The Last Superhero Read online

  THE LAST SUPERHERO

  by Kristin Butcher

  Napoleon

  Text © 2010 Kristin Butcher

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover art by Jock McRae, design by Emma Dolan

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  Napoleon Publishing

  an imprint of Napoleon & Company

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.napoleonandcompany.com

  14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Butcher, Kristin

  The last superhero / by Kristin Butcher.

  ISBN 978-1-926607-01-6

  I. Title.

  PS8553.U6972L37 2010 jC813’.54 C2010-900767-0

  In memory of my good friend, Val

  ONE

  Nearly eight hundred kids go to Mt. Rigg Middle School. At class change, it takes three minutes to move everybody around. Fire drills use up ten minutes. Assemblies really eat up the clock—fifteen minutes to get kids into the gym then another fifteen to get them out again. But at three thirty on a Friday afternoon, the school empties in two minutes. So when I walked out of the art room at twenty to four, the building was totally deserted.

  I glanced down at the papers Mr. Dow had given me. There was a real wad of them—costs, supplies, entry requirements, and most important of all—an application. Mr. Dow had gone over every sheet at least three times. Once he got talking, he couldn't seem to stop. You'd think he was the one who wanted to get into Summer Boot Camp at the art gallery.

  Stuffing the papers into my backpack, I started up the stairs to my locker on the second floor. It's at the end of a long corridor totally lined with lockers—a couple of hundred of them. When everybody's there, the place is a human ant farm. Everywhere you look, kids are getting stepped on, elbowed in the ear, or just plain squashed. So having a locker on the end is a definite advantage. Before the other kids even get their lockers open, my partner and I are already closing ours up.

  Sliding my backpack from my shoulder, I dialed in my combo and pulled off the lock—too fast, I guess, because it got away from me. I juggled it in the air for a few seconds, but I couldn't quite grab onto it, and finally it clattered to the floor and skittered along the hall.

  That's when the metallic banging started. I peered down the corridor, but it was empty.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! There it was again. This time there was a voice attached to it. It was all wrapped up in the hammering though, so it was impossible to catch what it was saying. The person sounded scared—or desperate maybe, but also really angry.

  I trotted down the hall and scooped up my lock. Then I kept going. The farther I went, the louder the banging and yelling got. Finally I reached a locker that was vibrating so hard, it looked like it was going to explode.

  “Let me out of here!” a voice hollered from inside. Then there was more banging.

  I didn't want to get too close. There was no telling how long that locker was going to hold together. The lock might not break, but I wasn't so sure about the door. I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see the hinges fly off or a foot come crashing through the metal. I opened my mouth to say something but decided the person inside would never hear me. So I made a fist instead and hammered on the door from my side.

  Instant silence.

  “Somebody in there?” Okay, so it was a dumb question, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

  “Let me out of here! Let me out!” Then the screaming and banging started up again.

  I hammered on the door once more, and when the noise stopped, I said, “What's your combination?”

  “I'm not telling you that!” a girl's voice snarled.

  “Ooooo-kaaaay,” I stretched out the word. “Then how do you expect me to open the door? Or do you just want me to drag you out through the vents?”

  There was a pause, then—obviously getting the point—the girl said more quietly, “23-04-51.”

  “23-04-51?” I repeated.

  “Not so loud!”

  “Look who's talking!”

  “Well, I don't want the whole school knowing my combination,” she grumbled.

  I looked up and down the hall then leaned closer to the door. “I've got news for you,” I whispered. “At this moment, you and I are the whole school.”

  “Would you just open the door?” I didn't need to see the girl to know her teeth were clenched—probably her fists too. Just the same, I couldn't resist revving her up a bit more.

  “What's the magic word?”

  “Huh?” I could tell her mouth was hanging open.

  “What are you—some kind of comedian? Stop being a jerk and open the door!” Then she kicked it for emphasis. “It's boiling in here. I can hardly breathe.”

  “All right, all right.” Taking pity on her, I dialed in her combination and tugged on the lock.

  Click!

  “Now don't push when I take the lock off,” I warned her, “or we'll both get hurt. Let me open the door. Okay?”

  “Whatever,” she muttered. “Just hurry up.”

  Hopefully that meant she agreed, but to be on the safe side, I leaned against the door while I removed the lock. Then jumping away and pulling the door open at the same time, I waited for the girl to burst into the hallway.

  She didn't. She didn't even slither into it. For someone who was dying to get out of her locker, she was certainly taking her time. I peered around the door to see what the holdup was.

  I have to admit I was surprised. Considering the amount of noise the girl had been making, I figured she must be some kind of giant. But with her hands and feet sticking out every which way from a long, brown, furry coat, she looked more like Cousin lit. I knew she had to have a head somewhere, but until she spoke, I had no clue where to look for it.

  “Help me,” she whimpered. “My hair's caught on a hook.”

