The Nerdy Dozen #2 Page 2

  Neil turned away and kept walking, toward what looked to be a dinosaur skeleton made out of rotini. But Tommy wouldn’t be ignored as he reached for a fistful of applesauce and flung it at the back of Neil’s neck. Neil’s back arched from cold shock as the soppy fruit sauce dripped down his back.

  “What are you gonna do about it, Night Light?” Tommy snorted.

  Neil turned away to avoid anything further, but he felt a blob of pudding splatter on his back.

  Okay, not cool.

  Neil turned around, staring at Tommy Scott and the two lackeys positioned behind him.

  “You know what, applesauce me once, shame on me. But do it twice, ham on you,” Neil said, grabbing a few glistening chunks of carved ham. He tossed them perfectly at Tommy, connecting solidly with his face and chest. While it maybe wasn’t his best pun, Neil felt pretty good about it. But after Tommy mopped the cooked meat from his face, the food fight was officially on.

  He threw the face ham back at Neil, but it hit a group of kids having lunch with their babysitter. Neil turned to apologize but was greeted with a few handfuls of spaghetti.

  “Food fight!” yelled Tyler, who rushed to Neil’s side. He slung sliced beets like tiny Frisbees, while ladles full of mashed potatoes flew in all directions. Everyone in the general area, child or not, began firing back. Neil witnessed a full-grown man wearing a shirt with two wolves on it chuck spare ribs at a group of Neil’s classmates. Cubes of Jell-O bounced across the floor as Tommy and a goon cranked on the soft-serve ice cream machine.

  Tommy let frozen clumps fill his hand before catapulting them Neil’s way. Neil grabbed a tray to use as a shield and did his best to deflect the rounds being fired at him. But as the food-launching chaos grew more intense, the ear-piercing shriek of Mr. Rhome’s whistle caught everyone’s attention. Neil was frozen in mid–Brussels sprout toss.

  “Andertol! I can’t believe you!” Mr. Rhome shouted, spitting out chicken nuggets. He stood next to Nebula and a middle-aged museum director with wispy black and gray hair. “Sounds like we’re gonna have to cancel this trip and leave early because of you! And now this?”

  The rest of Neil’s classmates groaned as they brushed peas out of their hair.

  Neil and Tommy glared at each other as they slowly dropped any edible weaponry.

  “And you’ll all figure out how to repay damages,” said the museum worker next to Mr. Rhome. “You kids got vanilla soft-serve all over the Neanderthal exhibit. Those cavemen are dry-clean only!”

  Neil felt one hundredth his normal size. He had gone from the highest heights of filmed online gaming immortality to the museum’s number one public enemy, completely soaked in Thousand Island dressing.

  NEIL HOPPED DOWN THE STAIRS OF HIS SCHOOL BUS AND heard the doors squeak shut. The bus rumbled into gear and drove away in a black cloud of exhaust. From the corner of his eye, he watched a car slowly turn a corner and creep up behind him. Neil cocked his head to see a glossy black vehicle, and his pulse jumped in anticipation. For the last three months, any dark SUV had Neil hoping for another adventure, another burlap sack to be thrown over his head.

  As Neil’s neighbor rolled by with a cheery wave from her decidedly not-undercover car, he knew it was an ordinary bad day.

  I do have gravy still in my sock, so maybe not totally ordinary.

  Sunshine peeked over the clouds as Neil followed the street to his house. On his porch, he grasped the front door’s handle and pushed, but it was locked.

  “Mom! Janey! Open up!” Neil yelled, ringing the doorbell. After a few more fist pounds and no response, Neil turned to the front yard. He grabbed the family’s secret rock that housed a key and, currently, two slugs.

  Neil pushed open the door and returned the house key to the fake rock.

  “Hello? Anybody?” Neil asked to no response, stepping into the kitchen. “I also just want to get this out of the way, but there’s a good chance I’m banned for life from the museum.”

  No one replied.

  He saw a sticky note clinging to the hood above the stove, and Neil could hear his mother’s hurried tone as she scribbled:

  Hi, honey, Janey was accepted into the karate tournament I called you about—woo-hoo!

