Quack Read online

  Some heroes wear capes. Others have tail feathers.

  Ten-year-old Shady Cook doesn’t talk at school. In fact, his anxiety won’t let him do anything that draws attention to himself—even speaking to his best friend, Pouya.

  Pouya gets it—he knows how hard it is to be different. Plus, he and Shady have bigger fish to fry. According to very reliable internet sources, the end of the world is just around the corner. They need to find a way to make their last days worthwhile.

  For Shady’s sister, Manda, his selective mutism is a big deal. She’s spent years watching out for her little brother, and she has the nonexistent social life to prove it. So when a wild duckling waddles into their lives and Shady becomes less anxious, Manda is all for keeping it. Who knows? Maybe Sven the emotional support duck is just what their family needs.

  Before long, Shady, Pouya, and their diaper- wearing duck are hatching a plan worthy of their last days on Earth. But changing the world—or at least Carleton Elementary—won’t be easy.

  Albert Whitman & Co.

  More than 100 Years of Good Books

  www.albertwhitman.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Jacket art copyright © 2020 by Albert Whitman & Company

  In memory of Tracie Klaehn and Pecky the Duck

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Anna Humphrey

  First published in the United States of America in 2020 by Albert Whitman & Company

  ISBN 978-0-8075-6706-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-8075-6705-0 (ebook)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 LB 24 23 22 21 20

  Jacket art copyright © 2020 by Albert Whitman & Company

  Jacket art by Stevie Lewis

  Graphics used on pages 108 and 142 copyright © by vectorpocket/Freepik Design by Aphelandra Messer

  For more information about Albert Whitman & Company, visit our website at www.albertwhitman.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Day of the Duck

  Told by Pouya

  People think my friend Shady is weird because he never talks at school. But so what? Weird is wonderful; that’s what I say. Wacky’s wonderful too—that’s me.

  Weird & wacky. Shady & me. We go together.

  Plus, anyone who thinks Shady doesn’t talk isn’t paying attention. He talks all the time. Just not with words.

  That day, we were on our way home from the Friends of the Environment after-school club when he slammed on his bike brakes and skidded sideways across the path.

  Screeeeech!

  See that? Shady talked loud and clear with his bike. He yelled “STOOOOOP!” at the top of his lungs. I just didn’t hear in time.

  I ran straight into his back wheel, and both our bikes toppled sideways. Luckily, we’re experienced fallers, so even though Shady scraped his elbow and my fingers got ker-slammed between our handlebars, neither of us made a big deal about it.

  “Whoa. Dude. What’s up?” I flexed my fingers to make sure the bendy parts still bent.

  Shady pointed at a scruffy patch of grass to the side of the path. I was wearing a pair of X-ray–vision goggles that I’d upcycled out of old toilet paper rolls and some tinfoil at Environment Club. They looked pretty space-age, but they gave me tunnel vision. It was probably why I didn’t see what he was talking about at first.

  Shady had to point a second and then a third time. Finally, he dragged me over by the sleeve.

  “Oh. I see them now.” I crouched down.

  There were three tiny ducklings wandering between the dandelions that had turned puffy and white. The ducklings were fluffy like the flowers and yellow and brown like the dead grass and dirt, so they blended in.

  Shady’s great at noticing stuff though. You should see him rip through a Where’s Waldo? book. Because his mouth isn’t busy talking, I think extra brainpower goes to his eyes.

  He glanced left and right, pinching his lips together. Then he raised his eyebrows above the mirrored sunglasses he wears so kids at school won’t look him in the eye.

  “Uh-huh.” I read his worried expression. “They’re too little to be alone. Their duck mom’s got to be around somewhere.”

  We peered under bushes and checked behind a garbage can. I even swung upside down from a low branch to get a different view and did a Tarzan impression. It made the corners of Shady’s mouth turn up until he burst into a full smile.

  Not surprisingly, he spotted her first. Shady tapped my shoulder and motioned with his head. There were so many cars whizzing past that I had to wait for a break in traffic to see for myself.

  The mother duck—all the way on the other side of Dixon Road—had four more fluffy ducklings with her.

  “She must have crossed to get to the water and left some behind,” I said, spotting the drainage ditch on the far side.

  Was it because I sensed, somehow, that this was a life-changing moment…or was it just what any true Friend of the Environment would do? Dunno. I just knew we needed to act.

  “To the rescue!”

  Shady gave me his A-OK sign: an almost invisible nod.

  I crouched down on the grass, waddling and flapping my arms like wings as we chased ducklings. That made Shady laugh so hard his whole body vibrated like a boiling kettle, and I thought he might pee his pants. But those ducklings were in no mood to be caught. Every time we’d get our hands around one, it’d wriggle free and boop across the grass with its butt feathers wiggling double time.

  At least three grown-ups walked past and looked at us like we were the animals, and an old lady carrying grocery bags yelled at us to “stop bothering the wildlife or I’ll call the police.” Luckily, she didn’t have a cell phone with her, and the ice cream she’d just bought started melting, so she left.

  “What do we do now?” I asked Shady. My head was getting sweaty, so I took off my bike helmet. That must have given Shady the idea.

