DARING

DEEDS and

KNEE-SLAPPING

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DARING

DEEDS and

KNEE-SLAPPING

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Your sneak peek at three laugh-out-loud adventures!

When Joey is bitten by an elderly rat, he goes from aspiring seventh-grader to three-inch-tall rodent. Joey celebrates his new found freedom until he pulls the spork from the scone and finds himself at the center of a longtime rat prophecy.

Joey didn’t want to move to the city, but his mom got a really good job offer, so here they were. The apartment was pretty small—just a bedroom for Mom, a bedroom for Joey, and a living room with a little kitchen attached. Right now it was full of brown cardboard boxes, stuffed with everything they owned.

“Joey, get me a knife,” said Mom. She was sitting on the floor ripping open boxes. She was looking for the coffee maker, but she hadn’t marked what box it was in. Mom drank a lot of coffee, so this hunt for the coffee maker was getting pretty desperate.

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Joey handed her a steak knife. They had already unpacked most of the kitchen. There was still a lot of work to do, but he got kind of scared when he thought about what he’d do when they were done.

He didn’t know anyone here. That morning, when he was helping the movers carry boxes, he’d spotted

some boys across the street. They didn’t look like the boys from back home. One of them raised his arm and started to wave at Joey, but the other boy—the bigger boy—punched him on the shoulder, and he put his hand down. After that they just watched.

The city was big. The city was loud. The city was dirty. It was hot, too, but that’s the way it was in August anywhere. But hot in the city meant smelly. Every piece of dog poop or pile of garbage bags seemed to have a little cloud of stink around it. Their apartment was on the ground floor, which worried Joey. That made it easy for crooks to just climb in the window. Mom said the iron bars on the window would keep the bad guys out,

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but that didn’t make Joey feel any better. They hadn’t needed iron bars on their windows back home.

“Aaargh!” said Mom, as she threw handfuls of Joey’s underwear out of a box. Mom had a big vocabulary, but she sounded a lot like a half-awake animal when she didn’t get her coffee. All her words would turn into grunts and groans. “No coffee. Coffee maker hiding,” she said, and she dug some wrinkled money out of her purse and sent Joey down the street to buy a cup at the store on the corner.

The man at the store was nice, but he didn’t speak any English. Joey didn’t speak any Spanish, so they didn’t have anything to say after Joey got the coffee. Next year, in seventh grade, Joey would start taking foreign-language classes. It would probably be a good idea to take Spanish.

As he walked home, the sidewalk was crowded with people who were in a hurry to go somewhere and other people who weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere at all. Joey was bounced around among them, like a pinball. He almost spilled the coffee one time, when a skinny man in a business suit brushed past him. As he was steadying himself, Joey caught a glimpse of a pile of garbage behind one of the buildings on the block. It was

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just a big mound of empty bottles, plastic trash bags, and broken baby toys . . . but something underneath the pile moved.

Joey ran home the whole way, not caring if he spilled a little. “Mom, Mom!” he called, as he came through the door—and then stopped. Uncle Patrick was there!

He must’ve just walked in, because he and Mom were still hugging, even though Mom looked a little annoyed. Uncle Patrick let her go and turned to Joey. “Hey, honcho!” He gave Joey a huge hug of his own. Uncle Patrick was big, big, big. He had big hands, big shoulders, and a big, big belly. He didn’t have a job exactly, but he spent a lot of time watching football games, drinking beer, and falling asleep on the couch. He was kind of like a big friendly dog, which made sense. Mom said Uncle Patrick got along better with animals than people, anyway. He was Joey’s favorite person, besides Mom.

“How you liking life in the big city?” asked Uncle Patrick. Uncle Patrick had lived in the city for a long time, and being close to him was probably the best thing about moving here. Before Joey could answer—before he could say anything about the weird boys across the street, or the bars on the windows, or the thing that

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moved inside the garbage—Mom said, “Pretty cute of you to show up after we’ve done all the moving, Patrick.”

Uncle Patrick smiled. He had very white teeth, which were very crooked and stuck out of his mouth like jack-o’-lantern teeth. He ran his hand through his hair—which was very, very black and stuck out in messy spikes that looked sharp and dangerous, but were really soft when you touched them. “Aw, you know how it is, Sis,” he said. “I meant to come by earlier but something came up.”

“Yeah,” Mom said, “I know how it is.” She smiled to show she wasn’t mad. She couldn’t stay mad at Uncle Patrick for very long. He was her little brother—even if he was twice as big as her. Mom pointed at a box Uncle Patrick had brought in, which was covered with a dirty towel. “What’s that?”

