Secret Identity

  For more than forty years,

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  CONTENTS

  1 Bubba Bixby

  2 Mr, Green, Homework Machine

  3 Spy Tools

  4 Level 42-e

  5 Secret Identity

  6 Building the Site

  7 Flip-o-rama

  8 Blastoff!

  9 Spreading the Word

  10 Confetti Hits the Fan

  11 Dr. Voss Comes Knocking

  12 Yours in Truth and Justice

  13 Miracle at Table 4

  14 Shredderman Gets a Sidekick

  15 Mr. Bixby

  16 Shredderman Lives!

  CHAPTER 1

  Bubba Bixby

  Bubba Bixby was born big and mean, full of teeth and ready to bite.

  That's what my mom thinks anyway.

  My dad says a boy isn't born bad—he grows into being bad.

  I don't know who's right. What I do know is that Bubba Bixby's got rocky knuckles.

  And killer breath.

  Teachers are always telling him to use words instead of fists—they have no idea what they're saying! Bubba-breath can knock you out cold.

  Ask Ian McCoy. It actually happened to him in the third grade. When Bubba shouted at him, Ian's eyes rolled up in his head.

  His knees buckled.

  Then he blacked out and bit the dirt.

  We had to slap his cheeks like crazy to get him to wake up, and when he did, he sat up, then threw up.

  My father thinks I shouldn't call Bubba “Bubba” like everyone else does. He thinks I should call him Alvin, which is his real name. I've told him that calling him Alvin will get me pounded. Mike McDermish got dared to do it once and was nothing but Mike-mush when it was over. Now it's “Sure, Bubba” and “You betcha, Bubba” whenever he talks to him.

  My mom and dad used to try to get the school to do something about Bubba. They talked to teachers. They even talked to the principal, Dr. Voss, a bunch of times. Nothing changed.

  Dad thinks Dr. Voss isn't assertive enough. Dr. Voss thinks I'm not assertive enough. She says that kids like Bubba help us get ready for life.

  Now that I'm a fifth grader, my dad tells me not to worry about Bubba. He says that I've got a lot more on the ball than Bubba does, and that one day Alvin Bixby will be working for me.

  But he's wrong on two counts. First, that's forever away. And second, I wouldn't hire Bubba in a million years.

  I'd fire him.

  Say… what if I could fire Bubba from school? Wouldn't that be cool? Just kick him out and tell him to never come back. I could eat lunch without him flipping over my tray. Play four-square without him hogging the ball. Line up for class without him taking cuts and shoving the rest of us back. Oh, yeah. School without Bubba would be a whole new place.

  I have to admit that our teacher, Mr. Green, tries to keep Bubba in line, but Mr. Green's already got one full-time job teaching fifth grade, and my mom says it's hard for him to take on another in the middle of it.

  Plus, Bubba's sly. So no matter how hard Mr. Green tries, Bubba gets away with stuff.

  Like lying.

  And cheating.

  And stealing.

  My magic-rub eraser is in Bubba's desk right now with the initials B.B. gouged into it. So are some of my colored pencils. And probably my favorite The Gecko and Sticky magazine and the Dinosaurs library book I keep getting a reminder on.

  It's not just my stuff that gets stolen. Bubba takes things from everybody. Even his friends, Kevin and Max. Actually, I think he steals from them the most.

  The only thing Bubba's ever given anyone is names. I used to be Nolan Byrd. Now I'm Byrd-the-Nerd.

  Or just plain Nerd.

  Jake is Bucktooth. Trey is Butthead. Marvin is Moron. Todd is Toad, Ian is Fizz, Jenni is Worm lips, Trinity is Pony-girl, Kayla is Freckle, Sarah is Kiss-up… everyone's got two names: one from their parents and one from Bubba.

  His names stick, too. If Bubba calls you something a few times, you'll hear it over and over again from everyone. Some people like their names. Like Brian Washington. Even the teachers call him Gap because he wants them to. He doesn't have a gap between his front teeth anymore, but Bubba called him that in second grade, and he hasn't been Brian since.

  So that's Bubba. He calls you names. He steals your stuff. He breathes putrid fumes in your face.

  And even though I've always wanted to do something about it, I could never figure out what. I'm half Bubba's size and don't exactly want to die in elementary school.

  So I just eat lunch far away from him, make room when he's cutting in line, and let him call me Nerd.

  It's not fair, but at least I'm still alive.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mr. Green, Homework Machine

  Mr. Green likes animals.

  And plants.

  And rocks and sand and skulls.

  One side of our classroom is set up like the desert. The other is like a jungle. The jungle has a waterfall that he turns on when we're taking tests. It's supposed to relax us and help us think, but all it does is make me have to use the bathroom.

