SuperZero (school edition) Read online

  SuperZero

  School Edition

  Darrel Bristow-Bovey

  Tafelberg

  Before reading

  1.

  Have you ever felt “different”? Why?

  2.

  Who or what is a superhero? Name one and say what is “super” about him or her.

  While reading

  3.

  Why does Zed feel he is different from the other children?

  1. You can’t spell zero without a Zed

  When Zed first realised he was a superhero, he was surprised.

  He’d never much felt like a superhero. He’d never done anything especially superheroic, except maybe that time last year when he was goalie for the Wentville Primary School Under 12s against Bighton Primary and he’d saved a penalty taken by Daniel Dundee, who was as big as a gorilla and had a head like a flowerpot and everyone said he should be playing under 16, he was so big. That was impressive, but it wasn’t exactly saving the world.

  “Anyway,” Zed’s friend Katey always reminded him, “that was by accident. You just shut your eyes and fell over, and your face happened to be in the way of the ball.”

  It was true. All that next week kids at school slapped him on the back and asked him about the save, but he never spoke about it. He didn’t want anyone to guess how lucky he’d been.

  Zed wasn’t normally lucky, or at least not with good luck. Normally he had the worst luck of anyone in the history of the world. If anyone was going to bump over a pot of glue and then step in it so that his shoes made a sticky, sucky sound when he walked, it would be Zed. If anyone was going to staple a piece of paper to his thumb or have his hair cut on the day the barber was in a bad mood, it would be Zed.

  “Maybe all people have the same amount of bad luck in their lives,” he once said to Katey, “and when I grow up my life will be easy because I’m getting all the bad luck out of the way now.”

  “Maybe,” she’d said, in a kind sort of way. Katey was always kind.

  Zed had always felt different from other kids, and not just because he was a little bit shorter than everyone else, and a little bit skinnier, and he looked a little bit different, and his hair seemed to grow in ways no one else’s did and never seemed to lie down and behave itself when he brushed it.

  Other kids seemed to get along better than he could: they found the same things interesting and knew what to say to each other. When he tried to talk to them, he seemed as if he was speaking a slightly different language, or as if he was an alien who’d only just learnt human ways before beaming down, and who kept getting bits of it not quite right.

  He could talk to Katey, but they’d been friends almost as long as they’d been alive. But even Katey would sometimes say: “Zed, you are the strangest person I know”.

  But still – being different didn’t necessarily mean he was a superhero. It was only after a sudden, unexpected adventure, from which he just barely escaped with his life, that it all began to fall into place.

  After reading

  4.

  What is Zed’s point of view about bad luck? Why does he feel this way?

  5.

  Why does he get on so well with Katey?

  6.

  Zed says he has had “an adventure from which he barely escaped with his life”. Suggest some possibilities.

  Before reading

  1.

  Why are garages, old loft rooms, and attics often so interesting? What are some of the things that are usually stored there?

  2.

  Which comic book superhero is your favourite? Which super powers would you like to have?

  While reading

  3.

  Why does Zed enjoy the comics so much?

  2. The box of secrets

  One afternoon Zed was poking around the garage. In the side where his father’s car used to be parked there was a great clutter of boxes and trunks and plastic packets stuffed with his dad’s old things. Zed liked poking through it, not looking for anything in particular, but because it was nice to go through his dad’s old things.

  On this day he pushed aside a pile of yellow plastic packets filled with handkerchiefs and ties, and there against the wall was a large wooden box he’d never seen before.

  It was nearly as long as he was, painted pale blue, with rusted metal hinges. The lid creaked and coughed and puffed dust and cobwebs. A curious smell wafted out – a smell of wood and powder and … a dry smell, like sunlight.

  Zed peered nervously inside and saw … comics! Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all jumbled and higgledy-piggledy. They almost filled the box, a sea of comics.

  “Wow,” said Zed.

  He sat on his haunches and picked one at random. Spiderman. He checked the date on the cover. January, 1978. 1978! That was long before he was born. But who …?

  “Zed! Come in! Supper’s ready!”

  His mom’s face grew serious when she saw him come in reading Spiderman.

  “Oh. So you’ve found them.”

  “There’s a whole box of them! It’s sort of pale blue …”

  His mother sighed. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Those were your dad’s.”

  His mom didn’t talk about his dad very often. He had died when Zed was much younger, and Zed hardly remembered him, just that he was tall, and that he was his dad.

  “I always told him he was too old to read comics, and that I was going to throw them away, and he said I couldn’t, because you would need them one day.”

  “Me?”

  “He said it was very important you had them. That you’d need them. That’s why they’re still there, taking up space. So? Do you want them? Or should I throw them out?”

  “Mom!”

  “Well, they’ll have to wait. Homework and then bed.”

  “But Mom …”

  “Homework. Then bed.”

