The Caped 6th Grader Read online

  “You, Gil?” Grandpa looked as if he was trying not to crack up. “A mentor?”

  Gil shot Grandpa a scowl. “If you're thinking of the incident several years back when I was attempting to teach you-know-who how to operate that you-know-what … well, this is completely different. That you-know-what had double-intensified, turbo power-boosters, not to mention some very finicky state-of-the-art capabilities.…”

  Grandpa cleared his throat loudly and Gil stopped talking fast.

  “Caitlin Abbott is going to be his apprentice,” Howie informed us. “Her application said she wanted to do something that ‘celebrated the natural beauty of the earth,’ and Mr. Diaz decided my grandpa's florist shop was a perfect fit.”

  “I'll be a fine mentor,” Mr. Hunt grumbled. “What harm can come from teaching a kid to arrange fresh-cut flowers?”

  I was pretty sure no harm could come from Caitlin's working in the flower shop, but c'mon … since when was she interested in the natural beauty of the earth? I knew her aunt Nina was all into health food and yoga, but Caitlin just seemed to tolerate that stuff. It seemed weird to me, but I certainly couldn't say anything about it now.

  “And what kind of internship will you be doing?” Mr. Hunt asked me.

  “Actually,” I said, shrugging, “nothing has really jumped out at me yet.”

  Mr. Hunt gave me a look that I couldn't really read. It was part pity and part satisfaction. “Well, I suppose you could always work here with your grandpop. You do spend a lot of time here. And after all, the world needs people who can get ketchup stains out of polyester blends.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Grandpa Zack scowl. I bet Mr. Hunt wouldn't say things like that if he knew Grandpa and I had the power to toss him up to Jupiter if we felt like it.

  “As a matter of fact, I'd love to work here,” I said, trying hard to keep the anger from my tone. “But Grandpa's going to be away, so I can't.”

  A moment of tense silence passed. Howie fidgeted uncomfortably, then broke the grim mood by announcing,” Grandpa Gil was just about to take me for ice cream to celebrate my job at the SPD. Wanna come?”

  “Absolutely,” said Grandpa Zack.

  He turned the sign on the door to the side that said BE BACK SOON and we left—two humble, mild-mannered dry-cleaning professionals following Gil Hunt, florist extraordinaire, and his fearless crime-fighting grandson, Howie, down the street to the ice cream shop.

  I was pleasantly surprised to find Emily arriving at the ice cream place just as we were. Allison Newkirk and Betsy Davis were with her.

  “We wanted to invite you to join us, Zoe,” said Betsy. “But we couldn't find you. It was like you vanished as soon as the dismissal bell rang. Poof!”

  “Yeah.” Allison giggled. “Are you, like, the speediest girl in the universe or something?”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, and Betsy laughed.

  Howie and I introduced Allison and Betsy to our grandfathers and we all went inside.

  Howie ordered first—mint chocolate chip on a sugar cone. The high school kid behind the counter reached into the glass case and dipped into the hard-packed tub of ice cream. He was wearing a T-shirt that said SCOOPER HERO. I got a real kick out of that.

  Grandpa Zack ordered a root beer float, and I, of course, opted for my usual: a hot fudge sundae, heavy on the hot fudge.

  Then it was Emily's turn. “I'd like a vanilla soft-serve, please.”

  Scooper Hero gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry. The soft-serve machine is on the blink today.”

  Allison and Betsy both looked disappointed.

  “I was going to order soft-serve, too,” said Betsy, pouting “It's my favorite.”

  “Can you just try?” asked Allison sweetly.

  The Scooper Hero shrugged and went over to the big stainless-steel soft-serve machine and gave it two hard thumps with his fist. Then he held a cardboard cup under the vanilla spigot and pressed on the plastic lever. The machine let out a pitiful mechanical growl, then made a sputtering sound. A pathetic dribble of vanilla ooze drooled out of the spigot and into the cup.

  “Sorry, girls,” the scooper said.

  I took my sundae and a handful of napkins and joined Howie and his grandfather at a nearby table. The girls unenthusiastically scanned the freezer case for second choices.

