Brain Freeze! Read online

  I got that tingly, energized feeling, but I didn’t take off running. I looked at a plump pigeon that had hopped up on a nearby bench. Our eyes locked, like in a staring contest. It was odd. Kind of like this chubby pigeon could read my mind, like that thing Mr. Spock does. I was having a pigeon mind-meld.

  “The little dog stinks. What on Earth do you guys feed him?” said the pigeon.

  I was shocked. I mean, c’mon, talking to a pigeon? A squirrel was one thing, but a pigeon? That’s just weird.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked my grandpa.

  All Gramps heard was that cooing sound pigeons make. But he could tell by the look on my face that something had happened. I chomped into the ice cream sandwich again. The brain freeze came easier this time. I looked at the chubby little bird and asked,

  “What’s your name?”

  “You wouldn’t be able to understand it,” the pigeon responded rudely.

  “Give me a try,” I shot back.

  The bird made those pigeony coo-coo sounds for several seconds and then stared at me.

  “Could you translate that to people talk?” I asked.

  “Bert,” the bird replied.

  “You’re Bert the pigeon?” I asked.

  “Are your ears plugged?”

  Bert the pigeon appeared to have an attitude.

  Captain Corgi gave Bert the pigeon a dirty look and growled. Maybe he understood him. Not sure. I didn’t know WHAT to think at this point. I chomped into the sandwich one more time and got a slight freeze. I looked at Captain and asked, “Can you and I talk?”

  Captain Corgi looked at me right in the eyes, and then turned and licked himself in the doggie privates. I took that as a “No.”

  So Grandpa Gus wrote down in his training journal: 1. Ice cream sandwich = talk to animals. At least rude pigeons.

  “Let’s try another kind of ice cream,” Gramps suggested.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice!” I said.

  Just then Gramps’s phone rang. I never noticed before what a cool phone he had. He mostly listened and nodded and said things like, “I understand.”

  “Everything okay?” I asked. “We still eating ice cream?”

  “Yeah, um, we just need to hurry it along for now,” Gramps replied. “We’re not going to figure out all your powers in one morning, anyhow.”

  Grandpa Gus said it might take years to train and get my superhero stuff down, and that we could work as a team until I was ready to take over the family business. He was “easing” into retirement. Mostly because he said he still sucked at golf, and hated bingo. Still, the thought of taking over the superhero business concerned me. It meant my whole life was already planned out for me. I mean, once the city is counting on you to save them, you’re stuck, right? You can’t just say, “Um, think I’m going bowling now. You guys are on your own.” Mighty Super Gus had been saving Mock City forever, and he always came through. This city definitely needed a hero. It was one strange thing after another in this town. Was I up for that challenge?

  I was planning on being a kid until the Zit Fairy came along. I figured that was the end of your good years. Then I’d give in to the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. After all, I’d have nothing else to live for. Of course, now I might be able to just ZAP the Zit Fairy into oblivion with some cool power. (Not sure where oblivion is. I think it’s near Boise.)

  Grandpa pulled out a fudgesicle.

  “All right!” I said. “Party time!”

  Bert the pigeon hopped on the top of the bench for a better view. I got nervous all over again. Grandpa told me to try and focus my energy. I bit down hard on a big bite, in my typical piglike fashion. I started to shake. I felt all tingly. I looked at Bert.

  “You gonna puke? Cause I can’t handle puke,” said the bird. He sounded sort of disgusted.

  I was vibrating, and couldn’t control myself any longer.

  “Aim for the pond!” Gramps yelled, just as I started taking off at top speed! I got to the pond in like, two seconds . . . only I couldn’t stop! I ran right across the top of the water, straight through a flock of ducks! This was crazy! It was the coolest and scariest thing ever at the same time!

  The ducks scattered as fast as they could. One of them screamed, “Hey, you kid, get off our lawn! I mean pond!”

