Level 13, p.5
Level 13, page 5
As the hours unfolded, my followers grew, until there were nearly 600. I could almost taste that this was the start of something huge. Time seemed to stand still—at least until I glanced at the clock. Yikes—it was 3:51. I’d promised Mr. Fan-diddly that I’d show up at the fund-raiser, and there were only nine minutes till closing!
I froze up—never a smart thing to do in the middle of a game. The Lamborghini I was driving slammed into a wall, and the explosion took out half a city block. It even scared Elvis, who had a high tolerance for game violence.
I was staring into the webcam like a deer in headlights. “I-I”—I stammered—“gotta go!”
I stuffed Elvis back in the carrier and ran out of the house like the police were after me. I leaped onto my bike and pedaled furiously for the woods. The digital time readout atop the Sycamore Bank building told the whole story: 3:55. There was no way I could drop Elvis off and make it to the fund-raiser in time. As it was, it would take a miracle for me to get to the old library before the P.A.G. shut everything down at four.
I blazed across town, moving at least as fast as the Lamborghini I’d just wrecked. Elvis squealed in agitation, slapping his tail against the side of the carrier.
“Cut it out, man!” I barked at him. “You’ll put us in the ditch!”
I almost went into the ditch anyway when the library came into view. The place resembled the parking lot of the Super Bowl. Cars as far as the eye could see. Huge crowds swarming around food booths and sales tables. It was one minute to closing time!
I stashed Elvis’s carrier in the bushes outside the post office next door. The beaver flashed me a resentful glare, which, believe or not, I could kind of relate to. To be snatched away from video games only to be stuffed into a leafy prison wasn’t something I ever wanted to happen to me. Then I ran for the fund-raiser, trying to look like I’d been there for several hours.
The first face I saw was Pavel’s. His jaw dropped in alarm and he gestured madly toward his cheek. In all the rush to get over here, I’d forgotten to take off the Zorro mask. I ripped it over my head and jammed it into my pocket.
“Why’s everybody still here?” I demanded. “It’s supposed to be ending now.”
“Hey, Cam!” Chuck ran up to us. “Isn’t this amazing? We’re raking in a fortune, so Daphne gave the order to stay open an extra hour. She makes an amazing P.A.G. president, don’t you think?”
“How’d GameFox go?” Pavel asked. “Any problems getting Elvis back in his habitat?”
“About that—” I began.
“Cam!” String exclaimed in his foghorn voice. He was wearing a greasy apron and working at a barbecue grill. He deftly flipped a burger onto a bun and held it out to me. “Have some sustenance, man. You must be starving from all that studying.”
I was honestly so flustered that I forgot myself. “Studying?”
Pavel covered for me. “Our boy’s been hitting the books all afternoon. Lousy way to spend a weekend.”
“Eat,” String commanded. “Nobody cooks burgers like The String.” He dismissed the other food tables with a disdainful wave of his spatula. “Forget the rest, ’cause I’m the best.”
So I ate it. What choice did I have? It was actually pretty good. As I chewed, String put an arm around me. “Listen, Cam, I can’t tell you how much it means to the P.A.G. that you took time away from your schoolwork to support us. Oh, by the way, that’ll be four bucks.”
I didn’t have a penny on me, so Chuck paid my tab. He was only too happy to boost the income for his girlfriend’s fund-raiser.
From then on, it was a parade. Half the eighth grade, and a good chunk of the sixth and seventh, pulled me aside to thank me. And it wasn’t the usual P.A.G. president stuff, either. Everybody went on and on about how impressed they were that I had put my urgent studying on hold to come to the library and support the team. Every single kid knew in his or her heart that there could not be a better leader than yours truly.
“Are you making progress?” Felicia asked earnestly. “Do you feel more in control heading into the midterm progress reports?”
I managed to nod. “But I’ve still got a long way to go,” I added quickly. I didn’t want people to think I’d be back at the helm of the P.A.G. anytime soon. GameFox229 was going great, but it would take a long time to get anywhere near 50,000 subscribers.
