The Secret of Ferrell Savage (6 page)

I had to run and catch up to hear her. “How so?” I asked.

“
F-E-R-A-L
,” she spelled, breathless from walking so fast.

“So?”

“So, don't you know what it means to be feral?”

I thought it meant that a person couldn't have babies, but, luckily, she didn't give me time to answer—because, wow, that was way wrong. She continued, “It means ‘undomesticated.' ‘Untamed.' Like those wild cats living in our alley that look like house cats. They eat fly-covered garbage from the Dumpsters.”

“Mmm, I bet their breath smells good. How's mine?” I ran in front of her to blow in her face, but before I had a chance to breathe on her, she got up in my face instead. Her nose was, like, three inches away from mine, and she reached out and squeezed
my arms, holding me there for what seemed like forever.

“Stop it!” she said to me.

“Stop what?” I asked. All I could think was,
Hey, look how close her mouth is to mine.
Her breath went straight out of her lungs and right up my nose and into my lungs. We were connected by a warm stream of air.

“You're acting like you don't even care. In a matter of minutes you are going to confront a boy who feels hostile toward you, probably because you provoked him somehow, and he might be about to pummel you to smithereens.” Then she pushed me away, and I stumbled into the grass.

I knew I should've responded, but the truth was, I'd hardly heard a word she had just said. When her face was so close to mine, that yellow marble with the kissy face, the one that was lodged just below my heart and right above my stomach, was tickling me, and I had to gather up all my concentration to keep from laughing like a big doofus.

As I got back my balance, I tried to replay what she'd just said. We had reached the corner of the park, and we walked toward the big fountain. I managed to settle my insides but still couldn't quite talk.

Finally, I broke the silence. “Nobody's going to pummel me,” I said.

“How do you know?” Now she sounded worried.

“Because I'm not going to let them.”

“How will you stop them?” she asked.

“I'll run. I'll climb a tree. I'll stand behind you.” I smiled at her when I said this, but she wasn't in the mood to laugh. “I'll tell him to knock it off.”

“How brave,” she said.

We had reached the fountain.

“What could the guy possibly want?” I asked.

“Jeez, Ferrell, do I have to spell everything out for you? Has it never occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, he likes me, and since you and I hang out together so much, he thinks our secret is that we're a couple, and maybe, just maybe, he wants to fight you?”

“No,” I said.

“Didn't you see how he looked right at me when Mr. Comfy was introducing him to the class?”

“I missed it,” I replied.

“Figures. You miss everything that's important. It was when he was bragging about how he's so good at history and that researching family trees is his specialty.”

Family trees? Yawn. Well, no wonder I hadn't heard him.

“So he's good at history.” I pretended to snore, like just thinking about history would bore me to sleep. “Poor guy. I guess he's gotta have something to impress the girls,” I said. “And were you impressed?”

I didn't breathe while I waited for her to answer.

“He said he knows how to find access to anyone's past, and their relatives, too.”

“Nice.” I rolled my eyes. “Wouldn't a fortune-teller be more useful?”

“Stop talking like you think I'm ridiculous. And for just a moment try to imagine that there might be someone who thinks I'm something more than a spell-check.”

Oh, she was more than a spell-check. And, oh yes, I could imagine he liked her.

“You didn't answer my question,” I said. “Did he impress you?”

She shrugged one shoulder. That meant that the other shoulder was probably impressed a whole lot. I wondered if he used big words.

Before I knew what was happening, both my hands balled into fists.

BRUCE LITTLEDOOD LOOKED LIKE THE
kind of kid who'd grow up and have a big, hairy mustache hanging over his lip. He stood on the ledge of the fountain, towering over Mary and me, wearing khaki pants, a plaid shirt under his unzipped jacket, and brown shoes.

“I'm pleased you decided to meet me here,” he said.

I tugged at my jersey. “Go, Broncos!” I said.

Littledood acted like he didn't hear me. That's just the kind of thing a guy with a mustache would do.

“Hello, Mary.” He smiled. “How are you today?”

“Look,” I interrupted, “Mary doesn't even like mustaches. Can you please just tell us why we're here?” The glare of the sun behind his head made my eyes water.

“Who said anything about mustaches?” Mary asked.

“Never mind,” I answered.

Littledood turned to me. “Do you recall our first encounter?”

“Of course I remember. I met you at the Big Sled Race, and we had a friendly little chat. The next time I saw you, you either made a fist at me or you caught a fruit fly. I'm still willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Indeed, it was a fist,” he said. “Now would you like me to tell you why?”

I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the moment. I was sure he was about to confess his love for Mary and then beat me up because he thought I was a threat to his possible relationship with Mary. And maybe I was a threat. Maybe I was!

“I'm waiting,” Littledood prompted.

I would do whatever I had to do, but it was hard to feel tough with Littledood towering over me on the fountain's edge the way he was. So I said, “You
know, before you tell me, would you mind stepping down from up there? If I face the sun for too long, I'm likely to get a burn and, you know, skin cancer and all that.”

He hopped down to eye level—oops, no, more like his eyes to my shoulder level.

“What do you want to tell us?” I asked.