  But how could he sleep? He waited in bed for the lights to go out and his mom’s bedroom door to close. He tiptoed through and found the torch and slipped out of the house. The moon was full and silver and the night smelt of flowers. The concrete floor of the garage was warm under his bare feet. He lowered himself into the pale blue box, slipping his legs between the cool covers of the comics, like sliding into cold water.

  He propped the torch on the edge of the box and began to read. As the stars turned in the dark sky, his mind began to fill. His head grew heavy and his eyes burnt, but he couldn’t put aside the Silver Surfer and Mr Fantastic and the Atom and the Flash. He imagined his father reading them – these very comics, turning these actual pages, smiling at the same jokes. Which had been his favourite superhero? Captain Marvel? Green Lantern? Batman?

  My dad wanted me to have these comics.

  The thought made him feel … special.

  Zed was still feeling special the next day as he rode his bike to school. Maybe he was feeling too special. Normally when he reached the top of steep Beacon Hill he was smart enough to get off and push his bike all the way down.

  Zed peered down over the handlebars. Far below, at the bottom of the hill, there was a rush of traffic. It was so far down the pedestrians looked like ants. A breeze ruffled his hair. Why not? You can do it. Why not? It felt as if a voice was whispering in his ear.

  “Yes,” said Zed out loud, talking to no one. “Why not?’

  As the bike gathered speed, Zed felt totally calm, as though he wasn’t really there, as though he was watching a movie. He supposed that this was what it felt like to be Daredevil, the Man Without Fear. It felt good.

  It didn’t last long. It lasted roughly two seconds until Zed tried the back brakes. Nothing happened. He squeezed again. The bike just gathered more speed. The wind was maki
ng his eyes water now. Two lamp posts whipped past, three, four.

  Zed pulled hard on the back brake, pulled the lever flat against the handle­­bar. Nothing. The front wheel began to wobble with the speed.

  Lamp post five.

  Six.

  If he pulled the front brakes now, the bike would stop dead and he would fly over the handlebars, miles into the air, straight down Beacon Hill. He could already feel his skin against the road.

  Zed was going too fast to be scared now, too fast to think. Someone shouted and the voice vanished behind him. He stopped breathing.

  Zed could see nothing but black tarmac rushing by so fast it seemed grey. He was only a lamp post from the bottom, where Beacon Hill ran straight into Bluff Road with its cars and taxis, its hot current of steel. He had to do something before he flew into that stream of roaring metal. He had to …

  The bike hit the flat tarmac at the bottom with a jolt that shot up his arms, and flew across the white line, straight into the heart of Bluff Road.

  Zed was in the first lane. He felt the car coming from the right, a Toyota, and the air being pushed in front of it. Dotted white lines flashed under his tyres.

  Across the centre line just before the Toyota swept past, there were ve­hicles coming from the left. Zed saw a bus. It was already on top of him.

  Later, he couldn’t work out exactly how he did it. He leaned over in his saddle until the whole bike was at a crazy angle to the road. Then the wheels slid out and he was sliding across the lane, two sets of flying sparks as the pedal and brake lever scraped the road.

  There was a sudden roar and rush and a swirl of wind. It was all black and roaring and orange sparks, then sunlight again and the bike slid off the road onto the grassy verge, Zed still in the saddle.

  He lay on the grass, the sun on the side of his face, trying to understand.

  He had slid between the wheels, and out the other side!

  Zed sat up slowly. It was the kind of move you expect from Batman, or from The Flash, who’s so quick he can run between traffic, or maybe the Atom, who can make himself so small he can be blown like pollen in the swirling air between the cars. Not a normal schoolkid on a bicycle.

  Zed went home, his head sore and dizzy. He dropped the bike outside the back door and went through to the garage. He climbed inside the box and closed his eyes. He felt safe there. The comics gave him energy. The comics …

  And then his eyes snapped open.

  A thought had come to him, from nowhere:

  You’re special. That wasn’t an accident.

  But how could that be, unless …

  No …

  No, it couldn’t be … could it?

  But what if …

  what …

  if …

  What if he was a superhero?

  After reading

  4.

  The words “used to be parked” and “those were your dad’s” seem to indicate that Zed’s father is dead. Why would Zed enjoy going through his father’s things?

  5.

  Are the words, “a sea of comics” a good way to describe the hundreds of comics lying there in the blue box? Why?

  6.

  What does his mother think about adults reading comics?

  7. a)

  What is the difference between something you “need” and something you “want”?

  7. b)

  Why did Zed’s father feel that Zed would “need” the comics instead of just “want” them, do you think?

  8.

  Suggest why Zed sits in the box with the comics all over his legs, instead of taking them out and reading them one at a time?

  9.

  What does the voice tell him to do? Is this sensible? Why? Why not?

  10.

  What did Zed do to avoid being hit by the bus? Why does this make him feel like a superhero?

  Before reading

  1.

  Who are Clark Kent and Peter Parker? Who are their “alter egos” (super hero identities)?

  2.

  Has someone made you feel a little nervous and frightened (given you “the creeps”) when you met them? Why?