  Some kids—like Bubba—think Mr. Green's weird, but I think he's cool. Bubba calls him the Happy Hippie because he's got a ponytail, he likes to play guitar, and he wears jeans and sandals to school. He also drives an old van with dolphins painted all over it that everyone calls the Green Machine.

  Every month, Mr. Green gives us a project to do. A hard project. We've had to build all kinds of things:

  Ecosystems.

  Solar systems.

  Igloos.

  The Great Pyramids!

  And since my mom and dad think it's good exercise for me to do my own work, my projects are always disasters.

  My igloo looked half melted.

  My pyramids crumbled on the way to school.

  The trees in my ecosystem looked like pencils with hula grass.

  My solar system looked like it really had gone through the Big Bang.

  Give me ten pages of triple-digit multiplication. Twenty! But don't ask me to build pyramids or create the universe. Pm still working on tying my shoes so they don't come undone in P.E.

  So when Mr. Green strummed his guitar and announced, “Listen up, gang. Time to tune in to this month's project,” I groaned and flopped my head on my desk.

  Mr. Green looked at me with a smile. “You're gonna dig this one, Nolan. I promise.”

  My head stayed put. If it was a project, I was going to hate it.

  “This month you get to design your own newspaper page,” he said. “Your mission is to go around Cedar Valley and bring back our friends Who, What, When, Where, and Why. You can choose any topic you want. All I'm asking is that you follow thes
e guidelines!” He wagged a stack of lime green papers and said, “Don't lose this sheet! It lists everything you need for an A.” He started passing them out to the different tables, which are just four desks pushed together. “If you can check off everything on this list, you'll get an A, guaranteed! And please note the last item.” He pointed and read, “Turn this sheet in with your project.” He went back to passing them out. “I will not—hear me now, gang—I will not give you replacements if you lose yours.”

  He counted out four sheets at our table and handed them to Randy Ricardo, next to me. Randy handed one to me, one to Trinity, and one to Freddy, across from him.

  Then Mr. Green said, “And yes, you read that right. You may use your computer on this one.”

  I sat up a little. What was that? He always made us do everything by hand.

  “If you have software at home that's designed for page layout and you know how to use it, use it!”

  I sat straight up.

  My jaw dropped.

  Was I dreaming?

  “Or you can use your word-processing skills, then print and paste. Book some time with Miss Surkit in the computer lab. She's expecting you! Or if you want to do the whole thing by hand, that's cool with me.” He shook the last table's papers in the air and said, “However you decide to do it, follow this sheet!”

  He went back to his director's chair, saying, “And yes, you may use clip art. You may scan in photos. You may use a digital camera, if you've got one. Or if you're not a fan of computers, you may draw your illustrations.”

  I blinked like crazy.

  I shook out one ear.

  I could use my digital camera?

  For homework7.

  He looked my way and grinned. “Some of you are thinkin’, Outtasight! Some of you are thinkin’, Aw, maaaaan—but all of you will grow from the experience, so remember…” He picked up his guitar again, strummed through some familiar chords, and right on cue we all sang out, “Attitude is everything!”

  He swung the guitar back onto its stand. “Right on! Now let's dig into the details. We've got until the bell rings to hammer this thing out.”

  The more he went over the green sheet, the more excited I got.

  No glue!

  No crackers or plaster or feathers!

  No poster board or craft paper or scissors!

  I'd be able to work at the computer for hours every day without Mom and Dad telling me to shut down. I'd get to use the scanner and the camera and the Internet… this was going to be great!

  When Mr. Green was done going over the project sheet, he asked us to put our heads down. “Close your eyes. Meditate. What do you want to report on? You could do your project on someone in Cedar Valley,” he said. “It could be a historical piece about Old Town. You could write about the animal shelter. Report on the new hospital they're building across the river. Profile a local sports hero.

  “The most important thing is, pick a subject that interests you. It will be much easier for you to write about something you like.

  “Or…hate. Consider that! Is there something that you feel very angry about? An injustice you see in the world? That would be fine, too. Anything will be fine so long as you follow the green sheet.”

  I was too excited to close my eyes. So while the kids around me were dreaming up their stories— or just falling asleep—my eyes were cranked wide open. I didn't care what I wrote about. I cared about the gear!

  I'd use everything!

  Then at Table 6, I noticed something. Bubba's hand was reaching over to Miriam Wipple's desk. He was peeking through slits in his eyes.

  What was he doing?

  I jammed my lids shut. Then I cracked them open, just enough to watch.

  Bubba was smooth.

  Real smooth.

  And before anyone noticed, he had Miriam's green sheet in his hand.

  In his lap.

  In his folder.

  Two things stopped me from telling on him: One, school was over in seventeen seconds. Bubba'd be out the door before I could get to Mr. Green. And two, I was tingling from ear to toe. I had an idea that would make Bubba Bixby sorry he'd ever called us names.

  Or swiped our stuff.

  Or breathed his trashy breath down our throats.