  I was still going at top speed, and starting to freak out! What if I never slowed down?! In desperation I stuck out my arm and tried to grab a small tree. I held on just long enough to spin halfway around the tree trunk and launch myself back toward Grandpa, Captain, and Bert the pigeon! But the pond was in my way again. I started right back across it. This time one of the ducks stuck out a little webbed foot and tripped me, totally on purpose! That was no accident.

  “NOT COOL!” I screamed.

  I slid across the water on my stomach and face and ended up on the edge of some reeds . . . about an inch from a turtle’s butt.

  “May I help you?” the turtle asked in a rather snotty tone.

  This was where my lifelong hatred of ducks came from. Grandpa was standing over me when I looked up. I couldn’t tell if he was bursting with pride or about to laugh. Probably a little of both.

  “You okay?” Gramps grinned.

  I grunted.

  “That . . . was amazing,” Grandpa Gus added. He jotted down: 2. fudgesicle = super speed and talking to animals ability.

  Bert the pigeon flew over and yelled, “Ducks are jerks!” He was talking to me, but said it loud enough for the ducks to hear, too. It was obvious this wasn’t his first encounter with them.

  Strange. I couldn’t feel the brain freeze anymore, but I could still understand Bert. I crawled out of the pond muck, leaned down, and asked the turtle his name.

  Nothing.

  The turtle’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t connect with him. Maybe I had a special deal with Bert the pigeon.

  Grandpa decided (and I agreed) that it was probably enough training for the first time out. He was in a bit of a hurry now as well. “No need to rush training things,” Grandpa said. “Besides, I’ve got to get.”

  We gathered up our stuff and started back to the car. Neither of us picked up the cooler.

  “You’re still in training,” said Gramps. He turned and started walking.

  I sighed and picked up the cooler. Bert the pigeon landed on top of it.

  “Another pound or two isn’t going to matter. Forward!”

  On the trip back to the parking lot, I asked Grandpa a few things.

  “When did you learn about your powers?”

  “I was fourteen years old. I tried something called Beech-Nut Gum. Ever heard of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “I started chewing on that gum and got that tingle.”

  “Yeah! It’s kind of a tingle,” I said.

  “Only I’m lucky enough to not get brain freezes with mine,” he added. “I ran like I’d never run before. Kind of scared me, to be honest.”

  “Mighty Super Gus gets scared?” I asked

  “I wasn’t always Mighty Super Gus. I was a kid just like you once, buddy. But I slowly got control of my speed and superstrength. And trust me, that first time you help someone, or save the city, it gets you hooked.”

  Gramps put his arm around me. I felt a little better about all this.

  He started telling me about some of his battles back in the day with some of Mock City’s greatest villains, like The Prankster, and The Flamingo, and The Green Apple. I remember hearing about some of those bad guys. Weird to think it was MY grandpa who had saved our old town so many times. The more detail he went into about them, the more these villains sounded like the kind you’d find in a book or a movie . . . or a book that was made into a movie.

  By the time we made it to the car, my arms were killing me. Bert the pigeon hopped down off the cooler and crie
d, “SHOTGUN!”

  “No way is a filthy pigeon riding in the front seat of my car,” said Gramps. “It’s a classic. Like me.”

  “Help me out, Irving,” said Bert.

  “Irwin,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” said the pigeon. “Look, me and you got a special connection. We’re a team, Erskin. Just like the old dude and the dog that smells like rotten eggs.”

  “Again, my name is Irwin,” I said.

  “I need to go home with you. There’s an unbreakable bond between us. I can feel it,” Bert said.

  “I’m not sure. This is all happening so fast. I don’t know what to think.”

  Then Bert added, “Maybe this will help. If you don’t take me along, I’ll go to the newspapers and blow your superhero identities.”

  “You’re starting a relationship with blackmail?” I asked.

  “Hey, a bird’s gotta do what a bird’s gotta do.”

  I turned to Gramps and said, “Looks like the bird is coming with us.”

  “Well, I guess Harry Potter’s got his majestic snowy owl . . . and Irwin, you’ve got this flying rat from the park.”

