Cool Beans Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  How to Create Superheroes Like a Comic Book Genius

  Sample Chapter from THE ADVENTURES OF BEANBOY

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Harkrader

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The illustrations in this book are digital.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Harkrader, Lisa.

  Cool Beans : the further adventures of Beanboy / by Lisa Harkrader.

  p. cm.

  Summary: “This sequel to The Adventures of Beanboy combines comic illustrations, a small-town bully facing off against a budding artist, and a rousing, decisive game of dodgeball.”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-544-03904-9

  [1. Bullying—Fiction. 2. Comic books, strips, etc.—Fiction. 3. Middle schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Brothers—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H22615Coo 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013032667

  eISBN 978-0-544-30177-1

  v1.0514

  For my editor, Ann Rider, who, with superhuman patience and stealth, nudges me to make each book better before I even realize what she’s doing.

  And for my dad, Robert Knudsen, my own personal superhero and the best person I know.

  One

  I dragged the door open. The bell jingled against the glass, and a swell of warm sporting-goods air bulged out to greet us.

  Beecher pushed past me into the brightly lit store. I followed and we stood side by side, wiping our sneakers on the big mat inside the door and giving our noses a chance to thaw out.

  “Oooo.” Beech squinted over the top of his fogged-up glasses. “Tool.”

  My brother has a problem with c’s. They come out sounding like t’s.

  I pulled off his glasses, wiped the fog on the hood of his coat, and slid the glasses back on his face.

  “Ooooooo!” He blinked as the blur of shine and color suddenly sharpened into racks of jerseys and shoes. “Really tool.”

  He stood there, barely breathing, taking it all in. The bats. The balls. The tables heaped with Wheaton University hoodies. The giant flat screens mounted high in the corners, all tuned to the same basketball game, the play-by-play blasting through the store.

  We’d been here before, lots of times, back when Dad still lived with us, before he moved to Boston. Beech had been pretty little then, so he probably didn’t remember. Still, he’d never been a sporty kid, so who knows why soccer cleats were suddenly so fascinating to him.

  “Superhero tore,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.

  I looked at him. “What?”

  “Superhero. Tore.” He threw his mittened hands wide. “See?”

  “I see sports equipment,” I said.

  Beech gave me a sad look and shook his head, like I was a pitiful case if I couldn’t recognize a superhero store when I was standing in one.

  And really, as I unzipped my coat and peeled off my gloves, I realized he was kind of right.

  I headed toward a rack of high-tech workout shirts. Here in Wheaton, Kansas, I was not known as a superior athlete (or, well, any kind of athlete). Still, I could totally rock a shirt like that. Comic book geniuses may not be ripped, but we get sweaty too.

  I whisked through the hangers on the rack, thinking black might be my speed. Or no—red, like Spider-Man. And like the Red Sox. (My dad would like the Red Sox part.)

  I stopped. Dad was going to ask me what I bought. He was going to flat out ask. I couldn’t tell him T-shirts. I wouldn’t be able to stand the disappointment crackling through the phone line.

  Beech tugged on the bottom of my coat. “Tut.” It was his way of saying my name. “Ine Man.”

  “Beech. This is a sports store. There’s no Iron Man.”

  “Uh-huh.” Beech whipped off his mittens, shoved them at me, and shot like a laser to the baseball aisle, the hood of his puffy winter coat flopping against his back.

  I caught up with him beside a display of baseball helmets.

  He stood on tiptoe, inching his stubby fingers toward a helmet at the top.

  “Ine Man.” His voice was hushed with awe.

  “Beech. It’s a baseball helmet.”

  I pulled it down and handed it to him.

  He held it like a precious jewel. “Ine Man.”

  And in a weird way—again—he was kind of right.

  Beech lifted the helmet and placed it reverently on his head, as if he were crowning himself king. It dropped down over his eyes. He tipped his head back so he could peer out at me.

  “Tool?” he said.

  “Way cool,” I said.

  “Hey, guys. Can I help you find anything?”

  I looked up.

  A girl in a Bottenfield’s T-shirt stood beside us, flashing a sporty smile. The white plastic name tag pinned to her shirt said JESSICA, and I could tell right away she was big into athletics. Her hair was pulled back in that perky sort of ponytail girls wear when they play sports, with shiny blond streaks, probably from playing outdoor sports, and her high-performance running shoes gave her a sporty bounce when she walked. You could tell she felt right at home around athletic equipment. She even had a neon pink soccer ball tucked under her arm.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “We’re not sure what we’re looking for.”

  Beech nodded. The helmet slid down over his face. His voice echoed out from under it: “Tarts.”

  “Tarts?” Jessica looked confused.

  I deciphered for her. “Cards,” I said. “Gift cards. From our dad. For Christmas. We’re here to spend them.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. Her ponytail bounced. “I get it. Just look around, and if you need help, let me know.”

