by Trudi Trueit
I bite my lip. “Three bucks?”
Lewis hands me three one-dollar bills. Bug spit! I should have said five.
Doyle gives him the bottle.
“Spray once,” I warn Lewis. “It’s strong stuff.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t spray it at school. If a teacher catches you with it—”
“Relax, McNally. I can handle teachers.”
“What about the rest of us?” asks Will.
I have to spit-swear with Will, Alec, and Henry that I’ll bring a bottle for each of them tomorrow. By the time I am done swearing, I have no saliva left.
“Four orders.” Doyle whistles. “That’s twelve bucks.”
It’s more than twelve bucks. It’s one fifth of a new dog. Sweet!
“You guys coming to play kickball?” calls Will.
Doyle and I race to the soccer field. I’m going to kick that ball to the moon, that’s how great I feel. We run past Jenna, Libby, and their friends playing foursquare. I don’t see a fluffy pink coat anywhere, which is weird. You know what’s weirder? I didn’t have an orange in my lunch today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. It’s not like Isabelle to make such a big mistake. My sister never makes mistakes. Trust me.
CHAPTER
5
Whizzing Bats or a Lemon Tea Party?
Scab?” My mom is knocking on my lab door. “Do you have my blender in there?”
I look at the plastic pitcher filled with brownish gray goo. “Uh . . . I might.”
“I want it back.”
She might change her mind if she knew what was in her blender. “Okay,” I say.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“In a sec.” I am gluing labels onto bottles of Isabelle’s Smell. It’s been a busy week. After we sold the first batch to Will and the guys, Doyle rounded up a bunch of new orders for my sister-repellant spray. It won’t be long before I have enough money to buy my dog. At last! I have been thinking. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to have Isabelle help me ask our parents for a dog. But how do I get her to do it? If I want chocolate cake, she wants apple pie. If I want to play mini golf, she wants to roller-skate. If I want a dog, she wants a cat. I wish I had a little brother to look up to me instead of a twin sister, who’s always looking down on me.
ISABELLE’S SMELL
A SISTER-BE-GONE SPRAY BY SCAB MCNALLY
DIRECTIONS: SPRAY ONCE TO GET RID OF annoying sister (or little brother).
Warning: Do not spray toward eyes, do not spill on skin, and definitely do not drink!
“Scab!” Isabelle is shouting. “Uncle Ant is here.”
I rocket out of my chair.
When it comes to inventing, I take after my uncle Ant. He’s a bug exterminator, which is how he got the nickname. Uncle Ant invented a formula to get rid of moles (you know, those tunneling animals that make dirt mounds all over the grass). His special pellets give moles a tummy ache so they go to someone else’s yard.
“Scab-o!” My uncle wrestles me to the floor. He sees the cut on my chin. “What’s this? Looks like you’re living up to your name, kiddo.”
“Scab tangled with the Pigfords’ Doberman,” says my dad. He is going through the top drawer of the computer desk.
“I wasn’t afraid,” I say, flexing my biceps.
My sister chuckles. “That’s not what I heard, Monkey Boy.”
“Eat termites, Isabelle.”
“You first.”
“Actually,” says Uncle Ant, “termites are tasty. Pound for pound they have more protein than a hamburger. They are fun to eat, too—a very wiggly food.”
“Okay, I’ll eat them first,” I say to Isabelle. “As long as you do it too.”
Isabelle crosses one eye in.
I do my best chicken impression. “Bawk, bawk, bawk!”
“Go jump in the deep fryer.” She shoves past me so she can sit next to Jewel. My sister copies everything my uncle’s girlfriend does. Almost everything. Our mom won’t let Isabelle get a lightning-bolt tattoo on her arm.
I sit next to Uncle Ant.
“Dimples is out of control,” my mother says, sighing. “One of these days that dog is going to hurt a child.”
SCAB’S BUG COUNTER
THERE ARE 1,462 DIFFERENT KINDS OF EDIBLE bugs on Earth. Here’s what I’ve eaten so far:
four chocolate-covered crickets—crunchy!
two dead flies on a dare from Doyle
one mosquito; it flew into my mouth at camp
the front half of an earthworm
(at least, I hope it was the front half!!)
“A bad dog is the sign of a bad owner,” I point out in my most responsible voice.
“He’s been reading Doyle’s dog books again,” groans my sister.
Uncle Ant winks at me. He knows how badly I want a dog. He turns toward my mom, who is tossing the salad. “Remember that dog we had as kids, Molly? We’d throw an old shoe and he’d play fetch until it was too dark outside to see—”
“You mean Roscoe?”
He snaps his fingers. “That’s the one!”
“First of all, that mangy dog wasn’t ours. He belonged to the Horkheimers down the street. But we did take care of him while they were on vacation. That dog chewed up everything in the house, including my ballerina doll, my plaid scarf, and my favorite straw hat. He ate my lucky shamrock plant, too. Then he threw it up on my bed.”