  I'd do my report on an injustice, all right.

  I'd do my report on Bubba Bixby!

  CHAPTER 3

  Spy Tools

  I raced home and almost ripped the screen door getting inside. “Mom! You'll never guess what!”

  “Well, hi, honey,” she said from her desk. “What?”

  “I get to use my computer! I don't have to write anything longhand! Or cut or glue or break anything!”

  She laughed. “For…?”

  “This month's project! I can use my scanner and my digital camera! I can use anything!”

  “Really?”

  I threw my backpack down and yanked out the green sheet. “See?”

  She skimmed the paper.

  “So don't kick me off my computer, okay? It's homework!”

  “Hmmm,” she said, handing it back. “No tears over this one, huh? Plus, you're lucky because your father will probably love helping you out.”

  Uh-oh. She was right. My dad's a reporter for the Cedar Valley Gazette, so this project was right up his alley. But I didn't want him to know what I was planning! There was no way he'd let me do my project on Bubba Bixby!

  “So how'd the rest of your day go?” Mom asked. “Alvin give you trouble?”

  “Huh?” I was still thinking about how to not tell my dad about the project. “Oh. Just the usual.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Nah. Everything's fine.” I tried to sound casual. Tried to sound cool. And after my snack, I hurried to my room and closed the door tight. It was my turn to give Bubba Bixby a little trouble!

  First step—digital camera. I was going to catch him in the act!

  Second step—jacket. I needed someplace to hide the camera so no one would see I was taking pictures.

  I tore through my closet.

  I pulled out two jackets.

  I tried every pocket.

  None of them would work.

  What about my backpack?

  I emptied it.

  I tried all the compartments.

  The little one was a good size, but using my backpack would put the camera behind me. How could I take pictures like that?

  Wait! The camera had a remote control! It was small, too. I could hide it in my hand, easy!

  I dug through my desk until I found it. I put the camera in remote mode and tried it out.

  It worked great!

  I put the camera behind me, like it would be in my backpack. I tried the remote from all kinds of angles until I got my moves down. All I had to do was reach around a little. Or put my fist on my hip. Or cross my arms like I was mad. The remote worked great!

  I checked out my backpack. I needed to make some kind of opening for the camera lens and remote sensor. Some kind of window to take pictures through.

  But I couldn't just cut a hole. Everyone would see the camera! I needed some kind of flap in front of the lens that I could open and close.

  And when the flap was open, there needed to be some kind of screen that would camouflage the lens without blocking it. Something that would let the camera see out without letting people see in.

  How was I going to do that?

  Then I had an idea.

  But it was going to mean using scissors.

  And worse, a needle and thread.

  Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to jab myself a hundred times with a needle? Did I really want to cut up my backpack? This was a great backpack.

  My mind flashed on a picture of Bubba breathing down my throat like he had so many times.

  Of him calling me Nerd.

  Of him stealing stuff.

  Oh, yeah. It was worth it.

  I charged down the hall and tore through my mot
her's sewing kit.

  Needle—check!

  Thread—check!

  Velcro—yes! She had Velcro!

  Then I dug through her scraps box and…yes! There was an old black nylon that would work great as a screen!

  “Nolan?” my mom called down the hall. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing, Mom!”

  I crammed the nylon in my pocket.

  I shoved her sewing kit back in the closet.

  I tried to hide the spool of thread and Velcro in my fists but jabbed myself with the needle.

  Blood squirted from my palm.

  I clamped my mouth over it.

  “Nothing?” Mom asked, coming at me.

  Closer.

  And closer!

  “Nuh-uh,” I said, lapping up blood. “Well, I, uh, I have to sew something.”

  “Sew something?”

  “Uh-huh.” I edged around her. Past her.

  “Sew what? You want me to do it for you?”

  “No!”

  She was giving me her suspicious look.

  “It's personal, okay?” I charged back to my room, closed the door tight, and waited for her to knock.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  I cracked the door open. “I need some privacy, okay?”

  “Privacy?” She seemed hurt.

  “Please, Mom…?”

  “Hmmm. Well, Mr. Privacy, I just came down to tell you that The Gecko and Sticky is on.”

  “It is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you… can you tape it?”

  “No!”

  “Well, it's probably a rerun anyway.” I started to close the door.

  “Nolan!” She pushed back a little. “What are you up to that you're willing to miss The Gecko and Sticky?

  “Mom, please. I just need some privacy, okay?”

  “Am I going to be mad when I find out what you're doing?”

  “No! I promise, you won't.”

  She just stood there.

  I just stood there.

  Finally she sighed and said, “Okay.”

  I worked and worked until dinnertime, when my mom made me take a break. And when she told Dad about my new project, sure enough, he got all excited.

  “I can help you with this! I can get you access to practically anyone in town. How about the mayor? You want to interview him? Think of how impressed Mr. Green would be!”