The Secret of Ferrell Savage (4 page)

“Yeah?” I didn't mean for it to sound like a question, but I was confused.

“I heard you came this close to crossing over into the other world.” She held her index finger close to her thumb, showing me exactly how close “this close” was.

“You mean dying?” I asked.

She gasped and then put her hand to her mouth, like I'd just said a bad word. Then she nodded.

“Well, I'm not sure how close I really came to death. I've never died before,” I said.

“Was there a bright light? Did you see your dead relatives? Did they call to you?”

I thought for a moment. “No dead relatives. But the sun totally got in my eyes. I should've worn goggles.”

“Oh, yes. Goggles,” the secretary said slowly.

The principal's door opened, and Ms. Goodkind stepped out.

“Good morning, Ferrell,” she said. “Please come in and have a seat.”

I sat in the soft chair across from her desk, a chair I assumed was reserved for important people, like superintendents and angry parents. In a corner of the room a small microwave oven went
ping
. Ms. Goodkind
opened the oven's door and pulled out two plates of biscuits with something in their middles. Spicy warm smells of something I'd never eaten before wafted through the room. She set one of the plates near the edge of her desk, toward me.

“Well, I'm sure your mother fed you well this morning, but I'm hoping you still have room for a celebratory breakfast. May I pour you some orange juice?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, eyeing the biscuit. Sausage. And cheese. That's what was inside it.

“I want to congratulate you on winning the sled race, Ferrell. Your victory was a miracle,” she said.

“But I didn't win,” I said. Gooey orange cheese and grease from the sausage dripped out onto the sides of the plates. I sucked up all the spit in my mouth and swallowed hard to keep from drooling down my chin. I wanted that cheese and sausage bad.

“Well, in the eyes of all of us here at Garfield Middle School, you're a winner. And a hero. And, oh, for goodness' sake, please, eat. Don't wait for me.”

“It's not vegan by any chance, is it?” I asked. But I could tell by the way my stomach was howling, like a werewolf at the moon, the sausage was made from real meat.

“They're beef, made without any added by-products and no sulfites. I read the box before I tossed it into the recycling bin.”

The back of my neck was tingling, and the hairs on my arms were standing straight up. I sat on my hands to keep from grabbing the biscuit off the plate. “I don't eat meat. No animal products. My mom forbids me to ever touch the stuff. Ever,” I said. Luckily, I've had to say that exact speech enough times that I can do it automatically, without thinking.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Why, the mere idea of eating animal flesh must be terribly offensive to a vegan,” she said. She stood up, grabbed the plate, and dumped my biscuit right into the garbage can. She slammed down the lid. Then she took her own sausage biscuit and shoved it into her top desk drawer.

I hooked my feet around the chair's legs to keep myself from jumping up and diving headfirst into the dirty bin for cheesy sausage. This had happened to me before in the school cafeteria, when they were serving fried chicken one day. The smell was so delicious, I had to go out onto the playground for fear my hands were going to get all hairy and I was going to grow a beard and do something crazy and out of control. It took eight Oreo cookies and two boxes of
Cracker Jacks to calm me down that day.

“I wonder if your healthy eating habits might be the explanation for your amazing resilience,” she mused. “You must eat a lot of vegetables.”

“Almost never. I hate vegetables,” I said. “We're definitely not into the health thing.”

“Oh, I see. Well, then, you must be very conscious of our planet and your carbon footprint,” she said.

I was glad she came up with a reason that was satisfying to her, because I didn't have one to offer her. I didn't know why we never ate meat. My parents didn't think people who did were bad people or anything, and it wasn't like they ever carried around signs saying
save the cows
. Once, I asked them about it, and my mom got uncomfortable. They simply said it was too risky for us Savages and left it at that.

“Now, I'd like to request a small favor,” Ms. Goodkind said. She poured a little more orange juice into my cup, and I took a big swig. I held the pulp on my tongue and felt the hairs on my arms start to relax. “My son Jeffrey was wondering if he could bring you to his first grade's show-and-tell.” She looked at her watch. “It starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Wow,” I said. “I've never been anyone's show-and-tell before.”

She stood up and smiled. “So, you'll do it?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Would it be too much trouble if we swing by your house and get the sled, too? I'm sure the children would love to see it. We won't let them touch it, of course,” she said.

“The sled's gone. I haven't seen it since I wrecked it on the hill.”

“Oh, my goodness. Yes, I remember reading in the newspaper that someone saw it blow away, like sparkling fairy dust in the wind.”

“I hadn't heard that one,” I said.

She held the door open for me. “What a shame it couldn't have been bronzed and put on display in our library. Imagine what that would do for our enrollment here at Garfield.”

When we left Ms. Goodkind's office, Ms. Bland was writing stuff down and talking to a kid I'd never seen before.

“Ms. Goodkind,” Ms. Bland said, “we'll need you to sign here in order to complete this boy's enrollment. His name is Bruce Littledood, and he's been dropped off by his dad—”

“I'm sorry, young man, but I'm not available at the moment, and I'm in a bit of a hurry.” Ms. Goodkind
spoke rapidly. She whispered to Ms. Bland, “Perhaps you can offer him the sausage biscuit in my top drawer. Tell him to chew slowly, and hopefully, I will be back before he finishes.” Then she put her arm across my shoulders and said, “Come on, Ferrell, dear.”

