Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers (8 page)

“I'm sure you will, Dolores.” Mr. P scans the room, and his eyes come to rest on mine. I look away, fast.

“Y'all need to get busy straightening this mess up,” he says, raising his hand before anyone can protest. “And I don't want to hear no bellyaching about it. Party's over.”

I want to look for Franki but don't want to call any attention to myself. Instead, I start picking up plastic cups and keeping an eye out for her bright-green high-tops.

“Charlie.” I look up. Mr. P stands over me, holding something in his hands.

My science journal.

He nods at me. “Has your name on it, so I reckon it's yours.” I grab it, and goose bumps crackle at the base of my neck.

I try to keep my voice from shaking. “Where did you find it?”

“I didn't find it,” he says, and the thundercloud in his eyes shifts a little. “It found you.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

For a split second I think I see a spark of blue—as shiny as a piece of sea glass—wink at me through the gray. “It's a special journal, pardner,” he says. “Best not let it out of your sight again. You never know when it might come in handy.”

He turns on his boot heel and glides across the gym floor. I'm pretty sure he's whistling one of Pickles's favorite show tunes when Dolores rushes up to him, blabbering away about what to do with the leftover hot dogs and did he know that there's a toilet overflowing in the girls' bathroom?

I look down at the journal. My whole right arm begins to tingle.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, I still haven't found Franki, but Stella's found me. Grabbing my shirtsleeve, she hauls me toward the front doors.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” she says, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Dad texted and said he's going to be here any minute, and he's got a van full of veggie burgers that need to be dropped off before dinner.”

I have to practically run to keep up with her.

“But I've got to find—”

“Come
on
, Charlie.”

We get to the main entrance, and Stella pushes the double doors open. The air is heavy with the smell of salt and seaweed. I scan the crowd of kids waiting for their rides to show up. Still no Franki.

I hear a quick honk as the old blue van pulls around the corner, my dad's arm waving out the window.

“Hey, guys,” he calls out. “How was the—” He stops when he sees me. “What's wrong with
you
? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Stella jumps into the front seat, waving at a few of her friends. I slide into the back as my dad turns to get a better look at me.

“Everything okay?”

I nod, staring out the window.

“Oh, don't worry about him, Dad,” Stella says, answering for me. “The first school festival can be a bit … overwhelming for a sixth grader.”

 

CHAPTER

13

I wake up in the middle of the night, my room so black, I can't tell if my eyelids are open or closed.

I toss and turn, but all I can think about is the journal.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I kick off the blankets and climb out of bed. The floorboards creak as I tiptoe across the room and flip on my desk lamp.

It sits smack-dab in the middle of a pile of papers, the soft leather cover practically glowing under the warm light.

As soon as I touch it, the prickling starts. It zips through my fingers and up the inside of my arm.

Calm down,
I tell myself.
This isn't what you think.
Stuff like this only happens in Hollywood movies and science-fiction books.

I flip to the last entry, the one I wrote about Bloogfer.

I squint at the words, but all I can think about are the ones Mr. P said to me in the gym.

I didn't find it.… It found you.

I flip back another page and try to read the one about the Imbecile, but again, it's no use. Mr. P's voice is still in my head.

It's a special journal, pardner.

Tiptoeing into the hallway, I peek around the corner and into Lucy's room. The pink polka-dotted night-light gives the room a rose-colored glow. Her stuffed animals are lined up across her bed, standing guard, like usual.

Only Lucy isn't in the bed.

I look down. There, in the middle of the rug, my sister sleeps curled up in a ball. Her leg twitches, like she's chasing something in her sleep.

I hurry back to my room. The magnolia tree outside my window sways in the wind, its branches tap-tapping on my windowsill. I grab my jeans off the floor and dig into the back pocket, finding Pickles's note again.

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

Pickles said the answers wouldn't be as obvious as they seem. But I think I know someone who can at least help me start figuring out the questions.

 

CHAPTER

14

Monday morning, I hightail it to school before anyone's awake. The sun is just starting to peek above Gatehouse as I run across the street and then the courtyard. I take the steps two at a time and try the double doors, but they are still locked. Even the janitors aren't here yet.

I lean against the cold brick wall and watch the colors in the sky change as the sun climbs higher. A lonesome seagull cries out overhead, probably feeling ripped off now that all the tourists have left.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and exhale, my breath coming out in puffs. Normally, I would never be at school this early, but I've got to talk to Mr. P before first period. Maybe he can help me figure out if there's some connection between the things I'm writing in my journal and the things that are happening around me.

Ten minutes later, I can't feel my toes, and I'm starting to think this wasn't such a great idea, when suddenly the front door bangs open and the rim of a dark gray cowboy hat pokes out.

“Mornin',” a deep voice behind the door says. “You looking for me, pardner?”

I glance across the parking lot. Not a car in sight.

What did he do, sleep at the school?

He sticks an arm out, motioning me toward him.

“You coming in? It's colder than witch's snot out there.”

He pushes the door open wider, and I hesitate for just a millisecond before I push off the wall and walk toward him, ducking under his arm.

We walk past the office, still dark.

“I'm sorry to bug you so early, Mr. P, but I need to ask you—”

“Whoa, there,” he says, cutting me off. “Let's hold those horses until we get to the lab.”

I follow him down the sixth-grade hall. Our footsteps echo off the walls, and the emptiness makes me feel uneasy. I practically jump out of my skin when I hear a low groan and feel a vibration under my feet.

“Furnace starting up,” says Mr. P. “Thing's older than me.” I let out my breath, not realizing I'd been holding it.

