SuperFan (6 page)

There was one extra-good part to training that Shawn hadn't anticipated: It distracted him from the fact that they still hadn't heard from his father. Carla assured the boys that this was totally normal, but that didn't make it easier. Shawn still sent daily e-mails so Sanford would come back to a full inbox.

Now it was mid-March and, again, unseasonably warm. The gym teacher, Mr. Marotta, had decreed that they'd play kickball outdoors.

As Shawn waited for Mr. Marotta to take the mound, mean cracks kept coming from the other team. The worst came from Jeff Harrison, who was both a terrible student and the class bully.

“Yo, Weenie Shawn!” Jeff was shouting from left field. “The only ring you belong in is a ring-around-the-rosy.
Ashes, ashes, Shawn falls down!
”

Jeff tumbled to the ground, flailing his arms and legs. His teammates cracked up.

Shawn gritted his teeth. Rey had warned him that part of being a celebrity—and Shawn was definitely now a mini-celebrity—was that some people would want to knock you down just because they could. Jeff Harrison was one of those people.

It wasn't all bad, though. Other kids were extra friendly now that he was a SuperFan finalist. Some of them would never even give him the time of day before. It was flattering, but it made Shawn really grateful for a true friend like Alex, who'd be his friend no matter how the competition turned out.

“Hey, Weenie! Why'd they pick you? I know! Because they wanted two boys and two girls!” Jeff pranced around the outfield like a fashion model. “Spike Murcer's going to smush you!”

Shawn stewed. He didn't even like to think about Spike Murcer, who'd recently posted a whole series of videos about himself and his greatness on the WWE website. When was Mr. Marotta gonna pitch? As usual, Shawn had been the last one picked when sides were chosen. Wouldn't it feel great to smash one way over Jeff Harrison's annoying head? Maybe he could pretend that Jeff was Spike.

Could he do it? After all these workouts, he was stronger. But feeling stronger and smacking one past the pitcher's mound were two different things.

As if to highlight that fact, Jeff danced in from left field until he stood with the shortstop. “Weenie Boy SuperFraud can't kick it over an anthill!”

More mean laughter. Meanwhile, Shawn's teammates were silent. Apparently they didn't have much confidence in Shawn, either.

Finally, Mr. Marotta came to the mound. “Ready, Shawn?”

“Bring it,” Shawn told him. “And no slow balls.”

Shawn knew that even with his training, if he were going to send one into the outfield, the pitch would have to come with pace. Mr. Marotta fired a speedy roll along the ground. Shawn zeroed in on it and kicked as hard as he could.

He missed. Just like in Jeff's obnoxious nurseryrhyme chant, he promptly fell down. Jeff's team howled with laughter, and Jeff did a dead-on imitation of Shawn's wipeout.

“
Ashes, ashes, Shawnie falled-ed down
!
”
Jeff chortled.

“One more strike, Shawn,” Mr. Marotta reminded him as the catcher threw the ball back.

“Same thing.” Shawn was grim.

“If you say so.” Mr. Marotta rolled the ball toward Shawn again, maybe even faster.

Shawn glanced at Jeff Harrison, who was right behind the shortstop, pretending to be asleep.
Man! How good it would feel if
. . .

With three running steps, Shawn swung with his right foot, trying to angle his kick toward left field.

All those stadium steps paid off. The rubber ball exploded off his foot, heading toward left field like a red rocket. By the time Jeff Harrison figured out what was going on, the ball was heading for the fence. He turned and gave chase as Shawn's teammates screamed at him, “Run, Shawn, run!”

Shawn was in such shock that he hadn't budged from the batter's box. With a start, he bolted toward first base.

“Run, Shawn!” his teammates urged. As Shawn rounded first and headed toward second, he could see that Jeff was only now approaching the ball. “Run!”

Shawn bore in on third. Jeff fired the ball to the third baseman.
Safe!
Shawn came in standing up as his teammates shouted with glee.

It was amazing. He'd never made so much as a single before. If he'd run the moment he'd kicked it, he would have had a home run. If only Alex were in his gym class and could have seen this. Well he'd have to tell him all about it.

Mr. Marotta called out approvingly, “Nice shot, Shawn!”

“Thanks!” Shawn called back, still a little dazed.

“Total luck! He couldn't do it again in a million years!” Jeff scoffed and kicked at the dirt.

Shawn didn't know whether what Jeff said was true or not, but it didn't matter. He'd done it once, right here, right now. It felt great. If this was what SuperFan was doing for him, he was loving it.

“Show of hands—how many of you have finished your book for your book report? Oral reports begin next Friday! Has anyone finished yet?” Mrs. Wolfenbarger stared at her class.

Shawn looked around the English 7-A classroom. He was on his fourth reading of
Tom Sawyer,
but if no one else was going to raise their hand, he sure wouldn't.

Not a hand went up.

“No one?” Mrs. Wolfenbarger was obviously unhappy. She was the most senior teacher on the middle school faculty and had the gray hair and tough attitude that came with that status. Shawn liked her, though. All she wanted was for her students to do their work and do it well. “Not a single person?”

No one. Most of the kids got really busy studying their desktops.

Mrs. Wolfenbarger marched to the whiteboard. “Gee. That's too bad. Because if you can prove you've read the book by now, I'll give you an A and you won't have to do the report.

The class gasped as their teacher wrote an
A
on the whiteboard and circled it. “That's how much I hate letting work go until the last minute.”

Shawn was stunned. Did Mrs. Wolfenbarger just say that there was a way for him not to do an oral report?

Before he could change his mind, he flung his right hand skyward.

“Shawn Reynolds, yes?”

