Just My Rotten Luck

  “What about the football?”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m not sure I want to keep doing it, but Miller would kill me if I quit. And what if I can’t do it?” I said. “What’s the plan then?”

  “You want to know the plan?” Leo said.

  “I just asked you for it.”

  “Okay, here it is. It’s called ‘don’t do anything.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not getting into trouble. You’re not breaking any rules—”

  “For once,” I said.

  “—or even trying to break the rules. You’re just playing football, drawing your comics, hanging out, and going to school. That’s called normal, dude. Try to relax.”

  Usually, Leo’s all about one kind of scheme or another. He always has an idea about how I can make things more interesting. Now he was telling me to do nothing? It was weirder than weird.

  But that’s not the same thing as bad. Sometimes weird is good. And sometimes it’s really good.

  This is why talking to Leo is better for me than just about anything. I know it’s all inside my head, but somehow, when I think about it that way—like it’s me and Leo together, not just me on my own—it helps.

  And I mean always.

  WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA?

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I was tired, but I just kept lying there, staring at the ceiling.

  What Leo told me made sense, but there was something off that I couldn’t figure out. What was it? I hadn’t gotten into trouble for a while, Mom was pretty happy, and Mrs. Stricker might even have forgotten she hated me by now.

  Okay, maybe not that last part.

  Around midnight, Mom told me to turn off my light once and for all, so I did. But then I just kept right on not sleeping.

  The next time I looked at my clock, it was ten after one. Then one thirty. Then one thirty-eight.

  And then I was up again.

  “Junior?” I whispered. He’s always ready for anything, so I put on his leash and we went outside for a walk.

  And by outside, I mean our backyard. Mom would cancel my subscription to life if I went walking around the neighborhood at one thirty-eight in the morning. So we just went around and around and around the yard instead—like for forty-eight laps. (It’s not a very big yard.)

  So there I was, going in circles with Junior in the middle of the night, trying to get sleepy… and that’s when it hit me.

  I wasn’t happy.

  I know that doesn’t seem like a huge revelation. It probably seems like I wasn’t grateful for the cool stuff I had, like a dog and a best friend. I was, but Mom says outside things don’t really make you happy inside (she usually trots that line out whenever I ask her for expensive sneakers or video games).

  So why wasn’t I happy? Things were good, as Leo said, and I could even learn to live with football and Learning Skills. And since I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, it took a few more laps with Junior to figure out what was wrong: football. And Learning Skills.

  Yeah.

  I could learn to live with them, but I wouldn’t be doing them if it were up to me. I didn’t make the choice to join them and I didn’t have the choice to quit them. And that was the real problem. Hardly anything about my life, except for my art, was up to me. And that’s what made me not-happy… and a little bit mad.

  I stomped around the yard a few more times, getting more angry the more I thought about it.

  Then something strange started to happen. In a good way. Mom says she gets some of her best painting ideas when she’s mad. Maybe that’s what happened to me.

  At first, it was just this teeny-tiny little baby idea in my head. Not even that. Mostly, I was thinking about all those genius works of art in Ms. Donatello’s classroom, and how she was expecting “big things” from me, and how she was barking up the wrong kid on that one.

  Also, if you know me, then you know I once had a really gigantic idea at Hills Village Middle School, and it was something I thought of all by myself. Okay, Leo had a big hand in it, but he’s technically a part of me. It was even called Operation: R.A.F.E., which stood for “Rules Aren’t For Everyone.” And even though I got in a lot of trouble for it, it was my idea. My choice.

  Now I was thinking maybe I could do something big like that again. How crazy would that be? And unlike football or Learning Kills, the idea would be 100 percent mine.

  The more laps I did around that yard, the more excited I got. I was going to take a little bit of what Ms. Donatello said, a little bit of R. K. Whatchamacallit, and even a little bit of Operation: R.A.F.E. Then I was going to throw it all in the blender and turn it into a whole new thing, like a giant smoothie made out of ideas.

  Kind of.

  Best of all, I already had a really good name for it. This one was going to be called Operation: S.A.M. And in case you’re wondering (I know you are!), S.A.M. stood for:

  It was time to get started.

  STROKE OF GENIUS

  My mind was flying by the time I took Junior back inside. I grabbed one of Mom’s big art books off the shelf and took it straight to my room. I definitely didn’t feel like sleeping now. Operation: S.A.M. was practically pouring out of my brain.

  So you know what Loozer looks like, right? I decided that SAM was going to be the opposite of him—filthy rich, crazy good-looking, and very, very stealthy. He was also a secret agent, and his mission was about putting great works of art all over Hills Village Middle School.

  Not my art, exactly. But also, kind of, yes. You’ll see.

  I decided to kick things off with one of Mom’s favorite paintings: The Starry Night, by Vincent van Gogh. He’s one of those geniuses Ms. Donatello was talking about earlier. So I opened up that giant art book to a picture of the painting, and put it on my desk. Then I tore four pages out of my sketchbook and taped them together into one big sheet.