  She started to turn away.

  “Tut superhero,” the helmet told her.

  Jessica stopped.

  I closed my eyes.

  We’d been through this with our downstairs neighbors, two different breakfast waitresses at the Atomic Flapjack, and the guy who emptied the change machine at the laundromat. And even though it was nice that my goober of a brother thought I was a superhero, I knew in my heart it would only end up one way: me looking pathetic.

  Jessica smiled down at Beech, in that bright way people smile when they’re trying to figure out what he’s saying. “You?” she asked him. “You’re a superhero?”

  “No.” Beech tipped the helmet back. “Tut.” He grabbed the front of my shirt a
nd tugged.

  She gave him another bright smile. “Tut?”

  “He means Tuck.” I peeled his fingers from my shirt. “Short for Tucker. It’s what he calls me.”

  “Tut draw superhero. And win.” Beecher threw his hands wide. “Win big.”

  Jessica looked at me.

  I shrugged, kind of embarrassed because I didn’t want to brag. And also because it was a pretty big deal and I kind of did want to brag.

  “You know H2O?” I said.

  “Big superhero,” said Beech. “Really tool.”

  Jessica nodded, clearly puzzled.

  “They had this contest to invent a sidekick for him. I invented a sidekick named Beanboy and sort of”—another shrug—“won.”

  “Oh!” Jessica’s confusion cleared up. “Just like my niece. She won first prize in the art contest at her grade school.”

  “Yeah,” I said, even though it wasn’t like that at all.

  Jessica flashed another smile. “You guys let me know if you need any help, okay?”

  She ambled off in her bouncy white running shoes, and as she went, she gave the pink soccer ball a spin and stuck her index finger under it.

  I stayed where I was, looking pathetic.

  Dad had told us to spend the two gift cards on anything we wanted. I’d tucked them in my shoe. The round plastic corners were starting to wear a blister on my foot.

  Beech wanted a batting helmet. He wouldn’t use it for actual batting, of course. But I knew for sure he’d sleep in the dang thing. So he was taken care of.

  I left Beech admiring himself and the helmet in a mirror, and wandered through the aisles, searching for my sport.

  I sighed. This would be a lot easier if Dad had sent gift cards to Caveman Comics. At Caveman, I wouldn’t even have to look around. I’d head straight for the Reference Section, pull The Dark Overlord Comics Encyclopedia: The Definitive Guide to the Dark Overlord Universe from the top shelf, third book from the left, haul it to the counter, and plunk down my gift card. The whole thing would take approximately twelve seconds.

  I ran my hand over a lacrosse stick. Because who knows? I could have a real gift for lacrosse.

  Or no—fencing.

  I slid a fencing foil from the rack. It was kind of like a light saber. Without the light part.

  Fencing might be just the thing to bring out my inner Jedi. I wielded the foil before me in both hands and spun around, ready to take on the Empire. The bell jangled against the Bottenfield’s door, and a clump of guys blasted in on a gust of late December air. Guys from my school. Guys who actually belonged in a sporting-goods store. One guy especially. Wesley Banks.

  Two

  Wesley Banks wasn’t by himself.

  He was never by himself.

  When he strode into Bottenfield’s, shook the cold out of his hair, planted his feet wide on the mat inside the door, and flipped his black shades onto his head to scope out the scene, T.J. Hawkins and Luke Delgado strode, shook, planted, and flipped right behind him. The gunslinger and his gang. Butch and Sundance and another Sundance.

  If athletes were superheroes, you’d have to call Wesley Banks the superhero of Amelia M. Earhart Middle School, maybe all of Wheaton, probably whole chunks of northeast Kansas.

  Wesley Banks scored runs and baskets and touch downs and goals. He sacked quarterbacks and turned double plays. He won games single-handedly. Didn’t matter what he was playing. You could invent a whole new sport—upside-down water basket-bowling—and Wesley would be the star.

  Wesley strode toward the aisles of sports equipment.

  I quickly developed a plan:

  1. Stop making the embarrassing hum/buzz light saber sound in my throat.

  2. Stay crouched behind the rack of fencing swords till Wesley and his gunslingers were gone.

  Case File: Banks

  (That’s what it says on the back of his jersey, and that’s what he answers to. If you say “Banks,” everyone in Wheaton knows who you’re talking about.)

  Status: He’d say superhero. The people in the bleachers cheering him would say that, too. Those people have never seen the dark side of all his superhero business. Those of us who have know the truth: supervillain in disguise.

  Base: Ball fields, gymnasiums, and locker rooms everywhere.

  Superpower: Complete and total athletic domination, plus a whole lot of swagger.

  Superweapon: Any piece of sports equipment he can use to pummel balls/opponents/unsuspecting bystanders: hockey stick, baseball bat, dodgeball, spit wad, swinging locker door—whatever’s handy.

  Real Name: Wesley Banks

  “NOOOOO!”

