“You have my attention,” I say as coolly as possible.
“Good,” Shelby says. “I also thought the Dark Carbuncle of Doom might be a good name, or maybe—”
“First of all, I think a carbuncle is a giant zit, so that’s a no. Let’s see these pictures first, then maybe we’ll talk names.” She hands over the envelope and I open it, my hand shaking with excitement.
Shelby does not disappoint. The pictures are more embarrassing than I could’ve hoped. The first picture in the stack is a shot of the Arch wearing a tutu and tiara and dancing with a little girl who must be a cousin or something. The photos only get worse from there.
“Where did you get these?” I ask.
She folds her arms. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me,” I say, offering the pictures back to her.
She doesn’t take them.
“Grammie and I went to a yard sale at the Norrises’ house. We bought some empty photo albums. Those were stuck in the back.”
I tuck the envelope into my backpack and force a smile at Shelby. Then I offer my hand.
“Welcome to the organization,” I say. She grins and shakes it.
I don’t actually invite her to stay for the movie, but she takes a seat next to us and I don’t do anything to stop her.
Just as the house lights dim, I look over at Moby. He isn’t smiling the way he normally does when a movie’s about to start. In fact, he doesn’t look happy at all. He must still be upset about Shelby being here. I offer him some Goobers to soften him up, but he doesn’t even look when I rattle the box.
I get home just in time for dinner.
Dad says grace and then forks the biggest piece of liver onto his plate. “What was the movie?” he asks. Of course, he’s already talked to Jarek and knows exactly what we saw.
“It was about owls saving the world.” I grab the smallest piece of liver, knowing I will have to eat the whole thing. The truth is I didn’t pay all that much attention to the movie. I was too busy figuring out ways to use my new treasure chest of resources. I drink three glasses of milk to wash the dried-out liver down my throat. It tastes like fried dirt, but the thought of ruining the Arch’s campaign tastes almost sweet enough to balance it out.
My mother catches me smiling and says, “Did you have a good day at school?”
For once I don’t have to exaggerate. “It was actually a really good day,” I say.
My mom smiles at me, then my dad. “We had a good day at the shop, too. Very busy,” she says.
“We needed a good day,” my father says. “Is not easy making ends meet.”
My uncle Stosh told me sausage is made of lips and buttholes, so I always assumed that was what my dad meant when he said “ends meat.” Now I realize it just means paying the bills when you don’t have much money, like us.
I’d rather have an extra helping of liver than hear about how things went at the shop, but I smile and act interested as I think about Mrs. Belfry’s beautiful new laptop and everything I can use it for.
My dad sees me smiling and pops my bubble. “I talked to Stanislaus today. He will need help on the potato farm this summer. Good way to build character.” Stanislaus is my dad’s brother, Jarek’s dad, who still lives in Poland. Whenever I step out of line, even a tiny bit, my dad threatens to send me there for the summer. I would rather fill my pants with ferrets than spend the summer picking potatoes in Poland.
My mom tries to change the subject. “Jarek called. He says you made a new friend today?”
Since when has Jarek become such a blabbermouth?
“I hope he is a good influence,” my father says.
A half-chewed piece of liver suddenly feels like a mouthful of rubber bands. I try to answer but can’t, and my mom beats me to it. “She,” she says.
“Huh?” my dad grunts.
“Jarek said she’s a girl.” The corner of her mouth curls in a grin.
My dad thinks it over for a minute. I know his opinions on everything from video games to comic books to discipline, but the subject of girls has never come up. He usually dislikes things first and asks questions later, just to be safe. I prepare for the lecture I’m sure I’m about to get.
But his response shocks me. “As long as she is a good influence,” he says.
They spend the rest of the meal talking about the shop and the machines they need to buy to compete against the new place a few blocks away. When my father asks how they are supposed to pay for all the new equipment, they switch to Polish for a minute. My mother forces a fake smile and says something very stern to my dad. He glances at me, and they excuse me from the table to take my bath.
“Wash your face before your dupa!” my mom yells after me, and I roll my eyes. She says it every time I take a bath, and it makes me feel like a little kid. I vow to myself that when I become an adult, at least once I will wash my dupa first.
I head upstairs, but first I stop in my parents’ room to call the McQueens. If I want to pull off the prank I have in mind, I’ll need their help.
CHAPTER 6
I ask the McQueens to meet me and Moby behind the Dumpsters the next day before school. We arrive five minutes early, and they’re already there.
I think Delvin is wearing the hat today. “Mornin’, Chub, Moby,” he says, tipping the brim of the hat. “Nice day for it.”
I nod to each of them. “Gentlemen,” I say. “Do you think you can pull off what we talked about last night?” If they can project the baby pictures of the Arch on the wall behind him as he makes his election speech, hopefully it will shame him out of running. I want them to start with the one of a naked three-year-old Archer grinning from ear to ear as the family cockapoo buries its face in his butt crack, and wrap up the slide show with the best shot of all: Archer wearing the same silly grin while marinating in a bathtub he’s just filled with brown, trout-size turds. Why do parents feel the need to take pictures like that of their kids? No good can possibly come of it.
