Zeke Bartholomew Read online

  I hated being “medium everything.” I always wanted to be “great at something.” And if I couldn’t save the world—or at least get a B on my geometry exams—I wanted to lose myself in stories of those who could. I tried to immerse myself in their world, but I don’t know karate, I’ve never rappelled down a cliff side, and I’ve never sneaked into a heavily guarded fortress.

  And now an honest-to-goodness spy lived right next door to me. My dreams were just a single door down. Only I had no idea how soon those dreams would turn into a nightmare.

  Fate.

  Fate was laughing at me. Because when I walked into Mr. Statler’s homeroom that morning, he was sitting there. I don’t know how he got to school before me, but I figured he probably owned a motorcycle, or a hovercraft, or a Star Trek–type device that could teleport him from 7 Sunnyvale Drive to Randolph Middle School in itsy-bitsy kid particles.

  But there he was. My new neighbor. Derek. And he was sitting next to Donna Okin. I had to stop my jaw from dropping. Kyle was not so tactful.

  “Close your mouth, geekwad,” I whispered.

  “Fneh,” said Kyle.

  Derek was still wearing his suit, which was complemented by a snazzy royal-blue tie. His hair still looked like it had been parted with a pitchfork, and his sunglasses were tucked into his suit jacket pocket. Donna didn’t seem to mind that he was sitting next to her. In fact, she seemed to very much not mind. She was smiling while crooking her neck, trying very, very hard to get Derek to notice her neck-crooking.

  “I didn’t know necks could bend that way,” Kyle whispered.

  “Pfft,” I replied. “No big deal.”

  But it was a big deal. I’ve gone to school with Donna Okin for nine years, and I’ve never had the courage to sit next to her. She’s never even tried to get my attention, or the attention of any other boy, for that matter. She always sits next to her two best friends, Cynthia Rothstein and Renee Sacks, but always keeps one chair open close by, almost daring anyone to venture into the lion’s den. And then he walks in, takes that chair, and Donna’s neck turns into a Slinky. Okay, I’ll admit it. Part of me was jealous that I wasn’t sitting next to him. I wanted to ask him a million questions. Where has he traveled? Has he ever fought a super-villain? Has he ever surfed atop a tsunami?

  But I was next to Kyle. I always sit next to Kyle. Excitement central. Kyle’s a great friend and all, but he’s about as far from a superspy as I am. Most days Kyle and I sit and goof off, making fun of kids who suck (aka kids who are more popular than us, aka just about everybody). Or we make fun of PB&J.

  PB&J is a horrific pop group consisting of two kids, Penny Bowers and Jimmy Peppers, who sing songs so bad that if my ears could cry and wave a white flag, they would. Yet Kyle and I are in the minority. They’ve sold something like a kajillion albums, played to sold-out arenas, and never seem to break a sweat. Ten minutes of dodgeball and I look like a drowned rat, but these kids’ hairstyles are like impenetrable shields made of titanium.

  Penny always wears pigtails and more makeup than is appropriate for any twelve-year-old, and Jimmy’s sandy blond locks are always shiny and matted down, making it look as though his forehead is trying to peek out through strands of glistening hair. They both sing like they have tubes of sugar hardwired into their bloodstreams, and they suck big time.

  I took my customary seat next to Kyle, who whispered, “He’s sitting next to Donna Okin.” Donna Okin loves PB&J, particularly their new hit song “I Think U R Neat.” So does every other girl in the seventh grade at Randolph. Which means that the smart guys (aka Not Us) pretend to like them too.

  “I didn’t notice,” I said.

  “I think she likes him,” Kyle said.

  “Who cares? He sucks,” was my witty reply. Especially because I said it with no conviction whatsoever. “Besides, what does Derek have that I don’t?”

  “A cool suit. And sunglasses.”

  “I could get those. I have much more to offer than stupid Derek.”

  “He also has, like, plutonium luggage.”

  “Yeah, well, I have cool stuff too.”

  “That’s true,” Kyle said. “Like right now, you have gum stuck to your butt.”

