M Is for Mama's Boy Page 16

  Suddenly, Duncan let out a powerful sneeze.

  “Uh-oh!” Aiah cried. “Please tell me that was hay fever.”

  “Sorry, duty calls,” Duncan said.

  “Son, I can’t drive you,” Avery said. “The car is a mess.”

  Duncan leaped up and snatched a backpack out of the car. He strapped it to his back and two metal handles popped out. He squeezed them and a rocket lifted him off the ground. “No need, Dad. The GV-761 Rocket Backpack will get me there.”

  “I thought you had learned a lesson about doing things without fancy technology!” Avery cried.

  “I did, Dad, but isn’t this the coolest thing ever? I can go from zero to a hundred miles an hour in two seconds!”

  Duncan saw his family’s disappointed expressions.

  “Fine! I promise to take the bus home,” he said with a grin. Then he rocketed away, leaving the Dewey family looking at the clouds.

  ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT.

  YOU DID IT.

  CONGRATULATIONS.

  YOU CRACKED THE CODES.

  I’D LIKE TO THINK I HAD

  A LITTLE SOMETHING TO DO

  WITH YOUR SUCCESS. I MEAN,

  I ALWAYS KNEW YOU

  HAD IT IN YOU.

  WHAT?

  WELL, I DIDN’T EXACTLY

  CALL YOU A LOSER. YES,

  I MAY HAVE SUGGESTED

  THAT YOU WOULD FAIL.

  BUT IT WAS ALL IN

  GOOD FUN. YOU KNOW,

  I WAS TRYING TO SPARK

  A DESIRE TO PROVE

  ME WRONG. YEAH.

  THAT’S WHAT I WAS

  DOING . . .

  AND IT WORKED!

  ALL THOSE PUT-DOWNS

  AND INSULTS MADE YOU

  INTO A FIRST-RATE SECRET

  AGENT. WHEN THE PRESIDENT

  AWARDS YOU THE MEDAL

  OF FREEDOM SOMEDAY,

  I CERTAINLY HOPE YOU

  THANK ME, THE GUY WHO

  MADE IT ALL POSSIBLE.

  I MEAN, IF I HADN’T SEEN

  YOUR POTENTIAL WHEN

  EVERYONE ELSE WAS READY

  TO GIVE UP ON YOU, WELL,

  WHO KNOWS WHERE YOU WOULD

  HAVE ENDED UP!

  YOU’RE NOT BUYING ANY

  OF THIS, ARE YOU?

  FINE . . . FINE.

  SO, YOU ARE NOW

  OFFICIALLY A MEMBER

  OF NERDS, WITH ALL

  THE PRIVILEGES AND

  RESPONSIBILITIES. I’D

  LIKE TO WELCOME YOU

  PERSONALLY.

  Acknowledgments

  Many secret agents to thank: Susan Van Metre for believing in this series; Chad W. Beckerman for his inspired art direction and Ethen Beavers for his fantastic art (you are why kids buy these books!); Jason Wells, who shouts to the heavens about what I do; as well as everyone at Amulet Books for their incredible support.

  Thanks to Alison Fargis and her entire team at the Stonesong Press. Thanks to Alison for marrying me, and giving me Finn, too. Thanks to Joe Deasy for being an eager reader, even after a dozen drafts. Thanks to Howard Sanders and his lovely family: Zoe, Sylvie, and Phoebe. Thanks to Lauren Meltzner, and everyone at UTA. Thanks, thanks, thanks!

  About the Author

  Michael Buckley, a former member of NERDS, now spends his time writing. In addition to the top-secret file you are holding, Michael has written the New York Times bestselling Sisters Grimm series, which has been published in more than twenty languages. He has also created shows for Discovery Channel, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., TLC, and Nickelodeon. He lives with his wife and their son, but if he told you where, he’d have to kill you.

  This book was art directed and designed by Agent Chad W. Beckerman. The illustrations were created by Agent Ethen Beavers.