“That,” said Uncle Patrick, “is a present for Joey. Go ahead, honcho, unwrap it.”

Joey “unwrapped” the box—which really meant just pulling the towel off it. It wasn’t a box, really. It was a cage, like people keep hamsters in, with a wheel for the hamster to run on, and a water bottle for the hamster to drink from, and everything. But the thing sleeping in the wood shavings at the bottom of the cage wasn’t a

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hamster. It was twice as long as any hamster, and it had a pointed snout and a long, hairless tail. And everywhere else it was covered with pure silvery-gray fur.

“That,” Mom said, “is a rat.”

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“no, it’s a pet rat,” said Uncle Patrick. “What better companion could a newcomer to the city have than the ultimate city animal?” He slapped Joey on the back. “Rats are survivors, my man. You can learn a lot from them. Besides, the fur reminded me of you.”

Joey had mostly boring brown hair—not cool black hair like Uncle Patrick or bright red hair like Mom—but he also had this weird gray streak that ran along the side of his head over his right ear, like a racing stripe on a car. The streak was the exact same color as the rat.

“Where did you get it?” said Mom.

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“The pet store,” said Uncle Patrick.“Is it safe?” asked Mom. “Has it had its shots and

everything?”“Sure, it’s safe,” said Uncle Patrick. “Would they

sell it if it wasn’t safe?”“Why isn’t it moving?” asked Joey.Uncle Patrick nudged the cage. The rat snored

a little and rolled over on its side. “It’s sleeping,” said Uncle Patrick. “Rats sleep a lot.” He plopped down on the couch and started slapping the cushions. “Hey, nice couch.”

Joey didn’t know how he felt about having a rat for a pet. But he knew his mom wasn’t going to let him get anything bigger. The building wouldn’t allow it. A rat was better than a goldfish, he guessed. Besides, it was a gift from Uncle Patrick.

“I love it,” said Joey.Uncle Patrick smiled. “I knew you would. What

are you gonna call him?”Mom said, “Might I suggest ‘Patrick’?” But she was

smiling, too, so it didn’t seem mean. Joey looked at the rat. It was just sleeping there in the wood shavings, with its fangs hanging out of its mouth, but it looked kind of special. It didn’t look like a Patrick. Joey figured he’d come up with a better name later, when the rat woke up.

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By the time Joey was ready to go to bed, though, the rat still hadn’t woken up. Joey put a slice of turkey in the cage, but the rat didn’t even seem to notice. Was it sick? Uncle Patrick had said that rats sleep a lot, but this seemed like too much.

“You’re going to like it here, Joey. You’ll see,” said Mom. Then she hugged him and kissed him and turned out the light, just like she did when she said goodnight to him back home.

But this wasn’t like going to sleep back home. The room was weird, and smelled weird. Joey’s bed was in the wrong corner. None of his posters were on the walls yet. He lay in bed, with his eyes wide open, looking at the strange shadows his half-unpacked boxes made on the ceiling.

But the weirdest part was all the noise. Joey was used to it being quiet when he went to sleep. Here, nothing was quiet. Mom had left the window open a crack, for the fresh air. Now Joey could hear everything outside. Women walking on the sidewalk in their high heels: KIK-kuk-KIK-kuk-KIK-kuk. Cars growling past, blasting music from their stereos: BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom. Horns honking. Cats howling. People laughing. There even seemed to be a little voice, saying over and over again, “Boy. Boy. Boy . . .”

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Joey listened closely. There was a little voice. It was tiny, but it sounded old and smart, like a professor in a movie. And the words were very clear.

“Boy. Boy. Help me.”It wasn’t coming from outside, though. Joey looked

around the room. The voice seemed to be coming from his bedside table. Joey listened closer. It was coming from the hamster cage on top of the table.

“Yes, boy. Yes. Over here.”Joey froze with terror. The voice was coming

from the rat.

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Have you ever picked your nose? Have you ever picked your nose and eaten it? Have you ever picked your nose, eaten it, and doing so, opened a portal to a world run by pirates? Mabel Jones has.

Chapter 1The Kidnap

M abel Jones was woken by a sudden

quiet.

She sat upright.

“What wasn’t that noise?” she wondered.

The city outside was strangely soundless.

The neighbors weren’t listening to the TV.

The cars weren’t driving up and down

the busy road.

Even the mice that scuttled under the

floorboards observed the eerie silence. A

most suspicious silence . . .

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Mabel listened very carefully, but even

with her eyes closed really tight she couldn’t

hear where the silence was coming from.

Little did she know that the source of

the silence was squeezing through the cat

flap with a cutlass in its teeth . . .

