MOM’S LATE for dinner again. Really late. We’ve been keeping the delivery pizza boxes warm in the oven for such a long time, the kitchen smells like hot cardboard, not pizza. I pull the boxes out before she even takes off her red blazer.
“Boys. There’s new coyote scat all over our driveway,” Mom says, dropping her briefcase and giving Albert Einstein a pat. “When you see that out there, you should clean it up.”
“Darn straight they should, the lazy apes,” says Gramps, hunched over in his chair, already munching on a slice. “I told ’em. I told these boys, get to work.” Actually he hasn’t told us anything. He’s been in his recliner watching The History of Hydraulics all afternoon.
“Yo, coyote scat is disgusting. It’s, like, full of nuts and rocks and stuff,” Calvin says with a disgusting wad of olives and pepperoni hanging half out of his mouth.
“The motion-sensor lights aren’t scaring them off?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head.
Cal says in his deep, know-it-all voice, “You know, I could solve the whole problem. Just a few warning shots over their heads! I’m talking warning shots!”
“That might do it,” Gramps says, nodding.
Mom bangs her hand down hard on the table, and all conversation stops.
After dinner I hang out in my room and try not to think about Joon. Every time I do, a little whirlwind of anger and sadness spins around in my chest. The feelings are so mixed up, I don’t know the mad from the sad. All I know is that I’ve got to prove that I’m cool. And capable. And don’t need anyone. That I can handle the Trivia Quest, and beat Joon. I want to win those passes so I can throw them in Joon’s face.
I’ve printed the entry form. I just need Mom to sign it.
I think about John Lockdown. About what he said. About finding your superpowers when you least expect it. He found his in a utility room. I need to find mine—somehow. Somewhere. I need to believe it’s possible to change.
So when Mom heads up into her room, I figure it’s now or never. I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask her to sign my form.
I take some deep breaths—aqua, ochre, aqua, ochre—and I’m about to knock on her door when I overhear her angry voice.
“That’s unbelievable. How could you make that commitment?” Her voice is low, but loud enough so that I can hear it through the door. I stand there, frozen. “What do I tell the boys?” she says. “YOU tell the boys.”
She’s talking to Dad on the phone.
Now her voice is muffled—she’s probably moved toward her bathroom. I strain to listen but I can’t make anything else out.
I back away slowly and tiptoe down the hall, down the stairs, and through the kitchen, still clutching my Trivia Quest application form. I head outside to breathe some fresh air.
What did Mom mean? What the heck does Dad have to tell us?
I realize what I’m doing. My feet are trying to head over to Joon’s house, to tell him about it. I catch myself just before I turn down the sidewalk—and then I feel even worse about everything.
I pace up and down our driveway instead. The air is cooling off by the minute, now the sun’s down, and a dry wind starts me sneezing. I bend over, prepping for the usual marathon—my record’s sixty-seven sneezes, back in fourth grade. Joon counted them for me.
“Hey.” A voice comes from Liberty’s kitchen window. “Pretty impressive snot expulsion.”
She comes down her back steps and stands there staring with her bulgy eyes. Her T-shirt says The Sports Team from My Geographical Region Is Superior to the Sports Team from Your Geographical Region. She frowns at me, then digs in her pocket to offer me a suspiciously rumpled Kleenex.
“Nah. I’m fine. My mom just said something weird, that’s all. I’m over it.”
Her face softens a little. “Moms. Gotta love ’em.”
I straighten up and wipe my nose on the back of my hand. “So . . . why do you live with your uncle?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Well, I usually live with my mom. But Uncle Dan’s always been kind of my second parent.” She digs the toe of her flip-flop in the grass. “When I was little, my mom used to get these itches to do stuff like backpack through India, or take care of elephants in Thailand. Then she’d send me to Uncle Dan’s for a few months.” She looks up at the pine tree, frowning. “But she’s not like that anymore, like she used to be. Now, it’s me who wants to wander off from her.”
“Yeah? Why did it change?”
Liberty shrugs. She places her hand on the tree trunk. “Let’s just say, my mom’s gone from free spirit to total control freak, where I’m concerned.” She picks off a piece of pine bark. “So I asked to come here. I had to get out of her clutches.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess,” I say. “Your uncle seems, uh, cool.”
I watch her flick pieces of bark off the tree. Finally, she shrugs. “He’s fine.” Then she sighs, turns, and points to my shirt. “What’s that?”
I perk up at the change of subject. “It’s an old vintage comic detective dude named Dick Tracy,” I tell her. “This picture? It was drawn in 1941. See his old-fashioned hat and trench coat? But now, look at his wristwatch. It’s not far off from today’s smartwatch, right? This was totally impossible sci-fi in the 1940s. Like wildest dreams. Like fiction. Now it’s the norm.”
“You don’t say, Norm.” She chucks me on the shoulder. “I wonder what kind of stuff will be the norm in the future.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Comics are a kick. They’ve predicted all kinds of stuff.” The image of John Lockdown suddenly flashes through my head.
“So,” she says, pointing at my shirt again. “I take it you’re into them. Comics, I mean.”
And just like that, I start telling her. About how great comics are. How Joon and I always were into them together—it was our thing. But we fought over Trivia Quest, and now we’re not friends.
I tell her about how much I hate Peavey—except for the Ready Room, the Sketchpad of Mystery, and the ongoing adventures of John Lockdown. How I keep thinking about him, all the story lines he could have. I have a ton of ideas to share with the mystery artist. Stories about all the ways John Lockdown could save us.
How I have this weird feeling he’s here, in some strange way, to help save me.
Liberty’s quiet as I talk. Finally, she smiles at me, pats my shoulder, and says, “Who knows? Maybe your John Lockdown is real. My mom, you know, she believes in spirits and stuff. She says we have to watch what we think because our spirits can turn our wishes into real things, and put them out into the world. Maybe your superhero’s out there somewhere already.”
“That would be weird but cool,” I say.
“Yup. Weird but cool,” she says, looking off into the distance. “Just like my mom.”
And just like her, I think.
But I don’t say it. I mean, come on. I’m not a moron.