Captain Nobody Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - IN WHICH NOBODY EATS BREAKFAST

  Chapter 2 - IN WHICH HALLOWEEN PLANS ARE MADE—SORT OF

  Chapter 3 - IN WHICH I SEARCH FOR SOMEBODY I’M NOT

  Chapter 4 - IN WHICH FOOTBALL IS PLAYED AND MISTAKES ARE MADE

  Chapter 5 - IN WHICH THE BAD DREAMS BEGIN

  Chapter 6 - IN WHICH I GET A TERRIBLE IDEA

  Chapter 7 - IN WHICH I HIDE—AND FIND MYSELF

  Chapter 8 - IN WHICH I RAISE MY VOICE

  Chapter 9 - IN WHICH I PRACTICE MY NEW NAME

  Chapter 10 - IN WHICH I MAKE A WILD WARDROBE CHOICE

  Chapter 11 - IN WHICH CAPTAIN NOBODY FACES A FEAR

  Chapter 12 - IN WHICH CAPTAIN NOBODY FIRST COMES TO THE RESCUE

  Chapter 13 - IN WHICH DAD MEETS CAPTAIN NOBODY

  Chapter 14 - IN WHICH CERTAIN THREATS ARE MADE

  Chapter 15 - IN WHICH BAD SPELLING LEADS TO SOMETHING WORSE

  Chapter 16 - IN WHICH I DON’T APPEAR ON THE FIVE O’CLOCK NEWS

  Chapter 17 - IN WHICH I CHEAT DEATH

  Chapter 18 - IN WHICH I LEARN AN UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH

  Chapter 19 - IN WHICH REGGIE RATNER DECIDES TO END IT ALL

  Chapter 20 - IN WHICH I CLIMB UP TO THE SKY

  Chapter 21 - IN WHICH I FINISH FALLING

  Chapter 22 - IN WHICH I FINALLY GET TO THE HOSPITAL

  Chapter 23 - IN WHICH I WAKE UP IN THE NEWS

  Chapter 24 - IN WHICH A LITTLE OLD LADY MAKES ME LAUGH

  ALSO BY Dean Pitchford

  The Big One-Oh

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2009 by Dean Pitchford.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  .

  Text set in Matt Antique.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  eISBN : 978-1-101-02484-3

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Marie, who taught me the power of words

  PROLOGUE

  Uh-oh. This is not good.

  I’m falling.

  I’m not going to scream and yell about it, cuz I’m not the kind of kid who makes a lot of noise, but I’d like you to understand how critical my situation is. I—who am normally so terrified of heights that I avoid standing on tiptoe—I . . .

  . . . am . . .

  . . . FALLING!

  A very, very long way.

  How’d this happen? One moment, I was high above the ground, clinging to the rickety wooden ladder that runs up the side of Appleton’s last remaining water tower, and in the next blink, my foot snapped through a rotted rung, my feet dropped out from under me and my hands lost their grip. I dropped backward—falling, falling, falling.

  And I’m still going. Funny thing is, I’m not really scared. Maybe that’ll come, but now, with all this time on my hands, I’m suddenly aware of a bazillion questions rocketing around inside my skull. Questions like:

  Is the sky always this color, or does it just look so amazingly blue because I’m closer to it?

  Did any of those firemen and police on the ground see me fall?

  If they did, will they catch me?

  If they don’t, will it hurt when I land?

  And if it does, will I have to go to school tomorrow?

  But before I can answer any of those questions, they all get pushed aside, and my brain flips backward through a blizzard of pictures . . .

  . . . and feelings . . .

  . . . and smells . . .

  . . . and moments . . .

  . . . and the page-flipping stops—screech!

  Yeah, I remember now.

  It was the morning of the Big Game. The last time everything was okay.

  1

  IN WHICH NOBODY EATS BREAKFAST

  The sun wasn’t up yet. It was the last Friday in October, so my breath made white puffs in the dark, cold air as I stepped out on the front porch to bring in the newspaper. In thick, black letters, the front page of the Appleton Sentinel announced, “Tonight’s Big Game Is Biggest Yet!”

  “You’re not kidding,” I muttered as I went back into the kitchen to start breakfast. Mom used to make it, but her phones usually start ringing by seven, and she gets distracted. One morning last year, after she poured milk into a bowl filled with strips of raw bacon, I offered to take over.

  This particular morning, I got the Mr. Coffee brewing, and then I pulled the sports section from the paper. I almost whooped with surprise. There, at the top of the page, was a giant color photo of my big brother, Chris.

  Chris Newman.

  I know exactly what you’re saying now: “Chris Newman? The football player? Really? I didn’t know he had a brother!”

  Yup. Chris Newman has a brother. A short, skinny, freckled, ten-year-old brother.

  Newton Newman.

  I’m not kidding. Newton. My parents swear that when they named me, they were thinking about the guy who discovered gravity and not about a fig cookie.