“Maybe I could help,” she offered. “I’m great at English. I tutor elementary school kids in my neighborhood. And Jordan gets straight A’s in science—”
“Absolutely not.”
“But you’ve done so much for us.” She was pleading now. “Let us return the favor.”
“I have to do this on my own,” I said firmly.
I couldn’t miss the note of pride in Xavier’s deep voice as he told me to take all the time off I needed. “Don’t worry about the P.A.G.,” he assured me, gesturing around the bustling property. “The fund-raiser’s a smash hit.” His heavy brow furrowed. “I didn’t see my cookies over at the bake sale, though.”
“They must have sold out first,” I put in quickly. “Nobody can resist pink icing.”
I made my way around the tables, being thanked and overappreciated. Mostly, I wanted to cross paths with Mr. Fan-yada-yada so I’d get credit for showing up. If I didn’t, he might want to have another talk in his office.
Instead of the guidance counselor, I ran into the other 50 percent of Duckne.
Daphne’s eyes narrowed at me. “What are you doing here?”
I told her what everybody had been telling me. “I’m taking time away from studying to support my fellow paggers.”
“Not like that, you’re not,” she said sharply.
“Huh?”
“You’re not helping the fund-raiser by walking around, doing nothing. Don’t just stand there. Find a table and work.”
“What table?” I challenged.
“Any one.” She pointed to a long desk piled high with books and magazines. “How about the library overstock sale? Natalie’s been working there all day. Give her a break.”
I didn’t enjoy being pushed around. Then I thought of Chuck, who got pushed around by Daphne full-time rather than just at the occasional fund-raiser, poor slob.
I wandered over to the desk and told Natalie to take the rest of the afternoon off. It wasn’t as if we had any customers for old dog-eared books anyway. The fund-raiser was a mob scene, but the library overstock table was doing a nice quiet business of zero. It wasn’t hard to see why. Our stock was pretty lame—outdated magazines, crossword puzzle books that were half filled in, scratched CDs of oompah music, and—
What was this? From the midst of the pile of old junk nobody wanted, a familiar illustration caught my eye. That was no CD case—it was a video game! And not just any game, but Guardians of Geldorf, one of my all-time favorites. I thought the only video games the library had were things like Pong and Ms. PacMan, Grandpa Edition. But Guardians of Geldorf was awesome—not new, but definitely a timeless classic. I must have spent a thousand joyous hours blasting Geldorfians out of their escape pods—that is, before our copy got thrown out, thanks to my stupid sister. When Melody gave up gaming, she tossed all her stuff, and Guardians must have been in there somewhere. Tragic.
And here was a new copy. Well, not new—ancient. It was only one dollar, which proved how dumb the library was, charging so little for a fantastic game.
Being flat broke, I whistled Pavel over and made him buy it for me.
“It’s pretty beat-up,” he observed critically. “Think it’ll play?”
“It’s a good omen,” I decided. “For GameFox.”
From the center table, by the library’s front entrance, a woman’s scream rang out. Suddenly, people were running, scattering in all directions. Someone jostled one of the food tables, and a large pyramid of Rice Krispies Treats toppled to the grass.
“What’s going on over there?” Pavel wondered.
Warning shouts reached our ears, and more screams. The agitated customers began bumping into each other, and one side of the burger table collapsed, sending mustard, relish, and fixings sliding down the slope. I spotted String wheeling his barbecue grill out of harm’s way for all the world like he was going out for a long pass. Xavier rescued a three-tiered cake—one of the raffle prizes—a split second before the pedestal was kicked out from under it. More tables began to go down, almost like a domino effect.
I turned to Pavel. “If you run into Mr. Fan-thingy, I was home studying the whole time.” It wasn’t worth getting credit for showing up if I might get blamed for something that wasn’t even my fault.
Pavel wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was watching the chaos with analytical concentration. “It looks like everybody’s running away from some kind of disturbance on the ground.”
