The Nerdy Dozen (2 page)

NEIL PRESSED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE GLASS OF THE BACKSEAT window of his mom's station wagon. Inside his dark-green backpack were a few changes of clothes, various portable video-game devices, a fistful of gluten-free granola bars forced on him by his mother, and sour gummy worms he'd sneaked in for himself. He planned on avoiding human contact for the three-night span, and this was his survival kit.

“Neil, honey”—Mrs. Andertol turned to face him from the driver's seat—“you almost forgot these.” She tossed back a light-blue toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and Neil's nighttime orthodontic headgear.

“But, Mom—” Neil started to protest, but his mother cut him off.

“No
but
s. Dr. Mullins said an overbite can come back in just one night,” she said firmly. “When I was your age, I had to sleep with a back brace, and I still had lots of fun at sleepovers.”

“That's because you didn't have electricity in medieval times and nobody could see you,” Neil countered. “Things are different now. Charlie Jones came to school with crutches one day, and they sent him back a grade! I'm not wearing this thing.”

“Charlie Jones failed social studies twice and has vertigo. You're wearing it, and that's final.”

“‘And that's final!'” mimicked Janey, who drove a fist into Neil's shoulder.

“Ow! Dear lord, do you file down your knuckles? They're, like, little bony daggers!” Neil glared at his sister before shoving the toothbrush and toothpaste into his bag's remaining space. Then he carefully dropped the headgear to the floor and nudged it just under his mother's front seat. He leaned back and turned his gaze outside again. He imagined piloting a fighter jet next to the car, swooping above the black SUV in the other lane.

“Maybe you could talk to Tommy about playing lacrosse with him and the other boys in the neighborhood,” continued Neil's mom. “I'm sure they'd love to have somebody else on the team.”

She went on, but Neil tuned her out. He was busy weaving in and out of the trees with his favorite copilot, ShooterSam. Even though they were best friends, they'd never met outside of a video game, and he didn't actually know his last name. For a brief moment, Neil entertained the fantasy that Sam's last name was secretly Scott, and he'd be at the sleepover, too.

“Let's go have some fun!” cheered Neil's mother as the Andertols' station wagon turned onto Tommy's driveway.

Dejected, Neil grabbed his bag and shuffled out of the car behind his mother. They walked over fake stones in a sea of aromatic fresh mulch. He turned to watch the shiny rims of the same black SUV he'd seen earlier slowly roll by, this time in the opposite direction.
They must be lost
, Neil thought. His housing development was seriously hard to navigate. Neil's mom turned his face toward her and rubbed a smudge of Doritos from the corner of his mouth and then rang the doorbell.

“
Mooom
,” Neil whined as the front door opened.

“Jenny, good to see you!” Tommy's mom exclaimed, stepping back through the doorway. “Maggie's putting on her shoes, and then we'll be ready to go. Neil, the guys are downstairs—my oldest, Ted, will be in charge for this wacky boys' weekend! You like pizza?”

“Way more than your son,” Neil mumbled.

“What was that, honey?” Mrs. Scott asked.

“Way more than some. I
love
pizza,” Neal said sarcastically after getting an elbow from his mother.

“Well, it should be here pretty soon.” She shut the door and headed toward the kitchen, chatting with Mrs. Andertol as she went.

Even though Neil had never been in Tommy's house, it felt familiar. The houses in their neighborhood were all built simultaneously, so everything—from the clean white kitchen floors to the cherry cabinets and soft tan carpet—was identical. Some houses even had the same layout.

Neil paused at the basement door, his hand on the brass knob, then took a deep breath and pushed it open. The faint sound of laughter and explosions crept up the staircase. He slowly plodded downstairs, the thick carpet absorbing the sound of his footsteps.

In the basement, a group of boys was huddled on couches, facing a massive flat-screen TV. The light from the TV flickered over Tommy, who was standing in front, clutching the controller for dear life and frowning in concentration. The other boys shoveled cheesy orange popcorn into their mouths as they watched him play.

Neil quietly inched along the back wall, noting the faces illuminated by flashes of blue and red. Two of them happened to be the same face: the Stephens twins, neighborhood kids who did whatever Tommy told them. Next to them sat Jake Smith and Ron Goode, athletes with buzz cuts who had stolen upward of eighty-five dollars in lunch money from Neil over the past few years.

None of them noticed Neil come in. Their collective focus was on Tommy, all watching as he flew a jet fighter over vast mountains and lush forests, shooting floating pinecones for extra points.

