Zacktastic Read online

  Text Copyright © 2015 Courtney Sheinmel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to:

  2395 South Huron Parkway, Suite 200, Ann Arbor, MI 48104

  www.sleepingbearpress.com

  © Sleeping Bear Press

  Printed and bound in the United States.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sheinmel, Courtney.

  Zacktastic / written by Courtney Sheinmel.

  pages cm

  Summary: On his tenth birthday, Zack learns from his uncle that he is descended from a long line of genies and before he has a chance to process this information, he is whisked through a bottle portal and sent on his first assignment.

  ISBN 978-1-58536-934-8 (hardcover) -- ISBN 978-1-58536-935-5 (paperback)

  [1. Genies--Fiction. 2. Wishes--Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters--Fiction. 4. Twins--Fiction. 5. Uncles--Fiction. 6. Birthdays--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S54124Zac 2015

  [Fic]--dc23

  2015003508

  For Nicki, Andrew, and of course Zach

  Contents

  1.A Day in the Life

  2.Uncle Max

  3.The Gift

  4.It Ain’t Just a River in Egypt

  5.Anger and Bargaining

  6.Dumped

  7.In Pursuit

  8.Rescue #1

  9.Why Me?

  10.Oh, the Quinnsanity

  11.Going to the Chapel

  12.Food Hall

  13.Perks of Invisibility

  14.Now What?

  15.The Mouth of the Roof

  16.There She Goes Again

  17.History Lesson

  18.My Dearest Wish

  19.Acceptance

  20.Here’s What Happens in the End

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  A DAY IN THE LIFE

  When you’re interviewing yourself in the bathroom mirror, a fist under your chin makes the perfect microphone.

  I pat my hair down so it falls around my head like a helmet. That’s the way Drew Listerman, the reporter on the Channel 7 news, wears his hair. Every weekend he hosts a special called A Day in the Life, where he follows celebrities around and viewers get to see what a typical day is like for them.

  I tuck a fallen strand behind my left ear, furrow my brows to make a wrinkle just above the bridge of my nose, and round my shoulders like Drew Listerman.

  And I’m on.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. Today we’re celebrating a day in the life of Zachary Cooley. Maybe you saw his picture in the newspaper on the day he stomped out a bunch of smoldering cigarette butts in the Pinemont Woods, preventing what surely would have been Pennsylvania’s most massive forest fire. Or perhaps you heard his name mentioned on the radio the morning he spotted a woman walking on the railroad tracks and got her to safety just moments before a speeding train whipped by. Certainly you saw the story on the evening news about the time Zack rappelled out of a helicopter and rescued a man swimming in the ocean below. Seconds later a school of great white sharks was spotted off the coast. Young Zack is credited with saving hundreds—no, thousands!—of lives. Please join me in welcoming birthday boy Zachary Noah Cooley, a real-life superhero!”

  I imagine viewers all over the country and around the world clapping and cheering and waiting to see me, and I run a hand through my hair so it’s back in my regular style, on the longish side and messed up like I just went for a superfast ride in a convertible, top down. Then I hold my fist out toward my reflection.

  “Well, first off, Drew, I don’t know that I’d call myself a superhero.” I pause for a second, and in my head a few thousand voices talk back to their TVs: What, Zack?! Of course you are! “But second of all, I’m here to save even more lives with a special message. And that message is: Listen to your fears.”

  “I thought the only thing to fear is fear itself,” Drew says.

  “Sorry, Drew,” I say. “But you—and Franklin Delano Roosevelt—are sadly mistaken. There are more things to fear than you could possibly count.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as: Aren’t you afraid to walk too close to the edge of a roof?”

  I can see Drew nodding. Of course he is.

  “You’re afraid because you could fall off,” I tell him. “And I bet you’re afraid to climb into the lions’ cage at the zoo because you know they can eat you. These are good fears to have because they stop you from doing something that could hurt you—or even kill you. Having fears saves lives.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way before,” Drew Listerman says. “But it’s certainly an important message you’re spreading. In fact, it’s practically a birthday present to us all. When really, we should be showering you with presents—especially on a birthday this significant. Tell me, how does it feel to hit double digits?”

  “It’s a funny thing,” I say. “When I woke up this morning, something felt different.” I peer a bit closer into the mirror—closer into the camera. “You ever get the feeling that something is changing in your life, that you’re in for something particularly extraordinary?”

  As I say it I feel a tingle run down my spine, like it’s true. Like I’m onto something. Like there actually are people out there, right now, watching me, and something big is going to happen right before their eyes.

  And then.

  “BOO!” Quinn yells.

  “Ahh!” I stumble backward. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” I shout at my sister. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

  The bathroom door had been closed. I’m sure of it. I hadn’t locked it, but that’s because I broke all the locks in our house a couple of months ago. Do you know how many people die each year because they lock themselves into their bedrooms or bathrooms, and a fire starts up, and no one can get to them in time to save them?

  Okay, I don’t know, either. But I bet a lot of people do.

