One-Third Nerd Read online

  ALSO BY GENNIFER CHOLDENKO

  Al Capone Does My Shirts

  Al Capone Shines My Shoes

  Al Capone Does My Homework

  Al Capone Throws Me a Curve

  Chasing Secrets

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Gennifer Choldenko

  Cover art copyright and interior illustrations © 2019 by Églantine Ceulemans

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! rhcbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Choldenko, Gennifer, author. | Ceulemans, Eglantine, illustrator.

  Title: One-third nerd / by Gennifer Choldenko ; illustrations by Eglantine Ceulemans.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, [2019] | Summary: Ten-year-old Liam and his two younger sisters, precocious third-grader Dakota and second-grader Izzy, who has Down syndrome, face the possibility of losing their beloved dog, Cupcake, who keeps urinating on their apartment’s carpet. |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018005488 (print) | LCCN 2018013437 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1890-9 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1888-6 (trade) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1889-3 (lib. bdg.)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | German shepherd dog—Fiction. | Dogs—Fiction. | Down syndrome—Fiction. | People with mental disabilities—Fiction. | Apartment houses—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.C446265 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.C446265 One 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781524718909

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v5.4

  ep

  To Elizabeth Harding, who always has my back

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Gennifer Choldenko

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Pee in the Fridge

  2. Torpse the Corpse

  3. I Thought This Only Happened to Teenagers

  4. Superpowers I Don’t Have

  5. Desperately Seeking Geeks

  6. A Pink Bracelet…Dude?

  7. Phone-Swear

  8. Nerd Power

  9. What I Do for Fried Rice

  10. Bigfoot and the Two-Legged Bear

  11. A Bed Wetter or a Thief?

  12. They Scared by Themselves

  13. Doggy Diapers

  14. Superheroes Don’t Have Sisters

  15. Counting the Dead Ones

  16. Skittles Rule

  17. Tiebreaker

  18. Science Is Not Just for Girls

  19. Licking Toilet Seats and Other Problems

  20. Being Cardboard Must Be Nice

  21. Somebody Invented Underwear?

  22. The Second Person

  23. A Nerd or a Greek?

  24. Daughter of the Corpse

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Fifth grade is not for amateurs.

  You have to watch yourself. Kids notice stuff.

  What books you read. What sports you follow. What devices you own. And how nerdy you are.

  A little nerdy is good; you can fix the game controller. But if you’re the kid who gets the teacher’s website up and running so everyone has more homework…that’s too nerdy.

  And then there are the subtle things, like how you raise your hand. Should you raise it high and eager? Low and mouselike? Rotate your palm? Flap it all around? Or does your arm come up straight and slow like a log on a pulley?

  Same with turning your homework in. Do you put it on the top of the pile? Or the bottom? Do you fold it like a paper airplane and fly it to your teacher’s desk? Deliver it by drone? Or do you send it up the classroom aisle in the mouth of a robotic device?

  I could probably manage all this okay if it weren’t for my sisters.

  Dakota, the third grader, is the worst.

  I finally get up the courage to talk to the girl everyone thinks is cute and Dakota shouts across the playground, “Liam, I need toilet paper from the boys’ bathroom. There’s none in the girls’.”

  Izzy, the second grader, is a hugger. The custodian, the crossing guard, my coach…Izzy hugs everyone.

  Unfortunately, my sisters and I look alike: blond hair, blue eyes, and on the short side, so I can’t hide the fact that I’m their brother.

  Then there’s our dog, Cupcake, a black and tan German shepherd with crooked front teeth and shiny black lips. Cupcake has little accidents in our apartment.

  Did I mention we live under the landlord?

  Not that poor pee control would be a good idea in any house, but it’s especially bad when you live close to your landlord.

  Other problems? Cupcake howls when the microwave dings. And Izzy sings all the time.

  Luckily, the landlord, Mr. Torpse, is hard of hearing. Once he takes his hearing aids out, Izzy can sing as much as she wants. How do we know they’re out? He turns his TV up so loud it’s like the voice of our principal booming from the PA at school.

  We hear every sound Torpse makes. When he belches, shouts at the radio, or goes to the toilet. Plus, he spies on us. He says he only comes downstairs to water the plants, right outside his window, but since there’s nothing to water but dried-up weeds, I wonder.

  So I don’t bring friends to our apartment. I don’t tell people where I live. I don’t even write my address on the forms at school.

  The only person who knows the truth is my best friend, Dodge, and he won’t tell anyone.

  Dodge comes over every day. His grandpa Crash watches us if my mom has to work late. Some days, Crash can’t get out of work either, and then I’m the one in charge for a little while.

  I don’t see Crash’s car, so I’m guessing today will be one of those days.