Uncle ant grimaces. “Oh, well—”
“And that wasn’t an old shoe you played fetch with, Ant. That was my best pair of black party sandals. I’d almost forgotten about that horrible animal . . .”
Ker-splat! The salad bowl lands in front of me. A radish tumbles out.
“Sorry, kid,” whispers my uncle.
My mom says Uncle Ant has been around too many pest-control chemicals for too many years. She says he’s lucky to remember his own name. I don’t tell her that sometimes he forgets that, too. If she knew, she would never let him pick me up from soccer practice.
I stab the radish with my fork.
“So how is our girl genius?” Jewel asks Isabelle.
“She got an A on her science report,” says my dad. He is in the den, peeking under the sofa cushions.
“An A-plus,” corrects Isabelle. “I did it on microfossils. You know, ancient bacteria, seeds, and pollens.”
“Interesting,” Jewel says in that way people talk when they are really not that interested.
“Stromatolites are three-point-five billion years old,” Isabelle says. “They are formed by cyanobacteria, which use sunlight to convert carbon dioxide and water into energy. They release oxygen into the air to support life on our planet—”
“Your breath kills life on our planet,” I cut in.
“Shut your trap, Scab.”
“Trap your shut, Isabelle.”
“Kids,” warns my mother.
“I am writing a report on bats,” I tell Jewel. “Did you know bats pee hanging upside down?”
She laughs and shakes her head.
“We’re going to the night house at the zoo for my birthday party,” I say.
It is tradition for Isabelle and me to have three birthday parties. First we celebrate our birthday together with all of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Then Isabelle and I each get a separate party with our own friends. We tried having a party with all of our friends together once. It didn’t work. Girls go radioactive if you fling even a little fudge frosting on their Hello Kitty shirts.
“You want to come with us and see the bats whiz?” I ask Jewel.
“Sure, why not? What are you doing for your party, Isabelle?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
My head jerks up all by itself. She doesn’t know? What does she mean, she doesn’t know? Isabelle always knows what she’s going to do for her party. Shoot, she plans every detail a whole year in advance, right down to the color of the jelly beans. I watch my sister pick apart her napkin. Isabelle only tears paper when somet
hing is bothering her.
INCREDIBLE BAT FACTS
I READ THERE ARE MORE THAN NINE HUNDRED different kinds of bats in the world. The Malayan flying fox is the largest bat on Earth. It has a six-foot wingspan! Bats are good for the environment. They eat tons of insects. At night a bat can eat six hundred to one thousand bugs every hour! I don’t think my uncle can eat nearly that many.
“You had a great time at Laura’s lemon tea party last year, remember?” My mom brings a plate of chicken wings to the table. “It was so darling, Jewel. It was a lemon theme—lemonade, lemon pie, lemon cookies. They even played Pin the Lemon on the Tree.”
“Did they rip some lemon belches?” I ask.
My mom shoots me a “keep quiet, young man” glare. “Naturally, all the girls wore yellow party dresses. That was fun, wasn’t it, Isabelle?”
“I guess.”
“We could make cucumber sandwich cutouts with the cookie cutters. You could invite Laura and Kendall, and some of your new fifth-grade friends—”
“No.”
“But why—?”
“Because I don’t want to,” snaps Isabelle. “Tea parties are kind of last year, Mom.”
“All right. Well, you think about it.” My mother looks around the kitchen. She peers into the den. “Where is your father? Jason, are you coming? It’s time to eat.”
My dad walks into the room. He’s holding his eyeglasses. “That’s strange.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t seem to find a single bottle of my lens cleaner anywhere.”
CHAPTER
6
Have a Nice Day
I hear something,” says my sister. “Do you hear something?”
Bug spit! If those supersensitive ears of hers figure out that the noise is coming from my backpack, she is going to ruin everything.
“It’s the engine,” I say. “These school buses are older than our parents. We could explode in a ball of fire any minute—”
“No.” Isabelle scoots to the edge of the green seat. “It’s not the engine.”
We hit a bump. My backpack flies upward. I throw my body over it.
Ms. Rigormortis stops the bus. That’s not her real name. But she looks like a skeleton with a sheet of skin stretched over her bones. Doyle’s mom runs a funeral home so I know that rigor mortis is when a dead body goes stiff. Ms. Rigormortis always stares straight ahead with her skeleton hands clamped to the steering wheel. I am certain she is one of the undead.
Kids are getting on the bus. There’s Reece Perez and Isabelle’s friend Laura Ling . . .
IS YOUR BUS DRIVER A ZOMBIE?
DOES YOUR BUS DRIVER YAWN A LOT? ZOMBIES NEVER get enough sleep.