  Mom was pretty mad about all the broken locks. But it was for her own good. Quinn’s, too. Dad once told me that the three of us—Mom, Quinn, and I—were the most important people in his life, and he’d do anything to protect us. After what happened to him, it’s up to me to make sure no one in my family ever gets hurt again. That’s what Dad would want me to do.

  But never mind that, because right now there’s no fire, not even the thinnest curlicue of smoke. And in the absence of a fire, we all know that a closed door means don’t come in.

  Not that Quinn cares. She’s bent in half, laughing. She laughs in a really squeaky, fingernails-on-the-chalkboard, little-hairs-on-your-arms-standing-up kind of way: Hee-eee-eee-EEEEEE. Hee-eee-eee-EEEEEE. Her laugh is just as embarrassing as my little interview. Even worse, actually, because my interview was supposed to be private. But Quinn laughs that way all the time in public. She can’t help herself.

  Quinn stands straight and makes a big production out of trying to catch her breath, like it was just sooooo funny, she might not ever be able to breathe again. “You should’ve”—pant, eeeeee, pant—“seen yourself.” Pant, pant. “Only a Grade A official nut job would talk to himself in the mirror.” She pauses to take one long, deep gulp of a breath.

  “I’ve seen you talk to yourself in the mirror,” I tell her. And then I mimic her in a high-pitched voice: “Quinn, your hair looks so good. Quinn, I love your nail polish.”

  “At least I’m not pretending to be brave to my imaginary friends, when the truth is you’re scared of everything. Are you sure you’re turning ten today? Because you’re ac
ting like a baby.”

  “Babies aren’t scared, because they don’t know any better,” I say. “It’s actually a sign of maturity to be scared.”

  “Whatever. It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  “I do so have friends,” I tell her.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And besides, I—”

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” Quinn interrupts.

  If she can’t wait, she should be quiet and listen. “I’d rather have no friends than have your friends. Your friends are so . . . are so . . .”

  Quinn is standing there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at me like she’s the older sister. But really we’re twins, and if you want to get specific about it, I’m the older one. Seven minutes older. Seven minutes that I packed a lot of wisdom into.

  “Your friends are so slame,” I say.

  “Oh, you got me this time,” Quinn says. But she rolls her eyes so I know she doesn’t mean it. “I’m so hurt by one of your dumb words that’s not even a real word.”

  “It is a word,” I insist. “Slame. Adjective. The same amount of lame as Quinn.”

  One day I’m going to write a dictionary of all the words that should be part of the English language. Slame is one of my best words yet.

  “Whatevs,” she says. She flips her hand like she’s waving me away. “At least I have people to invite to the party today. I mean, aside from the original nut job that is Uncle Max.”

  “And Eli,” I tell her.

  “Eli doesn’t know any better, because he’s the new kid. That’s the only reason he’s your friend at all.”

  “There are LOTS of reasons he’s my friend,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?” Quinn counters. “Name one.”

  Okay, truthfully, I’m not exactly sure why Eli is my friend. But I’m not about to admit that!

  “There’s nothing special about you,” Quinn adds.

  “GET OUT!” I shout.

  Quinn looks me square in the eye. “Make me,” she says.

  “You asked for it,” I say, and I make a pushing gesture with my hands, like I’m threatening to shove her or something. Man, I’d like to. She deserves it, after all: If you barge into the bathroom to spy on your brother, then you should be knocked over. But if I tried to hit Quinn, she’d just hit me back harder. She’s strong that way.

  And all of a sudden, she’s swept off her feet.

  I didn’t touch her, I swear. She tripped over nothing, all on her own. Now she’s on the floor, right on her butt.

  “I see London, I see France, I see Quinn Cooley’s underpants,” I chant.

  But Quinn doesn’t seem to care. “Whoa,” she says softly, her voice shaky. “Did you feel that?”

  Before I can answer, Mom’s in the doorway, her arms full of party decorations. “You’re starting with each other already?” she says. “I thought we all agreed we were going to make this day a good day.”

  That had been part of the dinner conversation last night: “Let’s not have any fights tomorrow,” Mom had said. “Let’s make it a good day.” Though, Quinn and I hadn’t actually agreed to that.

  “You all right, Quinn?” Mom asks. She puts the streamers on the counter and reaches a hand down to pull her up. Then she turns to me, accusingly. “Did you do this?”

  “Uh-uh, no way,” I say. “Quinn tripped all by herself. After she just marched right on in here—even though the door was closed.”

  “But not locked,” Quinn says, straightening her skirt. “And whose fault is that?”

  “She didn’t even knock first,” I say.

  “I had to go. And Zack was taking forever.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, just use my bathroom,” Mom tells her.

  In the background, the phone rings.

  “Work it out, you two,” Mom tells us before grabbing the streamers and heading back down the hall to answer the phone.

  “Thanks for getting me in trouble with Mom, nut job,” Quinn says. But then she leaves, too. Finally.

  I close the door behind her. Now I’m alone in the bathroom, but it’s not like I actually need to be in here anymore.

  Another day in the life of Zachary Cooley.

  Leave it to Quinn to ruin everything.

  2

  UNCLE MAX

  Two hours later the party is in full swing.

