SuperFan Page 3

  One of the hardest things was e-mail. Carla had decided that they’d look together every night at six thirty. That was before dawn in Afghanistan, a good time for Sanford to get access to a computer at the servicemen’s center at his base. Sometimes they could even Skype.

  “I’m going to suggest some books, anyway. I think you’ll like the ones by Jerry Spinelli.”

  Carla was starting to jot down some titles when Peter skidded across the wooden floor in his socks. “It’s almost six thirty! Is Dad on Skype?”

  “It’s not quite time,” Carla told him.

  “We should check, anyway. Maybe Dad’s watch is wrong,” Peter reasoned.

  Shawn rolled his eyes. “Dad’s watch is never wrong.”

  “Well, this could be the first time.”

  “How about if I give in and we end the mystery ?” Carla suggested. She opened Skype. “Nope. He’s not online. Let’s check e-mail.”

  “Yes!” Peter exclaimed, once Carla had logged in. “There’s a new letter!”

  Dear family,

  I have to keep this short because there’s a line of soldiers who want to use this computer. Am being sent in country on a classified mission. That means I can’t tell you where I’m going. I don’t know how long I’ll be out of touch. I will take care of myself, and your job is to take care of yourselves. Hey! Peter and Shawn! It’s Friday night in the States, which means that SmackDownis on TV. Why don’t you guys watch and tell me about it in your next e-mail? What’s the latest with SuperFan, anyway?

  Carla, I love you.

  DAD

  When they all finished reading, the room was so quiet that they could hear the whirring of the computer’s fan. Since Sanford had been sent overseas, they knew that at some point his unit would be sent into action. This e-mail told them that the time was now.

  “I’m nervous, Mom.” Peter said what they all were thinking.

  “What about you, Shawn?” Carla asked.

  Shawn nodded.

  “We’re all nervous,” Carla declared. “But we have to go on the way Sanford—your dad—would want us to go on.”

  Shawn had what he hoped was a great idea.

  “I think we should still write to him every day. That way, when he comes back from his mission, he’ll have a million e-mails to read.”

  Carla laughed sadly. “I hope not a million. That would be a very long mission.”

  “Mom, you know what I mean!”

  “And you boys know what I mean.” Carla stood and stretched. Shawn noticed she was still in one of the pantsuits she wore to the library. She hadn’t even had time to change into comfortable clothes. “I’ve got to get dinner together. What are your plans for tonight? Anything?”

  Shawn and Peter answered at the same time. “Watch SmackDown!”

  It was a great night for watching television. Though the weather forecast was for unseasonably warm temperatures tomorrow, tonight the temps were in the low teens with howling winds. Carla invited the Garcias over. They arrived bundled up and with a huge platter of provisions—popcorn, chips, and salsa for the kids, and two fresh pies for the adults. The kids settled down on the living room floor with blankets and pillows to watch SmackDown. The adults went into the kitchen to do what adults do, which is to talk endlessly about a lot of boring stuff.

  Shawn was looking forward to watching the show. In the last few weeks, he’d become something of a fan. Not a fanatic like Alex or Peter, but definitely a fan. He’d decided it was the combination of entering the SuperFan contest, how his dad’s e-mails always seemed to mention WWE, and the fun of coming to know the Superstars, the Divas, and their stories.

  SmackDown began; they were broadcasting from Texas, and the announcers touted matches between Kane and Big Show, a tag team contest between the Hart Dynasty and the team of Drew McIntyre and Cody Rhodes, and a Divas three-on-three battle. Before the bell sounded for the first match, though, Mr. McMahon entered the ring.

  “Before we begin the action tonight,” Mr. McMahon announced, “I wanted to share some news. The WWE has received a record five hundred thousand—I repeat, five hundred thousand!—entries from young WWE fans ready to vie for the title of SuperFan. Every one of these entries has been reviewed by the WWE. We have chosen four remarkable finalists!”

  “They know who they are!” Peter exclaimed.

  “And I’m one of ’em!” Alex mock-boasted.

  Shawn slumped a little. If ever in his wildest dreams he’d thought he had a chance to be a finalist, the number of applicants made it pretty much impossible. He’d be more likely to win the lottery.

