101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (15 page)

Double huh. Before the demise of the Guys, their aquarium used to bathe my room in a ripply, romantic glow. But now, well, at least it was quiet. The only sound I could hear was the muffled bang-bang of Dad's favorite TV cop show and the slam-slam of cupboards as Mom searched for her stash of dark chocolate (which Dad had hidden because her pregnancy doc said she was gaining too much weight).

As Goldie would say: Well, duh.

Now we're getting somewhere!

Of course! I'd learned all about that last year in the summer school creative writing class my parents had forced me to take. The teacher, Mr. Powell, had constantly sledgehammered into our heads the very same thing:

Write what's important to you, important to your life
.

I'd been going about this the wrong way. I'd been trying to write a love letter
to
Hayley
from
Cullen. But
Cullen
didn't love her.
I did!

I logged off, reopened my e-mail program, retyped Gadabout's address, cracked my knuckles, and began to write.

And write.

Hiding behind Cullen's shadow, I found it so easy to tell Hayley how I felt that I didn't stop at just one letter. Or two.

Or even three.

By the time I tapped the SEND button for the final time and collapsed on my bed, the number of e-mails rocketing through cyberspace to Hayley Barker's waiting in-box numbered a grand total of seven.

“Howzit!” Cullen shambled into CAD the next morning and overtook his chair. His fingers tap-danced across the computer keyboard until he spotted my textbooks.
“Menehune
, wat doing?”

“I didn't do anything,” I grumbled, and sneezed a nose-full of pink eraser dust. “But I'll give you three hints who did: Marcos. The. Moke.”

High School Trigonometry
disappeared within one of Cullen's paws. He flipped page after scribbled page, shaking his head at the spew of intricate threats and crude graffiti. “He need some lickens.”

I mulled a moment. “He needs . . . a spanking?”

He cuffed my shoulder. “You catch on quick. Bo-da-dem like dis?”

“Huh?”

“Your books—both of dem stay scribbled?”

“Yeah. Look what Marcos did in my chem book.”

“Ho!” Cullen fingered his shark tooth. “How he wen cockaroach—steal'em—da first place?”

I explained about my “reunion” with the goons the day before. “I found these—complete with, uh, marginalia—in the lost and found. I've been erasing nonstop, but the pencil lead has become one with the paper molecules.”

Cullen wrinkled his nose. “Dey smell like my armpits after one jog.”

“They were buried under a pile of old gym socks.”

“Bummahs.”

“Yeah.” I flicked the eraser nub into the open mouth of my pack. “My chem teacher was mad enough to spit sulfuric acid. She says I owe the school sixty-seven bucks.” I slammed shut the book. “I don't understand. I'm a peon! A nobody with a runny nose! Why is Marcos out to get me?”

“You wen challenge him, brah,” Cullen said. “And you wen shame him—twice—in front of his braddahs.”

“But the second time, it was the Amys who—”

“No matter. Dey your sistahs, eh?”

“The Amys? Ack! No!”

Cullen chuckled. “Dey
friends
, like you my braddah, my brah, eh? So in Marcos's mind, stay your fault. Moke like Marcos, dey no like fo' be challenged, tricked, humiliated. Especially not by two wacky
wahine
and one
keiki
with hanabaddah.” He tapped my runny nose.

I winced and blew into a tissue. “What should I do? Apologize?”

Cullen laughed.

“Then how do I make him stop wanting to—let me paraphrase one scrawl—‘Sever Sneeze's spleen and feed it to the girls.' Wait, that's
gulls
. His handwriting is pathetic.”

“No can make dis moke stop anything,” Cullen said. “No try. Mo bettah you lay low till he forget you exist. Or till he find a new victim.”

I slumped. “I have to spend the next nine months skulking around in case of an ambush?”

“Maybe not stay. It golf season, so we supa busy. Da team got practice or one match every afternoon till da final championship. Dat's in two weeks.”

“Golf season is only two weeks long?”

He shook his head. “In dis district, we start in July. So Marcos got ada tings on his mind right now. Just in case, tho', I watch your back, eh?”

“Really?”
Then, feeling guilty about the e-mails I'd ghostwritten to Hayley, I said: “No, thanks, I can't let you do that.”

Cullen chuckled, flexing his paws. “How you going stop me?”

“Let me get this straight: You'll act as my personal bodyguard? Beat up the goons if they threaten me?”

“If I hear dem comin' your way, I warn you. More den dat? Sorry, ah? No can.”

I hated the whiney fear eking into my voice:
“Why not?”

The teacher bustled into the room. “Take your seats, people!” she said. “We've got a lot of territory to cover today.”

Students stowed packs and positioned keyboards. Beneath the noise, Cullen continued: “Back in small kid time—sorry, when I younger—I make much
pilikia
at my school on Oahu. To me, brah, is history.
Pau
. I finish with dat life. But I still need fo' prove myself to Auntie and Coach and da principal at dis school.”

The students settled, focusing on the lecture. Cullen signaled me to wait. He jotted notes, absorbed by the teacher's every word.

A girl made a joke. The class cracked up.

Cullen's bear-bulk reclined as if to share the laugh with me. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Marcos know about my past. Don't know how, but he does. No can buss him up—hurt him. No can geevum stink eye, even. He going tell Coach for sure, and if dat happen”—he thumb-slashed his throat—“I'm off da team. Tossed out of school. No can risk dat. I no like.”

