Zacktastic (8 page)

Oooph. I land on a pile of junk
and
Trey.

“OWWWWWW!” he says.

“You're alive!”

“Of course I'm alive,” he says, pushing me off. Now there's something digging into my side. “But thanks to you I have a few
more
bruises.”

I twist around to get comfortable—or as comfortable as one can get on a pile of metal and wooden construction scraps. “Sorry,” I say.

“I thought genies were supposed to fix problems, not cause them. You sure don't act like a genie.” He adjusts the broken glasses on his face. Aside from the smashed right lens, the left side of the frame is sticking up at a funny angle. “And you sure don't look like one, either.”

I look down at myself—besides the missing shoe, my jeans are torn at the left knee, and there's dirt on my hands and elbows. Probably on my face, too. I push my hair out of my face.
“My mom says I look better when you can see my eyes,” I say.

“Your mom? Genies have moms?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Genies have whole families—moms, sisters, and . . .” My voice trails off.

“It doesn't matter,” Trey says. “All that matters is you're a genie and I have some wishes to make, and I don't want to waste any more time, now that it finally worked.”

“What finally worked?”

“Rubbing the bottle,” he says. He has a look on his face like,
Duh, genie!
“All this time, I thought it had to be a fake. Just a dumb souvenir my dad brought back from his business trip to Bolivia. Or actually that his assistant brought back. My dad is too busy to waste any time shopping for me.”

“So you rubbed it today?” I ask. “In the chapel?”

“I rubbed it a thousand times before today and nothing happened,” he tells me. “I only had it with me today because I was going to throw
it away. Then those kids showed up. And finally you popped out. Not that you were much help.”

“Yeah, those guys,” I say. “They seemed pretty mad at you. You must've—”

But Trey cuts me off. “Never mind them. I have
wishes
to make!” My toe tingles with the mention of that word—
wishes
. “The genies in the movies always grant wishes. I get wishes too, right?”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I reach down and scratch my toe. It's pretty dirty from walking all the way from the chapel to the construction site. You can't even see my birthmark anymore. I scrap off some dust and mud with my fingernails. Then I pick the dirt out from under my nails and flick it away.

Trey scoots back, even though I wasn't flicking the dirt anywhere near him—honest. “The genies in the movies are not at all this gross,” he says.

“Hollywood got a few things wrong,” I explain.

“Clearly,” Trey says. “Is wearing just one shoe a genie thing?”

“I don't think so,” I tell him. “But I only found out today that I'm a genie.”

“Ugh,” he says. “A newbie? I got a newbie?” He's shaking his head. “No wonder I'm in a Dumpster. Patricia should've picked a bottle with a genie that actually knows what he's doing.”

“I'm doing my best,” I say. “I climbed in here after you, even though I didn't have to. I only did it to be nice and helpful. And you could've made it easier. Like, you could've popped your head up or waved your arm or shouted or
something
when they left, just to let me know you weren't dead.”

“It's not my job to do you any favors.”

“Or you could've said something when that teacher came around,” I say.

Trey's chin drops, just slightly, but I know I'm onto something.

“That guy, Mr Gaspin, he would've helped you out for sure,” I go on. “And it's not like you
knew I'd be waiting here to rescue you. Unless . . . unless you were afraid they'd get you even worse next time, if you ratted them out. That's it, huh?”

“I'm not afraid of them,” Trey says, folding his arms across his chest. “I'm not afraid of anyone.”

“Yeah, right,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Right. They only do that stuff to me because they're afraid of me.”

“They didn't look so afraid,” I tell him.

“Trust me,” he says. “They're terrified. You should be, too. Do you know who I am?”

“We weren't formally introduced,” I remind him. “But I know your name is Trey.”

“I'm pretty sure that you're supposed to call me Master.”

And that would make me his servant? Uh-uh. No way. No how. If he thinks that, he has another think coming.

“Maybe I should just call you twerp,” I say.

“I wouldn't if I were you. Trey is short for
Preston Hudson Twendel the third.” He pulls a plastic card out of his pocket and flashes it in front of my face.

“What's that?”

“My key card to my dorm,” he says. “It has my name and my picture—see?” He flashes it again.

“Twendel,” I say. “That name sounds familiar.”

He shifts his weight and stuffs the card back in his pocket. “It's the name of this construction site we're on right now,” he tells me. “My grandfather was Preston Hudson Twendel the first, and my dad is the second. You know who
they
are, right?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Everyone does,” he says. “My grandfather is the guy who started PHT Capital, which happens to be the biggest bank in the world.”

“Huh,” I say. “My mom has an account there.”

“Of course she does,” Trey says. “And my dad is the president of the whole thing. When I
grow up, it'll be MY bank. So what do you have to say to that?”

I shrug. “That's cool for you and your dad,” I say.

“That's right,” he says. “It is. Money makes you powerful.”

I remember that Uncle Max said being a genie does, too. If only I could figure out how to make that work in my favor!

“My dad has more money than anyone,” Trey goes on. “He basically owns Millings Academy. It's the best boarding school in all of California.”

Hold up. Did he say California? I'm in
California?
That's clear across the country from Pennsylvania!

“If my dad wanted to, he could get Oliver and Jake kicked out.” I know he means Shaggy and Buzz. “He could get them kicked out like that.” Trey snaps his fingers. “My dad doesn't tolerate losers. He just gets rid of them. If he knew those two losers threw me in a Dumpster,
he'd get rid of them for sure.” He pauses, for just a second. “And then he'd get rid of me for being the loser who let them.”

“So you
are
afraid of someone,” I say. “Your dad.”

“Maybe I am. But I bet you're afraid of
your
dad.”