  Neil shook his head and ate an angry bite of cereal, wondering if starting tomorrow he would be known as Boogercheeks to the entire eighth grade, and possibly ninth.

  It’s an hour north, so we had to get on the road. We’ll be back Sunday, and Dad should be, too, but his site needed him to work through the weekend somewhere in Montana. The sitter should be there around five. Love you, Mom.

  “A sitter? Aw, man,” Neil said to the stove. That meant hanging out with a community college sophomore named Vanessa, who refused to let Neil play video games all night. She used phrases like “Your brain needs to be engaged” and “Video games rot your third eye.” Neil despised Vanessa weekends, and he couldn’t wait until he could stay at home alone. His mother always promised he could when he turned fourteen, and his winter birthday couldn’t come soon enough.

  “Skeeroonk!”

  An animal squawk rang out from the backyard.

  “Okay, okay, Regina,” Neil said, shaking his head as he scurried toward the sound. He spilled out from the back door toward a small fenced-in area tucked between two seven-foot-tall hedges.

  Neil squished through the foliage and opened a gate in the fence to reveal a tiny ostrich, complete with a full house and habitat. She was much shorter than the ones Neil had seen—and ridden—on his mission to a South Pacific island chain, because she was still young. She had arrived that summer as a large speckled egg, in a wooden crate from Harris. Neil took it as Harris’s way of apologizing for the whole “stealing top secret intel to become the kingpin of the video game underworld” ordeal. Neil’s mother and father took it as an attempt to kill all the grass on their lawn.

  He had fibbed, telling them it was a class pet that grew too big for the classroom and that he had been selected as its lucky caretaker. Neil knew this would buy him enough time to figure out where he could house a fully grown ostrich.

  “Hi, Regina,” Neil said to the tiny animal. She cocked her head and pecked at the ground. “I’m not gonna reach my hand in there for a while. You almost took a pinkie off the other day. I’ve got a big match that’s going to start soon.”

  Neil tossed two handfuls of Grade A ostrich pellets into Regina’s cage and filled her water dish. She spread her wings and flapped them a couple times.

  “See you later, Regina,” he said, and he turned back to his house. He grabbed a juice from the kitchen and bounded up his carpeted stairs with a grin. He pressed a button on his white controller and jolted his console out of sleep mode. His in-box held a total of three new messages. Neil clicked on the first, an audio message from Sam. It was her first in weeks: “Going to get another practice session in with Fury, may be a bit late for the team game. Excited to play!”

  Neil smiled. It was good to hear that familiar voice of Sam’s. The very one Neil took to be a boy’s for roughly a year.

  He looked at a disc labeled SHUTTLE FURY and contemplated playing it. It was the game that NASA had sent to all the kids after the success of their first mission. But it just wasn’t . . . fun.

  Tomorrow, Neil said to himself, like he did every night.

  It’s not that he hadn’t tried to beat it; he just got beyond frustrated with the space simulator. The clunky graphics looked at least ten years old, the ship itself didn’t do any cool tricks, and the game itself was too hard—Neil never had trouble beating games after enough time, but he couldn’t seem to figure out this one’s secrets.

  Neil grabbed the Shuttle Fury disc and sighed deeply before moving it toward his gaming console. He placed it on the end table next to his favorite comfy chair and perched his juice box on top.

  At least the game works as a coaster.

  With ten minutes until the big game, Neil opened his next unread message, a video from Biggs: “Hey, Neil! S
orry, but gonna have to bail on the game tonight. We’ll play again soon, though,” he said, nodding and smiling into the camera. “Just heard about a big lecture on carp destroying the ecosystem, and I can’t miss it. This is my Christmas.”

  Neil shrugged his shoulders and laughed. While he was upset the big game would no longer happen with everyone, he couldn’t stay mad. But as the minutes edged along toward game time, nobody else seemed to be logging on. Neil listened for the familiar notifications alerting him of his friends signing on, but he only heard the whirring fan inside his game console. Where was everybody?

  The doorbell rang, echoing through the empty house. Neil sighed. His friends can’t show up on time, but of course the babysitter is early.