  Dodge, Dakota, and I walk from the bus stop. We climb down the steep stairs to our apartment, careful to avoid the rotted wood steps that sink when you step on them. I pull the blue key with the smiley-face sticker out from under my shirt, where it hangs on a string, and I unlock the door.

  Inside, I open the patio slider to let Cupcake in. She is crazy excited to see me, jumping all around.

  I follow Dodge to the tiny kitchen. Dodge finds the crackers and he’s about to wash them down with lemonade. He squints at the glass. “Did your mom buy a new brand?”

  I catch a whiff and then snatch his glass out of his hand. It smells like pee!

  “Sorry, um…” I run to the bathroom, dump it, and hurry back to pour him some actual lemonade in a new glass.

  Who would put a glass of pee in the fridge?

  Dakota!

  Dakota has been working on the problem of why Cupcake has lost pee control.

  She never had a problem until a few months ago. We hous
ebroke her when she was little.

  She learned so quickly. What a smart, cute puppy she was. She had the softest fur, floppy ears, and giant paws, and she made funny groaning sounds—like a dog’s version of a purr. The week after my parents split up, Mom got us Cupcake. The first night we had her, she chewed off the top of a Tupperware container and wolfed down the cupcakes inside. That’s how she got her name.

  When we lived in our old house, there was a yard for Cupcake. But in January Mom and Dad sold our house and we rented this place. Now the “yard” is a tiny patio with one plant trying hard to grow out of a crack in the cement. When it produces a leaf, Cupcake pees on it and it flops over again.

  My job is walking Cupcake. Mom won’t let Dakota or Izzy walk her because it isn’t safe in our neighborhood, but I never worry. Cupcake is the world’s best watchdog. Once, a bodybuilder in a camouflage vest walked too close to me and Cupcake growled. Now when that guy sees me, he runs to the other side of the street.

  I never feel short when I walk Cupcake. Though I do wish we’d named her something more ferocious, like Dude or Brute.

  “Look, um, I’m sorry about the lemonade,” I mumble to Dodge when we’re out on the street.

  Dodge shrugs. That’s Dodge for you. He rolls with everything.

  We take turns on the skateboard hanging on to Cupcake’s harness so she’ll haul us up the hill; then we start talking about what happened in class.

  “Can you believe Moses got in Leadership already? He’s been here…what…three weeks?” I say.

  Leadership is kind of like Student Council, only the teachers choose who will be on it. I like it. It makes me feel important. Dodge was in Leadership, but he doesn’t want to have to talk that much, so he got out.

  “Moses is nice,” Dodge says.

  I throw the tennis ball for Cupcake, then jump back on my board. “Have you seen him play? He’s got a killer serve, and his overhead smash bounces over the fence.”

  Dodge nods. “I heard he’s on two tennis teams—ours, and another at some club.”

  “A club…? He’s rich too?” I sigh. “One-third nerd, one-third athlete, one-third rich kid. Moses has it all.”

  “Like what’s-his-name, the guy who started Facebook?”

  “Mark Zuckerberg?”

  “Yeah, him. Super nerd. Genius. Is he good at sports?”

  “Has to be,” I say. “There are sports everywhere on Facebook. So, who would you rather be: Mark Zuckerberg or Roger Federer?”

  Roger Federer is the world’s best tennis player. We love him because he always wins without ever sweating or grunting or yanking at his underwear. I have a life-size cardboard Roger Federer in my room. Every month I measure my height against his. Just twenty-two inches to go.

  “Federer, duh,” Dodge says.

  I roll the board to Dodge. “Do you think Moses is better than Roger was when he was our age?”

  Dodge shrugs. Dodge and I are both on the tennis team. Dodge likes to play, but not as much as I do.

  I don’t ask him what I really want to know: Am I as good as Roger was when he was my age? And what would happen if I played Moses? Would I get crushed or…would he?

  This kind of stuff doesn’t matter to Dodge. I don’t know why it matters so much to me.

  When we get back from walking Cupcake, Dakota has her head in the refrigerator. “Who messed with yesterday’s sample?” she shouts.

  “Why’d you put that in the fridge? Dodge almost drank it,” I whisper.

  “Do you want to spend the rest of your life cleaning up dog pee?” Dakota wants to know.

  “No. But, Dakota, that’s gross. Besides, don’t you have to have a healthy sample? To compare, you know, with what’s in her pee now?” I ask.

  “I have one.”

  “You took a sample before she got sick?”

  Dakota leans in. “I have samples from everyone.”

  This is the problem with asking Dakota questions. You really don’t want to hear the answers.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You have to have a baseline,” she explains.

  “But how would you know to get a baseline?”

  “I read, Liam. Don’t you read?”

