Andrew North Blows Up the World Page 2

  Even if we did survive the afternoon, if Jack found out the calculator was gone, he’d kill me!

  I had to get that calculator back, and fast!

  CHAPTERTWO

  Andrew “Danger” North took in the strange woman who stood before him. Her gruesome stare burned into his skin—even though her left eye was covered by a patch. The scar on her cheek reminded him that she knew how to fight. It also reminded him of the famous scar above Dr. Cringe’s eyebrow. Could this woman be working for Dr. Cringe?

  Agent North moved closer to her. Behind her, the clang of metal against metal created a sort of symphony. There were dozens of knives visible behind her, and North was aware that she knew how to use them.

  But Agent North hadn’t come to fight. He had come to eat.

  “Whattaya want, honey?” she asked him. “The Salisbury steak and potato salad, or the three-bean casserole and potato salad?”

  You can do a lot of different things with potatoes. You can bake them, mash them, or make them into French fries. But in the school cafeteria, it seems like the only thing they know how to do is make them into cold potato salad, because that’s the way they serve them every day. People who eat the hot lunch probably get about five times the recommended daily allowance of mayonnaise.

  Maybe some powerful potato-salad company is bribing the principal. That sort of thing happens sometimes, you know. Some big rich guy will show up in the office and say, “Listen, buddy! My brother is a potato-salad salesman, and you’re going to buy potato salad from him to serve in the cafeteria every day, or we’ll beat you up and bash in your headlights. Got it?” Maybe one of my first missions when I become a professional spy will be to break up the potato-salad racket.

  Since it was Thursday, I wasn’t about to eat the stuff, because I know for sure they make it on Monday and serve us the same batch all week. Jack told me that when I first started school. Having a spy for a brother comes in handy. Unlike most of the kids, I know that I should never eat it after Wednesday.

  I sat down at a lunch table next to Tony Zunker, Danny Nelson, and Paul Hazuka. We were all friends, but we only saw each other at lunch and recess, because Danny and Paul were in Mrs. Burgett’s class.

  “I’m thinking of skipping recess,” I said as I sat down. “We could all be in real danger.”

  “Because Mr. Summers took your calculator?” asked Tony.

  “It’s not mine, it’s Jack’s!” I said. “And it’s not just an ordinary calculator—it’s a spy gadget! If Mr. Summers starts fiddling with it, it might explode!”

  “He’ll fiddle with it, all right,” said Tony. “He might be using it to do some math right now!”

  It may seem strange that I told my friends I come from a spy family. Jack told me not to tell anyone, but by the time he told me that, I’d kind of already let it slip to Paul, Danny, and Tony. They’ve done a really good job of keeping my secret, though. They may not be spy material, but they’re definitely on the right side. I figure I can train them all to be my assistants someday. They can clean my suits and talk about insurance with me in public. All spies need guys like that. Even Batman needs his butler and that guy who makes all his gadgets.

  “Seriously?” asked Danny. “Your brother has a calculator that can blow people up?”

  “It can probably blow up the whole town!” I replied. “Maybe even the world!”

  “Awesome!” said Danny.

  Danny wears camouflage a lot, even though there’s no forest or anything to blend into around school. He’s also really into weapons. One time when he and I were in the same art class, we had to use egg beaters to mix up paint. He got in big trouble after Mr. Murrell caught him waving the egg beater around and saying, “I wouldn’t want to be the next guy whose head I crack open! I’ll scramble his brains!” As far as I know, Danny’s never actually cracked anyone’s head open before, but he does get sent to talk to the guidance counselor a lot.

  Paul rolled his eyes at me. He’s a real champion eye-roller.

  “Your brother isn’t a spy,” he said. “Give it up.”

  “He is too!” said Tony.

  “Ignore him,” I whispered to Tony.

  Tony, Danny, and I know that a lot of strange things go on in town, but Paul Hazuka doesn’t believe any of it. He also doesn’t believe in ghosts, or aliens, or the Loch Ness Monster, or anything like that. I’ll bet he grows up to sell insurance for real.

