The Nerdy Dozen

  DEDICATION

  To Mom and Dad—for, well, pretty much everything

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  THE ENEMY FIGHTER JETS SURGED PAST NEIL ANDERTOL, soaring over desolate, sandy terrain. Neil glanced out either side of his cockpit window. Two planes from his own squad were flying parallel to his.

  “Those our last ones?” Neil asked.

  “Roger,” said the pilot to his right. “They took out our other guys. It’s just us three now.”

  Neil firmed his grip on the flight controls, his wiry hands confident. The small rocks on the ground had turned into boulders, and the boulders were giving way to vast cliffs. One of his fellow pilots passed Neil, swooping down toward the enemy planes.

  “Be careful, man, it’s danger—” Neil warned, but stopped as the fighter jet crashed into the side of a rock formation. A flash of orange and red reached for his cockpit’s glass window like a fiery hand, warming the steel bottom of his jet.

  The enemy planes rocketed forward. Ahead of them loomed the opening of a vast canyon.

  “Shooter,” Neil said into his headset to his only remaining ally, “there isn’t enough space in that canyon for both of us.”

  The pilot, ShooterSam, shot Neil a thumbs-up and peeled away from behind Neil, barely clearing the canyon’s dusty rim. “I got the bogey that followed me; you’ve got the other, right? Or do you need me to do all your work for you?” ribbed the voice in Neil’s headset.

  “Hey, let’s not forget all those times I had to save you,” Neil replied with a grin. The two pilots had flown together nearly every day for months, and apart from the competitive jabs, they were great friends.

  Neil dived into the canyon below, closing in on the enemy fighter, sending a splash of rocks tumbling toward the small river below. He strained to set his automated target lock. The blinking icon of the enemy jumped up and down on Neil’s radar screen. Neil shot through the sandstone canyon, steering dangerously close to the walls, but he couldn’t stick with the bogey. The enemy plane increased in speed and began to pull away.

  Time to do this the old-fashioned way, Neil thought. He disengaged the targeting system and took manual aim himself. He closed his left eye, aimed, and fired a rocket specifically designed to bring down an enemy intact—this time glancing off the enemy plane’s right wing.

  I’ve got ’em where I want ’em.

  “Neil,” said a voice behind him.

  Neil ignored the interruption. He squinted through the fresh billows of smoke and leaned forward, sensing victory.

  “Neil, are you listening?”

  Neil’s finger was wrapped around the controls. Just a few yards closer and he’d have completed the mission, securing the safety of his country. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd welcoming him home from the mission.

  “Neil Andertol!” bellowed the voice. Neil concentrated on the hum of his aircraft and the rhythmic beeping of his missile targeting system. He positioned himself directly behind the enemy jet and locked onto his target.

  “Three, two—”

  Then, suddenly, everything went black.

  Neil ripped his headset off his mess of black hair and threw it on the ground.

  “Mom! That’s the farthest I’ve ever been! Plus I was about to save America, and a little bit of Nova Scotia!” he cried, glaring at the woman responsible for his abrupt demise. “I don’t barge in during Dr. Phil right when some weirdo has a breakdown!”

  Neil’s mom dropped the unplugged television power cord to the floor and strode past him to the window. She yanked the blinds open, smiling as sunlight poured into her son’s bedroom.

  “At least those ‘weirdos’ don’t sit in complete darkness on a beautiful Friday afternoon,” she replied. Neil held his hands in front of his face, the glare of the sun slipping between his fingers. “Honey, it looks like wild animals live here.” His mom gestured to the dirty towels, socks, and underwear littering the floor. She had a point—between Neil’s suspicious hygiene habits and his aversion to natural light, his room could easily pass for the habitat of a nocturnal beast. Mrs. Andertol began to hum as she picked up dirty clothes.

  Neil plugged the television back in and stared at the score from his recently ended game of Chameleon, which was his favorite online video game—and rumored to be a leaked military simulator. He gasped aloud when he saw the number flashing on the screen. Even with his sudden death at the end of the game, his score was the best he’d ever achieved.

  “Come on, come on,” Neil muttered under his breath, clicking frantically over to the game’s main page. Neil had been in the number-two spot for weeks now, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to beat the worldwide champion.

  “Nooo!” he moaned when the page loaded. There he was, ManofNeil, still listed underneath his nemesis, B4rrelR0ll. Neil’s mom didn’t even flinch as he banged the controller against the ground in frustration.

  Neil brushed his hair to the side and stared intently at the TV screen, reading through the previous game’s stats. Recently, rumors had been brewing online that after a player reached a certain high score, a feature unlocked that allowed the plane to go completely invisible. Neil wasn’t sure he believed it, but just yesterday B4rrelR0ll had been bragging in all the forums that he’d finally done it. Neil winced at how close he’d come. ShooterSam’s faint voice still chirped from the headset at his feet, but Neil didn’t feel much like talking.

  Sighing, Neil left Chameleon’s home page and returned to the gaming lobby of his favorite site, Internet Piraseas. It was a site created for kids, by kids—or rather, by one kid in particular, thirteen-year-old hacker genius Reboot Robiski. No one knew the whereabouts of Reboot, who updated his site constantly. Neil had heard everything from a yacht cruising international waters to a yurt in Alaska to a presidential gaming cave below the White House.

  Reboot’s site was shrouded in mystery and extremely exclusive. To make sure only the best kids competed, Reboot required would-be members to create a GIF file, crack the top twenty scores worldwide in a game of their choice, and play for eleven uninterrupted hours. Neil had been a member for several years now, and he loved it. The most talented and competitive players were all here, and the site had a lot of games, like Chameleon, that couldn’t be found anywhere else. Sometimes Neil wondered if Reboot himself ever played, but if he did, he probably did it in secret.