  He took off his helmet, too, letting his long hair fall over his face, then he waddled up to a dandelion and plopped the helmet down over it, to demonstrate.

  “Killer move, Captain,” I announced in a gravelly voice. It’s from The Evil Undead—our favorite video game. The narrator says it every time we chop off the head of a zombie.

  One of the ducklings was busy pecking something in the grass, and before it knew what was happening, I’d walked up beside it and plopped my helmet on top. “Gotcha, duck-a-roo!” I flipped the helmet upside down and scooped the duckling in.

  The little guy stared up at me with beady, blinky black eyes. It quacked three times to let me know it was mad, but it didn’t try to escape.

  Shady caught one that way too.

  But that still left one—and how were we supposed to trap it when we already had our hands full of ducklings in bike helmets?

  Even though my X-ray vision goggles looked out of this world, it was time to admit that they weren’t helping. I handed Shady my helmet and duckling and went to put the goggles in my backpack so I’d be able to see better. That was when I noticed the hunk of leftover lavash bread that one of my moms—probably Maman, but maybe Mitra-Joon—had packed me for lunch. It was stuck to the bottom of my gym shoe.

  Did ducks like extra-flattened Persian flatbread with a hint of gym-floor goo? It seemed worth a try.

  I ripped off a little piece and threw it on the grass. “Here, ducky, ducky.”

  Like a zombie drawn to the scent of fresh guts, it could
n’t resist. This was going to be easy.

  “Watch this,” I told Shady. I pulled out my math book and stood it upright to hold my backpack open. Then I laid a trail of lavash crumbs and hid behind a tree.

  Boop, boop. Yum. Boop, boop. Yum.

  The duckling ate its way right into my trap. I ran over, pulled out the math book, zipped my backpack closed, and pumped my fist in victory.

  Now all we had to do was get three ducklings across four lanes of traffic.

  Hoooooonk!

  Squeal!

  “Get off the road, idiots!”

  “Where are your parents?”

  You’d think we could have expected a “Thank you for helping our city’s wildlife!” but some drivers are all road rage and no manners. And things didn’t get any better when we reached the other side.

  Instead of being relieved to get her babies back, momma duck looked seriously upset. She was pacing back and forth, complaining loudly, like the lifeguards at the rec center do when we play human whack-a-mole with the pool noodles.

  “It’s okay, Miss Duck.” I lowered my bike helmet to show her. “See? We’ve got your babies. Safe and sound.”

  She straightened her back, spread her wings, and beat them threateningly. Her black eyes had a cold, hard look.

  Just then, Shady grabbed my arm and motioned back across the road.

  “Not now, Shady,” I said, but he tugged harder. “I said not now…” Then I saw them out of the corner of my eye. Two big kids—middle schoolers, at least—picking up our abandoned bikes.

  “Hey!” I shouted—but if they heard me over the traffic, they didn’t care. “Put those down!”

  One of them swung his leg over the bar of Shady’s bike and bonked the front wheel against the pavement, testing its bounce.

  “Stop in the name of the law!” I yelled. I grabbed some pine cones off the grass and started hurling them across the street, but they all fell short. One bounced off the roof of a car that was speeding past.

  That was when the mother duck—probably extra upset by all my yelling and chucking stuff—came right at us, flapping her wings in a frenzy.

  Suddenly, our bikes getting stolen by teenagers didn’t seem like the most important problem.

  “Run for your life!” I yelled to Shady. But there was only one direction to go. Momma duck was between us and the road. Her beak was snapping like a pair of razor-sharp pincers.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk, splash!

  Me and Shady scrambled down the steep, grassy slope and into the murky, thigh-high, garbage-soup water of the drainage ditch.

  The mother duck followed, flapping her wings and sending up a spray.

  We dropped our helmets into the water. They filled through the holes and started to sink while the ducklings inside swam around like they were in little swimming pools. But even that didn’t seem to satisfy Momma.

  WAK! WAK! WAAAAAAAK!

  “Go! Go now! Before she pecks us to death.”

  I booted it, and I knew Shady was right behind me because I could hear the squashing, slapping sounds of his soaked sneakers beating double time as we scrambled up the other side of the ditch and dashed down the sidewalk to safety.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Dumbest Dumb Decision

  Told by Manda

  My brother, Shady, and his friend Pouya were late. Really late. And I’m in charge of keeping them alive between three thirty and five forty-five. So, of course, I was ready to kill them.

  And fine. Obviously, I was worried too. When it comes to Shady, I’m always worried. Everyone’s always worried. It’s what we do.

  Dad worries about him getting lost at the shopping mall or at the beach when we’re on vacation—because how would he ask for help? Dad also worries about whether Shady will find a job one day if he doesn’t start talking to people other than us. “There’s a limited market for mimes,” I heard Dad joke once, but it wasn’t funny.

  Mom obsessively scrolls through message boards for information about Shady’s anxiety disorder, which is called selective mutism. Then she buys things she thinks might help, as if a light that changes colors or the right kind of probiotics or a special weighted blanket could somehow fix everything.

