A three-year-old rounded the corner with a bottle of soapy bubble solution in his hand. The other hand waved a bubble wand, flicking soap onto the hardwood floor.
“What the . . . ?” Spencer grabbed the wand from the child’s hand. “Who are you?” A second later, two more three-year-olds came careening into view, one with a butter knife, the other with a pair of scissors.
“Whoa!” Spencer said, seizing his littlest brother by the arm and prying the scissors from his grasp. “If you’re going to play inside with friends,” Spencer lectured, “then you have to be respectful of Aunt Avril’s house.”
Max merely hissed at his older brother, exposing a chipped front tooth. He made an attempt to grab the scissors back and then ran off.
Spencer was alone in the entryway. His other siblings had dumped their backpacks on the floor and quietly crept downstairs. Afternoon cartoons on the big flat-screen TV attracted them like moths to a porch light. Not the porch light at Spencer’s house, though. It had been left on 24–7 and burned out weeks ago.
Spencer sighed. For a house with so many windows, it surely seemed dark. He crossed the room and twisted the wooden blinds to let some light in. Something darted out from behind the leather sofa, nearly stopping Spencer’s heart. It was a cat. Since when did they have a cat?
Spencer picked up a toy dump truck and kicked some stuffed animals out of his way. The mess in this house was maddening. He would clean things up after dinner, but right now, Spencer needed some time in his sanctuary.
“Spencer!” his mother called as he headed toward the stairs.
“Here, Mom!” he answered as if she were calling roll.
“Spencer, come in here and tell me about your day.”
Resignedly, Spencer left his backpack on the first step and walked into the kitchen. His mother was a whirlwind. Alice Zumbro was stooped down, digging for the colander while balancing a steaming pot of noodles in one hand and trapping a spatula between her knees as she pinned the phone to her shoulder with her cheek. Her apron nearly tripped her when she stood up, colander in hand, and crossed to the sink.
Spencer stood obediently near, wishing he could help, but knowing that his mother preferred to do everything on her own. Especially since Dad had left.
Finally she turned to him, her face moist from the steam of the noodles and her hair sticking in strands to her forehead.
“How was school today?” she whispered around the phone.
“Fine.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Mom,” Spencer protested. “You’re on the phone. I’ll tell you later.”
Alice shook her head. “Tell me now. It’s just your Aunt Avril.” She carried the dripping noodles across the room and set them on the table, steaming water still oozing out of the colander. “Well?” she mouthed as she passed him on her way to the stove.
“Well?” echoed Spencer. “The bus ride was boring this morning,” he began. “Boring and long.”
“Uh-huh,” his mom responded, though Spencer wasn’t sure if it was intended for him or Aunt Avril.
“I sat by myself because James and Holly and Erica have all made friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mrs. Natcher was gone and we had a substitute named Miss Leslie Sharmelle. She was nice, but some of the kids were mad because we didn’t get morning recess.”
“Oh, Avril, don’t worry about that,” Alice scolded into the phone. Then she looked right at Spencer and gave him a very clear “uh-huh,” answering his question about who the grunts were intended for.
“Then this big kid, Dez, went berserk and chucked spit wads all over, so Miss Sharmelle took him to the office.”
“Uh-huh.”
“In P.E., I was picked last for kickball. I ate lunch by myself and accidentally spilled ketchup on my shirt, see?” Spencer stretched his shirt to show his mom the red spot. She tried to glance, but got distracted by the can opener.
“Then, at lunch recess I met some aliens. They were pretty cool and showed me their ray guns and stuff. So I zapped everybody except Daisy Gates, ’cause everybody picks on her. Then the aliens gave me a lift back to our
real
home in Washington.”
“That sounds neat, Spence,” Alice answered. She gave him a dismissive smile, said, “Oh, I know,” to Aunt Avril on the phone, then said “Shoot!” because she realized that she hadn’t put the noodles in a bowl and the colander was leaking hot water everywhere.
Spencer ducked out of the cluttered kitchen—
Aunt Avril’s
kitchen—and made his way back to the stairs. His backpack was still there, but someone had flicked soapy bubble solution on one of the shoulder straps. Spencer picked it up carefully and jogged up the stairs, dodging piles of dirty clothes and an open can of soda as he went. He moved quickly, hopeful that there would be no more distractions.
