The Return of Meteor Boy? Page 5

  “Both of them?” I asked skeptically.

  “Of course,” he replied. “After all, they were inseparable then—literally. None of my friends thought I stood a chance since I was just sixteen, and they were both eighteen, but succeed I did! If you’re lucky, you’ll inherit my natural ability to attract the opposite sex.”

  As Dad elbowed me in the side, I tried to refocus the conversation.

  “So that would have to have been twenty-five years ago,” I said, doing the math. “Do you remember the date?”

  “I’ll never forget that date,” he began to sigh, and then caught himself as I scowled at him. “Oh, you mean the day date. Of course. My date was on Saturday, October sixteenth. And Meteor Boy disappeared the next day, Sunday the seventeenth.”

  October seventeenth, I thought. The twentyfifth anniversary of that event was coming up this Thursday—the exact same day as our science fair.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In Search of Meteor Boy

  I woke up Saturday morning, and for the first time in my life did not get out of bed to rush downstairs to watch The Amazing Adventures of the Amazing Indestructo (and the League of Ultimate Goodness) on TV. I also woke up in my underwear, having abandoned the Amazing Indestructo pajamas that I had worn religiously since I was a little kid. I was determined to never put another dime in AI’s pocket.

  Getting out of bed, I was unaccustomed to the morning chill in the air so I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. This was my normal “costume.” After all, what else would a kid named Ordinary Boy wear?

  When I came down for breakfast the kitchen was already a disaster area. There was no sign of Dad, but he was clearly up and about. The kitchen was filled with stacks of cake pans, pie tins, cupcake trays, you name it.

  “Morning, OB,” I heard my mom say from behind one of the stacks. “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine, thanks,” I responded, looking around for her. Her head finally popped up above a stack of bread loaf pans. She had been bent over, getting the orange juice out of the refrigerator. As she poured me a glass and then gave it a good chill, I had to admit she was doing a good job of pretending that there was nothing odd going on in the kitchen. I moved a ring cake pan from one of the chairs so I could sit down. “So should I even ask what’s happening here?”

  My mom managed to hold the calm look on her face for a few more seconds and then it dropped like icicles off an awning.

  “Your father is going around to all the houses in the neighborhood and borrowing every baking pan he can get his hot little hands on.” She started to seethe.

  It’s funny. My mom is one of the coolest people I know—and I don’t just mean that literally. She’s the living definition of calm, cool reason. In fact, the only person I’ve ever seen make her lose her cool is my father. To be honest, I kind of think that’s one of the things she likes about him—not that I would ever tell her that!

  In a sudden burst of frustration, she pushed a stack of pie tins onto the floor and sat down next to me at the table.

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She sighed as she let the tension flow out of her. “When he gets one of his crazy ideas I guess it’s just best to get out of his way.”

  “That was my plan,” I confided. “I have to get together with Melonhead later today, but this morning I’m meeting up with my team. I figure I might as well give them whatever help I can before I have to deal with my own unfortunate situation.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you,” my mother said, now back to her normally calm self.

  “And I also wanted to do some research on Meteor Boy.”

  “Why Meteor Boy?” she asked. “That’s a twenty-five-year-old event.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “But I found out that Meteor Boy and his friends called themselves the Junior Leaguers. What do you suppose the chances of that are?”

  “I don’t think that’s so strange,” my mom replied.“After all, twenty-five years ago the League of Ultimate Goodness was the most popular team, just like they are today. Those kids were probably modeling themselves after the league in the same way you and your team did.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I admitted.

  Just then I heard an incredible metallic racket as a stack of cake tins tumbled through our kitchen door followed immediately by my father.

  “I think I just about have enough,” he announced as if we were as excited by his project as he was.

  “That’s my cue,” my mother said as she stood up from the table. “I don’t have any work to do at the office, but I’m going there to see what I can find anyway. I’ll be back by dinner, assuming I can get into the kitchen.”

  “But honey . . . ,” my father started to protest as she slipped out the door without another word. Then he turned his attention to me.

