101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies

by Lee Wardlaw

  He flinched, eyes red.

  “So where are they now?” I demanded. “What did you do with their bodies? Tell me you didn’t”—my voice broke—“flush them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” He was aghast. “I planned a proper burial. Composed a requiem: ‘Ode to the Inventor’s Fish.’ But before I could begin the ceremony, another catastrophe occurred. Dasher, or maybe Dancer—”

  My heart squirmed. “Oh, no.”

  Hic released a long, shuddering breath. “After I scooped the Guys from the aquarium—deceased fish decay rapidly, you know—I relocated them to a sterile dish while I searched for a suitable coffin. But the bleach fumes triggered a fainting spell. I put my head between my legs for a second, two at the most, and while distracted, Dasher or Dancer”—he choked—“slurped the Guys up.”

  I felt sick. Tears welled in my eyes. I faced the wall again. I couldn’t bear the sight of him. “Go home, Hector.”

  “May I get you a glass of water? A cup of soothing chamomile tea?”

  “Good-bye, Hector.”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be best for now.” He covered me with a blanket. Switched off the light. “May I call tomorrow to check on you?”

  I didn’t answer. Just clenched my eyes and wished him away.

  “Sneeze?”

  “Don’t. Bother.”

  He made an odd sound like a cough-choke. “I said I was sorry! I loved the Guys too! And I took expert care of them every single day for almost three months until—well, at least you could say thank you for that!”

  “Thanks,” I hissed into my pillow, “for nothing.”

  Chapter Eight

  I jolted awake.

  What time is it? Where are we? Still on the road . . . ?

  A frayed edge of satin tickled my cheek like my blanket at home. The familiar scent of WD-40, oozing from well-oiled inventions, lingered in my pillow.

  But I didn’t hear the soothing burble of my aquarium. And I couldn’t see the Guys, their iridescent scales disco-dancing under the tank light.

  A faint warning bell rang deep inside my head.

  My heart revved. I groped for the bedside lamp. Squinted in the glare.

  Whew.

  I was home after all, surrounded, comforted by the gadgets I’d invented over the last ten years. Contraptions spilled from my closet, filled my shelves: the Keep Kool Baseball Kap with attached mini-sprinkler... See to Pee, the glow-in-the-dark toilet seat . . . Lazy Lick, an electronic ice-cream-cone holder... Cut ’n’ Putt, the golf club that trims your lawn as you play.

  And the Nice Alarm.

  Mom or Dad must’ve brought it from the kitchen after Hic left and I fell asleep. It hunched on my dresser, merrily informing me of the time: 5:30 a.m.

  I yawned, flopping on my side toward the aquarium. “Guys, you won’t believe the nightmare I had last night . . .”

  Then I remembered.

  With a moan, I sagged back against my pillow, my mind churning everything that happened to me yesterday. I mean, I hadn’t even been home twenty-four hours, and already I’d:1. Fallen into a swamp

  2. Fallen in love

  3. Been attacked and threatened by golf goons

  4. Been ordered to dump the class I needed most for my inventions

  5. Lost my beloved fish to a deranged hypochondriac and his seafood-loving dogs

  6. Possibly been exposed to naegleria fowleri, the amoeba notorious for nibbling brains into Swiss cheese.

  Would Hayley sit at my deathbed? Wipe my feverish brow with a golf towel, wet with her tears . . .?

  Yeah, right.

  Stomach knotting again, I flung aside the fantasy along with my blanket. I was looking forward to working at Gadabout after such a long break. But I also felt apprehensive about seeing Hayley. Who would greet me today? The no-nonsense girl I knew and (eep!) loved? Or the one-second-I’m-happy-to-see-you-the-next-I’m-peeved-for-no-reason girl?

  Even more worrisome, could she tell from my face how I felt about her?

  Only one way to find out . . .

  I opened my suitcase and dumped the wadded contents onto my bed. Everything smelled of sea salt, damp French fries, and flowery motel soap. I plucked out the least wrinkled shorts and T-shirt I could find and got dressed.

  Mom and Dad snored away across the hall. Downstairs, I scribbled a note to them, dabbed sunscreen on my tender nose, hooked on my tool belt, hopped onto my bike, and headed to Gadabout.

