I was pleading. If all this came unraveled, it was bad news for me and even worse news for Beatrice. But it would be pretty awful for Noah too. For the superkid to be exposed as a phony would be a total disaster. He’d be ruined in Hardcastle. His family would have to move away and start a new life someplace else. Around here he would forever be the guy who lied so that everyone would think he was a hero.
And what was his response? “I am incapable of making that kind of mistake.”
“Yeah?” I challenged. “So how come Chloe knows?”
“Don’t be silly. How could she know?”
“She just does, Noah! She told me! She’s smart! And she’s got more common sense in her little finger than the two of us combined. Lucky for us, she’s keeping her mouth shut.” I didn’t mention the part where I spilled the beans and Chloe threw it back in my face. It still stung—although it’s probably for the best that she didn’t believe me.
For the first time, Noah appeared a little rattled. “Who does she think the superkid really is?”
“Nobody. Her theory is the truck missed the house on its own, and Kaminsky imagined the whole hero thing.”
He smiled smugly. “So maybe Chloe isn’t as smart as you say.”
How come I could see the walls closing in and Noah couldn’t?
We weren’t at the Academy five minutes before Oz dropped the bombshell. “Listen up, people. We’ve got three weeks to get Heavy Metal into shape.”
There was a gasp in the robotics lab.
“Three weeks?” repeated Abigail Lee in horror. “But the competition isn’t until next year!”
“That’s right,” the teacher agreed. “This isn’t for competition. Hardcastle is hosting the governor next month, and Dr. Schultz wants the best of everything we’ve got on display at the big assembly. Heavy Metal is going to be the star of the show.”
“Why’s the governor coming to a dump like Hardcastle?” I asked.
Mr. Osborne grinned. “You’ve got your friend Noah to thank for that. The assembly is in honor of the superkid. The governor is coming to present him with the State Youth Award for Valor and Community Service.”
There was a smattering of applause, but nothing like the adoration Noah was getting at regular school. Awards were no big deal for the Academy kids, who were all here because they were awesome at something—and probably more than one something. At home, their closets were stuffed with trophies, ribbons, medals, and certificates. That was what it meant to be gifted—not that I could relate personally.
I caught a scowl from Chloe, who thought the whole thing was a hoax Noah and I had cooked up together. I had to admit life would be simpler if she was right. Even though I didn’t want any credit for being a hero, for some reason, it bugged me that Chloe believed I didn’t have what it took to be one. We were supposed to be friends.
“Heavy Metal won’t be ready in three weeks!” Abigail protested.
“Nonsense,” Oz told her. “Obviously, our project won’t be in condition to compete in an actual meet. But all Heavy Metal has to do is present the governor with a Hardcastle Independent School District tote bag. Then we’ll give a short demonstration of the robot’s capabilities and our part will be done. Simple.”
In order to participate in next year’s competition, Heavy Metal had to be able to shoot small projectiles at targets, deploy a miniature drone, and perform a variety of tasks for the judges.
The teacher added, “There’s extra credit in it for all of you.”
Normally, Abigail was the world’s biggest fan of extra credit. But in this case, her gifted reasoning didn’t like the risk-reward curve. If our robot screwed this up, the governor would go straight home and email Harvard, Stanford, and MIT: Whatever you do, don’t give a scholarship to Abigail Lee.
“It’s not right,” she complained. “We’ve deliberately been taking our time because we thought we had until next year’s meet. Now we have to rush things, and that’s never good.”
Oz was cheerful. “Welcome to the real world, people, where your boss wants everything yesterday, and you’ve got no choice but to deliver. Consider this your first life lesson. Noah, how are you coming along with the latest update for the robot’s operating system?”
“Well,” Noah began, “I’ve been really tied up lately with all the media attention. Plus my cheerleading responsibilities . . .”
That was a surprise. We weren’t used to hearing excuses from Noah. He could split the atom, play chess against supercomputers, map the genome of a banana, and still have enough time left over to watch family pets drinking out of the toilet on YouTube. When it came to Noah’s capabilities, there was no such thing as no such thing.
Then again, Noah wasn’t exactly himself these days. Literally.
Oz went on, briefing Abigail, Chloe, Latrell, Jacey, and the others on what they needed to do to bring Heavy Metal up to speed in time for the governor’s visit. They listened with total focus, like the gifted students they were. Since I was mainly the joystick operator, my role would come later.
My eyes were on Noah, who was barely paying attention, gazing blankly out the window like he was daydreaming. It was something I expected from myself, not from Noah.
Somehow, being the superkid was transforming the most gifted of the gifted into a regular dummy like me.
“Would Donovan Curtis come to Principal Verlander’s office immediately, please? Donovan Curtis to the office.”
When I heard my name over the PA system a couple of days later, I was blindsided. Not that it was unusual hearing myself called to the office. My name had been spoken over that PA so many times that I felt I deserved a little plaque on the base of the microphone.
What had I done lately, though? Okay, saved the Mercury house, but nobody knew about that. And if the truth had gotten out, the news wouldn’t be coming from any principal. It would be coming from Brad, who would have just surrendered his beloved dog to Animal Control. I’d hear him coming too, because he’d be in his tank, and there’d be a sign on the turret: SMILE, DONNIE.
