table, and for some reason Boomer Bodbreath had stripped in front of the entire room.” She smoothes her blouse and plays with the tiny round buttons that march down the front. “It was very inappropriate. But don't worry, I'll be making a full report to the student council next week.”