  YOU STILL HERE?

  WHAT DOES IT TAKE

  TO GET YOU OFF

  THAT COUCH?

  FINE. I’LL GIVE YOU

  A PEEK AT THE NEXT

  NERDS CASE FILE.

  BUT YOU HAVE TO

  BUY THE REST!

  The Cheerleaders of Doom

  By Michael Buckley

  Read NERDS: Book Three today!

  Contrary to the belief of nearly everyone who knew him, Heathcliff Hodges was not insane. All you had to do was ask him. Sure, he was angry and irrational and had attacked several of the guards at the Arlington Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but anyone would react that way if they had to sit in the group therapy room 414 three hours a day learning how to hug. Every day he and a collection of insane misfits talked about their feelings. It was driving him bonkers.

  “I almost destroyed the world,” Dr. Trouble cried, tears streaming out of the eye holes of the huge black mask he refused to take off his head. It had big antler-like appendages that were incredibly distracting. They were also prone to poking the other patients in the eyes. “I mean, I was this close! If I could have just gotten my mystic pyramid to line up correctly with the path of the sun I would have fried the entire Earth like an egg!”

  “You’ll get another chance,” Ragdoll said, leaning over to give him a hug. She was annoyingly supportive of the other patients in group therapy, which baffled Heathcliff. Ragdoll had built a machine that turned an entire town into paper dolls. Where was her compassion when half the population of Athens, Georgia, was flattened like a pancake?

  “No, I won’t!” Dr. Trouble cried. “The sun only aligns in that precise manner every one thousand years. I blew it!”

  “You could always clone yourself,” said Scanner. His high-tech suit worked like a photocopier, producing unlimited and perfect copies of himself. He had used his duplicates to help rob banks from Arlington to Dallas. Seemed like a great plan to Heathcliff; unfortunately, the fool had run out of toner ink during a heist. “Make a copy of yourself and pack it away for a thousand years. That’s what I’d do.”

  Dr. Dozer smiled at the group. “Those are all good ideas, but let me remind you that they are also against the law. Does anyone have any legal ideas that might make Dr. Trouble feel better?”

  The room was silent as the patients blinked.

  Dr. Dozer frowned. “OK, well, we’ll work on that next time. For now, I’ve noticed that Heathcliff hasn’t spoken.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Heathcliff snarled.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor replied. “Would you prefer your other name? Simon?”

  “I’ve given up on that one, too,” he said.

  “Then what are you calling yourself?”

  Heathcliff grimaced. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Well, until then, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the group?”

  Heathcliff looked around the room with disgust. He considered keeping his thoughts to himself but then wondered if getting a few things off his chest might not make him feel better after all.

  “I hate all of you!”

  “Hey!” Scanner cried. “That’s not very positive!”

  “Scanner, Heathcliff has a right to express his anger. This is a safe harbor,” Ragdoll said.

  Heathcliff turned his angry eyes on Ragdoll. “I particularly despise you!”

  Ragdoll whimpered.

  “I’m losing my mind,” he continued. “And yes, I get the irony that this is a mental hospital, but I was perfectly sane when I was dragged in here. Do you know what it’s like to sit in my room without any diversions—no books, no television, no explosives! All day and all night I have to listen to my roommate, Chucky Swiller, giggle like an idiot at the boogers he digs out of his nose!”

  “Let’s be honest. This isn’t about your situation. This is about the teeth, isn’t it?” Dr. Dozer asked.

  Heathcliff frowned. “Yes! My amazing, glorious, magnificent hypnotizing teeth! Knocked out by a lucky punch from one of my bitterest enemies. And now, look at me. I’m powerless. Just some regular kid with a genius level intelligence—surrounded by morons!”

  He hunched down into his chair a
nd tried to avoid their pitying eyes. What he didn’t want to tell anyone was that, along with the therapy, the empty space where his teeth had been was driving him crazy. He had developed the habit of poking his tongue in and out of the empty cavern, with its coppery-tasting hole, over and over again. He did it day and night as if his tongue might probe once more and find that his front teeth had suddenly returned from a long summer vacation. He could stand it no longer!