  “Say, OB. You like to bake, don’t you?” he said with that won’t-this-be-fun look on his face that I had stopped buying into by the time I was three.

  “Gee, Dad, I would,” I lied. “But I have to plan my science fair project.”

  I backed out of the kitchen until I had cleared the doorway and then turned to bolt into the family room. There, out of sheer force of habit, I turned on the TV. I was just in time for the conclusion of The Amazing Adventures of the Amazing Indestructo (and the League of Ultimate Goodness), and what I saw just about made me choke. AI was on the screen making a live speech. Behind him was a huge banner that read: IN SEARCH OF METEOR BOY. Dumbfounded, I sank to the couch as his words thudded against my eardrums.

  “ . . . and that ultimate fantasy of every boy to fight crime alongside me, the Amazing Indestructo, will soon come true for one lucky winner. To go with the launch of our brand-new line of Meteor Boy action figures and toys, one lucky kid will win the chance to fight crime every week with me here on The Amazing Adventures of the Amazing Indestructo,” AI boomed in his biggest superhero voice.

  An off-camera voice whispered something to AI, who apparently thought he was finished.

  “And the League of Ultimate Goodness,” he finally added after a befuddled pause and in a far more lackluster tone.

  I was already beginning to boil. AI had obviously decided to change his strategy about keeping Meteor Boy hush-hush, and was now preparing to exploit his long-gone sidekick for all he was worth. An announcer came on after AI.

  ;That’s right, boys. Today only we will be holding auditions for the coveted role of Meteor Boy. One child will be selected to portray Meteor Boy both onscreen and at public promotional appearances. So streak like a meteor to the offices of Indestructo Industries by noon today for your chance to battle the forces of evil alongside the Amazing Indestructo himself.”

  I got up from the couch as outrage coursed through me. The announcer continued in a faster, quieter voice.

  “MembersofScreenActorsEquityoranyotherunionareexcluded.Theroleof MeteorBoyisanonpayingrole;however,thewinnerwillbecontractuallyobligatedto appearwhereverandwheneverrequiredbyIndestructoIndustriesoritssubsidiariesor licensees.TheWinnerwillberesponsibleforbuyingandmaintaininghisownMeteor Boycostume. CostumewillbeavailableforpurchasethroughIndestructoIndustries. GirlsmayauditionaswellbutwillnotbechosenasMeteorBoyisaboy. IndestructoIndustriesisanequalopportunityemployer. MeteorBoyisaregistered trademarkofIndestructoIndustries.”

  I had gone too far. And now he was going to answer for it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The March of Science

  Of course, how I was going to make the Amazing Indestructo, the most powerful hero in all Superopolis, answer for his actions was an entirely different question. I was so focused on it that I barely even noticed when the phone rang. My dad picked it up, then poked his head into the TV room.

  “Some kid named Melonhead just called to cancel your meeting this afternoon,” he informed me. “Well, actually he said he had to canthel it, but I’m sure he meant cancel. He said he could meet at the same time tomorrow, though.”

  Perfect, I thought. Now I c
ould use that time to deal with AI. I bolted out of the house and headed for the tree house headquarters of the Junior Leaguers, situated in Stench’s backyard.

  I had only gotten about a block from home when I heard a familiar tinkling bell coming up behind me. I turned around to find Uncle Fluster pulling up alongside me in his truck.

  “Hi, OB,” he greeted me brightly. “Can I give you a ride anywhere? I’m just on my way to Windbag’s junkyard to get myself a new cone for the top of my truck. That’s where I got the one that was stolen yesterday.”

  “Sure, Uncle Fluster!” I said as I hopped into the cab. “That’s where I’m heading, too.”

  “Ahh,” he responded, “there must be a meeting of the Junior Leaguers taking place this morning!”

  “Very important business!” I said with every attempt at seriousness. But I couldn’t hold it and we both started laughing. “Speaking of which, how’s your business been?”