  The bell on the shop's door jangled, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Hope whoever it is doesn't have his heart set on soft-serve, I thought, turning toward the door.

  The new customer happened to be the world's greatest comic-book author and illustrator: Electra Allbright! I was so excited I forgot all about the soft-serve.

  “Hi, Ms. Allbright,” I called to her.

  “Hello, Zoe.” Electra scanned the room. “Why, look at all these sad faces!” she exclaimed, glancing from Emily to Allison to Betsy. “What's wrong? Don't tell me they've made sardine swirl the flavor of the day again.”

  “Sardine swirl was never a very big seller,” the scooper informed her. “We've discontinued it.”

  “So why does everyone look so glum?” Electra asked, raising her neatly penciled eyebrows.

  “The soft-serve machine isn't working,” I offered.

  “No soft-serve?” Electra sounded as if this were the worst news she'd ever heard.

  “Sorry, ma'am,” the scooper said.

  Suddenly, Howie's grandfather was at Electra's side. “There's a frozen yogurt place over at Templeton Heights Mall. I'd be happy to drive you there.”

  “Oh, thank you, Gil,” said Electra, bestowing on Mr. Hunt a glowing smile. “But I prefer ice cream to yogurt any day of the week.” She turned away from Mr. Hunt and stared at the uncooperative soft-serve machine.

  Emily was pointing to a container through the glass. “I guess I'll have a mocha-toffee crunch,” she said.

  “Coconut for me, please,” said Betsy. “On a waffle cone.”

  Allison was about to announce her consolation flavor when suddenly, the shop lights flickered and there was a loud zapping noise. I was so startled that the giant glop of hot-fudge-covered ice cream I'd just spooned up landed on the tabletop with a splat. I turned just in time to see a shower of sparks shoot out from the back of the soft-serve machine. After a moment of silence, the machine sputtered, then began to whir contentedly.

  “Whoa,” said the scooper. “That's never happened before.” He picked up a cone and cautiously held it under the center spigot, then pressed the lever. To everyone's surprise, a smooth, cool, creamy swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream appeared on the cone.

  “Hey!” said the guy behind the counter. “It's working!”

  Electra smiled at him. “Make that a large,” she said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Oh, and don't forget the sprinkles.”

  HERE'S how it happened:

  I was sitting there, frowning at the splat of ice cream I'd dropped on the table, when it occurred to me that if you squinted in just the right way, the melting ice cream looked exactly like a tornado wiping out a remote mountain village in Peru. And off to the side there were three little drips that looked just like superheroes rushing in to save the innocent people and llamas who lived there.

  I was describing the image to Howie when I noticed Electra standing over my shoulder, munching on her ice cream cone.

  “What a marvelous imagination you have!” she said. “Not only did you see an amazing vision in a hot fudge spill, but you described it vibrantly and with great style.”

  I felt my cheeks getting warm at the praise. I couldn't believe the greatest comic-book author of all time was complimenting me! “Thank you,” I said.

  “In fact”—she lifted her cone to me in a sort of toast— “you're super!”

  “Wow. Um—thanks,” I stammered lamely.

  “Ever think of writing comic books?”

  From his seat at the booth next to ours, my grandfather began to cough loudly.

  Electra gave him a concerned look. “Zack, wha
t's wrong?”

  “Nut!” Grandpa rasped, then clarified quickly, “I had a nut stuck in my throat. But I'm fine now.”

  Electra turned back to me. “Really, Zoe. You should seriously consider the comic-book profession. And I'll be glad to help you out in any way I can.”

  Emily, who was halfway through her vanilla cone, began to bounce excitedly on the booth seat. “Zoe, this is perfect! You need a work-study job, and Ms. Allbright just offered to help you.”

  “Work-study?” Electra repeated.

  “It's this awesome school project,” I explained. “Our teacher, Mr. Diaz, is organizing it. We get to shadow a professional for two weeks and learn about his or her job.”

  “What a wonderful project!” Electra exclaimed. “I'd love to have a fresh, creative talent around my studio!”