  He walked slowly to the front door, dragging his feet to savor his freedom, knowing he would soon be under the control of Vanessa.

  He unlatched the dead bolt and pulled the door open.

  “Hey, Vanessa,” Neil mumbled, trying to turn back around and head upstairs quickly. He figured he could grab two days’ worth of food and juice in his arms and lock himself in his room until Sunday, relieving himself out of an open window every few hours or so.

  But when he heard the gravelly-sounding voice of a man, Neil turned back to face the doorway.

  “You were expecting a babysitter, Andertol?” Major Jones said, spitting sunflower seed shells into Neil’s front yard. “Come on. We need your help. Again.”

  NEIL’S FINGERS TRACED THE STITCHING OF THE SAFETY harness locking him in place. It passed across both shoulders and latched into the stiff metal seat beneath his thin legs. Even after a summer growth spurt, his feet didn’t quite touch the floor. He was alone in the belly of a huge cargo plane as Jones assisted with the landing in the cockpit.

  As Neil stared down the row of empty seats, he plucked a piece of crouton from his hair. Before being whisked away by Jones, he’d used a wet kitchen towel to give himself a post-museum shower, but his hair was apparently saving some leftovers.

  “Initiating final descent” came a voice through the headset hugging Neil’s ears. The plane dropped, flipping Neil’s stomach. He pinched his nose and popped his ears to equalize the change in pressure, something he’d picked up during the last mission. “Prepare for landing.”

  “If I had a tray table, it would be up,” Neil shouted back over the engine noise.

  Turbulence shook the plane violently, but Neil remained surprisingly calm. As the massive plane’s landing gear made contact with the ground, he was focused on breathing.

  Exhale . . . two . . . three . . . four.

  It was advice he’d found online from a retired Air Force pilot, and one of many professional flying tips Neil was anxious to show off. He’d done some thorough Googling about real-life pilots, and was ready to prove he was one as well.

  The internet stranger, going by the moniker the Invisible Coyote, said that pilots in tight formation would even learn to breathe at the same time. Neil and Biggs tried practicing in a game of Chameleon weeks before, but Neil accidentally hit the mute button and nearly suffocated his friend and fellow pilot.

  “All right, Andertol. Let’s move,” said Jones, emerging from the cockpit.

  The plane rolled to a stop, and Neil heard the rear hydraulic hatch engage and begin to open. Sunlight quickly filled the ship’s cargo hold, casting a long shadow behind Jones’s muscular frame.

  “Sir, yes, sir, Major Jones,” Neil replied with a nod. He removed his headset and freed himself from his seat’s nylon safety web.

  The camouflaged soldier didn’t reply and stomped down the ship’s metal hatch. Neil followed Jones out onto the runway, jittering with excitement and a completely full bladder. The sun was beginning to set behind a glob of cauliflower-shaped clouds, and the smell of salt water from a nearby ocean brushed past Neil’s nose. Wherever he was, it was far from his landlocked home.

  While a map or travel brochure on his current location would have been nice, he did appreciate the Air Force’s “burlap bag–free” approach they must have recently adopted. A certain amount of trust could be earned when you weren’t blindfolded in a trunk or backseat.

  “So, what’s the mission, Major?”

  “First things first, Andertol—it’s Major General Jones, now,” the soldier shouted to Neil as they marched away from the roar of the cargo plane’s engine.

  “Oh, nice! A promotion,” Neil gushed. They headed toward a tall, looming white building. “Do you get any fancy new pins or medals? Do they have a good jangle to them?”

  Jones shook his head and patted Neil’s back with a huge, rough hand. It knocked the gamer’s bony body forward a few inches as they crossed over the still-warm asphalt. They neared the entrance of the giant structure, an obvious aircraft hangar of some kind.

  “You know what? I think I’ve missed you, Andertol.”

  Neil smiled to himself with pride. Those weren’t words he ever expected to hear from someone who seemed to always need a nap.

  As the rickety metal doors of the hangar opened, the last of the day’s sunshine spilled onto the interior of the hangar floor’s taupe-colored concrete. The structure was vast and empty, like a hollowed-out steel turtle shell.

