Freak the Mighty
Authors: Rodman Philbrick
“A wonderful story of triumph over imperfection, shame, and loss…. The author writes
with empathy, honoring the possibilities of even peripheral characters; Kevin and
Max are memorable and luminous. Many … novels deal with effects of a friend dying,
but this one is somewhat different and very special.”
—
School Library Journal
, starred review
“… mesmerizingly suspenseful … poignant…. Easily read but compelling; an intriguing
and unusual story.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
, pointered review
“… the story is both riveting and poignant, with solid characters, brisk pacing, and
even a little humor to carry us along.”
—
Booklist
, boxed review
“The book is subtle but compelling, with the outrageous grotesquerie of the partnership
conveyed enjoyably in Max’s narration…. Sort of
A Separate Peace
meets
Of Mice and Men….”
—
BCCB
“Told from Max’s perspective, the harrowing events of his life are revealed gradually,
as he is able to face them, thanks to the wisdom of his friend who had taught him
to ‘think your way out of the pain.’ A fascinating excursion into the lives of people
whose freakishness proves to be a thin cover for their very human condition.”
—
The Horn Book Magazine
“The unique voice of this first-person narrative is fresh, funny and touching…. The
well-paced, compelling story leaves the reader feeling privileged to have shared the
friendship of Freak the Mighty.
Highly Recommended
.”
—
Book Report
“
Freak the Mighty
by Rodman Philbrick … is a winner. From the opening paragraphs, this book has a distinctive
‘voice’ as Philbrick develops his unusual characters…. In the hands of a lesser writer,
these characters might have become clichés, but Philbrick develops an engaging story
as this unlikely pair form a friendship and eventually combine forces to become Freak
the Mighty.”
—
Santa Cruz County Sentinel
A Judy Lopez Memorial Award
Honor Book
To the real Kevin, and the real Gwen,
with love.
I never had a brain until Freak came along and let me borrow his for a while, and
that’s the truth, the whole truth. The unvanquished truth, is how Freak would say
it, and for a long time it was him who did the talking. Except I had a way of saying
things with my fists and my feet even before we became Freak the Mighty, slaying dragons
and fools and walking high above the world.
Called me Kicker for a time — this was day care, the year Gram and Grim took me over
— and I had a thing about booting anyone who dared to touch me. Because they were
always
trying to throw a hug on me, like it was a medicine I needed.
Gram and Grim, bless their pointed little heads, they’re my mother’s people,
her
parents, and they figured whoa! better put this little crit
ter with other little critters his own age, maybe it will improve his temper.
Yeah, right! Instead, what happened, I invented games like kick-boxing and kick-knees
and kick-faces and kick-teachers, and kick-the-other-little-day-care-critters, because
I knew what a rotten lie that hug stuff was. Oh, I
knew
.
That’s when I got my first look at Freak, that year of the phony hugs. He didn’t look
so different back then, we were all of us pretty small, right? But he wasn’t in the
playroom with us every day, just now and then he’d show up. Looking sort of fierce,
is how I remember him. Except later it was Freak himself who taught me that remembering
is a great invention of the mind, and if you try hard enough you can remember anything,
whether it really happened or not.
So maybe he wasn’t really all
that
fierce in day care, except I’m pretty sure he did hit a kid with his crutch once,
whacked the little brat pretty good. And for some reason little Kicker never got around
to kicking little Freak.
Maybe it was those crutches kept me from lashing out at him, man those crutches were
cool. I wanted a pair for myself. And when little Freak showed up one day with these
shiny braces strapped to his crooked legs, metal tubes right up to his hips, why those
were even
more
cool than crutches.
“I’m Robot Man,” little Freak would go, making these weird robot noises as he humped
himself around the playground.
Rrr … rrrr … rrrr
… like he had robot motors inside his legs, going
rrrr … rrrr … rrrr
, and this look, like don’t mess with me, man, maybe I got a laser cannon hidden inside
these leg braces, smoke a hole right through you. No question, Freak was hooked on
robots even back then, this little guy two feet tall, and already he knew what he
wanted.
Then for a long time I never saw Freak anymore, one day he just never came back to
day care, and the next thing I remember I’m like in the third grade or something and
I catch a glimpse of this yellow-haired kid scowling at me from one of those cripple
vans. Man, they were death-ray eyes, and I think, hey, that’s him, the robot boy,
and it was like whoa! because I’d forgotten all about him, day care was a blank place
in my head, and nobody had called me Kicker for a long time.
Mad Max they were calling me, or Max Factor, or this one butthead in L.D. class called
me Maxi Pad, until I persuaded him otherwise. Gram and Grim always called me Maxwell,
though, which is supposed to be my real name, and sometimes I hated that worst of
all. Maxwell, ugh.
Grim out in the kitchen one night, after supper whispering to Gram had she noticed
how much Maxwell was getting to look like
Him
? Which is the way he always talked about my father, who had married his dear departed
daughter and produced, eek eek, Maxwell. Grim never says my father’s name, just
Him
, like his name is too scary to say.
It’s more than just the way Maxwell resembles him, Grim says that night in the kitchen,
the boy is
like
him, we’d better watch out, you never know what he might do while we’re sleeping.
Like his father did. And Gram right away shushes him and says don’t ever say that,
because little pictures have big ears, which makes me run to the mirror to see if
it is my big ears made me look like
Him
.
What a butthead, huh?
Well, I
was
a butthead, because like I said, I never had a brain until Freak moved down the street.