  I mean, any idiot can see that there are strange things going on in our town if they just look around a bit. For instance, in the middle of the mall, right near the food court, there’s a life-sized statue of a naked guy with angel wings riding a tricycle. You can see his butt and everything. There has to be a secret spy chamber under that statue. Why else would anything that weird be right in the middle of the mall? But Paul just thinks it means that the owner of the mall has weird taste in art. He’s never going to save the world thinking like that.

  “So, where did Mr. Summers put it?” asked Danny.

  “It’s in his desk,” I said.

  “That’s no big deal,” said Danny. “You can probably get it back from there.”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Yeah,” said Danny. “I was afraid you were going to say he put it into Storage Room B!”

  “That room where they take stuff that isn’t claimed from the Lost and Found?” Tony asked.

  Danny nodded while he sipped his milk. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s also where they put stuff that gets taken up for the whole year. Mr. Gormulka guards that room with his life!”

  I gulped. Mr. Gormulka, if that is in fact his real name, is the janitor—or so he wants us to believe. The story goes that he fought in some war a long time ago, and when he came back, all he wanted in life was to help keep America clean, so he got a job as a janitor. But I’m pretty sure he’s a criminal or a spy or something. He sure looks like a criminal. He’s always sort of grumpy, and he has this nasty scar above his left eyebrow that looks like the letter “M.” When he raises his eyebrow, the scar moves, almost like a bat flapping its wings. It’s really freaky.

  He hates my guts, too. I puked in the hallway once in kindergarten, and I don’t think he ever quite forgave me. He’s always walking around the halls, looking all creepy and whistling. Whistling makes some people seem happy, but with Mr. Gormulka, it’s about the creepiest thing ever.

  “You think he’s hiding something in there?” I asked.

  “Duh,” said Danny. “That’s, like, common knowledge.”

  “I’ve always heard that there are a ton of comic books in there,” said Paul. “But I’ll bet there’s nothing in there but old mittens.”

  “There are comic books, all right,” said Danny. “There’s a collection in there worth about a million dollars, and they all got lost around the school. Every time someone loses one or gets a comic book confiscated, Mr. Gormulka keeps it.”

  “No kidding?” I asked. Jack had never told me that!

  “And that’s not all,” said Danny. “There are dead bodies hidden in that room!”

  “Get real,” said Paul, who rolled his eyes again.

  “I’m serious,” said Danny. “I think they’re the bodies of kids who died from jumping off the top of the slide or doing dangerous stunts on the monkey bars. The school hid the bodies and told the parents they ran away so they wouldn’t get sued!”

  “I’ve heard that, too,” said Tony.

  “I doubt that’s true,” I said. Sometimes my superspy skills help me tell when something doesn’t make any sense. “If the school wanted to cover up that a kid died on the playground, they’d probably bury them under the cafeteria or something. Someplace where no one would find them. And anyway, Jack would have told me about that.”

  “You guys are stupid,” said Paul. “If there were dead bodies under the cafeteria, they’d start to stink.”

  “Who would notice?” said Danny. “The cafeteria stinks all the time.”

&n
bsp; “Look,” said Paul. “Be realistic. Your brother’s calculator is just in a desk, not in some hidden chamber full of dead bodies. If you want to get it back, just get in trouble.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Get yourself in just enough trouble to get an indoor recess,” said Paul. “Then wait until Mr. Summers goes to get more coffee from the teachers’ lounge and grab it out of his desk. Piece of cake.”

  “Hey,” I said, perking up. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Paul shrugged. “Honestly, Andrew,” he said. “If you stopped pretending to be a spy and started thinking like a normal person, you could come up with stuff like this yourself!”

  It really was a good plan—simple and elegant. I had been thinking of maybe mixing up glue, some of the potato salad, and some of the cleaning supplies under the drinking fountain and finding a way to set fire to it in the bathroom. When it started to stink, people would think there was a gas leak, and when they marched everyone outside, I could run into the classroom and grab the calculator. Paul’s idea was a lot easier. After all, the only way I could start a fire in the bathroom was by rubbing two sticks together, and that’s really hard to do.