  Quinn has twelve friends here. More than anyone needs, if you ask me. She’s always jabbering away to them on the phone. Always. First there’s her best friend, Bella, who doesn’t even live in our town anymore. Her parents sent her away to some fancy boarding school. But she Skypes with Quinn every night—sometimes twice. Then Quinn has to Skype with everyone else she knows and report what Bella’s up to, and how she’s wearing her hair now, and whatever other completely pointless things girls talk about.

  It goes on and on for HOURS. Which is why I never get a chance to be on the computer myself. Even though I have much more important things to do, like look up home-accident report statistics and type up lists of safety tips. All in the name of keeping my family safe.

  But when I want to use the computer, Quinn just whines to Mom about it, and Mom takes her side and says I have to stop worrying so much about statistics and safety tips. She says I should concentrate on making friends, like Quinn does. As if having a few dozen friends is the most important thing. Friendship should be about quality, not quantity.

  And I have quality ones—four of them—at the party today. Here, I’ll list them in reverse order of importance:

  Numbers four and three are my cousins, Will and George. Okay, I had to invite them, because their mom was my dad’s younger sister. But still, they’re here, so they count.

  Number two is Eli, my best friend from school. (Fine, he’s my only friend. Like I said, it’s about quality, not quantity.)

  By the way, it’s not true what Quinn said, that Eli’s my friend just because he’s new and doesn’t know better. He started at our school two months ago. That’s not new anymore. It’s certainly enough time to decide who you want to be friends with, and he’s still friends with me.

  Eli and I would have more friends in school if only the other boys in the fifth grade weren’t such Reggs.

  Reggs: Noun. Kids whose parents wish they could give them back, because they’re such rotten eggs.

  Quinn only invited girls to her party, so, thankfully, none of the Reggs are here. Though Quinn and her slame friends are starting to like the Reggs. I can tell by the way they giggle whenever the Reggs are up to their rotten tricks. Like when Newman, the worst of the Reggs, stuck a “Kick Me” sign on the back of Miss Kipnick, the cafeteria lunch lady. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and it’s not even a funny one.

  Finally, my number one friend who I invited today: Uncle Max.

  Uncle Max isn’t really my uncle. We just call him that because he’s known our family for so long. He knew Mom when she was a little girl, and he knew her father before that, and even his father before that. As usual, he’s a little bit late today. He gets tied up with work stuff sometimes. He’s so old, you’d think he would’ve retired by now. But he says he likes his job too much to give it up. He’s a consulting transponder, which means he is in charge of communicating signals to receivers. To be honest, I don’t really understand what he does. I just know it means he has to travel a lot. But he wouldn’t miss my birthday. Birthdays are important to him. Mine even more than Quinn’s, because I’m his favorite.

  Not that Uncle Max has ever actually told me I’m his favorite. In fact, he says Quinn and I are equally important to him. But isn’t that just what an adult would say if he had a favorite and didn’t want to go spreading it around? Uncle Max himself has told me you have to look beyond what people tell you. You even have to look beyond what they think is true, because sometimes they don’t even know themselves.

  So I looked beyond. And it’s so obvious I’m right, it’s almost embarrassing for him. First of all, there are our Tuesday and Thursd
ay hangouts. Every week, without fail (unless Uncle Max has a business trip), he has standing plans with me. We go for long walks and talk about stuff, man-to-man. He’s taken me to the amusement park a bunch of times, too. Uncle Max is always trying to get me on the Speed of Light roller coaster. But do you know roller coasters kill an average of four people each year? It’s true. I looked it up. That’s why I prefer the carnival games. You don’t have to risk your life whooshing around in the air, and sometimes you even win prizes.

  Quinn says she doesn’t want to come to the amusement park with us. Well, good, Quinn, because I don’t remember anyone inviting you.

  Second of all, Uncle Max always gives me a better birthday present than he gives to Quinn. Last year he gave Quinn a series of books about a girl living in New York City. But he gave me a weekend trip to the city itself! We went to the biggest toy store I’d ever been to, and we went to the Empire State Building, which is a-hundred-and-two-stories tall. Uncle Max wanted to go up to the top, but I said no. It was too dangerous, for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is the Empire State Building has a lightning rod at the top that gets struck by lightning twenty-three times a year. As far as I know, no person visiting the building has been struck by lightning. But it’s not like you can predict where lightning will strike. That’s why it’s so dangerous, and it’s better to stay on the ground and be safe instead of sorry. I told Uncle Max it would be just as good to stand on the sidewalk and look up at the building stretching high into the sky above us. He argued for a bit, but in the end that’s what we did.

  When I’d looked at it for a good enough amount of time, I turned my head to tell Uncle Max I was ready to go back to the hotel and get dinner, but he was gone. I don’t know exactly how it happened. One second he was right next to me; the next he wasn’t. I had to get back to the hotel all on my own. Luckily, I’d memorized the address. You know, for safety reasons. I knew exactly where to go. I didn’t talk to any strangers on the way. I just kept my head down and walked and walked and WALKED until my feet felt like they would fall off. When I finally got back, Uncle Max was in the lobby, waiting for me. He didn’t look worried at all. “I knew you’d find your way,” he told me, and he took me out for pizza.