101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies

by Lee Wardlaw

  “Whoop-pee-doo.” Pierre flicked his beret into the air. “Everyone at zee Wyatt ’ouse eez fine. Let us not concern ourselves wis such minor zings as zee cake. Zee cake zat eez now not even fit for Heecup’s dogs!”

  Goldie rolled her eyes. “Puh-LEEZ! The Dynamic Duo of Doggy Garbage Disposals? Pierre, you’ve been so AWOL lately, you haven’t heard what they gobbled this time.” She tossed her mane of golden hair and sent Hic a smug smile. “I’m sure Sneeze hasn’t heard yet either. Has he, Hiccup?”

  Hic’s freckles blanched. “Ahem, alas, D and D continue to deserve their omnivorous reputation. Yesterday, Dasher dined on the pink pom-poms of our toilet seat cover—”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “—and Dancer discovered the D section of my Disease Encyclopedia, gnawing from Diaper Rash to Dumdum Fever.”

  “That’s not what I—wait, is that a dunce disease?” Goldie asked.

  Ace plucked an invisible hair from his shirt. “You would know.”

  Goldie stomped another hoof.

  “Dumdum Fever,” Hiccup quoted. “A parasitic infection, transmitted by sandfly, that—”

  Hayley pulled me aside. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. Her eyes searched mine, but the SOS had softened. “That was an impressive sneeze. I’ve never seen one of yours do that before.” She pointed with the cake server. A dollop of meringue plopped onto my shoe. “Argh!”

  “No worries.” I took the stack of napkins she thrust at me. We bent to wipe—

  CLUNK.

  “Ow!”

  “Ow!”

  She clutched her forehead. I clutched my nose. It hurt like crazy. But it also felt . . . nice. Not the clunking part. Her skin on mine.

  My cheeks flooded hot again.

  “Sorry about this,” Hayley muttered, gesturing at my shoe, then at the Bickersons. “The party was supposed to be just you, me, and Hic. I took extra precautions to keep it secret. But as always, Goldie found out—I swear she learned wiretapping at camp!—and she blabbed to Pierre, who blabbed to Ace—” She sighed. “Sorry. I’m not very good at throwing parties.”

  “And I’m not very good at going to parties.”

  “Huh,” she said, but flinched a smile.

  “Anyway, I don’t mind them,” I went on. “Much.”

  Yeah, Goldie and Pierre bug the boogers out of me sometimes. Ha. Most times. We’d been thrown together last year for a couple of school projects, so now they assumed we were comrades-in-arms. More like comrades-in-calamity. But Ace was cool. (Despite a disquieting habit of appearing and disappearing without reason or warning.) And you couldn’t find a truer, bluer pal than Hiccup. He’d been my best bud since toddler-hood. (Okay, my only bud till I met Hayley.) I was used to his eccentricities. He was used to mine.

  Besides, the longer everyone bickered, the longer it would take them to remember the Invention Convention®.

  “Sneeze, I’m dying to get the scoop on the Invention Convention®!”

  Pen poised, Goldie perched on the desk a mere millimeter from where Ace lounged. He observed her with a detached annoyance she pretended not to see. “You promised me an exclusive interview, so spill it! I want . . . information.”

  “Uh . . .” I said.

  “How much moola will you get for the Nice Alarm? Will it be for sale in time for Christmas? Will you share any profits with your loyal supporters?”

  “Uh . . .”

  I glanced at Hayley. Huge mistake. Her SOS powered up. Locked on target.

  Uh-oh.

  She knew. I knew that she knew. Just like she always knows when something with me is Not. Quite. Right.

  Goldie tapped her foot. Goldie tapped her pen. Goldie tapped her foot and her pen. She’s a one-woman percussion band, that Goldie.

  “WELL?” she demanded.

  “Cake!” Hayley said. “Time to eat cake!” She shot Goldie a you-weren’t-even-invited-so-don’t-argue-with-me look, then hacked out a huge hunk of Pierre’s former masterpiece and plunged in her fork.

  Goldie gagged. Hiccup choked. Ace shrugged. Pierre whispered, “You are zee cray-zee woman!”

  Hayley eyed them with defiance and shoveled the mess into her mouth. Crumbs avalanched down her chin.

  “Dee-licious!” she said, smacking her lips.

  I’d known Hayley for more than a year. We’d been through a lot together. But in that instant, I saw her as if for the First Time: the bobbed, blond hair curled in a C behind one ear. The ice-cream-cold blue eyes. Her smooth skin, brown-sugary from a summer of sun. And her expression: It was a dare. A challenge. A choice that declared: I know who I am. I like who I am. Even if you don’t.

