101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies

by Lee Wardlaw

  “Are you all right? What happened to your nose?” Mr. Barker faced Scarecrow & Co. “Gentlemen, I’ll ask once more: What is going on here?”

  Scarecrow smoothed his scowl. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “My teammates and I were just playing a few holes, when this punk—”

  Mr. Barker held up a hand. “This punk happens to be a valued employee at Gadabout.”

  (I was, in fact, the only employee.)

  “I meant no disrespect, sir. This youngster charged at me with—”

  “If you’ve hurt him . . .” Mr. Barker’s words trailed a threat.

  “We didn’t do anything to him,” Scarecrow insisted.

  “Yet,” Ace murmured.

  “Zey meant to tenderize Sneeze like zee tough steak!” Pierre said. “To mince ’im like zee onion! To crack ’im like zee egg! To—”

  “Is this true, Peach?” Mr. Barker asked.

  Hayley blinked. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

  “In addition,” announced a voice behind me, “they were whacking balls hither and yon, a most dangerous form of amusement.”

  I’d never heard Hiccup speak with such strength and confidence. And why wasn’t he gasping? His usual idea of a workout is taking his own blood pressure. Scurrying to fetch Mr. Barker should’ve exhausted him.

  “A golf ball, on impact, could inflict ocular trauma,” Hiccup said. “Or a life-threatening injury called diffuse axonal.”

  “Is that a lumberjack’s disease?” Goldie asked, still scribbling notes.

  “I’ve heard enough.” Mr. Barker jerked a thumb toward the exit. “You five: Out. Now. Don’t come back.”

  “We demand a refund!” Scarecrow said.

  “Break the rules, forfeit the cash.”

  “You can’t treat me this way! I’m the captain of the Patrick Henry High School Varsity Golf Team!”

  “I don’t give a golf ball’s dimple. But your coach might if he has to bail you boys out of jail. And that’s exactly where you’ll be if I catch any of you on my property again.”

  “Fat chance we’d want to come back to this pit,” Scarecrow said with a sneer. “We’re gone.”

  His triplets stepped over me one by one, their cleats barely skimming past my schnoz.

  Scarecrow stepped last. Then he shoved his face so close to mine his peppermint breath stung my eyes. “This isn’t over, Snot Boy,” he said. “I’ll teach you to keep your nose out of my business!”

  Just once couldn’t a bully say: Whatever was I thinking? Sorry for the inconvenience. I shan’t bother you again.

  “Leave the clubs,” Mr. Barker called.

  The clubs dropped. Cullen the Bear twirled his putter between two fingers before handing it to Hayley.

  “Sorry.” He jerked his head at Scarecrow. “He one haole moke.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, the syllables as glazed as her eyes.

  He ambled after the team and through Gadabout’s gates.

  “That’s that!” Mr. Barker brushed imaginary dust from his hands. “How’d I do, Peach? Aren’t you proud of your old man?”

  Hayley’s dad is well known for going too easy on players who ignore Gadabout’s rules. That’s why, three years ago, after her mom died in a car accident, Hayley acquired the SOS—and her reputation for giving zilch.

  “Mm,” she said, seemingly transfixed by the club in her hands. “Oh, yes, Daddy.” She hugged him. “You did great standing up to those goons.”

  What about me? Hadn’t I stood up to them too?

  “A little help here!” I said. “Hayley? Hic? Somebody?”

  Mr. Barker unhooked my ear, then pulled me from the swamp. I swayed, clutching his arm, dripping sludge. I sneezed. Three shades of green—pea soup, pippin apple, and Japanese jade—shot out both nostrils.

  Pierre grimaced. “You look like zee coleslaw.”

  “With rancid mayo,” observed Ace.

  “I’ve got the perfect headline!” Goldie said. “Hawaiian God Meets Grotesque Geek from Green Lagoon.”

  “If he met the naegleria fowleri amoeba in that alleged lagoon,” Hiccup warned, “he could expire within three to seven days.”

  “Hit the showers, Sneeze,” Mr. Barker said. “I’ll loan you a pair of shorts and shirt to change into.”

  Hayley and her dad live in a loft above an old surf wax factory, next to Gadabout.

