14

MONDAY MORNING, I don’t even try to sit with Joon on the bus. Dylan’s in my usual spot. I sit farther back so I can bore Superman-eyeball heat-vision laser holes into the backs of their two stupid heads.

I spend the ride to school thinking about what galactic weapon I’d use to eradicate Bustamante’s existence. If I had Mjolnir, Thor’s hammer, I’d summon a storm, or send him hurtling into some hideous new dimension where the evil forces of the universe would punish him for not knowing superhero trivia. If I had Wolverine’s adamantium claws, well, I’m probably a little too squeamish for the Wolverine approach.

Hellboy’s Samaritan gun? Daredevil’s billy club? Or maybe something from Batman’s utility belt—there’s a crazy treasure trove of stuff in there. Batarangs, a grapple gun, a cryptographic sequencer, tracers, smoke and gas pellets, a tranquilizer gun, glue, line launchers, lock picks, a laser, various grenades, sonic devastators . . . even Kryptonite.

I bet Joon and Dylan couldn’t name one-quarter of what’s in Batman’s belt.

I cruise up the walk past Joon and Dylan, who pretend not to notice me, and stomp down the hall into Mrs. Green’s homeroom.

“Gooood morning, Peavey Schooool!” booms Principal Coffin over the scratchy PA.

Now I feel like smacking my head on my desk.

“Surprise! You never know when it’s time for a safety drill! Remember, we must always be prepared for the worst! Expect the best, prepare for the worst, that’s our Peavey motto,” she says.

I can’t wait to go to the office, escape the madness, and visit the Sketchpad of Mystery. But I’ve only just raised my hand when the classroom door bursts open.

Everyone gasps.

My brother, Calvin, of all people, is standing there. And he has smears of blood on his face.

Red Alert!

Red Alert!

“Oh my God!” Some of the girls let out a quick, surprised shriek. Because in his two outstretched arms he’s carrying an unconscious kid.

My heart starts pounding like a bird got trapped in my chest and is trying to flap its frantic way out. I grip the sides of my desk so hard the joints in my fingers ache.

Calvin has a strange expression on his face—grim, but his mouth’s twitching like he’s trying to keep from smiling. He rushes forward into our classroom and clunks the injured kid down on the front table. The boy’s head lolls off the edge. Cal yanks him back by the ankles.

It’s a CPR dummy, of course. Ugh. Seriously, did they have to use fake blood? Principal Coffin is going to end up giving me an actual heart attack. That’s going to be the only real emergency at Peavey: me, having a heart attack from an overdose of emergency preparedness.

The CPR dummy boy lies sprawled out on the table. Cal jerks his thumb at it, then at us. “WHO IN THIS CLASS COULD STEP UP RIGHT NOW AND DO PROPER CPR ON THIS KID, IF THIS WAS A REAL EMERGENCY?” he says in his big-shot, eighth-grade, know-it-all voice.

There are sounds out in the hall of other classrooms getting their CPR dummy visits. Clunk, clunk, go dolls on tables. I know this is just a super-dramatic way to make a point, but still—STILL! I’m starting to feel seasick. I imagine putting my mouth on that gross rubbery doll mouth. The fake, clotted blood that looks like lumpy dark ketchup.

Uh-oh.

I think I’m gonna barf.

I lurch up from my desk. My gag reflex is kicking in. My stomach is telling me I have about five seconds to get to the boys’ room. I stumble blindly past desks, sprint down the hall. I almost make it.

But not quite.

“Oh, Stanley, you poor thing,” Mrs. Green says, coming out of our classroom and over to where I’m crouched, miserable, near the water fountain. “I’ll call for cleanup. Do you think you can get yourself to the office?”

By the time I’ve straightened up and pulled myself together, the custodian is already on his way, wheeling along one of those mop-and-pail carts. Same guy from when I fainted in the fire drill. It figures.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble at my shoes, which miraculously missed getting barfed on.

“You better be sorry, dork.” It’s Calvin’s voice ringing out from behind me. “Your teacher just told me to walk you to the office. Thanks for ruining my talk.”

I don’t say anything. I keep walking. But Calvin grabs my shoulder and yells. “Do you have to be such a weenie? Why are you the only kid who can’t hack it?”

I stop in the middle of the hall. It’s hard to breathe, but not just from panic. Also from shock at Calvin’s anger.

“You barely talk! And everything upsets you,” Cal shouts. He gives me a small shove so I stumble back against the cinder-block wall. “You’re an embarrassment, Stannie. And don’t hold your hands up by your chest like two little paws.” He squints at me, disgusted. “You’ve been doing that your whole life, and it’s so stupid! You’re almost thirteen. You’re in my school now. Grow up!”

I yank my hands down to my sides and say, “Leave me alone, Cal.”

“Gladly,” he says. And with a loud pivoting squeak of his sneaker, he takes off back down the hall.

The school secretaries glance at me over their reading glasses as I slip past, to the Ready Room.

Cal’s words still burn and roil around inside me. I’m pretty used to him being a jerk. But this was the worst ever.

The Sketchpad of Mystery sits in the corner, closed. I can’t bear to open it until my churning stomach and angry head settle.

But when I finally do go uncover the pad, this is what I see.