I’m about to make sure of that.
The hatted one pushes his lower lip out and nods. “We’re up for it. Won’t be easy, though.”
What he really means is that it won’t be cheap.
“What do you need from me to pull it off in time?”
He looks back at the other two and they all grin. They know I want this and I’m willing to pay. “Two things, Chub. The first, as always, is the proper . . . motivation.”
I nod. Thanks to Mrs. Belfry’s laptop, I’ll be able to pay them pretty much whatever they want.
“And the second thing?”
“We get to do it our way.” Their way usually involves severe water damage and a custodian on the verge of a mental breakdown.
“Exactly how motivated will you need to be?”
“Not, sure,” he says. “But this is a high-profile job, lots of exposure. It’s gonna cost more than a few tardy slips.”
I wince, trying to make it look like they drive a hard bargain. The truth is I’m willing to pay as much as changing a test grade from a D to a B if that’s what they demand. I’ve looked at their files on the computer too. Darwin gets excellent grades, but Delvin and Darby have enough Ds to keep them working for me until we all graduate.
I start with a small offer. No sense giving away more than they want.
“What would you say to the disappearance of all your unexcused absences in the last term?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“And how do you propose to make that happen?”
“You have your methods,” I say, “and I have mine.”
The hat trades a quick glance with the others. They smile and nod.
“I’d say you’ve got yourself a deal, boyo.”
I hand him the envelope containing the baby pictures. The other two come in close as he opens it.
Moby speaks up for the first time all morning. “What if we—”
I shake my head. We can’t risk his input ruining another plot, not with so little time before the election.
The hatted one wipes tears of laughter from his eyes and tucks the pictures back into the envelope. “You really are evil, Chub,” he says, handing the pictures to one of the others. “When these get out, the Arch might never be able to show his face in school again.”
“Precisely,” I purr. “Precisely.”
Dad makes a lot of empty threats about a summer of potato picking in Poland. But with my anti–the Arch activity getting riskier, it’s going to happen for sure if I get caught. I need an airtight alibi when things go down during the Arch’s stump speech. I have to make sure I’m seen by lots of kids and teachers so they can’t accuse me of having anything to do with it. This plot is much more complex than dumping a bottle of soap into a tank, so I decide to give Moby the day off too. The McQueens’ services are costing enough. I’m just going to sit, make sure I’m seen so I can’t be blamed, and watch the mayhem play out.
Moby and I wait for the bleachers to fill, then slowly make our way in front of the entire student body and up the stairs.
“C’mon, Chub. Let’s get to our spot.”
“This is different, Moby,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “We want everybody to see us here.”
“Why would we want that?”
As if to prove his point, someone a few rows up calls out, “Chroooome Dooooome”—a clever reference to my bald head—which gets a few chuckles.
“See?” I put my hand on his arm to slow him down. “Trust me, it’s for our alibi.”
Moby slows, and we make the long walk together.
Nothing to see here, folks—just a pair of normal, rule-following students going to an assembly.
Halfway across the gym we cut up into the bleachers and find a spot right in the center section on the aisle. As we sit down, I glance at Moby to make sure he’s still cool. He’s staring longingly at our usual spot up by the rafters.
“Trust me, Mobe.”
He nods, but his leg bounces up and down with nerves.
The assembly starts right on time with Mr. Mayer leading the Pledge of Allegiance, then reminding us all to pay attention and be respectful of the candidates whether we agree with them or not. Something about him looks a little off. He doesn’t have the usual spring in his step or the smile he uses when he addresses the student body. He looks tired, probably from too much late-night poker. He finishes by reminding us that it’s not a popularity contest and we should vote for the person we feel will best represent our views.
I smile to myself, picturing what’s about to go down. If the pictures have the right effect, this could be the first school election in history where the right person actually does get elected, instead of the most popular.
Sherman Mills is the first candidate to give his speech. It’s more torturous than watching an adult play video games. He keeps blabbering about how we all have a responsibility to . . . something . . . something . . . something. Honestly, if a kid wants to be school treasurer so badly, I will vote for him just to get him to shut up.
Apparently, not that many kids feel like getting their butts whipped in a popularity contest today. Sherman is the only one running for treasurer, and Sam “No, I’m Really a Girl” Hardwick is the only person on the ballot for secretary. Since no one knows or cares what either of those jobs even do, it isn’t difficult keeping our applause to ourselves through their speeches.
Finally it’s time for the main event—the presidential speeches. Mr. Mayer steps to the podium and calls the Arch’s first victim.
Rooney Filbert stumbles to the stage and pulls out a stack of papers that look like something the McQueens could use to plug an entire sewer pipe. Bored from the two speeches we’ve already sat through, the whole student body groans. Rooney ignores the grumbling, smooths out her ankle-length denim skirt, and proceeds to read through the document page by mind-numbing page. She lays out her 104-point plan for banning everything containing high-fructose corn syrup from the school and protecting kids with kiwi allergies from the hidden dangers lurking in our death chamber of a cafeteria. Somewhere around point seventeen (banning digitally recorded music from school dances) Moby dozes off and I catch him before he falls face-first down the ski-jump-steep stands.