  The article under my brother’s picture began with a history of the Big Game and how it’s been played for almost forty years between my brother’s team, the Ferocious Ferrets of Fillmore High School, and their crosstown archenemies, the Chargers of Merrimac High.

  Merrimac has always beat the pants off Fillmore. Always.

  But two years ago, “while still an untested sophomore,” the article said, “Chris Newman came off the bench to replace the quarterback in the last twenty seconds of the Big Game—with Fillmore five points behind. It was an electrifying debut.”

  I still get goose bumps when I remember the moment my brother took the snap. He backed up, looked around frantically for an open receiver, and when he couldn’t find one, he put his head down . . .

  . . . and plowed seventy-three yards down the field to deliver the first Fillmore victory against Merrimac. Ever!

  “Last year, as a junior,” read the last paragraph of the article, “Newman led the Ferrets to a second Big Game victory, and this year, with both teams undefeated, excitement is running high. Chris New-MANIA is sweeping the town!”

  As I folded up th
e paper, I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. That’s my big brother they were writing about!

  I scrambled a platter of eggs and cooked up some sausages. The smells from the stove floated upstairs, and pretty soon, Dad came bounding down.

  “G’mornin’, kiddo,” he said. “Smells good.”

  “Dad!” I grabbed the paper. “Check out what the Sentinel said about—”

  Just then, Dad’s cell phone rang, playing the Ferrets’ fight song.

  “Hang on, Newt,” he said as he flipped the phone open.

  My dad’s the supervisor for a company that builds buildings all over the county—apartment houses and offices and places like that—so, in the weeks before the Big Game, before the first winds of November whip into Appleton and freeze the ground, Dad has to make sure that every hole that needs digging gets dug.

  Dad started unrolling blueprints on the kitchen counter, so I just scooped eggs and sausages onto a plate, poured a cup of coffee, and set them down where he could reach them as he talked. I figured I’d tell him later about the article.

  That’s when Mom staggered in, lugging a sledgehammer and a dozen For Sale signs for the houses she would try to sell that day. “Sweetie,” she mumbled, pecking me on the cheek, “did you see what I did with the keys to that three-bedroom on Elwood Street?”

  I nodded toward the refrigerator. “Check behind the frozen waffles.”

  She looked startled. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Leaning the hammer and the wooden stakes against a wall, she opened the freezer and pulled out a frost-covered ring of keys. With a sigh, she dropped them into the pocket of her bathrobe. “I swear, Newt, if it weren’t for you, I’d forget my head.”

  “Mom!” I waved the newspaper over my head. “You gotta see this morning’s sports sec—” But that’s when the kitchen phone rang. Mom held up a wait-a-second finger and plucked the receiver off the wall.

  “Good morning! . . . Oh, hi, Carole. . . . Tonight’s cookout? Well, if you’ve got a question, I’ve got an answer.”

  Since Chris’s sports career took off, the number of family friends who show up for my parents’ pregame tailgate barbecues has grown to the size of a small village. At first, Mom always takes charge and tells people what dishes to bring. But then she forgets.

  “Newt,” Mom said, holding the phone against her chest, “it’s Carole Hennessey from across the street. Remind me—is she bringing a gallon of coleslaw or ice cream for thirty?”

  “Mrs. Hennessey’s in charge of potato chips,” I said. “Ten bags.”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed and returned to her call. “Carole? I just remembered!”

  She waved off the plate of food I’d prepared for her, but she cradled the phone to her shoulder so she could take the cup of coffee I’d poured. She sipped it as she walked around from room to room, stretching the phone cord to its limit.

  Dad hadn’t touched his food either, so I ate my breakfast, rereading the sports pages and waiting for Chris.

  Ever since I’d started making breakfast for my family last year, Chris and I developed a little routine for whenever he’d oversleep. I would open his bedroom door and shout, “Hit the showers!” just the way I’d heard his coaches order over the years. Chris would usually mumble something and lob a pillow in my direction, but after a minute or two, he’d swing his legs out of bed.

  The week before the Big Game, though, my parents stopped me from going upstairs. “Let him sleep,” they’d say. “He’s having a hard week.”

  After Fillmore beat Roosevelt Prep last Saturday night, Chris’s team had only one day off before they doubled up their workouts in preparation for the Big Game. Then after practice, Chris had to run around town doing interviews on the local TV and radio stations. And when he got home every night after the rest of us had finished eating, he took his dinner up to his bedroom and did his homework until late.

  For almost all of last week, I didn’t see him before I went to sleep. Finally, last night I caught him in the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth.

  “I bet you’re really tired, huh, Chris?” I asked excitedly.

  “Down to the bone,” he sighed, before he rinsed and spit.

  “I heard you on the radio.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He wiped his chin.

  “You were awesome!”

  “Thanks.”

  And then he was gone.

