101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (10 page)

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Authors: Lee Wardlaw

BOOK: 101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies
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“We're
sorry
about what happened last year!” said the Amys.
“
Sorry
!” the Amys repeated.
“We feel
terrible
!”
“
Awful
!”
“It wasn't our fault. She
made
us do it!”
“
Forced
us! We couldn't help it!”
“You pretty birds know this bungled nose job?” Marcos asked.
The Amys nodded. “Uh-huh! His name is Squeeze!”
“Sneeze,” I corrected.
“Uh-huh!” The Amys nodded again. “His best friend is Burp.”
“Hiccup,” I corrected.
“He's a brilliant inventor! He invented the Friendly Alarm!”
“Whatever,” I said with a surrendering flap of my hand.
“It's going to make him rich and famous,” the Amys said.
“Famous
and
rich!” agreed the Amys.
“How very interesting.” Marcos popped a peppermint into his mouth. “Tell me more. What exactly is this alarm? What does it do?”
“Sneeze can explain much better than we can!”
“Better yet, he could give a demonstration!”
“Yes, a demonstration would be
much
better!”
“Sure,” I said, flickering my eyelashes in what I hoped was Morse code for
SOS
. “I'm glad you've come
to my aid
. I desperately need your
assistance
.”
“You've
never
wanted our assistance before,” said the Amys.
“Never,”
the Amys said.
“Situations change.” I tried to wiggle my eyebrows into arrows, pointing at Marcos. “The unexpected happens and
now I need HELP
.”
In a dim cranny of the Amys' brains, a night-light switched on.
“Help? Of course! Our pleasure!”
“We'd be delighted, of course!”
The Amys clenched Marcos around the waist and shoved him aside. “Stand here, gorgeous. Pretend you're the alarm.”
Marcos squirmed and unleashed a rough laugh.
“Watch it!”
“He's ticklish!” the Amys said. “Isn't that
cute
?”
“Adorable!”
agreed the Amys.
They shoved Goon #2 in front of him. “You're the handsome prince who the alarm will awaken from a deep sleep.”
“With a smooch?” His arm encircled an Amy's waist.
“Keep your flippers to yourself for a second and close your eyes. Can you snore?”
“Mmmrrrggggzzz-zzz!”
“Window-shattering,” the Amys said.
“Wall-buckling,” agreed the Amys.
They faced Goons #3 and #4. “You two hunks can be the prince's brothers. You spent a wild night doing hip-hop in the pond. Close those eyes. All together now:
Snore!
”
“ZZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZZZ!”
“Mmmrrrggggzzzzzz!”
“SNNNNerrrrrrrrrcckk!”
“Awesome!”
“Radical!”
The Amys whispered to me,
“Get ready.”
Whispered the Amys:
“Get set.”
“Raise your right arm,” the Amys told Marcos. “Higher. Better raise your other arm too.
Perfect!
Now open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise!”
“Froggies, keep snoring!” the Amys instructed. “When I count to three—”
“Froggies?” said Marcos. “I thought they were princes.”
“ONETWOTHREE!” the Amys yelped.
“THREETWOONE!” yelped the Amys.
The girls attacked with ferocious tickles.
Marcos and Goon #2 contorted to escape the onslaught while their team members snored with continued fervor.
I filched my pack—and ran.
I glanced back only once, hollering: “Thanks, Amys! I owe you!”
“Nope,” hollered the Amys. “We're even now!”
“Even-Steven!” The Amys' fingers dove again into Marcos's armpits.
“Get—him—!”
Marcos choked, cap tumbling. With an angry convulsive
ha-ha-ow,
he collapsed against his cronies and I ran on . . .
 
After sprinting several blocks, I slowed to a trot, clutching a stitch in my side. Still two miles to Jefferson Middle and I needed to pace myself.