With a sigh of relief, Spencer opened the door and stepped into his bedroom. Everything was clean. Everything had its place. And everything was
always
in its proper place . . . except for a heap of pillows in the middle of the floor!
“Max,” Spencer muttered disapprovingly as he put the pillows back—two on the bed and two in the padded window seat. Spencer hung his backpack on a hook and sat down on a chair to remove his shoes.
It was Monday. Two lonely weeks at Welcher Elementary were over and another had just begun. Fifty more weeks until Aunt Avril and Uncle Wyatt would return from business in Thailand and claim their house back—or whatever was left of it.
Spencer wanted a snack. He had some treats in his top drawer, but he hadn’t washed his hands from school yet. He couldn’t bring himself to snack without washing and he couldn’t wash without leaving his tidy sanctuary. For a moment he sat perfectly still. He closed his eyes, letting the school day settle behind him.
Something wet flicked across his face. For a terrible moment Spencer thought that Dez Rylie had somehow thrown a spit wad so far that it had penetrated his sanctuary. Spencer’s eyes opened and he saw one of Max’s friends emerge from hiding, bubble wand in hand. The kid was making a break for the door, giggling wildly.
Spencer would have zapped him if he’d had a ray gun.
Chapter 3
“Disgusting.”
Miss Leslie Sharmelle gave them morning recess the next day. It was only a ten-minute break, but at least it was ten minutes that Spencer could get away from Dez’s grubby hands. The big bully had been poking Spencer all morning. His trip to the principal’s office obviously hadn’t been enough to inspire good behavior.
Spencer cursed the seating chart after recess as Dez plopped down beside him again. Miss Sharmelle had thrown out Mrs. Natcher’s lesson plans and decided to teach algebra. Daisy Gates, who had only briefly heard about algebra, thought it was some kind of deep-sea creature. Dez encouraged the myth, giving life-sucking tentacles to the dangerous algebras. Daisy, who had wholeheartedly forgiven Dez of his cruelty the day before, was ready to believe him. But then the lecture started and Miss Sharmelle (wearing a shirt that said X + Y = XOXOXO) shot down the myth.
Miss Sharmelle, who had previously been so exciting, suddenly delivered the most dreadfully boring lecture possible. Spencer’s head began to bob like a basketball dribbling in slow motion. The first time it drooped, he jerked up, embarrassed. He’d had this problem in his old school—falling asleep even when he really wanted to learn what the teacher was explaining. Glancing around, Spencer noticed that several others were fading too.
Not Dez. He slouched forward with a melty handful of M&Ms. Carefully, he placed a candy up his nose. Plugging the other nostril, he exhaled hard, blowing out the M&M and catching it on his waiting tongue.
“Disgusting,” Spencer muttered. Repulsed beyond description, he turned away from the brute. He tried to focus on Miss Sharmelle’s voice. His head bobbed again . . . and again. Spencer almost wished that Dez would start poking him again—if the bully washed his hands first.
Finally unable to resist, Spencer put his head onto his desk, X + Y equaling Zzzzzzz.
Chapter 4
“Weird.”
Spencer felt someone shaking him. His eyes were sticky and he had to squint against the light. Suddenly remembering where he was, he shot upright in his seat. The glue seal on his eyes snapped and he glanced around the classroom.
He was alone.
Well, not alone, because Miss Sharmelle had a hand on his shoulder, bringing him around. But all the other students were gone!
“I’m sorry, Miss Sharmelle,” Spencer said. “I don’t know . . . sometimes I . . . I’m sorry.”
Miss Sharmelle smiled attractively. “It happens, Spencer. Algebra affects everyone differently.”
“What time is it?”
“The bell just rang. I bet your classmates aren’t even in the lunch line yet.”
Spencer shook his head in shame and began scooping his belongings into his backpack. “I won’t fall asleep again, Miss Sharmelle. I really am sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Mrs. Natcher or anything.” But then, as Spencer stood and faced her, Miss Sharmelle gasped. Her green eyes, under a pair of fashionable fake glasses, studied his cheek and forehead.
“What?” Spencer asked, his stomach sinking. “What’s wrong with my face?”
Without answering, she motioned him over to her desk. From her pink leather purse, Miss Sharmelle withdrew a round makeup compact, flipped open the lid, and held the mirror out for him. Although the mirror was marked with several smudges and dusted with powder, Spencer caught the reflection of his left cheek. X + Y = Z was sloppily tattooed in black marker across his face. On his forehead was another algebraic equation, and by his chin, a third one had been started but left without an answer, probably because the bell had rung.