.  .  . tiptoeing through the lounge, leav-

ing wet pawprints on the carpet . . .

.  .  . creeping up the stairs, paus-

ing for a second to shudder in

fear at a photograph of Mabel’s

great-grandmother . . .

.  .  . crouching out-

side Mabel’s room

with a large, specially

designed child-sized

sack and, at that very

moment, pushing open

her bedroom door ready to—

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STOP! WAIT!Before we witness the terrifying sight of

young Mabel Jones being skillfully bagged

in the dead of night, I believe it is time to

reveal the identity of the creature that has

invaded her home in such a deafeningly

silent fashion.

Let us shine a light into the shadows and

reveal the sly beast that lurks in the corner.

Who are you, creature? And what’s with the sack?

The creature’s whiskers twitch.

Some fur that grows in the wrong direc-

tion on top of its head is anxiously straight-

ened with a licked paw.

A pause, then it fixes us with its saucery

eyes and blinks nervously, whispering:

“I? I is O m y n u s H u s s h . ”

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It speaks!

And to which species do you belong?“I is a silent loris.”

A dastardly breed: quiet as a peanut

and sneaky as a woodlouse in a jar of raisins.

What brings you to the bedroom of the poor, unfortunate Mabel Jones?

“I is the bagger on board

THE FeROShUS MAggOt!”The bagger?“The bagger what bags them children! I

gots the proper fingers on me paws that ties

the proper knots that keeps the wriggling lit-

tle snuglet safe inside.”

Surely not young Mabel Jones?“It performed the sacred DEED. THE

DEED that seals the deal! THE DEED that

binds it to the captain for a lifetime’s service

aboard the Feroshus Maggot .”

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The creature leans close and whispers.

“The Deed that shows it’s a pirate in the making.”

She didn’t? Not THE DEED?“It did! It did! We saws it through the

captain’s telescope!”

Goodness me! THE DEED was per-

formed!

What’s that, reader?

You know not of which DEED we speak?

Of course not—how silly of me. You

probably haven’t spent years aboard a

pirate ship. You probably haven’t ever sat

around a fire on a tropical beach finishing

the last morsels of a freshly grilled parrot.

Then, after the rum has run dry,

heard the talk turn to whis-

pered tales of the unfor-

tunate children

recruited to piracy after unknowingly per-

forming THE DEED !

So let me take you back an hour, to the

deck of the pirate ship

on which stands one c a p ta in I drys s

Eb e ne ze r S pl i t.

Split is a wolf.

A wolf with a pirate hat and a false leg

carved from a human thigh bone. He has

a rusty cutlass hanging from his belt and a

loaded pistol hidden in his underpants, with

no fear of the consequences! His left eye

has long since been lost—burned from his

skull by a stray firework. His right eye is

THEFeROShUS

MAggOt

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pressed to the end of a telescope. The tele-

scope is focused on a strange hole in the

thick fog that envelops the FeRO S h U S MA g g O t —a hole through which he

observes a different world from the one

he knows.

A hooman world.

A world where young Mabel Jones is

about to perform THE DEED : the ceremo-

nial picking of Mabel Jones’s nose by Mabel

Jones’s nose-picking finger.

“Has it been eaten yet?” the crew asks

eagerly. “Is THE DEED complete?”

“Not yet, lads. Not yet!”

Mabel’s fate is to be decided by the final

destination of the booger currently sitting

on her finger. The finger that now pauses

precariously between mouth and wall as

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Mabel makes the decision whether to eat

or wipe.

Will she eat it?

Finally she makes the decision. The

very same decision that any person believ-

ing they were unobserved would make. The

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same decision being made across the world

at this very moment by principals, police-

men, lunch ladies, and parents (but espe-

cially by principals).

She eats i t !Split allows himself a toothy grin. An

extra pair of hands aboard ship could come

in useful. At the very least, the child might

fetch a modest sum at the next port.

He turns to Omynus Hussh and claps

the loris on the back, laughing wickedly.

“Fetch your sack. For tonight you go

child-bagging!”

πIn the bedroom of 23 Gudgeon Avenue,

Mabel Jones climbed out of bed to find the

source of the suspicious silence.

Looking out of her window, Mabel

could see the city was wrapped in thick

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greeny-gray fog. Only the tops of the tall-

est tower blocks could be seen.

What an odd night! She wasn’t normally

woken by a strange quiet. The city wasn’t

usually—

She had trodden on something.

A peanut!

Why would there be a peanut on her

bedroom floor?

I don’t even like peanuts, thought

Mabel Jones. Apart from the chocolate- covered ones, of course . . . And even then I only like the chocolate part.