The summer before eighth grade, right? That’s the summer I grew so fast that Grim
said we’d best let the boy go barefoot, he’s exploding out of his shoes. That barefoot
summer when I fell down a lot, and the weirdo robot boy with his white-yellow hair
and his weird fierce eyes moved into the duplex down the block with his beautiful
brown-haired mom, the Fair Gwen of Air.
Only a falling-down goon would think that was her real name, right?
Like I said.
Are you paying attention here? Because you don’t even know yet how we got to be Freak
the Mighty. Which was pretty cool, even if I do say so myself.
That summer, let’s see, I’m still living in the basement, my own private down under,
in the little room Grim built for me there. Glued up this cheap paneling, right? It
sort of buckles away from the concrete cellar walls, a regular ripple effect, but
do I complain about the crummy paneling, or the rug that smells like low tide? I do
not. Because I
like
it in the down under, got the place all to myself and no fear of Gram sticking her
head in the door and saying Maxwell dear, what
are
you doing?
Not that I ever
do
much of anything. Grim has it fixed in his head I’m at a dangerous age and they need
to keep me under observation. Like I might make bombs or start a fire. Or whack out
the local pets with my trusty slingshot or whatever — except I never
had
a slingshot, it was Grim who had one when he was my age.
The proof is right there in the family photo album. You can see this blurry little
miniature Grim with no front teeth, grinning at the camera and yanking back on this
prehistoric slingshot. Good for whacking mastodons, probably. “Just proper targets,”
Grim says, closing up the photo album, end of discussion. Like, oops, better hide
the evidence. Don’t want to give the dangerous boy any ideas.
Not that I
have
any ideas. My brain is vacant, okay? I’m just this critter hiding out in the basement,
drooling in my comic books or whatever. All right, I never actually
drool
, but you get the picture.
Anyhow, this is the first day of July, already counting down for the Fourth and wondering
where can I get an M80, which is supposed to have the explosive power of a quarter
stick of dynamite or something, and when it goes off your heart thuds to a stop for
a microsecond,
wham
. Which is probably what Grim is afraid of, eek eek, Maxwell armed with dynamite.
So finally I get bored in the down under and I’m hanging out in the so-called back
yard, your basic chunk of chain-link heaven. Grim keeps this crummy little mower in
the shed, but what’s the point of mowing dirt, right? Okay, I’m out there messing
around and that’s when I see the moving van. Not your mainstream, nationwide, brand-name
mover, either, just some cheapo local outfit. These big bearded dudes in their sweaty
undershirts lugging stuff into the duplex
half that’s been vacant since last Christmas, when the dope fiend who lived there
finally got busted.
At first I’m thinking the dope fiend is back, he’s out of jail or whatever, and he’s
moving his stuff back in. Then I see the Fair Gwen. Not that I knew her name, that
was a little while later. At first she’s a glimpse, caught her going between the van
and the front door, talking to the beards. I’m thinking,
hey I know her
, and then I’m thinking,
no way, butthead, no way you’d know a female that beautiful
.
Because she looks like some kind of movie star. Wearing these old jeans and a baggy
T-shirt, and her long hair is tied back and she’s probably sweating, but she
still
looks like a movie star. Like she has this glow, a secret spotlight that follows
her around and makes her eyes light up.
And I’m thinking, well
this
improves the old neighborhood. You’re thinking, yeah right, the goon is barely out
of seventh grade, who does he think he is? All I’m saying, the Fair Gwen had star
quality, and even a total moron can see it. And the reason she looked familiar is,
I must have seen her bringing Freak to day care, way back in the dark ages, because
the next thing I notice is this crippled-up yellow-haired midget kid strutting around
the sidewalk, giving orders to the beards.
He’s going: “Hey you, Doofus! Yeah, you with the hairy face, take it easy with that
box. That
box contains a computer, you know what a computer is?”
I can’t believe it. By then I’m sneaking along the street to see what’s going on,
and there’s this weird-looking little dude, he’s got a normal-sized head, but the
rest of him is shorter than a yardstick and kind of twisted in a way that means he
can’t stand up straight and makes his chest puff out, and he’s waving his crutches
around and yelling up at the movers.
“Hey, Gwen,” one of the beards says, “can’t you give this kid a pill or something?
He’s driving us nuts.”
So Gwen comes out of the house and pushes the hair out of her big brown eyes and she
goes, “Kevin, go play in the back yard, okay?”
“But my computer.”
“Your computer is fine. Leave the men alone. They’ll be done soon and then we can
have lunch.”
By this time I’m hunkering along in front of the place, trying to maintain a casual
attitude, except like I said my feet are going wild that year and I keep tripping
over everything. Cracks in the sidewalk, ants on the sidewalk, shadows, anything.
Then the strange little dude jerks himself around and catches sight of me and he lifts
a crutch and points it up at my heart and he goes, “Identify yourself, earthling.”
I’m busy keeping my feet from tripping and don’t get it that he means me.
“I said identify yourself, earthling, or suffer the consequences.”
I’m like, what? And before I can decide whether or not to tell him my name, or
which
name, because by now I recognize him as the weird little robot kid from day care
and maybe he remembers me as Kicker, anyhow before I can say a word he pulls the trigger
on the crutch and makes a weapon noise, and he goes, “Then die, earthling, die!”
I motor out of there without saying a word. Because I’m pretty sure he really means
it. The way he points that crutch is only part of it. You have to see the look in
his eye. Man, that little dude really hates me.
He
wants
me to die.