  Just then, Neil Gorblisch sat down at our table. I never like to sit by Neil. In addition to being a bully, he’s a pretty gross eater. If I were a pig, I’d insult the other pigs by saying that they ate like Neil Gorblisch. That’s how gross he eats.

  “Well, well,” he said, looking around at us. “Look who’s here! The geek gang!”

  “Of course we’re here, cheese bag,” I said. “It’s school! We’re here every day.”

  “Cheese bag?” asked Neil. “What’s a cheese bag?”

  “You are,” I said.

  Actually, I had no idea what a cheese bag was, but it was a pretty good insult. I bought it off Ryan Kowalski, the class criminal. Ryan is sort of a genius when it comes to making up insults. You know how professional spies have guys who make their weapons and gadgets for them? Ryan is a bit like that guy for me. I can’t take weapons to school, of course, but I can take insults. Give him fifty cents, and he’ll write you a pretty choice put-down.

  Neil curled his lip at me. He thinks he looks very threatening when he curls his lip. Actually, he sort of does.

  “Shut up, An-dy,” he said.

  I gave him my own meanest look. “What did you call me, Gorblisch?” I asked.

  “You heard me,” said Neil. “ An-dy!”

  That did it!

  No one, but no one, calls me Andy!

  Andrew North is a great spy name, but Andy North isn’t. That sounds like the name of a trucker who takes too long in the bathroom. Or a professional bowler who does commercials for toe-fungus cream. I don’t let anybody call me Andy, and Neil knows it.

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “At least my last name doesn’t sound like the noise a toilet makes when you flush it! Goooorrrrrblisch!”

  Tony started laughing. So did Danny and Paul. Ryan had charged me a whole dollar for that insult, but it was worth it.

  “Shut up!” said Neil. “You’re a dork, North!”

  “Back to you and more of it!” I said.

  Neil dug his spoon into his potato salad and made a move like he was going to fling it at me.

  Naturally, I sprang into action. Before he could do anything, I dug my spoon into my own potato salad and flung it at Neil. It hit him square on the nose, then hung there for a second like a giant booger before dropping onto his plate.

  Neil growled. Then he scooped up some of his potato salad and lobbed it at me. It hit me in the chest and clung to my shirt.

  Tony Zunker grabbed a spoonful of his potato salad and reached up to throw it, but he never had a chance. Mrs. Rademacher, the lunchroom monitor, showed up behind him before he could let it fly.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked in that tone of voice adults use to tell you that someone’s about to get into trouble.

  “He threw potato salad at me,” Neil grumbled.

  “And he threw it at me!” I said, pointing at Neil. “And he started it, too.”

  “Did not!” Neil lied.

  “Andrew started it, Mrs. Rademacher,” said Nicole. She was sitting at the next table over, where she had been bossing around a group of girls. “I saw the whole thing. Tony was about to throw some, too.”

  “Thank you, Nicole,” said Mrs. Rademacher. “Come with me, Andrew and Tony.”

  She grabbed our shoulders and led us down the hall. She was awfully strong for someone as old as she was. And awfully mean. And thanks to her, who knew whether I’d be able to put Paul’s awesome Indoor-Recess Calculator-Retrieval Plan into motion today?

  “This is so unfair!” I said. “Tony shouldn’t be in trouble!”

  “I didn’t even throw anything!” said Tony. “Neil did!”

  But being fair was not something Mrs. Rademacher was known for.

  “Poor Neil was just defending himself from you hooligans!” said Mrs. Rademacher. “You’ll be spending your recess indoors, in your classroom!” Sweet.

  Tony nudged me and smiled. I smiled back. Although we were in trouble for totally unfair reasons, it was my perfect chance to get the calculator back before Mr. Summers could blow up the world!

  CHAPTERTHREE

  Madam Mordre, the evil Dr. Cringe’s equally evil assistant, led Agent North down the corridor, handcuffs chafing his wrists. Dave the Monkey followed along in tiny handcuffs of his own.