  Mr. McMahon had more. “The WWE will make an announcement about the four winners on our website tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM eastern standard time. I’ll give you a hint, though. There are three boy finalists and one girl. Now, let’s get on with SmackDown!”

  “Three guys and a girl,” Alex repeated.

  “Yeah,” Peter joked. “You’re the girl!”

  Shawn laughed; Alex jumped on Peter and started to tickle him. Then Shawn jumped on Alex and starting tickling them both, which resulted in legs kicking bowls of chips and popcorn in all directions. It took quite a while to clean up before they settled down to watch. The best part for Shawn was that Rey Mysterio made a surprise appearance.

  “I will wrestle CM Punk,” he declared, leaning on a cane to support his injured ankle. “I will take him on at a time and place of my choosing. I will make him say ‘I quit!’ to me! And until then? He’s not wrestling!”

  Punk wasn’t in the arena, but he was again piped in via video, and he happily accepted the challenge. Mysterio could name the time and place. Punk would be there.

  As Shawn watched, he wished he could be there, too. He knew that tomorrow morning he’d be logging on to the WWE website. He knew he’d be hoping against hope.

  Even though Shawn was starting to feel like part of the WWE Universe, he knew he didn’t have a chance. But he knew he’d check it out, anyway.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “One minute!” Peter shouted. “Just a minuscule minute more!”

  “Do you think Dad’s following this, too?” Shawn wondered aloud.

  Carla shook her head thoughtfully. “Ordinarily, I’d say no. But this is your dad we’re talking about, and it has to do with WWE and you. I’d say if there’s a way to do it, he’ll do it.”

  It was the next morning, a glorious, unseasonably warm day for Missouri in February. Except for Mr. Garcia, who had a crisis at the print shop, everyone had come back to the Reynoldses’ for the big announcement of the SuperFan finalists on the WWE website.

  “Twenty more seconds.” Alex nervously ran a hand through his buzz cut and leaned toward the monitor.

  The moments ticked down. At ten seconds, Peter started counting down with the clock. Alex joined in as the numbers dropped. “Five, four . . .”

  Shawn couldn’t help himself. “Three, two, one. Time!”

  The WWE logo flashed colors and spun crazily for a few moments. Then it reset. Obviously, the names of the finalists were about to be posted. Here it came. The list!

  Except it wasn’t the list. An announcement flashed on the screen against a backdrop of the faces of a dozen or more Superstars and Divas.

  SuperFan Finalists to Be Notified in Person Before We Post Their Names Here!

  “What does that mean?” Peter didn’t understand. “They’re not telling us?”

  At first, seeing the announcement made Shawn feel like someone was playing a mean game. But it quickly made sense. What if a finalist didn’t have a computer? That was possible. That person deserved to find out before the rest of the world. It was actually a considerate thing for the WWE to do.

  “We put our phone numbers on the applications,” Shawn reminded his brother and Alex. “I bet that’s how they’re going to notify everyone.”

  Mrs. Garcia waved her iPhone. “Tons of bars. If they call, I’m ready.”

  “Or don’t call,” Shawn commented wryly. It w
asn’t like he heard ringing. He tried to muster a brave smile. “Alex, it’s not going to be us.”

  He saw his friend’s eyes grow sad. “I know. Well, it was still fun.”

  “So how about if Isabel and I make some huevos rancheros?” Carla suggested, wanting to lighten the mood. “There are some boys who were too nervous to eat—”

  The doorbell interrupted her.

  “Mailman, I’m sure. More books, I’m extra sure,” Carla declared.

  “I’ll sign for them,” Shawn offered.

  “Thanks, Shawnie. You might want to bring a wheelbarrow,” his mother joked.

  Shawn stepped across the wooden floor of the entry hall as the doorbell chimed again.

  “Coming!” he shouted. “One sec!”

  He opened the door to find a young man on the doorstep. The guy wasn’t a mail carrier. He had short, swept-back dark hair and wore a dark suit and tie.

  “Can I help you?” Shawn asked. He’d been taught to be cautious around strangers.

  “That depends,” the man said warmly. “Are you Shawn Reynolds?”

  “I’m him, yeah.”

  The man extended his right hand. “It’s great to meet you. My name is Rodrigo—”

  Enough was enough. This was too bizarre. He turned back toward the hallway. “Mom? Can you come here, please?”