  Grandpa also said Bert still wasn’t riding in the car.

  So we drove home with an infuriated pigeon clinging to the car’s antenna—and I finally got to hear all those words they bleep out on TV.

  Chapter 8

  Eaten by Badgers

  When we pulled up in the driveway, I realized I’d have to explain Bert the pigeon to Mom and Dad.

  They weren’t going to like this one bit.

  Dad’s a bit of a neat freak. Okay, he’s a full-blown cleanaholic. And Mom hadn’t allowed me to have any new pets since the “ant farm incident.” She didn’t care much for the farting corgi that visited now and then. I can’t imagine her reaction to a pigeon that’s probably not potty-trained.

  We walked up to the front door (actually, Bert flew up).

  “Be cool and calm,” I told the pigeon. “Don’t ruffle any feathers.”

  Get it? Ruffle any feathers? ’Cause he’s a bird?

  Bert and Grandpa didn’t laugh, either. Bert the pigeon agreed to be mellow.

  “Not a peep out of me,” Bert promised.

  “Not a poop would be nice as well,” I added.

  Gramps, Bert, and I entered the house—and my worst nightmare came true. Bert absolutely flipped out!

  “WHOA! NICE PLACE! XBOX 360! I’M HOME, BABY! I’M HOME!” he screeched, as he flew around the house.

  “DO YOU HAVE A POOL? A TRAMPOLINE? IS THAT CAP’N CRUNCH ON THE COUNTER? YES! SCORE!”

  Of course, to everyone but me, Bert sounded like a pigeon stuck in a lawn mower. He jumped on the kitchen table and started pecking at the butter. Mom screamed. Dad screamed louder. I got Bert down and tried to start this all over.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Bert the pigeon,” I said calmly.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” said Bert.

  “They can’t understand you,” I explained to Bert.

  Dad’s mouth dropped open.

  “Irwin, son, are you talking to a pigeon?”

  “Yeah. Something wrong with that?”

  Dad looked over at Gramps.

  “What on Earth did you do to our boy, Pops?!”

  “Dad, it’s one of my powers. I can talk to animals after eating ice cream sandwiches. And Bert and I have a special connection. He’s going to be my sidekick . . . if I decide to do this whole superhero thing.”

  I wasn’t completely convinced yet this was the career path for me, especially after coming so close to a turtle’s butt. That seemed very “unsuperheroish” . . . I just made that word up.

  After getting Bert mostly under control and calming down my parents, we all came up with a plan. Bert could live on my window ledge . . . outside. But only if I potty-trained him, because apparently pigeons just poop wherever they are . . . kind of like toddlers. Bert didn’t care for this plan one little bit.

  “Superheros don’t live on ledges!” he insisted. “They throw villains off of them!”

  I reminded the pigeon that technically he was a sidekick . . . maybe. It all depended on what I decided to do. But Bert kept ranting about it.

  “Would Batman make Robin live on a ledge? What about the Green Hornet? Would he shove Toto out on a ledge?!”

  “Kato,” I corrected.

  I told Bert we’d figure it out later. I was exhausted from superhero training. I just wanted to rest—and get the image of that turtle’s hiney out of my head.

  I woke up to Trey tapping my forehead.

  “Wake up, Sleeping Ugly,” he laughed.

  I looked at the clock. It was after 1:00 in the afternoon! I’d slept for a couple of hours! On a Saturday, a nonschool day! I wasn’t going to do this superhero thing if it was going to cut into my leisure time so much.

  Just as I swung up out of bed, Trey saw Bert the pigeon on the ledge.

  “Duuuuuude! You’ve got one mad-looking pigeon on your window ledge. Hey! It’s a real-life angry bird!”

  Bert saw that I was awake and started yelling at me again.

  “Would the Lone Ranger stick Toronto out on a ledge?!”

  “Tonto,” I mumbled under my breath.

  I realized Trey was hearing him, too.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked cautiously.

  “Yeah,” Trey answered.

  “And you understood him?”

