Twenty

As Noah says, middle school attention spans are frustratingly short. By the time the bell rang for first hour, everyone seemed to have forgotten all about my comic book page.

Then I ambled into Art Club after school . . . and was hit by a mob.

“Dude! Genius!”

Spencer tried to give me a chest bump and got his new knitted scarf (Great-Aunt Bernice had been busy again) caught in the strap of my backpack.

“Nobody expected that,” he said as he untangled himself. “We were all pretty glum about the whole pep assembly incident, but you—you thought of a whole new way to get people interested. Awesome!”

Gretchen Klamm nodded. “Completely.”

“I couldn’t believe it.” Martin Higby shook his head. “Copies were everywhere!”

“Who needs a bulletin board when you can use the whole school?”

“Excellent idea!”

Their compliments draped over me, warm and fluffy like a blanket.

Except, said a pesky voice in my head, you don’t deserve it.

The pesky voice had a point. Yeah, I’d drawn the comic book page. But I sure hadn’t been the one who plastered the school with it. Plus, while Art Club was all “Awesome!” “Excellent!” about my new plan, I didn’t mention the other part, the part where I lined them up in the gym so bigger, stronger kids (a.k.a. Wesley Banks) could hurl dodgeballs at them.

Mrs. Frazee gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve really embraced performance art, Tucker. You’ve turned it into a true event, become part of it—a secret artist, bringing his artwork to the people like a phantom in the night.” She clapped her hands together in pure art-teacher delight. “Zorro with a copy machine.”

I blinked. Zorro with a copy machine. I liked it.

“I just want you to know”—she leaned in, her voice low—“I spoke to Mr. Petrucelli about it this morning.”

 

 

Oh, man. Mr. Petrucelli. I hadn’t even thought about him.

“I pointed out the many signs and posters we put up for other clubs and teams,” said Mrs. Frazee. “I let him know that this comic book page is part of our Art Club activities.”

Wow. Mrs. Frazee had my back.

Not just yours, said my pesky voice. While you’re standing there listening to how awesome you are and letting your head swell up like a dead fish, don’t forget: Someone in this room knows the truth.

Another good point. One that had been gnawing on my brain all day. As Mrs. Frazee handed out the face paints and brushes we’d need for our booth at the school carnival, I watched the Art Club members, who cheerfully snatched them up.

One of them had to be the Phantom Photocopier. Had to be. Who else would care if anyone saw my comic book pages?

Not the Kaleys. Not Wesley Banks or the Sundances. And sure as heck not Mr. Petrucelli.

Nobody.

Except Art Club.

“So.” Spencer sidled up to me. He peeked over his shoulder. “We took a vote and it was unanimous. Nobody in Art Club will reveal your true identity as the comic book artist.”

I eyed him. Was it Spencer? Was all that “Dude! Genius!” stuff just a big cover for his own clandestine activities?

“So.” He hiked up his jeans. “When are you putting up another one? I mean, you are putting up another one, right?”

No. I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t picture Spencer Osterholtz—with his knitted cap and his gangly, stumbling feet—stealing through Earhart Middle, taping up comic book pages without anyone noticing.

He was looking at me, expecting an answer.

“Well,” I said, “I’m still working on it. I want it to be a . . . surprise.”