  “Thanks, no thanks!” I was embarrassingly aware that I might have to use Hayley’s bathroom, Hayley’s shower, Hayley’s soap. “I’ve gotta get home.”

  “Need a lift?”

  “I have my bike.”

  “I insist on accompanying you, Sneeze,” Hic said, “in the event you develop seizures, confusion, headache . . .”

  Ha. Couldn’t fool me. He just longed to see Mom.

  “Tomorrow’s Labor Day,” Mr. Barker said. “Any chance of getting a little labor out of you, Steve? We’re three months behind on maintenance.”

  “Sure! I already started a mental fix-it list.”

  “Have you, now?”

  “And while I was gone, I took the liberty of sketching a hydraulic system for Pisa. It should jack up the tower to its original slant.”

  “Thoughtful of you, but I’m afraid that kind of repair work will have to wait a bit longer,” Mr. Barker said. “Money’s tighter than usual. See you tomorrow.” Whistling, he waved and walked toward the loft, coins jangling in his pocket.

  “Eye regret zat eye too must depart,” Pierre said. “Keep zee leftover cake, ’ayley. And pleeze—burn zee plate.” He clicked his heels, kissed her hand, and skedaddled.

  Hayley wiped her hand on her shorts. “Guess the party’s over.”

  “Where’s Pierre sprinting off to again in such a hurry?” Goldie mused, tapping her teeth with her pen. “He’s been MIA all summer.”

  “Pastry camp?” Hiccup guessed.

  “Nope! I checked. Here’s the scoop: His family is practically bankrupt. Mr. Noel’s fast-food joint, Lickety-Split Chick, is a ginormous money pit. And Mrs. Noel lost bazillions on her health food bakery. No surprise there. Spinach brownies and tofu donuts? Oh, gag.” She snapped shut her notepad. “See you all at school on Tuesday. Sneeze, you still owe me that exclusive. I’ll be in touch.” With a flip of her golden hair, she turned on her heel and flounced off.

  I tossed my bike lock key to Hic. “Saddle us up, will ya, pardner? I want to talk to Hayley a sec.”

  “Time is of the essence where naegleria fowleri is concerned.”

  I gave him a Look.

  “Going now,” he said, and went.

  “You too,” I said to Ace, who was pinching leaves from a Tarzan vine. He lifted an eyebrow, lingered a moment like he was going to say something to Hayley, then sauntered away.

  Hayley and I stood there, alone.

  Too alone.

  Quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked finally.

  I tried not to think about the fact that I was smelly and green, and said, “I just wanted to thank you again for the party. And—”

  I gulped. I felt like I had one of Dancer and Dasher’s rubber chew toys stuck in my throat.

  Hayley crossed her arms. “And?”

  “And, I wanted to say, I missed”—I gestured at Gadabout, but a different word flew from my mouth—“you.”

  She snorted. “You couldn’t have missed me that much. You were gone three months and never sent a letter. Never wrote an e-mail. Not even a stupid postcard! And I know you had things to say.”

  Her SOS honed in on my face. No doubt she meant the convention. I prepared to surrender, to reveal all. But the SOS vanished. Hayley’s eyes glazed again. Where had I seen that look before?

  She turned and methodically filled her arms with the discarded clubs, placing Cullen’s gently on top.

  Then she whirled on me and blurted, “And for goodness golf tees! What were you thinking, sword fighting with the clubs like that?”

  “What?
”

  “You know better than anyone those shenanigans are unacceptable at Gadabout!”

  “Hayley, I was trying to protect Gadabout. Protect you!”

  “We don’t need protection.” She strode to the office.

  What was going on? Earlier, she seemed happy to see me. Now she acted like she never wanted to see me again.

  I trotted to keep pace, my sneakers squelching swamp juice. “Are you mad because I didn’t write? You know I hate writing.”

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  True. A year ago, in summer school, I’d written a funny instruction manual called 101 Ways to Bug Your Parents. Last spring I’d written the sequel, 101 Ways to Bug Your Teacher, for another school “project.”

  “If you mean my books,” I said, “they don’t count. I wrote those for personal reasons. Important reasons.”

  Hayley glared.

  Geez, what had I said wrong now?

  “Good-bye,” she said, wrenching open the office door.