I arrived just before lunch period ended. I squeezed through a misshapen section of chain-link fence and hurried to the pine tree behind the gym, where I was greeted by:
Pierre, his forehead creased with anger beneath his beret;
Goldie, tapping her foot and flipping her hair with furious impatience;
Hiccup, studying my face with MM's superior vision for signs of forgiveness;
Ace, asleep, head lolled against a tree-root pillow;
And Hayley.
She'd changed out of the clothes she'd worn earlier in the dusty Pyramid. Now she wore another new skirt and blouse of blue that deepened her eyes. They gazed with expectance through me toward Patrick Henry.
“Hi,” I said to her, because there was only her.
“You're
late
!” Goldie snapped. “Late for the
exclusive interview
you
swore
you'd give me! My first gossip column of the year is due
Thursday
for the first edition of
The Jeffersonian Times
on
Friday
, and
you
are my lead story! We
have
to do the interview
today
.
Now
.
Or else
.”
“St-Stephen,” Hiccup interrupted, “have you been diligent about monitoring your condition after Sunday's unfortunate exposure to the
naegleria fowleri
? If you're not too angry, I would like to run through the checklist of symptoms.”
“My electric
beeters
!” Pierre said, holding out a wrapped bundle. “You feexed zem last spring, oui? Once again zey are massacring zee meringue! You must fix zem before my 'ome ec class zis afternoon.”
“Yo.” Ace yawned. “Keep it down.”
I stared at them in disbelief.
Why did I hang out with this bunch of bozos, these ingrates, these
non-friends
? If they bugged me so much, why hadn't I told them to beat it, get lost, take a hike? I mean, with “friends” like these, who needed enemies?
“Excuse me!” I said. “I have an announcement to make!” I kicked Ace's foot. “You too.”
He arced an eyebrow at me over the top of his sunglasses.
“You're right, I'm late,” I continued. “Do any of you care
why
? Do any of you care that I just completed my first morning as a high-schooler? That I was kidnapped by those goons from the Patrick Henry Golf Team? That if it weren't for—I can't believe I'm saying this—
the Amys
, I wouldn't be standing here now while you harass, insult, and
threaten
me?”
“Did they hurt you?” Hayley asked. “Cullen wasn't with them, was he?”
“I smell a
scoop
!” Goldie exulted, nose wrinkling with delight.
“Golf Goons Grab Gadget Guy.”
“We are reeleeved you escaped wisout injuree,” Pierre said.
“Eye cannot say zee same for zee beeters. You must tend to zem wis haste. Eet eez your dutee! You took an oath, no?”
“He's an inventor, not Hippocrates,” Ace commented.
The first end-of-lunch bell rang.
“Get yourself another mechanic, Pierre,” I said. “Your beaters have whipped their last cream, frothed their last meringue. I can't do anything else for them. I
won't
do anything else for them. Buy new ones. Move on.”
I turned on Goldie. “Holster your microphone and stow your notepad, Goldilocks. You're not getting an exclusive. Not now. Not
ever
.”
“But you promised you'd tell—”
“There's nothing to tell,” I confessed. “Mr. Patterson rejected the Nice Alarm. His company won't manufacture it. End of story.”
I faced Hic. “As for you: Yeah, I'm sick. Yeah, I'm angry. Sick of your germaphobia, angry about the Guys. I'll get over both. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. But eventually. So cease and desist with the worrying. I'll see you this afternoon at the
dojang
.”
Hiccup shot a hapkido kick at the pine tree and whispered,
“YES!”
Needles rained onto Ace's face. He rose on one elbow, brushing them off.
I booted his foot again. “What a waste,” I said. “Why don't you go to class for once? That's where I'm headed.”
I marched toward the logjam of students all trying to cram into the main building at the same time.
A familiar callus snagged my wrist.
Zap!
Every nerve in my body electrified to attention.
“Aren't you going to tell me off too?” Hayley said. “I deserve it.”
“Maybe later.” I scratched my wrist to subdue the lingerings of her touch.
“I'm sorry your morning was so rotten. I'll bet you never got to eat either.” She offered a pear from her sack. “What's your next class?”
