10

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Mrs. Green makes me read my Greek Myth essay aloud. (I wrote about how Prometheus stole fire from the gods, who punished him by having a bird peck out his liver. I said it was about how mankind’s always yearned for superpowers, and she raved about it until all the other kids wanted to peck out MY liver.)

Then, Wednesday, in Accelerated Math, they move me to a new eighth-grade class for a unit on graphs and slopes. Guess where I had to sit? Right in front of Cal. I thought he was going to peck out my liver, too.

On Thursday, Liberty Silverberg skateboards on her driveway until dark, trying kick-flips and wiping out until her uncle opens a window and yells, “Do I have to call your mother?” The sound of her wheels was super-distracting and loud. I could barely do my homework.

Now it’s Friday morning. If I can just get through today . . .

“Surprise!” Principal Coffin says over the PA speaker.

Mrs. Green, in homeroom, tilts her head back and looks like she’s pleading with the ceiling.

“We’ll be having an armed intruder drill in five minutes, folks! It is just a drill! Your teachers are prepared! There is no need to be worried. . . .”

A flashing dazzle of light catches my eye outside the classroom windows. It’s reflecting off the metal bumper of a police car just turning into the drive.

“Listen to your teachers and follow their instructions very carefully. Afterward, I’d like everyone to head to the auditorium for a breakdown of how it went.”

A restless murmur buzzes around the room. And a tiny Red Alert pings through my system: woop. Woop.

Intruder? That’s like Active Shooter. Evil dude in a trenchcoat. I imagine kids huddled in corners, under desks. Bullets flying down the hall—

Kids huddled together, scared.

Bullets fired down a hall—

RAT-TAT-TAT! BANG! ZOOM! POW! . . .

Mrs. Green nods at me. As I shove my notebook into my backpack, I hear Kyle Keefner mutter, “Stay conscious, Fart-in-bra!” Mrs. Green shushes him, but kids are already laughing.

Principal Coffin continues on the PA as I walk down the hall. “Your teacher will direct you to the designated safe corner of your classroom. You will shelter in place until the all clear is sounded.”

I push open the main office door and see two police officers standing at the counter. In their black uniforms, gun belts, and gear, they look like two of Gotham City’s finest. Batman and Commissioner Gordon could show up any minute now and I wouldn’t be surprised.

“I am going to say a code phrase,” Principal Coffin continues over the intercom. “Remember, this is a drill; this is only a drill. But if you ever hear me say this code phrase again, it means we are having a real crisis, and you need to do exactly what your teachers tell you.”

Woop. I try not to let my stupid branching fear-thoughts in. Intrusive thoughts of intruders.

“Never repeat this phrase to strangers,” Principal Coffin warns. “If there’s ever serious trouble afoot at Peavey, these are the secret code words you will hear . . .”

There’s a long pause, like she’s hearing an imaginary drumroll or something. Then Principal Coffin announces, in a bold, crisp voice:

“John Lockdown! Please report for duty!”

John Lockdown. That’s funny. I imagine a James Bond type in a tuxedo, drinking a martini. Or ducking down the sixth-grade hallway, brandishing a revolver. A suave, school catastrophe–averting superhero dude. “The name’s Lockdown,” he’d say, turning to look at the camera. “John Lockdown.”

The intercom clicks off. There’s the faint sound of hundreds of chairs scraping back as kids all over the school get up from their seats. Then the alarm system starts beeping, like the whole building is having a panic attack. I watch as Gotham’s finest police officers stride quickly out into the hall with Principal Coffin.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. I jump.

It’s Mrs. Ngozo. She hands me a brochure called Intruder Alert! School Under Attack! Here’s What to Do! as well as a package of soft, squishy earplugs. “Look,” she says. “I’ve got them in, too.” She pulls back her braids to show me.

I stuff them in my ears and head to my Ready Room. It’s just as I left it: desk, chair, easel, sketchpad. I shove the brochure into a desk drawer. Then I flip open the pad.

Wait.

There’s nothing, no name. It’s a mystery artist. Who did this?

And what do they mean about their super-senses turning into superpowers?

Look at that superhero they drew. A gray suit. A blue utility belt. His bright blue cape . . . It’s almost the same outfit I drew on my superhero doodle, back at Joon’s house the other day.

What are the odds of that?

The skin on my neck and the backs of my arms starts to prickle. Maybe there really is a real, live, school catastrophe–averting superhero out there! Someone who can keep bad guys out! Make sure kids don’t get bullied or hurt. That they’re not forced into sensory overload. A real superhero. A real . . . John Lockdown.

Yeah.

A superhero who stands up for the little guy. For kids who are human targets in dodgeball. The ones not invited to parties. The gossiped about. The lonely lunch-eaters.

John Lockdown.

A shiver runs down my back.

I turn the page, pick up a marker, and start drawing like crazy. Before you know it, I’ve got a few rough frames. It’s basically stick figures, but it’s the start of a story—my first real comic.

I call it:

The third-period bell rings before I know it.

On my way out Mrs. Ngozo looks up from her desk. “Everything good?”

“Huh? What? Oh, yes, ma’am.” I quickly take out my earplugs.

“Did you do your breathing?” she says. “Aqua, ochre?”

I nod. Then I pause by her door. I really want to know who this mystery artist could be but I don’t want to reveal anything, either. The sketchpad, I want it to be my own secret.

“Mrs. Ngozo,” I ask, “who else uses this room? I mean—does anyone else spend time in here?”

“Ahhhhh,” she says, closing her laptop and looking at me meaningfully. “I see what you mean.”

My heart quickens.

“I’m sorry. The answer is no, Stanley.” She smiles. “No one else uses that room. You’re the only one. But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with needing a safe, quiet zone at school. You have a legitimate disorder! A sensory disorder! So do not worry. Believe me, young man, you have absolutely nothing whatsoever to be ashamed of.”

“Oh yeah,” I say quickly. “Okay. Thanks.”

Yeah, shame. I’d almost forgotten about shame.