  I wasn’t sure how long this was going to take, since I’d never done it before. I just knew that I wanted to finish in time to be at HVMS really, really early—like right after the first janitor and before anyone else. So even though it was about two thirty in the morning, I just kept on working.

  I pulled out my best pen, took a good long look at that crazy, swirly, genius masterpiece, and started to draw—The Starry Night, by Vincent van Gogh.

  By SAM.

  SAM

  I am SAM, and this is my first mission. Wish me luck.

  Actually, don’t bother. I’m that good.

  I need to move fast, but I have to be careful too.This high-tech fortress disguised as a middle school has security systems like Hershey, Pennsylvania, has chocolate.

  My biggest concern (and archnemesis) is Jan I. Tor. He’s the half-human, half-cyborg “cleaning service” they use for “light security” around here.

  Yeah, right. Tor’s definition of “light security” is that he only kills you once if he finds you.

  So I wait in super-stealthy silence while Tor hovers past my hiding spot with his motion detectors running, laser cannons loaded, and a big dust mop attachment on his robotic arm. He’s cleaning that floor to within an inch of its life, but it could be me next.

  As soon as Tor’s out of range, I slip off my tungsten gripper shoes. Believe me, once he’s been through here, you do not want to leave footprints behind. That would be like leaving a business card in Sergeant Stricker’s in-box. Stricker is the big cheese who runs this place, and she’s all human, but just as scary as Tor. I don’t want to rumble with either one of those two. So I program the shoes to self-destruct and drop them in the trash. FWOOM!

  The coast is clear now, and I sneak back into action. I work my way up the corridor in my spy socks, quiet as a ghost walking on cotton balls. Very, very puffy cotton balls—I’m that quiet.

  What I need is the perfect place to leave the package I came here to deliver. That’s the mission, but I can’t just do it anywhere. I have to choose w
isely.

  Bathroom? Nah. Too echoey.

  Library? Nah. Only one exit, and I can’t take that risk.

  Main lobby? Hmm… maybe so. In fact, I wish I’d thought of that on my way in. I could have saved myself one very expensive pair of tungsten gripper shoes.

  Once my radar-enabled Rolex watch tells me the main lobby is clear, I slide in there and get right to work. I enter the access code on my briefcase, confirm with my thumbprint, and then pop the case open. After that, it takes exactly seven seconds and one ordinary roll of masking tape to secure my package to the wall.

  That’s it. Package delivered. Mission accomplished.

  Catch you next time—because there’s no way you’ll ever catch me.

  SAM out!

  ART SHOW

  Getting in and out of school after the janitor opened up was easier than I thought. Once I did my whole Secret Artist Man thing, I just snuck back outside, walked around the block a few times, and came back as soon as the buses and parent drop-offs start to show up.

  My grandma likes to watch a lot of old crime show repeats, like Mulgroove & Bates, and Order and Law: Boston, and Order and Law: Toledo, and Order and Law: Canine Unit. And I swear, on every one of those shows, the bad guy either shows up at the scene of the crime to see how everyone reacts, or else the good guys talk about how they have to keep their eyes open because the bad guy might show up at the scene of the crime to see how everyone reacts.

  Which is where I got my idea for how to pull off the next part of Operation: S.A.M.

  First I came strolling into school like everyone else. Then I stopped near the main lobby doors and got a drink of water.

  Then I stopped next to the drinking fountain to tie my shoe.

  Then I untied my shoe, got another drink, and tied my shoe again. (There’s more, but you get the idea.)

  That whole time, everyone was walking through the lobby. They all headed off in a million different directions while I just stayed to the side and watched. And listened.

  Okay, if you want to know the truth, about 99 percent of the other kids didn’t say anything. But they all saw that drawing, for sure. And at least six or seven of them said something about SAM. Like “Who’s SAM?” Or “SAM who?”

  I’d call that mission accomplished. Plus, I really liked being the only one who was in on the secret.I liked it a lot.

  And speaking of people noticing, it didn’t take long for Mrs. Stricker to figure out something was up. She can smell trouble from two hundred yards, blindfolded. And she definitely knows when there’s something hanging on the wall of her school that wasn’t there before.

  As soon as she walked through the lobby, it was all over. FOOSH! She sucked that picture off the wall like it was a ball of dog hair and she was the Vacu-Stricker 2000.

  I didn’t care, though. It was already mission accomplished (for now). I just took my extra-well-tied shoes and beat it before Mrs. Stricker could figure out I was anywhere within a mile of that art. It’s not like I had broken any official rules, but why take chances? I wanted to live another day.

  And so did SAM.

  SLEEPOVER BOOT CAMP

  That Friday night, I showed up at Flip’s house with a sleeping bag, a pillow, a toothbrush, and Junior. Mom made me bring the toothbrush.

  “My dad’s making bacon burgers,” Flip said. “You picked the right night to come over.”

  I didn’t pick the night at all, but who cared? If dinner was going to taste as good as it smelled, I was already glad to be there.

  But first, Flip was going to make me work for it.

  We started off just playing catch in the backyard. Flip showed me how to use my fingertips and how to keep my eye on the ball. I’ve heard people say that a million times before: Keep your eye on the ball. But guess what? If you actually do it when you’re trying to catch, it helps.

