Captain Nobody Read Free Page B

us.”
    â€œFor us,” JJ echoed.
    â€œ And ,” shouted Cecil, “for the free candy!”

3
    IN WHICH I SEARCH FOR SOMEBODY I’M NOT

    All through class that morning, Cecil’s questions rang in my ears. Who is my inner other? Do I have a personal hero? Every time we switched to a new subject, I desperately looked for an answer.
    In social studies, before our teacher Mrs. Young did a slide show about the gods and goddesses of ancient Rome and Greece, she called them “the heroes of old.” I sat up, thinking, Wow! Isn’t that what I’m looking for?
    I imagined myself as Zeus, god of lightning. Or maybe Neptune, who ruled the seas. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hurl thunderbolts or control the waves?
    But once Mrs. Young projected their pictures on the screen, I lost my nerve. In slide after slide, these guys were massive, muscley giants. Giants in white robes with flowing beards. Even if I could whip up a white robe and glue on a beard, where was I going to get the muscles?
    Forget that.
    During American History, I got excited by the stories of the pioneers who crossed the dangerous frontier and built our country with their bare hands. “If those people aren’t heroes,” I said to myself, “I don’t know who are.”
    I raised my hand. “Yes, Newt?” Mrs. Young responded.
    â€œMrs. Young, what did the pioneers wear?”
    Behind me, Bobby Asher—who insists on being called “Basher”—snorted, “Clothes, you jerk!” A dozen other kids laughed.
    â€œNewt has a good question,” Mrs. Young said, shooting a look at Basher. “In the early days of America, the pioneers didn’t always have fabric, so they used whatever was available. Sometimes it was animal skins or furs, but if they were desperate, they might make clothes from birds’ feathers or even tree bark.”
    Feathers and tree bark?
    I started to itch. And scratch. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out to be a pioneer. I’d have to keep looking.

    That day, school let out early so we could line the street—like everyone else in town—and watch the Big Game Pep Parade go by.
    Since Fillmore won last year’s game, their band marched past first, trumpeting and drumming up a storm. Behind them came their football players, waving from the backseats of convertibles.
    JJ, Cecil and I stood together at the back of the crowd. Cecil and I couldn’t see much over all the people in front of us, but JJ assured me that my big brother was waving and smiling from the front car.
    Next, the Fillmore Spirit Squad rolled past on the back of a long flatbed truck, clapping and screaming over a PA system.
    â€œWHO’S GONNA MASSACRE MERRIMAC?” Clap, clap. “WE ARE!” Clap, clap. “WE ARE!” Clap, clap. Because Cecil can never resist a rhythm, he clapped along with the cheerleaders.
    Suddenly JJ groaned. “Ugh! Do you believe that?” She wagged a finger at a truck going by.
    I craned my neck to see what was upsetting her. A banner stretched across the Spirit Squad truck said, BEHOLD THE FEROCIOUS FIGHTING FERRET’S OF FILLMORE!
    Â 
    â€œWhy did they have to put an apostrophe in Ferrets?” JJ exploded. “It’s not possessive. It’s plural. F-E-R-R-E-T-no apostrophe-S.” She shook her head in dismay. “I wish they would ask me before they paint these mistakes four feet high.”
    â€œHey,” I said, “are you guys coming to the game tonight?”
    â€œHow can we?” Cecil threw his hands in the air.
    â€œMy uncle tried getting tickets last week, and they told him the Big Game has been sold out since August!”
    â€œAnd did you know,” JJ said, “that people are auctioning tickets online for, like, four hundred dollars apiece ?”
    â€œWow,” I said.
    â€œBesides,” JJ continued, “I have tons to do if I’m ever going to be ready for