“What disturbance?” I asked.
Before the words were out of my mouth, Daphne answered the question with a howl that echoed from one end of town to the other.
“El-vis!!”
Instinctively, I looked over at the flagpole next door. Sure enough, the overturned pet carrier stuck halfway out of the bushes, the door hanging open.
Okay, scratch the part about it not being my fault. At least I could share the blame with whoever had put such a weak door latch on the pet carrier, and with Mother Nature, who’d given beavers such powerful front teeth.
I would never take credit away from Cameron Boxer. He created the Positive Action Group, which was the greatest club in the history of Sycamore Middle School—maybe even in the history of middle school, period.
But Cam was such a laid-back guy. If it weren’t for his accomplishments, I might have been tempted to say there were times he seemed like a slacker. And I couldn’t help wondering if the P.A.G. might be even better with more of a “high-energy” person at the head.
Me, for instance.
The fund-raiser was a smash hit. We raised over $11,000 for the library. Not exactly enough for the new building, but a fantastic start. The turnout was triple what we expected, and business was so good that I gave the order—and Mr. Fanshaw agreed—to stay open for an extra hour.
In fact, the only thing that went wrong was when String’s hamburger station ran out of hot mustard and people had to use the regular kind. As P.A.G. president, I had to take responsibility for that. I would definitely be better prepared next time.
Oh, yeah—there was also that part at the end where a riot broke out and all the tables got smashed.
Lucky for us, Dr. Casper, our town vet, was there, or it would have taken a lot longer than twenty minutes to get Elvis under control. Poor little soul; he was almost crazy. What did we expect with hundreds of people dozens of times his size trying to catch him? It was a miracle he didn’t get stomped on. That would have been dangerous, especially since Elvis had lost so much weight. He looked more like a super-tall bucktoothed squirrel these days—except for the big flat tail. At least that wasn’t going to waste away.
When Dr. Casper finally got his arms around Elvis, Chucky showed up with his pet carrier. That was why he was such a great boyfriend: In the middle of so much chaos, he had run all the way home and come back with exactly what we needed. A girl could depend on a guy like that.
Dr. Casper frowned at the cage. “That’s okay for a cat or a small dog. But the door latch isn’t strong enough to hold in a wild animal like a beaver.”
“Tell me about it,” put in Cam in a forlorn voice.
Considering the vet had just told him about it, that comment didn’t make a lot of sense.
“But why did he come here?” I asked Dr. Casper. “A wild animal stays away from crowds of people, right?”
“Depends on the wild animal,” Pavel interjected. “If you’re a hungry lion, technically, crowds of people could be a big attraction.”
Chucky and I had a very mature relationship. I wasn’t so sure about the other two members of the so-called Awesome Threesome, though.
The vet seemed stumped. “Beavers are ordinarily very territorial. I don’t know what made your Elvis wander so far from his lodge.”
“I do,” I said mournfully. “He isn’t happy. Look how skinny he is.”
“It’s normal for a beaver to be underweight coming out of the winter,” Dr. Casper assured me. “There are many reasons why a beaver might wander. Confusing smells might upend his sense of territory. Especially if he believes he’s pursuing a mate—”
“A mate?” I jumped on that. “You mean, like, a girlfriend?”
The vet laughed. “It’s just one of many possibilities. Try not to assign too many human characteristics to a wild animal. In the long run, his nature will tell him how to behave.”
But the more I thought about it, the more logical it seemed. Chucky and I had found each other. Why not Elvis? He deserved happiness, too.
Could it be that Elvis sensed a girlfriend in the area somewhere? Maybe another beaver who got separated from her colony when they built the new mall across town?
Chucky wasn’t a big fan of that theory. “I don’t know, Daph,” he said as the P.A.G. cleanup crew carried what was left of the smashed library tables and piled them by the curb for the trash to haul away. “It sounds a little far-fetched to me. Shouldn’t there be a simpler explanation?”
