Download - Daring Deeds and Knee-Slapping Reads sampler
DARING
DEEDS and
KNEE-SLAPPING
READS
DARING
DEEDS and
KNEE-SLAPPING
READSWARNING: These books may cause
intense, side-splitting laughter
FREE
SAMPLE
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.
3
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
5
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.”
8
“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 . . .
15
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
20
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
29
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.
31
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 . . .
32
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 ,
34
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,
35
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
37
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.
41
“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