Secret Identity (3 page)

“It is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can you… can you tape it?”

“No!”

“Well, it's probably a rerun anyway.” I started to close the door.

“Nolan!” She pushed back a little. “What
are
you up to that you're willing to miss
The Gecko and Sticky?

“Mom, please. I just need some privacy, okay?”

“Am I going to be mad when I find out what you're doing?”

“No! I promise, you won't.”

She just stood there.

I
just stood there.

Finally she sighed and said, “Okay.”

I worked and worked until dinnertime, when my mom made me take a break. And when she told Dad about my new project, sure enough, he got all excited.

“I can help you with this! I can get you access to practically anyone in town. How about the mayor? You want to interview him? Think of how impressed Mr. Green would be!”

“Uh, I don't think I want to interview the mayor, Dad.”

“Oh. Well, who do you have in mind, Nolan?”

“Uh…I'm not sure….”

“How about Mr. Zilch?”

“Your boss?” I asked. “Why would I want to interview him? I thought you didn't like him.”

Mom looked at Dad.

Dad looked at Mom.

Finally Dad said, “I never said I didn't like Mr. Zilch….”

“Well,
do
you?”

“How about Sergeant Klubb?” Mom hurried to ask. “It would be real interesting to interview a policeman, don't you think?”

“Say… that would be a great choice,” my dad said. “Sarge is a very nice man. He'd probably let you cruise around Cedar Valley in his squad car.”

“Urn… let me think about it, okay?” I downed the rest of my milk and picked up my plate. “May I be excused?”

“To get back to work on your project?” Mom asked.

I nodded.

“But, Nolan, if you haven't even picked out
who to interview, how can you be working on your project?”

“Uh… I'm getting the gear together, Mom.”

“The gear?”

I nodded. “May I be excused?”

She sighed.

I took that as a yes, bussed my dishes, and hurried down to my room.

The mayor—ha!

Mr. Zilch—ha!

Sergeant Klubb—ha!

Interviews with them wouldn't compare to the piece I was going to do on Bubba Bixby!

I got back to work, and by bedtime my backpack was converted. My fingers were sore and bloody, but I'd done it! My backpack had a little fold-down flap for the camera lens. It had a backup layer of black nylon to camouflage it. The sides and bottom were padded with a cut-up T-shirt.

And the cool thing is, it worked.

I'd made a spy-pack, and it actually worked!

The next morning, I got up early and practiced taking pictures backward.

I had to be sly.

I had to be smooth.

I had to act like I'm not used to acting.

At breakfast Mom said, “Forget your hair, Nolan?”

My hair has a life of its own. I felt around my head. It was sticking out on one side again. “Sorry.”

“And, Nolan? Your socks go
inside
your pants, remember?” my dad said.

I looked down. How had that happened? Again? I pulled my pant leg out of my sock. “Whoops.”

“Try putting your socks on first, champ. Works for me,” my dad said.

“I know. I know.”

My mom kissed me on the forehead. “We're just trying to help you outgrow your nickname, honey.”

I looked at her. Then at my dad. “You mean Nerd?”

Dad nodded. “There's a lot you could do to
not
have people call you that, you know.”

“Like combing your hair,” Mom said gently.

“And keeping your shoes tied,” Dad said.

“And matching your clothes.” My mom looked me over. “Isn't that the T-shirt you slept in?”

“Huh? I… I don't remember.” I really didn't.

“Preoccupied with something again?” my father asked.

“Yeah, honey. You've got bags,” my mom said, zooming in on my eyes. “Did you sleep all right?”

I shoved some peanut-buttered Eggo into my mouth. “I was thinking about my project.”

“Ah,” my dad said. “So have you decided who you'd like to interview?”

“Uh…not yet.”

“I hope you don't think I was being too pushy last night. I was just excited to be able to help.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Well, let me know when you decide, okay?” He pointed a fork at my plate. “Uh… don't you want syrup on that?”

“Nuh-uh,” I said, shoveling the rest of the Eggo
in my mouth. No time for syrup—I had to get going.

I had spy tools to try out.

Bullies to catch!

Starting today, Bubba Bixby would have to watch out for
me.

I was afraid to run with my backpack on. The camera was in nice and tight, but I was still worried I'd jolt it loose. So I did what Mom calls my power-walk. I use it all the time when teachers or lifeguards are yelling, “Don't run!”

It gets you places fast.

People make fun of my power-walk, so I only use it when I really, really,
really
want to get somewhere quick. And school was someplace I wanted to get to quick!