  The cool morning air already held a hint of heat. My nose felt dry and crackly inside and out. I stifled a sneeze. Maybe tomorrow—my first day of high school!—would bring fog. Drizzly weather is much easier on my allergies.

  Halfway to Hayley’s, my stomach grumbled a breakfast reminder. Rats. I’d forgotten to grab the last two pieces of cold, congealed pizza from the fridge.

  I about-faced and pedaled toward Dave’s Donuts. I’d just reached the gas station next door to Dave’s when I spotted a regal Roman nose and an elegant French braid.

  Eep!

  I slammed on my brakes.

  The nose and braid belonged to the last person in the universe I wanted to see today, or any day: July Smith, a.k.a. Ace’s older sister (though he was loath to admit it), a.k.a. The Queen of the Clubs (because to give the illusion of school spirit she always belongs to at least fifty of ’em), a.k.a. the Nice Alarm thief (though she was loath to admit it—but that’s another story). July and a cluster of girls wearing jean shorts and burgundy T-shirts were unrolling a huge banner that read PEP CLUB CAR WASH TODAY! SUPPORT THE PHHS GOL—

  I didn’t bother to read the rest of the banner. I about-faced again, telling my stomach it would have to be satisfied with a vending machine breakfast at Gadabout.

  I reached the course just as Big Ben bonged seven times. I parked and locked my bike, peeking up at the Barkers’ apartment. The kitchen lights blazed. My stomach squeezed.

  How should I act when I see her? Friendly, miffed, cool? Definitely cool. Hey, it works for Ace . . .

  I sniffed my armpits, smoothed my hair, and assumed an expression of nonchalance.

  “Morning,” I drawled, striding into the gingerbread office. Hayley wasn’t there.

  I grabbed my Gadabout cap and name tag, and hurried to the greens.

  She wasn’t there either.

  Maybe she’s in her hiding place.

  When Hayley was little, her mother, an engineer, built a secret hideout on the course for Hayley to play in. After her mom died, Hayley would creep inside it whenever she needed time alone to think—or cry. I was the only person she’d ever told about it, the only person she’d invited inside.

  I knew Hayley’s MO. She wouldn’t come out till she was good and ready. If that was sooner than later, I should get busy. Hayley didn’t tolerate slackers.

  I spent the morning on neglected maintenance stuff: unclogging the mossy mechanism of King Arthur’s moat filter, oiling ore cars from the Abandoned Gold Mine, performing the Heimlich maneuver on the golf-ball-choked Volcano.

  Usually when I’m focused on mechanical things, the joy of work eclipses everything else. A gadget’s workings unroll in my head like a wall map in geography class, and I’m the explorer, discovering the New World of wrenches and wheels . . . rivets and steel . . . pliers, polly-toggles, and gears.

  Huh. Not that day. Every time I heard the scuff of shoes on plastic grass, the crunch of gravel, or the click of putter against ball, I’d veer off course, heart leaping, expecting Hayley. But it was only kids playing a round of mini-golf... or Mr. Barker with his jingly pocket-coins and more stuff to add to my fix-it list.

  Finally, at noon, while helping him with lunch in the Snack Shack, I screwed up my courage to ask: “Where’s Hayley today?”

  “Didn’t she tell you?” Mr. Barker poked a long fork at four hot dogs that hissed and spit on the grill. “She left early to go shopping.”

  “Grocery?”

  “Clothes.”

  Clothes? Hayley?

  I peele
d open four buns. Tried to keep my voice Ace-cool. “Who’d she go shopping with?”

  “Goldie.”

  “Goldie ?” The buns fell to the scuffed floor.

  “Five-second rule!” Mr. Barker snatched them up and laid them across the grill to toast. “Have to admit, I was surprised too,” he said, chuckling. “Goldie and Hayley mix about as well as oil and water.”

  Ha. More like crude oil and sea lions.

  “This could be a good thing,” he went on. “Hayley hasn’t been interested in girl stuff since her mother died. That was fine for a while. But now, well, I’m not exactly the role model a budding young woman needs.” He waved at his baggy shorts and rumpled aloha shirt, then scratched his unruly curls with the fork handle. “I’m a dad. A guy. What do I know about mascara and bras?”

