by Lee Wardlaw
Cullen’s grin gleamed. “Sorry, brah. In da islands, when my bruddahs talk story, we speak Pidgin. Hawaiian dialect.” He ticked his massive fingers: “Keiki mean kid. Koa is courage, da stuff of ali’i, Hawaiian royalty. Talk stink—”
“Bad-mouthing someone?” I guessed.
He nodded, pleased. “Moke is tough local guy. Pilikia spells trouble. Rat bite, dat’s one bad haircut.”
I laughed. “What about the other word? Whoosher. Is that a volcano?”
“Dat’s one golf term,” Cullen said. “It mean whack a ball so hard, air whooshes from da impact.” He nudged my chair closer with his paw-foot. “So what’s da scoops? What’s a menehune like you doin’ here?”
“You mean, what’s a kid like me doing in a high school like this?”
“Yeah.”
“I skipped eighth grade,” I said. “Part-time, anyway. I take three classes here in the mornings, four at Jefferson Middle School after lunch.”
“Fo’ real kine? You serious? Cool . . .”
Cullen continued to ask me questions while we explored the software. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and I surprised myself by telling him about the Nice Alarm. In return, he shared his love of drawing (he designed the logo on his T-shirt) and his desire to learn digital art. He hoped to get a golf scholarship so he could attend one of the California universities and study animation. Just in case a scholarship didn’t come through, he’d moved to Southern California to live with his “Auntie.”
“I like fo’ establish residency here,” he explained. “It make state college affordable.”
“My best friend—I mean, this guy I know—plans to study art in college too,” I said. “He’s expanded his cartoon superhero into a graphic novel he wants to get published.”
“Fo’ reals? Cool. I like fo’ see dat.”
The end-of-class bell rang. I scribbled the homework assignment and hooked my pack over one shoulder. Cullen led the way into the hall, his flip-flops slapping against the soles of his brown feet. Guys leaped aside, offering a wide berth. Girls pointed and swooned. “Cullen Handsome,” I heard one whisper.
Cullen didn’t notice. “Hang loose,” he said, strolling toward the stairs.
“Hey, wait!” I trotted after him. “I want to ask you a question. About . . . a girl.”
“Wot girl?”
“The girl at Gadabout.”
Cullen adjusted his shark’s tooth. “There was wahine there? Oh, da girl with da notepad. Kept hopping like she needed da lua? Bathroom?” He shuddered. “Ho, she give me chicken skin. Goose bumps. Not da good kine.”
“That would be Goldie,” I said. “I meant the other one.”
“Ada one?”
How could he not remember? How could anyone lay eyes on Hayley and not have her image burned forever into his memory cells?
“Short hair the color of rice,” I said. “Golf ball earrings. Ice-blue eyes.”
“Oh, da one with da squint. She get one headache?”
“No, she have koa,” I said, thinking about the way Hayley had challenged Scarecrow/Marcos.
“You’re right, menehune.”
“So, do you like her?”
Cullen shrugged. “How I can like her? I don’t know her.” “I mean, do you think she’s pretty?”
“She ’bout the same age as my niece. Both keiki. Both da cute. Not as cute as ku’uipo. My sweetheart, Annie. She live in Hawaii. What like fo’ ask me ’bout Hayley?”
“Never mind!” My chest almost exploded with joy. Cullen didn’t like her! Cullen thought she was a little kid! “I’m meeting a friend for lunch at Jefferson Middle. Aloha!”
I sprinted down the hall, squeezing between students. The loose strap of my pack caught on a drinking fountain, jerking me backward. I yanked it free—
—and smashed into a tight stomach clad in a burgundy knit shirt.
“Watch it, punk!” the shirt said. It smelled of peppermint.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, and looked up, up, up into the face of Scarecrow—aka, Marcos the Moke.
Chapter Eleven
“Eep!” I said, and sneezed four wet times.
Marcos chortled in disgusted glee. “Look who it is!” He gripped my shoulders. “Right under our nose!”
His golf goons sniggered and contracted around me like a giant noose.
“Ha-ha” I said, struggling to break free. “Never heard that one before. Thought it up all by yourself, did you?”