  “Fine. Good-bye!” No, that wasn’t what I wanted to say. “Thanks again for the party. It was great.”

  Another snort.

  “No, really.”

  “No problem.”

  “Hayley. Wait.”

  We faced each other. She, beautiful and angry. Me, smelly and green.

  Should I hug her?

  No, Sneeze. You’re smelly and green.

  Should I kiss her on the cheek?

  NO, Sneeze. You’re smelly and green.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t.” I thrust out my hand. For a brief second, I felt the lovely snag of her calloused finger. Then her hand jerked from mine, trailing a stringy, slimy strand of moss. She wiped it on her shorts the same way she’d wiped off Pierre’s kiss.

  I wanted to shrink to the size of a golf ball. Roll myself into the Bottomless Pit.

  Instead, cheeks blazing, I turned and slunk through the rusty gates of Gadabout Golf.

  Chapter Five

  “Let’s go,” I said to Hiccup through cringed teeth.

  “See you Tuesday, Hayley!” he called with a vigorous wave. He buckled his helmet. “And it would behoove you to check the pH levels of the Swamp—”

  “Hiccup, I said let’s go.”

  “—acid/alkaline imbalances may create teeming cesspools of—”

  “NOW.”

  He gaped at me. “But the Health Department warns—”

  I pushed off on my bike with a fierceness that made the tires spit gravel.

  He hurried to follow. “Your face is red. Perhaps you’ve been exposed to scarlet fever. Or the ‘slapped face’ virus.”

  “I’m not sick, Hic.”

  “Lupus also manifests—”

  “Give it a rest, okay?”

  “You’re flushed! I’m endeavoring to diagnose the problem!”

  “You are the problem!” I banged a fist on my handlebars. “Man, you bug me bonkers sometimes. Can’t you ever talk about anything besides death, disease, and destruction? And what part of ‘let’s go’ didn’t you understand?”

  I spurted onto the road, not caring that I left Hic in my dust. I careened corners. Wove between cars. Pumped like crazy till my legs cramped, my lungs burned, and my cheeks radiated a heat that didn’t come from embarrassment.

  Exhausted, I slowed to a coast. The breeze cooled my sweaty face and stiffened my jeans. An aroma of baked bog tickled my nose and I sneezed. Four times.

  I heard a rattling. Hic and his hand-me-down bike pulled alongside. He stared straight ahead, lips pursed over his braces in a classic “silent treatment.” That’s another thing that bugs me about him. When he’s angry, why doesn’t he just admit it? Rant and rave and wave his arms like normal people?

  Huh. Probably because if he tried that at home, his five older brothers would pound him.

  We rode block after block, the silence thickening.

  “Sorry, Hic,” I said when I couldn’t stand it anymore. “I didn’t mean it.”

  He let slip a smile. “Irritability is not one of your traits. Nor is it a symptom of the naegleria. May I assume something irritating happened at Gadabout?”

  “Yeah. Hayley happened.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “What’s to elaborate? Hayley and I had a weird conversation, is all.”

  “Define weird.”

  “I don’t know, Hic! You know. Just . . . weird weird.”

  “Hmmmmm,” he said.

  “I see,” said he.

  Then: “Ah-ha!” He halted, brakes squealing, tires skidding.

  “What’s wrong?” I yanked a U-turn. “Flat tire? Chain fall off?”

  “You like her!” he shouted.

  “What?” I almost toppled off my bike. “Who?”

  “Hayley, who!”

  “Shhhhhhh! Not so loud!” I waited till three cars whizzed past, then muttered, “Hayley’s my boss. My friend. Of course I like her.”

  “No, you like like her!” Hiccup grinned like a madman.

  “When will you confess to her your affections?”

  He was a madman. Any second, he’d start frothing at the mouth. Drooling into his pocket.

  “I’m not telling Hayley anything! What if she laughed at me? Or threw up on my shoes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Hayley is not the type to regard regurgitation as an effective means of communication.”

  He had a point.

  “Besides, she likes you too.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I witnessed it. When you were fencing words with that goon. Her face radiated fear—and pride.”

  “Yeah, right.” But a scrap of hope fluttered in my chest. “Really?”