Oh! There was another.

And another.

This is strange!Someone had left a trail of peanuts

OUCH!

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leading to the darkest corner of her room.

She picked them up one by one.

It’s almost as though someone WANTS me to follow them.

Mabel scratched her armpit thoughtfully.

It’s almost as though there is some-body in my room.

THERE IS SOMEBODY IN MY ROOM!

Mabel Jones turned to run for the

door, but a strong, spindly hand grabbed

at her from behind. She opened her

mouth to call for help, but only got as

far as the “D” in “Dad” before another

hand was clamped tightly over her lips and

she was wrestled into a sack. Skillful fingers

tied a neat knot at the top.

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The sack was lifted to the window, where

a large pair of hairy arms grabbed it eagerly

and pulled it deep into the fog. Then, paus-

ing only to examine a Mabel-Jones-sized

bite on his hand, Omynus Hussh climbed

up onto the sill and leaped into the night.

Shortly afterward the silence was bro-

ken. Above the usual noise of the busy

street in the middle of the busy city, far

away from the nearest port or shore, the

tuneless singing of a rude sea shanty could

be heard drifting on the last wisps of the

clearing fog.

The neighbors turned up

their TVs accordingly.

Chapter 2 Pirates

M abel Jones was not the sort of girl

to be scared of something as silly

as being kidnapped by a pirate in the mid-

dle of the night.

“My name is Mabel Jones, and I am not scared of anything!”

It was dark inside the sack, so she said

it again, but louder this time, just to make

sure that it was true.

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“My name is Mabel Jones, and I am NOT ScARED of

ANYTHINg!”

Still, she wished her mom or dad was

there in the sack with her.

Actually, now she thought about it, it

would be better to wish that she wasn’t here,

rather than that her parents were. There

wasn’t enough room in the sack for them,

for a start.

Still, they would be worried if she wasn’t

there when they woke up. Dad always came

in to say good-bye before he left for work.

Unseen paws loosened the knot on top

of the specially designed child-sized sack,

and Mabel Jones climbed out into bright

sunshine.

The first thing she noticed after the

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cawing seagulls and the blinding sun was a

severed hand tied to some rope and swing-

ing in the salty breeze.

The last time she had seen those spin-

dly fingers, they had been clamped tightly

around her mouth. It turned out that

it hadn’t taken long for Mabel’s bite on

Omynus Hussh’s paw to go septic.

O l d S aw b O n e S , the ship’s surgeon—

an aged and toothless saltwater crocodile—

had sighed when he first saw the wound.

“There ain’t nothing quite so toxic to

a pirate’s blood as child spittle mixed with

fresh toothpaste . . .”And, while Omynus Hussh was wonder-

ing what “toothpaste” was, Old Sawbones

had removed the infected paw with a meat

cleaver. There being no spare hooks on

board, he had replaced the missing hand

30

with a doorknob.

Omynus Hussh had

managed to retrieve the

severed hand from Old

Sawbones. He planned to

keep it in a box for senti-

mental reasons. But first

it needed to be dried.

Otherwise it would smell.

“Are ye sure ye really

need it?” Old Sawbones

had asked, licking his lips.

The second thing Mabel

Jones noticed was that she was on board a

ship in the middle of the sea. And the ship

was crewed by a wild-looking bunch of

creatures.

They were all looking at her.

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My name is Mabel Jones, and I am NOT ScARED of

ANYTHINg.

This time she just thought it really quietly.

She was a bit scared to say it out loud. It

was, after all, her first time on a pirate ship.

But I forget myself! You may never have

been on a pirate ship either. So let’s pause

the action on deck and explore the vessel to

find out more about its bestial crew.

That door there leads to the captain’s

cabin. I dare not take you through it,

though, for he is still inside.

This open hatch leads below deck.

Down these wooden STEPS . . .

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Careful as you go.

It’s dark down here. And damp. This

room is where the crew sleeps, in those ham-

mocks slung from the timbers. The smell of

sporadic nighttime farting still hangs thick

in the air, for the fresh sea breeze does not

reach below deck.

That corner is where Old Sawbones

works. See his trusty cleaver, its sharpened

edge embedded in a wooden block? A cer-

tificate in Advanced Nautical Surgery from the Butcher’s Guild is

pinned proudly to the wall.

That there’s a crate of ship’s biscuits.

Pardon?

Yes, you may try one.

Delicious, no?

Currants? Those are no currants.

That’s weevi l.33

Look! The ship’s register—the list of

names of all the crew on board. It’s in the

first-aid box, nestled between a half-empty

bottle of rum and a box of princess Band-

Aids. Let’s rejoin the action above deck and

put some faces to the names, eh?

