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his friend on a weekend, especially after Andy had volunteered to help Darren with his report, but Stan had sworn the entire “Fart Squad” to secrecy. According to him, the fewer people who knew about them, the better.
    Stan had set up the gym to be a secret training center, with padded wrestling mats and even a trampoline in place. A tray of freshly microwaved burritos waited on top of a wheeled cart. Stan must have raided the lunchroom freezer. Darren tried not to think about how old the burritos might be.

    â€œTime to power up!” Stan said. “Dig in!”
    Walter, Juan-Carlos, and Tina helped themselves to the greasy “fuel,” but Darren held back. He was having second thoughts about this whole Fart Squad business. True, superfarts might come in handy from time to time. But now that his flaming farts were starting to cool off a little, he was reminded of how nice it feels to have a burn-free butt.
    â€œWho wants to go first?” Stan asked.
    Juan-Carlos volunteered. “Just watch me, boys and girl. I’m cookin’ with gas!”
    He paused, waiting for a laugh that failed to come.
    â€œGas, get it?” he asked.
    â€œI’m sure they did, Juan-Carlos. You can work on your comedy later,” Stan said. “Or not,” he added under his breath. Stan marked an X on the floor with chalk. “Why don’t you plant a stink bomb here . . . and see if you can keep it from going off for a full ten seconds?”
    â€œYou bet,” Juan-Carlos said, taking his place on the X . He concentrated hard, then hurried away before the stink bomb went off. Stan took out a stopwatch. He counted down the seconds.
    â€œTen, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . .”

    Nothing happened. Nobody heard or smelled anything nasty.
    â€œYou laid a dud, dude,” Walter teased. “To use the vernacular.”
    â€œI farted, I swear,” Juan-Carlos insisted. “Cross my heart . . . and my butt!”
    Stan strolled over to the X to investigate—just as a stink bomb went off—five seconds late. He was knocked off his feet by force of the fart.
    â€œWhew!” he said. “That was a ripe one!”
    Darren and Walter helped Stan to his feet. He wiped the tears from his eyes.
    â€œI think you need a little more practice,” the janitor said. “Timing is everything, especially where farts are concerned!”
    â€œTell me about it,” Juan-Carlos said, blushing.
    Tina raised her hand. “Let me go next, please.”
    Juan-Carlos stepped aside. “Go for it, Tiny.”
    â€œTina,” she corrected him. “Don’t call me Tiny.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Juan-Carlos joked. “You look pretty tiny to—”
    A silent fart knocked him out. He collapsed onto a mat.
    Darren stared at the petite little princess. “That was an accident, right?”
    â€œTotally,” she said sweetly. “Sorry.”
    They all backed away from her, just to be safe. Stan had to dump a bucket of water over Juan-Carlos’s head to wake him up.

    Stan eyed Tina warily. She seemed so harmless, and yet . . .
    â€œOn second thought,” he said, “maybe we shouldgive Walter some flight practice now.”

    Stan fitted Walter with a crash helmet and tied a safety rope around him so they could pull him back to earth if necessary. The rest of the squad helped push the trampoline to the center of the floor.
    â€œAll right,” Stan declared. “You’re prepped for takeoff. Fart, fart, and away!”
    Walter polished off another burrito, then let loose with a jet of gas that lifted him off the floor. For a moment, it looked like he was going to slam headfirst into the ceiling, but he changed course at the last second. He zipped around overhead like a hot-air balloon gone berserk.
    â€œTry to control your flight,” Stan coached him. “Nice smooth circles!”
    But Walter was spinning