Stinky and Winky never sprayed him. They never even stamped their feet in warning. They became such beloved pets that I think Travis lost sight of the fact that his furry friends were, in fact, skunks.
I joined him in the loft every few days, still trying to convince him to let them go just as soon as they reached a certain size.
But then came the fateful morning when Winky would not play with his toys, and worse, he would not eat.
8
Travis looked worried at breakfast. When I asked him if there was anything wrong, he whispered, “No, I’m fine.”
But I knew him better than anyone, and I could tell he was not fine. If he’d told me his plan, there’s no doubt I would have talked—or maybe yelled—some sense into him. But I didn’t know about it until it was too late.
I set off to school with Travis and two of my other brothers, Sul Ross and Lamar. Travis had his book satchel over his shoulder but, strangely, he was carrying his books under his arm. I was about to ask him about this when I heard someone calling my name. Up ahead, my friend Lula Gates waited for me, waving and calling.
“Hi, Lula!” I waved. I ran ahead to meet her, and we chatted all the way to school. I didn’t give Travis another thought. At least, not right at that second.
We made it to school just in time to line up while Miss Harbottle rang the handbell. We trooped in, the girls in one line and the boys in the other. Our school had only one classroom, so the little ones sat up front and practiced their ABCs; the older children sat in the middle and recited their times tables; the oldest children sat in the back and studied world geography with the atlas and the globe.
Lula and I shared a desk right behind Travis, who, for some reason, looked extra fidgety. You’d have thought the boy had ants in his pants the way he kept squirming in his seat and fiddling around with the satchel at his feet.
At recess we all ran outside. Usually Travis hung around and bothered me and Lula while we played hopscotch, but this time he took his satchel to the far side of the playground. Now I knew for sure something was wrong with him, and I’d have to tell Mother. Which meant she’d either dose him with a teaspoon of cod-liver oil, the most awful substance in the entire world, or haul him off to see Dr. Walker, with his cold hands and even colder instruments. Both prospects were enough to make you shudder.
Miss Harbottle rang the bell to signal the end of recess, and we all went back to our desks.
“Boys and girls,” she said, “today we will all have a lesson in Texas history. You little ones, pay attention now. Did you know that before Texas became part of the United States, it was actually a part of Mexico? That’s right, part of another country. And the brave Texians, as they were called, your very own ancestors, fought a war against Mexico to gain their independence.”
Normally such a discussion would have deeply interested Travis, but now he was busy trying to slide a box of raisins out of his desk without making any noise.
Miss Harbottle said, “The Texians suffered terrible defeats at the Alamo and at Goliad.”
She pulled down the map of the United States and tapped it with her pointer to show us the sites of the famous battles. The Alamo was only fifty miles from our house. But because it was a full day’s journey on the train, none of my brothers or I had seen it.
“But the tide turned at the Battle of San Jacinto on April 21, 1836. That’s where our own General Sam Houston led his ragged army of volunteers against the much larger Mexican forces commanded by General Santa Anna.”
Then something happened that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up: Travis’s satchel moved. On its own. Which satchels aren’t supposed to do.
The flap lifted an inch, then fell shut. Then it lifted a couple of inches and fell shut. It lifted a third time and, to my horror, out poked a pointy black muzzle with twitching whiskers.
Miss Harbottle grew louder as she got to the exciting parts of the battle.
Then to my double horror, another, smaller black muzzle poked out beside the first one. The mind reeled. I couldn’t believe it.
“Travis,” I hissed, “what have you done?”
“Huh?”
“You can’t bring skunks to school.”
He looked down just in time to stop them making their escape. He gently nudged them back with his foot. I glanced around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. All eyes were on Miss Harbottle.
I whispered, “Have you lost your mind?”
He turned halfway in his chair and murmured, “Winky stopped eating. I couldn’t just leave him at home; he’s way too skinny. I’m trying to tempt his appetite with raisins. Normally he’s a real raisin hog, but for some reason he won’t eat them.”
“But both? You had to bring them both?”
A couple of students glared at us.
“I couldn’t separate them. They get so upset.”
“You get them out of here right now.”
Lula elbowed me to be quiet.
I thought fast and hard. Maybe I could scoop up the satchel and run for the door. And keep running all the way back to the barn. But what would Miss Harbottle say about my behavior? I’d have to plead illness. And what would my parents do? It would mean the cod-liver oil or the doctor. Was it worth it? To save Travis from his overwhelming love of animals and his own incredibly stupid decision?