  “Now let’s make this a little more interesting,” Flip said. He went into the kitchen, where his dad was cooking. A minute later, he came out with something in a paper towel. He was also carrying a big roll of silver duct tape.

  “Something smells like bacon,” I said.

  “That’s ’cause it is bacon,” he said. Junior was jumping up and down trying to get at it, but Flip held it over his head.

  “You’ve heard of flag football, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “And then there’s Drive the Dog into a Psycho Frenzy with the Laser Pointer, right?” he asked me. “Well, this is like both of those combined, but instead of flags, we’re using bacon. And instead of a laser, we’re using you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Turn around and raise your arms.”

  A minute later I had four pieces of bacon duct-taped around my middle, hanging down like football flags. Junior was drooling all over the grass while Flip held him back.

  “You need to run across the yard, touch that tree over there, then come around that pine, over that rock, and back here without letting Junior get a taste of that bacon,” Flip said. “Got it?”

  It was pure Flip. One part hilarious and one part totally smart. I mean, we could have done it without the bacon—or without Junior—but what fun was that?

  Flip gave me a ready-set-go, and I took off across the yard with Junior behind me, jumping up and snapping at my “belt.” By the time all that bacon was gone, I’d made five full laps around the yard. Not bad. I’m not sure if it made me any better at football, but it sure made me laugh a whole lot. Junior liked it too.

  And the night was just getting started.

  FACE YOUR FEARS

  After all those rounds of baconball, I was ready for some bacon of my own. Dinnertime! And let me tell you something—Flip’s parents know how to eat. I had two burgers, extra bacon, and thirds on cole slaw, corn bread, and chocolate pudding after that. It was awesome.

  That night, we slept downstairs in the basement and talked for a long time. Flip told me about how he had to take medication for his ADHD. I told him about how I got kicked out of HVMS the first time, and basically flunked out of art school after that.

  I didn’t mind telling him some of my secrets. Just not all of them. Not the most embarrassing ones—like how afraid I was of Miller, or how I still hung out with my imaginary friend. Maybe I’d tell him all that sometime, but not yet.

  Then, after midnight, when his parents went to bed, Flip told me there was one more part of my training.

  “Football is all about facing your fears,” he said.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked him. He reached under a couch cushion and pulled out a box. When he held it up, I saw it was a movie.

  “Hideous 2,” he said. “If you’ve got the nerve.”

  “I never saw Hideous 1,” I said. “My mom doesn’t like me watching R-rated movies.”

  “Same here,” Flip said. “So we’ll keep the sound down low. I mean… unless you’re afraid.”

  Yeah, right. Like I was afraid of a dumb movie about people being possessed and turning into sizzling piles of acid when they were exposed to sunlight. I wasn’t afraid. No way.

  I mean, not until the movie really got going. But I wasn’t going to admit that to Flip either.

  So trust me on this one. If you’ve never eaten cold leftover burgers in the middle of the night while watching the scariest movie you’ve ever seen with your new best friend and your dog, then you’re missing out.

  MORE, PLEASE!

  As busy as I was with football practice and hanging out with Flip, I made sure to keep my secret project, Operation: S.A.M., going the whole next week.

  I never put two pieces in the same place either. The trick was figuring out how to put stuff up when no one was looking. Once I started paying attention, it wasn’t that hard.

  That night, I did a picture of this cool painting called St. George Killing the Dragon. I hung that one on the pull-down map in Mr. Frommer’s classroom. Then during social studies, all I had to do was wait for him to start talking about the Holy Roman Empire, and??
?BAM!

  Or I guess I should say—ART!

  This time, I heard someone say, “Again?” And someone else said, “Okay, now I’m interested.” Plus, Mr. Frommer took my drawing down and left it on his desk, which was better than getting it sucked up by the Vacu-Stricker 2000.

  The next day, I was really getting into it. I drew a painting called The Last Supper and put that one up in the cafeteria. Way up.

  Last Supper… cafeteria… get it? Because with the food at HVMS, you never know which meal might be your last.

  Mrs. Stricker got the janitor to take my drawing back down, but I actually heard some kids booing when he did. That was cool to hear.

  Then I tried something different. I drew the little angel guys from The Sistine Madonna, by Rafael Sanzio (the artist Mom named me after, if you want to know). Then I made a bunch of photo-copies and put them up in a bunch of different places. Most of those didn’t survive through second period, but I did find one still up in the bathroom during lunch. And I knew someone had noticed it, because they added their own little touch. Which I didn’t even mind.

  For Friday, I drew a painting called The Scream, by Edvard Munch, who has a great name, if you ask me. I like the painting too—but not as much as I liked what I did with it.

  By the end of the week, HVMS had a real live mystery on its hands. I’d hear people in the hall saying stuff like “Did you see what SAM did today?” and “Why is he doing this?” and “How can one person be so good-looking, rich, and smooth?” (Well, two out of three, anyway.)

  I wasn’t exactly sure what was supposed to happen next, but I definitely wasn’t stopping. I was having too good a time for that. And nobody had a single clue about who was behind it either.