  My cheeks blazed hot enough to char a cow at fifty paces. I opened the fridge to chill my head in the lettuce drawer.

  “She needs a feminine touch,” Mr. Barker continued. “So shopping with Goldie seems healthy. Normal. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded, although healthy and normal weren’t adjectives I (nor, ordinarily, Hayley) would’ve used to describe Trudy Laux. I mean, Ace hadn’t assigned her the nickname Goldie (inspired by a snoopy resemblance to Goldilocks in The Three Bears) for no reason. She would gleefully rat out her own great-grandma if it meant obtaining juicy information.

  “They’ll be home after dinner,” Mr. Barker was saying. “Goldie’s mother drove them to San Diego to some big sale at the outlet mall.” He plopped the hot dogs on paper plates, shook a bag of Fritos over them, and handed me a napkin. “Is there a problem? I have Goldie’s cell phone number if—”

  “No, no! Just wondering. Thanks for lunch.” I took my food and soda outside, sitting at the lone picnic table beneath its lopsided umbrella. The dogs, nestled in their buns, glistened with grease beads. Despite not having had breakfast, I pushed the plate away.

  How could Hayley scamper off on my first day back at Gadabout? To go shopping, of all things? With Goldie, of all people? Didn’t she know how much I’d looked forward to working here with her again? Didn’t she know I wanted to talk to her about the convention and the alarm and the Guys? Didn’t she remember that I was starting high school tomorrow—without her and Hic? Didn’t she care?

  “Hey.”

  I jumped. Ace appeared, hands in his pockets.

  “Geez,” I said, heart stuttering, “where’d you come from?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Over the top of his sunglasses he perused the patio, Snack Shack, and greens as if searching for someone.

  “Who you looking for?” I asked.

  “Nobody.” He turned to leave.

  “Where you going?” I called.

  “Nowhere.” He disappeared behind the Pirate Ship.

  What was that all about?

  I splotched ketchup onto the hot dogs.

  “Good afternoon.”

  I jumped again, splotching ketchup on my shorts. “Ace, if you don’t—”

  Hiccup bowed, his elongated body so stiff and straight you could’ve ironed a shirt on it. Sweat darkened his hair to a leaf russet color. He wore a martial arts uniform—white with a red fire-breathing dragon embroidered over his heart. The flames spelled: Hapkido Family Fitness.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I grumbled, wiping at my shorts. “What do you want?”

  “I came to inquire after your emotional state.”

  “Oh.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “My fish are dead. I’m smothered in ketchup. How do you think I feel?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I chomped the first dog in half.

  “May I sit down?”

  “It’s a free country.” I ripped another savage bite.

  Hiccup adjusted the umbrella to give himself a scrap of shade. Then he examined the bench splinters, chewed gum wads, and termites. Satisfied, he spread out a napkin, sat, and said: “You probably prefer that I leave—”

  “You got that right.”

  “—however, I have something of importance to tell you.”

  “Yeah? Whose fish did you kill today?”

  Hiccup squirmed. “I learned of it this morning in my hapkido class. It should be of great interest to you.”

  I chug-a-lugged my soda and belched.

  Hiccup coughed delicately into a napkin and continued: “Master Yates, my instructor, informed us that if we train at the dojang—the studio—for at least an hour every day after school, we can waive our physical education requirement.”

  “Thanks for that riveting news bulletin.”

  “Don’t you understand the implications? This waiver applies to all students. If you register for martial arts classes, you won’t be required to take PE.”

  I stopped chewing. “Is this a joke?”

  “The school district just needs a form, signed by your parents and Master Yates, affirming that you are getting consistent, challenging exercise every day.”

  My hopes leaped. “I won’t have to drop CAD?” My hopes belly flopped. “But I don’t know squat about martial arts. I’d make a complete fool of myself!”

  “Sneeze, every student begins as a white belt—a beginner. Every student makes mistakes. That’s a good thing. It’s the best way to learn.”

  “True . . .” I said, remembering the seven prototypes I’d built of the Nice Alarm. With each model, each improvement, I’d discovered what worked and, more importantly, what didn’t.