I entered the reception area and automatically started for the principal’s office. But the secretary stopped me and waved me toward the small conference room on the opposite side.
“He’s waiting for you in there.”
Really? Why would Verlander need to use the conference room? Were they bug-bombing his office or something?
Then I entered the conference room and I knew. It wasn’t the principal at all. It was Channel 4’s own Russ Trussman.
The sight of him sent an electric shock up my spine. What did a TV personality want with me? The answers I could see were all bad. He interviewed Noah last week—this had to have something to do with that. But surely even Noah wasn’t crazy enough to leak our secret to someone who made his living broadcasting stories to hundreds of thousands of people. You didn’t trust a guy like that with a secret. To him, there was no such thing.
“Russ Trussman, Channel 4. Good to meet you, Donovan.”
He held out his hand and I shook it, noticing that his shirt cuff stuck out of his sleeve exactly the right amount, revealing a cuff link that was a shiny golden T.
“What do you want with me, Mr. Trussman?” I asked nervously.
He leaned forward, sticking his famous face into mine. “Can you think of any reason I’d come to see you?”
“Uh . . . no?” It came out as a question even though I tried really hard not to say it that way.
“Your friend Noah interviewed with us last week, and I don’t have to tell you how impressed we all were.”
He paused, and the way he did it made me feel like I was expected to contribute to the conversation. Maybe it was an interviewer thing. So I managed, “He’s an impressive guy—that’s for sure.”
“So I asked Mr. Verlander if I could swing by and talk to some of Noah’s friends. You know, get the story behind the story.”
“What’s the story behind the story?” I croaked, my mouth suddenly very dry.
>
Trussman smiled with all thirty-two teeth. It was practically blinding. “We all know what the superkid did, but my viewers want more. They need to understand him—who he is, what makes him tick, what drives him to put his life on the line to save people he doesn’t even know?”
“Maybe he’s—impulsive?” That was what everybody always said about me.
“Funny,” the television personality mused. “He doesn’t strike me that way. He’s more the introspective type.”
“Well, you know—always expect the unexpected,” I offered.
He leaned in even closer—man, I hated that. His eyes bored into my skull like twin lasers. “So what you’re saying is, as his friend, that you’re not surprised Noah had the right stuff at the right time.”
An icy hand clutched at my heart. He knows, I thought. At least he knew about Noah. I could only pray that he didn’t know about me.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. The Daniels called this my “fatal flaw.” I was quick to action, but not so quick to come up with a good lie to protect myself.
“Well, thanks for your time, Donovan.” The smooth TV host pumped my hand again. “Oh, one more thing. Do you have any information about the folding chair that was found in the Mercurys’ pool? It’s the one piece of this puzzle that doesn’t seem to fit.”
I shook my head, and Trussman said, “No, of course not.” He might have been a good enough reporter to smoke out the fact that Noah was no superkid, but no way could he identify the WWE prop Noah had brought along to bolster his wrestling qualifications for a confrontation with Hashtag that had never happened. Not even Sherlock Holmes could have figured that one out.
He gave me his card in case I thought of anything and sent me back to class. I made it halfway down the hall and collapsed over a drinking fountain, the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears.
I’d been hoping Noah could play hero for a while, and then the whole thing would die out and be forgotten. There was no chance of that now. A professional news reporter smelled a story. And he wasn’t going to go away until he found it.
15
SUPERSCARY
NOAH YOUKILIS
There was a difference between being famous for your IQ or your nationally-ranked science fair project and being just plain famous.
I’d been both, and I had to say that the second kind was way better. Even Dr. Frederick Sanger, who won the Nobel Prize in chemistry twice, wouldn’t stop traffic on Hardcastle Avenue. Sir Isaac Newton wouldn’t be the star of his cheerleading squad just by picking up his pom-poms. And Stephen Hawking never had a sandwich named after him at the Olympiad Deli like I did (the Superkid: a hero roll with sliced top sirloin and American cheese). I also had a sundae named for me at the ice cream place, and there was a Youkilis Special at the laundry—super-starch for the superkid. Not even Albert Einstein ever got that.
Donovan said it was all fake because I didn’t really do the thing I was so famous for. But he was wrong. I saw this YouTube video once called “America’s Celebrity Culture.” According to the guy, at a certain point, you stop being famous for something, and from then on, you’re famous just for being famous! If that was true, then it didn’t matter if I was the one who saved the Mercury house or not. Being the superkid was what I was.
Donovan kept warning me that it was all going to collapse like a house of cards. I pointed out that, on a perfectly flat plane, in the total absence of wind and other disruptive forces, a house of cards could theoretically stand forever. Then he got mad, and that bothered me a little, because he was holding me up and some of my fellow cheerleaders were waiting to take me to lunch.
“I have to go,” I told him. “If the girls and I don’t make it to the cafeteria in time, we won’t get our usual table.”
“You’re not listening, man,” he argued. “That Russ Trussman guy—he definitely smells a rat. And he’s a professional newsman. Digging up dirt on people is all in a day’s work for him!”
