Terror in Tights Page 2

  She didn’t feel like saving the world, but someone was out to get her partner in uncrime. He needed her help.

  As they flew, Melvin couldn’t stop thinking about who was out to get him. Who was SC?

  6

  MEANWHILE …

  While Melvin and Candace were putting their heads together and trying to solve the mystery, Carl and the Good Ship Lollipop were sailing closer to America.

  “I can’t wait to get started on my devious and sinister plan,” he said. It was too early to decide if his plan would be devious or sinister. He just knew Melvin would be in pain very soon, and the thought made him smile.

  Carl had finished washing the dinner dishes and was now in his quarters with his laptop computer. “One more e-mail ought to do it,” he said to himself. “That’ll let him know I mean business.”

  And Carl did mean business. He had hated Melvin ever since his days at the Superhero Academy. But that hate had grown over the last few months. With every dish he washed and with every disrespectful comment from the crew, Carl thought of his former classmate Melvin and how to get back at him.

  He could hardly wait to get to America. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could steal a cape and tights on his way to Los Angeles.

  A few days later, the Good Ship Lollipop cruised into Boston Harbor at night, which, of course, was perfect for Carl. He couldn’t very well steal a superhero’s cape in the daytime. And he sure didn’t want anyone to see that he had been on a ship with a name like Lollipop. Word could get around, and Carl had his bad-guy reputation to think about.

  He left the ship as soon as it docked and made his way along the dark streets of Boston toward the academy. Once on the grounds, he moved silently, keeping to the shadows. He knew some of the student superheroes had very good hearing. They could hear a twig snap from a mile away. They could also see your underwear.

  Several times Carl stopped to listen. All was quiet.

  The Great Hall of Superheroes was on the first floor of the academy. This was where the retired capes were displayed. And there were many, from all the great superheroes who had come and gone before Carl. Superhero Charlie, Superhero Fremont, Thunderball, Mega Biceps … . Their capes and tights were hung on the walls as a tribute. Carl didn’t care which set he took, just as long as he could get some powers back.

  He picked the lock on the door and crept inside. Then he pulled a small penlight from his pocket and shone it on the wall. “Grab the first set and get out of here,” he said to himself.

  He did. He grabbed and ran. Outside, he put on the cape and tights and launched himself. “Up, up, and away!” Carl was up and flying on the first try. He streaked across the sky, heading for Los Angeles. With any luck he’d be there by morning.

  Then he could set about getting revenge on Melvin Beederman—squashed-beneath-his-feet Melvin Beederman.

  7

  HUGO’S ADVICE

  Melvin got another e-mail from the same location, another threat signed by SC. But then the e-mails stopped. Maybe it was all a joke, he told himself. And so he went back to saving the world. After all, catching bad guys was what Melvin did best.

  He caught bank robbers and car thieves, drug dealers and all-around devious dudes. And sinister ones. This helped keep his mind off SC. Well, sort of. It was in the evenings, when Melvin was back at his tree house and things were quiet, that the thoughts returned. He turned to his pet rat for advice. Candace wasn’t around after dinner, so Hugo would have to do.

  Melvin looked at the rat, who was eating pretzels and flipping the channels on the TV, looking for an Adventures of Thunderman rerun.

  “What do you think, Hugo, should I be worried about those e-mails? They seem to have stopped.”

  Hugo looked at him. “Squeak squeakity.”

  This might have meant “I recommend being prepared at all times, you handsome guy in a cape, you.” Or maybe it was “I’m considering taking up racquetball.”

  Melvin thought this was good advice, at least the part about being prepared. If Hugo wanted to take up racquetball, that would be okay, too. Melvin would keep his guard up at all times, in either case. And maybe he should watch Thunderman and Thunder Thighs for pointers. They always came out on top.

  “Pass the pretzels, Hugo.”

  Hugo did. Once again, Thunderman and Thunder Thighs saved the world. And they did it in under thirty minutes, including commercials. They even had time for a preview of next week’s episode. Melvin turned off the TV, ignoring Hugo’s squeaking protests.

