Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality Read Online Free PDF Page B

so much this semester. I couldn’t even get out of bed for the Lingerie Party this December, couldn’t even dream.”
    I yawn. Toby looks at me. “I don’t know. It’s cold,” I say.
    Wicked College John grunts like he does after the Yankees lose.
    â€œWhat,” I say.
    â€œNo, I’m not mad, it just pisses me off,” Wicked College John says. “I come back, and everyone’s too tired to do even Jaeger Cowpunch—”
    But then, I see Necro tap his calculator watch and nod to one of the fatter Weapons of Mankinders wearing jean shorts. At which point, suddenly, all the remaining Weapons of Mankinders—everyone except Necro and Rambocream—get into their cars and drive off, at once, engines echoing from blocks away.
    â€œTwo more bags, guys, and then we take and lock it down,” Necro says.
    He pats me and Wicked College John on the back, shoving us, kind of harder than maybe you’d expect, actually, toward the building entrance. He skips, backward, away from us, and jogs slightly up the block.
    He says, raising his voice a little: “Take and give oneself over a little; everyone has to come down from the mountain, you know, the going-over …”
    Then I don’t hear the noise so much as the noise—a sharp tearing that’s too loud for my ears to take in all the loudness—liquefies every bone I own. Because suddenly I’m on the ground, smelling the warm tires of a Buick, and I feel a hot, big, all-flattening breath over me. Sand-sized things—glass particles—cut my fingers when I run my hands through my hair. Swords with rubies shaped like wolf heads on theirhandles embed into trees, quivering metal waterfalls landing in front yards, backs of pickups.
    Because, the Rochester Public Broadcasting building has exploded, and when a wooden beam spits out of the storefront and hits Wicked College John’s face, his cheek ripples upward toward his eye. His head turns around almost all the way and then snaps back, shaking gel loose from his hair. His one dress shoe flies off, and when he falls to the pavement, he lands on his left forearm underneath his back. His head bounces once.
    â€œOh! God!” Necro yells, in that way Necro never says Oh God. Rambocream is I don’t even know where. Lip Cheese runs toward the 7-Eleven to find a phone. Toby breaks into a sprint, chasing a white circular coin-sized object rolling toward a fire hydrant.
    Meanwhile, I stand there. I lick the nylon sleeve of my Bills jacket to wipe the salty ashes off my tongue. The brick frame of the public access building is still there, but the front door is on the sidewalk. Something smells like burnt penny.
    A softened chunk of the ceiling collapses and a refrigerator falls from the building’s second floor, orange sparks sneezing everywhere. In the road, Wicked College John’s shoe says BACCO BUCCI on its sole. One of his contact lenses glows bright orange on the pavement, curling in the heat. Little things crackle. Wicked College John stares at the sky. His eyes move around. Way off and above, the sky is light purple in a way that always made me look forward to going to bed, and a single red broadcast tower light blinks at a slow-drip pace.
    Because, I come out here and try to talk to Necro about a Plan. And, now? Necro knee-slides on the pavement to perform CPR on Wicked College John? Like he’s trying to be Tadahito Murakami: Ninja Surgeon and save the world?
    â€œNecro,” I tell him, setting my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not get overdramatic …”
    But he turns around, the slash of teeth—complete Roasted Face of Satan. “He’s practically dead , man! What’s the matter with you?” His eyebrows are like brush fires, and I wonder if he’s mad at me.
    Bits of papers spin around me. I hear, inside my head: You are a bad person. You are wrong all the time. Because, still, with me, it’s