Neil recognized the landscape instantly. Tommy was playing Chameleon, the very game Neil's mom had unplugged earlier that day. A wave of shock flooded through Neil. How had Tommy passed Reboot's entry exams to the site? Maybe he'd bullied someone else into passing them for him. After all, his skills looked pretty unimpressive.

“Nice shot,” said one of the twins.

“Yeah, nice shot,” followed the next.

It was, in fact, an awful shot. The ever-present threat of Tommy's thick fists tended to make his friends complimentary.

Neil's fingers grasped at an invisible controller, instinctively correcting Tommy's mistakes. He inched toward the television. Suddenly the overhead track lighting burst on, illuminating the basement in a wash of hundred-watt bulbs.

Squinting like video-game vampires, Tommy and company looked up at the lights, then directly at Neil.

“I didn't know you allowed cavemen in your house, Tommy,” said Ron. The Stephens twins high-fived.

Neil looked down at the floor, biting his tongue on a comeback and hoping for some sort of lightning strike or natural disaster so he could go home.

Just then, a lumbering body came down the stairs, taking each step with a loud thump. It was Tommy's brother, Ted. Ted was a fatter, bearded, nineteen-year-old version of Tommy with more muscle and fewer brain cells. He lived at home and worked part-time as the Zamboni driver at a local ice rink. His reputation as a high school bully was legendary. It was said that he once made the captain of the chess team eat a rook.

Neil's eyes locked onto a stack of board games on a table beneath the stairs. He cringed at the white-and-red Monopoly box, imagining a hotel in his lower intestine. No passing Go. No collecting two hundred dollars. Some real Baltic Avenue–style pain.

“Which one of you is Neil?” Ted asked.

“I think you mean Neandertol,” Tommy corrected. “That's him.”

Neil braced himself for the oncoming torture. Maybe he could lobby for a less-threatening board game, something along the lines of Connect Four or Sorry!

“Your mom told me to give this to you. She said you, like, forgot this in the car or something,” Ted said, brandishing the metal monster Neil had attempted to leave under his mother's seat. “I think your sister found it.”

Neil felt all the blood rush out of the upper third of his body. Public exposure of unsightly orthodontic hardware was enough to send a kid into homeschooling or, at the very least, into transferring school districts. And now his was being flaunted for everyone to see.

“Is that supposed to help you stop grunting, Neandertol?” Jake said with a laugh.

Neil stuffed the headgear into his backpack and turned to follow Ted upstairs. He hoped maybe his mom was still in the driveway. Being Janey's punching bag for the weekend was clearly now the lesser of two evils.

“Where ya goin', Neandertol? It's your turn to play.” Tommy's voice stopped him in his tracks. Neil knew Tommy wasn't sharing for generosity's sake—he wanted Neil to embarrass himself even further. “Or would you rather make some spears and go looking for masterdons?”

“They're called mastodons,” Neil murmured.

“What?” Tommy challenged.

“Mastodons. They're called mastodons,” Neil said louder.

“Whatever. Here you go, caveman,” said Tommy, tossing him the controller. “This should be good—Neandertol is still figuring out the wheel.”

Tommy fell backward onto a couch, sniggering with the others beside him. Neil took the controller in his hands and curled his fingers around the joystick

The game began, and Neil set off. He effortlessly escaped from enemy fighters, weaving back and forth to dodge rocket-propelled grenades. Neil knew every detail of the level, and it showed. He flew through the crossfire, nearly unscathed by the explosions around him.

A hush descended over the boys on the couches. Five minutes later Neil had eclipsed Tommy's high score. And he was just getting started.

After Neil pulled off a particularly impressive barrel roll, Jake broke the silence looming over the basement. “Man . . . you're really good.”

“Yeah,” the twins said softly, mesmerized by the glowing flat screen.

When the level came to an end, Neil had almost tripled the current high score. Tommy stewed on the couch, his gray eyes brimming with fury.

“Whoa, that was awesome. Neil, how long have you played this?” said Ron.

“Umm, for a few months, I guess,” Neil replied. “It's a fun game.”

“You gotta teach us some of that stuff,” begged one of the twins. “How did you do that barrel roll thing?”

“Oh, it's easy, actually. You guys could do it for sure,” Neil responded.

The doorbell sent everyone flying off the couches in search of pizza.

“Neil, once we eat, we're watching you again,” Jake said as he rushed upstairs. “That was awesome.”

Neil smiled and set the controller down next to the television. Maybe his mom was right after all. This weekend might actually be fun.