  I close the refrigerator carefully, because otherwise the door comes off the hinges and squashes your toe. “How did you collect them?”

  “We’re not supposed to flush every time. If it’s yellow, leave it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”

  “Ew.” I make a face. “Where do you keep the samples?”

  “You saw where I keep them: the refrigerator.”

  “But Mom cleans it out every week.” I make a pouch with my shirt and load in kale chips. They taste like deep-fried tea bags, but Mom says kale will help me grow.

  Dakota grins. “I take them out when we bring the grocery bags in and put them back after she’s unloaded everything.”

  “Jeez, Dakota, get a life, will you?”

  Dodge and I head for my room.

  She chases after us. “If you’re going to be a scientist, you have to work hard. That’s what Mom says. Can I play?”

  “No.” I keep walking.

  She dives in front of me. “There’s something important I have to say.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Lawrence Hall of Science has job openings. I saw on their website. I could make adult-size money.”

  “They aren’t looking for eight-year-olds who only have time at recess.”

  “You can’t refuse to hire someone because of their age. That’s age re-crim-ination, Crash said. I applied already, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”

  “I’ll bet,” I say.

  “Liam, look!” She points out the window to the low gray clouds. “El Niño is coming. We can’t leave Cupcake out in the rain, and if we bring her in, she’ll pee on the rugs.”

  Dakota’s right. “You figured out anything with your stupid samples?”

  She shakes her head. “I may need to consult a veterinarian.”

  We took Cupcake to the vet a few months ago because she had an even grosser problem: diarrhea. We got medicine for it, which worked. But the visit cost $331, with the tests and the medicine and everything. And then she started to pee a lot. Mom called the vet, who said we needed to take Cupcake to the veterinary school at UC Davis for further study, because she didn’t know what the problem was. Mom asked her how much UC Davis would cost. The vet said, “Three thousand dollars. Maybe.”

  “We could ask Dad,” Dakota suggests.

  My father lives across town. He’ll be by today, because on Tuesdays he brings over dinner in a Pyrex dish and leaves it on the doorstep. It will be something yummy, like barbeque ribs or homemade macaroni and cheese. My dad’s mac and cheese is so good that Dakota mailed some to the President.

  She never heard back from the White House, though. Big surprise.

  Dad doesn’t come until five, but today Dakota goes out early to wait for him. She finishes her homework and then does extra work. Her teacher, Mrs. Johnson, doesn’t give assignments for extra credit, so she has to make up her own. It’s pretty sad.

  Mom doesn’t like us hanging around outside, but there’s no telling Dakota that. She’s too young to understand what you’re supposed to be afraid of. Besides, she’s got Cupcake with her.

  In my room, I close the door and Dodge and I take turns with the game controller. That’s the one good thing about being the only boy in an apartment full of girls. I get my own room. Izzy and Dakota have to share.

  My room is tan and blue and has posters of Star Wars and Bigfoot, plus a life-size cardboard Roger Federer that Izzy and Dakota are forbidden to ever touch.

  Mom sleeps in the living room, since she goes to bed later than everyone else.

  Just as Dodge gets to level 25, we
hear the explosion.

  Cupcake barks. I run outside.

  “Did you hear that?” Dakota asks, her voice thick, her hands covered with watermelon. She taps her phone, which used to be my phone. “The website said the exploding watermelon experiment is hard to do. I did it and I got it on video.” She grins.

  “We heard. Everybody in the whole state heard, including Torpse without his hearing aids.” I survey the mess. Pieces of red watermelon flesh slop down the windows and hang from the stairs; juice puddles on the doormat.

  “Torpse isn’t home. Today is his yoga class, I think.”

  I get the mop and hand it to her. You wouldn’t believe what a mess an exploding watermelon makes. “See,” Dakota says, “you put all these thick rubber bands around the center and that causes some kind of pressure that makes it explode.”

  “I hope you’re right about Torpse,” I say.

  Mom said we’re not supposed to call him Torpse the Corpse because then Izzy starts up with it. Last week she said, “Hello, Mr. Torpse the Corpse.” And then she hugged him. Luckily, Izzy doesn’t speak clearly, so Torpse didn’t catch what she said.

  “I’m always right,” Dakota says as she clicks on the explosion video. Cupcake curls up at Dakota’s feet as Dodge and I lean in to watch.

  “Wow,” Dodge says. “Play it again.”

  Just as Dakota pushes play, there are footsteps up above.

  “Daddy!” Dakota grabs the phone and starts up the stairs. “Oh.” Her voice gets funny, like she swallowed a balloon’s worth of helium.

  “Uh-oh, Torpse!” I whisper.

  But when the man comes down the stairs, he isn’t Torpse.