Free Zacktastic by Courtney Sheinmel

the Dumpster, looking over his shoulder at me. “You’re lucky anyway, about not having a dad,” he says. “I might have you get rid of mine.”
    â€œI wouldn’t get rid of anyone’s dad,” I tell him.
    â€œI think you have to do whatever I tell you. And just so you know, my dad’s not a good person. He’s not even a good dad. Every single teacher here sucks up to him. Gaspin would’ve reported straight to him if he’d found me here. The trouble Oliver and Jake are going to be in is nothing compared to what I would’ve faced. So, about my first wish.”
    Oh no. Something’s happening. My toe is itching and burning. What if he makes the wish to get rid of his dad? And what if I can’t control myself, and I accidentally grant it?
    â€œI wish,” he starts.
    All right, Zack, it’s time to think outside the bottle!
    Ooh, the bottle—that’s it!
    â€œHold up,” I tell Preston Hudson Twendel III. “Those kids left the bottle on the ground, and I need it before I do any wish granting.”
    I don’t, really. At least I don’t think I do. But this twerp doesn’t know that, and I have a plan: (1) get out of the Dumpster; (2) grab the bottle; (3) run as far away as possible; (4) get sucked up and get home.
    I’m not sure how to make the getting-home part happen, but I’ll deal with that after I’ve completed the first three parts of the plan.
    Trey is out of the Dumpster now, so it’s my turn. One foot over, then another, and now a jump down to the ground. Oomph.
    But when I stand up and wipe the dirt off myself, the bottle is nowhere in sight. “Where is it?” I ask.
    â€œThe bottle? I don’t see it. Does this mean I don’t get my wishes? That is SO UNFAIR!”

9
    W HY M E?
    W e have no choice but to head back toward the school buildings in search of the bottle. I take off my remaining shoe, because it’s easier to walk when my feet feel more balanced, and follow Trey as he mutters complaints about getting stuck with me—the worst genie in the world. I don’t know how he knows that. I mean, sure, there’s room for improvement. But how many other genies has Trey ever met? And better ones, at that? I’m willing to bet the answer is exactly zero.
    Trey is kicking at the ground as he walks, sending sprays of dust and rocks into the air.Every so often I pause to stare at them, trying to get them to hover in the air like a galaxy, the way they did before. But the magic seems to be gone. Above us, the clouds start to thicken and send shadows across the vast lawn and large buildings of Millings Academy. I wonder if a thunderstorm is coming. Thunderstorms often mean lightning. Each year an average of fifty-one people are killed by lightning strikes in the United States. It’s especially dangerous to be outside in an open field, which we happen to be in right now. “Let’s go faster,” I tell Trey.
    â€œYou’re the genie, and I’m the master,” he replies. “We’ll go as fast as I want.”
    He slows his pace so he’s traveling at the speed limit of your average snail. “Fine,” I say. “But the longer it takes to get there, the longer it takes to get the bottle, and the longer it takes—”
    I don’t even have to finish my sentence before Trey starts taking giant strides. But then there’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, andI drop to the ground and flatten myself like a pancake.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Trey asks.
    I cock my head to listen. Where there’s one roll of thunder, there are usually more. But now the only sound is Trey’s heavy, impatient breathing.
    â€œGet up,” he says, and I do. We finally make it across the field to a building with the words TWENDEL HALL II carved out above an imposing red door.
    â€œAren’t you going to open it for me?” Trey asks.
    Uncle Max