His fingers burrowed deeper. He gave me a hard shake. “What are you doing out of your swamp, punk? And why are you at Patrick Henry? Brown-nosing your future teachers?”
“Ow! I mean, no, I’m delivering a note. To my brother. My older, hulking brother. He’s on the football team. He tackles.”
“You’re a pathetic liar.” Marcos yanked the pack from my shoulder and began rummaging.
I tried to snatch and sprint, but his three look-alikes muscled closer.
“Ugh, just clumps of wet snot rags. But what’s this?” Marcos flashed my ID card, then flicked it across the hall. He tossed my chem and trig books too. “We’re in the presence of a brainiac: a nerd who keeps his nose to the grindstone. Bet he even has his nose in a book while sitting on the john!”
His goons guffawed.
Ah, bathroom humor: The last refuge of kindergarteners.
“So that’s why he thumbed his nose at us the other day!” chimed in Goon #3, beeping my sore schnoz. “That’s why he had his nose in the air. He thinks he’s smarter than us!”
“A judgment error,” I insisted. “My allergy meds make me delusional.”
“Maybe we should rub your nose in it,” said Goon #4. Talk about flogging a dead joke . . .
“Walk with us, punk,” Marcos said. “I have a cramp in my arm. Nothing a few rounds with my club won’t cure.”
“I don’t have time to play golf,” I said with another futile struggle.
Marcos smirked. “Who said anything about golf?”
I gulped. Goons #2 and #3 pinned my arms to my sides, sandwiching me so tightly between them I felt like a slice of bologna. With Marcos in the lead and Goon #4 cutting off my escape route from behind, they hustled me to the double doors overlooking the quad. Below, students lunch-munched.
“Which way?” #2 asked.
“Through the industrial arts building, to the lower field,” Marcos said. “Take it nice and slow. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious. We’re just giving our new pal the freshman tour . . .”
They lurched me down a flight of stairs and edged the noisy crowd. Flocks of seagulls wheeled overhead, dive-bombing for French fries, splitting eardrums with their frenzied squawks. Even if I braved a cry for help, no one would hear me above that racket.
The fog lifted. I blinked in the bright sun. Probably the last time I’d see it—provided none of the birds left a farewell donation in my eye.
Two high-pitched shrieks rivaled the decibels of the gulls. “You didn’t!”
“I did!”
“You couldn’t!”
“I could!”
I’d recognize those shrieks—and gull-like brain cells—anywhere.
The Amys!
I grasped at a straw of hope.
Would they help me? Had they forgiven me for ratting out their idol?
I scanned the quad for July Smith’s Roman profile, her elegant French braid . . .
No sign of her. Probably at a club meeting. I had to take that chance. I had to flag down the Amys. There was no one else—
—and time was running out.
With every ounce of my strength, I wrested one arm from Goon #2’s grasp, waved it like a rogue windshield wiper, and screamed: “Hey, Amy! Over here! Amy! Hellooo! ”
The Amys turned. Cocked their heads like parakeets. Their beaks—uh, lips—curled and dimpled and opened to shriek:
“It is him!”
“So it is!”
They flew across the quad, flung themselves between my captives, and smothered me i
n a clumped hug.
“We’re sorry about what happened last year!” said the Amys.
“Sorry!” the Amys repeated.
“We feel terrible!”
“Awful !”
“It wasn’t our fault. She made us do it!”
“Forced us! We couldn’t help it!”
“You pretty birds know this bungled nose job?” Marcos asked.
The Amys nodded. “Uh-huh! His name is Squeeze!”
“Sneeze,” I corrected.
“Uh-huh!” The Amys nodded again. “His best friend is Burp.”
“Hiccup,” I corrected.
“He’s a brilliant inventor! He invented the Friendly Alarm!”
“Whatever,” I said with a surrendering flap of my hand.
“It’s going to make him rich and famous,” the Amys said.
“Famous and rich!” agreed the Amys.
“How very interesting.” Marcos popped a peppermint into his mouth. “Tell me more. What exactly is this alarm? What does it do?”
“Sneeze can explain much better than we can!”
