Authors: Dean Pitchford

Captain Nobody (3 page)

BOOK: Captain Nobody

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“I don't think you actually mean
invisible
,” JJ corrected him, “because our bodies
do
have mass, and they
do
reflect light.”

“Okay, everybody
ignores
us, then.” Cecil turned to me. “Doesn't it bother you how kids are always stepping on us in the hallways, almost like we aren't there?”

“We're both really short,” I suggested.

“And, JJ,” Cecil went on, “how does it make you feel when people shove you away from the water fountain . . .”

“That's only happened eight or nine times,” she said quietly.

“. . . or what about in the cafeteria when they slide our food off the table and squeeze us out of our seats?”

JJ and I exchanged a look. He had a point.

“Nobody pays any attention to us any other day of the year,” Cecil declared, waving a finger overhead as if he were preaching. “And I say that Halloween's the one night we get to say, âLook at me! Look at me!' And y'know what? People will.”

“Why?” I asked. “Who're we gonna be?”

“Anybody we want,” Cecil said firmly.

JJ shook her head. “I don't think you actually mean
anybody.
There are only a limited number of character costumes manufactured each year, andâ”

“I'm not talking about some costume in a box at Walmart! Shrek? Heck! Darth Vader? See ya later! I say we get personal. We gotta dig deep down inside and find our inner . . .
other
.”

“Our inner
other
?” JJ snorted. Despite her large vocabulary and extensive knowledge of books, JJ is generally suspicious about new ideas. Especially Cecil's.

“Yeah! Our
inner other
is who we
would
be if we didn't have to be
us.
” Cecil was on a roll now. “Think of it like a . . . a personal hero.”

“What if I don't have one?” I asked. “A personal hero, I mean.”

“We've all got one.” Cecil whipped around to JJ. “You! Isn't there anybody in those books you're always reading, somebody witchy and wonderful you secretly wish you could be for one night?”

Cecil's question caught JJ by surprise. Ever since she read a ten-part epic called
The Crystal Cavern Chronicles
, JJ has been hopelessly hooked on stories about witches, wizards and dragons.

“I don't know . . . maybe,” she stuttered.

“Maybe?”
Cecil taunted. “That's not the JJ I know.”

“Well, okay, Mr. Motivation,” JJ fired back. “Who would you be?”

“Yeah. Who's your hero, Cecil?” I asked.

“Me?” Cecil squinted until a thought hit him, and he smiled. “Music! Music's my hero.”

JJ frowned. “But you can't dress up as
music.
”

“Who says?” Cecil threw up his hands. “I can wrap myself in sheet music and come as a symphony!”

“What about you, Newt?” JJ asked. “Who's your inner other?”

“Yeah, you're always whippin' up those crazy cool crimefighters,” Cecil said, pointing to my Secret Superhero Sketchbook. “Which one of them is you?”

I flipped through my drawing pad, but nothing caught my eye.

“I . . . I have to give it some thought” was all I could manage.

“Okay, how's this?” Cecil's eyes were sparkling. “We've got three days. We make our own costumes, and then, on Halloween night, we surprise each other.”

JJ still seemed nervous. “But even if I knew who I wanted to be . . . ,” she stammered, “let's just say . . . where . . . I mean, how do we get the clothes?”

“Oh, right. Where
do
we?” I wondered.

“Where's your imagination, people?” Cecil cried. “Are these not the top three minds in the fourth grade?”

We shrugged in agreement.

JJ started again, “But what if I can'tâ”

Cecil held a finger up to her lips just as the first bell rang. “Hup! Zip it!” he ordered. “No more âcan't,' âdon't,' âwon't.' We're gonna think positive, heroic thoughts. And in three days, we're gonna have our own Halloween parade. Whaddya say?”

JJ and I smiled at each other as we gathered up our stuff and headed to class.

“That'd be so cool,” I said. “Let's do it for us.”

“For us,” JJ echoed.

“
And
,” shouted Cecil, “for the free candy!”

IN WHICH I SEARCH FOR SOMEBODY I'M NOT

All through class that morning, Cecil's questions rang in my ears.
Who
is
my inner other? Do I have a personal hero?
Every time we switched to a new subject, I desperately looked for an answer.

In social studies, before our teacher Mrs. Young did a slide show about the gods and goddesses of ancient Rome and Greece, she called them “the heroes of old.” I sat up, thinking,
Wow! Isn't that what I'm looking for?

I imagined myself as Zeus, god of lightning. Or maybe Neptune, who ruled the seas. I mean, who wouldn't want to hurl thunderbolts or control the waves?

But once Mrs. Young projected their pictures on the screen, I lost my nerve. In slide after slide, these guys were massive, muscley
giants.
Giants in white robes with flowing beards. Even if I could whip up a white robe and glue on a beard, where was I going to get the muscles?

Forget that.