  The Adventures of Thunderman wasn’t real life, he told himself. Even though the threatening e-mails had stopped, Melvin felt strange, like some invisible thing was coming for him. What it was, he couldn’t say. Sure, he caught bad guys for a living and all of them hated him for it, but they didn’t have e-mail in prison, did they?

  He went to the window and looked down at the lights of Los Angeles, and the strange feeling continued. Was SC real? Was he or she or it still out to get him? Melvin didn’t know. He turned to his rat roommate. “Keep an ear peeled, Hugo. We may have a visitor.”

  “Squeak squeakity squeak squeak squeaken squeaker.” This was a very long sentence for a rat. It either meant “Will do, good buddy who needs to give me the TV remote” or “Who do you like, the Dodgers or the Red Sox?” You could never be sure with rat talk. At least Melvin couldn’t.

  “Just stay alert, Hugo.”

  Melvin moved a chair to the window so he could stay alert also. Hours went by. He didn’t sleep a wink. Finally, he decided to do a little nighttime saving of the world. Usually he hung out with Hugo after the sun went down, eating tasty snacks, watching TV, and telling knock-knock jokes. This night was different. He had to get out and do something to keep his mind off his worries.

  He launched himself in his usual way—crashing, splatting, thudding, kabonking—flying on the fifth try, and went on patrol. He broke up a bar fight on Melrose Avenue. He stopped a runaway bus on Wilshire. He caught a few kids spraying graffiti here and there. Then he danced the night away at Fast Eddy’s Amazing Disco and All-Night Car Wash.

  It was a very busy night for Melvin Beederman. Still, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t stop worrying about who was out to get him.

  8

  LIQUID BOLOGNA?

  Carl was really zooming. Boy, had he missed it! It had been a long time since he’d had the full powers of a superhero. And now, as he sped across the sky, heading to Los Angeles and Melvin Beederman, he decided to use those powers doing the things he loved. It’ll bring back those fond memories of my days at the academy, he thought. Besides, he needed to brush up on his skills.

  And so he stopped a speeding train just to see if he still could. No problem. “Just like riding a bicycle,” he said to himself. Then he bench-pressed a Buick. This wasn’t easy, because the Buick was racing down the road when he grabbed it and bench-pressed it. But he managed. He was as strong as ever, he decided, and raced on.

  Could he see through walls? He stopped in front of a building to try it out. Yes, his x-ray vision was perfect. He even got a glimpse of someone’s underwear. Unlike Melvin Beederman, Carl could turn his x-ray vision off and on at will, which made it much less annoying. Seeing everybody’s underwear all the time had to be a pain in the Melvin.

  This was how Carl thought of his enemy. Melvin had achieved rear-end status.

  Carl kept flying, heading for the West Coast, and practicing all his old moves—steep dives, quick turns, stopping on a dime. Or a quarter, since that was all he had. He’d been out of practice for a long time, while Melvin saved the world on a daily basis. Carl had to be ready to face him. And so he kept at it, zooming, zigging, zagging, bench-pressing, Melvin-hating.

  Then suddenly he stopped, midair. He’d thought of something. Bologna was Melvin Beederman’s weakness. He couldn’t show up in Los Angeles without it. Somewhere in Utah he found an all-night grocery store and stocked up. Bologna by the slice. Bologna by the slab. Fried in a sandwich. Bolo
gna by the log. Bologna from the hog—hey, that rhymes! Sliced, diced—you name it, he bought it. He even thought he might invent something called liquid bologna and spray it all over Melvin. Just thinking about it made him excited.

  “Look out, Melvin Beederman. Here I come,” he said.

  The sun was just rising as he launched himself again outside the grocery store. He’d be in Los Angeles in no time. The question was, could he find Melvin once he got there?

  Fortunately, Carl had graduated from the academy, too. He thought like Melvin in some ways, because they were trained at the same school. He knew the code. “Where would I make my hideout?” he asked himself as he raced across the sky. “Where would I set up my superhero headquarters if I were Melvin Beederman?”