  He wasn’t being rude. He was just tired. I totally understand. But that’s how it’s been with us for a while now.

  Dad interrupted his first phone call to jump on a second one and then another. He still hadn’t touched his food. From time to time he’d motion for me to fetch him a pencil or to pour him more coffee. Mom wandered in and out, still talking to Mrs. Hennessey and peeking at the faxes that had started to curl out of the machine on her corner desk.

  I stood at the stove, drumming my fingers in frustration. Pretty soon I’d have to leave for school, and I still hadn’t shown Mom or Dad the newspaper article about Chris, and nobody had eaten my breakfast.

  I looked down at what was left. The sausages were cooling in their grease. The eggs were getting watery. And I was getting . . . steamed.

  I hardly ever get steamed.

  Now, I realize there’s really not a lot I can do to help my family as they whiz through their busy days. And maybe I don’t build buildings or win ball games. But if I make breakfast, the least they can do is eat it!

  Since Mom and Dad were still on the phone, I focused all my frustration on Chris. Ignoring their instruction to “let your brother sleep,” I dropped my spatula, stormed upstairs and threw open his bedroom door.

  “Hit the showers!” I barked.

  As usual, Chris mumbled, “I’mupI’mup,” and tossed a pillow my way. But it wasn’t enough to wake him. When he started to snore again, I hit the roof.

  “HIT THE SHOWERS!” I bellowed, louder than I’d ever bellowed before.

  Startled, Chris jerked his head up and looked around through half-closed eyes. “Stop yelling,” he growled sleepily, and, with all the strength of a star quarterback, he threw another pillow at me. The force of his throw, however, made him roll forward, and in an avalanche of sheets and blankets, he tumbled out of bed. THUD!—he hit the floor hard.

  Then my big brother—who’s always getting tackled by monster football players and never complains—whimpered one high-pitched, teensy word.

  “Ow.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh.

  “Not funny, bro,” Chris grunted, which only made me laugh harder. Which only upset Chris more.

  He struggled to his feet, and wearing only a pair of gym shorts, he chased me down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the backyard.

  That’s where I turned the garden hose on him.

  When the freezing water hit his bare skin, Chris’s eyes finally flew open. He waved his arms in frantic surrender and shrieked, “I’m up! I’m up!”

  Still holding their phones, Mom and Dad came dashing out of the house, mouths open in astonishment.

  “Now,” I said quietly, “who wants breakfast?”

  2

  IN WHICH HALLOWEEN PLANS ARE MADE—SORT OF

  When I got to school that morning, the playground at Appleton Elementary was packed with kids running around, punching each other, and shrieking as usual. I took a deep breath and squeezed my way through the crowds. Whenever I saw one of my classmates, I waved and quietly said, “How’s it going?” like I do every morning.

  And like they do every morning, they looked right through me.

  I plopped down on a large boulder at the far end of the school yard, sharpened a pencil and began to draw in my Secret Superhero Sketchbook.

  When I was really small, Chris would sit me in his lap and read to me from his humongous collection of comic books. Even though I was too young to understand the stories, I was hypnotized by the pictures of the super-heroes with their awesome powers. As soon a
s I could hold a pencil, I spent hours on the floor of Chris’s bedroom, carefully tracing the characters in his comics. When I got a little older, I began to invent my own.

  My first sketches were pretty crummy, but eventually my scrawls began to take shape. First I created Master Key, a crimefighter whose hands could transform into keys that could open any lock in existence. After that came Paper Boy, who could flatten his body until it was so thin that he could slip under any door. Since then, I’ve filled dozens of Secret Superhero Sketchbooks, but I’ve never shown my drawings to anyone.

  Except JJ and Cecil, of course.

  Juanita Josephina Gonzalez—JJ for short—is the tallest girl in the fourth grade, and with a head full of thick, untamed black hair, she cast a very recognizable shadow over my sketchbook.

  “Hey, JJ,” I said without looking up.

  “Hey, Newt.” She leaned over my shoulder and studied the picture. “Ooh, I like this one. What’s his name?”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Cecil Butterworth shouted, racing across the playground. “Don’t tell the story yet!”

  Cecil is the only kid in our class who is shorter and skinnier than I am, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in volume. Once he joined us, Cecil clapped his hands and said, “All right, let’s have it! Who’s today’s superfreak?”

  “I’m calling this one Guy Wire. He used to be a wimpy librarian, but after he was exposed to radiation from a meteorite, he discovered that he could stretch his arms and fingers and legs into steel wires and do cool things like turn his legs into springs and bounce anywhere he wants to go.”

  “Sweet!” laughed Cecil.

  “Highly commendable.” JJ nodded.

  “Highly what?” Cecil raised an eyebrow. “Lady, sometimes I swear you swallowed a dictionary.”

  JJ taught herself to read at the age of three with the help of a wooden alphabet puzzle and a really big brain. She hasn’t stopped reading ever since.