Secrets of Valhalla (2 page)

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13TH

12:15 P.M.

T
he internet lied.

Red underpants aren't lucky.

Fact.

Buzz trudged into the cafeteria, scanning the sea of faces for Sam. His best friend was nowhere to be seen. With a little sigh, he grabbed a tray, a plate, a slab of mac and cheese, and then the vacant table in the corner. It only had two seats, but then he and Sam would need privacy if they were going to come up with a plan to fix the mess he'd created.

And it was a mess:

Late for school this morning = detention.

Detention = no soccer practice this afternoon.

No soccer practice = being benched by Coach Saunders for the semifinals of the Crowmarsh junior cup tomorrow.

“Why'd I think today would be any different?” Buzz muttered to himself, annoyed that he'd believed he could do something to make this Friday the thirteenth any less unlucky than usual.

Obviously he hadn't meant to be late for school. But how was he supposed to know that coloring underwear with your sister's hair dye (Ruby Kiss) and blasting it with a hair dryer (a Sonic 500) would be so time-consuming?

Buzz scanned the lunchroom again. Sam was still nowhere to be seen, but he spotted his sister (and her shock of red hair) talking to a thin, gawky girl with hundreds of long, thin braids twisted up in a bun. Tia was pointing over at him and the girl was nodding rather enthusiastically.

What is she up to now?
Buzz wondered, peering at his sister. Then he understood.

The girl with the braids was striding over to him, lunch tray gripped tightly in her hands.

She was dressed like no one he'd ever seen. Her top half was swathed in a brightly colored patchwork shirt that was miles too big for her, and she wore leggings with a purple cobweb print. Students fell quiet as she walked by. It was as if they needed all their concentration to take in her outfit. The braids piled high on top of the girl's head were held in place by a fluorescent purple pencil with a fuzzy star at its end, and she wore an enormous watch on her wrist.

Buzz groaned inwardly. His sister had a thing for collecting and protecting misfits, and now she was sending one his
way. He dived into his backpack to find his phone.
Where R U?
he'd text Sam.
You need to find me in the cafeteria. NOW!
But his cell wasn't there.

Strange.
He was sure he'd had it this morning.

“Hi. Do you mind if I join you?” a voice with a warm American twang said.

Buzz lifted his head to see the girl in the cobweb leggings gazing down at him. Her hazel eyes looked hopeful behind her wing-tipped tortoiseshell glasses.

“Um—” he replied.

“It's just that I'm here for a test-run day. I might be starting at this school next semester.” The purple star in the girl's hair bobbed about violently as she spoke. “And Tia saw that I didn't have anyone to eat lunch with, so she said I should come over here because we'll be in the same grade and—”

“Why doesn't she have lunch with you?” Buzz interrupted. He knew it sounded rude, but his sister wasn't exactly being fair here.

“She had to go to Chess Club.” The hazel eyes behind the glasses were looking less hopeful now. “And I've kind of lost track of the person who was supposed to be showing me around, so . . . so can I sit with you?”

“Oh, right,” Buzz began. “The thing is, I'm sort of waiting for some—”

“Mate, we've got a problem.” Sam collapsed into the seat opposite Buzz, taking the free chair. “A big problem.”

“You heard about my detention, then?” Buzz asked. “We've
got to think of something, and quick. Coach Saunders is going to be
so
mad that I'm missing practice after school. What if he doesn't play me tomorrow?”

Buzz suddenly remembered the girl and turned his head. But she'd gone. Just melted away.

“Coach Saunders is the least of your worries right now,” Sam said. He whipped out his phone. “Look at this text you sent me. About twenty minutes ago.”

Buzz stared at the screen. His stomach twisted into knots as he read the words:

I Freddie “Freaky” Buzzard do solemnly declare that I am a total epic loser and I miss my mummy
☹
.

“I didn't send that,” he spluttered.

“Well, obviously you didn't.” Sam rolled his eyes. “But someone sent this message from your phone and not just to me. I did some asking around, and pretty much everyone in your phonebook got the text.”

“Theo,” Buzz growled. He scanned the cafeteria and spotted him. The other boy was holding court at a table in the middle of the lunchroom, as usual.

Sam nodded. “He's blatantly trying to rile you up before the match tomorrow. Everyone knows that you're a better soccer player than him.”

“Right, come on. We're getting my phone back.”