Ah! Fresh air.

Sunlight!

Right, let’s

do the roll call.

You already

know, of course, the captain: I drys s

Eb e ne ze r S pl i t, a wolf. He has

emerged from his cabin to inspect

the new arrival. Behind him lurks

O my n u s Hu s s h , the silent loris. You’ve

met him too. Next comes O l d S aw b O n e S ,

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the saltwater crocodile.

The others you’ve

not met yet . . .

The goat with

the pipe is called

Pelf. He’s the first

mate, all braided

beard and grubby

fleece.

Then the shiny-

faced pig, that’s

a well-spoken young

porker.

The orangutan is

Mr. Clunes, a

strong and silent type.

Milton Melton- Mowbray,

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Not a word has passed his lips for many

a moon.

Then you’ve got the mole, McMasters,

the best shortsighted lookout ever to have

mistaken a pirate ship for an optician’s shop.

And that is the crew of the Feroshus Maggot , all present and incorrect.

36

A voice sounds from

the top of the mast!

“What is it? I can-

nae see!” shouted

McMasters. There

was muttering and dis-

cussion among the crew.

“Tell us what it is, Pelf!

What kind of snuglet have we

bagged?” asked Milton.

Pelf sucked on his pipe. “A

snuglet can come in many shapes,

sizes—”

“And flavors!” said Old

Sawbones.

“There’ll be no eating of

the crew this voyage, Sawbones.

Least not until the biscuits

run out.” Pelf scratched his

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impressive horns and blew out a cloud of

thick smog. “Aye, but this one is a scrawny

lad for sure. A real bag of bones. Not the

best type. Not altogether useless, though. A

bit short maybe, but he could probably be

stretched.”

Mr. Clunes cracked his knuckles.

There was a growl from behind the

gathered crew.

All eyes turned away from young Mabel

Jones and toward the lean and hungry fig-

ure that was limping through the crowd:

Captain Idryss Ebenezer Split.

His one eye narrowed suspiciously and

his lip curled into a snarl, revealing his yel-

lowed fangs.

“Well, well, well  .  .  . What has THE DEED brought us this time?”

He grabbed Mabel Jones by the chin and

38

inspected her closely. Very closely indeed.

So closely she could see the rotten meat

wedged between his fangs.

His hot wolf-breath crawled all over her

face, up inside one nostril, down through

the other and then tried to squeeze between

her lips.

Mabel coughed politely and hid her nose

and mouth beneath her pajama top.

Captain Idryss Ebenezer Split turned to

his crew and uttered an oath so foul it could

NEVER be written down.

(It contained a word so rude that if an adult whispered

it to themselves after bedtime, under the quilt so no one could

hear, they could still be arrested and thrown in prison for a

very long time.)

The crew huddled together in a wor-

ried cuddle as the captain paced the deck.

Finally he stopped and, glaring at Mabel

39

Jones, declared in a voice as wicked as a

poisoned ice cream:

“This is no boy. This is a —”

Split gagged. The disgusting word he

had reached for caught in his throat like a

bad belch.

“ This is a—”He winced. The foulness of the term

Split needed left a trail of filth in his mouth

as he forced it from his lips.“This

isa

GIRL! ”40

The crew let out a gasp of horror!

“It cannae be!”

“Surely not!”

“A girl?

GirlS

can’t bePIRATES!”

“She dids THE DEED !”

“She picked her nose . . .”

There was a horrified pause.

“. . . and ate it!”

“Girls don’t do that . . . do they?”

The crew’s eyes fixed upon their cap-

tive, young Mabel Jones, who was—just at

that moment—absentmindedly picking her

nose.

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“She’s doing it now!”

“I’m just itching!” lied Mabel Jones.

The crew fell into a familiar silence.

From the shadows crept the stooped figure

of Omynus Hussh, his saucery eyes rimmed

with angry tears as he caressed the door-

knob at the end of his wrist.

“She’s a bad-lucklet, a

filthy smooth no-beard

and . . . and a sticky-

fingered hand

thief!”

Captain Split

spat angrily on

the deck.

“We’ll get no hard

work from this prissy

little pink princess,

and there’ll be no

42

passengers aboard my ship! Not this voy-

age. Not when our treasure is so near!”

He spun around and clomped back to

his cabin, shouting:

“TONIGHT SHE WALKSTHE GREASY POLE OF

CERTAIN DEATH!”

43

Behind every great superhero is a very angry younger brother.