During American History, I got excited by the stories of the pioneers who crossed the dangerous frontier and built our country with their bare hands. “If those people aren't heroes,” I said to myself, “I don't know who are.”

I raised my hand. “Yes, Newt?” Mrs. Young responded.

“Mrs. Young, what did the pioneers wear?”

Behind me, Bobby Asherâwho insists on being called “Basher”âsnorted, “Clothes, you jerk!” A dozen other kids laughed.

“Newt has a good question,” Mrs. Young said, shooting a look at Basher. “In the early days of America, the pioneers didn't always have fabric, so they used whatever was available. Sometimes it was animal skins or furs, but if they were desperate, they might make clothes from birds' feathers or even tree bark.”

Feathers and tree bark?

I started to itch. And scratch. Clearly, I wasn't cut out to be a pioneer. I'd have to keep looking.

That day, school let out early so we could line the streetâlike everyone else in townâand watch the Big Game Pep Parade go by.

Since Fillmore won last year's game, their band marched past first, trumpeting and drumming up a storm. Behind them came their football players, waving from the backseats of convertibles.

JJ, Cecil and I stood together at the back of the crowd. Cecil and I couldn't see much over all the people in front of us, but JJ assured me that my big brother was waving and smiling from the front car.

Next, the Fillmore Spirit Squad rolled past on the back of a long flatbed truck, clapping and screaming over a PA system.

“WHO'S GONNA MASSACRE MERRIMAC?”
Clap, clap.
“WE ARE!”
Clap, clap.
“WE ARE!”
Clap, clap.
Because Cecil can never resist a rhythm, he clapped along with the cheerleaders.

Suddenly JJ groaned. “Ugh! Do you believe that?” She wagged a finger at a truck going by.

I craned my neck to see what was upsetting her. A banner stretched across the Spirit Squad truck said, BEHOLD THE FEROCIOUS FIGHTING FERRET'S OF FILLMORE!

“Why did they have to put an apostrophe in Ferrets?” JJ exploded. “It's not possessive. It's
plural.
F-E-R-R-E-T-no apostrophe-S.” She shook her head in dismay. “I wish they would ask me before they paint these mistakes four feet high.”

“Hey,” I said, “are you guys coming to the game tonight?”

“How can we?” Cecil threw his hands in the air.

“My uncle tried getting tickets last week, and they told him the Big Game has been sold out since August!”

“And did you know,” JJ said, “that people are auctioning tickets online for, like, four hundred dollars
apiece
?”

“Wow,” I said.

“Besides,” JJ continued, “I have tons to do if I'm ever going to be ready for Halloween.”

Cecil's eyes widened. “So you know who you're gonna be?”

“Maybe,” JJ smiled mysteriously. “Don't you?”

“Are you kidding?” Cecil scoffed, tapping the side of his head. “I got my whole thing planned from head to foot. And Newt, how're you doing?”

“Yeah,” JJ asked excitedly. “Did you make a decision?”

I looked at their expectant faces and shrugged. “Oh, y'know. I'm weighing a couple possibilities.”

JJ nudged Cecil with her elbow. “Bet you he's already got the whole thing drawn up in his Secret Sketchbook.”

“Course he has! And y'know why?” Cecil winked, still clapping along with the cheerleaders. “Because he's Newt!”
Clap, clap.
“Newt!”
Clap, clap.
“Newt!”
Clap, clap.
“The Newt-ron bomb!”

I smiled weakly as a bead of nervous sweat rolled from my right armpit to my waist.

I raced home from school and pulled out a stack of my old Secret Superhero Sketchbooks from my closet. I hoped I might find inspiration from one of the characters I had created over the years. But with every page flip, that hope faded.

For one thing, most of my heroes stretch and transform their bodies into fantastic shapes. Tommy Origami, for instance, can fold his body into a packet the size of a postage stamp.

Who was I kidding? I can barely touch my toes.

And even if I
did
dress up as one of my sketches, I'd have to explain who I was to everyone I met. After all, nobody but Cecil and JJ have ever even heard of Dwight, The Mighty Termite, who can chew his way through a wood wall in ten seconds. Or what about Gas Man, who can empty a shopping mall full of people just by . . . well, never mind.

I went online and Googled “hero.” The first thing that came up was the headline “Hero Saves Stranger from Sharks.”

“Whoa!” I clicked on the link.

The story was about a lady who was taking a sight-seeing tour in San Francisco Bay when she fell overboard into a school of sharks. Before they could eat her, though, another touristâa guy who didn't even know her!âjumped in the freezing water, punched one shark in the snout, poked another one in the eye and pulled the lady to safety.

The man who saved her was interviewed, and when he was asked if he considered himself a hero, he said, “Heck. I'm just the guy next door.”

Maybe that's the kind of hero I have inside,
I thought.
Not a shape-shifter or a pioneer, but an everyday, guy-next-door kind of hero.

BOOK: Captain Nobody

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