Attack of the Tagger by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

can’t you?”
    “Uh-huh…”
    “So let me see what I can do. You’re the boss, though. If you don’t dig it, I’ll trash the idea.” He grinned at me. “Or write something better.”
    So that’s how I got myself a sidekick.
    And a theme song.
    The song’s only about fifteen seconds when you boot up
shredderman.com,
but I like it.
    It shreds.
    Mr. Green has also helped me do new things with the site. It used to be “All Bubba, All the Time,” but now it’s got other stuff, too. Like a new Mystery Student every week, and joke contests, and riddles, and crossword puzzles. I keep Bubba’s Big Butt posted for insurance, and I told Bubba in a Shredderman e-mail that it stays there until he starts being
nice
to people.
    Shredderman also gets e-mails from kidswanting me to add a joke to the
Jokes
link, or just asking, Who ARE you? Sometimes I even get messages from kids who want Shredderman to watch out for someone that’s causing them trouble at school. Usually girls do this, which can get a little embarrassing.
    They always sign off, LOVE.
    So for a while everything was going great. Only kids from school knew about the site, which was fine with me. It kept me plenty busy, and besides, I didn’t
want
all of Cedar Valley wondering who Shredderman was.
    But then something happened. Something that cried out, “Shredderman, we need your help!” And in the name of truth and justice I couldn’t just stand by and watch.
    I had to
do
something!

CHAPTER 2
Toasting Peanut Butter
    My dad’s a reporter for the
Cedar Valley Gazette.
He works every day, even when he’s not supposed to. He has a cubicle at the
Gazette
with pictures of me tacked up everywhere and a bubble gum dispenser that only costs a penny.
    My mom writes missile-tracking software. She’s got a computer at home and another one at Tech-Key, the company she works for. She works both places so she can be home when I am, since I’ve got no brothers or sisters or even a hamster to keep an eye on me.
    I tell her I’m halfway through the fifth grade and can take care of myself, but she doesn’tbelieve me. She always says the same thing: “You’re not old enough, Nolan.”
    Sheez-
Just what every superhero wants to hear.
    But one Monday morning, Mom was all stressed out about a project deadline at work, so I said, “Don’t worry about getting home for me, Mom. I can take care of myself after school.”
    “Nolan, you’re not old enough.”
    “Mo-om! I am too!”
    “No.” She was packing my lunch, but she kept dropping things on the floor. First the baggies, then a knife, then the box of plastic spoons.
    I handed the stuff up to her, saying, “I’ll come straight home, do my homework, watch
The Gecko and Sticky
Everything’ll be fine.”
    “I don’t know, Nolan….”
    Wow! Something other than “no"! I jumped up and said, “I can take care of myself, Mom. Let me prove it!”
    She shot a worried look at the clock. “Start by proving you can make your own breakfast while I clean this up.”
    “Sure!” I started zooming around the kitchen.
    Eggos out of the freezer—check!
    Peanut butter out of the cupboard—check!
    Butter knife out of the drawer—check!
    I smeared peanut butter all over two Eggos. I
love
peanut butter, and especially on waffles.
    Yum!
    Eggos in the toaster—check!
    Toaster on medium—check!
    Toaster lever down—check!
    “Nolan?
Nolan?
”
    “Yes, Mom?” I was getting down a plate.
    “Nolan!” she screamed as she yanked up the toaster lever. Eggos went flying. She grabbed them out of the air. “Nolan Byrd, how many times have you seen me make waffles?”
    “Uh… a lot?”
    “Hundreds?”
    “Probably,” I agreed.
    “Thousands?”
    “Thousands?” I asked. “No… thousands means you would have made me Eggos every day for a minimum of five-point-four… five-point-four’ eight years, and I don’t think—”
    “Nolan!” She wagged my waffles at me. “Have you
ever
seen me put the peanut butter on
before
I