“It's okay, I understand,” I said, dying to ask what kind of
pilikia
he meant but afraid to ask in case it involved the dismemberment of overcurious
keiki
. “So other than laying low, any advice for me regarding Marcos?”

“Yeah. No humiliate dat moke one third time. Could be your last.”

“My ‘last' what? Last time I shame him?”

Cullen regarded me with keen grizzly eyes. “No,
menehune
. Da last time you stay living, brah.”

 

I spent the rest of third period thirstily gulping info about templates and symbols and digital files till my brain swelled like a sodden sponge: thick, heavy, and dripping with data. Next week, I'd wring it dry of the basics and start transferring my hand-drawn plans of the Nice Alarm into something I could e-mail to other novelty companies.

I wondered, had Hiccup researched the names and addresses of any of those companies yet—?

Like I'd told the Nice Alarm: We were on our own.

When class ended, Cullen escorted me to the edge of campus. I felt safe with him beside me, my body a chink of meteorite eclipsed by his supernova.

“Hang loose,” he said, and lumbered off in search of “grinds”—food, I think.

With him gone, I felt more exposed than if I were stark naked. I darted behind a molting eucalyptus tree and scanned the perimeter. There were a bunch of popular fast-food joints at the end of the street. Groups of students approached, hustling in that direction to buy lunch, including—

—eep!
—

The Amys
.

And

—yikes!—

July.

I dove into a bush.

Yeah, the Amys had saved my hide yesterday. But for all I knew, they'd only done it so that at some future time—now!—July could happily skin it.

“How about hamburgers today?” I heard the Amys say as they neared.

“Hamburgers sound fab!” said the Amys.

“Hot dogs sound fab too!” the Amys said.

“Then how about hot dogs today?” said the Amys.

Heart th-thumping, I peered through prickly twigs and thick leaves and crossed my fingers that this wasn't one of the 174 types of foliage I'm allergic to.

“Nix on both hamburgers and hot dogs,” July said, floating past, one wing of the chocolate-colored cape she wore swirling against my hiding place. “I get enough of that junk every afternoon at work. I've put on five pounds just breathing all that grease, and I'm not eating lunch today anyway. I've got a dinner date with my guy.”

“Pish! You're soooo slender!” the Amys said.

“Pshaw! You're soooo willowy!” said the Amys.

And then they were gone.

I breathed a stream of relief, but waited five minutes to make sure the coast was clearly July- and moke-free.

Satisfied, I scarpered down the street.

Half a block from Jefferson, my heart th-thumped again.

She stood waiting inside the school's fence, fingers threaded through the wobbly metal, her face a crisscross of chain links and impatience.

My cheeks engulfed in flames till I remembered that “Cullen” had written last night's e-mails, not me.

“Hhhhhhi,” I breathed. She looked fresh, cool, and beautiful in another new skirt, this one of deep lake-green.

“Where have you been?” She gave the fence a shake.

“It takes time to walk two miles, Hayley.”

“I don't mean now. Where were you yesterday? You never showed up for work at Gadabout! I left a message with your mom last night, but you never called back.”

“Oh, Hayley, I'm sorry!” I explained about substituting martial arts for PE. “That's why I got that waiver form from the office yesterday.”

“You mean you won't be working for us during the week?” She crossed her arms. “Stephen, Daddy is depending on you! We're already behind because of your vacation.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry.”

“Can he at least count on you for the weekends?”

“I'd never give that up!”

“Huh. Well, I guess it's okay—if you promise to get your work done.”

Was work all she cared about? Was “Daddy” the only one who'd miss me?

“Why are you waiting for me here?” I asked, hiding my disappointment with grumpiness.

Hayley stretched the buckled fence-hole so I could squeeze through more easily. “Can't I wait for a friend if I want to?”

“No. Yes. It's just—we always meet under the pine tree.”

“Goldie and Pierre are there and I don't want to sit with them. Did you know you have twigs in your hair?”

Without waiting for my response, she led the way to a shady, deserted patch of grass behind the library, where we sat to eat.

I opened my water bottle and took a tepid sip. “Was Hiccup at the tree?”

“I haven't seen him at all today. He's not sick, is he?”

“Naw. He's . . . avoiding me.”

“How come?”

“We had a misunderstanding.” I unwrapped my sandwich. “So, did you receive any e-mails from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

Hayley bit a squeal in two.

I flashed an innocent smile. “Is that a yes?”

“You know it is. You forwarded his e-mails from your address!” She beamed at me from under coy lashes.

This wasn't Hayley. Not even close. Who was this simpering Southern belle and what had she done with the girl I loved?

The coyness vanished as Ace appeared, one hand shoved into a jeans pocket, the other holding . . . a
book
.

A
textbook.

He gave me half a nod. “Hey,” he said to Hayley.

“Hay is for horses,” Hayley replied.

One dark brow twitched, which for Ace is the equivalent of laughing in hysterics.

“What's up?” I asked.

He pinched a hair from his shirt. “Nothing.”

“What's the book for?”

He glanced at me over the top of his sunglasses like I was a moron or something. “Algebra.”

“Was there something you wanted, Ace?” Hayley asked politely. “We're in the middle of a private conversation.”

Ace plucked another hair. “I didn't write down our homework assignment.”

“Sure.” Hayley flipped through several pages in her binder.