Pop by Gordon Korman

them. The last thing he wanted to do was risk the package being damaged in transit.
    He started the bike’s motor and turned left out of the park onto Poplar Street, the direction Charlie usually headed after their training sessions.
    All at once, Charlie emitted a roar of mirth, waving and pointing.
    Marcus struggled to keep the scooter in balance despite the shifting weight. “What’s so funny?”
    â€œLooks like Old Man Dingley finally got what’s coming to him!”
    â€œWho’s Dingley?” Then he remembered. It was the name Charlie had once called Kenneth Oliver. He gazed at the exterminator’s shop.
    The storefront had been completely plastered with toilet paper, and loose streamers of tissue were fluttering in the breeze.
    Marcus was wide-eyed. “Did you do that, Charlie?”
    â€œWish I had,” the former linebacker replied heartily. “We should find whoever did it and shake his hand.”
    Marcus noticed the shreds of toilet paper sticking out of Charlie’s sleeves. The hand the old guy wanted to shake was his own. Why would he lie about it to Marcus, of all people—his co-conspirator in the sugaring?
    He sighed. “Okay, where to?”
    â€œOh—you know.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” Marcus said seriously. “Where do you live?”
    â€œIt’s just up the road.”
    â€œUp what road?” Marcus persisted. “Poplar Street?”
    â€œYou can’t miss it.”
    Marcus twisted on the bike to regard his passenger. The former linebacker looked uncomfortable and completely lost at sea.
    â€œHey.” Eyes narrowed, Marcus gestured toward the TP’d K.O Pest Control. “Remember when we sugared that place?”
    Charlie’s blank face was suddenly alight with diabolical excitement. “That’s a great idea! It’ll serve him right after all the times he’s been on our case.”
    It was exactly the response Marcus was expecting, yet it was jarring nonetheless. Charlie didn’t remember the elaborate planning and execution of Bug Day. He had already forgotten TP’ing the shop, which must have taken place in the past few hours. He couldn’t even seem to explain where he lived.
    Marcus rode back up Seneca Hill, figuring that if all else failed, he could return to Luke’s party. Surely somebody there knew where Troy’s house was. It wasn’t his first choice, though. Troy and Chelsea’s whispered powwow in Luke’s basement and their hostility toward anybody who nosed around their father added up to one inescapable conclusion: Charlie’s problem was strictly hush-hush.
    Marcus kept his eyes on the mirrors to better decode what Charlie meant by muttered orders like “Turn here!” and “This way!” He was pretty sure they were wandering in circles.
    Charlie’s mumbled monologue didn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Whose stupid idea was it to make every single house look exactly the same? What a way to run a town— Watch out!”
    There was a terrified bark, and Marcus swerved to avoid a collision with a light-haired dog. The animal bounded over to Charlie.
    â€œHow’s it going, Boomer? You miss me?”
    â€œDaddy!” Chelsea exploded out the front door. Without acknowledging Marcus on the Vespa, she took her father’s hand and led him to the house. “Everyone was so worried!”
    Charlie was mystified. “What for? Where do I ever go? Down, boy,” he added to the dog, who was clawing at his pant leg.
    â€œSilky’s a girl,” Chelsea reminded him quietly.
    Mrs. Popovich met them at the door. She hugged her husband and told her daughter, “Call Troy on his cell and let him know everything’s okay.” She noticed Marcus parked at the curb and waved.
    â€œIf it happens again, try Three Alarm Park,” Marcus advised.
    â€œThanks for bringing him home,” she called, her voice