  “Yeah, of course. He said “pigeon talk pigeon talk pigeon talk.” What’s wrong with you, Irwin? Did that fainting do something to your brain, dude?” Trey asked.

  “Uh, I’m just messin’ with you,” I answered. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Bert knocked on the window.

  “Hey! Am I coming with you?”

  “No. This is playtime, not superhero stuff,” I said.

  “Then let me inside. I’ll just hang out,” said Bert.

  “I can’t. You’re not allowed. Remember? You live on the ledge.”

  “Let me inside or I’ll fly over the top of you dropping pigeon bombs. If you know what I mean,” Bert said.

  So with Bert the pigeon tucked comfortably in my bed, watching stuff on YouTube, I took off with Trey to ride bikes. We decided to ride up Dravis Street. It was the steepest street around, which meant it was perfect for coasting down at dangerously high speeds. Dravis Street had produced some of the greatest broken bones in Mock City history. We huffed and puffed our way to the top. The nap must have done me some good, ’cause I felt great. It was the first time I’d ever beaten Trey to the top. We caught our breath, counted to three, and took off screaming, in a tough-guy way, downhill at what was probably two or three hundred miles an hour. That’s just a guess, but probably pretty close.

  Halfway down, I opened my eyes for a second. Odd, because I rarely do that. I spotted Grandpa Gus waiting for us at the bottom of the hill. What’s this? I thought superhero training was over for the day. This is kid time! This stunk because the whole point of riding down Dravis Street was to coast as far as you, but could now I was going to have to stop my ridiculously dangerous momentum. Jimmy Trowbridge swore he once coasted all the way to Hollywood, where he ended up having to fight the creepy monkey from Dora the Explorer over a half a slice of pepperoni pizza that was lying in the street. I’m not convinced that entire story is true. I mean, c’mon, don’t monkeys just eat bananas?

  I screeched to a stop and asked Grandpa, “What’s up?”

  Grandpa whispered in my ear, “Trouble across town. BIG trouble. We need to go.”

  “Trey, I’m afraid I need to take Irwin. There’s a family emergency!”

  “What is it?” Trey asked. “Can I help?”

  “Irwin’s mother is being eaten by a badger!” Gramps blurted out.

  “And you took the time to c
ome get Irwin?” asked Trey.

  He had a point.

  I waited for Gramps’s answer.

  Silence.

  Then I realized Grandpa Gus was just lying! (Are superheroes allowed to do that?) For some reason, he wanted to get me out of there. Gramps snatched my bike, put it in the trunk, and hustled me into his car. Trey waved good-bye as we sped off.

  I gotta admit, I was a little mad here. This was MY time, and besides, I still wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the superhero business. So far all it had done was make me sleepy and land me WAY too close to a turtle’s butt. (Last time I’ll mention that, I promise.)

  Grandpa explained the crisis as he drove.

  Chapter 9

  Put Your Tights On

  “Irwin, Sweaty Crocker has broken out of prison. She’s on the loose!”

  “Seems like someone is ALWAYS breaking out of Mock City’s prison,” I said.

  “It’s the low budget they have. Hard to control prisoners when all you have to stop them with is water balloons,” said Grandpa.

  “So, who IS this person?” I asked.

  “Sweaty Crocker is a former lunch lady from YOUR school,” Gramps explained. “She was fired when kids kept getting sick from her dreadful cooking. Kind of like your grandmother’s stuff.”

  “What?!” I yelled. “The killer lunch lady really exists?”

  Apparently Sweaty Crocker had never actually killed any children. But she sent an awful lot of them to the school nurse. She also had several health violations for mice in her hairnets and excessive toenails in the meatloaf. All things that normally would have gone overlooked, but Sweaty Crocker went too far: She nearly did wipe out four kids with her cooking. And our school district has a very strict “nearly kill three kids and you’re out” policy. I guess they cut Sweaty Crocker a little slack since she hung around long enough to almost take out a fourth. They probably couldn’t get a sub for her or something.