  “Really?” I wanted to jump up from the booth and hug her, but (a) I'd have looked dopey, and (b) she was still eating her ice cream cone and I didn't want to smush it all over her. “Thank you, Ms. Allbright! Thank you so much!”

  “I'll call Marty—I mean, Mr. Diaz—right now to let him know you want to be my apprentice,” she promised.

  Smiling, she headed for the door, then turned back to wave good-bye to Mr. Hunt and Grandpa. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Mr. Hunt had a broad grin on his face. Grandpa gave Electra a quick wave. He looked a little troubled. Not mad, exactly, just … concerned.

  I was too excited to wonder why.

  I was going to be working beside the world's greatest comic-book author, the person who created the coolest, most amazing girl-powered superbeing of all time—Lightning Girl!

  The next day I was early for homeroom by a full ten minutes. Mr. Diaz was sitting at his desk organizing the work-study forms when I bounded in and nearly crashed into the bookshelf. He looked up and grinned.

  “Morning, Zoe.”

  “Hi, Mr. Diaz.”

  “Early today.”

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Diaz, did you by any chance get a phone call from Electra Allbright yesterday afternoon?”

  “Hmmm …” He stood and came around to the front of his desk, scratching his chin as though he were trying to remember. “Let me think.… Electra Allbright … Electra … Allbright.” His eyes were serious as he seemed to search his memory. “Why, yes, I believe I did speak to a very nice woman by that name. Had a lovely chat, Ms. Allbright and I. You know, now that I think of it, I seem to recall that your name might have come up in the conversation.”

  “So I can do my internship as a comic-book author?” I asked, bouncing up and down.

  “Absolutely! In fact, between you and me, I think it might be one of the coolest assignments in the bunch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Diaz!”

  “You're very welcome, Zoe. It sounded like you made a big impression on her.”

  “Well, I don't know about that.… She's probably doing it partly as a favor to my grandpa. They go way back.”

  Just then, the warning bell rang and kids started pouring into the classroom.

  Everybody was still buzzing about the work-study project. When we were all seated, Mr. Diaz read off the list of students who'd already been placed with mentors. I was one of them, and so were Howie and Caitlin. Allison Newkirk was going to intern with a professor at the Sweetbriar Conservatory of Music, which seemed like a great fit to me since she was such a virtuoso on the violin. I was also really happy to find out that the editor in chief of Go, Girl! magazine had agreed to take on Emily as an intern (not as happy as Emily, of course—she actually screamed). Mr. Diaz didn't yell at her, though; he complimented her on her enthusiasm, then politely asked her not to do it again.

  “That's about three-quarters of you accounted for,” he said, finishing the list. “Those of you who haven't been placed yet shouldn't worry. It's just that the professionals in question weren't available to take my calls yesterday. I left messages for them, and I'm sure they'll respond by the end of the day.” He took a stack of forms from his desk and began passing them out. “These are permission slips. Extremely important. They must, must, must be signed by a parent.” He paused, then added, “Or guardian.”

  He wasn't looking at Caitlin when he said it, but we all knew he was referring to her aunt, since the rest of us lived with one or both of our parents.

  I'd never had the guts to ask Caitlin where her parents were, or if something awful had happened to them. It just didn't seem right for me to pry. And besides, deep down, I feared the worst about the answer I'd get.

  Sure, I had some weird hunches about Caitlin, but I knew I'd feel crummy if my folks weren't around, and I'd hate to think of any kid having to deal with that. Even an irritating kid.

  “PSSST!”

  I turned to see Emily holding a note. I nodded to let her know I was ready and she tossed it quickly across the aisle. I caught it, opened it, and had to stifle a giggle.

  I snatched my pencil and wrote back quickly:

  I lobbed the note back to her. She smiled as she wrote her reply, then flipped it back to me:

  As I tucked the note into my pocket, I had a feeling that if ever there was a kid who deserved a prize with the word cool in the title, it was Emily!

  ON Friday, Mr. Diaz confirmed that everyone had been placed with a mentor. And with the exception of Ethan Danvers (who'd requested an apprenticeship to the security guard of the main vault at the Sweetbriar Bank), everyone had gotten the job of his or her dreams. Ethan would be working at the ice cream shop, which had been his second choice, so he seemed okay with it.