  North’s plan was working perfectly! He had intended to fight his way into Dr. Cringe’s chambers but realized that if he lost the fight on purpose and let them simply capture him, Madam Mordre would lead him right into the chamber! As soon as she looked away, he would break free of the handcuffs.

  His suit was a bit messed up from the fight, but his hair was still perfect.

  Madam Mordre grinned as she led North through the door into the secret chamber, where Dr. Cringe was waiting.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’ll be spending your recess in here.”

  Mr. Summers was sitting at his desk, grading our worksheets and listening to music on headphones, and Ryan Kowalski was leaning his chair back and putting his feet up on his desk. Ryan had to eat his lunch in the classroom every day. No one knew what he’d called Mrs. Rademacher to get permanent indoor recess, and he wasn’t telling.

  “Got two more for you,” said Mrs. Rademacher.

  “Oh?” said Mr. Summers, looking up.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Rademacher. “They’ll be spending the rest of lunch and recess indoors with Ryan. And Ryan, put your feet down!”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. R,” said Ryan.

  Mr. Summers nodded and gestured for us to have a seat. I sat down next to Ryan, and Tony sat down next to me.

  Ryan was dressed in a plain white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slicked back, and he was chewing on a pencil.

  “What are you guys in for?” Ryan asked.

  “Throwing potato salad at Neil,” I said proudly.

  Ryan nodded. “Looks like Neil got you back, too.” He pointed at my chest.

  “Guess so,” I said. “Are we allowed to talk out loud in here?”

  “Sure,” said Ryan. He turned and started talking really loudly so Mr. Summers could hear him through his headphones. “Mr. Summers doesn’t mind if we talk here. Do you, Mr. S?”

  “Knock yourselves out,” said Mr. Summers. “I’m not a jailer. I’m just here to make sure you don’t break the windows and write dirty words on the marker board.”

  And he went back to grading papers and listening to his headphones.

  “Hey, Ryan,” I said, quietly enough that Mr. Summers wouldn’t hear, “that insult you gave me about Neil’s name sounding like a toilet flush worked really well!”

  “I knew it would,” said Ryan. “Need any more?”

  “Not today,” I said, “but as soon as I get some cash, I’ll buy a whole bunch.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “I’m having
a sale this month—five insults for only two bucks.”

  I needed to do something to get some more money. I really did need more insults, but I didn’t know how much I could afford to spend, considering I had a monkey to save for. Of course, if I had managed to contact spy headquarters and they called me up to the pros, I’d be able to afford a monkey and a ton of insults!

  The whole time we talked, I kept a close eye on Mr. Summers. I knew he had to get up some time, which would give me a chance to get the calculator back. If he didn’t leave the room, I was going to have to find some way to get all of us out of the room, which was going to be a real trick.

  After lunchtime ended and everyone else was out on the playground, Mr. Summers gave us some drawing paper to keep us occupied during our indoor recess. I drew a blueprint for the house where Jack and I would live after we had both gone pro as spies. It would have everything—giant TVs, a swimming pool the size of a football field, a video-game room, and maybe an indoor baseball stadium. It would even have private suites in the basement for Tony and Danny, my assistants. There would be secret passages all over and a telescope on the roof that we could use to look into windows all over town.

  Paul Hazuka could live there with us, too, even though he’d probably never believe we were spies. He’d probably think we made all our money from “good investments” or something and that I just dressed so sharply to impress the ladies (which would only be half true). But that would be okay—if anyone came snooping around, he could answer the door and say, “Spies? No, no spies here. Nobody here but us insurance salesmen!”

  While I worked on a design for the monkey habitat where Dave would live, I thought about all the stuff Danny had said about Storage Room B. Jack had never told me anything about it, so I sort of doubted there was anything that secret in there. But it was possible. Anything is possible in a town like Cornersville Trace.

  “Hey,” I said to Ryan. “Did you ever hear any stories about Storage Room B?”

  Ryan spent more time in the school than anybody, since he got detention so often. If anyone knew anything, it would be him.