  I closed my eyes. My plan had forgotten about Beech.

  “NOOOOOOOO!” His screech echoed through Bottenfield’s. “Ine Man. Ine Man.”

  I peeked over the fencing display. I couldn’t see him past all the shelves and displays. But I heard him.

  “Mine! Mine.”

  I slid my foil back onto the rack and wove my way through the aisles to the baseball section. I found him facing off against Butch and the Sundances. I flicked a glance at them. “What’s going on, Beech-man?”

  His face was scrunched in pure panic, his body stiff. He pointed a trembling finger at Wesley, who was now holding the red and gold batting helmet.

  “Ine Man,” Beech said. His voice trembled, too.

  Wesley gave a shrug. “Don’t have a clue what he’s saying.”

  He tossed the helmet from one mighty hand to the other. He’d had an early growth spurt, back when we were still in grade school, and now he loomed over me, with his big shoulders and all his muscles.

  He kept his gaze steady, daring me to challenge him.

  I swallowed. I wasn’t a gunslinger. I didn’t have a gang. No Butches. No Sundances. No muscle tone to speak of.

  I steeled myself, steeled my bony shoulders under my big winter coat. “My brother’s going to buy that helmet,” I told Wesley. “That’s what he’s saying.”

  “Sorry,” said Wesley, “but it’s mine. I picked it up. I’m buying it.”

  “You picked it up off his head.”

  Wesley shrugged. “Finders keepers. Losers . . . well, that would be you and the little dork.”

  He aimed a laugh at the Sundances, who nervously laughed back.

  I clenched my fists. “He’s not a dork. He’s a little kid, and he had it first.”

  “Right.” Wesley laughed again. “Like he needs a batting helmet.”

  I clenched harder. I could feel my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands.

  “Give it back to him,” I said.

  “Or what?”

  “Give it back to him.”

  Wesley stared at me. Stared me down cold, his eyes not flinching. “Why? It’s not like he’s ever going to play baseball.”

  I stared back. Tried not to flinch, even though I know I did.

  “How do you know?”

  Wesley gave a snort. “Look at him.”

  I didn’t have to look at him. I’d been looking at him for nine years, and I knew exactly what he looked like. At this very moment he was white and shaky and about to pass out from rage and frustration and helplessness and flat-out fear.

  “He’s going to play baseball,” I said.

  Another snort. “Right.”

  “No! No baseball.” Beech grabbed my arm. Panic shot through his voice. “Superhero. Superhero.”

  I closed my eyes. Thanks, Beech.

  Wesley looked at him. His mouth twisted into a smile. Not a friendly, sporty smile, like Jessica’s. Not a superhero’s smile. Not a smile with a speck of happiness in it.

  A slow, mean, hard smile.

  “Superhero?” Wesley put the helmet on his head. He turned to model it for Luke and T.J. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m a superhero.”

  He held out his arms, I guess to act like he was flying, and flapped them this way and that.

  Wesley Banks might have been the greatest athlete to ever step onto a W
heaton, Kansas, ball field, but he didn’t have the first clue about superheroes.

  “Tut!” Beech clamped his fingers onto my arm. They dug into my coat sleeve. “Tut!”

  Wesley stopped. Stared at me, his eyes wide, his hard smile even wider. “Tut? Is that your superhero name? Tut?”

  He cut a look at Luke and T.J., and all three of them laughed.

  “Well, Tut. This helmet’s mine.” Wesley tucked it under his arm. “So I guess you’ll have to find another one just like it. Except, oops! You can’t. This is the last one.”

  He fired off one more hard, smirky smile, then pushed past us toward the cash register. Luke and T.J. followed.

  “Tut!” Beech stared after them in horror.

  “I know,” I said. “I got it.”

  I bent over and dug inside my shoe for the gift cards. They’d worked themselves down my sock and lodged under my heel. I ripped my shoe off.

  The bell jingled against the door, and another blast of winter air swept through Bottenfield’s. Swept down the aisles, rattling the hangers of jerseys and baseball pants and fluttering the FENCING sign tacked over the rack of foils. Swept over me and Beech and ruffled my hair back from my face.

  I looked up—

  —straight into the eyes of Emma Quinn, shiniest girl in all of Wheaton.

  The morning sun shone behind her, so that standing there in the doorway of Bottenfield’s—her cheeks glowing pink from the cold, her eyelashes sparkling with snow, the fur-lined hood of her winter coat pushed back from her shiny blond hair—she fairly shimmered. Like she’d been sprinkled with fairy dust. I think maybe the Kaleys were with her—they usually were—but I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything but Emma. And all that fairy dust.

  She waved a gloved hand at me. “Hey, Tuck,” she said, and even her voice glistened.

  I crouched there, frozen, my shoe tucked under my arm, my hand still jammed into my sock. My body was paralyzed, my tongue twisted around my tonsils.