Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 3
I had just gotten one leg out when I was shoved from behind, knocking me into my locker. “Who are you supposed to be, nerd?”
Buster Tallwell’s unique gift was feats of strength and extreme heightness. There was a rumor that Buster had already been scouted by the NBA and the NFL and the NHL and the FBI, but I think that last one was added just because people had already used up all the other letters and still wanted the rumor to sound important. But nobody could confirm any of it, because anyone who asked Buster Tallwell a question about his height mysteriously ended up duct-taped to the mats on the gym wall. Chip had been duct-taped five times. He even started carrying his own duct tape. He called it his Tallwell Tape, because Chip Mason was a good sport about everything.
Questions That Could Get You Tallwell-Taped to the Gym Wall, in No Particular Order
How’s the weather up there?
Can you see my house from here?
Does it hurt when meteorites hit you in the head?
Do you have to duck when airplanes fly by?
Have you ever put a flashlight in your mouth and stood by the ocean on a stormy night?
Can I borrow your eraser? (Apparently Buster Tallwell wasn’t a big fan of sharing, either.)
I shimmied out of my dress shirt, and my skin sighed with relief. I crammed it into my locker and pulled out my gym clothes, which hadn’t been washed in sixty-six days, making me the current record-holder in the unofficial Pennybaker School Smelly Shirt Contest. Wesley had been ahead of me until parent-teacher conferences, when his mom pulled his yellow shirt out of his gym locker and screamed in disgust. Apparently it had been white when she’d sent it in at the beginning of the year.
“I asked you a question, nerd,” Buster said, leaning over me menacingly, blocking out the light. (7. Does your head get hot from light bulbs?)
“Oh, this?” I asked, plucking the spatterdashes off the floor and dropping them in my locker. “Philadelphus Philadelphia.”
“Who?”
“Philadelphus Philadelphia.”
“You’re making that up.”
I shimmied into my shorts, my legs feeling wonderfully breezy and free. “Nope.”
“Nobody is named Philawhatever.”
“Well, maybe not anymore, but this guy sure was.”
He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. He had a brother named New Jersius New Jersey.”
“No, he—”
“And a sister named Californius California. A whole family named after cities.”
“Um, those are states, and—”
“Oh! I know another. Francius Francey.”
“That’s a country. And you added a Y.”
“Fine. Australius Australia.”
“Continent.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you saying I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
I held my arms up in surrender. “No. I swear. I was just … His name was actually Jacob Meyer, but he went by Philadelphus Philadelphia. And, trust me, I think it’s stupid, too. I just had to pick someone.”
The truth was, I kind of related to Jacob Meyer. He was the first American-born magician. He was kind of a big deal, made a ton of money, performed for royalty across Europe, and even got banished from Prussia for freaking out the king. Freaking out kings sounded like a pretty cool skill to put on your job applications.
But, even better, Jacob Meyer, aka Philadelphus Philadelphia, used science in his magic. Specifically, he used alchemy, which Chip explained to me was mostly about trying to turn lead into gold. That sounded like exactly the reason I was at Pennybaker in the first place.
As much as I hated dressing up, learning about people like Jacob Meyer was pretty cool. And Mr. Faboo, our Facts After the Fact teacher, was awesome at teaching us interesting stuff about regular people, because he believed regular people were just as important in history as wars and treaties, which made regular guys like me feel kind of important. Plus, he didn’t believe in memorizing dates or taking tests, which made thirty days of suffocated calves totally worth it.
Buster continued. “You should have picked someone cool, like … like … like the guy who built Plymouth Rock.”
I waited for him to say Just kidding or something, but he didn’t. In fact, he seemed pretty pleased with himself for having had such a great idea. “It wasn’t built,” I said. “It’s a rock.”
“What are you saying? That I don’t know about rock-building?” He leaned even farther over me. I was starting to understand why Chip spent so much time on the wall. There was no way he would be able to resist giving a lecture on the history of rock formation. He would probably even ask to go home so he could don his geology socks.
I, however, liked keeping my feet on the ground. “No, no, of course not, Buster. I think the Plymouth Rock thing is a really good idea. You should ask Mr. Faboo about it.”
I wondered what Mr. Faboo would look like duct-taped to the gym wall.
“We’re introducing a new unit today, fellas,” Coach Abel said as we grunted and groaned over our calisthenics. “Don’t quit, now; nobody told you to stop. Thirteen, fourteen, good …” He walked through our squad lines, every so often pausing to straighten someone’s jumping-jack arms.
“Basketball?” Buster yelled. He was already done with his calisthenics. Buster Tallwell was born done with his calisthenics.
“Nope.”
“Football?” Buckley Manor asked.
“Nope.”
“Handball?” Colton Wood said between grunts.
“Nope.”
“Cheerleading?” a voice asked. A very high, squeaky, non-boy voice. Samara Lee was standing just inside the gym door, her hands on her hips. Worse, the entire girls’ Four Square class was standing behind her.
“Let me through, let me through.” There was some scuttling around in the crowd of girls, and then Miss Allegro, the teeny music teacher and