Control Freak Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Debi Larsson

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  My name is Steve, and I am a benchwarmer. Do you remember in King of the Bench: No Fear when I told everyone in the entire universe that I never get in a game unless it’s garbage time and the score is a hundred to zip?

  I hope so, because it would be really pathetic if you already forgot. And if you haven’t even read the book yet, what are you waiting for?!

  In No Fear, I also spilled my guts about a really humiliating personal problem that almost ruined my very first baseball season at Spiro T. Agnew Middle School, “Home of the Mighty Plumbers.”

  (No. Not that.)

  In this book, I am going to tell you about a mysterious magic device that pretty much controlled the fate of the Mighty Plumbers’ football season.

  It was a device so powerful that, in the wrong hands, it could have jinxed anyone it came in contact with in the entire world. And I’m not even exaggerating.

  Fortunately, the magic device was in my hands. Most of the time.

  I won’t tell you any more details right now because—big, drooly duh—it’s a strict rule when writing a book that you build suspense first and don’t just spill all the “mysterious-magic-device” stuff right off the bat.

  So just “hang on to your jockstraps,” as my football coach likes to say. I’ll get to the mysterious magic device when the suspense builds to the point where you can’t stand it a minute longer.

  For now, you need to know that even though I’m a benchwarmer, I do have some excellent skills in football.

  For example, I’m really quick on my feet. That’s a huge advantage if you are a running back and a linebacker tries to grab your head and shove your face into the grass.

  So I’m not a total drooling dweeb, okay? And when it comes to sitting on the bench, I’m probably better at it than anyone else my age in the entire city—maybe the entire world.

  End of the pine or middle of the pine, doesn’t matter. I pretty much rule the bench.

  No brag. It’s just a fact.

  I’m King of the Bench!

  CHAPTER 1

  My encounter with the mysterious and powerful magic device happened on the first day of school after summer vacation.

  I’d decided to take a detour early in the morning before classes started. Instead of diving straight back into the drudgery, I wanted to ease back into it along with my best friends, Carlos Diaz and Joey Linguini.

  Joey is psychic. One time, he predicted a gory incident that became known in Spiro T. Agnew Middle School folklore as the Valentine’s Day Schnoz Massacre.

  Joey and Carlos are benchwarmers just like me. Mostly, we sit and watch the hotshot athletes run around and get all sweaty, which you probably already know is a huge chick magnet.

  But we love sports. It’s our common bond. And we live in a sports lover’s paradise. There’s a stadium right smack in the middle of our neighborhood!

  When we’re not in school or sitting on the bench, we practically live at Goodfellow Stadium. It’s got a domed roof that slides open and closed, so it can host pretty much any kind of sport in any kind of weather.

  Goodfellow Stadium is really ancient, probably dating back to the early 1980s. My dad calls it a “storied venue,” which means it smells like moldy hot dogs and it’s practically a rule that you get all teary-eyed and kiss the bleacher seats when you walk through the gates.

  On our first-day-of-school detour, my friends and I went to the stadium to visit a friend and to watch the Goodfellow Goons practice for the upcoming NFL season.

  The Goons are a “doormat” football team, which means they hardly ever win games. But we don’t care. The players are so friendly they often will give you their used mouth guards, smelly socks, and other valuable collector’s items.

  The Goons are the hometown team, so we support them even when they lose a bunch of games by a hundred to zip.

  The morning practice was open to fans who wanted to watch the Goons bumble their way through football drills, but it cost five bucks to get in.

  That’s kind of a rip-off, although it’s better than paying a way higher price to watch an actual game where the Goons get clobbered by a hundred to zip.

  Joey, Carlos, and I didn’t have to fork over five bucks, though. We entered Goodfellow Stadium in our usual manner: we helped the concession workers unload a truckload of supplies in exchange for free passes and a treat of our choice.

  When we were done hauling boxes, Joey selected his treat—a churro, which is a deep-fried pastry smothered in sugar. Carlos went for a family-size bag of salted peanuts. He likes to suck all the salt off and then eat the peanuts, shell and all.

  I chose an Eskimo Pie, which is my favorite stadium treat in the entire universe. Vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate. It’s nature’s near-perfect food.

  After getting our snacks, we went to track down our friend.

  Billionaire Bill (probably not his real name) is a bleacher bum, and I’m not even exaggerating.

  Quick Time-Out about Bill

  Billionaire Bill is a gonzo sports fan who actually lives inside Goodfellow Stadium in a tiny “apartment” right under the bleachers. In exchange for free rent, Bill works for the stadium as the official “pigeon-control officer.”

  He patrols the upper aisles and blasts an air horn to scare pigeons out of the rafters of the stadium. It’s a very important job because if it weren’t for Bill and his air horn, the spectators would need umbrellas, if you know what I mean.