  “Don’t even think about turning that back on.” Neil’s mom stooped to pick up a dark-brown sweatshirt. “I’ve got big plans for you tonight.”

  Neil rolled his eyes. To him, “big plans” involved video games, a movie about video games, or a combination of the two, with the added element of pizza. To his mother, however, “big plans” consisted of museums, community theater, or something involving too much fresh air.

  “But it’s Friday! The Friday of a long weekend! So technically that’s kind of
like a double Friday! When else can I stay in my room for, like, sixty uninterrupted hours?” Neil sat cross-legged in his old corduroy chair, wearing well-worn shoes and faded jeans peppered with the crumbs of various snack foods. He was thin and wiry, and swimming in a new, way-too-large black T-shirt his mom had recently bought him.

  “Your early twenties,” Mrs. Andertol replied to her thirteen-year-old son, her eyes calculating which messy corner to tackle next. “Tonight we’re all going to Colorado Springs for Janey’s Memorial Day karate tournament.”

  Despite her sweet smile and innocent demeanor, Neil’s eight-year-old sister, Janey, was frighteningly skilled in martial arts. She returned from each of these weekend tournaments with even more medals to add to the dozens already covering her bedroom walls.

  In fact, her walls were so crowded that recently, Janey had started moving her bigger trophies to the mantel above the family’s fireplace, which had a photo of Janey on one end and Neil on the other. Now that Janey’s side was covered in shiny yellow-belt victories, Neil had scrambled to find things to decorate his end of the mantel. So far, all he had was a “Golden Floss” award from his dentist and the framed scorecard from a recent laser-tag victory.

  But the worst part of Janey’s training was that she seemed to think Neil was her living, breathing practice dummy. She regularly unleashed flurries of karate chops and roundhouse kicks on him at a moment’s notice, in shopping malls, restaurant buffets, and farmer’s markets. Nowhere was safe. Neil walked through grocery stores like a defensive ninja, constantly ready for a sneak attack in the frozen-foods section.

  “Can’t I just stay home?” Neil pleaded. “Or what’s dad doing? He’s not going, is he?”

  “You know your father’s away on-site for business for ten more days,” she answered. “And you can’t stay home alone, but that’s what I’m getting to, honey. I know you don’t want to be dragged along to another one of these things—”

  “So I get to stay at Tyler’s place?” In terms of real-life friends, Tyler was Neil’s best. They’d met on Neil’s first day of fourth grade three years ago, after Neil’s family moved across Colorado. While waiting for their measles shots, they had bonded over a shared interest in video games—that and the fact that they’d both had the idea of hiding opened ketchup packets in their sleeves to freak out the school nurse. Now they were best friends, and banned for life from the nurse’s office.

  “No, Tyler and his family are at his grandma’s for the weekend. But I talked to Mrs. Scott, and Tommy’s having a weekend sleepover for all the boys with karate sisters who don’t want to go. I said you’d join them.” Her face peeked over the mountain of soiled linens. “Won’t that be fun?”

  “First off, I’m old enough to legally emancipate myself in Manitoba, so there’s no way I am going to a sleepover my mother has organized,” Neil said defensively. The only thing worse than enduring a beating from his kid sister was the prospect of facing Tommy Scott.

  In Neil’s first week at his new school, Tommy had hit Neil so hard with a kickball that Neil had doubled over, wheezing and moaning in full view of the entire playground. And in a terrible twist of fate, that very day, Miss Toll’s science lesson had focused on Neanderthals, the early human ancestors who communicated with loud grunting noises and wild gestures. Gestures like the ones Neil demonstrated for students, teachers, and everyone else in view or earshot of the playground. From then on, thanks to Tommy, the name Neil Andertol died, and “Neandertol” was born.

  “Who do you know in Manitoba?” Mrs. Andertol asked calmly, opening the closet door to fill his hamper.

  “I read it online, but that’s not the point!” Almost instinctively, Neil cleared his throat and quickly licked his palms to make them feel clammy. “Actually, I should probably just stay home this weekend. I’ll be fine alone.”

  “Oh yeah?” she replied.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m not feeling too good.”

  As an experienced professional in the art of faking sick, Neil knew exactly what would happen next. He would lay the initial groundwork, his mother would express skepticism, and finally, with hard evidence, he would manage to convince her. Years ago, his mother had trusted him enough to take his word for it, but now he needed incontestable proof.

  Neil’s eyes darted around his room in search of something warm to hold up to his forehead. In his experience, the best fever simulators were sixty-watt lightbulbs. The worst was his mother’s curling iron; the scalding metal had left him with nothing but a burn mark and three hours of waiting in the doctor’s office.

  “Well, if you’re sick, you’ll absolutely have to come with us,” his mother called out from his closet. “They’ve got a top-notch infirmary at these karate weekends. I’m sure they’ll be happy to cure you.”

  Beyond his closed bedroom door, Neil heard a loud, forceful “Hi-ya!” come from Janey downstairs.

  “I think she just graduated to breaking wooden boards,” Neil’s mom added, stepping carefully out of the swamp that was Neil’s closet and opening the door to the hallway.

  Neil contemplated his two choices. Which was worse, Tommy Scott or his terror of a sister? He froze as he heard a second howl from Janey, followed by the splintering crack of her hand breaking through pine. He imagined the board being his shoulder blade and almost felt a phantom pain.

  “That better not be my new cutting board!” Neil’s mom yelled down the stairs. She paused in Neil’s doorway, her arms full of clothes. “I’d suggest you pack a bag for the weekend,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

  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 buts. 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.