  “The Creamatory? Not good,” he admitted with a look of concern. “But I think I know the reason.”

  “It couldn’t be the name, could it?” I asked, trying to raise just one of the possible problems.

  “No, of course not! I think people haven’t had a chance to see the full range of original flavors that I’ve come up with,” he replied. “So I’ve printed up menus to distribute around town. Here, take a look.”

  He handed me a folded flyer and I opened it up. The list of flavors was truly staggering but not in a good way. There was mustard, broccoli, new car, fish and chips, bacon, mouthwash, and—one that really left me scratching my head—doorknob. There were dozens more, all similar to the extent that you would never see me trying a sample of any of them.

  “Have you ever thought of doing at least a few flavors that people actually know?” I asked.

  “Ha!” he replied. “No one ever became successful by doing the same old thing. It’s the people who try new ideas that come out ahead.”

  Actually I could have named hundreds of people who had become successful by giving people exactly what they wanted, but Uncle Fluster’s truck had just pulled up in front of Stench’s yard.

  “Well, I hope it all works out!” I said as I hurried to get out of the chilly truck. “And thanks for the ride!”

  I headed toward one of the clear pathways between the stacks of junk, but I had only gone a few feet when I ran into Windbag.

  “Hey, O Boy. How goes it?” he asked in his usual jovial manner. “I was just getting ready to head over to your house. Thermo has called an emergency meeting of the New New Crusaders. Any idea what it’s about?”

  “I’m not sure,” I fibbed. Windbag should hear about the cake-baking scheme from the source. “But my uncle Fluster just dropped me off. I think he’s looking for another one of those cones for his truck.”

  “Excellent!” Windbag let out a blast of air that nearly knocked me to the ground. “I knew if I held on to them long enough I’d find a customer—even if it did take twenty years.”

  As I glanced around the enormous collection of miscellaneous junk cluttering up Stench’s backyard, I suddenly understood why there was so much of it. Windbag apparently felt compelled to buy anything that anyone brought him. Even now, a huge aboveground swimming pool was being unloaded and leaned on its side against a mountain of junk.

  LI’L HERO’S HANDBOOK

  HERO’S HANDBOOK PEOPLE

  NAME: Windbag. POWER: Able to produce hurricane gusts of wind with his breath. LIMITATIONS: Gets winded easily. CAREER: A member of the New Crusaders when younger, Windbag currently owns a junkyard, pending the outcome of complaints filed by neighbors. CLASSIFICATION: His bluster is worse than his bite.

  “Well, I better take care of my customer,” Windbag said cheerfully.

  I hurried to the tree that sat in one of the few clearings in Stench’s yard and grabbed hold of the rope ladder that hung from the entrance to our headquarters. As I climbed up the ladder and in through the hole in the middle of the floor, I found the rest of my teammates already there.

  “Did any of you watch AI this morning?” I demanded, not hiding the outrage I was still feeling.

  “No,” they replied almost in unison.

  “Well I caught the last minute of the show and you won’t believe what’s happening,” I blurted out. “AI is planning on bringing Meteor Boy back as a character and making a fortune at the same time by selling Meteor Boy products. And worst of all, today he’s holding auditions to find some kid to play the part.”

  “Cool!” Tadpole said. “Can you imagine becoming a TV star and acting alongside AI every week on his show?”

  Actually, I could. And a week ago, it had been my ultimate fantasy. But things had changed a lot in the last week.

  “Hey, don’t forget who we’re talking about here,” I reminded them. “We all know what a jerk the Amazing Indestructo is.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense for him to do this,”Stench pointed out.

  “Stench is right,” Plasma Girl agreed. “AI has spent the last twenty-five years hiding the fact that Meteor Boy ever existed. Why change strategies now by creating all this attention?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but somebody has got to stop him. We can’t let him get away with exploiting Meteor Boy—a kid just like us who would still be here today if it hadn’t been for AI.”

  Everybody looked at me sympathetically, but nobody chimed in. Instead, they all just glanced nervously from one to the other.

