I NEVER THOUGHT I’D end this day trapped in Albert Einstein’s dog crate, teetering at the top of our basement stairs. But you know, it only proves my point. Like I always tell my friend, Joon: bad stuff can pop up and trap you at any time.
I mean, even if it seems like stuff is going okay? Suddenly, wham, just like in the comics: a splash page of heart-thumping action can explode out of nowhere. Pow! One minute, you’re happily eating a piece of cake. Boom! The next minute? Dog crate of doom.
It all started because my brother, Calvin, turned fourteen today. We had pot roast, gravy, and a giant vat of mashed potatoes that Cal basically inhaled single-handedly. It was just the four of us: me, Gramps, Mom, and Cal. And Albert Einstein, under the table. That’s our dog—the world’s least intelligent golden retriever.
Mom got off work early for the first time in months so she could cook Cal’s favorite birthday dinner. She also made this amazing chocolate birthday cake. Three layers. Frosting like melt-in-your-mouth fudge.
So, after dinner, once Mom had gone back out for a real estate showing . . . I decided to steal another hunk of it.
But Cal must have heard me sneak into the kitchen. Because all of a sudden—wham! He leapt out of thin air. He slammed his hand on the counter so hard, both the cake plate and I jumped.
“Illegal cake grab, Stanley!” Cal shouted. “My birthday, MY CAKE!”
I froze. Freezing was a bad choice because Cal had me in an instant headlock.
“Let me go, Cal!”
Just like certain superheroes, there are times when I have to set aside my usual commitment to nonviolence. This was one of those times. I stomped on Cal’s foot, hard as I could. His grip loosened! I ducked, spun, and twisted free—I was getting away! I dashed behind him—but now I was trapped in a corner. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
An evil grin unfurled across Cal’s slightly hairy, pimply face. “Got you now,” he growled.
I looked around, frantic. Albert Einstein’s dog crate! I flung open the wire mesh door and dashed inside. Cal lunged—but he was too late. I scrambled to the back and scrunched up into a tiny ball, as far from his groping hands as I could get.
I was safe!
Or so I thought.
Because right then the crate door slammed shut. And I was being slid along the floor, toward the top of the basement stairs.
“Stop screaming, you weenie,” said Cal. “I’m not gonna push you down the stairs.” Then he giggled. When Cal giggles, it sounds like the squeak of a rusty metal gate hinge: “HEEEE! HEEEE! HEEEE!” And sometimes he throws in a snort, like a pig’s stuck in that rusty gate. “SNORT! HEEEE!”
“Nooo!” I hollered.
But yes.
Cal placed the back half of the crate, with me in it, on firm ground. But the front half he left hanging over the top step. So now, if I scramble forward to open the door, I’ll unbalance—and crash down into the basement.
I try not to think about that. I hug my knees and stay still as a statue. My glasses are smudged with chocolate, but I can’t risk taking them off to polish them. I can’t risk any movement at all. I try not to hyperventilate.
Cal grabs my cake plate and brings it over near me. He sits cross-legged by my cage. “Mmmmmm,” he says, spewing crumbs, rolling his eyeballs around. “Delicious!”
I have this stack of comics upstairs two feet high. In any one of them, the hero or even the sidekick would be out of this bind in a flash. Superman would melt the bars. Batman would open his crazy utility belt. The Flash wouldn’t have gotten caught in the first place. Wolverine would be out with one swipe of a claw. Spidey would sling a web and drag himself to safety.
But I’m no superhero. I’m about as far from a superhero as you could find. The only thing I can do is huddle in the corner of this dumb crate and pray for help.