“Hold up, Buzz. You're a better soccer player, but Theo's
twice the size of you.” Sam made a steeple of his fingers. “Just leave this to Tia. When she finds out what happened she's going to
end
him. You've got nothing to worry about.”

A prickle of heat crept up Buzz's neck. Theo's text message was embarrassing enough, but having his sister fight his battle would be far worse.

“I don't need Tia's help.” Buzz pushed his chair back with a harsh scrape of metal.

“Of course you don't.” Sam held up his hands. “I'm just saying that Tia is really good at getting stuff sorted.”

“Well, this is my stuff to sort.” Buzz stalked across the cafeteria, with Sam trailing reluctantly behind him. “How'd you get my phone?” he demanded, as he reached Theo's table.

A smirk crossed the other boy's annoyingly zit-free face. “You must have lost it when you were reading out that gibberish you called an English essay this morning,” Theo replied. “I thought Mrs. Robertson was going to have a heart attack, it was so bad.”

“Yeah, right, because you're a master of the English language?” Sam shot back, slipping just a little bit farther behind Buzz as he did so. “I mean, when's the last time you even finished an essay?”

Theo shrugged. “Nobody expects me to be good at essays. I've got other talents.” He nodded his head over to Buzz. “But Freaky here is the son of a famous professor—his dad is always on TV.” Theo shook his head mournfully. “If I was Freaky's dad, I'd be majorly embarrassed by his performance today.”

Buzz could hear and feel the grind of his teeth. Theo was right. The Prof would have been embarrassed by his son's performance, especially because the topic for the essay had been his specialty, mythology—or “Buzz kryptonite,” as his mum used to call it.

Looking back, Buzz probably should have just owned up to the fact that he hadn't written the blasted thing. Couldn't be bothered to write it, because mythology was such a momentous waste of time. Instead, he'd tried to make up the essay as he went along, his main argument being that if the ancient Greeks were clever enough to invent the catapult, they could have just given Theseus a map and saved everyone—including that Minotaur—a lot of inconvenience.

His English teacher hadn't been impressed, and Buzz had made sure he was the first one out of the classroom.

He shook the memory off and slammed his hand down on the table, making the lunch trays rattle. “I want my phone back.”

“Manners, manners,” Theo reprimanded. “Just because your mum isn't around anymore doesn't mean you should be rude. I'm sure she'd want you to say please.”

“DON'T.” The command reverberated around the cafeteria. “Don't you dare say a word about my mum.” His voice cracked on the last word and he hated himself for it.

Everyone was completely quiet now. Watching.

Theo leaned back in his chair. “Or what?” He held Buzz's gaze, his mouth a thin, white line.

“Just give him his phone back,” Sam pleaded. “You've had your fun.”

Theo appeared to give this some thought and then shrugged. “Fine. You can have your phone back, Freaky.”

Buzz held out his hand.

“But you'll have to go on a little quest to get it,” Theo continued. “Just like they do in those make-believe myths your dad loves so much.” He rubbed his hands together. “I'll even draw you a map if you like. You'll need it to guide you to the Toilet of Doom.”

“Oh, gross,” Sam whispered. “He means the one that doesn't flush in C Block.”

“A map will not be necessary, Theo,” a dangerously quiet voice said beside them. Mrs. Robertson stood there, having appeared like some kind of ninja English teacher. Her face was granite. “It sounds like you know exactly where Buzz's phone is, so please go there and retrieve it.” She pursed her lips. “After you bring it to my classroom, you can make your way to the head teacher's office.”

A few snickers of laughter erupted in the lunch hall.

All eyes were on Theo.

“But miss,” he protested. “It wasn't me.”

The English teacher gave a hoot of laughter. “Now
that
really is make-believe. Go. I won't tell you again.”

Theo shoved back his chair and stomped out of the cafeteria, but not before throwing Buzz a look that said he'd make him pay.

Mrs. Robertson turned to Buzz. “And you follow me. I didn't get a chance to have a word with you earlier.”

Sam patted Buzz's shoulder. “I'll catch you later.”

Buzz slunk out of the lunch hall, head down so he didn't have to meet anyone's eyes. They were probably all sniggering about Theo's text message or feeling sorry for him. Neither scenario was great.

He could feel the weight of someone's gaze on him and he forced himself to glance up. It was the girl in the cobweb leggings. She was sitting alone, her lunch untouched, and she was close enough that she must have overheard the whole argument with Theo. The girl was staring right at him, but her eyes seemed dark and cloudy, as if she was deep in thought.