“He's dead,” I say quickly. I've learned that's the best way to say those words, like you're ripping off a Band-Aid. It hurts, but then it's over with.

For a split second there's a flash of panic in Trey's eyes, the same look everyone gets when they first hear. After that, they either become really curious and want me to tell them all the sad and scary details, or they want to get away from me as fast as possible, like having a dead father is catching or something.

But Trey recovers quickly. “So are you going to do any magic, or do I have to get out of here myself?”

“Uh,” I start.

“Never mind, newbie. We'll just climb out.” Trey stands and reaches up toward the top of the Dumpster. “I'll go first. You spot me from this side. It's the least you can do.” He stands up and holds on to the side of the Dumpster, looking over his shoulder at me. “You're lucky anyway, about not having a dad,” he says. “I might have you get rid of mine.”

“I wouldn't get rid of anyone's dad,” I tell him.

“I think you have to do whatever I tell you. And just so you know, my dad's not a good person. He's not even a good dad. Every single teacher here sucks up to him. Gaspin would've reported straight to him if he'd found me here. The trouble Oliver and Jake are going to be in is nothing compared to what I would've faced. So, about my first wish.”

Oh no. Something's happening. My toe is itching and burning. What if he makes the wish to get rid of his dad? And what if I can't control myself, and I accidentally grant it?

“I wish,” he starts.

All right, Zack, it's time to think outside the bottle!

Ooh, the bottle—that's it!

“Hold up,” I tell Preston Hudson Twendel III. “Those kids left the bottle on the ground, and I need it before I do any wish granting.”

I don't, really. At least I don't think I do. But this twerp doesn't know that, and I have a plan: (1) get out of the Dumpster; (2) grab the bottle; (3) run as far away as possible; (4) get sucked up and get home.

I'm not sure how to make the getting-home part happen, but I'll deal with that after I've completed the first three parts of the plan.

Trey is out of the Dumpster now, so it's my turn. One foot over, then another, and now a jump down to the ground. Oomph.

But when I stand up and wipe the dirt off myself, the bottle is nowhere in sight. “Where is it?” I ask.

“The bottle? I don't see it. Does this mean I don't get my wishes? That is SO UNFAIR!”

9

W
HY
M
E?

W
e have no choice but to head back toward the school buildings in search of the bottle. I take off my remaining shoe, because it's easier to walk when my feet feel more balanced, and follow Trey as he mutters complaints about getting stuck with me—the worst genie in the world. I don't know how he knows that. I mean, sure, there's room for improvement. But how many other genies has Trey ever met? And better ones, at that? I'm willing to bet the answer is exactly zero.

Trey is kicking at the ground as he walks, sending sprays of dust and rocks into the air.
Every so often I pause to stare at them, trying to get them to hover in the air like a galaxy, the way they did before. But the magic seems to be gone. Above us, the clouds start to thicken and send shadows across the vast lawn and large buildings of Millings Academy. I wonder if a thunderstorm is coming. Thunderstorms often mean lightning. Each year an average of fifty-one people are killed by lightning strikes in the United States. It's especially dangerous to be outside in an open field, which we happen to be in right now. “Let's go faster,” I tell Trey.

“You're the genie, and I'm the master,” he replies. “We'll go as fast as I want.”

He slows his pace so he's traveling at the speed limit of your average snail. “Fine,” I say. “But the longer it takes to get there, the longer it takes to get the bottle, and the longer it takes—”

I don't even have to finish my sentence before Trey starts taking giant strides. But then there's a rumble of thunder in the distance, and
I drop to the ground and flatten myself like a pancake.

“What are you doing?” Trey asks.

I cock my head to listen. Where there's one roll of thunder, there are usually more. But now the only sound is Trey's heavy, impatient breathing.

“Get up,” he says, and I do. We finally make it across the field to a building with the words
TWENDEL HALL II
carved out above an imposing red door.

“Aren't you going to open it for me?” Trey asks.

Uncle Max didn't tell me that being a genie would feel so much like being a servant. I wonder what I did to deserve this. Why is this happening to me? Why did I have to be born with a genie bite? Why did my bottle have to end up in the hands of the worst kid in the world? (If he gets to call me the worst genie, then I get to call him the worst kid. And you know what? Even if
I haven't met all the other kids in the world to form that conclusion, I think I'm probably pretty close to the mark.) Why did he have to rub it and summon me on my very first day on the job?

Why do bad things always happen to
me?

My limbs feel suddenly heavier. Not that Trey cares. “I'm waiting,” he says.

I let out the world's biggest sigh and pull open the door. Trey goes inside and I scoot in after him. At least this building is safer than an open field. Plus, I don't know my way around Millings Academy. Which means I have a better chance of finding that bottle with Trey than without him.

I'm stuck with him, which may be the most depressing thing of all.

I wish I could turn back into the kid I was just this morning. Sure, I didn't have many friends to invite to my birthday party or a pile of presents to show for it. But, boy, do I miss being in my old, boring life.

We've stepped into a room that's so big, I think you could probably fit my entire house inside it. It's way fancier than my house—fancier than any house I've ever been in. It's fancy enough to be a hotel lobby, or maybe the lobby of a museum. The windows have deep-rose-colored drapes tied back with matching rope tassels. The bottoms of the drapes brush the floor, which is black-and-white checkerboard marble. Gold chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The ceiling itself is like looking up at the sky. Really—it's sky blue with clouds that seem to pop off like they were painted in 3-D. The walls are painted maroon, a shade darker than the drapes, and on the far wall there's a huge oil painting of a stern-faced old man. It's framed in the same dark gold color as the chandeliers. I step closer to it and see the matching gold plaque under the painting:
P
.
H
.
TWENDEL
.