DestinationUnknow-type.indd 1 2/23/15 9:59 AM

DestinationUnknow-type.indd 1 2/23/15 9:59 AM

DestinationUnknow-type.indd 1 2/23/15 9:59 AM

a superhero, and I could have

been one too, except that I needed to go pee.

My name is Luke Parker. I’m eleven years

old, and I live in a mild-mannered part of the

city with my mom, dad, and big brother, Zack.

He wasn’t always a superhero, but with a name

like Zack you’ve got to wonder if my parents

had a hunch that one day he’d end up wear-

ing a mask and cape and saving orphans from

burning buildings. I mean, come on! It’s not a

name; it’s a sound effect. It’s what you get in

a comic when a superhero punches a supervil-

lain. Pow! Blam! Zack!

It seems to me that in life you are faced

with clear-cut moments when things could

47

go one way or another. Vanilla or chocolate.

Smooth or crunchy. Drop the water balloon

on Dad’s head, or hold your fire. It’s up to you

which choice to make, and sometimes all it

takes to change the way your whole life turns

out are four little words.

“I need to pee.”

It was the fateful evening. Zack and I had

been in our tree house for about an hour, and I

was bursting. I was reading an old issue of Teen

Titans by flashlight, Zack was doing his math

homework. He’s always been a bit of a teacher’s

pet. Before he became Star Guy, at school he

was star boy.

“Then go,” he said, solving another qua-

dratic equation with a flick of his pencil. “I’m

not stopping you.”

The truth was I didn’t want to go down

the rope ladder in the dark. It had been hard

enough climbing up it in the first place. It’s not

that I’m out of shape or anything, but put it

48

like this: you won’t ever see me on an Olympic

podium. I suffer from hay fever and have fun-

ny-shaped feet that mean I have to wear these

things in my shoes called “orthotics.” When

Mom first told me I needed them, I was excited.

I thought they sounded like supersoldier power

armor, but when they finally arrived they

turned out to be bendy, foot-shaped supports

and not a cybernetic exoskeleton suit. That was

a disappointing Thursday.

I hung my head out of the tree house door.

“Maybe I could just pee from here?”

“Out! Get out of here, you disgusting

child!”

Zack is only three years older than me, but

when I’ve done something to annoy him he

calls me a child. Of all the things I can’t stand

about my big brother, being called a child is

number forty-seven. Not that I have a list.

OK. I do have a list.

Even before he became a superhero, the

49

list was up to sixty-three. Now it’s almost at a

hundred. He is very irritating.

I climbed down the rope ladder and went

into the house.

I peed.

When I returned to the tree house a few

minutes later, Zack was sitting there silently

in the dark. I knew something was up because

he’d stopped doing his homework. I grabbed my

flashlight and leveled the beam in his face. He

didn’t even blink.

“Zack, are you all right?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure? You look . . . different.”

He nodded again, very slowly, like he was

working out some complicated thought in

his head. Then he said in a croaky voice, “I

think . . . something amazing just happened to

me. Luke, I’ve changed.”

Now, this didn’t come as a great surprise.

About six months before, Dad had taken me

50

aside for what he called a man-to-man chat. We

sat in his shed—I think that’s because it’s the

most manly room we have—and Dad explained

that from now on I might notice some changes

in my big brother.

“Zack’s embarking on a great journey,” said

Dad.

“Great! When’s he leaving? Can I have his

room?”

“Not that kind of journey,” said Dad with

a weary sigh. “He’s going through something

called puberty,” he went on. “His voice will be

different, for instance.”

“Ooh, will he sound like a Dalek?”

“No, not like a Dalek.”

“Bummer.”

“He will become hairier.”

“Ooh, like a werewolf?!”

“No, not like a werewolf.”

This puberty deal didn’t seem up to much.

There was other stuff, to do with privacy and

51

girls, but to be honest, after the letdown about

the Dalek and the werewolf I stopped taking

it in.

So, when Zack told me in the tree house

that something had changed, I knew exactly

what to say. I pursed my lips and gave a serious

nod like I’d seen the doctor do when he told me

I had strep throat. “I’m afraid that you have

caught puberty.”

He ignored me and stared at his hands,

turning them over and over. “I think I have

superpowers.”

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was sure Zack had gone completely

bonkers—too much homework will do terrible

things to a boy’s mind. But then I grew suspi-

cious. He knew how much I liked comic books

and was constantly making fun of me for what

he called my childish obsession. I smelled an

ambush.

“Superpowers?” I folded my arms and

sneered. “What, so now you can fly and shoot

lightning from your fingertips?”

A curious expression spread across his face.