  Bill told us he once was a very wealthy and respected man. I think he was either a brain surgeon or a Hall of Fame NFL quarterback. Maybe a cartoonist. I forget.

  Anyway, Bill chucked the good life and now he hangs out in Goodfellow Stadium all the time.

  Bill likes to give Joey, Carlos, and me valuable advice about everything, although sometimes his wisdom seems a little backward. Here’s one of those nuggets that I wonder about:

  “If a girl kicks you in the shin, it means she likes you.”

  Bill loves being a bleacher bum because he’s out of the rat race and in total control of his life.

  Next to my mom and dad, Billionaire Bill is pretty much my favorite adult role model in the entire universe.

  When we found Bill that day, he was in his tiny apartment beneath the bleachers. He was rearranging a shelf packed with collectibles and dancing to a song from the ancient 1970s.

  One particular item on Bill’s collectibles shelf caught my eye.

  It was a relic from a forgotten time—the 1990s.

  Whoa!

  Collectors like me know that an original Nintendo 64 game controller is hard to find. When newer models of the N64 came out, the old controllers usually were tossed in the trash and buried in landfills under tons of dir
t, never to be seen again.

  Bill’s N64 controller was a survivor, although it was sort of beat up, as if someone had been gaming with it day and night for twenty-five years. The buttons were stained a chocolate brown, and the cord looked like it had been gnawed off by a wolverine.

  It was awesome!

  Good ol’ Billionaire Bill could see that I was excited about the N64, so he offered me a trade: his beat-up antique for my delicious Eskimo Pie.

  I didn’t even hesitate, partly because my concession treat was now a melted glob.

  Bill didn’t care, though. He slurped up the Eskimo Pie in about two seconds, and I had the granddaddy of all antique video game controllers—the original N64.

  Joey, Carlos, and I left Bill’s apartment under the bleachers to watch some of the Goons practice before we had to dash off to the first day of school. As we turned to go, Bill said something sort of mysterious.

  CHAPTER 2

  We climbed up to the highest row of the bleachers and sat down to watch the Goons bumble through their scrimmage.

  Joey had a hard time sitting still because the sugar from the churro had seized control of his entire central nervous system. Running is the only way for Joey to calm down.

  I told you he was quick.

  Carlos scarfed the last of his peanuts, shells and all. Then he ripped an epic burp that echoed across the entire stadium.

  Everyone in Goodfellow Stadium, including the bumbling Goons down on the field, turned and stared up at us.

  Carlos was very proud of himself. Who wouldn’t be?

  After determining that the stadium was not being attacked by a ginormous bullfrog, the Goons got back to their scrimmage.

  But I think they were rattled by Carlos’s megaburp because the offense had a tough time moving the ball. The running back tripped and fumbled and lost yardage. It was pathetic.

  Out of boredom, I started goofing around with the N64 controller.

  I’m actually very skilled at video games, by the way. No brag. It’s just a fact.

  My favorite game is Bufo Combat, practically the most popular video game in the entire universe, and I’m not even exaggerating. I recently had reached Ultimate-Toad level, which is like getting to the Super Bowl in the world of video games.

  Anyway, with the ancient, beat-up controller in my hands, I decided to pretend that the scrimmage was an actual video game and I alone was in control of the running back.

  Like I said, I’m skilled at video games, but I had never used a primitive N64. So I sort of winged it.

  On the next handoff, I punched the chocolate-stained buttons and worked the joystick with my thumb. The running back dodged and weaved.

  I pushed the green button and the red button and waggled the joystick again. The running back—the same one who had fumbled on the previous play—juked and zigzagged.

  Whah?

  I shoved the joystick forward with my thumb and the running back broke through the line and sprinted ninety yards for a touchdown.

  And I’m not even making that up!

  I was about to tell Joey and Carlos about the freaky connection between the N64 and the running back, but then I chickened out. They would have thought I was gonzo.

  I stashed the controller in my backpack. It was time to go.

  Joey, Carlos, and I hustled out of Goodfellow Stadium and sprinted all the way to Spiro T. Agnew Middle School.

  Quick Time-Out about the First Day of School

  The first day of school after summer vacation is always the same old scene. Everyone greets one another dramatically, as if the break had lasted about a hundred years.

  Smiling teachers in every class welcome students to another school year that is guaranteed to be jam-packed with valuable knowledge!

  The only other day that you see teachers so cheerful and enthusiastic is the last day of school.

  And in the cafeteria, students slide right back into their assigned positions within the school social structure. Whiz kids. Jocks. Socials. Rebels. Creatives. Germ-O-Phobes. You name it. Every group has its own table.

  Joey, Carlos, and I don’t fit into any of those groups. We have our own table in the back of the cafeteria right under the “Go You Mighty Plumbers” sign.