A couple of older kids called, “Hey, Nerd! Slow down,” as I trucked onto the playground. I just ignored them, though. I don't think they even know me.

Bubba was nowhere. I checked the upper field.

The lower field.

I checked the four-square courts and the basketball courts.

I looked behind and even between all the “portables,” which are the classrooms that look like flat-roofed mobile homes, only they never go anywhere.

I even checked in all the boys’ bathrooms, just in case.

Mr. Hoover, the janitor, must have noticed me running around because he grinned and asked, “Lose another sweatshirt, Nolan?”

“Uh, no, sir,” I said. “Just looking for someone.”

“Ah,” he said, and walked away, still grinning.

Then I spotted Bubba, cutting across the lower field, with Kevin on one side and Max on the other. They were laughing about something, and for some reason it made me mad. How come a bully like Bubba had friends and I didn't?

The last bell rang, so I went into our classroom. I didn't want any of the other kids to think there was something strange about my backpack, so I hid it under my desk. I took out my pencil box and homework folder, my dictionary and all my books.

Randy shook his head and said, “Why
do
you take all that stuff home every day, Nerd?”

I looked right at him. “So nobody steals it.”

“Steals it? Who's gonna steal that stuff? You
think
I'm
gonna steal it? You couldn't
pay
me to steal that stuff, Nerd.”

Trinity Althoffer whispered, “Don't be so mean, Randy.”

Randy shrugged. “I'm not being mean. Am I, Nerd?”

He wasn't really. Not compared to some kids. But in my head, something happened. Something snapped. “Well, you're not exactly being
nice”
I told him. “And would you mind? My name's Nolan.”

His eyes got sort of big. “Yeah? Then why's everyone call you Nerd?”

“Same reason people call you Ricardo-Retardo. Same reason people call her Pony-girl and him Pee-boy.” I looked from Trinity to Freddy to Randy. “I don't call any of you those names, so stop calling me Nerd.”

Randy looked across the table at Freddy, then back at me. “Whatever you say…Nerd!”

He and Freddy busted up.

Trinity went back to coloring the pony on her folder.

I got madder than ever.

I didn't let
them
know that. I kept my anger inside. But instead of staying in my throat like it usually does, it started burning through me. All around inside me. I felt hot. And sharp. Like I would zap people if I touched them.

I snuck out a finger and touched Randy's sleeve.

Nothing happened.

During the flag salute, I watched Bubba out of the corner of my eye.

He had scissors.

Miriam had hair.

I knew what he was thinking.

I reached down for my backpack. I tried to be smooth. Sly. Cool. I could catch him digitally! I could
nail
him.

Instead, I stepped on my shoelace and crashed
to the ground during “… with liberty and justice for all.”

My chair went flying.

Miriam's hair had a chunk missing.

So did my rear end, where I'd clipped the chair. At least that's what it felt like. It hurt
bad.

“You okay?” Mr. Green asked.

“Yeah. Fine,” I lied, sliding back into my chair. “Sorry.”

“That's all right.” He watched me a second, then called for absences. When that was done, he held up a stack of papers and said, “Fractions time-trials are graded, gang. Some of you have work to do. Some of you,” he looked my way, “ought to be in high school.”

Randy said, “Nerd,” under his breath.

I almost said, “Retardo!” back, but I didn't.

Mr. Green started handing out papers, saying, “You need a seventy-five to go to the next level, gang. Seventy doesn't cut it anymore.”

He gave back the papers at our table, and before anyone could see mine, I folded it in half.

Trinity got seventy-five on level 7-a. That's where most kids were. Somewhere on level 7. Randy folded his, too, but I saw the score. Fifty on level 5'd. Freddy said, “Hey! I passed!” and showed everyone his eighty. Level 8-b. Then he looked at me and said, “Get another perfect, Nerd?”

“My name's Nolan,” I said quietly.

He ignored me. “What level are you on, anyway?”

I ignored
him.
But I was dying to know what my score was, so I peeked inside.

One hundred percent.

Level 42-e.

Oh, yeah.

“You did, didn't you, Nerd,” Freddy said. “I can tell by that stupid look on your face. What level? Twelve?”

“He's in the forties, Freddy,” Trinity said. “And leave him alone.”

“Forties? There's no such thing!”

“Leave him
alone,”
she said again.

Freddy took another look at his eighty and stuffed it in his desk.

I smiled a little at Trinity.

She smiled a little back.

Then I opened my paper again. Mr. Green had written something on the bottom of it, and I wanted to see what it was.