I glanced over my shoulder, where Vanessa and the others were checking their phones and looking impatiently at the hall clock. To be honest, I felt a little torn. Donovan was my friend, but the girls were my friends too. Just because I hadn’t known them as long didn’t make them any less deserving of my attention. After all, when I first met Donovan, I was only Noah Youkilis. Now I was the superkid, and everybody wanted a piece of me.
So I said, “You don’t understand, because you’re not popular. But I really do have to go.”
And as I started for the cafeteria with my new friends, Donovan just stood there in the hall, staring at me with his mouth hanging open.
I guess I gave him a lot to think about.
Donovan was right about one thing: That reporter, Russ Trussman, wouldn’t leave me alone. Even though my interview was last week, the host of The Russ Trussman Hour kept coming to see me, both at home and at school, and calling me too.
He wasn’t very good at taking notes, because he kept asking the same questions over and over again, especially about the chair. To be honest, it was starting to cut into my personal life. Before, that wouldn’t have been a problem, because I had no personal life. But now I was really busy. I had cheerleading practice every day, plus extra training with Lieutenant Patterson, which was going really great. I’d improved 700 percent in the number of push-ups I could do, and I hardly fell at all during jumping jacks. In tire flips, I was up to two and a half lengths of the backyard before Lieutenant Patterson canceled them because his SUV needed new brakes. Our marches were now three miles long, with three bricks in the bag over my shoulder. Katie said if I continued to improve, we’d have to switch to a leather duffel because Tina’s diaper bag wasn’t strong enough for any more bricks.
I also had interviews with other reporters, who weren’t so obsessed with one little folding chair. People wanted to honor me, like the governor, who was coming to town soon. I was invited to parties—Megan’s for one. I needed cooler clothes—at least that was what Vanessa and the other cheerleaders said when they took me to the mall. I couldn’t believe how many different bathing suits they made me try on.
I had to admit there was science in their approach. By logic, until all the possibilities had been tried on, it was impossible to determine with certainty which suit looked best. Vanessa had a very orderly mind.
Russ Trussman even interviewed the cheerleaders, mostly about our routines, and if they contained any moves that might have prepared me for jumping into a moving truck. The girls were also getting kind of sick of Mr. Trussman and his endless questions.
I could relate! It was great to go on TV and all that, especially on a show as popular as The Russ Trussman Hour. But I was starting to wonder if it was worth it.
He asked me about the chair at least ten times. He grilled my parents about what time I’d come home that morning, and whether or not my clothes had been wet. Once, he walked me out to his car and asked me to turn the wheel. But the car was in park, so the wheel was locked.
“Interesting,” he mused. “So how did you turn the wheel of the propane truck?”
“I shifted into neutral.”
He leaned forward eagerly. “You never mentioned that before.”
“The detail is self-evident.” I added, “How come you need to know all this? Are we doing a follow-up interview on your show?”
He smiled. “Follow-up—that’s a good word, Noah. Yes, I definitely think a follow-up is in order.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to do another interview with Russ Trussman. To be honest, he was turning into a pain in the neck.
We celebrities had to budget our time.
Another drain on my time were the two Daniels, who’d blackmailed me into creating an internet bot that would enable them to hack into the school computer and change their grades. That level of cyber-incursion was difficult to fit in between interviews, mall trips, and cheerleading practice. I was very relieved to finally give them the program I created, GradeWorm.
That should have be
en the end of it. But three days later, they lured me into a stairwell, their faces lined with worry. D. Nussbaum reached out and pressed something into my hand. It was the memory stick I’d loaded the bot software onto.
“Oh, I don’t need the flash drive back,” I told him. “I have two hundred more in my closet.”
“Take it!” D. Sanderson hissed. “We don’t want it!”
“Yes, you do. When I gave it to you, you said it was the greatest thing in the world.”
D. Nussbaum put an arm around my shoulders and steered me away from the parade of students going up and down the stairs. “We tried it out last night at home. As soon as we got onto the school site, the warnings started. Security alert. Firewall. Restricted data. Do not enter!”
“I told you about that,” I reminded him. “The system generates those responses, but GradeWorm is designed to punch right through them. All you have to do is keep clicking Ignore.”
“We did,” D. Sanderson insisted. “But the messages kept coming. And they got meaner and scarier. If the school finds out we did this, we’re dead meat.”
“Take it back,” the other Daniel added. “Erase it. Maybe burn it. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Just having it in your pocket is enough to get a guy expelled. Better yet, throw it into that lake of lava from Lord of the Rings.”
“What about our deal?” I persisted. “I did what you asked.”
D. Sanderson shrugged. “Fine, whatever. We weren’t going to rat you out anyway. What kind of lowlifes do you think we are?”
I almost replied, “Very low,” but I wasn’t sure if there were different degrees of lowness. So I said, “All right,” and they scurried off.
I weighed the memory stick in my hand. What was I going to do with GradeWorm? Certainly not erase it. It was a unique piece of coding, elegant in its ability to evade security scans and burrow through firewalls.
But the two Daniels were right about one thing. It would be disastrous to get caught with it. I could get kicked out of school. I’d have to go back to the gifted program.