“I wonder,” he mused, sticking out one hand

and flaring his fingers at me like some cheesy

magician. Lightning did not shoot from his fin-

gertips. But I was too stunned to notice, since

53

something equally remarkable was happening.

My flashlight flew out of my grip, spun

through the air, and landed in Zack’s out-

stretched palm with a slap. His fingers closed

around it, and he grinned.

Im-poss-ible!

But Zack had done it. He had made the

flashlight move just by thinking about it and

doing a lame hand gesture. Somehow it was

true. My brother had an actual superpower!

What he’d done was called telekinesis, to

give it its official title. Lots of superheroes have

this ability in comics, but this was the first

time I’d seen it in real life. I hated to admit it,

but it was cool. Supercool. Not that I was going

to tell Zack that.

“No lightning bolts, then,” I said, pretend-

ing to be disappointed.

“What?!” He looked at me like I was stupid.

“Did you see that? Did you see what I did?”

I couldn’t keep up the pretense—I was

54

impressed. But my awe quickly gave way to

something else. I was as green as the Hulk; more

jealous even than last Christmas when my par-

ents gave Zack an iPhone, and I got shoes.

“It’s not fair! How come you get superpow-

ers? You don’t even read comics.” I ranted for

a few more minutes—when I get going I have

been known to turn purple—and then, finally

exhausted, I flopped down on the floor and felt

my face crumple into a sulk. Although I was

seething with envy I had to know. “How did it

happen?”

Zack stared past me, his eyes fixed on some

hazy spot on the wall, and began to describe

the incredible—and incredibly recent—events.

“Just after you left I heard this distant

rumbling noise, and so I looked out of the

tree house. There were lights in the sky, and I

thought it might be a meteor shower. And then

I realized it was heading this way—fast. The sky

was filled with hundreds of glowing white ver-

55

tical lines. But just as they were about to hit,

they came to a sudden stop. Then I saw that it

was no meteor shower . . .”

He paused and drew a long breath before

saying in a whisper, “It was a transdimensional

spacecraft.”

I gasped. Up until then the most exciting

story Zack had ever told me involved a bad hair-

cut and a Chihuahua. And I’m not convinced

he was telling the truth about the Chihuahua.

“It was a large blue oval hanging in thin air,

right outside there.” He extended a trembling

finger and pointed. “As I watched, a door in the

side of the craft slid open with a sound like

bloop-whoosh, and a luminous figure emerged

on a beam of light. He wore a shiny purple suit,

a cape with a high gold collar, and gold boots.

On his chest were three gold stars that pulsed

like heartbeats. He had a dome-shaped head,

which was completely bald, and a wispy beard

that he stroked when he spoke. He gave me a

56

three-fingered salute and introduced himself

as Zorbon the Decider, an interdimensional

traveler and representative of the High Council

of Frodax Wonthreen Rrr’n’fargh. Everything

he said sounded like he was talking in all cap-

itals. Zorbon explained that he came from

another universe that exists in parallel to ours.

It’s almost exactly the same as our universe,

he said, except there the colors green and red

are reversed, and sponge cake tastes different.”

Zack looked thoughtful. “Not entirely differ-

ent, just a little different.”

I could tell by his daydreamy look that Zack

found this boring fact particularly fascinating

and there was a significant danger that he’d

keep talking about sponge cake.

“Never mind about the stupid cake!” I said.

“Get to the superpowers!”

Zack shook himself out of his trance. “Oh,

yeah. Well, Zorbon said that I’d been chosen

by the High Council for a mission of utmost

57

importance to both our universes. A mission

so vital that were I to fail, the consequences

would be cataclysmic for trillions of beings.”

“Two universes? You have to save two uni-

verses?” Typical. My brother was such an over-

achiever. “But why you?” I wailed.

Zack stared thoughtfully out of the door.

“Apparently this tree house is the junction

between the two universes.”

This was incredible. Mind-blowing. Our

tree house, a portal between two worlds. On

the other hand . . . “So?”

Zack shrugged. “I guess I was the first per-

son Zorbon met when he came through.”

I was speechless. My mouth moved, but no

words came out, just a sound like air escaping

from a balloon. That’s not how you choose a sav-

ior of mankind. There has to at least be a proph-

ecy written in an ancient book. This was like

giving the Sword of Ultimate Power to a goldfish.

“To ensure my success,” Zack continued,

58

“Zorbon said he was authorized to bestow upon

me six gifts—powers, if you like—to aid me in

my cause. Then he raised his palms, said some-

thing in this really weird alien language—”

What, as opposed to a really normal alien

language? I thought it but didn’t say anything.