  That's when I realized the girl's hair was the same colour as her coat. She had a real mop of it too, and with her head bent forward, it was totally hiding her face.

  “Okay. Hold still,” I said, fumbling for the hook. The girl's hair was snarled around it. “This might hurt a little,” I warned her.

  “I don't care. Just get me out of—owwwww! What are you trying to do—scalp me?”

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “But you're really hung up.” I moved in to get a better hold of the hook. The only thing between me and the girl was her coat. “Ow!” she yelled again, shoving her fist into my gut. “Do you mind! If I'd wanted to be bald, I'd have shaved my head.”

  I stopped work. “Hit me one more time, and you'll not only be bald, you'll be a permanent locker ornament, because I'll leave you here.”

  She didn't say another word, and though she winced a few more times while I untangled her, she didn't hit me again. When her hair was finally free—either from the hook or her head—I helped her climb out of the locker.

  As soon as her feet hit the floor, she peeled off her coat and let it drop. Heaped around her ankles, it reminded me of a boneless bear. The next thing she did was flip back that huge mop of hair and twist it into a knot at the back of her head. I was totally amazed. With the coat and the hair suddenly gone, there was nothing to the girl. She'd have been lucky to weigh eighty pounds soaking wet, and I couldn't help wondering how someone t
hat small could make so much noise.

  I watched as she fanned herself with a paper. Her face was flushed, and her hair was plastered to her forehead. Tiny drops of perspiration speckled her nose like freckles. She looked exactly like you'd expect a girl to look who'd been stuck inside a locker for a while. Still, there was something electric about her, like maybe you'd get a shock if you touched her.

  “Do you have any bottled water?” she said. Even though it was a question, it seemed more like a demand.

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh, but there's a fountain at the end of the hall.”

  She made a face. “I'm not going to drink that. It's disgusting.”

  I shrugged. “Then I guess you're not very thirsty.”

  Hazel eyes glared at me for a second then began scanning the hallway.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “My bag,” she frowned. “Brown leather backpack about this big.” She outlined its shape in the air then stabbed a finger toward the floor. “It should be right here.”

  I backed up a step. “Don't look at me. I didn't take it.”

  “Well, somebody did!”

  “Or maybe somebody took it to the lost and found,” I pointed out another possibility. “Or the custodian could've picked it up. You don't know. But if it was stolen, I'm betting it was the person who shoved you into your locker.”

  That did it. Before I could blink, the girl was in my face. “It was you, wasn't it?”

  I couldn't believe my ears. “Are you psycho or what? Why would I push you into your locker? I don't even know you!” I backed away from her again. “I'm the one who let you out! Remember?”

  “Criminals always return to the scene of the crime,” she retorted.

  Hello? What the heck was going on here? I was the good guy. I was the person who'd rescued this girl. She should have been gushing with gratitude. But no, she was accusing me of committing the crime!

  Well, forget that.

  “That's the dumbest thing I ever heard,” I said, shaking my head and starting toward my own locker. The girl muttered something at my back. I don't know what she said, but there was no way I was going to let her have the last word. “I'll tell you one thing,” I called over my shoulder. “If this is how you treat everybody, it's a wonder you're not stuffed in your locker full-time.”

  TWO

  She was still muttering and slamming around inside her locker when I left. I was tempted to send another wisecrack her way, but I changed my mind. She might come after me with a ruler and hack my shins to bits, and I definitely didn't need that. By the time I reached the main hall, I'd forgotten all about her and was back to thinking about Summer Boot Camp.

  As I pushed through the front door of the school, November air crawled inside my shirt. I zipped my jacket and glanced at the sky. It was heavy and low, leaning on rooftops and sagging over lampposts. It was a snow sky—not the muzzy white you see when it's actually snowing, but a hard marbled grey that warns you what's coming.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I rounded the corner of the school and started across the parking lot. It was empty except for a few cars and a couple of guys at the far end. Big shot grade eights—I'd seen them around school. Talk about an odd couple. One guy was super-sized like he'd overdosed on steroids, but his pal was a real peewee.

  They were straddling their bikes and rifling through a backpack. Instantly, I thought of the girl who'd been stuffed in her locker. I stopped walking and watched. As the guys hauled things out, they either ripped them up or stomped on them. Well, most of the stuff. The pack of gum they shoved into their mouths, and the lipstick they used to draw a head with a noose on the school wall.

  It was right after that they spotted me.

  “What are you looking at?” the little guy snarled, heaving the backpack in my direction. He didn't have much of an arm. It didn't go far.

  I didn't answer—just shook my head and plastered a you-are-pathetic smile on my face.

  “I'm talkin' to you, loser!” he growled over the handlebars of his bike.

  “You're the loser,” I muttered under my breath and started walking again.

  “What did you say?” I knew he couldn't have heard me, so he must have seen my lips move. He jumped onto the pedals of his bike and started riding toward me. His friend was right behind.