  My heart raced the fifty-yard dash—in flip-flops. It slapped against my ribs. Stumbled into my lungs.

  “Sneeze?” Hic’s voice. “Are you unwell?”

  I couldn’t breathe. My legs felt wobbly. My toes and fingers, numb.

  “He can’t be sick.” Goldie. “He didn’t eat any cake!”

  Pierre. “Zen why dust ’ee look like zat?”

  Hayley gripped my arm. “What’s wrong? Do you know what’s wrong?”

  I nodded. I knew. I knew as I watched her chew.

  It was love at first bite.

  Chapter Three

  A white meteor whizzed through the open window, streaked past my face, and plunked dead center into the Nice Alarm cake.

  I jolted from my trance. “What the—?”

  Hayley reached into the chocolatey crater and dug out . . .

  . . . a golf ball.

  “Fore!” someone shouted from outside, followed by raucous laughter.

  Fists clenched, Hayley strode from the office. Goldie trailed her, singsonging: “This is gon-na be goo-ood!”

  No, this was gon-na be mes-sy. Hayley has a take-no-prisoners attitude when it comes to “hoodlum horseplay” at Gadabout.

  Pierre and I thundered after them.

  “Shall I fetch the first aid kit?” Hiccup yelled.

  “Find Mr. Barker,” I hollered over my shoulder. “Hurry!”

  He nodded and darted out the back.

  We spotted Hayley standing atop Hole #1, the North Pole. Her SOS swept the course like a prison spotlight, searching for The Culprit.

  My breath caught. My heart galumphed. My brain swirled upward with the candy cane stripes of the barber pole.

  Hayley was . . . beautiful. The late-afternoon sun hung behind her, reflecting off the “snow,” shooting dazzling sword-rays at us. She stood straight and proud like Joan of Arc in a painting I’d seen once.

  She stretched out an arm. Her fist uncurled and she displayed on her open palm the chocolate golf ball. “Who. Is. Responsible,” she asked.

  No answer.

  A moat frog burped. The revolving vanes on the Windmill squeaked.

  Hayley’s penetrating SOS moved from one group of Gadabout players to the next. I was tempted to spill my guts about the Invention Convention® right then and there. Her SOS has that effect.

  Then she spotted them: four guys, all lanky, blond, and bronzed; all hacking balls from beneath a canopy of fake ferns at Hole #8, The Bungled Jungle.

  Goldie gaped. “Omigosh, do you know who they are?”

  “Quadruplets?” mused Ace, meandering over to join us.

  Goldie rolled her eyes, but he could’ve been right. They wore identical, burgundy-colored short-sleeved knit shirts (with collars), belted khaki slacks (perfectly creased), and matching burgundy caps (emblazoned PHHSVGT ).

  “Wow,” Goldie breathed. “I wonder what they’re doing here.”

  “Let me take a stab,” Ace said. “Playing mini-golf?”

  “Not unless they’re slumming. That’s the Patrick Henry High School Varsity Golf Team! But I wonder where he is.”

  ’Ee ’oo?” Pierre asked.

  Hayley, her chin tipped in anger, advanced toward the team.

  Rats. No sign yet of her dad or Hiccup.

  “C’mon,” I said, tugging Pierre’s sleeve. “
I know a shortcut.”

  I led them through the Enchanted Forest. We skirted Little Red Riding Hood and huffed and puffed past the Big Bad Wolf, then trekked a steep, mossy knoll, halting behind Hayley just as she demanded, “Did you guys hit this?”

  The blondest guy, whose sun-bleached hair poked from beneath his cap like scarecrow straw, didn’t bother to look at her. “What is it?”

  His teammates cracked up.

  Hayley snorted. “What do you think it is?”

  “A mutant Milk Dud?”

  More cracking.

  “Huh. That’s because you hit it through Gadabout’s office window and it landed in a cake.”

  Scarecrow high-fived his buds. “Hole-in-one! What do I win?”

  Hayley’s SOS narrowed. “A one-way ticket out of here.”

  “I don’t think so. We still have nine lame-o holes to play.” Scarecrow teed up another ball. Swooop. It ricocheted off Big Ben with a BOIINNNG.

  Now my fists clenched. Last spring I spent two tedious hours untangling a Medusa-like rat nest from inside Ben’s head.

  Sic ’em, Hayley. Sic ’em good.