  He leaped from his chair and yanked it off the ground. With all his strength he hefted it against a nearby window, which shattered on impact. Heathcliff dashed for it—ready to cut himself to pieces if it meant escape—but before he even reached the jagged window frame two hulking guards were on him. Both of the men were easily six foot seven inches tall, all muscle, with shaved heads and sour faces. They wrapped him in a snug straitjacket and shackled his hands and feet with chains that linked into a padlock at his chest. They slipped a hard plastic mask over his face to prevent him from biting anyone, then hoisted him onto a dolly.

  “You do realize that when I rule this world you will suffer?” he seethed.

  “I believe you’ve made that clear,” a guard said.

  “You dare mock me? You will be the first to taste my merciless rage,” Heathcliff grumbled.

  “Pipe down!” the other guard said. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  Heathcliff was rolled into the visitors’ room. It wasn’t much more than a long hallway, lined with cubicles. Each had a chair that faced a thick glass window. Many of the hospital’s patients were too dangerous to have direct contact with visitors, so the visitors sat on the other side of the window and communicated by telephone.

  The guards propped up Heathcliff next to a window. On the other side was a familiar face—his goon. The man looked like he’d lost a fight. One of his eyes had gone blind and his hair had a peculiar streak of white running down it.

  “So,” he said into the phone his guard held to his ear.

  The goon tried to pick up his phone but one of his hands was nothing but a metal hook. He struggled with the receiver and it fell out of his steel claw seven times before Heathcliff lost his patience.

  “Use the other hand, you fool!”

  The phone was attached to a plastic chord that was very short. To wrap it around to his other ear the goon nearly had to strangle himself.

  “What do you want?” Heathcliff barked but suddenly wished he could take it back. The goon had a reputation as a man who liked to break bones. Heathcliff suddenly worried that the thick glass between them might not be thick enough.

  “I got good news fer ya, boss.”

  “Tell me you’re going to get me out of here,” Heathcliff begged. He was so excited the phone fell from his shoulder on to the desk. The guard stared at it indifferently. Heathcliff leaned over so that his ear was near the receiver.

  The goon shook his head. “Can’t do it, boss. This place is tighter than a drum. They’ve got guards guarding the guards. Never seen anything like it. You know they only put the most dangerous screwballs in here.” The goon paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say you was a screwball.”

  “If you can’t free me, how could anything you’ve come to say be considered good news?”

  “I delivered the present.”

  “The present? What are you talking about?”

  “The box and the letter! Ya know, the one you gave me in case of dire consequences. You said to give it to Gertrude Baker if you ever got arrested. Her mom moved her to Ohio but I got it to her.”

  Heathcliff grinned as he remembered. “If I wasn’t in a straitjacket, I would hug you! Good news, indeed. Do you know what was in the box and the letter?”

  The goon shook his head. “As a goon, I take my employer’s privacy very serious. It’s sort of an unwritten rule of the profession.”

  “Well, you would have hardly understood it, but that present will destroy the world.”

  “How is that good news, boss?” the goon said.

  “Because if Gerdie Baker is as smart as I remember, she’s going to build a machine so dangerous they’ll be forced to let me out so I can stop her. Screwball will soon be free!”

  “Screwball? I thought you were calling yourself Simon.”

  “If the world thinks I’m crazy, who am I to argue?” Screwball said, then a sudden giggling fit came over him. It went on and on.

  “Wow, boss, that laugh is creepy,” the goon said.

  “You like it?” Screwball asked. “I’ve been working on it for a while. I think it has the right combination of foreboding and madness. New name! New laugh! New doomsday plot to destroy the world!”

  Then he laughed again.

  “Real creepy, boss.”

  ARE YOU SATISFIED NOW?

  GOOD! GET OUTTA HERE!