  It’s an excellent location—right next to the emergency exit.

  That’s a handy location for quick escapes in case a food fight breaks out or a Siberian tiger escapes from a nearby zoo and wanders onto campus and into the cafeteria looking for a quick bite to eat.

  We call our table “C Central” because our cumulative GPA is just about a C average. That also happens to match our cumulative APA—Athletic Point Average.

  I had brought the antique N64 controller to lunch. It fit perfectly in my backpack’s accessory pocket, completely undetected by any snoopy whiz kids or suspicious math teachers.

  I went through the food line and loaded my plate with the “Mighty Plumbers Special,” beef Stroganoff, which was just chunks of meat in a milky sauce poured over noodles. It was the only barely gag-able item on the menu.

  When I sat down back at C Central, I pulled the controller out of my backpack, but I kept it out of sight under the table.

  Then I secretly tested it out.

  I wanted to know if the experience at Goodfellow Stadium was a freaky coincidence or if the device really was able to control the movements of live humans.

  I picked a random, unsuspecting classmate: Jessica Whitehead, the school genius.

  She had just loaded her plate with the Mighty Plumbers Special and was about to head toward her place of honor at the Whiz Kid Table.

  Jessica usually has a hard time walking through crowds because she is probably the most polite person you will ever meet in your entire life.

  Other people take advantage of her politeness. In the cafeteria, Jessica will be jostled and bumped, and sometimes she will even lose control of her food tray and drop it on the floor.

  Jessica left the food line and entered a crazy rush of crisscrossing students with food trays. Before anyone could take advantage of her polite behavior, I engaged the N64 controller.

  I pushed the red Start button.

  Then I worked the joystick. Left. Right.

  Jessica dodged left. Then right. I pushed a C button and she JUMPED over a student who had slipped on spilled Stroganoff and was sliding across the cafeteria floor face-first.

  When I shoved the joystick forward with my thumb, Jessica speed-walked—untouched—all the way to the Whiz Kid Table without being jostled or bumped!

  But was it Jessica or was it the N64? I wasn’t sure.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’ll give you some valuable words of advice: never let anyone pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do.

  Here are a few common situations you might encounter:

  —You’re in Africa and a Maasai warrior wants you to hunt a lion with a spear to prove your bravery, but you’re not really in the mood to be eaten by a lion. What do you do? Tell the Maasai warrior, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Be firm. Even if he screams at you in the native Maasai tongue.

  —An extreme sports thrill seeker invites you to put on a wingsuit and join him on a scenic plunge off a sheer cliff in the Swiss Alps, but jumping off sheer cliffs doesn’t exactly fry your burger. What do you do? Lie to him and say, “I’m late for a haircut appointment.” Then walk away.

  —You’re new to a neighborhood, and a group of kids dares you to scarf a huge bowl of raw brussels sprouts, but you’d rather eat live maggots than raw brussels sprouts. What do you do? Simply crumple to the ground and play dead. After a few minutes of awkward silence, the kids will wander away, and you will be off the hook.

  Why am I giving you all of this valuable advice?

  Because right after my little experiment with Jessica Whitehead, I caved in to peer pressure and agreed to play tackle football for the Spiro T. Agnew team.

  It’s not that I don’t like playing football. I LOVE playing football.

/>   Flag football.

  In flag football, players are “tackled” when brightly colored plastic strips are yanked off a Velcro belt. And it is strictly forbidden for a linebacker to grab your head and shove your face into the grass.

  But I don’t like to play tackle football because I hate tackling and I really hate getting tackled. It’s just my personal preference to avoid pain.

  I played one season of Tiny-Mite tackle football when I was in first grade, but it didn’t exactly fry my burger—even with the gigantic helmet and massive pads that cushioned most of the body blows.

  Joey and Carlos also dislike the whole tackle football thing for pain reasons. They did not want to play for the Spiro football team.

  And we are not namby-pambies, so don’t even think that.

  My friends and I were just looking forward to sitting comfortably in the bleachers and watching other Spiro students play tackle football, while we scarfed all the tasty food they sell at the concession stand—mostly peanuts, churros, and Eskimo Pies.

  Quick Time-Out about the Bleachers

  The downside to sitting in the bleachers is that you are forced by peer pressure and bubbly cheerleaders into shouting annoying cheers.

  My personal most-annoying cheer is this one:

  “We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit! How ’bout you!?”

  Then the fans point to the other side of the football field and challenge the weak and useless opposing fans to a lame “cheer battle.”

  In case you didn’t already know, that cheer is really old—even older than the internet.

  I’m pretty sure it dates back to the Middle Ages when hordes of barbarians roamed the earth picking fights with civilized communities that were just minding their own business.