Buzz looked away, but the image of the girl remained in his head as he walked into Mrs. Robertson's classroom.

The English teacher urged Buzz to take a seat and then sat behind her desk. Now that they were out of the cafeteria, the granite in her face had softened.

“Listen, I know things are tough for you at the moment, Buzz,” she began, “and Theo's prank was cruel.” She gazed at him steadily. “But don't judge him too harshly. You both have missing people in your lives. That's a difficult thing to deal with. And it can't be helped by the media's obsession with that missing weatherwoman.”

Buzz frowned. Theo's brother had gone missing more than a year ago now. People said he'd gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd.
But that's nothing like what's happened to Mum,
he thought.
And the whole thing with that weatherwoman, Eleanor Bright, was different again—the reporters were saying they thought she'd been abducted.
Why was Mrs. Robertson even trying to compare them?
He realized that his English teacher's lips were still moving and he forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.

“You're smart, Buzz,” his teacher said. “Even if you don't always realize it. And that's why I'm giving you this second chance.” She wagged a finger at him. “You're too quick to give up on things you don't understand, and you don't like asking for help. You need to work on that.” Mrs. Robertson drummed her slender fingers on the surface of her desk. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Not sure, miss,” Buzz replied honestly, wondering what he'd missed.

His teacher's blue eyes filled with disappointment. It was an expression so similar to the one his father wore whenever they spent time together that it made Buzz's throat close up on itself. Mrs. Robertson's fingers stilled on the desk. “You've got the weekend to write the essay on Theseus and the Minotaur again. You're far better than what you produced today and I want you to prove it.”

Buzz crossed his arms, wondering when Mrs. Robertson and his father had become the same person with the same speech.
Maybe they get their material off the internet: areallylonglecture.com.

“If you get stuck, just ask your father,” Mrs. Robertson
continued, and Buzz noticed that a star-struck expression had crossed her face. “He's an expert in this area, after all. You're really very lucky to have such a famous and well-respected professor of mythology available to help you.”

Buzz snorted to himself.
If by “available” you mean never at home, then yeah, my father is awesome.
He felt a nerve twitch along his jaw. There was no way, never in a month of Sundays, that Buzz would ask for or accept the Prof's help.

B
uzz kicked the empty soda can and watched it skitter across the deserted lane, its crushed sides scraping against the ground. It was probably the only kicking he'd get to do for days. He still had no idea if Coach Saunders would let him play tomorrow—Sam said he'd do his best to convince him, but they both knew Coach could be stubborn.

He kicked the can again, enjoying the loud crunch as his foot connected with the aluminum. Unfortunately, the sound of his soggy phone sloshing in his pocket was louder.

Yep, just another Friday the thirteenth,
Buzz thought.
Full of ritual humiliation, pain, and disappointment.

“Friggatriskaidekaphobia,” a familiar American accent said from up above him. “That's what you've got.”

Buzz stopped and looked up. He had no idea where the girl
from the cafeteria was hiding, and for a moment he wondered if she was actually invisible.

He narrowed his eyes as he spotted a pair of battered purple Converse poking through the foliage of the tall oak that hung over the lane.

“Friggatriksa—” Buzz gave up. He wasn't even going to try and get his mouth around that word. “What?”

“Friggatriskaidekaphobia,” the voice repeated. “It's a phobia of Friday the thirteenth.”

“Listen, I don't have a phobia of Friday the—” Buzz broke off. “Hey, how'd you know what I was thinking about in the first place?”

The oak leaves rustled, and then the girl in the cobweb leggings suddenly dropped onto a lower branch of the tree.

She grinned. “That's not important. Surely, what's far more interesting is how Friggatriskaidekaphobia got its name.” She began to shimmy along the branch. “Although that Theo boy said your dad is a professor of mythology, so I'm guessing you already know.”

“You guessed wrong,” Buzz replied. The girl's smile became even wider, and he could tell that she was really desperate to tell him. “Okay, how'd it get its name?”

“Well, the first part of the word
Friggatriskaidekaphobia
is derived from the name Frigga.” The girl slid a bit farther along the branch until she was directly above his head. It bent alarmingly. “You know who Frigga was, of course.”

Buzz was distracted.
That branch really doesn't look very safe,
he thought, although he'd be the first to admit that heights weren't his thing and so he wasn't great at climbing trees. “Don't you think you should come down?” he asked. “What are you doing up there anyway?”