  “Surrender your clubs now,” she demanded. “Or else—”

  “Eh, brah.” From within the camouflage of vines emerged the imposing shadow of a god. When it stepped into full sun, I saw it belonged to an imposing god-like guy. He wore a loose tank top, baggy shorts, and flip-flops, and in one massive hand he twirled a golf club as easily as a majorette’s baton. “Dis game pau,” he said. “We go, eh?”

  “Holy aloha!” Goldie jabbed me with a sharp elbow. “It’s him.”

  “’Im ’oo?” Pierre said.

  “Cullen Fu Hanson!”

  Had her voice blushed?

  “He transferred this summer from Punahou High,” Goldie whispered. “That’s in Honolulu. You know, Honolulu, Hawaii.”

  “I’ve heard of Hawaii, Goldie,” I muttered.

  “With him on the team, they’ll make it to the state championship for sure. The scoop is he’s the next Tiger Woods!”

  More like Grizzly Woods. The guy reared big as a bear. He obviously spent a lot of hours hoisting weights—or palm trees. The only dainty part of him was a triangle of black whiskers sprouting beneath his lower lip. Around his neck dangled a shark’s tooth—or maybe his own tooth. No matter. It was pointy.

  Goldie gushed: “The high school girls call him Cullen Fu Handsome. Isn’t he a dreamsicle?”

  Ace studied his fingernails. “What flavor?”

  “What’s your hurry, Cull?” Scarecrow was saying. “I thought you were still on island time.”

  Another swoooop. The ball rocketed into the beak of a plastic toucan.

  “Bless my Froot Loops,” Scarecrow shouted. “A birdie!”

  The team hooted and crowed.

  Cullen the Bear shrugged. Pecs, triceps, and abs rippled. Man, even his earlobes had muscles.

  “It’s your okole,” he said. “But I stay pau with dis game of jungle ball.”

  Jungle ball!

  Goldie sucked a gasp. Ace swallowed a yawn.

  “Shee will let zem ’ave eet now, oui?” Pierre asked.

  “Definitely oui,” I said, and waited.

  But Hayley didn’t. She just stood there, eyes wide, glazed.

  Glazed with . . . what? I’d seen that expression before—but on whom and why? Was it apprehension? Fear? Had Hayley finally met her match?

  A strange force surged inside my chest. I felt powerful. Invincible. I knew what I must do.

  Protect Hayley. Protect Gadabout.

  My feet sloshed across the swamp. My hands karate-chopped vines. I stalked toward Scarecrow and Cullen and glared up, up, up into their faces, and said, “Um . . . cut it out, you guys, okay?”

  Scarecrow and his three look-alikes examined me—up and down and up again. Then they burst out laughing.

  “What if we don’t cut it out?” Scarecrow taunted. “You gonna fight us, Little Big Nose?”

  “Yeah.” I snatched a putter from the nearest crony and brandished it.

  “Yeah?” His putter clashed sword-like against mine with a hard clank.

  I lashed my arm the opposite way. So did he. Club met club again. And again. Clash, clank. Clash, clank.

  “Don’t!” Hayley cried.

  “Oooo!” Goldie squealed, scribbling into her notepad. “Do!”

  Ace intoned, “Stephen. Use your brain.”

  Yikes! He was right. (Clash. Clank.) What was I doing? I was no swashbuckler. No musketeer. Plus, there were five of these guys. Seven, actually, because Cullen counted as three.

  “On second thought”—the putter went limp in my hands—“I don’t care to fight after all.”

  “Didn’t think so.” With the toe of his club, Scarecrow beeped my sore schnoz. The pressure made it tickle.

  And tingle.

  And itch.

  “AH-CHOOO!”

  Scarecrow eyed the string of goo dangling from his putter. With a sneer of disgust, he scraped it off on the grass. “You’re all nose, kid,” he said. “No guts. No glory. Just—snot.”

  The team laughed again. Not Cullen. He stood twirling his club, watching me. Waiting. Waiting for what?

  Scarecrow teed up again, aiming for—

  NoOhNoOhNo. Not Pisa! One whack and it would belly flop for sure . . .

  I had to distract him. Stop him.

  But how?

  Not with “swords.” Not even with boogers . . .

  “Excuse me, Mr. Golf Guy!” I hollered. “Is that the best you can do?”

  He glanced at Pisa. Glanced at the ball. “Whaddya mean?”

  “If you’re going to insult my body parts, why not do it with style. Wit. Intelligence. Oh, I forgot! Those are the exact qualities you’re lacking.”