“Mrs. Wolfenbarger, I'm reading
Tom Sawyer
for my report. I mean, I've finished it.”

Jeff Harrison, who sat in the back of the classroom, protested immediately. “That is totally unfair. That's the book he has to read for SuperFan!”

The teacher glared at Jeff. “Jeff, did I call on you?”

“No.”

“Then cease the verbal diarrhea. I don't recall ever saying that you couldn't read the same book for two purposes. Did I say that, Jeff?”

“Nopers.”

“Excuse me? A word in actual English?”

“No, ma'am,” Jeff muttered.

“Exactly. In your case, it might be nice to read a single book for a single purpose—namely, this book report. And it might be nice for it to be at least one reading level up from
The Cat in the Hat.
So, let's see whether Shawn has, as he claims, read
Tom Sawyer.
”

She spun back around, faced Shawn, and fired off a string of questions. “Who wrote the book? What was the author's real name? Where did Tom and Becky find themselves toward the end of the story? What was the name of Tom's best friend? What did Tom get the other kids to paint?”

Yikes. Shawn felt anxiety flood the pit of his stomach. This wasn't the same thing as giving an oral report, where he had to stand in front of his class and talk for ten minutes. But it was almost as bad.

When he spoke, he was so nervous that he barely even stopped between the sentences. “
Tom Sawyer
was written by Mark Twain. The author's real name was Samuel Clemens. Tom's best friend is Huckleberry Finn. Tom gets the other kids to paint a fence. Near the end, he and the girl named Becky get lost in a cave.”

For a moment, Mrs. Wolfenbarger stood in silence. Then she went back to the whiteboard and re-circled the letter
A
.

“Congratulations, Shawn. That's your grade. Even if you could have enunciated better. And class? If it took SuperFan and WWE to get Shawn to prepare like this?” Her eyes flitted from face to face. “I advise all of you to become wrestling fans.”

As six thirty approached, Shawn was noodling around on his guitar and thinking back on his awesome day. An almost home run. An A from the English teacher famous for never giving an A. The only thing that could be better would be if—

A knock on his open door pulled Shawn back to reality. He looked up; his mother stood in the doorway. “Shawn? Are you busy?”

“Not really.” He put his guitar aside. His mother hadn't asked him to play for her in a long time, and he didn't want her to ask now.

“Good. I thought maybe we'd check e-mail a little early. It can't hurt, can it?”

“Sounds good. Where's Peter?”

Carla chucked her chin back toward the living room. “Already waiting. Come on.”

Shawn followed his mother to the computer in the living room. What he saw brought a huge lump to his throat. His father was smiling into a webcam, connected to them by Skype.

“Hi, Dad!” Shawn exclaimed as soon as he was in range.

“Hello, SuperFan!” His father laughed with joy. The connection was awesome. His father could have been in the same room, instead of half a world away. “I'm back at base. It's good to see you!”

“Are you okay? What was it like? Did you read all the e-mails? Did you see Rey's video? Did you—”

His father grinned and held up a hand. “Hold on. One at a time! Yes, I've seen the video. And yes, I've read all the e-mails. And now, I'd like to see your mom and brother in the same picture. Squeeze in, okay?”

They did, with Carla in the center and the boys flanking her. They held that position for a full twenty seconds until Sanford offered a gentle wave.

“I love you, guys,” he said simply. “Okay. We've got fifteen minutes. I want to hear everything. Talk fast!”

“Students, faculty, and staff. This is a momentous day. Never before has a student brought us so much positive attention. Tonight, he leaves for Atlanta, and WrestleMania XXVII. Welcome to Shawn Reynolds Day at Columbia East Middle School!”

Huge cheers filled the auditorium at the principal's greeting. Shawn gazed out at the packed auditorium. During the last few weeks, the kids who had been jealous or mean to him seemed to have come around to his side. Even Jeff Harrison. Now he couldn't change classes without kids wishing him good luck. In some odd way, his status as a finalist had brought his school together.

What if he came back a loser? He didn't want to find out.

Mr. Kwan waited for silence and then continued. “I just know that Shawn's going to make us all proud! Now, please turn your attention to this video.”

The lights dimmed, and Shawn's classmates started hooting and hollering. The video was hosted by the SuperFan mentors—Rey and Natalya got cheers from the crowd, while Punk and The Miz earned boos—and featured segments on the four finalists, WWE's WrestleMania reading competition, and great moments from WrestleManias past.

It ended with a surprise. Rey Mysterio had recorded a special segment just for Shawn's school where he talked about how much he'd enjoyed working with Shawn.

“How far can Shawn go?” Rey asked. “I can tell you with confidence that your classmate has worked his butt off. Shawn? I'm proud of you, buddy. See you in Atlanta! Booyaka, 619!”

The video ended, and the students went wild. Shawn leaned toward his mother and brother. “I wish Dad could have seen that.”

“Me too,” Carla said sadly. They'd been in close touch with Sanford, who was spending a lot more time at his base. His dad had said the odds looked really good that he would be able to watch WrestleMania with his friends, and even Skype with the family while they were in Atlanta.

The cheering went on. Shawn saw Alex jumping and waving his arms. Alex's mother was letting him travel to Atlanta alone with the Reynoldses. His English teacher was applauding. His gym teacher was pumping his fist. Even Jeff Harrison was clapping his hands rhythmically. Principal Kwan let the celebration go on for quite a while. Then, from somewhere near Jeff Harrison—maybe Jeff himself started it, Shawn couldn't tell—a chant started.

“Speech! Speech! Speech!”

Oh no.

The chant spread through the student body like a virus, touching everyone and everything. “Speech! Speech!”