The next candidate is a surprise. The crowd gasps as Mr. Mayer calls Troy Gilder up to give his speech. Troy’s dark-brown hair is thick enough for a herd of elephants to hide in, which is reason enough for me to dislike him. Not to mention the fact that he is the Arch’s current best friend. He’s on the track team too, so I’ve always assumed he has Silly Putty between his ears, but I’m actually kind of impressed to discover he has an interest in something besides hair gel and mirrors. I realize my first instinct was correct, however, when he delivers his five-word speech.
“Free ice cream for everyone!” he screams, before doing the running man off the stage.
It doesn’t surprise me a bit when the crowd goes wild. You don’t have to be a genius to guess who’s going to get the second most votes and be vice president.
“Remember, this isn’t a popularity contest!” Mr. Mayer shouts into the mic, but the roar of applause drowns him out.
He waits for the hysteria to die down before he continues. “We have one more candidate left to speak. Don’t forget to mark your ballot and drop it in one of the boxes in the lobby on your way out. I can’t overstate the import . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . your final candidate, Archer Norris.”
There’s another round of wild applause, which dies out when the stage stays empty. The faculty look at one another in confusion as the gym goes silent.
Have my prayers been answered? Is it possible the Arch decided not to run?
Mr. Mayer is just getting to the microphone when Nate Plemmons struts onto the stage. Nate is one of the kids the Arch hangs out with.
Nate is wearing a suit that looks like it must belong to his dad or older brother because it’s way too big for him. His medium-length chestnut hair is slickly combed, and he has on a pair of dark sunglasses. He strides across the stage like a robot and stands next to the podium. A few seconds later Marlon Jenkins comes onstage dressed the same way and takes up a post opposite Nate. The two of them scan the crowd, with their hands clasped in front of them. Someone in the stands whistles and Nate tries not to laugh.
I don’t know what the Arch is up to, but this shouldn’t mess up what I have planned. Once the McQueens have Mr. Kraley out of the gym dealing with their plug job, and the AV club kids are distracted, they’ll put up the pictures Shelby gave me and it’ll be all over but the laughing.
Shelby asked to sit with Moby and me at the assembly, but it would look suspicious if a girl were suddenly sitting with us. She didn’t like it, but she agreed to sit somewhere else this time. I look around now and spot her in the crowd. She winks and touches the side of her nose with her finger. I don’t know if that’s some code only flamingo people know or what, but she keeps doing it more forcefully until I look away.
When the crowd is back to full volume, two more kids wearing suits come onstage, followed by the future student body president.
The Arch pumps his fist in the air like he’s already won the election. The crowd eats it up.
Just as he gets to the podium, someone taps me on the shoulder.
I recognize the kid’s face, but I don’t know his name. “Macky-sak?”
I cringe at the hatchet murder of my name. “It’s Maw-check,” I say slowly.
“Sorry, your dad’s on the student phone. He says it’s an emergency.”
My first thought is that maybe Uncle Stan called from Poland to tell my dad that he’d lost the family’s potato farm, but they wouldn’t call me at school to tell me that. I don’t want to miss the Arch’s most embarrassing moment, but for my parents to call like this, it has to be super important. I follow the kid down the stairs and out to the gym’s lobby, where the student phone is. As I pass through the doors, I hear the Arch say, “My fellow students, I know you all have better things to do than sit here and listen
to another boring speech—” Then the doors close behind me, chopping off the rest of what he says.
The phone is on the far side of the gym’s lobby, behind the tables with the ballot boxes where everyone will place their votes after the speeches. I rush to the phone, a sick feeling in my stomach.
I pick up the dangling phone. “Hello?”
“Chub?” It’s not my dad. The voice on the other end of the call is filtered through some sort of electronic voice changer.
“Yes.” The noise coming from the gym has changed. What was applause when the doors shut behind me now sounds more like . . . yelling.
The voice is silent. Shouts and catcalls come from the gym. Have the McQueens started the slide show without me? Even if they have, this isn’t the reaction I expected. Laughter maybe, not screams.
I shout into the receiver. “Hello!”
No reply.
I look through the small window in one of the doors to the gym. Nobody is in their seats. The assembly is out of control. Maybe the prank not only destroyed the Arch’s popularity, but caused the entire popularity vortex to implode, leaving the school in chaos?
I’m about to hang up the phone and get a better look when the voice speaks again. “Have you ever played chess?”
I look at the phone and then into the gym. “Chess?” I mumble.
“Checkmate.” There is a click and the line goes dead.
I drop the phone and run to the doors, but they’re locked. All I can do is peer at the chaos inside.
The Arch is still on the stage, trying to keep the crowd calm. His fake Secret Service agents surround him, forming a human shield between their candidate and the crowd. The rotten-egg smell of stink bombs seeps out from under the doors.
A kid runs out of the crowd and onto the stage. His hoodie is drawn tight, and his face is covered by a grinning white mask with a pencil-thin mustache and goatee on it.
I Am Fartacus Page 5
