The Hero Next Door Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Michelle Cunningham

  Foreword copyright © 2019 by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich

  “Minnows and Zombies” copyright © 2019 by Rita Williams-Garcia

  “One Wish” copyright © 2019 by Ronald L. Smith

  “The Assist” copyright © 2019 by Linda Sue Park and Anna Dobbin

  “Home” copyright © 2019 by Hena Khan

  “Ellison’s CORNucopia: A Logan County Story” copyright © 2019 by Lamar Giles

  “Rescue” copyright © 2019 by Suma Subramaniam

  “The Save” copyright © 2019 by Joseph Bruchac

  “Los Abuelos, Two Bright Minds” text and illustrations copyright © 2019 by Juana Medina

  “Thrown” copyright © 2019 by Mike Jung

  “A Girl’s Best Friend” copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Everly’s Otherworldly Dilemma” copyright © 2019 by Ellen Oh

  “Reina Madrid” copyright © 2019 by R. J. Palacio

  “Go Fish” copyright © 2019 by William Alexander

  Emojis copyright © Apple, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rhuday-Perkovich, Olugbemisola, editor.

  Title: The hero next door / edited by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Crown Books for Young Readers, [2019] | Summary: A collection of short stories by diverse authors that explores acts of bravery by heroes trying to make the world a better place.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019004431 | ISBN 978-0-525-64630-3 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-525-64631-0 (glb) | ISBN 978-0-525-64632-7 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s stories, American. | Heroes—Juvenile fiction. | Courage—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Short stories. | Heroes—Fiction. | Courage—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Short Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Adolescence.

  Classification: LCC PZ5 .H37 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780525646327

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich

  Minnows and Zombies by Rita Williams-Garcia

  One Wish by Ronald L. Smith

  The Assist by Linda Sue Park and Anna Dobbin

  Home by Hena Khan

  Ellison’s Cornucopia: A Logan County Story by Lamar Giles

  Rescue by Suma Subramaniam

  The Save by Joseph Bruchac

  Los Abuelos, Two Bright Minds by Juana Medina

  Thrown by Mike Jung

  A Girl’s Best Friend by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Everly’s Otherworldly Dilemma by Ellen Oh

  Reina Madrid by R. J. Palacio

  Go Fish by William Alexander

  About the Authors

  About We Need Diverse Books

  Foreword

  “The New Kid” could have been my superhero name. I had a lot of experience with that title. School after school, classroom after classroom, playground after playground…I’d swoop in, hoping to dazzle and impress, save the day somehow. Each time I hoped to get it exactly right; each time I got it so, so wrong.

  Maybe that’s why, right before my first day in a new sixth-grade class, my mom went to the school and basically asked the principal to “put my daughter in classes and groups with the other Black nerds.” When I found out, it was a total “MOMMMMMMM!” moment, and I almost cringed myself out of existence. The “other Black nerds” were no less unhappy with the forced friendship. But the parents banded together, as parents often do, and I found myself in study groups and at skating parties with kids who I had much in common with, including a shared determination to have nothing in common with each other. But eventually we got over it. We didn’t have a choice. (You know how parents are.) And then we kind of…loved it.

  We became real friends…me, David, Melanie, Shonda, Rob. We laughed and cried and cared about our report cards together. We held each other up; we knew that it was a very bad idea to tell one of us to “calm down.” We weathered the storms of middle school because we had each other. Because our parents gave us each other. We were each other’s heroes. We still are.

  Maybe my mom made that mortifying move because she knew the things I hadn’t told her. The secrets that I should have known she’d figure out. Heroes often have special powers—moms especially. Maybe my mom’s were knowing the secret pain that I’d held inside my heart, and working to make sure that I had the community to give me the strength she’d known I’d continue to need. Because a few years earlier, for a part of second and all of third grade, I was in a school where there were no other little Black girls like me. Or Black boys. Or Black anyone, for what felt like an eternity. There were white children who chased me out of school, and some who called me the N word, their faces red and angry as though my very existence meant the end of the world. I would hold my breath and try very hard to hide how much each day shattered a little piece of my heart.

  But in my class, there was also Wendy, who looked at me, and saw me, and became my friend. She was not my benefactor, or my champion—she was very quietly, authentically, simply my friend. I had my parents and grandparents and infinite aunties, who made sure through the books they bought, the toys they made, and the stories they told that I knew that I was beautifully Black and precious in a way that could never be taken from me. Each day, just by their love, they knit me back together again. Heroes.

  Sure, I saw heroes in books and movies and on TV, wearing capes, saving the world without their families finding out, stamping out evil with style (and tights that never ripped). Sometimes I played out the fantasy at home, safety-pinning a towel to my shirt and running around the backyard with my arms aloft, and bossing around my (clearly evil) little sister in the name of Good. I had a vivid imagination. (Don’t get me started on the time I pretended to be a rhinoceros by sticking two pebbles up my nose.) I thought about heroes a lot—I still do. I mean, we can’t really avoid them. Some have physical powers beyond what seems humanly possible; others can think their way into and out of any situation. They’re in movies with spectacular battle scenes and jaw-dropping special effects. We use the word to describe everyone from firefighters to mysterious masked figures of legend, from warriors to wizards. From fierce and feisty princesses to the “hidden figures” who change the world without anyone even knowing. We tend to celebrate the larger-than-life icons, the ones who attract the headlines and win the awards, from the activists to the artists, the athletes, and the educators.