  I whipped around and glared at Kyle. “No, I don’t.”

  “Zeke, I swear. Gum. On your right butt. Cheek. See for yourself.”

  Sighing, I picked my right butt cheek off the chair ever so slightly and gave it an ultra-quick pat down. I closed my eyes when I felt the sticky residue of gum.

  “I told you,” Kyle said.

  “Great. Now what do I do?”

  Kyle shrugged. He stared at Donna looking at Derek. Long enough to make me nudge him for being such an obvious dolt.

  Kyle said, “I bet Derek doesn’t have gum stuck to his butt. I bet there’s a special anti-gum serum on his butt that prevents gum from sticking to it.”

  “How could she like him?” I said softly. “They just met. And besides, who wears a suit and tie in the seventh grade?”

  Donna Okin was twirling one of her blond curls around her finger and staring at Derek from the corner of her eye. She was eyeing him the same way I eye the stove when my dad makes blueberry pancakes.

  Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Statler, came in and closed the door. He took his customary seat on top of his desk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Statler use the chair. I think he thinks sitting on the desk makes him look cooler, but all it does is hike up his corduroy pants so we can see his pale ankles.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Statler said. He always starts with “ladies and gentlemen,” as though we were attending an opera. “I’d like to introduce a new student who will be joining us here at Randolph. Please welcome our newest addition, Derek Lance.”

  Everyone’s eyes went to the new kid. Derek Lance. Derek didn’t move.

  Mr. Statler said, “Derek just moved here from…where did you say you moved from, Derek?”

  “I didn’t,” said Derek.

  “I…I’m sorry?” stammered Mr. Statler.

  “I didn’t say where I was from.”

  “Oh. Okay. Right, then. Well, would you like to tell the class where—”

  “No.”

  “I…uh…right. Well, moving on. Please tell us something about yourself, then, Derek.”

  “I don’t like people who ask too many questions,” Derek said. “They make me angry.” I thought I heard Donna Okin gasp. Or it might have been Kyle. Or Mr. Statler. Or me.

  “Right, then,” Mr. Statler said, nervously pushing his glasses so high up on his nose his eyebrows could see through them. “Let’s talk about tomorrow’s assembly.”

  As Mr. Statler spoke, I turned to look at Derek Lance. He was staring straight ahead. He was looking at nothing in particular, but looking really cool doing it. I tapped Kyle on the shoulder.

  “I made a new one,” I said. “Wanna see?”

  Kyle sighed. “You know the phrase ‘mad scientist’? I think you’re just a ‘bad’ scientist.”

  “You laugh now,” I said. “Just wait.”

  “Should I call the fire department now,” he said, “or wait until I spontaneously combust?”

  “Ha-ha. Look.”

  “You’ve been spending way too much time out there in the lab, Zeke. I’m getting worried about you. I like the cave as much as you do, but it’s supposed to be fun. It’s not supposed to take over your life. Between this and those ‘spies’ who moved in next door, you’re going off the deep end.”

  “I don’t spend too much time there,” I said, unconvinced of my own words. “You used to like spending time there with me. You put up as many blueprints as I did. Enjoyed the designs.”

  “And then I grew up. I don’t want to be a loser forever, Zeke. Spending time in that dungeon keeps us frozen in time. I don�
�t want that.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m happy down there.”

  “Happy? Or delusional, Mr. Bond?”

  I ignored this comment.

  For years, I’ve been an amateur inventor. Kyle has witnessed most of my crafts firsthand—and has had many, many eyebrows and armhairs singed off due to my more juvenile efforts.

  The first gadget he ever saw me make was an infrared motion detector that I assembled using a laser pointer, a couple of nine-volt batteries, and the reflector from my bike. I mounted it at the foot of the stairs to my room so that my dad would trip it whenever he was coming upstairs. That way I’d have plenty of time to turn off any computer games and pick up a math book before he opened the door. The problem was that the device was way too sensitive. It picked up my dad, discarded shoes, even large particles of dust. The first time I tried the device, the alarm went off so often that I developed a nervous tic. Still, I knew I had talent and vision. Parts are another story. Twice our local neighborhood watch has been told to keep an eye out for a “curly-haired man, possibly a midget or leprechaun, looting trash cans.” I mean I’m not as tall as Kyle, but I’m definitely not a midget.