  While reading

  3.

  What message do the comics have for Zed?

  3. Ulric Chilvers

  By the time Zed arrived at school the next day, his head was buzzing with his big idea. What if he’d been a superhero all along, and his father had known about it, and that’s why he’d left the comics for Zed? So that he could read them and learn about his own powers? He couldn’t have left a letter, because what if it was discovered? So he’d left the comics as a kind of code. A secret message.

  It would explain so many things – why he felt so different to everyone, and why he was so klutzy. All superheroes are klutzy in their everyday lives, so that no one will ever suspect them. Look at Clark Kent, or Peter Parker. It was all starting to make sense.

  He thought about asking his mom about it, but she was too upset about his ripped clothes and his scrapes and cuts. She’d cleaned him up and looked after him and made a fuss, and that had felt too good to spoil with questions about superheroes.

  He decided to talk to Katey about it, see what she thought – she was always sensible, but she was also kind, so he knew she wouldn’t just laugh at him – but when he arrived at school he found a great buzz and chatter. Katey ran over to him.

  “Zed! Have you heard? There was a fire at Bighton Primary over the weekend …!”

  “What …?! Wow!”

  “And because so much of the school was burnt down, some of the pupils from Bighton are joining our classes while theirs are being repaired.”

  Zed looked around the courtyard and sure enough, among the green Wentville Primary blazers there were patches of kids wear­ing the bright red blazers of Bighton. Then Zed noticed the boy in a red blazer standing behind Katey, smiling calmly. He was about Zed’s age and he wore his straight black hair much longer than would have been allowed at Wentville. He nodded his head at Zed, and for no reason Zed shivered.

  “Oh,” said Katey. “This is Ollrich … we just met.”

  “It’s Ulric,” said the boy. “Ulric Chilvers.” He pronounced it “Ooohll-ric”, in a long, slow, drawn-out purr. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Zachary,” said Zed. “But my friends call me Zed.”

  Ulric Chilvers nodded, staring at him thoughtfully. “Well. Perhaps we’ll be friends,” he said. “You never know.”

  He smiled. Zed felt another shiver. Something was wrong – cold electric currents were passing through the air around them. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “Ulric is a musician,” said Katey. “I was telling him about the school talent show. He’s going to play some music for it, and he wants me to help him with the lyrics.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” said Ulric Chilvers, bowing his head slightly to her. “I would be terribly grateful.”

  It was weird, the way he spoke. He seeemed so confident, so grown-up. Katey looked up at Ulric and giggled. Zed frowned. Katey never giggled.

  After school Zed trudged home, deep in thought. He hadn’t had any time to talk to Katey properly – she’d spent most of her free time showing Ulric Chilvers around and talking about his music. Zed was starting to feel a bit stupid about his idea, to tell the truth. How could he ever be a superhero? He wasn’t even as confident and slick and good-looking as someone like Ulric Chilvers. And what super-powers could he possibly have? He tried bending a steel pipe he found beside the road, but he just went red in the face, and the bar didn’t bend.

  Zed looked up and realised that he was standing at the gates of Bighton Primary.

  He blinked. What made me come here?

  The smell of the fire was still in the air. Clearing up had begun and there were large piles of ash and rubble and charred wood.

  He wandered across to the courtyard overlooking the upper playing field. What am I doing here? thought Zed. I should go home and try to fix
my bike.

  But as he turned to go something caught his eye. On the far side of the field were the long-jump pits and past the pits was a line of bushes and behind them a clump of trees. Behind the bushes, in the shade of the trees, were two boys in conversation.

  There was something odd – you could see by how they were standing that they didn’t want to be seen or overheard. When people don’t want to be heard, that always makes you want to hear them. Zed tried listening with super-hearing. That was another super-power he didn’t have.

  Zed trotted down the stairs and around the outside of the field. He stopped in front of the line of bushes and listened. Silence. Zed looked round, then stepped through the bushes.

  The small gap was empty, but the grass had recently been trodden flat by two pairs of feet. There was an empty yellow can of Iced Tea on the ground.

  Zed was holding the can and sniffing at it, looking for clues and feeling faintly silly, when there was a rustle of movement.

  Zed looked up and his heart briefly ceased beating. Standing behind one of the trees, thick and solid enough to be a tree itself, was a shape in a red blazer. It was a big, scary, ugly shape, with a head like a flowerpot and a face so tough you could use it as a cricket bat. Zed recognised that face, and he recognised that shape. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been in the Wentville goal-mouth, saving a penalty.

  It was Daniel Dundee, the captain of the Bighton team, the one whose penalty he’d saved, and who had snarled at him afterwards as though he wanted to tear off his head and use it as a football.

  Daniel Dundee glared at Zed, breathing heavily though his mouth.

  Maybe he won’t remember me. He must forget things all the time.

  “Hey …” said Daniel Dundee, his mind working so slowly you could hear it creaking. “I know you … what are you doing here …?” A look of slow rage grew on his face.