  Those of us on the margins wonder if our stories matter.

  I know I did.

  And there are the celebrities haile
d as heroes whose spectacular, glittery rise is often followed by an equally spectacular fall.

  They can be very human, our heroes, not perfect. What does that mean?

  Hero.

  What do you think of when you hear that word?

  Impressive physical strength?

  An abundance of bravery?

  Supreme selflessness?

  We have a million ideas of what makes a hero. We cheer them on; sometimes, soon after, we wish them gone. We wonder about them, ask why and how. We’re inspired and motivated by their magical stories and dream of being like them one day.

  Maybe we already are.

  In this collection, you’ll find tales of ordinary people who do extraordinary things, and the individuals who just might be magic. These are the stories of the risk-takers, the friend-makers, the dreamers and doers. You’ll meet a lacrosse player whose mistake might save more than a score, a camp counselor who honors the life in a “zombie’s” eyes, two people whose legacy of ingenuity inspired future generations, a girl who sees behind her neighbor’s grumpiness the loneliness within, a couple of robot-building twin detectives, a trio of neighbors who tackle a ghostly history that threatens to forever haunt the present. You’ll see the power of teamwork with a twist, having a furry friend, knowing oneself, having a special sibling bond; the power of stepping out on faith to offer a second chance, finding joy in a challenge, and the courage to put others first, even when it’s scary and you have no idea what will happen next.

  These are the stories of everyday heroes in our midst, the ones in plain sight and those yet to be discovered. In ways big and small, these stories motivate, inspire, make us laugh, and, yes, cry. Do you know all the heroes in your life? How are you a hero to someone else? To your community? To the world? It’s my hope that these stories remind you of the power you have to speak up, sit down, and stand with, to do and be a hero in your own unique way. You don’t need a cape. Or special powers. (Though that would be pretty amazing, right?) Empathy and compassion sound good. A sense of humor can’t hurt. A desire to listen will definitely come in handy.

  Most of all, though?

  You just need…you.

  Minnows and Zombies

  Rita Williams-Garcia

  We are the Minnows. Walk-a-Man is a Whale. Daisy is a Whale. All the camp counselors are either Dolphins or Whales, and the campers swim in different schools of fish. When you’re seven or eight and need arm floats, you’re a Minnow. Next year, when the arm floats come off, you become a Go Fish camper with new counselors. (It’s supposed to be Goldfish but everyone kept shouting, “Go, Fish, go!” so that school became the Go Fishes.) After Go Fish are the Rainbow Trout campers. Then Salmons. And then the Sharks. The Salmons and Sharks swim in the deep end of the pool. Minnows don’t swim past Walk-a-Man, who stands in the middle of the pool.

  Today it’s a good day to be a Minnow because we beat our relay time. We swam a whole three seconds faster than we swam yesterday. I swam the last leg and kicked as fast and as hard as I could. Usually, Sumaya swims the last leg because she swims fast, but Walk-a-Man told me, “You can do it,” so I tried my best. As soon as my hand hit the finish rail, Walk-a-Man and Daisy blew their whistles in a lot of toots. That’s how we knew we beat our record and that we earned a treat. All the Minnows went crazy! Not just because we did spectacular, but because we could choose almost whatever we wanted for our victory treats. It’s ninety-six degrees outside. We all shouted out the same thing. “Ice pops at Seven-Eleven!”

  The best thing about breaking our record is marching to the 7-Eleven on Hillside Avenue for our victory ice pops. The worst thing about breaking our record is marching to the 7-Eleven on Hillside Avenue for our victory ice pops.

  Hardly anyone believes me when I say there are zombies in our neighborhood. There are. At first there was just this one zombie and we knew how to dodge him. He was slow. He used to lean against the corner mailbox and reach out his hands as we passed by. He used to have white skin, but you couldn’t tell what color his long, stringy hair was before he became a zombie. But you sure could smell him and his stinky pee-pee clothes that were probably never new when he first put them on. It’s a good thing we’re Minnows and can hold our breath for a long, long time underwater. Although the mailbox zombie is gone and you don’t have to be afraid to mail a letter, you can still smell the stinky pee-pee smell near the mailbox. And there are more zombies on Hillside Avenue. An army of used-to-be-men and used-to-be-women block store entrances and sleep on bus stop benches because they are homeless. Then the store owners or the police chase them away.

  People feel sorry for zombies and try to buy them food because they look like they haven’t eaten. But the zombies say, “No food. Gimme money. Gimme money. Spare a dollar?” That’s mostly what they say.

  “If you don’t want a sandwich,” a lady told a zombie yesterday, “then you aren’t hungry.” The lady did what everyone else did who tried to buy a zombie a sandwich. She walked away.

