Secret Identity (8 page)

Then Mr. Green moved between the tables. He was headed straight for ours! My heart was
pounding. How had they figured it out? How had I given myself away? I'd even registered
shredderman.com
to Shredderman. I hadn't used any part of my real name anywhere!

But Mr. Green didn't stop at our table. He walked right past me.

Right over to Table 6.

And two seconds later, it was Bubba Bixby, not me, who was on his way to the office.

I didn't see Bubba again for the rest of the day. But at lunch, kids in the food line were all talking about him.

“Where's Bubba?”

“Someone said he was hauled off by Dr. Voss!”

“What did he do?”

“I don't know…but he must've done something wickeder than usual.”

“I can't wait to check out that Shredderman site.”

“Me neither.”

I kept my head down and my mouth shut. At the lunch tables, no one knew anything, either, but everyone was guessing.

“I bet Bubba got suspended.”

“Maybe expelled!”

“It's about time.”

“No kidding!”

“What if he's Shredderman?”

“Can't be. Didn't you
read
these?”

“Yeah, but… what's ‘comic’ mean, anyway?”

“Funny, stupid. Like comedian?”

“Don't call me stupid, or I'll call you Bubba.”

“Oh, sorry.”

I just drank my milk and tried to keep a straight face.

It was actually pretty quiet for the rest of the day. Mr. Green seemed really spacey. He even for-got our fifteen minutes of music time, and he never forgets music time.

After school, I charged home. I didn't do my power-walk, either. I ran!

“Have a good day, honey?” my mom asked from her computer.

“Great!” I said, and peeled off my backpack. “The best!”

“Really? What happened?” Then she noticed my arm. “Hey… that's quite a scrape.”

“Yeah, I… I fell down.”

“Oooh, your hands, too,” she said, flipping them over. “Let's clean them up, huh?”

Do superheroes let their moms clean them with iodine? I doubt it, but there was no getting out of it. And while I cringed and hissed, she said, “So, tell me—what was so great about today?”

“I… well, I stuck up for myself. Twice.”

“Oh?” One of her eyebrows reached for the sky.

“Yeah. Once when these two older guys were making fun of my power-walk, and once when Freddy called me Nerd.”

“Really?” she said. “That's wonderful news! Good for you!”

“It worked out fine, too. I think those sixth
graders might actually try my power-walk sometime.” Then I added, “It gets you places fast.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I know.”

She rubbed me down with Neosporin, then kissed me on the head and said, “I'm proud of you for sticking up for yourself, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She cut me some apples and cheese, and after I'd wolfed those down, I went straight to my room.

I booted up, loaded
shredderman.com
, and scrolled straight to the site counter.

It said 27.

Already?

Oh, yeah!

And there were e-mail messages for
[email protected]
! Seven of them!

I read them all quick. Six were good, one was bad—said they thought
Alvin and the Dumbmunks
was the stupidest thing they'd ever seen.

Probably sent by Kevin or Max.

But the good ones were great! Someone said:
Shredderman, you rock! Keep on shredding!

Someone else said:
How'd you catch him? I can't believe it! Who ARE you????? P.S. Can I be your sidekick?

I answered every one and signed them all:

Yours in truth and justice, Shredderman.

It was more fun than Christmas.

Then I copied the messages that didn't have bad words and pasted them into a new
This Just In
link, leaving the person's name off if they'd signed it.

I wanted to just sit there, refreshing the site, waiting for the counter to go up or more e-mails to come in, but I made myself shut down. Then I kept on shredding, right through my homework. When Mom called, “Dinner!” I raced to the table. I was starving! I ate lasagna! Beans! Salad! More lasagna! More beans! More salad!

Being a superhero sure gives you an appetite.

My father said, “You having a growth spurt, champ?”

My mother said, “See, Nolan?”

I said, “What's for dessert?”

After I cleared the dishes, I ditched it back to my room. Computer on… site loaded…
shredder-man, com
was up to… seventy-three hits!

Wa-
hoo
!

There was more e-mail, too.

I scrolled through them, but froze about halfway down. There was a message from
[email protected]
.

Uh-oh.

I opened the file, hoping my virus protection was working. The message was from Bubba, all right. And it said:

Uh-triple-
oh
!

I sat there for a long time, looking at it. Could he really have found out it was me? What would he do to me if he
did
know?

Pound me?

Crush me?

Kill
me?

But wouldn't he have put “you stupid nerd” instead of “you ugly turd” if he knew it was me?

I answered the rest of the e-mails, then finally hit the Reply button on Bubba's message. And after staring at the screen for a minute, I typed:

I pressed Send, and added the conversation to the
This Just In
page. Then I shut down and got ready for bed early.