Tommy was the only one still in the basement. “Nice job,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

“Thanks,” Neil muttered, slipping around him.

“Oh, Neandertol, one more thing . . .”

“Yeah?” Neil turned, only to catch Tommy's fist swinging into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Neil dropped to one knee, bracing himself on a small end table as he gasped for air.

“Looks like in real life you're still a loser.” On his way to the stairs, Tommy noticed Neil's backpack half open against the wall. Smiling maliciously, he held his foot over the bag and stomped it with a sickening crunch.

“Oops.” He smirked.

Then he ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Neil walked over slowly to survey the damage, clutching his stomach. Peeling back the zipper, he saw what he feared most—chunks of headgear littering his bag.

Sighing, he slung the backpack over his shoulder and crept upstairs to peer out the basement doorway. The hallway was empty. He eyed a sliding glass door across from him and edged toward it, pausing once he'd opened it partway. Tommy and the others were in the kitchen.

Neil wasn't sure what kind of trouble he'd get into for leaving the sleepover so early, or what Tommy's brother would tell his mom when he realized Neil was missing. Maybe, Neil hoped, he wouldn't say anything. As Neil stood there wondering how he could survive three days alone and what kinds of punishment he could expect on Monday, he distinctly heard the words
veggie pizza
.

Well, that seals the deal
. Neil shrugged and slipped out into the dark night.

A LIGHT RAIN HAD FALLEN, LEAVING THE AIR HEAVY AND moist under a sliver of moon. Neil's shoes flicked water onto the black asphalt of the street as he hurried away from Tommy's house.

Under a buzzing streetlight, he adjusted his backpack, groaning at the sounds of the expensive headgear confetti shifting back and forth at the bottom of his bag. What could he possibly tell his mom when she returned from Janey's competition on Monday?

The backpack was ravaged by wild animals. . . . There was a science mishap. . . . You see, there's a secret organization of crooked-teeth enthusiasts. . . .
His mother would see right through any of these, but the truth was out of the question. Tommy had cultivated an angelic reputation among the neighborhood's mothers, thanks to his habit of calling them “ma'am” and a thorough knowledge of household uses for Coca-Cola. He was untouchable.

Neil walked slowly, dodging earthworms that had crept up during the rain. The roads were empty, with only the sound of crickets filling the night air. Neil's head bobbed with his gangly strides. His shoes scuffed and scraped the street as he kicked at a small rock.

With his mom at his sister's competition, Neil had three days to develop a believable story. But it would need to be foolproof. While most of his mother's punishments revolved around chores and forced outdoor time, something this bad might push her to ban all electronics from Neil's life. A fate worse than death. Neil wondered how far it was to Tyler's grandma's house. Tyler could at least help him come up with a believable excuse.

Neil rounded the corner to his street as a pair of headlights appeared behind him. He veered to the right, leaving space for the car to pass. Neil was just starting to contemplate the phenomenon of “orthodontic heat lightning” when he realized that the car was still rolling ten yards behind him. Neil turned to his left and waved for the vehicle to go by, shuffling sideways.

The car came to a stop, its headlights fixed firmly on Neil, bright and blinding.

“Neil Andertol?” boomed a voice. The driver's-side door opened.

“Tommy? Ted?” Neil said to the two shadowy outlines.

Silence. Neil had a bad feeling it wasn't Tommy and his meathead brother.

“Afraid not.” One of the shadows spoke, starting to move forward. “We need you to come with us, son.”

No way.
Neil immediately pulled down on his backpack straps, took a breath, and started to run, keeping his eyes locked on his house in the distance. The dim yellow light above his garage beckoned invitingly. For the first time outside gym class, Neil sprinted as fast as he possibly could. The balls of his feet flew across the still-wet pavement.

He had gone only a few yards when strong hands grabbed his arms and legs from behind, hoisting him up as he thrashed in the air.

“What's going on? Who are you?” Neil shouted, kicking wildly.

“We're with the government,” said the man holding his flailing legs. He nodded toward a badge attached to his leather belt. Neil didn't know what it was for, but it looked official.

“Tommy broke it! I swear Tommy broke my headgear! It's not my fault!” Neil screamed.

They carried Neil toward a sleek black SUV, where another figure was waiting with a giant sack. Under the fuzzy light of the moon Neil could see it was the same SUV he'd seen earlier, and his assailants were uniformly dressed in camouflage.

This, Neil realized, was not about his headgear.