  A gaggle of determined people in orange, blue, and white jumpsuits scurried around the facility. A few furiously tapped on computers and handheld tablets, while others lugged hoses and electrical cords from one side of the building to the next. Their shoes were covered with white booties that kept subtly slipping on the slick floor. A gigantic American flag was hung on the wall opposite the only doors leading out, with smaller flags from other countries just below.

  Neil scanned the hangar, but he didn’t see a ship. He assumed it was just invisible, cloaked under its active camouflage. His eyes squinted to find the outline of a Chameleon, but he only saw a set of double doors leading out from the airy space.

  “So what have you got for us? Recon? Going behind enemy lines?” It being Friday night, Neil figured he had the weekend to save some sort of botched mission before the end of Janey’s karate tournament. “It would rule if we could make it back by Sunday at sevenish. It’s pizza night.”

  Neil and his friends already proved video gamers could handle anything, so he assumed their second mission should be a piece of cake.

  “But more important, I can’t wait to get back in a Chameleon,” Neil said, miming the controls of a phantom jet, “and to fly with you again, obviously.”

  “Well, about that . . . ,” Jones replied, the two walking in stride under the fluorescent glow of the hangar’s interior. They were nearly to the building’s center as the huge exterior door finally clanked shut. “How’d you fare on that game I sent you?”

  “Oh, Shuttle Fury?” Neil said, remembering his copy of the game, and the juice box that was still on top of it. “Um, well, you know, pretty good. I didn’t get a chance to totally ‘finish it,’ so to speak, but—”

  “I know what you mean,” Jones interrupted. “Figured I’d send it to you all on the off chance anybody could beat the blasted thing.”

  “Nobody ever has?” Neil asked, anxious to move the subject of conversation away from his Shuttle Fury score, or lack thereof. “I mean . . . right! No way anybody has beaten that thing.”

  “It’s impossible. Now just more of a hazing ritual. Something the Force gives to all new test pilots on their first day,” Jones said, his voice echoing off the ceiling’s rippled sheet metal.

  “So you’ve played it?” Neil asked.

  “Some. Not well, though. When I play it’s more like Shuttle Furious,” Jones answered, producing a chuckle from Neil. They’d reached the center of the hangar, and busy technicians buzzed around them as Jones stood still. “But I figured I’d send it. Call it a hunch.”

  Neil’s forehead crinkled.

  “A hunch?” Neil asked, unsure what he meant.

  Jones pointed up. Above Neil hung a banner with a blue circle and futuristic lettering.

  “Welcome
to NASA, Neil Andertol,” Jones said. “Or should I say: potential Astronaut Andertol.”

  Neil’s eyebrows arched up.

  Astronaut Andertol.

  The title sounded surreal, especially for someone who had been called Boogercheeks earlier in the day.

  “Now let’s get moving; we’ve got work to do.”

  Neil felt his stomach drop, and he was still a long way from outer space.

  NEIL GATHERED HIS THOUGHTS, OR AT LEAST SOME OF THEM, and followed Jones through a twisting hallway. It branched out from the huge open space of the hangar, and Jones cut through it in quick strides. Neil was reminded of the mysterious military base he had woken up in months ago. The walls and floor were so similar, Neil almost wondered if it was the same place—or the same interior designer, at least.

  Jones abruptly turned another corner, and the hallway came to a dead end. He pushed open a heavy door, revealing a long glossy table full of friendly faces.

  “Jones! ManofNeil!” shouted an energetic Robert Hurbigg, or just Biggs for short. Biggs made a hand signal that looked like a dying finger puppet.

  “Biggs! Everybody else!” Neil said, a goofy smile stuck on his face. He looked down the two rows of seats, both dramatically lit by the ceiling’s track lighting. Neil was surprised, but happy, to see that all his friends had arrived before him. He was realizing just how much he’d missed everyone.

  “Glad you could join us,” said a distinguished-looking African American man in a deep-blue suit. He stood behind a podium at the opposite end of the long table.

  “Glad I could, too,” Neil said. “You guys didn’t get started without me, did you?”

  The man said nothing but gestured to the empty seat at the end of the table closest to the door.