  “So check this out,” I said, reaching into my blue backpack. Kyle looked a little skeptical when I pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  “I think that’s already been invented,” he said.

  “No, that’s my test subject,” I replied. Then I showed him a small device about the size of a pencil sharpener with a digital watch face mounted on top.

  “I didn’t bring safety goggles,” he said. “What is that thing? Is it dangerous?”

  “It’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” I said.

  “Is that a tribute to Penny Bowers and Jimmy Peppers?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “You mean you’re not excited for the debut of their new video tomorrow? The whole world is gonna see it. And we’re gonna be a part of that world!”

  “I’d rather poke out my eyeballs with a rubber duck than watch the new PB&J video,” I said.

  “Well, you’re the only one who doesn’t care,” Kyle said. “I hate them too, but I want to be able to come in to school and be able to talk about it.”

  “Pfft. Whatever.”

  “So what is that gizmo anyway?” Kyle asked.

  “Oh, right. It’s an automatic sandwich-crust slicer. Easy to make. Just a Sabertronics pager motor, a piece of a box-cutter blade, a few nuts and bolts, a calculator watch, and a triple-A battery. Watch.” Kyle winced when I pressed a button on the gizmo, turned a few dials, then placed it on top of the sandwich. “You simply enter the dimensions of your sandwich, and it automatically cuts the edges off to your exact specifications.”

  “Wow. I don’t know how I’ve lived so long without one of those,” he said.

  “You laugh now, but this machine will save you precious sandwich-crust slicing time. Behold.”

  I pressed the Enter button on the watch. The device made a soft snick sound. “That’s the retractable blade,” I told Kyle. “It doesn’t descend until you press Enter.”

  “Or until it gets jostled in your pocket and stabs you in the thigh.”

  “You’re so cynical,” I said. “Just watch.”

  I placed the device at the edge of the sandwich, keyed in the sandwich dimension, and pressed Enter again. Suddenly the machine began to whir—way too loud. It began to saw its way around the sandwich, making an awful scree scree noise as it did. Even Mr. Statler noticed. Then Isabel Berg, a freckled, pigtailed girl and the quietest kid in our homeroom, clapped her hands to her head and began to scream like her ears were on fire. And when Isabel Berg made any kind of sound, something was definitely wrong.

  When the device was finished cutting the sandwich, it stopped. It had cut a perfect square around the sandwich edges. I looked at Kyle triumphantly.

  “See, I told you it…”

  At that moment the sandwich disappeared, falling through a sandwich-sized hole the device had cut through the desk itself. I felt my face grow hot. Kyle and I peered through the square hole in my desk to see the sandwich resting peacefully on the classroom floor.

  The classroom went quiet, except for one voice.

  “This is Stefan Holt, reporting live from the scene.”

  I groaned. Stefan Holt sat three chairs over from me. He had sandy blond hair and always wore a long dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Every time something out of the ordinary occurred, he acted like he was some kind of television reporter, holding a pen to his mouth like he was speaking into a microphone and being broadcast all over the world. Funny when it was about someone else. Not so funny when he was “reporting” about you.

  “There appears to be an equipment malfunction in the homeroom class of Mr. Reginald Statler. The perpetrator, one Ezekiel Bartholomew, could not be reached for comment.”

  “You didn’t even ask me,” I said.

  “Video of Mr. Bartholomew shows the young mad genius red in the face at his latest debacle. Reactions are pouring in from around the globe, and most are appalled at this lack of civility.”

  “Lack of what?” I said.

  “There are rumors, unfounded so far, that Mr. Bartholomew has also peed his pants.”

  A healthy laugh went up from the kids in the room. Mr. Statler tried to calm them down, but couldn’t be heard over the roaring. If my face wasn’t red before, it was probably a deep purple now.

