Andrew North Blows Up the World (2 page)

Later on, when we were all doing worksheets, Tony leaned over to me. “Nice job of saving my butt!” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” I said.

“But you know what?” he asked. “If I kept at it, I bet I could have sharpened my pencil at least thirty times today. That’s
way
more than that Mark Lane guy was doing it!”

I’ll bet that the used-car store on Eighty-second Street has a car set aside for when Tony turns sixteen: an old broken-down one that’s worth about as much as his bike. They’ll tell him it’s a classic that some old lady owned just to drive it to church once a week, so it’s still in perfect shape. And he’ll believe it.

Luckily for Tony, I’m planning to be a billionaire by the time I turn sixteen. I’ll have enough money to buy really fancy sports cars for both of us. Maybe even one for Dave the Monkey. They’ll be top-of-the-line, superfast machines with built-in TVs, fish tanks, candy machines, periscopes, and
ejection seats. After I join the family business and become a pro spy, I’ll need a car with an ejection seat for sure.

I was ready to go pro. I just had to find a way to let headquarters know. And I had the perfect tool to do it.

I had “borrowed” it from Jack’s room that morning while he was in the shower. Jack called it his calculator, but a spy like me could see that it was no calculator. It was about the size of a brick, and it was covered with buttons that didn’t make any sense. It had letter keys, not just number keys. And the screen was so big that it could probably show pictures.

It was obviously a spy gadget of some sort. If I typed in a message, I figured it would get beamed back to headquarters. I had to be really careful with it, though, because if I pushed the wrong button, it might explode. Seriously. You can’t be too careful with spy gadgets.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen the calculator. Maybe I should have just been patient and waited till I was thirteen and headquarters contacted me, like they contacted Jack. But let’s face it: I was a lot smarter than your average kid. I mean, I had put all this stuff together on my own. It was a waste of serious spy talent not to use me, even if I was only nine. A kid like me could save the world.

Besides, once I was in training like Jack, we could hang out together like we used to, back before he went pro. I really missed hanging out with him.

So after I finally finished my math worksheet and handed
it in, I took out the calculator. Using the letter keys, I typed in This is Andrew North, Jack’s brother. I am ready to go pro. Come see me at the music program at Cornersville West Elementary tomorrow night!

I looked for a SEND button that would beam my message straight into headquarters. I couldn’t find one, though, so I tried hitting a whole bunch of buttons at once.

All of a sudden, the screen went
nuts!
All the letters disappeared, and little black flashing dots showed up in their place! Then the word Working started flashing on the screen.

I started to get nervous. What had I done? What if I pushed the wrong button, and instead of sending the message, I’d set the thing to self-destruct? Or, worse, what if I had accidentally punched in a code that would launch a whole bunch of missiles right at Moscow? Had I just started World War III?

I was starting to have some serious second thoughts. Maybe I wasn’t ready to be a full-fledged spy. Maybe I should have left the calculator, or whatever it was, with Jack— someone who actually knew how to use it!

I started pushing buttons like mad, trying to get it to stop. Nothing happened; it just kept saying “Working.” Finally, I turned the thing upside down, opened the case, and took out the batteries. Then I breathed a sigh of relief—I’d narrowly saved everyone from getting blown up, and they’d never even know it!

That was the kind of on-my-feet thinking the spy headquarters would be lucky to get!

But when I looked up, everyone was staring at me.

“You aren’t allowed to use calculators in class, Andrew,” said Nicole.

“I’m not!” I said. “I already turned in my worksheet!”

“Andrew,” said Mr. Summers, who was walking over to my desk, “you know I don’t allow calculators. I’m teaching you guys to do math with your brains!”

Mr. Summers is really big on doing math with your brain. He even has a rubber hand in his desk that he claims he cut off some kid when he saw him counting on his fingers to do subtraction. I think only Tony Zunker believes that one.

“I didn’t use it for class,” I said. “I was just experimenting with it.”

Mr. Summers picked up the calculator and looked at it. “This is a nice one,” he said. “But it’s really for algebra and stuff, not third-grade math. And you know these aren’t allowed, anyway. I’m going to have to take this for the weekend.”

“No!” I said. “You can’t!” It was only
Thursday
. Surely Jack would notice it was gone! And what if he needed it to warn headquarters about some shark-loving billionaire who liked to coat people in gold or something?

“Sorry, Andrew,” Mr. Summers said. “Those are the rules. You can have it back on Monday.”

He took the calculator and put it into the top drawer of his desk with the rubber hand.

This was really bad. Even if Jack somehow didn’t notice it was gone, Mr. Summers
was
a math nut. There was a pretty good chance that he might pick up the device to do some algebra over the weekend—just for fun! I knew enough to take the batteries out if the thing looked like it was gonna blow, but Mr. Summers didn’t know it was a spy gadget. He might accidentally punch in a code that would blow up the whole school—maybe the whole town! Or the world! Maybe the world would end before school even let out! And it would be my fault. I could just imagine the newspaper headlines if the newspapers didn’t all get blown up. They’d say:
Andrew North Blows Up the World!

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!

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.”

“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.”