  That doesn’t stop them from asking for money. It doesn’t matter if you’re a grown-up, a camp counselor, a Shark, or a Minnow. Zombies come up to you with eyes that don’t shine and they speak slow, slurry zombie talk: “Hey, hey, hey. Gimme, gimme. Dollar, dollar.” They don’t say please. They just zombie blink, zombie scratch, and zombie wait, rocking from one foot to the other. As soon as you shake your head no, the zombie moves to the next person to ask.

  You want to be nice to zombies because they used to be real people. Sumaya knows. Her oldest brother, Imiri, got turned into one. He tried to steal her dad’s laptop and sell it. Now Imiri can’t come inside their house anymore. He had to go away to be turned back into his real self. Sumaya told me she’s afraid of him. Afraid of him coming back home. I saw him before he went full zombie, and that was scary. But I don’t tell her that he scared me, too. I don’t want her to feel bad.

  Sumaya isn’t my girlfriend. I don’t have a girlfriend. She’s my swim buddy and my walk buddy. We’re the same height, so the counselors pair us together, and I’m almost as fast as Sumaya in the pool. But it’s true that she’s my friend. She blows bubbles underwater and will probably make a good Go Fish next summer. Out of everyone at camp, I like her the most. But that doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend.

  We’re all dry and have changed into our shorts and tees. And it’s nice outside, even if it’s nearly one hundred degrees. At least the air isn’t so thick and heavy like on most summer days.

  Walk-a-Man gives the signal, and Daisy blows the whistle in one loud, short toot.

  We walk like a school of fish in our aqua-blue T-shirts. The Minnows walk two-by-two, Daisy behind us, Walk-a-Man in the front. Walk-a-Man taught us to share the sidewalk with moms with strollers and with dogs getting a walk. And with the mail lady collecting the mail from the mailbox. And with the deliverymen wheeling crates of potato chips, snack cakes, and sodas for the 7-Eleven. And with the police officers who get their heroes and coffee from the 7-Eleven. We share the sidewalk with everyone.

  Walk-a-Man doesn’t have to blow his whistle to get our attention. He gives us the hand signal to share the sidewalk so there’s a smooth flow of traffic. He raises his hand up, and then waves it to the left or to the right and then waves it like a moving eel. We step to the left or right, and become one big moray eel! It’s so cool! We’re like a marching band and we make our two-by-twos into one line to make room for walkers coming toward us. Then, when the sidewalk is clearer, we go back into two-by-twos. It’s called courtesy. Walk-A-Man taught us that.

  “The important thing,” Walk-a-Man always says, “is to walk together, pay attention, be courteous.” Then Walk-a-Man does a step and we do it, too. People stop to watch us parade by. Sometimes we high-step. Or we walk, walk, stop. Walk, walk, stop. And when we do our parade and practice courtesy, we don’t think about the zombies.

  Here’s what I figured out: zombies
can’t high-step. To high-step you have to stand tall. Walk tall. No one stands taller or walks taller than Walk-a-Man.

  I don’t care what the Sharks say. The Minnows have the best counselors in the day camp. Walk-a-Man is our leader, like “follow the leader,” and Daisy is our protector. Daisy cheers the loudest for the slowest Minnow. And Walk-a-Man, whose real name is Walter, says, “Good job,” and gets low to give a high five even when you come in last. Walter is Jamaican. Not Jamaica, Queens, New York, Jamaican, where we live, but from Jamaica, the country. You can tell. He talks Jamaican even when he’s speaking English. But he is easy to understand. He always finds time for you. And he’s a good explainer. I asked Walk-a-Man, “Why don’t the zombies want to eat something?” He said, “They stop wanting food. They are sick. They want other things. Bad things. We can’t help them buy bad things.”

  Sumaya said, “Once they were big and laughed and walked you to school. Now they steal and are skinny, like Halloween bones.”

  She meant skeletons, but I said, “Yeah.” I know she was thinking about her brother, Imiri.

  “This is how you know a zombie from a hungry person. One only wants your money.”

  When we walk down the part of Hillside Avenue where the zombies are, Sumaya squeezes my hand. Like she’s afraid. I could go, Quit it, Sumaya, but I don’t. I feel like squeezing her hand sometimes, too. There are more zombies than there used to be.

  Daisy always walks close behind us. She must know we are scared. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I have your back.” Daisy is big, and even though we know she’s really, really nice, she doesn’t smile at everyone. She keeps her face stiff and serious, especially when we’re out walking. The other thing about Daisy is she has sharp eyes. She sees everything, like if you’re horsing around in the pool and she blows the whistle loud. And if you don’t stop horsing around right away, she jumps in and makes a big splash and comes and gets you, and you lose pool time the next day and have to stay dry and watch while all the Minnows are learning to dog-paddle in the water, and Sumaya gets another partner for the day. Daisy keeps her whistle around her neck, and when she blows it, man, she blows it loud! The zombies are afraid of Daisy, but she isn’t afraid of them. She steps up to them if they get too close, and says, “Hey! Get back!” And they zombie mumble and almost fade away.