It was dangerous being a superhero.

A little scary, too.

What if Bubba really did know?

Tomorrow, I'd find out.

The next day, the buzz was even louder. Everyone was talking about
shredderman.com
. Even the teachers.

I'd left my camera at home, and Bubba didn't seem to be around anywhere, so I played foursquare like I used to. The kids in line were all saying how they'd visited the site, or heard about the site, or were
going
to visit the site.

Some kids in front of me—who usually ignore me or call me Nerd—even asked me if I'd seen it. I smiled and said, “What do you call a bully fire?”

“A Bubba-que!” they cried, and we all laughed.

When it was my turn to play, Ronnie Stalwess
was server. He said, “Easy out!” like all the kids always do when I get in.

I backed up.

I dug in.

Not this time, I told myself. Not this time.

He served me the ball.

I hit it to square three.

It came slamming back.

I slapped it to Ronnie.

Ronnie shot it straight at me.

I jumped to the side. The ball was out!

Ronnie said, “Maaan!” and went to the end of the line.

When the last bell rang, I was standing in square two. Square two! One of these days, I'd make it to server.

One of these days,
I'd
call the rules.

Yes, I would!

I ran to class along with everyone else. We said the pledge. Mr. Green called for absences.
Jenni said, “Bubba!” Everyone looked.

No Bubba.

I'd already noticed that. It was the first thing I'd looked for when I'd sat in my seat.

“Okay, gang,” Mr. Green said from his desk, “before we begin, Miriam, Ian, Danielle…,” he waved three green sheets in the air, “… I have something for you.”

They ran up, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Green! Thank you!”

“Thank Shredderman,” he said with a grin. “He's the one who shed light on the situation.” He nodded over at Table 1. “What is it, Kayla?” Her hand was flapping in the air.

“Some people are saying that
you're
Shredderman. Is that true?”

“Me?” Mr. Green asked, then laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

“From some kids on the playground. Sixth graders.”

“Well,” Mr. Green said. Then he grinned and added, “Dr. Voss accused me of the same thing.”

“Well?” Kayla asked. “Are you?”

His mouth went left, right, all around. He grabbed his guitar and strummed it. Faster. Then faster. And faster! His hand was just a
blur.

When he stopped, Kayla said, “I'll take -that as a yes?”

“Don't,” he said. “Take it as an, I'm not telling.”

“But, Mr. Green…!”

“I think Shredder-man put it best— he is all of us.”

“But, Mr. Green…!”

“Yeah, Mr. Green, tell us!” everyone else was saying. “We can keep a secret.”

“Oh, right,” he said with a grin.

“Really!” Kayla said. “We can!”

“Well, gang, the truth is…” He looked around the classroom. Everyone held their breath. “That Web site is not mine.”

“It's
not!”

He shook his head.

“So whose is it? And where's Bubba?”

“Let's all call him Alvin, shall we?”

Brian said, “That's too weird, Mr. Green.”

Ian added, “Yeah. It's also dangerous.”

“Not if you
all
call him Alvin,” Mr. Green said. “Calling him Bubba just feeds into that whole …
image
he's trying to build for himself. Don't enable him. Just call him Alvin.” Then he added, “Alvin and his parents are meeting with Dr. Voss today. He'll probably be out all day.”

“But did you see that e-mail? He said he knows who Shredderman is! Do you think he does?”

Mr. Green noodled a little on his guitar, then said, “No.” He looked around the classroom. “Do

7”

you:

People shook their heads.

“Which brings us back to what Shredderman said to Alvin in his message. He—or
she
—is everyone.”

“She?”

“Well, sure. What if it's a girl—or woman— who's trying to throw you off track?”

Everyone started whispering.

Mr. Green laughed.

“What I think you should do is imagine that Shredderman is the person next to you. And imagine that they can put the things you say and do on the Shredderman Web site.” He leaned across his guitar. “How are you going to act? Snotty? Some of you can get wicked snotty.
Nasty? You think I can't hear you dogging each other? C'mon!” He smiled and said, “The beauty of Shredderman is that you
don't
know who it is. He or she could be anybody!” He leaned back, strummed a few chords, then said, “It's what you do when you think no one's looking that tells us what kind of person you really are. And maybe if you thought that someone was always watching you, you'd get in the habit of being a little nicer to each other.”

No one said a word.

“So,” he said with a final strum, “pretend Shredderman's the person standing next to you, sitting next to you, walking next to you… then act accordingly.”

All the tables looked around at each other.

Everyone was wondering, Are
you
Shredderman?

Randy blinked at me.

I kept a straight face and blinked back.