101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (22 page)

Twenty-five minutes later, Mom nosed Dad's Cad into the packed parking lot of the Lemon County Country Club.

“I'll never find a spot, let alone one big enough for this boat,” Mom said. “What's going on? Are all these people here for Joonbi's party?”

“Probably,” I said. “She's famous.” Then I noticed a banner hanging above the Club's entrance.

“That explains it,” Mom said. “Hop out, sweetie. I'll be back at four. Slather that chapped nose with sunblock, stop looking like you're on your way to an execution, and
have fun
!”

Dad's Cad careened away.

A uniformed guy offered a starched greeting and opened the club's massive doors for me with a flourish. When I asked him how to find the pool, his white-gloved hand pointed
that-a-way
.

My flip-flops sank into thick rich carpet as I hurried through the lobby. Another uniformed guy opened another set of massive doors that led to a cobblestone patio overlooking the velvety-green sea of golf course. Club members sat admiring the view, drinking from tall, frosty glasses. I followed the cobblestones along a meandering path. From behind a prickly hedge came the shrieks and splashings of toddlers.

A diving board towered above me. Tied at the top was an immense cluster of balloons in electric stomach-turning magenta and bird-poop-yellow colors. The balloons yanked against their strings in a vain attempt to escape.

Joonbi met me at the gate. She wore a swimsuit that matched her shell-pink manicure—and a look of desperation in her red-rimmed eyes.

“I'm sorry I'm so late,” I said, holding out her gift. “Happy birth—”

“Steve!” She pinched my arm. Her ponytail quivered. “I was afraid you weren't coming! Truth!”

“My mom is Time Impaired, remember?” Then I realized she'd been crying. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“My party is a Grade A Disaster!” She launched into a soliloquy, the usual lilt in her voice squashed flat, as if steamrollered. “I've had an awful stomachache since breakfast. I don't know if it was the cheese omelet or seeing those . . . those wretched decorations! I begged Umma to let me have a party
for once
that didn't include my sisters. She agreed, but then let
them
do all the decorating! Steve, they chose the dorkiest, most putrid stuff, just to humiliate me! And your friends, they're not talking to each other or swimming or eating or anything! I can't bear two more hours of this. Truth!”

I scanned the pool area. “Where are the rest of the guests? Aren't any of your other friends here yet?”

“I just moved here! I don't have any other friends! Just you—and yours.”

“What about the students from Hapkido Family Fitness? The ones mobbing you for your autograph and stuff?”

“Fans aren't friends, Steve.
Please help!”
She towed me across the hot cement to an area shaded by wide umbrellas and arranged with chairs, lounges, and a cooler filled with iced drinks. A teak table nearby was laden with untouched bowls of chips, dips, and platters of fruit and veggies.

In the center of a larger table, surrounded by gifts, sprawled a massive sheet cake slathered in bird-poop-yellow frosting with clumps of electric-magenta sugar roses. More indigestion-causing balloons cascaded in grape-like bunches from the hedge. Plates and cups, featuring cartoons of frolicking kittens exclaimed:
WHEEEEEE! NOW YOU ARE 3!
Someone had drawn the numeral 1 in black marker in front of the 3 to create a crude 13.

“I hate my sisters,” Joonbi said.

I felt a sudden wash of empathy for Hiccup—and gratitude to my parents for thirteen years of blissful only-child status.

“Hi guys,” I said, barely noticing Hiccup, Goldie, Pierre . . .

Where was . . . ?

Hayley sat munching a carrot stick. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She wiggled the carrot at me and offered a pale smile.

My legs locked. My knees quivered like Jell-O.

“Wow,” I said, my eyes blinded by her splash of blond hair, the flash of her steel-blue swimsuit. “You look . . .”

“What?” Her SOS challenged.

“Ready for a swim,” I finished lamely.

Another pale smile. “Later. I just ate a carrot.”

“Yeah, me too. I mean, I think I'll try one!” I reached for the platter, almost stepping on Ace's foot. He lay on a towel between Hayley's chair and the water's edge.