  Finally the room quieted down. Stefan Holt had put his pen back in his desk. Guess the cameras had turned off.

  Then I heard a quiet, cocky laugh. I looked up to see the smiling face of Derek Lance. He was staring right at me. Waiting until his mocking could be heard. It was a belly laugh, almost like he was trying too hard, but there was something beneath it, as though his mocking was personal in a weird way.

  “Mr. Bartholomew?” Mr. Statler said.

  “I know, I know,” I sighed. “See you in detention.”

  Mr. Statler nodded. “And no more of your gizmos in homeroom, otherwise I’ll see you in detention every day for a month.”

  Derek Lance had stopped snickering, but the cocky smile remained on his face. It was imperceptible to anyone else, I think, but he shook his head slightly. Disdainfully. The head shake said one thing: amateur.

  For some reason, this mocking cut me deeper than Donna Okin, the laughter, or Stefan Holt. There was something about Derek Lance that made me uncomfortable. Like he knew who I was, knew what I was trying to do, and was able to cut just in the right spot to strike a nerve. And he had.

  “You know,” Kyle said, “I bet that gadget has at least one thing going for it.”

  “Oh, really? What?”

  “We could use it to cut the gum off your butt.”

  “You know I hate you, right?”

  “Don’t blame the peanut gallery.”

  I ignored Kyle and gritted my teeth. I knew right then and there that I had to turn the tables. I had to know just who Derek Lance was. I had to spy on the spy.

  That night I did what any self-respecting adventurous spy would do—I went through Derek Lance’s trash cans.

  I waited until after my stomach was bursting with a double helping of my dad’s famous spaghetti and meatballs and he was crashed on the couch watching Law & Order reruns. Then I slipped on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt (I didn’t own black). I tried on a pair of cheapo sunglasses, but took them off after I bumped into a tree outside.

  Using the cloak of darkness—or, more accurately, simply hoping nobody saw me—I crept into the Lances’ front yard. Two trash bins were sitting on the curb, filled with all sorts of junk.

  Quietly I removed the lids from the trash bins, took a pen from my pocket, and began to dig through their garbage.


  The top layer was your common junk pile. Soda cans, packing peanuts, empty microwave food boxes. Apparently Derek and I had one thing in common: we both liked fish sticks. Below the fish stick boxes I found the first clue: discarded maps from all over the world. Honduras. The Netherlands. Prague. Iceland. Costa Rica. Beijing. No doubt souvenirs from Derek Lance’s travels around the globe.

  Under the maps I found something even more interesting.

  A compass with a cracked face. It looked heavily used and didn’t appear to be working. Below that I came upon something even more curious: a small blue pillbox with one word printed on the side: Ipecac.

  Whoa. Syrup of ipecac was something spies commonly used when they were poisoned. It was derived from the ipecacuanha plant and, when synthesized, was used to induce vomiting. If a spy was poisoned, a dollop of ipecac syrup would help him upchuck any evil goop he’d been forced to drink. I’d never heard of it existing in pill form. That sounded like some heavy-duty spy stuff, formulated in some underground lab where bespectacled scientists spent hours figuring out how best to make secret agents puke. Awesome.

  I popped the pillbox in my pocket and continued searching. Soon I found a pair of sunglasses…just like the ones Derek Lance wore.

  I wiped them off, placed them over my eyes, and practiced my best spy impersonation.

  “Hey, I’m Derek Lance,” I said to nobody in particular. “Freeze. I’m Derek Lance. Agent Lance. That’s me, all right. You have the right to remain awesome.”

  I cringed. Wow. I made an even dorkier spy than I thought. Still, if I had access to the kind of technology and equipment that Derek Lance did, I’d be able to create some of the coolest devices ever known. Either way, I decided to keep the shades.

  Then, below a few billion packing peanuts, I found a cardboard box for something called a “Red-i-Cam.” The box had contained a small, mountable surveillance camera. I dug deeper and found five more empty Red-i-Cam boxes. I turned around, looked up. And saw them.