I looked around and caught a glimpse of a short kid wearing a plaid shirt. It was the kid with the fancy sled from the Big Sled Race, the kid who'd gotten all excited about my pollypry feather.

I waved to him and said, “Go, Broncos.” Just a friendly little reminder to never accuse me of being a Packers fan.

But he scowled at me and raised up his fist. Then, without making a noise, he mouthed something that looked like
I'm going to get you.

ON OUR WAY HOME FROM
the bus stop, I told Mary about how the plaid kid from the race was now a new kid at school. Neither of us remembered seeing him come down the hill, which wasn't really surprising. After all, as Mary says, I'm the king of daydreaming, and she'd spent some time fuming after her drain had become unplugged.

“I talked to him at the top of the hill before the race. We discussed aerodynamics. What's his name again?” Mary asked.

“Bruce something-or-other . . . Peeweeman, I think. Or Littledude—yeah. That's it. Bruce
Littledood.” I stood in front of her on the sidewalk and said, “What does it look like I'm saying when I do this?” And I mouthed the words,
I'm going to get you.

She blinked her eyes. “Do it again,” she said. And I did. “It looked like you said, ‘A burrito, achoo.' ”

“No, that wasn't what he said. It makes no sense. Here, look at me again, and I'll say it slower.”

I stood in front of Mary again, put my hands on her shoulders, and mouthed the words slowly.

“This is an invalid experiment, Ferrell. To test the results accurately, you needed to get him on tape saying whatever it was he said. There's a safety camera behind Ms. Bland's desk, and it tapes everyone who comes in. Maybe we can get access to that footage.”

“Too much trouble,” I argued. “This is easier. Just tell me what you think I said.”

Mary sighed and shook her head. “You said, ‘I'm. Going. To. Get. You.' ”

“Yes! That's what I thought he said! I was right!”

“I
heard
you that time. You whispered it.”

We started walking again.

“Well, it doesn't matter, because that really is what the kid said. I'm going to have to wear orange and blue every day just to prove to him my Broncos
loyalty. Remind me never to wear any Packer green, okay?”

“I've never heard of such an adamant Broncos fan. He was probably annoyed because you were holding him up. I know I would've been. He needed Ms. Goodkind's signature, but because of you and your ridiculous immortality, she had to drive you to the elementary school to be her son's emergency show-and-tell specimen.”

“Most people don't get punched because of that.” I stopped on the sidewalk to think for a second. “Maybe he was swatting at a fruit fly.”

“There are no fruit flies in winter,” Mary said. “Look, Ferrell, you better get your fight face on or this kid is going to be on your back for the rest of the year.”

“A fight face, huh? Do you mean like this?” I jutted my jaw forward and stuck out my bottom teeth.

Mary laughed. “You couldn't look menacing even if your life depended on it.”

“Oh, yeah? What about this?” I furrowed my eyebrows and flared my nostrils.

Mary laughed harder. Sometimes, when I get on a roll, she laughs so hard that she barely makes any noise at all. She just squeaks through her nose.

“Or how about this to curdle your blood!” I jumped in front of her, making the Incredible Hulk pose, and grunted like a crazy man, saying, “A burrito, achoo!”

“You don't look scary, you look like Curious George!” she managed to gasp.

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha! I am the Incredibly Curious Hulk, and I shall eat the girl in the teal-blue hat!” I stomped in circles around her, like a monster-monkey, scratching my armpit until, at last, there it was: the squeaky nose thing. My mission was accomplished.

When we reached my house, Mary was still breathless from laughing, but she suddenly jolted to a stop. I looked toward where she was gazing. The pollypry feather was taped to the front door with a note attached to it.

Mary pulled off the paper and opened it. It read:

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET AWAY WITH THIS.

—B. L.

THE NEXT MORNING I SAT
eating my breakfast at the table with Dad while he worked on the bookshelvers' schedules for the library.

“So, what were you and Mary discussing yesterday afternoon that had you all so serious?” he asked.

“This note,” I said. “We found it taped to the door.” I told him about Bruce Littledood and how he'd raised his fist at me.

Mom set a plate of Fakin' Bacon in front of me and took the note from my hand. “Oh, Ferrell, for heaven's sake. What in the world could he possibly think you've gotten away with?” I dodged my
head just before she was able to ruffle my hair.

“He seems to think I'm getting away with rooting for the wrong team. For some reason he doubts my loyalty to the Broncos,” I said, pointing out that today I was wearing my Peyton Manning jersey.

“People around here
do
get a little carried away about football,” Mom said.

Dad looked up from his schedules. “Did you do or say something to antagonize him?”

“I barely know him. I just met him at the race. He seemed fine that day, a little scatterbrained maybe, but not psycho or anything.”

“We can try to talk to his parents. But until then, if he gives you any problems, don't hesitate to use your cell phone. That's why we gave it to you.”

“No way. You can't talk to his parents about this. Everyone will hear about it. Besides, Dad . . . Seriously, the kid is this big.” I held my hand about a foot from the floor. “There's nothing to worry about.”