  Hiccup went on: “The degree of discomfiture I experienced during my first class nearly incapacitated me. Yet, determined to improve, I returned the next day, and the next day, and every day since. Why? My choices were clear: I could risk the fear of embarrassment—or suffer the pain of my brothers forever slicing me into sushi.” He threw back his shoulders, thumbs stuck into the orange belt cinching his waist. “I chose the former.”

  I marveled again at his new height, at the Medicine Man–like confidence. If hapkido could do this for him . . .

  “But I’m not tall like you,” I said. “I’m a wimp. A shrimp!”

  He waved away an invisible fly. “Size and strength are inconsequential. Master Yates will teach you how to divert or suppress an attacker’s force, how to use an attacker’s power against himself. Besides, you are coordinated. Quick-thinking. In no time at all, you’ll be able to do this.”

  He leaped to his feet and performed a whirlwind of kicks, punches, and jabs—accented with cries of kee-yup!

  He finished with a solemn bow.

  I breathed a solemn WOW.

  “If not for yourself,” he added, a smile flicking his mouth, “do it for Hayley. Women cannot resist a man in uniform. Or so MM tells me.”

  “Ha.” I sneezed into my sleeve. “Hayley won’t find me irresistible if I’m at the hapkido studio five afternoons a week instead of working here.”

  “At least consider the option.” Hiccup removed a packet of papers folded over his belt and held them out to me. “Here is the dojang’s brochure and registration form. Class begins tomorrow at four p.m. sharp. You will need to obtain the PE waiver at Jefferson Middle’s main office.”

  I stuffed the papers into my pocket.

  His hand continued reaching toward mine. “Good luck tomorrow morning at Patrick Henry.”

  I kept my arms at my sides.

  He sucked a breath and held it, as if willing me, begging me to shake hands. His fingers trembled. His cheeks reddened, then blotched blue.

  He’s gonna faint! Do you want to be held responsible for him passing out, plunging headfirst onto this filthy table, and getting splinters in his brain?

  I shook his hand. Fast.

  “Thanks for coming to tell me,” I said. “And for the papers.”

  Hic squared his shoulders. Tug-tightened his belt. “I hope to see you at hapkido.”

&nb
sp; He loped toward the exit. When he reached Gadabout’s gates, I hollered, “Hey, Hector!”

  He stopped.

  “I’m still mad at you, you know!”

  “I know!” he hollered back, and waved without turning around.

  11:57 p.m. My second night at home. While I was trying to fall asleep without the reassuring burble of my aquarium, the phone rang.

  I groped for the receiver.

  “Hic?” I grunted. “Hayley?”

  “Nopey-dopey!” a smug voice sang. “Guess a-gain!

  I sighed. “Goldie, it’s almost midnight. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I’ve told you a bazillion times: I’m nominal.”

  “Absolutely,” I said with a yawn. “But I think you mean nocturnal.”

  “Whatever. Don’t you want to know why I called?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you doooOOOOOoooo,” she singsonged.

  “If this is about that exclusive interview, could we do it another time? Like when that big ball of gas is shining bright in the sky?”

  She trilled a laugh. “Lunch. Tomorrow. Behind Jefferson gym.”

  “Fine. Good-bye, Goldie.”

  “Not so fast!” Her voice returned to singsong mode. “I have a mes-sage for you-uuu. From Haaay-leeee!”

  I bolted upright. “What’s the message?”

  “I need to talk to you. Meet me tomorrow. You know where. Seven a.m.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  I could practically hear her eyes rolling. “She might’ve said please.”

  “Wait a sec.” I shot an SOS through the phone wires. “Why are you delivering this message? Why didn’t Hayley call me herself?”

  Goldie gave a conspirator’s giggle. “Here’s the scoop: After your party, she called to ask if I’d take her shopping today. It’s obvious she couldn’t care less about how she looks, so I suspected right away she had inferior motives . . .”

  “Ulterior,” I said.

  “Whatever. Do you want to hear this or not? Anyway, as soon as Mother and I picked her up, I could tell she—Hayley, not Mother—was freaking out about something but couldn’t or wouldn’t spill it. So I used my new Spy Camp interrogation skills on her, and they worked like a lucky charm! Get this: Hayley is in love! Since you’re her best friend, she wants to confess everything, but she’s afraid you’ll laugh at her or be grossed out or—”