  “OoooOOOOOoooo!” his team chorused.

  Cullen smothered a grin.

  Scarecrow straightened, face red. He pointed his club at me. “Now look here, you little snot—”

  “There you go again.” I shook my head. “Wasting a great opportunity.”

  “You could do better, punk?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Prove it.”

  “Certainly! Here’s what you could’ve said about my nose.”

  I mused a moment. Stroked my chin. Began to circle him slowly and said:

  “Superstitious: If I walk under it, am I cursed with seven years bad luck?

  “Countrified: I grew one o’ them zucchini back in ’86. Won first prize at the county fair!

  “Descriptive: It’s a cave! A cavern! Studded with boogers like stalactites and stalagmites!

  “Anthropological: Behold—the sarcophagus of King Tut!

  “Friendly: I play trombone in the marching band too. Want to practice together sometime?

  “Disappointed: ‘Oh, Pinocchio,’ wailed the Blue Fairy. ‘You’ve been telling lies again.’”

  Goldie giggled. Someone choked on a chortle. I circled Scarecrow faster and faster as my words and confidence flowed.

  “Educational: Students, rising before you stands Mount Vesuvius, the volcano that destroyed the ancient Roman city Pompeii.

  “Festive: A few antlers here, a bell or two there, and presto! Rudolph’s understudy!

  “Mythical: Fee, fie, foe, fum! Does it smell the blood of an Englishman?

  “Rude: Disneyland called. They want their Matterhorn back.

  “Horrified: My God! Elephant Man lives!

  “Curious: Does it hold your iPod and your laptop?

  “Dramatic: When it runs with the common cold—Niagara Falls!

  “Enterprising: The perfect logo for the Snoops ‘R’ Us Detective Agency!

  “Poetic: I thought that I would never see

  A beak as large as Tennessee.

  Yet I was wrong

  For here it grows—

  Our fifty-first state: Stephen’s nose!”

  I halted. Struck a pose offering an unobstructed view of my chaffed proboscis, a proud roc
ket thrusting toward the sky.

  Cullen Fu Hanson laughed, his straight teeth agleam against his dark skin. He tucked his club beneath one arm and slapped his hands together. The wide palms made a popping sound as he began to applaud. Everyone (even Ace, who is too cool) joined in. Scarecrow’s face darkened from cherry punch to roasted eggplant.

  “S-snot-nosed p-punk!” he sputtered. “Geek! Nerd!”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I answered, bowing. “Stephen J. Wyatt, at your service.”

  Chapter Four

  “Why you little—” Scarecrow lunged, putter swept high. “That nose of yours is history. A goner. A whoosher!”

  I didn’t know what a “whoosher” was, but I caught his drift.

  I stepped backward—

  tripped—

  and tumbled into the Swamp.

  Two inches of tepid green slime seeped over my body. My head lay cradled in the grin of Crikey the Crocodile. His gaping maw smelled of rotting algae and Trix cereal that’s been soaking in rotting algae.

  Clubs raised, Scarecrow and his cronies loomed, blotting out the sun.

  I clenched my eyes. Waited for the excruciating impact.

  “Stephen!” Hayley cried.

  Wow, I thought in a haze of fetid fumes. She cares.

  “Nuff already,” said Cullen Fu Hanson.

  I peeked through one eye. Cullen had grabbed the toe of Scarecrow’s club. Scarecrow clung to the handle. The two of them engaged in a brief tug-o’-war. I say brief because if Scarecrow hung on much longer, he’d lose an arm.

  “Why, boddah you?” Cullen asked.

  Scarecrow scowled. “You bet it bothers me. And if you don’t let go, I’ll tell Coach you threatened me! With your black record—”

  Cullen opened his massive paw, releasing the club. Scarecrow almost keeled over, clutching his prize. The team snickered.

  I tried to ooze from the swamp, but Crikey the Crocodile’s lone tooth snagged my ear.

  “What is going on here?”

  The question blared like a trumpet. The cavalry, at last! I recognized the scent of Mr. Barker’s coconut sunscreen.

  “Hello down there, Steve. Welcome home!” he said, his voice filling with easy warmth. “What’s this, first day back and already lying around on the job? And for this I pay you the big bucks?” He laughed, jingling coins in his pocket.

  “Yep, you sure do,” I said, forcing a smile. I moved to sit up, but Crikey’s tooth bit deeper. My head whirled with pain. The faded palm trees on Mr. Barker’s aloha shirt danced a hula.