Attack of the Tagger by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

toasted them?”
    I think those waffles would’ve come zinging at me like peanut butter Frisbees if Dad hadn’t come into the kitchen. “Good morning!” he said, then checked us both over. “Uh-oh.”
    “Uh-oh is right!” Mom said.
    “Take a deep breath, Eve,” my dad said to her. “A deep,
deep
breath.” He took the waffles from her and inspected them. “Peanut butter on, waffles frozen. Hmmmm.” He turned to me. “Trying to make your own breakfast this morning, Nolan?”
    I nodded.
    Mom was taking deep breaths, but it wasn’t helping much. “He’s trying to show me that he can take care of himself.”
    Dad pulled two new waffles from the Eggo box and said to me, “Toast first, champ. Butter later. Otherwise the peanut butter melts and drips in the toaster and makes a stinky mess.”
    “Or starts a fire,” Mom added.
    Dad held the new waffles out to me. “Try it again.”
    So I did. And I didn’t ruin the toaster. Didn’t burn down the house. The waffles came up a perfect golden brown.
    Dad seemed to be fine—he even micro waved the first two waffles and gobbled them up—but Mom barely ate anything and didn’t say a word.
    Then Dad’s pager went off. He checked the number and said, “That’s Mr. Zilch,” and got up to call him back.
    Mom sighed, then sighed again and looked at me.
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.
    She touched my cheek with her hand and said, “I just worry, honey. You are so smart, but sometimes I’m afraid you’re living in your own world.”
    “But, Mom, it was just a little mistake!”
    She sighed some more, and then Dad came back, saying, “Looks like I’ll be doing a piece on graffiti.”
    Mom turned to him. “Graffiti? In Cedar Valley?”
    “Some hotshot sprayed red paint all over the shops in Old Town Square.”
    “Gang graffiti?”
    “No. Apparently it’s some childish picture and a long line of red paint.”
    “How are you going to make a story about a long line of red paint?” I asked him.
    Dad shrugged. “I’ll interview the shop owners— I’m sure they’ll give me a lot to work with.” He looked from me to Mom and said, “We okay here?”
    She nodded. “Of course. We just take it one little step at a time.” She gave me a worried smile. “Right, honey?”
    I was dying to say, I’m not a baby, Mom! Maybe I don’t know how to make my own breakfast. Maybe I button things wrong or tie them backward. Maybe I miss whole conversations because I’m thinking about something else. But under all that, I’m Shredderman! I’ve saved Cedar Valley Elementary from the evils of Bubba Bixby! I’m strong and I’m smart and I’m brave! I’m a cyber-superhero!
    What’s toasting an Eggo compared to the fight for truth and justice?
    But I couldn’t tell her. It’s against the Superhero Rules to give away your secret identity. It must be. That’s why they call it a
secret
identity.
    So I just tried to smile back and said, “Toast first. Butter later.”
    She gave me a kiss on my superhero forehead. “That’s my boy.”
    I wiped it off, then heard the morning bell ring across the street. School was open! Morning recess had begun!
    I zoomed down to my bathroom.
    I brushed my teeth!
    I zoomed up to my bedroom.
    I grabbed my backpack!
    I zoomed to the kitchen.
    I snagged my lunch!
    I zoomed out the front door, calling, “Love you, Mom!”
    “Love you, too, honey!” Mom called back. “See you after school!”
    But the minute I zoomed onto campus, I could tell that something was wrong.
    And what it was turned out to be a whole lot worse than toasted peanut butter.

CHAPTER 3
Du-uh!
    From clear across the blacktop I could see that my teacher was not being the Happy Hippie—he was madder than the Green Hornet. He was storming toward the teachers’ parking lot, surrounded by kids.
    I caught up and asked, “What’s wrong, Mr. Green?” because I’d never seen him mad before. Testy, sure. Or annoyed. Or even a little grumpy.
    But mad?
    Not Mr.