  When he faced the stranger again, he got the shock of his life. Standing with Rodrigo, dressed casually in jeans and an Aztec-themed T-shirt, was a short, powerfully built man with buzzed hair. Shawn could see his eyes but couldn’t see his face because the man wore a multicolored mask that covered his forehead, cheekbones, and nose.

  Omigod, Shawn realized. It’s—

  The stranger finished Shawn’s thought for him. “Hi, Shawn. I’m Rey Mysterio. You’re a SuperFan finalist!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rey Mysterio is in my kitchen. Rey Mysterio is in my kitchen. I’m a SuperFan finalist. I’m a SuperFan finalist.

  It was true. Otherwise, Rey Mysterio wouldn’t be sitting across from Shawn at the kitchen table, flanked by Rodrigo and a WWE cameraman. Otherwise, Peter wouldn’t be staring at Rey gape-mouthed, with the two moms standing in a state of shock.

  Shawn glanced to his left at Alex, who flashed him two big thumbs-up. That was great. Shawn’s first thought, when he had recovered from the disbelief of being chosen, had been that his buddy might be jealous. But that wasn’t the case. Alex was genuinely thrilled for him.

  Rey kept it brief. “WrestleMania weekend is at the start of your spring break. We’re going to fly you, your mom, and your brother to Atlanta. Also, one friend. Any idea who you’d like that to be?”

  Shawn nodded vehemently. “Definitely my friend Alex.”

  “That would be me!” Alex exclaimed.

  Rey nodded at Mrs. Garcia. “We can bring you, too, ma’am. Or Ms. Reynolds can chaperone by herself. Let us know.” Then he turned back to Shawn. “We’ll put you in the same hotel with the Superstars and Divas. You’ll have a suite. All expenses handled by the WWE. On the Friday and Saturday before WrestleMania, you’ll be in a series of competitions. The winner will be named SuperFan and will carry in the championship at the main event on Sunday afternoon.” Rey pushed a packet of information across the table to Shawn. “There’s a sheet that lists all the prizes. The college scholarship is the biggest thing.”

  “It better be,” Carla joked, and everyone laughed. When things settled down, Carla had a question for Rey. “What kind of competitions?”

  “What I know is that they’ll cover the range of what we want in our first SuperFan. Athletic skill, definitely. Endurance, for sure. But also artistic ability, intelligence, and character. You’ll also be doing some community service in Atlanta, Shawn.”

  “I’m not a good athlete,” Shawn murmured. He usually finished last in anything involving sports.

  “Are you sure? Have you ever trained? I mean, really trained? Day after day the way we Superstars do?” Rey frowned, and his eyes bore into Shawn the way they had against Sheamus in St. Louis.

  Shawn shook his head. “No. I’ve never really trained.”

  “Then you have no idea what’s possible.” Rey swung around toward Carla with the fluid movements of a panther. “I understand you’re a librarian.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The WWE loves librarians. You have The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in the library, no?”

  “Of course.”

  Shawn raised his eyebrows. Rey read Shawn’s expression and pointed at him. “You’re going to read it. It’s a great book about two boys who are best friends.”

  “Like Alex and me?” Shawn asked.

  “Not exactly,” Rey said. Carla and Mrs. Garcia chuckled, which made Shawn think they’d read Tom Sawyer. He definitely hadn’t. “What’s the most number of times you’ve ever read a book?”

  Shawn didn’t remember reading anything more than once, which is what he told Rey.

  “Read this five times. At least. Know it cold.”

  Five times? Did Rey Mysterio just tell me to read a book five times? I can barely get through most books once!

  Rey stood, using his cane for leverage, his injured ankle obviously still bothering him. “If it’s okay with your mom, Shawn, I’d like to get going on a training routine right away, and bring your brother and Alex along for support. It’s warm enough. You do your part, I’ll do mine. Got it?”

  Shawn nodded. He felt nervous, but who could be a better trainer than Rey Mysterio? “Got it.”

  “Excellent. Any other questions before we start?”

  Peter, who’d been silent this whole time, jumped in. “Do you really hate CM Punk?”

  “Let’s say we’re not best buds.” Rey banged his cane on the linoleum for emphasis. “Next question.”

  “Can I get a guided tour of your tattoos?” Alex queried.