  “We all agree that the Amazing Indestructo is a creep,” Plasma Girl finally spoke for the group. “But Meteor Boy has been gone for over two decades. There’s nothing we can do for him.”

  “We all have science fair projects to get done, too.” Stench shrugged guiltily.

  “And some of us haven’t even come up with a project yet,” Tadpole admitted.

  “Maybe I’m just obsessing about this because I haven’t had a science project to focus on,” I agreed with a resigned toss of my hand. “Melonhead is just impossible to deal with so I haven’t even been thinking about it.”

  “So help Stench and Tadpole with theirs,” Plasma Girl suggested. “Little Miss Bubbles and I have already gotten ours worked out.”

  “It’s a stupid project,” Tadpole whispered in my ear.

  “I heard that,” she scowled. “It is not stupid. It’s all about using various fruit juices to measure the acidity levels in tea.”

  “See what I mean?” Tadpole pretended to whisper to me. Plasma Girl just glared at us.

  “What about you, Hal?” I quickly asked in order to change the subject. “What are you and Cannonball planning on doing?”

  “He wants to do something with static electricity . . .” Hal shuddered involuntarily.

  “And?” I urged him on.

  “. . . and use me as the experiment.”

  We all tried to look supportive.

  “Don’t worry,” I finally said, trying to sound encouraging. “We won’t let him get away with anything mean.”

  “At least you have a project,” Tadpole butted in. “Me and Stench can’t come up with anything.”

  “Just look for an everyday thing you’re interested in and then figure out the science behind it,” I suggested.

  “Like what?” Stench asked, clearly frustrated.

  “People use scientific principles all the time without even realizing it,” I said. “Take for instance when you ride in a car. You always put on a seat belt, right? There’s a very good scientific reason that you do.”

  I went over to the refrigerator that Stench’s dad had been nice enough to outfit our headquarters with and got myself an egg. On the way back, I picked up a toy cart that was lying in the general mess of toys on the floor.

  “Here,” I said, placing the egg inside the cart. “Watch what happens when I roll the cart toward the entrance to our headquarters.”

  There was a raised lip of wood running all around the trapdoor’s opening that had been put in place specifically to prev
ent things from rolling out of the treehouse. Everyone watched intently as I gave the cart a push. With plenty of force it went rolling toward the open trapdoor and the lip of wood. When the cart hit the lip, it came to a sudden halt. But the egg did not. It continued on, flying right from the cart and out through the trapdoor.

  “See?” I said proudly. “That’s why we wear seat belts. It’s called the first law of motion.”

  But before I could explain how an object in motion tends to stay in motion, we heard a shout from down below.

  “I’m gonna murder you little twerps!”

  I jerked around and peered through the trapdoor. Down on the ground was Stench’s annoying older brother, Fuzz Boy. My egg experiment was all over his head.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Open Call

  I would have felt guilty about smacking Fuzz Boy with an egg if I hadn’t also noticed what he was carrying. He had dropped most of them, but he was still holding three or four water balloons which he had obviously been about to pelt us with. And they weren’t normal water balloons, either. These balloons were covered in hair. You see, Fuzz Boy’s power is the ability to grow hair on whatever he touches—on anything from a billiard ball to . . . well . . . a water balloon. What’s really disgusting about his hair-covered water balloons, though, is when they hit you, they not only leave you soaked, but covered with hair clippings.

  All of us watched with horror as Fuzz Boy got back on his feet in a rage. With the handful of surviving hair balloons cradled in one arm, he began using the other to pull himself back up the ladder. It was the dumbest thing he could have done. As his head emerged into our clubhouse, Stench, with only a fraction of the force he was capable of mustering, slammed the trapdoor shut and then yanked it back open.

  None of us could resist watching Fuzz Boy lose control of his water balloons and fall straight to the ground, squealing and clawing at the air the entire way. He landed at exactly the same moment as the balloons, which burst all around him, covering him in a shower of wet hair.