“I was waiting for you,” the girl replied. “Plus, I'm really good at climbing trees, so I thought I'd make my own entertainment.”

“You were waiting for me?” Buzz repeated, wondering why he wasn't more creeped out. “Why? And how'd you know I'd even come this way?”

The girl wrinkled her nose, pushing up the glasses that perched precariously at the end of it. “You seemed nice, and your sister told me what route you'd walk home.”

“How very helpful of her.” Buzz shook his head, wondering why Tia was so determined for him to be friends with this girl.

“So, where were we?” the girl asked. “Ah, yes, Frigga. So obviously you know who she is.”

Buzz scratched his head, curly tendrils snagging his fingers. The name did actually sound kind of familiar. The Prof must have mentioned the name to Tia at some point. But, as Buzz usually tuned out when his father was talking about mythology, it was no surprise he couldn't remember anything specific about the name. He shook his head.

“Frigga was the Norse goddess of the harvest and the family, and wife of the chief of the gods, Odin,” the girl explained. “In English, the day Friday is named after her. Frigga's day.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right,” Buzz said. “All the days of the week are named after Norse gods, right?”

“Wrong.” The girl sniffed. “All but one—Saturday. That one is named after the Roman god Saturn, but some say that Saturday once belonged to the Norse god Loki.” She edged a bit farther along the branch, and it bent even more alarmingly. “Saturday was Loki's day. A day of mischief.”

Despite himself, despite the fact that it had something to do with mythology, which was all a load of made-up hogwash, Buzz felt his interest spark. “Really? What happened? Why'd this Loki guy lose his day?” He heard the branch give a protesting creak. “Hey, will you get down from there?”

“Okay, okay.” The girl dropped down from the tree in a swift, graceful movement and gave a little bow. “Happier now that I'm on the ground?”

Buzz nodded. “Much. Tell me more about Loki, then.”

“Actually, Loki brings us to the second part of the name for your phobia.”

“I don't have a phobi—”

“
Triskaideka
means the number thirteen.” The girl leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “And it's thanks to Loki that many think the number thirteen is unlucky.”

“Go on.” The Prof didn't speak much about the legends of the Norse gods—his specialty was in the mythology of lost civilizations—but Buzz wanted to know more about this Loki guy.

“There was a feast,” said the girl, her voice low, “where
all the Norse gods were gathered. It was at this feast that Frigga and Odin's beloved son, Balder, was killed. His death was caused by the thirteenth guest at the feast. It was caused by Loki.”

“Why did Loki want Frigga's son dead?”

“Why did Loki do anything?” The girl sat down under the tree and beckoned for Buzz to do the same. “He did it because he could. Because he was a trickster and mischief was what he was best at. This time, he did not go unpunished. Loki was chained to a rock deep underground. A snake was created to guard him, to drip
burning
venom on his head until the Ragnarok.”

“Ragnarok?” Buzz echoed.
It sounds like a kind of disease.

“It means the end of the world,” the girl explained. “It was prophesized that Loki would one day escape his bonds and try and destroy the earth. The Norse gods would be waiting for him to have their final battle.”

Buzz let out a low whistle. “That sounds totally epic.”

“It does, doesn't it?” The girl adjusted her glasses, which had slipped down her nose again.

“How do you know so much about this kind of stuff?” he asked.

“I know a lot about a lot of things. I'm pretty smart.” She stuck out her legs and crossed them at the ankles. “But I don't know why Friday the thirteenth is making you so miserable. It's only a day.”

“Oh, really?” Buzz said. “The Friday the thirteenth before
last, I lost the one hundred meter race at our town's annual swim meet because I . . . I . . .” He faltered. “I had some technical difficulties.”

The memory rose to the surface just like his swimming trunks had.

The girl shrugged. “So you lost your swimming trunks. I bet it made you more aerodynamic in the long run.”

Buzz felt his cheeks get hot. “I didn't say that's what happened.”

“You didn't need to. I guessed. I told you, I'm really smart.”

“And modest,” Buzz replied, surprised at how easy he found it talking to this girl. He just felt bad that he hadn't worked that out in the cafeteria. “The Friday the thirteenth before that, I broke my ankle after trying to surf in a shopping trolley,” he continued.

“That was just dumb,” the girl replied. “It has nothing to do with the date. You're going to have to do better.”

“Fine. Last Friday the thirteenth, my mum went missing, and I don't think she's ever coming home.”