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    The Last Superhero
    The Last Superhero
    The Last Superhero
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    The Last Superhero

    By Kristin Butcher

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Commended for the 2011 Best Books for Kids and Teens

    When doing the right thing turns all wrong Sometimes a guy just cant mind his own business, no matter how hard he tries, and sometimes that guy gets mired in predicaments which are not of his making. Thats what happens to Jas, a Grade Seven boy who is putting all his energy into completing the artwork for an adventure comic he hopes will be his ticket into an elite summer art program. But when he meets Wren, an eccentric, crusading classmate, his efforts are derailed. Initially, Jas has no interest in getting involved, but circumstances and Wrens overpowering personality keep drawing him in until there is no going back. Wren is a person of values. She believes that if youre not part of the solution, youre part of the problem. When she sees things that are wrong, she sets out to correct them. Eventually she becomes the target of bullies, then, because of Jass inadvertent interference, the bullies turn their attention to him. They destroy his comic and his chances of getting into art school. What can Jas and Wren do to end the bullies’ reign of terror?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDundurn
    Release dateApr 1, 2010
    ISBN9781459717060
    The Last Superhero
    Author

    Kristin Butcher

    Kristin Butcher is the author of twenty books for children. She has been shortlisted for the Silver Birch Award, the CLA Children's Book of the Year, the Red Cedar Award, the IODE Violet Downey Book Award, and the Manitoba Young Reader's Choice Award, among others. Kristin lives in Campbell River, British Columbia.

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      Book preview

      The Last Superhero - Kristin Butcher

      Val

      ONE

      Nearly eight hundred kids go to Mt. Rigg Middle School. At class change, it takes three minutes to move everybody around. Fire drills use up ten minutes. Assemblies really eat up the clock—fifteen minutes to get kids into the gym then another fifteen to get them out again. But at three thirty on a Friday afternoon, the school empties in two minutes. So when I walked out of the art room at twenty to four, the building was totally deserted.

      I glanced down at the papers Mr. Dow had given me. There was a real wad of them—costs, supplies, entry requirements, and most important of all—an application. Mr. Dow had gone over every sheet at least three times. Once he got talking, he couldn't seem to stop. You'd think he was the one who wanted to get into Summer Boot Camp at the art gallery.

      Stuffing the papers into my backpack, I started up the stairs to my locker on the second floor. It's at the end of a long corridor totally lined with lockers—a couple of hundred of them. When everybody's there, the place is a human ant farm. Everywhere you look, kids are getting stepped on, elbowed in the ear, or just plain squashed. So having a locker on the end is a definite advantage. Before the other kids even get their lockers open, my partner and I are already closing ours up.

      Sliding my backpack from my shoulder, I dialed in my combo and pulled off the lock—too fast, I guess, because it got away from me. I juggled it in the air for a few seconds, but I couldn't quite grab onto it, and finally it clattered to the floor and skittered along the hall.

      That's when the metallic banging started. I peered down the corridor, but it was empty.

      Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! There it was again. This time there was a voice attached to it. It was all wrapped up in the hammering though, so it was impossible to catch what it was saying. The person sounded scared—or desperate maybe, but also really angry.

      I trotted down the hall and scooped up my lock. Then I kept going. The farther I went, the louder the banging and yelling got. Finally I reached a locker that was vibrating so hard, it looked like it was going to explode.

      Let me out of here! a voice hollered from inside. Then there was more banging.

      I didn't want to get too close. There was no telling how long that locker was going to hold together. The lock might not break, but I wasn't so sure about the door. I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see the hinges fly off or a foot come crashing through the metal. I opened my mouth to say something but decided the person inside would never hear me. So I made a fist instead and hammered on the door from my side.

      Instant silence.

      Somebody in there? Okay, so it was a dumb question, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

      Let me out of here! Let me out! Then the screaming and banging started up again.

      I hammered on the door once more, and when the noise stopped, I said, What's your combination?

      I'm not telling you that! a girl's voice snarled.

      Ooooo-kaaaay, I stretched out the word. Then how do you expect me to open the door? Or do you just want me to drag you out through the vents?

      There was a pause, then—obviously getting the point—the girl said more quietly, 23-04-51.

      23-04-51? I repeated.