“Watch it,” he muttered from beneath a large sombrero.

Was his pinky toe touching the leg of Hayley's chair?

“Sneeze! Dah
-ling!”

Goldie wore a gold lamé bikini, saucer-sized glitzy sunglasses, and a glossy tan she obviously obtained from a jar. She beckoned from where she reclined in an OPSP: Optimal Pool-Spying Position.

“This party”—she pouted—“is
so
not fun!”

“Why don't you try having some, then?” Ace said.

Goldie leaned to tip him into the water.

“Don't even think about it,” he intoned.

She jerked back and continued her pout. “I was led to believe this was an
exclusive
club. But I have yet to see
one single celebrity.”

Joonbi's eyes pleaded with mine.

“So!” I blurted, shedding my T-shirt, tossing my towel on a vacant chair. “I'm ready for that swim now! Who's with me? Doesn't the pool look refreshing?” I gestured like a game show host at the glittering water. It lapped in a lagoon of pale aqua ripples.

“Oh, puh-
leeze
,” Goldie said. “This swimsuit is not for
swimming
. It's not even water-resistant!”

Hayley snorted.

“Hector, how about you?” I asked politely. “Want to take a dip?”

He stiffened. One side of his face was covered in a weird, blistery rash. “It is unwise for a patient with
hic!
shingles to engage in water activities,” he replied. “In addition, have you forgotten that chlorine causes an unsightly inflammation of my ep
hic!
dermis? How imbecilic of me! Of course you've
hic!
forgotten. We have only known each other
ten years
!”

“Uh, right,” I said, trying not to rise to his bait, trying not to regret my decision about the book contracts. “Pierre, is your epidermis sea-worthy?”

“Eye zink not.” He pointed to an armband fashioned out of black electrical tape. “Eye am, 'ow you say, pining.”

“Pining?”
Goldie said. “What are you, a tree?”

“Eye am mourning zee loss of my senses.” Pierre whisked off his beret and held it against his bare chest in the vicinity of his heart. “What a fool eye wuz, falling for zee likes of July! But zen, as a wize French poet once said:
‘Afflicted by love's madness, all are blind
.' ”

“He wasn't French,” Ace's hat murmured.

“Who wasn't?” Goldie asked.

“Sextus Propertius. The Roman poet.”

“Ace!” Hayley said. “You've been reading love poems?”

He shrugged. But
two
of his toes were now touching her chair . . .

“Cake!” I shouted, and lunged for the box of birthday candles, “accidentally” trodding on the toes touching Hayley's chair. “Time to eat cake!”

“Eez zat what zat eez,” Pierre said with a sneer.

Joonbi started to cry. “I know, I know! The cake is horrible—and so is my party. Truth!” She dropped onto a lounge, swiping at tears with the corner of a fluffy beach towel. “Go ahead. Leave if you want. I'll understand! You can call your parents to pick you up. There's a phone in the snack bar.”

“No need!” Goldie dug into a sequined beach bag. “I've got my cell!”

Hayley shook her head vehemently, the golf ball earrings swinging. Her chin tilted and her words were defiant:
“None
of us want to go home, Joonbi.”

Goldie's mouth popped open, fish-like, but Hayley kicked her in the beach bag and the mouth closed again.

“And we all love pink cake,” Hayley continued.
“Don't we ?”
Hiccup hic-spluttered. I could tell he was conflicted between saying
yes
to ease Joonbi's pain and
no
to eating frosting made with partially hydrogenated oils and Red Dye No. 2.

“Pink flavor is my favorite!” he finally said. “May I have the honor
hic!
of cutting the first slice for the Birthday Girl?”

“No, thanks,” Joonbi said. A tear slid down her cheek and onto her trembling lips. “I have a stomachache.”

“You are still
hic!
ill?” Hic asked. “Your physician has provided no relief?”

“Let's talk about something else, Hector. Nobody wants to hear about my health problems.”

“I
do. What was your physician's
hic!
diagnosis?”

“You really want to hear about this? Truth?”