The uniforms were the last thing he saw before the bag was pulled over his head and he was stuffed into the backseat. His heart racing, Neil struggled to free himself from the black bag, but then he felt the sting of a needle in his thigh and knew it was too late. His eyelids grew heavy as everything faded into darkness.

 

Neil woke up slowly. He felt groggy, and his head hurt. He peeled himself up from the dark wooden bench he was lying on and ran his hands through his hair, blinking in confusion at his surroundings.

Eleven other kids were also sitting on benches, which skirted the perimeter of a rectangular cinder-block room. A boy about Neil's age jumped up and walked to the room's only door, yanking unsuccessfully at its huge silver handle. He finally kicked the base of the door in frustration.

“You have no idea how much trouble you're going to be in when my dad is through with you!” the boy yelled at the door. He had speckled green eyes and a jutting jaw beneath short, reddish-blond hair. “I hope you like prison!” He paused for a response, his nostrils flaring, but was met with only silence. Finally he gave the door one more kick for good measure and slumped back on a bench, crossing his arms sullenly.

“You really showed that door who's boss” came a scratchy voice from a corner. Neil looked to see who said it, but his eyes were still foggy. No one laughed as eleven sets of eyes moved from the door to the infuriated redhead and back.

For the most part, the other dazed kids looked about Neil's age, too, except for a scrawny boy in the corner, who couldn't have been older than ten. Neil wondered if everyone else had ended up here the same way he had—the ominous strongmen, the bag, the roadside grab. He turned to the boy on his right, who had long, unwashed brown hair and crooked metal-framed glasses. His lenses, the kind designed to transition between the outdoors and indoors, seemed stuck somewhere in between.

“Do you know what's going on here?” Neil whispered. The boy turned to Neil. He shook his head and took a deep puff from an inhaler.

“As always, the dice will tell us,” the boy said, pulling a twenty-sided die from his pocket. Neil was puzzled.

“Do these dice . . . talk to you?” Neil asked. He watched as the boy rolled it on the polished finish of the slatted wooden bench. It finally came to a stop, showing a 3.

“Things could be better. But we will get answers soon.”

“You got all that from a three?”

“Yes. But do not worry. I just leveled up with my dungeon master to become an expert-grade elf archer/blacksmith. I'm Yuri the Long-Toothed,” the boy replied, extending a clammy hand. “Or just Yuri, for short.” In his other hand was another twenty-sided die, its smooth edges rolling around in his palm.

“Oh. Um, cool,” Neil said. “I'm Neil. I'm not much of an archer or a blacksmith, but I did get kicked out of shop class for making sawdust angels, if that helps.”

Yuri started to respond, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the loud scrape of a deadbolt.

Everyone turned toward the door, which opened inward slowly to reveal a distinguished-looking gentleman in an Air Force uniform. He was tall, with buzzed hair that was more gray than brown. Neil would have known even without his endless rows of medals that he was a top-ranking official.

“My dad is going to destroy you!” the redhead shouted, jumping up from his seat.

“You must be Trevor,” the man said, reading a name from his manifest and shooting the boy a glance that halted him in his tracks. “I am Major—”

“I have a right to a phone call!” Trevor shouted. “One phone call, and I'll have the best lawyer in Massachusetts all over your—”

“Son, if you'll give me a minute, I will explain what's going on,” the major interrupted. “I am Air Force Major Jones. You have all been brought here for an important mission.”

Neil looked around the room at the others, letting the major's words sink in. He swallowed hard.
Air Force? What could they want from me?

“I do apologize for the, shall we say,
aggressive
method of recruitment,” Jones went on. “But time is not a luxury we can afford at the moment. Now, if you'll all follow me.” He turned abruptly and opened the door, leaving the kids to scramble behind him.

At first no one moved. Then a girl—the only girl, Neil realized—jumped up from one of the corners, her dark-brown hair bobbing from side to side, and hurried out after the major. One by one, the others in the room did the same. Neil followed Yuri after he'd rolled 11 three consecutive times.

Neil walked down the hall in silence, stealing occasional glances at the rest of the group. The shiny granite floor chirped with each step, a squeaky symphony bouncing off the light fixtures on each wall. When they finally reached the end of the hallway, the major slid open a heavy metal door, revealing a massive hangar illuminated by bright white lights.

“
This
is why you are here,” he announced, stepping back and clasping his arms firmly behind his back. The group shuffled in, their eyes scanning the vast room. But there was nothing to see. The hangar was completely empty.