I weighed my choices.
Miss Harbottle said, “General Houston led his soldiers on their surprise attack, crossing the high grass fields around the Mexican camp. General Santa Anna was so confident of victory that he had not posted any sentries to keep watch during their afternoon siesta. The Texians were only yards away when they opened fire, shouting, ‘Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!’”
She jumped and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Eeeeeeee!”
We all jumped along with her.
She ran to the corner for the broom and held it up before her like a rifle. Gosh! Her re-enactment was so vivid and thrilling. Why couldn’t all our lessons be like this? Instead of droning on about five times five—
“Skunks!” she yelled. “Skunks!”
I looked down. Stinky and Winky were scurrying between the desks and heading right for her.
She might as well have yelled “Bomb!” for the effect it had. Piercing screams filled the air. The students erupted in panic. They started rushing for the door and dropping books and knocking over chairs.
“Travis,” I yelled, “do something.”
“Do? What should I do?”
“Get them.”
Stinky had made it to Miss Harbottle’s desk, where he hunkered down underneath in safety. Winky, slower and confused by the noise, didn’t get there in time. Miss Harbottle jabbed him with the broom and moaned, “Go away, you. Oh, please go away.”
“No, don’t,” pleaded Travis, “please don’t upset them.”
I also could have told Miss Harbottle that upsetting a skunk was not the best course of action and that she should just stay calm and be still, but she was from the big city of Austin and had never had to face down multiple skunks before. She took a swipe at Winky and sent him skidding into the corner.
“Oh no,” said Travis, but a second later Winky got up and shook himself. He didn’t look hurt, but he didn’t look happy, either. He raised his tail.
Uh-oh.
He stamped his tiny feet.
Oh no.
Miss Harbottle backed away, but just then Stinky emerged from under the desk, trapping her between them.
I called out, “Try to stay calm, Miss Harbottle.”
Travis begged again, “Please don’t rile them.” He crept forward with his satchel. “If you’ll just stay calm, I think I can get them.”
She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Stay back! They’re wild.”
“Actually,” he said, “they’re—”
“Yes, Travis,” I shouted, “they’re wild. Can’t you see how wild they are?”
Travis crept closer. Stinky advanced on Miss Harbottl
e. She took a swing at him and missed. He stamped his feet. But Winky beat him to it, letting loose a poof of mist from his hind end that settled on the floor and the blackboard.
“Noooo,” shrieked Miss Harbottle.
Stinky turned his back to her and raised his tail. He was only four feet away. It would be a direct hit. Except that at the very second he fired, Travis launched himself through the air like a flying human shield, saving our teacher from the spray.
Coughing and gagging, we stumbled to the door and pitched down the steps into the fresh air. Travis reeked to high heaven. His streaming eyes were bright red. The other children backed away from him as fast as they could, which was just as well, since he then did the only thing he could possibly do to make things worse. He bent over and put his hands on his knees and threw up his breakfast.
Stinky and Winky scampered away in the confusion and were never seen again.
* * *
Mother ended up burning Travis’s shirt. And for a while he had to eat his meal on the back porch with no company except for the dog Ajax.
Thus ended the episode of the “wild” skunk invasion of the Fentress School. Travis, who was entirely at fault for the whole thing, ended up a total disgrace in my eyes but a hero to our teacher and all our classmates. You see, because the classroom smelled so horrible, the school had to be closed and we were let out early for summer vacation.
If anyone had asked me, I could have told them that swabbing down the floor and blackboard with a mixture of five parts hydrogen peroxide, five parts baking soda, and one part soap would have fixed things well enough so that we could have held classes for that last week.
But no one asked me.
And I didn’t bother to tell.
About the Author
Jacqueline Kelly won the Newbery Honor for her first book, The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate. She was born in New Zealand and raised in Canada, in the dense rainforests of Vancouver Island. Her family then moved to El Paso, Texas, and Kelly attended college in El Paso, then went on to medical school in Galveston. After practicing medicine for many years, she went to law school at the University of Texas, and after several years of law practice, realized she wanted to write fiction. Her first story was published in the Mississippi Review in 2001. She now makes her home with her husband and various cats and dogs in Austin and Fentress, Texas. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
Copyright
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
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Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
Text copyright © 2016 by Jacqueline Kelly
Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Jennifer L. Meyer
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First edition—2016
eISBN 9781627798693
First eBook edition: August 2016
Skunked! Page 3