“Tru
hic!
uth,” he answered.

“Okay.” Joonbi swiped at her eyes again. “Well, first my doc suspected an ulcer.”

“Discounted after a course of ant
hic!
biotics, yes?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

Hic smiled. “Go
hic!
on.”

“Then he thought I had a condition called IBS.”

“Yes, yes. Irritable Bowel
hic!
Syndrome.”

“You know what IBS is?” Joonbi asked, impressed.

Hiccup hic-shrugged. “It's prevalent in our
hic!-hic!
hectic society. Even Tony Sandoval, the school
hic!
nurse at Jefferson, has been afflicted with it.”

Ace sat up abruptly. His sombrero tumbled into the pool. He peered at Hic over the top of his sunglasses, then stood, stretched, and sauntered to mutter something in Hic's ear.

“Are you
hic!
positive?” Hiccup asked.

Ace tossed him a
you-dare-to-doubt-me
? expression.

Hic's blistered face brightened. “Excuse me
hic!-hic!
a moment.”

He bolted to the snack bar.

I dispatched a silent
What-did-you-tell-him?
to Ace.

He shrugged, sauntered back to his towel, and lay down again.

Moments later Hic returned, a newfound confidence in his walk and words.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me more about your intestinal condition, Joonbi,” he said, snatching Goldie's notepad and pen from her hands.

“Hey!” she cried, but he paid no attention.

“So then,” Joonbi went on, “Umma got me an appointment with a gastroenterologist, who decided it wasn't IBS, after all.”

“He has also ruled out colitis, pancreatitis, appendicitis, and diverticulitis?”

“That's right!”

“Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” Hiccup jotted a few notes. “Allow me to research this. I'll get back to you posthaste.”

“Surelee,” Pierre said, “zee doctor 'as already left no ‘eyetis' unturned?”

With an exaggerated yawn, Goldie reached for her cell phone again.

“Presents!” I suggested. “Joonbi, do you want to open your presents?”

“Ooo,
yes
!” Goldie squealed, the cell phone forgotten.

“You'll
adore
mine. Open it first!” She dangled a tiny mesh bag with silken drawstrings.

Joonbi peeked inside. “A gift certificate from the Primp and Preen Day Spa. For a complete makeover! Ha, this isn't a hint, is it?

“Why,
yes
,” Goldie said. “Yes, it is.”

“Open mine next,” said Hayley.

Joonbi tore open the thin box. “Another gift certificate! This one's for four free rounds at Gadabout Golf. That's the place your family owns, right? Cool!”

“Pfff!”
Goldie pfffed.

“Thanks, Hayley,” Joonbi said. “I've never played mini-golf before. Is it hard?”

“Some of Gadabout's holes are tricky, especially the Volcano. But I'd be happy to give you a few pointers.”

Joonbi ripped into the rest of her gifts. There was a French-Korean cookbook from Pierre (“Wis not a single recipee containing see-weed!” he boasted); a birthday card from Ace that read
No Presents Except My Presence
; a hapkido belt holder from me and—

Joonbi gasp-yipped. “Thank you, thank you, Steve!” She pulled me into a strangling hug. “But I thought you weren't going to write another one!”

“Another what?” I said, trying to detangle and de-strangle myself.

Hiccup cleared his throat. “Actually, Stephen had nothing to do with what's in that box.
I
wrote it.”

“You wrote what?” I asked.

“The book.”

“What book?”

“That book.”

“This
book!” From within layers of delicate tissue, Joonbi lifted a small, stapled booklet with a blue construction paper cover.

Hic nodded. Then, ears pinking, he discovered his immense feet to be of immense interest.

“What did he write?” Hayley asked.

All five of us peered over Joonbi's shoulder. She cradled the booklet in the palms of both hands.

Aloud, Ace read:
“101 Ways to Bug Your Brothers and Sisters. For Joonbi Park. Written and illustrated by Hector Denardo.”

“I'm glad
someone
understands the
orthodontic
importance of a book like this!” Goldie said, her eyes shooting me harpoons.