By now I pretty much knew what to expect: Noah and I would arrive at school, lug ourselves through the front door, stand inside on the big mat while Noah wiped his glasses and I wiped my feet, and then Noah would hoist his bassoon, I’d hoist my backpack, and we’d pick our way through ever-growing clumps of kids reading the comic book pages that had been magically plastered up and down the hall overnight by the Phantom Photocopier.
I sure didn’t expect what we saw this morning.
My pages were there. And clumps of kids were standing and staring.
But they weren’t staring at Beanboy.
They were staring at the ceiling.
Hanging from the ceiling in the front hallway of Amelia M. Earhart Middle School, from corner to corner and side to side, over the lockers, above the lights, atop the trophy case, were T-shirts, hoodies, random socks, gloves, hats, a scarf or two, some backpacks, spiral notebooks, broken pencils, stray homework, crumpled lunch bags, earbuds, gym shorts, gym shoes—all tied together and draped above our heads like a string of Christmas lights.
I pointed to a grubby scrap of springy fabric dangling over the office door. “Is that a—”
“Jockstrap?” Noah nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Noah and I plowed through the crowd. About plowed smack into Mr. Petrucelli.
He was standing outside the middle school office, his serious principal hands planted on his hips, his serious principal lips pooched out in deep concentration. He gazed up the hall in one direction, scrutinized the string of draped stuff, then turned and gazed the other way.
Mr. Petrucelli must’ve seen all he needed to see, because he shook his head, turned on his serious principal heel, and clicked back into the office. The door rattled shut behind him.
That’s when I noticed Owen Skeet. Again. He was standing on the other side of the office. And he was maybe the only kid in Earhart Middle not staring at the dangling jockstrap.
Owen Skeet was reading my Beanboy page. And nodding. He pulled his gawky body up to its full height, which was actually pretty tall once he wasn’t slumped over, squared his usually hunched shoulders, and headed off down the hall.
“Good morning, Amelia M. Earhart Middle School students.” The intercom crackled to life. Mr. Petrucelli’s voice blared through first-hour social studies.
“As I’m sure you all know, the school has been experiencing instances of, well, not vandalism precisely. Let’s call it inappropriate repositioning of property. In other words, someone has been hanging shoes, school supplies, clothing, and other items from lights, doorways, and other inappropriate places. I only hope these incidents aren’t connected in any way to the, uh, comic book pages that I’ve allowed to be placed in our hallways.”
Comic book pages? I nearly dropped my pencil.
Noah sat right in front of me. He turned around and gave me a horrified look.
“I haven’t said anything up to this point,” Mr. Petrucelli continued, “because the incidents have been small, and I was willing to overlook minor transgressions. But as I’m sure you are all aware, this inappropriate repositioning has recently escalated to a level that is distracting and interferes with student learning. To the person or persons responsible, this serves as a warning: if these inappropriate incidents do not cease immediately, you will face very appropriate consequences.”
The intercom went dead and we all thought he was done. Students shuffled their notebooks and shifted in their seats. Mr. Luzensky scratched his head and tried to find his place in our social studies book.
The intercom buzzed back to life.
“If anyone is missing a pair of gym shorts or, ah, other items, please see Louise in the office. Thank you.”
Case File: Mr. P
Status: I’ll probably get permanent detention for even thinking it, but I gotta go with my gut (and personal experience) on this one: SUPERVILLAIN. Yeah. I said it.
Base: Amelia M. Earhart Middle School office.
Superpower: Teleportation. Has to be. The guy is everywhere, especially everywhere you don’t want him to be.
Superweapon: Serious principal eyeballs that focus like a laser, never flinching, never wavering, drilling into your skull until before you know what’s happening, you’re spilling your guts about everything you have ever done wrong in your life and some things that weren’t wrong because suddenly you can’t stop yourself.
Real Name: Vincent G. Petrucelli, Middle School Principal