  After school, I went to Gran and Grandpa's to wish them bon voyage.

  “Gran?” I called, going in through the kitchen door. “Grandpa?”

  “In here, Zoe,” came Gran's voice from the other side of the house.

  I hurried through the living room and found her dragging some overstuffed luggage out of the bedroom.

  “Here, let me.” I dropped my backpack to the floor and slid my pinky under the handle of one of the heavy bags. “Where do you want it?” I asked, lifting the heavy suitcase with my little finger.

  “You can put them in the trunk of the car, please.”

  “No problem.” I effortlessly scooped up the remaining luggage— a giant duffle and a garment bag—in my other arm and headed through the house.

  “I'd almost forgotten how nice it was to have a hero around the house,” said Gran in an amused voice. “Your grandfather hardly ever uses his superstrength anymore, unless of course he feels it's a real emergency.”

  “You mean like if he has to lift a major appliance because it's accidentally fallen on an unsuspecting repairman?”

  Gran rolled her eyes. “I mean like if he has to open a brand-new jar of pickles. You know how your grandpa Zack loves his baby gherkins.”

  Gran carried my backpack as I brought the luggage through the kitchen and out to the driveway, where the trunk of Gran's powder blue convertible was already open. I tossed the three bags in as easily as if they were cotton balls.

  “NICELY DONE,”

  said Grandpa, coming out of the garage.

  “Thanks.”

  He was carrying a fat scrapbook. I recognized it as the one he'd shown me the day I'd found out I was a superhero.

  “Don't tell me you're bringing that on the trip,” said Gran. “We've all seen those clippings a million times. And if you bring yours, I'm sure Smokescreen will bring his, and frankly, I just can't sit through that ‘I accidentally set off every smoke alarm in the White House’ story of his one more time.”

  “This is for Zoe,” Grandpa said, handing me the book. “And it wasn't the White House, it was the Kremlin. I was there.”

  “And we had to dry-clean your supersuit six times before we finally got the smoke smell out of it.”

  Grandpa turned to me. “You can use this to research your assignment for the Federation. Pretty much everything you need to know about your Super genealogy can be found in these pages.”

  “People hardly ever
use books as reference tools anymore,” I grumbled. “Isn't this stuff on the Internet?”

  Grandpa gave me a look.

  I sighed. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

  “Be careful with that, Zoe,” Grandpa advised in a somber tone. “Not only does it contain precious memories, but if it were to fall into the wrong hands …”

  “I understand.” The first rule of being a superhero is not to talk about being a superhero. We can't have ordinary people finding out about the Super crowd. Who knows how the world would react?

  “While you have that book, your superbackpack will be the safest place for it. Keep it in there whenever you aren't studying it. I think it's best if you keep it with you all the time.”

  Feeling a bit puzzled, I loaded the heavy book into my superbackpack, which, since I needed to keep my supersuit and tools handy, had replaced my ordinary schoolbag. “Why can't I just leave it home, hidden in my closet or something?”

  “We can't risk letting your mom or dad find it. Why, if your father started flipping through that, he'd find out things about me he's never known.”

  “Well,” Gran joked, “at least then he'd finally know the truth about why you missed seeing him as a talking mushroom in his third-grade play.” She turned to me. “Grandpa was summoned to fight off a platoon of evil robots just as the curtain was going up. Zack hated having to miss the show. Brian was just the cutest little fungus.”

  I smiled and made a mental note to ask my dad if he had any pictures of himself in that mushroom costume. “Good thing we aren't going to be having homework during the work-study project,” I observed, tugging the zipper of my backpack closed. “I'd never be able to fit this in with all my textbooks.”

  When Gran went back inside to see if she'd forgotten anything, Grandpa closed the trunk and leaned against the car's rear bumper.

  “You realize you won't be able to reach me while I'm gone,” he said.

  “Yeah. I figured.” I fiddled with the key chains on my backpack. “I hope I can handle things on my own.”