  9

  THINGS GET BACK TO NORMAL … OR DO THEY?

  Hugo’s advice was sound, Melvin decided, even though he wasn’t exactly sure what that advice was. If it was “Keep up your guard at all times,” then it was good advice. And Melvin decided to follow it.

  He went back to his normal routine of catching bad guys, but he did it cautiously, always noting everyone’s initials as he went. So far, no one with SC turned up except Santa Claus. And he wasn’t exactly a devious dude. Fat and jolly, yes; out to get Melvin, not likely. As Melvin had said, you know when Santa is peeved by what he leaves in your stocking.

  Melvin met Candace at the library after school, as usual.

  “What’s the latest?” she asked him. “Any more news from SC?”

  Melvin shook his head. “The e-mails stopped, but I’m keeping an eye out. How are you doing? How’s life without Smedley?”

  Candace shrugged. “I still miss him, but maybe I’ll feel better if I catch a few bad guys. Do you think I can bust through a couple of locked doors while I’m at it?” This was the superhero perk that Candace loved the best. Catching bad guys was okay, but busting down doors—now that was fun!

  “Sure. I’ll even lock them myself,” Melvin said.

  “You’re so good to me.”

  The two superheroes worked some math problems together, then launched themselves outside the library.

  Or at least Candace did. She always got off the ground on the first try.

  Not Melvin. “Up, up, and away.”

  Crash!

  Splat!

  On the fifth try, Melvin joined his partner in uncrime in the air. Candace looked at him and smiled. “You’re the worst flying superhero I know.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” Melvin said as they streaked across the sky. “Let’s go catch a bad guy or two.”

  “And kick in some doors,” Candace added. “Don’t forget the doors.”

  “I won’t.” Melvin hovered in front of a tall building with shiny windows and flexed.

  Then they flew on and on, looking for bad guys. Little did they know that the worst bad guy of all was already in town.

  10

  INFLATABLE LAIR?

  The problem was, Carl couldn’t find Melvin. All day long he searched. Los Angeles was too big, too spread out. There were too many people.

  “Holy needle in a haystack!” he said. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  Holy needle in a haystack, indeed! It wasn’t.

  And so, at the end of the day, with no sign of Melvin Beederman, Carl decided he’d need a place to stay while he came up with a plan. Where did a bad guy go to find a place to live?

  You guessed it. Big Al’s Rent-a-Lair. Not hideout—lair. As everyone knows, Big Al has been serving Southern California’s bad guys since 1985, and that was good enough for Carl.

  “What have you got in your economy line?” Carl asked Big Al. He was saving his money in case he had to buy more bologna.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to check out our lair with a built-in Jacuzzi? It’s very popular among bad guys your age.”

  “I’m on a budget,” Carl said. “In fact, do you have any portable lairs?” He knew that bad guys had to be as mobile as possible.

  “I have just the thing.” Big Al walked over to a strange-looking lair in his showroom. “Our newest model. An inflatable lair. Light weight, economical, and holds up to police bullets quite well, believe it or not.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “By the way,” Big Al said, “did you know you smell like bologna?”

  Carl ignored this comment. As long as the bologna did its job, he didn’t care what he smelled like. He bought the inflatable lair and set it up on the hill below the Hollywood sign. This was a very popular location for bad-guy lairs.

  With his portable home all set, Carl made a bologna pizza and went out on the front porch to eat. From there he had a great view of the city. It was the perfect place to plot Melvin Beederman’s doom.

  Now Carl just had to find him. Where was that superhero with flying problems? How should he track down the world’s-worst train stopper? The guy with the funny hairdo … the keeper of the code—

  Carl nearly choked on his pizza. “Of course!” he cried. “The Superhero’s Code!” Melvin always followed the code. And what was the first rule of the code? Never say no to a cry for help. If Carl put someone in danger, Melvin would have to come to the rescue.