  It's embarrassing to admit, but part of me wanted to run. I'm not a chicken or anything, but I'm not an idiot either. There were two of them and only one of me—and they had bikes.

  I kept walking.

  It didn't take them long to catch up. At first all they did was ride circles around me and call me names. But when I didn't answer or even look at them, they stepped things up. The circles got smaller until I was pretty much penned in.

  The little guy made a grab for my backpack.

  “Bug off!” I pushed his arm away.

  That's when he spit on me. I couldn't believe it. He actually spat on me. It was something a girl would do. I watched with disgust as the slimy gob rolled down the front of my jacket. And then without even thinking, I kicked the guy's bike as hard as I could—lifted it right off the ground. It went crashing to the pavement, taking Peewee with it.

  For a couple of seconds he looked so surprised, I almost laughed. Then his face got all mad again and he sneered, “That was a big mistake, kid. Grab him, Garth.”

  I whirled toward the big guy, ready to defend myself, but instead of attacking me, Peewee's pal was getting ready to bolt. He nodded toward the school. “Principal's coming. Let's get outta here.”

  In a flash, Peewee was back on his bike. “This isn't over, kid,” he sneered at me. “You're gonna pay.” Then he took off after his friend. As he rode past the principal he waved and shouted, “Hey, Mr. Taylor.”

  The principal smiled and waved back. “Hey, Ross. Hey, Garth. Have a good weekend, boys. See you on Monday.”

  I shook my head in amazement. Peewee was a suck-up! It figured.

  I glanced down. The gob was still stuck to my jacket, so I dug around in my pocket for something to clean it off with. All I had was a candy wrapper. Holding it by one corner, I scraped away the slime and chucked the whole works onto the ground.

  Then for some reason I looked up. Mr. Taylor had stopped walking and was staring at me. “I'm sure you didn't mean to do that.” He frowned at the candy wrapper I'd dropped.

  I'm not dumb enough to argue with the principal. “No, sir,” I replied, scooping up the candy wrapper and praying the slime wouldn't ooze onto my hand.

  “I didn't think so,” Mr. Taylor said. Then he pointed toward the school. “There's a trash can by every door.”

  I nodded and made like I was going to go find one.

  Mr. Taylor started heading for his car again. It was parked right where Peewee and his pal had tossed the backpack. The principal bent down and picked it up. Realizing it was empty, he started looking around. It didn't take long for him to spot the lipstick drawing on the wall and the litter on the ground.

  Like I said before, I'm not an idiot. I didn't wait around for him to start asking questions.

  The first snowflakes started to fall just as I turned up my street. They weren't big and there weren't many of them—just a few pinpricks of white that melted the instant they touched the pavement. But that didn't change the fact that winter was on its way.

  I had mixed feelings about that. The first couple of months are usually okay. A light dusting of snow every few days to make the world Christmas card white. It's not too cold either, just nippy enough to make you want a hot chocolate after a snowball fight.

  Then one morning you wake up and Wham!—you're living inside a deep freeze. Ten minutes outdoors and your whole body turns into an ice block. Your feet are like two hunks of wood nailed to the ends of your legs. They don't bend, and you end up walking like Frankenstein. Your fingers are the same. They morph into brittle icicles that couldn't fit a key into a lock if your life depended on it. As for your cheeks, they ache so bad your
eyes water, and if you're stupid enough to go out without a hat, your ears are ready to fall off before you've gone twenty steps. When the wind blows, things are ten times worse—the cold goes right through your bones no matter how bundled up you are.

  But that was still a couple of months away, so I stuck out my tongue and waited for the first snowflake of winter to land on it.

  THREE

  The phone was ringing as I climbed the front steps, so I unlocked the door as fast as I could and tore inside. Well, sort of tore inside. The door handle snagged my backpack on the way by. Talk about whiplash!

  Snatching the phone off the cradle, I dropped onto a kitchen chair.

  “Hello?”

  “It's about time,” Dads voice complained on the other end of the line. “The phone must've rung eight or ten times. What took you? And why didn't the answering machine kick in?”

  I checked the little black box on the counter. There was no green light, but the ‘on’ button was pushed in. I looked at the wall socket.

  “Probably because it's not plugged in,” I said.

  “Why the heck not?” Dad fumed. “What's the point of having an answering machine if its not hooked up?”

  “Why are you asking me?” I defended myself. “I didn't touch it. The coffee maker is plugged into one of the outlets and your razor is plugged into the other one. In case you haven't noticed, I don't drink coffee and I don't shave.”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh. Right,” Dad mumbled. Another pause. “I was running a little late this morning. I had to shave and eat breakfast at the same time. I forgot.” He cleared his throat. “The important thing is that you answered the phone.” Then he added, “Finally,” and suddenly the situation was my fault again.

  “Gimme a break!” I protested. “I just walked in the door.”

  “It's almost five o'clock.”

  “I know, but I didn't leave school right away.”

  “Detention?” Dad asked warily.