He cleared his throat and composed himself. I wondered if maybe he had a speech planned and I had messed it all up. “Well,” he began, making his voice go deep. “Allow me to ask you a question. Before today, did you know I won the Big Sled Race on Golden Hill?”

I shook my head and then looked at Mary.

“No,” she said.

“We all just kind of figured no one won,” I said.

“Does that not sound absurd to you?” Littledood demanded, his eyes flashing with anger. “Of course, in any kind of competition, there is always a winner. After all, a winner is the one who finishes fastest, and with the exception of a tie, there is always someone who finishes faster than the others. Hence the word ‘race.' ”

Oh yeah, there was no doubt in my mind that the little dude had written all this down and had practiced
it before reciting it to Mary and me. I mean, what kid besides Mary says “hence,” unless he prepared in advance?

Unless he used “hence” to impress Mary.

I needed to get her out of there before he started throwing around the really big words. “Well, you won. That's awesome. Congratulations,” I said. Let's wrap it up here.

“I don't remember seeing you come down on your . . . ,” Mary said. “What did you call it again?”

“The Titanium Blade Runner,” I answered.

Littledood tossed his head. “It is an amazing sled.”

“How arrogant,” Mary said.

Yay! That'll teach him to keep his hences to himself. She obviously didn't like him. He knew it, I knew it, and we could all go home now. I put my hand on my stomach and realized I was starving.

“Again, congratulations. Sorry I missed your big moment,” I repeated. A yummy vision of the snacky kind appeared in my brain. A banana, perfectly ripe, smothered with peanut butter, rolled in carob chips, and topped with powdered sugar. And on top of that—

I turned to leave, but Mary didn't budge.

“Yes, everyone should be sorry,” Littledood said.
“Mr. Spinelli said my time broke the record for the race. Nobody in thirty years has gone down Golden Hill faster than me on my Titanium Blade Runner.”

“If it was such a big deal, how did we miss it?” Mary asked.

“I'll tell you how. Do you remember how many entrants there were in the race?” Littledood's eyes darted back and forth from Mary to me.

I shrugged.

“Sixty,” Mary said.

“And what number were you?” he asked me.

I thought hard and tried to remember what number had been on the card Mr. Spinelli had pinned to my jacket.

“Fifty-nine,” Mary supplied.

“I was the only person to go after you, Ferrell Savage. But you stopped the show. You were literally carried away by the crowd, and all that was left was me and Mr. Spinelli.”

“Aw, that totally stinks!” I said. “Seriously, you should complain about that. In fact, if you want to call Mr. Spinelli from my house, we could go right now. Do you like bananas and—”

“I don't want to complain to Mr. Spinelli. I want a rematch.”

“Right. Well, good luck with that. I hope you win again.”

“I can't win. No one signed up for it. Have a look.” He pulled the sign-up sheet from his pocket and unfolded it. On the lines where kids were supposed to write their names, it said:

Been there, done that, it stank

Not on that stupid slope

See ya next year

Srsly?

“Gosh,” I said. “I can't say I blame them. Golden Hill's sled race is about the tradition and the crowd. It's something to do on the day after Christmas, not on a Saturday in January.”

“It makes no difference to me that they won't be racing. You're the only contestant I care to beat. You were recognized as a hero, but I have the better, faster sled,” Bruce said.

“Well, I don't want to race again,” I said. “Besides, I don't have my Pollypry anymore. It disappeared.”

“It's in my garage. If you agree to compete, you shall have it back.”

“You've had it in your garage all this time?” Weird. And even though Coby and Eilio had said I could've auctioned it off on eBay and made tons of money, I honestly didn't care if I never saw the Pollypry again. I looked at Mary, wondering if she would be impressed if I agreed.

“Better luck next year, Bruce,” she said.

Oh, thank you, Mary Vittles. I was off the hook!

Mary and I were both turning toward home and snacks when Bruce said, “Not so fast. If you don't agree to a rematch, I'll let everyone know your and Mary's dirty, little secret.”

“What secret?” Mary asked.

“And what's so dirty and little about it?” I wanted to know.

“You were either brave or stupid to name your sled after Polly Pry and then to admit that your uncle was the one she saved.”

“I'm not stupid! I didn't know Polly Pry was a person. I thought it was a bird.” Okay, that sounded stupid.

“But certainly you know about your ancestors, don't you?”

“Uh, actually, I don't,” I said. “But it's history. Who cares?”

“It's family history. And family history is everything! It's who you are!” Littledood yelled and waved his arms in the air. A lady walking her dog stopped to stare.

“You're wrong, Littledood. We are not made of our family histories!” Mary yelled back.

Littledood shook his head, as if he were getting water out of his ears. “Oh my gosh! I get it now. Your own secret has been kept from you as well. You all don't even know!” He laughed wickedly.

Some people are intrigued by drama and secrecy, but me, I get bored. I really wished he'd get to the point.

“I'll give you until Monday to find out what it is, and then you can, one”—he held up one finger—“let me humiliate you by telling everyone in school. Or, two”—he held up a second finger (I knew he would)—“you can take me up on my challenge and give me the opportunity to show Golden Hill what a real hero looks like, and I'll keep your secret safe right here”—and he patted his chest with his free hand, and then held up a third finger (this guy was so predictable)—“or, three . . . Well, there is no number three. You have just two choices.”