  Carl knew this was the answer. He also knew that bologna pizza was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

  11

  THE TRAP

  Melvin kept checking his e-mail. There was nothing more from SC, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Besides, he’d been trained at the Superhero Academy to sense danger. He sensed it, all right. Something nasty was afoot, which is a whole lot different than having something nasty on your foot. Or under it.

  Melvin kept his guard up while he continued to save the world. And there was plenty to keep him busy. He spent his mornings catching bad guys on his own. In the afternoon, he teamed up with Candace Brinkwater after doing a little math.

  Ah … math. It was the next best thing to catching bad guys or snacking on pretzels and drinking root beer.

  But as the days passed and things got back to normal, Melvin forgot about his rat Hugo’s good advice. It was Hugo who had first suggested that Melvin be prepared at all times. At least this is what Melvin thought he had squeaked. The point is, Melvin dropped his guard. And the more time went on, the lower it dropped. He was a sitting duck for anyone who knew his weakness.

  Candace Brinkwater, on the other hand, was still curious about the e-mails and brought it up every day at the library.

  “Steve Coffin?” she said. “Stephanie Crookshank? Sammy Crouton?”

  Melvin gave her a look. “What are you talking about?”

  “The initials, SC. Aren’t you curious who hates you? I am. I think about it all the time.”

  “That’s probably why your math grade is slipping,” Melvin said. He pointed to her textbook. “Finish these problems, and let’s go save the world or something.”

  “And kick in doors?”

  “If you like.”

  Candace smiled at the thought. It simply didn’t get much better than kicking in doors. With Melvin’s help, she finished the last of her math.

  “Okay, let’s g—”

  And that’s when they heard it. A cry for help. Someone was in trouble and the Superhero’s Code told them what to do. Well, it told Melvin. Candace was clueless when it came to the code. But that didn’t matter. She acted on instinct. Someone was in trouble and that’s all she needed to know.

  “Help!” The cry came again.

  Our two superheroes ran outside and launched themselves, Candace on the first try. She hovered above the trees, waiting for Melvin to join her. “Let’s go, Melvin! I see smoke.”

  “Be with you in a moment,” Melvin said. “Up, up, and away.”

  Crash!

  On the fifth try he joined her in the air. Candace pointed toward downtown, where smoke was rising. By this time, sirens were screaming, but there was another scream that only their superhero ears could pick up—a human scream. “Help!”

 
Melvin and Candace streaked across the sky to the rescue.

  12

  THE FAKE DAMSEL

  Carl didn’t know what a damsel in distress sounded like. Not exactly anyway. But he had watched television over the years and he figured he could fake it.

  He had started the fire on the tenth floor of what looked like an abandoned building downtown, then to put the finishing touch on his devious plan (or maybe it was a sinister one), he stuck his head out the window and screamed like a damsel.

  It was this fake damsel cry that reached the ears of our two partners in uncrime.

  Carl put his head out the window and yelled again in his high-pitched girlie voice. “Help! Somebody help!”

  The streets below were busy with police setting up roadblocks around the building and fire trucks starting to arrive. Carl stood at the window with his binoculars, watching the sky for Melvin Beederman. He was ready with a good supply of bologna. Once the bologna took effect, Melvin would be at his mercy.

  “I can’t wait,” he said to himself. Yes, getting his hands on Melvin Beederman—that was something he’d dreamed about for a very long time.

  “Help! Somebody help!”

  “A damsel,” Melvin said as they zoomed across the sky.

  “What?” Candace asked.

  “It’s a damsel in distress.”

  “Maybe it’s just a guy with a very high voice.”

  Melvin nodded. “Good point.” He didn’t feel like arguing, but he was pretty sure he knew a damsel when he heard one.

  Up ahead, they saw flames shooting out of a building, then another cry came. “Help!”

  Melvin and Candace did just that. They broke through the wall on the tenth floor of the burning building, since flames prevented them from using the window. What they saw stopped them cold. In the middle of the smoke-filled room stood a boy in a cape.