Read 25 - Attack of the Mutant for Free Online Page B

myself.
    I was so excited about seeing these actual drawings and sketches, I nearly
forgot about Libby.
    This pink-and-green building must be the headquarters of Collectable Comics,
I realized.
    I was starting to feel calmer. My fears dropped away like feathers off The
Battling Bird-Boy.
    After all, there was nothing to be afraid of. I hadn’t stumbled into the
headquarters of the world’s most evil supervillain. I was in the basement of the
comic book offices.
    This is where the writers and artists worked. And this is where they print
the comic books every month.
    So why should I be afraid?
    I shuffled through folder after folder, making my way down the long counter.
I found a pile of layouts for a comic book that I had just bought.
    It was so exciting seeing the actual art. The page was really big, at least
twice as big as the comic book. I guessed that the artists made their drawings
much bigger than the actual page. And then they shrank the drawings down when they printed them.
    I found some really new pencil drawings of The Masked Mutant. I knew they
were new because I didn’t recognize them from my comics at home—and I have
them all!
    Drawing after drawing. My eyes were practically spinning!
    I never dreamed that Collectable Comics were made right in Riverview Falls.
    I flipped through a sketchbook of Penguin People portraits. I never liked the
Penguin People. I know they’re good guys, and people really think they’re great.
But I think their black-and-white costumes just look silly.
    I was having a great time. Really enjoying myself.
    Of course it had to end.
    It ended when I opened the last folder on the counter. And stared at the
sketches inside.
    I gaped at them in disbelief, my hands trembling as I shuffled from one to
the next.
    “This is impossible!” I cried out loud.
    I was staring at sketches of ME.

 
 
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    I frantically shuffled through the big stack of drawings.
    You’re just imagining it, Skipper, I told myself. The boy in the sketches
only looks like you. It isn’t really you.
    But it had to be me.
    In every drawing, the boy had my round face, my dark hair—cut short on the
sides and long on top.
    He was short like me. And just a little bit chubby. He had my crooked smile,
up a little higher on one side. He wore my clothes—baggy jeans and
long-sleeved, pocket T-shirts.
    I stopped at a drawing halfway through the pile and stared hard at it,
holding it close to my face. “Oh, wow!” I exclaimed.
    The boy in the drawing even had a chip on his front tooth. Just like me.
    “It’s impossible!” I cried out loud, my voice tiny and shrill in the enormous
room.
    Who had been drawing me? And why? Why would a comic book artist make sketch
after sketch of me?
    And how did the artist know me so well? How did the artist know that I have a
tiny chip on one front tooth?
    A cold shiver ran down my back. I suddenly felt very frightened. I stared at
the drawings, my heart pounding.
    In one drawing, I looked really scared. I was running from something, my arms
out stiffly in front of me.
    Another drawing was a close-up portrait of my face. My expression in the
sketch was angry. No. More than angry. I looked furious.
    Another sketch showed me flexing my muscles. Hey, I look pretty cool! I
thought. The artist had given me bulging superhero biceps.
    In another drawing, my eyes were closed. Was I asleep? Or was I dead?
    I was still staring at the drawings, shuffling from one to the next, studying
each one—when I heard the footsteps.
    And realized I was no longer alone.
    “Who-who’s there?” I cried, whirling around.

 
 
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    “Where were you?” Libby demanded angrily, running across the room
toward me. “I searched everywhere!”
    “Where were you ?” I shot back. “I thought you were right behind me.”
    “I thought you were right ahead of me!” she cried. “I turned a corner,
and you were gone.” She stopped in front of me, breathing hard, her face