  And me? I guess I mostly worry about Shady feeling left out. I’ve been there, and I know how lonely school can be when you’re not in with the right crowd, or in with any crowd at all.

  It’s why I’m glad he’s got Pouya. But then again, my brother’s best friend isn’t famous for making awesome life decisions—and whatever Pouya does, Shady does too.

  And now it’s 4:45.

  Had Pouya decided they should play tree pirates again and gotten them both stuck at the top of an elm? Were they racing carts in the grocery-store parking lot? Unwisely trying to train baby raccoons to ride on their shoulders using cheese puffs as bait? Or, worse, were they in some kind of real trouble?

  We live in a heritage area, with old houses and landscaped parks. But it’s still part of the city. Just the other day, I saw a guy slip another guy a package behind a bench at Forest Hill Park. It could have been drugs. And our neighborhood is right next to Summerside, where Pouya and his moms live. There the sidewalks are littered with broken glass, and the mismatched curtains in the windows make the tall apartment buildings look like ratty patchwork quilts.

  No matter where you live, there can be problems. For example, for the last month or so, a guy in a gorilla suit has been going around our neighborhood roaring at old ladies, throwing bananas at them, and stealing their purses. You can’t make this stuff up!

  Now it’s 4:47.

  Normally, I meet Shady and Pouya at the doors of Carleton Elementary after Environment Club, but our house had big, black ants again—the ones that pop like Rice Krispies when you squash them in a Kleenex. They were parading around the baseboards and climbing the walls. Our mom does not tolerate nature in the house—unless it’s in the form of a tasteful flower arrangement from Blooms on Bloor.

  Every time she spotted one of the ants, she shrieked and made me, Dad, or Shady squash it. But they’d reached unsquashable numbers. And the only time the exterminator could come was Friday between three thirty and six, which was why I was waiting around at home while my brother and Pouya were who-knows-where doing something definitely, completely stupid.

  4:49.

  Finally, I caught sight of them rounding the corner onto Browning Street.

  “Oh, thank God,” I muttered.

  “Yo, Manda.” A minute later, Pou pushed the front door open casually, like he lives here—which he half does. I babysit him every day after school since his parents are busy. They emigrated from Iran about five years ago. But his Mitra-Joon is still retraining to get her pharmacy license and taking English classes, and Lili, his maman, works late. Also, they can’t afford the after-school program. Anyway, I don’t mind. Except for when the boys do stupid stuff.

  I glared at the clock on the wall, then at my brother and his friend to make a point—not that I expected Shady to say anything. It would have gone against his rules. Rule Number 1 being that my brother doesn’t talk to—or in front of—anyone from school, and that includes his best friend.

  As usual, Pouya spoke for him. “Sorry. We got delayed.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t our fault.”

  I’d heard that one before.

  “We ran into duck problems.”

  This was new. “Umm…duck problems?”

  My brother bent his head so his long hair flopped over his face. He was always trying to hide behind it, but I could see through the strands that he was grinning down at his chest. That was normal in its own not-normal way. There was a story, and he wanted to tell it, but he couldn’t. Not now. Later, once Pouya went home, he’d tell me all about it.

  In that beat of silence, I heard water dripping against the tile floor. It was coming from Pouya’s backpack—but that wasn’t the only thing that was wet.

  “And what happened to your pants?” I asked.

  Pouy
a lifted one foot. He seemed surprised to find his sneaker soaked and muddy. “Oh. Well, obviously, we got wet.”

  He launched into an explanation about baby ducks and a daring trek across Dixon Road to reunite them with their mother.

  “You did what?” I was talking to Pouya, but staring my brother down at the same time, because he totally should have known better.

  Dixon Road has tons of traffic. Not to mention they could have gotten rabies from the ducks. Or drowned in the drainage ditch.

  “Or been pecked to death by a deranged mallard,” Pouya added, when I’d finished listing the reasons they were idiots.

  I sighed, but I didn’t see the point of making a big thing of it. Shady was home safe. Why get Mom and Dad all worked up? “Go get changed,” I said. Then I looked out the still-open door behind them. “Wait a sec. Where are your bikes?” The boys were supposed to put them in the garage but never remembered. Normally, the bikes would be lying on the front path.

  Shady and Pouya exchanged a look I knew well: part panicked, part guilty, and all “uh-oh, we’re dead now.”

  “Again, it wasn’t our fault,” Pouya began. “We put them down on the grass for a second, and two big kids stole them.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. Now there was no way around it. When Mom and Dad found out the bikes were missing—even though I wasn’t there—it’d be all “You’re in charge, Manda. Shady is vulnerable. We’re counting on you,” etc. My only hope was to control the damage.

  “Okay. We’ll say the bikes got stolen at school. Don’t mention the ducks to any parents. But you both owe me. Big-time. Give me your backpacks,” I ordered. “And bring down your wet clothes after you change.”

  Pouya started to take his backpack off but stopped after one strap. There was that “uh-oh” look passing between him and Shady again. Even guiltier and more doomed than before.

  “Oh man.” Pouya squinched his eyes shut.

  Shady started giggling silently but maniacally. Never a good sign.

  “We were running for our lives,” Pouya said. “I completely forgot it was in there.”