  Rey looked taken aback. Then he smiled. “Not right now. My mom taught me that men should always keep their shirts on at the table. Any others?”

  Shawn had one, but Peter beat him to it.

  “Can we see you without your mask?”

  “No.” Rey’s voice was emphatic. “You’re not my wife, you’re not my kids, so you don’t get to see me without my mask. Next question.”

  Shawn spoke up. Actually, it was more an idea than a question.

  “My dad? He’s in Afghanistan. He’s out on a mission and won’t find out that I’m a finalist till he’s back. So I was wondering . . . we send him e-mail and stuff. Can we maybe make him a video so he’ll see it when he gets back to his base? He’s like the biggest WWE fan ever. The only thing is . . .”

  Rey raised his eyebrows at Shawn’s hesitation.

  Shawn was too embarrassed to continue. Alex, though, felt no embarrassment. “Shawn’s dad? His favorite Superstar is Cena.”

  Rey burst out laughing. “Well, then. I’ll just have to change his mind.” He dug in his jeans pocket for his BlackBerry. “I love that idea. How about if we shoot it right now. On this?”

  The WWE cameraman wanted to keep filming, so Mrs. Garcia volunteered to be in charge of the BlackBerry. Rey gathered everyone on one side of the kitchen table, with Mrs. Garcia on the other. He put Shawn front and center. “Okay, Señora Garcia. Wave when you’re ready.”

  Mrs. Garcia waved. Rey spoke first. “Hello, Mr. Reynolds, serving our country overseas. I wish I could say my name was John Cena, but I’m Rey Mysterio, and I’m coming to you live from your family’s kitchen. Shawn and Peter, say ‘Hi, Dad!’ so your father knows this is legit.”

  “Hi, Dad!” the boys called together.

  “I’m bringing you awesome news. Your son Shawn is one of the four WWE SuperFan finalists, and my job is to get him in shape to win. Win or lose—and my goal is to help him win—I think that when you come home you’re going to see a very different Shawn Reynolds. Thank you for your service. As proud as you must be of Shawn right now, we’re all doubly proud of you. Booyaka, 619!”

 
Perfect, Shawn thought. Dad will love that.

  Shawn suddenly felt Rey turn him in the direction of the living room. “Put on a T-shirt, shorts, socks, and some kind of gym shoes,” his mentor instructed. “You, too, Peter. Alex, we’ll stop at your house so you can change. Let’s go! We’ve got work to do!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Hurting, Shawn?” Rey called down from the top of the bleachers.

  “Yeah!” Shawn managed. What he didn’t say was, “Of course I’m hurting! I hate to run! I hate sports!” That didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking it.

  “Run through the pain, man!” Rey insisted. Shawn was not going to quit on Rey Mysterio. He kept climbing the football stadium steps. Five more. Five more, even as Alex and Peter reached the top and got high-fives from Rey so loud that Shawn could hear. Shawn slowed but kept going. Then he was walking. Just a little bit more . . .

  That was it. His legs gave out; his heart felt like it was about to blow through his rib cage. He slumped on a bleacher, wrapped his arms around his bare lower legs, and sucked wind.

  “What’s going on, Shawn?” Rey shouted. “You’re just halfway up!”

  “I’m tired!”

  “Of course you’re tired, that’s why you’re training! Come. Up. Those. Stairs!”

  Shawn wanted to keep going. He was willing. But his legs and lungs weren’t willing. He tried one more step. Not happening.

  “Okay, Shawn! We’re coming down.”

  Great. Lucky me. Humiliated. I bet he’s sorry they picked me.

  Shawn put his head in his hands. Two hours earlier, the four of them, plus Rodrigo, the driver, and the cameraman, had taken the stretch limo to the local high school football field. None of the boys had ever been in a limo before; they’d marveled at the plush seats, the refrigerator filled with bottled water and juices, and the entertainment center with the flat-screen TV. The most fun was gazing out the tinted windows at the surprised faces they passed on the sidewalks. Stretch limos in Columbia, Missouri, weren’t common. People were wondering who was inside.

  The drive had taken only ten minutes; they’d found the field empty. Shawn didn’t mind. He was happy that Rey asked the cameraman and Rodrigo to stay with the limo for this first workout. Fewer people would see what a dreadful athlete he was.