      Not so loud!

      Look who's talking!

      Well, I don't want the whole school knowing my combination, she grumbled.

      I looked up and down the hall then leaned closer to the door. I've got news for you, I whispered. "At this moment, you and I are the whole school."

      Would you just open the door? I didn't need to see the girl to know her teeth were clenched—probably her fists too. Just the same, I couldn't resist revving her up a bit more.

      What's the magic word?

      Huh? I could tell her mouth was hanging open.

      What are you—some kind of comedian? Stop being a jerk and open the door! Then she kicked it for emphasis. It's boiling in here. I can hardly breathe.

      All right, all right. Taking pity on her, I dialed in her combination and tugged on the lock.

      Click!

      Now don't push when I take the lock off, I warned her, or we'll both get hurt. Let me open the door. Okay?

      Whatever, she muttered. Just hurry up.

      Hopefully that meant she agreed, but to be on the safe side, I leaned against the door while I removed the lock. Then jumping away and pulling the door open at the same time, I waited for the girl to burst into the hallway.

      She didn't. She didn't even slither into it. For someone who was dying to get out of her locker, she was certainly taking her time. I peered around the door to see what the holdup was.

      I have to admit I was surprised. Considering the amount of noise the girl had been making, I figured she must be some kind of giant. But with her hands and feet sticking out every which way from a long, brown, furry coat, she looked more like Cousin lit. I knew she had to have a head somewhere, but until she spoke, I had no clue where to look for it.

      Help me, she whimpered. My hair's caught on a hook.

      That's when I realized the girl's hair was the same colour as her coat. She had a real mop of it too, and with her head bent forward, it was totally hiding her face.

      Okay. Hold still, I said, fumbling for the hook. The girl's hair was snarled around it. This might hurt a little, I warned her.

      I don't care. Just get me out of—owwwww! What are you trying to do—scalp me?

      Sorry, I apologized. But you're really hung up. I moved in to get a better hold of the hook. The only thing between me and the girl was her coat. Ow! she yelled again, shoving her fist into my gut. Do you mind! If I'd wanted to be bald, I'd have shaved my head.

      I stopped work. Hit me one more time, and you'll not only be bald, you'll be a permanent locker ornament, because I'll leave you here.

      She didn't say another word, and though she winced a few more times while I untangled her, she didn't hit me again. When her hair was finally free—either from the hook or her head—I helped her climb out of the locker.

      As soon as her feet hit the floor, she peeled off her coat and let it drop. Heaped around her ankles, it reminded me of a boneless bear. The next thing she did was flip back that huge mop of hair and twist it into a knot at the back of her head. I was totally amazed. With the coat and the hair suddenly gone, there was nothing to the girl. She'd have been lucky to weigh eighty pounds soaking wet, and I couldn't help wondering how someone that small could make so much noise.

      I watched as she fanned herself with a paper. Her face was flushed, and her hair was plastered to her forehead. Tiny drops of perspiration speckled her nose like freckles. She looked exactly like you'd expect a girl to look who'd been stuck inside a locker for a while. Still, there was something electric about her, like maybe you'd get a shock if you touched her.

      Do you have any bottled water? she said. Even though it was a question, it seemed more like a demand.

      I shook my head. Uh-uh, but there's a fountain at the end of the hall.

      She made a face. I'm not going to drink that. It's disgusting.

      I shrugged. Then I guess you're not very thirsty.

      Hazel eyes glared at me for a second then began scanning the hallway.

      What are you looking for? I asked.

      My bag, she frowned. Brown leather backpack about this big. She outlined its shape in the air then stabbed a finger toward the floor. It should be right here.

      I backed up a step. Don't look at me. I didn't take it.

      Well, somebody did!

      Or maybe somebody took it to the lost and found, I pointed out another possibility. Or the custodian could've picked it up. You don't know. But if it was stolen, I'm betting it was the person who shoved you into your locker.

      That did it. Before I could blink, the girl was in my face. It was you, wasn't it?

      I couldn't believe my ears. Are you psycho or what? Why would I push you into your locker? I don't even know you! I backed away from her again. I'm the one who let you out! Remember?

      Criminals always return to the scene of the crime, she retorted.

      Hello? What the heck was going on here? I was the

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