“Dez,” mumbled Spencer angrily. He told Miss Sharmelle that he would wash it off in the bathroom and gave her the mirror back.
“Terrible thing, permanent marker,” she said, examining her own reflection before replacing the makeup mirror in her purse.
“It’ll come off,” Spencer said.
“Good luck.”
The nearest bathroom was just across the hallway. Spencer kept his face down and walked—fast. He pushed open the door with his elbow and stepped inside just as someone flushed the toilet and turned to face him.
Dez.
“Hey, Doofus,” the bully said. Spencer paused, trying to decide whether he should flee immediately or attempt to get past Dez and wash his face.
“Nice equators,” Dez smirked.
“What?” Spencer asked, his fist clenched like a grenade.
“Maybe you should look in the mirror, smarty-pants,” Dez answered. “You’ve got math equators written all over your face.”
“
Equations,
” Spencer said. “Math
equations.
”
“Yeah, whatever. You still look like a dork.” Dez snorted and Spencer was afraid for a moment that the bully would launch a gob at him. Nothing came out, so Dez shifted gears. “You thought about standing up for Gullible Gates yesterday, didn’t you?”
“That’s why you drew on my face?” Spencer asked.
“No,” said Dez. “Actually, I drew on your face because Nancy Pepperton thought it would be funny.” Dez dug in his jeans pocket (a difficult task when the jeans are a size too small) and withdrew a crumpled strip of paper. “She passed me this during algebra.”
Half expecting the paper to grow teeth and bite him, Spencer took it from Dez’s hand.
Spencer is so out. Draw something on his face. —Nancy
Spencer crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his own pocket. He barely even knew Nancy! What did she have against him?
“Anyway,” Dez said. “Stay out of my fun with Gullible Gates and life will be easier for you. I like to play with her mind. It’s soft like Play-Doh but doesn’t dry out as fast. Next time you think about being a hero, I’ll spell a different equator for you. It’s called Fist + Nose = Blood. Deal?” Dez extended his beefy hand to seal the bargain, but Spencer just stared, trapped.
“Deal?” Dez repeated, unaccustomed to having his victims think before they agreed.
“Deal,” answered Spencer finally. “It’s a deal.”
“Why won’t you shake on it?” Dez demanded, his hand still extended.
“Well,” Spencer hesitated, wondering if honesty would win him a face-plant in the toilet. “You just went to the bathroom and you haven’t washed your hands yet.”
Dez exhaled a breathy puff of disbelief that turned into a mocking laugh. Spencer stood rigid, ready for anything. After a good chuckle, Dez reached out and gently patted Spencer’s cheek. “Washing’s for sissies.” He pushed Spencer aside, flung open the bathroom door, and announced his arrival in the hallway with a loud belch.
As soon as the door clanged shut, Spencer took three quick steps to the sink and turned on the water. Dez’s bathroom hands were a second incentive to a thorough face washing. In the mirror, Spencer saw the ink equations more clearly. He must have been sound asleep not to feel Dez’s marker.
Grateful that no one else had seen the math-work, Spencer splashed his face with water. Reaching over, he gave two solid pumps to the soap dispenser on the wall.
Nothing.
Spencer began pumping violently on the dispenser, but it was hopeless. There was no soap. Spencer scanned the room desperately. The next bathroom was all the way down the hall and around the corner. He would never make it without someone spotting Dez’s artwork.
Spencer’s eyes suddenly fell on a small bottle resting on the edge of the next sink. His face still dripping, Spencer reached over and snatched it up, hopeful that it might contain something that could remove his facial graffiti. Turning it over in his hand, Spencer saw that it was actually a hotel shampoo bottle from a Best Western. Quickly deciding that shampoo might do the trick, he unscrewed the cap.
There was the tiniest bit of gelatin-like substance in the bottom of the bottle. Spencer squirted the glob onto his palm, surprised to see that it was bright pink and looked more like soap than shampoo after all. The soap smelled fresh, if a little chemical.
Spencer worked the pink gel to a foamy lather between his hands. He rubbed his cheek, watching
X
and
Y
melt away with surprising ease. Then he closed his eyes and lathered his whole face.