My teeth sank into the sweet pear flesh. Juice dribbled down my chin, raced along my arm. “I've got English with Mrs. Hobbs,” I answered, surreptitiously using my jeans as a napkin.
“I've got English with Hobbs too. Do you mind if I walk with you?”
“First I have to get a form from the main office.”
We wormed through boisterous kid-clots to the front desk. I asked a secretary wearing spiky heels for the Permission to Waive Physical Education Requirement form. “One moment,” she said, clip-clipping into the next room.
Hayley stood beside me, the cloth of her blouse touching the sleeve of my tee. I'd finished the pear, tossed the core, and now didn't know what to do with my hands. They felt huge and clumsy and sticky, like I was wearing baseball mitts made of flypaper.
I waited for Hayley to ask about Cullen. I knew she was
dying
to ask about Cullen. But she didn't. She wouldn't.
I sighed and said, “Goldie's information was correct. He's in my computer class.”
“Who?”
“You know.” I wanted her to say it.
“Cullen?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Stephen J. Wyatt!” Hayley shoved her hair behind her ears and shot me an SOE (Squint of Exasperation). “
You
know. Does he . . . ?” The SOE softened into an expression of trust I didn't deserve. She whispered,
“Does he like me?”
I opened my mouth, ready to hurt, to blurt:
No! He barely remembered you! He thought you were a kid! And you are! You're only an eighth grader! He's a senior! So just forget it. Forget him! He's already forgotten you . . .
But I couldn't bring myself to say it. Because . . .
I knew how Hayley would feel. I knew how her breath would stop. How her heart would splat against the wall, oozing to the floor in a quivering clump, where it would jerk-jerk, jerk-jerk, each beat a painful wrench, a rip, a reminder . . .
I didn't want her to feel that. I didn't want her to suffer. I wanted to save her. Protect her.
So I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and listened as the lie crept along my tongue, squeezed through my lips, and sidled to her ears:
“Yes, Hayley. Cullen Hanson likes you.”
Chapter Twelve
Hayley squealed.
I winced in pain and shock. Hayley had always firmly believed that the serrated squeals of girly girls were a moral flaw of character. Yet, here she was, morally flawing away in a pitch that could slash tires in Montana.
To save her soul (and my ears), I did the only thing I could think of: I clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Mmmppfft!”
Her eyes stretched. She scrambled to pry off my fingers.
“Young man!” The spiky-heeled secretary had returned with my form. “If you don't stop that this instant, you're going straight to the principal's office!”
“Gaaa!”
I reclaimed my hand and took the form. I'd seen quite enough of Mr. Garrett's accommodations last year, thank you very much. (But that's another story.)
“PDA is seriously frowned upon at this institution,” the secretary said with a serious frown.
“What's Pee Dee Ay?” Hayley asked.
“Oh,
puh
-LEEZE,” Goldie said, materializing beside us. “Public Displays of Affection!”
“Pub—Affec—No!” I said. “That wasn't—I didn't—I was just—”
“Helping me hold my breath,” Hayley said. “I've got—
hic!
—hiccups.”
The secretary's frown grew seriouser and seriouser. “I seriously doubt a case of hiccups could be serious enough to warrant such serious—”
“Oh, hon, you must be
new
.” Goldie patted her arm. “Lemme give you
the scoop
on Hiccup Denardo.”
“I don't get hiccups often,” Hayley said, “but when I do”—she lowered her voice to a conspirator's whisper—
“Steve was just trying to stave off the projectile vomiting.”
The secretary took two serious steps backward. “In that case, perhaps you should see the nurse.” She scribbled a hall pass and held it out by the tippy-tips of her talon-like fingernails.
Goldie snatched the pass. “I'll see that she gets there safely.”
Hayley snatched it from her. “I'd rather Steve went with me.”
“But I've got
gobs
of experience treating your affliction.” Goldie snatched the pass again.

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