“Better yet, he could give a demonstration!”
“Yes, a demonstration would be much better!”
“Sure,” I said, flickering my eyelashes in what I hoped was Morse code for SOS. “I’m glad you’ve come to my aid. I desperately need your assistance.”
“You’ve never wanted our assistance before,” said the Amys.
“Never,” the Amys said.
“Situations change.” I tried to wiggle my eyebrows into arrows, pointing at Marcos. “The unexpected happens and now I need HELP.”
In a dim cranny of the Amys’ brains, a night-light switched on.
“Help? Of course! Our pleasure!”
“We’d be delighted, of course!”
The Amys clenched Marcos around the waist and shoved him aside. “Stand here, gorgeous. Pretend you’re the alarm.”
Marcos squirmed and unleashed a rough laugh. “Watch it!”
“He’s ticklish!” the Amys said. “Isn’t that cute?”
“Adorable!” agreed the Amys.
They shoved Goon #2 in front of him. “You’re the handsome prince who the alarm will awaken from a deep sleep.”
“With a smooch?” His arm encircled an Amy’s waist.
“Keep your flippers to yourself for a second and close your eyes. Can you snore?”
“Mmmrrrggggzzz-zzz!”
“Window-shattering,” the Amys said.
“Wall-buckling,” agreed the Amys.
They faced Goons #3 and #4. “You two hunks can be the prince’s brothers. You spent a wild night doing hip-hop in the pond. Close those eyes. All together now: Snore! ”
“ZZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZZZ!”
“Mmmrrrggggzzzzzz!”
“SNNNNerrrrrrrrrcckk!”
“Awesome!”
“Radical!”
The Amys whispered to me, “Get ready.”
Whispered the Amys: “Get set.”
“Raise your right arm,” the Amys told Marcos. “Higher. Better raise your other arm too. Perfect! Now open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise!”
“Froggies, keep snoring!” the Amys instructed. “When I count to three—”
“Froggies?” said Marcos. “I thought they were princes.”
“ONETWOTHREE!” the Amys yelped.
“THREETWOONE!” yelped the Amys.
The girls attacked with ferocious tickles.
Marcos and Goon #2 contorted to escape the onslaught while their team members snored with continued fervor.
I filched my pack—and ran.
I glanced back only once, hollering: “Thanks, Amys! I owe you!”
“Nope,” hollered the Amys. “We’re even now!”
“Even-Steven!” The Amys’ fingers dove again into Marcos’s armpits.
“Get—him—!” Marcos choked, cap tumbling. With an angry convulsive ha-ha-ow, he collapsed against his cronies and I ran on . . .
After sprinting several blocks, I slowed to a trot, clutching a stitch in my side. Still two miles to Jefferson Middle and I needed to pace myself.
I arrived just before lunch period ended. I squeezed through a misshapen section of chain-link fence and hurried to the pine tree behind the gym, where I was greeted by:
Pierre, his forehead creased with anger beneath his beret;
Goldie, tapping her foot and flipping her hair with furious impatience;
Hiccup, studying my face with MM’s superior vision for signs of forgiveness;
Ace, asleep, head lolled against a tree-root pillow;
And Hayley.
She’d changed out of the clothes she’d worn earlier in the dusty Pyramid. Now she wore another new skirt and blouse of blue that deepened her eyes. They gazed with expectance through me toward Patrick Henry.
“Hi,” I said to her, because there was only her.
“You’re late!” Goldie snapped. “Late for the exclusive interview you swore you’d give me! My first gossip column of the year is due Thursday for the first edition of The Jeffersonian Times on Friday, and you are my lead story! We have to do the interview today. Now. Or else.”
“St-Stephen,” Hiccup interrupted, “have you been diligent about monitoring your condition after Sunday’s unfortunate exposure to the naegleria fowleri? If you’re not too angry, I would like to run through the checklist of symptoms.”
“My electric beeters!” Pierre said, holding out a wrapped bundle. “You feexed zem last spring, oui? Once again zey are massacring zee meringue! You must fix zem before my ’ome ec class zis afternoon.”
“Yo.” Ace yawned. “Keep it down.”