  “MM never lies.” Hiccup flashed Medicine Man’s sign for Truth, Justice, and Vitamin C for all.

  I gazed west toward Gadabout. The sun slipped between the tips of the eucalyptus trees, striping the street with burnt-pumpkin shadows.

  Stephen!

  Hayley had shouted my name the instant Scarecrow tried to tee-off my nose. Yeah, there’d been worry in her voice. Yet, minutes later, she’d practically fired me. And then—

  “You will tell her?” Hiccup asked.

  I jerked my head at the memory of Hayley wiping off my mossy handshake.

  “No way, Hic. Nope. No. Never. I mean, what would a beautiful, brilliant girl like Hayley see in a chapped-nose geek like me?”

  Hic bristled. “Do not accept that golf goon’s estimation! You are a talented wordsmith, a faithful friend, a brilliant inventor—”

  “HA!” I shoved my bike onto the sidewalk, tore off my helmet, and threw it onto a gopher hole.

  Hiccup followed, clattering over the curb. “Sneeze, what exactly transpired at the Invention Convention®?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “This does not solely concern Hayley, does it? MM’s X-ray vision reveals difficulties with the Nice Alarm. Also, that you are in desperate need of ”—he made a mechanical noise while examining my butt—“new underpants.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Medicine Man has X-ray vision?”

  “In actuality, no. Today’s sophisticated superheroes are endowed with CAT scan capabilities. Incidentally, your right sock has sustained a hole in the vicinity of the littlest piggy.”

  I dropped my bike, grabbed him in a headlock, ripped off his helmet, and knuckled his carrot hair with noogies. He yelped. Then, in a maneuver worthy of Houdini, he escaped, twisting my arm behind my back.

  “My clavicles!” I groaned.

  He froze. “Your what?”

  “Gotcha!” I aimed to elbow him in the stomach.

  With a sharp cry that sounded like kee-yap, his ankle hooked mine—and jerked. I toppled, dragging him with me. We thudded onto the grass, laughing like loonies in a painful jumble of punches and spokes, legs, and gears.

  “Impressive,” I admitted when we untangled ourselve
s.

  “Where did you learn that stuff, a ninja correspondence course? Or from your brothers?”

  He folded his arms beneath his head and grinned at the leaf awning above us. “I acquired my self-defense techniques in a hapkido class to protect myself from my brothers.”

  I jolted upright. “You? Mr. Don’t-Breathe-on-Me-Because-I-Might-Bruise, taking martial arts?”

  “Six days a week, three hours a day, the entire duration of your absence.”

  “No wonder you’re in such great shape! Can you break a board with your bare hands?”

  “And my bare feet.”

  “Without getting a splinter?”

  “I carry tweezers, just in case.”

  “Hiccup, this is huge! Why didn’t you tell me? We’re best friends!”

  “Why haven’t you told me about the Invention Convention®? We’re best friends!”

  Ouch. Or should I say: Touché.

  Hiccup knew all too well about the endless hours I’d spent toiling on the Nice Alarm. He was the alarm’s first test subject, an experiment that nearly resulted in a nose amputation—his.

  He knew too about the endless hours I’d toiled at Gadabout, scrimping and saving every dollar to pay for the convention. He actually overcame his fear of rust long enough to sand the corroded sluice at Hole #10, the Abandoned Gold Mine—presenting me with his meager wages.

  Then there was 101 Ways to Bug Your Parents, the book I wrote in summer school last year and hawked from the boys’ bathroom at Jefferson Elementary. Hiccup’s last-minute wacky cartoons were what made the cover eye-catching, each page hilarious. I could’ve sold thousands of copies and used the proceeds to attend the convention a whole year earlier—if the book hadn’t been confiscated by the school board and practically gotten our sixth-grade teacher fired. (But that’s another story.)

  Hiccup deserved to know. He’d earned the right to know. So I told him. About marching through the great glass doors of the convention center in San Francisco, the Nice Alarm tick-ticking as proudly, eagerly as my shoes on the polished linoleum floor . . .

  About shaking hands with Mr. Sterling Patterson, president of Patterson Novelty Enterprises: the man who answered my query letter requesting a demonstration, who’d considered mass-producing my invention . . .