“Like what?”
“Well, like maybe somebody brought him here?”
“Who brings a beaver to a fund-raiser?” I demanded. “He doesn’t have any money!”
“Well, maybe— Ow!”
As Pavel and Cam marched past lugging a broken desk, one of the legs whacked Chucky in the back of the head. If I hadn’t known they were best friends, I’d have sworn they did it on purpose.
The three squared off, and a kind of message flashed among them that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Part of it was definitely jealousy. Chucky was the first of them to have a girlfriend, and the other two felt left behind.
As good as a relationship could be, it could throw other friendships out of balance. It was absolutely worth it, but it was still kind of sad.
Elvis was lucky to be a beaver. When he found his mate, things would be a lot less complicated.
The hardest teacher at Sycamore Middle School was Mr. Proothi. If you ended up in one of his social studies classes, you’d better be ready to work twenty-five hours a day. He was a tough grader, too. A B-minus from Proothi was the equivalent of 100 percent from everybody else. There was a rumor that he once gave someone an A and the poor kid dropped dead of shock right there in the classroom.
The only things scarier than Mr. Proothi himself were his assignments. The worst part was how he told you about them—like a torturer who really enjoyed his job.
“Who’s Who in the American Revolution will make up seventy percent of your grade. Do the math, people. There’s no way you can pass if you don’t ace this project. And if you don’t pass social studies, no high school next year. So if you take this lightly, make sure you’re the kind of person who appreciates sweating in an un-air-conditioned summer school classroom …”
I hated him, of course—we all did—but I wasn’t worried about passing. I was a great student, and social studies was my favorite subject. Things like history and politics interested me—I was student body copresident along with Jordan. I was in greater danger of being the next A-induced heart attack than I was of sweltering in summer school.
But that was me. You could see faces turning green as the teacher went on and on about how demanding this was going to be, how we had to learn to budget our time or else, and how no late papers would be accepted.
A hand waved in the air. “Can I go to the bathroom?” asked Cam Boxer.
Mr. Proothi frowned. “Don’t you think you should wait until I’ve finished giving you the details of this assignment? After all, your school career could depend on it.”
“So I can go?” Cam persisted. Without waiting for an answer, he got up and ran out of the room.
I was worried about Cam. A lot of people were. He created the P.A.G., which was the best thing about Sycamore Middle School. If it weren’t for the P.A.G., Jordan and I never would have agreed to call off the election and share the president’s job. But it wasn’t just us; it was everybody. String might never have gotten back on the football team. Xavier might still have been in trouble with the law. Elvis wouldn’t have his habitat, and the whole town would have lost our main exit ramp from the interstate.
The P.A.G. made life better for all of us.
All of us except for Cam.
He put his whole heart into the organization. He gave and gave and gave, never thinking of himself. And eventually, he fell so far behind in his schoolwork that he was in danger of flunking out.
That was why he went to the bathroom just now. He knew he didn’t have a prayer of doing well on Who’s Who in the American Revolution. And he knew that a jerk like Proothi would never be understanding enough to cut him a break.
It made me really sad. Guilty, too—we were all so wrapped up in our own accomplishments through the P.A.G. that we never noticed that the guy who made it possible was sinking in quicksand.
I waited for Cam to come back to class, but he never did. He must have been really upset to disappear like that. So when Mr. Proothi was done giving us the assignment, I excused myself, grabbed my iPad, and went to search for Cam.
The halls were deserted in the middle of fourth period. I stationed myself outside the boys’ room to wait for him. After a couple of minutes, Pavel and Chuck emerged, stuffing their phones into their pockets. I always wondered what a student leader like Cam had in common with a couple of video-game heads like them.
“Is Cam in the bathroom?” I whispered.
They hemmed and hawed like I’d asked them for the nuclear launch codes, and disappeared around the corner.
I was brave enough to knock on the door. “Cam, are you in there? It’s me, Kelly.”