I stared at them in disbelief.
Why did I hang out with this bunch of bozos, these ingrates, these non-friends? If they bugged me so much, why hadn’t I told them to beat it, get lost, take a hike? I mean, with “friends” like these, who needed enemies?
“Excuse me!” I said. “I have an announcement to make!” I kicked Ace’s foot. “You too.”
He arced an eyebrow at me over the top of his sunglasses.
“You’re right, I’m late,” I continued. “Do any of you care why? Do any of you care that I just completed my first morning as a high-schooler? That I was kidnapped by those goons from the Patrick Henry Golf Team? That if it weren’t for—I can’t believe I’m saying this—the Amys, I wouldn’t be standing here now while you harass, insult, and threaten me?”
“Did they hurt you?” Hayley asked. “Cullen wasn’t with them, was he?”
“I smell a scoop!” Goldie exulted, nose wrinkling with delight. “Golf Goons Grab Gadget Guy.”
“We are reeleeved you escaped wisout injuree,” Pierre said.
“Eye cannot say zee same for zee beeters. You must tend to zem wis haste. Eet eez your dutee! You took an oath, no?”
“He’s an inventor, not Hippocrates,” Ace commented.
The first end-of-lunch bell rang.
“Get yourself another mechanic, Pierre,” I said. “Your beaters have whipped their last cream, frothed their last meringue. I can’t do anything else for them. I won’t do anything else for them. Buy new ones. Move on.”
I turned on Goldie. “Holster your microphone and stow your notepad, Goldilocks. You’re not getting an exclusive. Not now. Not ever.”
“But you promised you’d tell—”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I confessed. “Mr. Patterson rejected the Nice Alarm. His company won’t manufacture it. End of story.”
I faced Hic. “As for you: Yeah, I’m sick. Yeah, I’m angry. Sick of your germaphobia, angry about the Guys. I’ll get over both. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. But eventually. So cease and desist with the worrying. I’ll see you this afternoon at the dojang.”
Hiccup shot a hapkido kick at the pine tree and whispered, “YES!”
Needles rained onto Ace’s face. He rose on one elbow, brushing them off.
I booted his foot again.
“What a waste,” I said. “Why don’t you go to class for once? That’s where I’m headed.”
I marched toward the logjam of students all trying to cram into the main building at the same time.
A familiar callus snagged my wrist.
Zap!
Every nerve in my body electrified to attention.
“Aren’t you going to tell me off too?” Hayley said. “I deserve it.”
“Maybe later.” I scratched my wrist to subdue the lingerings of her touch.
“I’m sorry your morning was so rotten. I’ll bet you never got to eat either.” She offered a pear from her sack. “What’s your next class?”
My teeth sank into the sweet pear flesh. Juice dribbled down my chin, raced along my arm. “I’ve got English with Mrs. Hobbs,” I answered, surreptitiously using my jeans as a napkin.
“I’ve got English with Hobbs too. Do you mind if I walk with you?”
“First I have to get a form from the main office.”
We wormed through boisterous kid-clots to the front desk. I asked a secretary wearing spiky heels for the Permission to Waive Physical Education Requirement form. “One moment,” she said, clip-clipping into the next room.
Hayley stood beside me, the cloth of her blouse touching the sleeve of my tee. I’d finished the pear, tossed the core, and now didn’t know what to do with my hands. They felt huge and clumsy and sticky, like I was wearing baseball mitts made of flypaper.
I waited for Hayley to ask about Cullen. I knew she was dying to ask about Cullen. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t.
I sighed and said, “Goldie’s information was correct. He’s in my computer class.”
“Who?”
“You know.” I wanted her to say it.
“Cullen?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Stephen J. Wyatt!” Hayley shoved her hair behind her ears and shot me an SOE (Squint of Exasperation). “You know. Does he . . . ?” The SOE softened into an expression of trust I didn’t deserve. She whispered, “Does he like me?”
I opened my mouth, ready to hurt, to blurt: No! He barely remembered you! He thought you were a kid! And you are! You’re only an eighth grader! He’s a senior! So just forget it. Forget him! He’s already forgotten you . . .