“—There was this flash of red light—or

maybe that should be green light,” Zack went

on. “I felt a surge of energy through my whole

body. Every atom of my being was on fire.

When it finally stopped, Zorbon bowed and

said, ‘IT IS DONE.’ I asked him what was done.

What powers had he bestowed? What was my

mission? He said, ‘I MUST NOT SAY. FOR IF

I DO I RISK ALTERING THAT WHICH IS TO

BE. AND AS ANYONE WHO UNDERSTANDS

THESE KINDS OF SITUATIONS WILL TELL

YOU, THAT WOULD BE A VERY BAD THING.

ALL WILL BECOME CLEAR. IN TIME.’ Then

he gave me this enigmatic smile and left. But

just before the door of his craft slid shut, he

59

said there was one thing he could tell me. This

really scary look came over him, and he said,

‘NEMESIS IS COMING.’ And then he was

gone. Bloop-whoosh!”

I stood there with my mouth wide open.

So much to make sense of. So many questions.

However, one thought pushed its way to the

front of the line. “But I was only gone five min-

utes!” The most important five minutes in the

history of the world, and I’d missed it because

I needed to pee.

“I bet if I’d been here, Zardoz the Decoder

would have chosen me,” I grumped.

“His name was Zorbon the Decider. And

you weren’t here.” Zack shrugged. “Should

have held it in, huh?”

It was so unfair! I was way beyond acting

like a normal, sensible person. “Get him back.

Tell Bourbon the Diskdriver he made a mistake

and he has to come back and give me super-

powers too.”

60

“Zorbon the Decider,” corrected Zack once

more. “And he decided I was the one. Not you.”

“I don’t believe you. We can’t know for sure

unless you call him.”

“Call him? Oh, yeah, because he left his phone

number. Uh, what’s the area code for the parallel

universe again?”

I detected a note of sarcasm in the question.

Zack was teasing me, which was a rash thing to

do given that at that moment I was more furi-

ous than I’d ever been in my entire life.

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

I stalked around the tree house, tapping the

walls every few feet. “Searching for the portal

to the other universe.” I pressed one ear to the

back wall. “I think I can hear it.”

“Luke.”

“Shh!” I hissed. I could definitely make out

a sound. “Yes. Something’s coming through.

Sounds like scratching. Could be interdimen-

sional mice.”

61

“Uh, Luke . . .”

I spun around. The scratching sound was

coming from Zack. He clawed at his chest

through his shirt. As usual, he was still wearing

his school uniform because he said it put him

in the right frame of mind for homework. (I

know. And I have to live with him.) Something

weird was going on underneath. I screwed up

my face and pointed. “What’s that?”

A soft glow pulsed beneath the material like

a night-light. He popped the buttons, gripped

each half of his shirt, and pulled it apart to

reveal his bare chest beneath. I swear I could

hear trumpets.

Despite what Dad had said, there was no

hair, but there was something else. Inked across

his chest were three glowing stars.

“Zorbon had stars just like these,” said

Zack. “I wonder what they mean.” He ran a

finger over them.

62

“I’ll tell you exactly what they mean. They

mean you’ve got a tattoo.” I shook my head.

“Mom’s going to kill you.”

Zack ignored me. He straightened, drawing

himself up to his full five feet and three inch,

and a calm, thoughtful expression came over

his face. “I know what the stars mean,” he

breathed. “I. Am. Starman!”

I raised a finger of objection.

“What?” he snapped.

“Uh, sorry, but there’s already a Starman.

You’ll probably get sued.”

Zack gave a huff of irritation. “Fine.

Whatever.” He drew himself up again. “I. Am.

Star Boy!”

He swiveled his eyes toward me, just to

make sure. I gave a little shake of my head.

He threw up his hands in frustration.

“There’s a Star Boy, too?”

“I’ve told you a million times, you should

63

read more comics.” I tapped my cheek thought-

fully. Naming a superhero was harder than it

looked.

“How about Star Guy?” said Zack.

“Star Guy?”

He rolled the name around his mouth a

few times, trying it on for size. He said it in his

own voice and then in a deep voice, and then he

paused. “Star Guy or Starguy?”

He was serious.

“You can’t call yourself Star Guy!” I objected.

“Why not?”

“Because there isn’t a single superhero in

history called ‘guy.’ That’s why not.”

He shrugged. “So I’ll be the first.” He

planted his hands on his hips. “I. Am. Star

Guy!” Then he angled his head thoughtfully.

“Or perhaps Starguy. I. Haven’t. Decided. Yet.”

And that’s how it happened. My brother is

superpowered, and I . . .

. . . I am powerless.

64