9

THINGS HAVE BEEN pretty quiet this week. Cal’s been too busy with football and soccer to spend much time torturing me. Mom’s been working constantly. We haven’t heard from Dad in a while. And I don’t see Liberty around at all. At home, it’s mainly just Gramps and me, hanging out in different parts of the house.

The sort of good thing is that Joon asked me over on Saturday again, to prepare for the Trivia Quest.

The sort of bad thing is that now that I’m here, he’s totally distracted.

“Come on!” I say. “You should know this one. Who’s Martian Manhunter’s archenemy?”

“Wait. Who’s Martian Manhunter again?” Joon says, fiddling with his phone.

“Just mute it. Why does it keep buzzing?”

But Joon ignores me and keeps texting.

I go sit at his desk. I take my own phone out of my pocket and look at the blank screen.

Why do I even have this thing? No one ever calls me. Not even my mom.

There’s a big stack of paper on Joon’s desk—I take a sheet, to kill time while he texts. I’m doodling, just putting down lines, and suddenly, a superhero starts to emerge. I give him a gray spandex suit, a big blue utility belt, and a flowing bright blue cape.

I only look up when Joon hits me in the head with a balled-up sock. “What are you drawing?” He comes to look. I try to hide it but I’m too slow.

“Dude!” Joon says, prying the paper from my hands and laughing. “Good thing the Trivia Quest isn’t an art contest.’”

“It was just an idea I had,” I mutter, jumping for it. But Joon holds it high out of reach, playing keep-away. Since when did Joon get so much taller than me?

“Give it back!” I yell.

He takes a closer look. “You know what?” Joon says, tilting his head and holding the paper at arm’s length. “This is not too shabby, Fart-in-bra. You’ve got the arms and legs the right proportion, anyway.”

“Who are you, Kyle Keefner? Stop it!” I jump for the paper again, and miss.

He ignores me and turns, frowning at the sketch. “Who’s it supposed to be? What superhero?”

“Not your business,” I say, a little too loudly. I’m getting steamed.

“The face,” he says, peering. “You know what? It sorta looks like your dad.”

I stop jumping. I put out my hand and command him: “Gimme that back.”

Something in my voice must finally make him listen. Because he does.