Read an Excerpt
Prologue
To Who It May Concern
(Wait...is it "who" or "whom"? Ugh, I can never remember. If I live long enough, remind me to ask Mr. Statler in homeroom tomorrow.)
My name is Ezekiel J. Bartholomew. I figure my parents gave me that name because they were really popular and had a lot of friends growing up and by naming me Zeke it would balance out our family's popularity. Most kids in my school have names like Tom or Mike or Freddie or Bill. In fact, I've never met another Ezekiel in my life. Most of my regular friends call me Zeke, so I guess you can call me that too. I say "regular" friends because I have another friend too. My friend will soon call me Sea Otter. I know, I know. The name Sea Otter doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of my enemies, but you'll learn who my other friend is and why I'm called Sea Otter very shortly. In the end it will all make sense.
When I was in the third grade, my gym teacher wrote on my report card: "Zeke is medium everything." So after everything that happened, even after everything was explained to me, I've often asked myself: how could a twelve-year-old "medium everything" become the most wanted kid in the world? I'm still not totally sure. But what I do know is this: if you're reading this letter, he's found me. The most dangerous person in the world. My nemesis. (Or the person reading this is my dad, and you snooped around my room when I've told you a million times that it's totally off limits when I'm not home. So if you're my dad, ignore everything I'm about to say and stop reading right now. It's just your silly, daydreaming son, Zeke, pretending to be a superspy again. But if this isn't my dad, then you'd better listen closely, because the fate of the world is at stake.)
You might think everything I'm about to tell you is a big lie. "Zeke loves to make up exciting adventures because he's never going to have any of his own!" you might say. Or, "There goes Zeke again, Zeke the daydreamer, the joke of an inventor, thinking he's some sort of kick-butt spy, when in reality I'd pick an inflatable mattress over him to be on my dodgeball team." I wouldn't blame you for thinking that. My fourth-grade English teacher, Ms. Wilderman, wrote that my short stories "lack creativity." See, right from the mouth of a teaching professional. I'm not creative enough to make up what I'm about to tell you even if I wanted to. I've never been creative on paper, but I also never thought my creativity might save the world.
So I can understand why you might not believe me. But I promise you that this is all true.
If you're reading this, it means he's still out there. The most dangerous person in the world. He knows I'm still alive. But I also know that he knows I'm still alive. I'm not sure why he wants me to know he's still alive, unless he just wants me to be pee-my-pants scared over the possibility of him coming for me, but to be honest, after everything that's happened, I say bring it on.
So this is the truth. This is how the fate of the world fell into the hands of an unimportant dorky kid from nowheresville. This is how it all began. But before I start, you need to know his name. The true identity of my nemesis. My foe. The person who will stop at anything to kill me.
So whatever you do, if you find this note, know that he is out there. And he is...uh-oh, I can hear my dad coming up the stairs. But this letter isn't ready yet. I'd better hide it where nobody will ever find it...