He stops in front of the science lab and pulls the door open. “All right, Charlie,” he says, gesturing for me to go in first. “Let's get down to business.”

I step into the room and look around. It's like I've entered a different world. A soft glow blankets the classroom, and the air is like a down jacket, warming me from the outside in. Strange music—jazz, I think—plays from an old turntable in the corner, and the smell of bacon—yes, bacon!—fills my nose, making my stomach rumble. An oversize leather chair takes up an entire corner of the room, and stacked next to it are books—towers of books—their bindings torn and the titles so worn, I can't make out what they say. A strange rug covers the floor, and no joke, I'm pretty sure it's a genuine cowhide.

“I reckon you could use a cup of joe this morning.” Mr. P holds up a blue coffeepot, and I notice the small cookstove sitting on top of his desk. I shrug, as if drinking coffee with my teacher in a room that looks more like his house than a sixth-grade science lab is the most normal thing in the world.

He pours two cups, then hands one to me. I take a sip and spew it all over the wall. Brown spit drips from the periodic table in front of me.

“Ugh.” I gag, scraping at my tongue with my fingers. “What
is
that?”

“Cowboy coffee,” he says, taking a long swig. “Puts hair on your chest.”

I keep scraping, though I'm pretty sure permanent damage has been done to my taste buds.

“Why don't you take a load off,” he says. He settles in behind his desk, leaning back and plunking his boots on top of it.

I sit down in the leather chair across from him. When I scoot all the way back, my feet don't touch the floor.

“Mr. P,” I say, “I need to ask you about the journal you gave me.”

He picks up a strip of bacon and nods for me to go on.

“Remember when you first handed them out? You told us to write some junk down and—”

“Hold up a minute,” he says, pointing the bacon at me. “I never said anything about writing ‘junk.' Try again.”

I think for a minute. “You said everyone has a story to tell.”

“Go on.”

“But that's the thing,” I say. “I don't have any stories. So I made one up.”

“And?”

“And now…” I trail off, not sure how to describe it.

“And now what?” He swings his boots off the desk and leans toward me. His eyes are clear blue now, not a hint of the stormy gray from before. “What happened after you wrote this made-up story of yours?”

“That's the thing—I don't know, exactly.” My throat feels tight, like someone's squeezing it. “It's like, somehow … these things I'm writing … It's almost like they're coming true.”

“And?”

“And that's why I'm here. I was hoping you could help me make sense of it.”

He takes another swig of coffee. “Remember what I told you, Charlie. A true scientist will ask questions about the things that don't make sense, not the things that do.” He takes a bite of bacon.

“Well, this definitely doesn't make sense,” I tell him.

He looks at me carefully. “Then I reckon it's time you start asking some questions.”

I close my eyes, thinking. “On the first day of class, you asked me if I believed in magic.” My scalp starts to tingle as I move forward in the chair. “Is that it, Mr. P? Is my science journal magical?”

He doesn't answer right away. When he finally does, his voice is deeper than before. “No, Charlie,” he says. “The journal is not magical.”

I flop backward, throwing my arm over my eyes. Of course the journal's not magical. It's just a stupid notebook.

I sit up and climb out of the chair. I'm ready to leave, to walk out the door and forget about all this, but a tight ball of heat starts to burn in my stomach. I turn back to him. “So, you're going to sit there and tell me that my sister acting like a dog and Boomer stripping naked—these things have nothing to do with the adventures I've been writing in my journal?”

“I'm not telling you that.”

This guy is really starting to get on my nerves.

“Mr. P, no offense, but this whole thing is kind of—”

“Charlie, do you know what a catalyst is?”

Oh, great.
Now
he's going give me a science lesson?

“I don't think we've covered that yet,” I mutter.

He continues. “A catalyst is a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself suffering any permanent chemical change.”

“I'm not really following,” I say.

He stands up and walks in front of his desk. “A catalyst doesn't make something happen, Charlie.” His eyes twinkle. “It only helps move it along. That journal may be serving as a catalyst between you and what you can do.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean, what I can do?”

“That's a question only you can answer. My job is to observe what's happening. Yours is to figure it out.”

What a nutwad.

I grab my backpack off the floor.

“I have to go now, Mr. P,” I tell him. “I just realized I forgot my math homework, and Mrs. McElfresh gets kind of irritated if—”

“I think you have a gift, Charlie. That journal is just serving as a way for you to get it out.”

The ball of heat spreads. Whatever this is, it's one mean trick, that's for sure.

“Okay,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “What if I wrote a story about a kid who wants a pony? Is one going to turn up in my front yard?” I take a step toward him. “And how about Dolores Bryant? Are we going to wake up and find out that some know-it-all sixth grader is now president of the United States, just because of something
she
writes?” My voice is starting to shake, but I don't care.

He pulls a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and points it at me. “It's not about the journal, Charlie. It's about you.” He looks around, then bends closer to me. “I think you may be a bully buster.”

I blink. “A bully what?”

“A bully buster. It's a special person, someone who possesses the power to make people see things in a way they haven't before. They are able to use that power to change things, hopefully for the better.”

I scratch my head. “I don't know, Mr. P. I can barely remember to change my underwear.”

He chuckles. “It's okay to have doubts, Charlie. If you didn't, it wouldn't count as an experiment, would it?”

As if on cue, the phone on his desk starts ringing. He strides over and lifts the receiver.

I watch as he nods a couple of times, mutters something, then hangs up. When he turns back around, his face seems more serious than before.

“I've got to deal with something, pardner,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Probably best you mosey on out of here now.”