Does your bus driver wear pants that are too short? Zombies have no fashion sense.
Does your bus driver have a big Thermos of coffee? Zombies like coffee.
Does your bus driver always seem to have a cold? Zombies have no immune system.
If you answered yes to most of the above questions, your bus driver is probably one of the undead.
“Sloshing,” says Isabelle. “That’s what it sounds like—water sloshing.”
I put my arm over my backpack. “Aren’t you going to sit with Laura?”
She lifts her chin. “No.”
I glance back. Laura is sitting five rows back with Veronica Oliver. Veronica only talks to a few people—mostly popular girls. Never boys. She once went to a private school and thinks she is too good for public school. She wears polka dots every single day. There’s only one reason why Laura is sitting with Snotty Polka-Dot Pants back there.
I nudge Isabelle. “So Laura and you had a fight, huh?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Then why didn’t Laura say hi when—?”
“Zip it, Pilobolus.” Isabelle moves across the aisle to an empty seat.
I have got to look up that word to find out more. I have a feeling it’s going to be my name for a long time.
The microphone crackles. “Stay seated while the bus is in motion,” Ms. Rigormortis says without emotion.
For the rest of the ride to school, Isabelle stares out the window.
“Have a nice day. Have a nice day.” Ms. Rigormortis says the same thing to every kid that gets off the bus. “Have a nice day. Have a nice day.”
I never say anything to her. Nobody does.
Like always, Doyle is waiting for me when I hop off the bus. We walk quickly, but not too quickly in case Super Spy is tailing us.
“It’s all set,” says Doyle. “The guys are waiting behind the orchestra portable. I’ve made them promise to keep everything top secret. I’ve made sure the area is clear of all teachers and playground monitors. It’s secure.”
I salute him. Doyle is good with details, which makes us the perfect team. I am the one with the guts to fly off Alec’s Super Colossal Dirt Bike Ramp. But Doyle is the one who makes sure the ramp is long enough, strong enough, and wide enough for me to do the stunt. When we get to the portable, four guys are waiting there. I know Andy Quizzenpost and Jake Barton, but I don’t know the other two kids. They must be fifth graders. Doyle hands out the bottles of Isabelle’s Smell. I collect the money. “Thank you, come again,” I say as I take their dollars.
“I’ve got four more orders,” whispers Doyle once the guys leave. “Plus, I’m talking to a couple of sixth graders at first recess.”
“Sweet!”
My best friend holds out his hand.
I slap his palm. “I’m out of spray bottles and bolo—I mean, a few things. I’ll have to go to the store after school for stuff to make a new batch.”
SCAB’S TIP #26
BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE BEST TEAM.
“Gotcha.” He’s still holding out his hand.
I look at it. “What?”
“Well . . . it’s just that . . . you’ve made twenty-seven dollars, so far.”
“Yep.” That’s almost half a new dog!
“I . . . I was wondering . . . uh . . . when do I get my half?”
“Your half?”
“Of the money from Isabelle’s Smell.” He sees the look of shock on my face. “What’s the matter?”
“Doyle, it’s just that . . . you know I’m trying to save as much as I can as fast as I can for my dog.”
“Well, sure, but—”
“And I thought that since you have a dog already, you wouldn’t mind—”
“I mind, all right. Dogs aren’t cheap, you know. I have to buy him treats and toys, and I’m saving up for one of those cool doghouses with a tin roof.”
My chest starts to ache. Can’t Doyle understand that I want those things too? Doesn’t he see that I’m miles and miles behind him? I only want to catch up. Why won’t he let me catch up?
“Half seems a lot,” I say. “How about a buck a bottle? That’s fair.”
“A buck? We always split everything down the middle, Scab. I thought we were a team.”
“We are, but—”
“But what?”
“Doyle, it’s my invention.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
“Who dug around in your stinky garbage cans? Whose dog gave you the secret ingredient? Who’s been working like crazy to get all these orders?” He pounds his chest. “Me, that’s who. You’d be broke now if I hadn’t told the guys about Isabelle’s Smell. It’s only fair that I get an equal share—”
“Wart!” I hiss, spit flying everywhere. I pull Doyle behind a post. We don’t say a word until Mrs. Lipwart goes through the big red doors into the school.
Doyle jerks out of my grasp. “Do I get my half now or not?”
SCAB’S TIP #27
BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE BEST team, unless one of them is a selfish Erdnusskopf.
“Not!” It’s my turn to do the chest pounding. “It’s my invention.”
Doyle balls up his fist and for a minute I think he is going to hit me. His eyes drill into mine. His cheeks are turning blister red. I
stare right back. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch.
“Forget it. Forget you.” Doyle swings at air. He stomps off toward the building. “Go buy yourself a new best friend.”
“Couldn’t do any worse than you!” I yell back.
Nobody cheats Scab McNally, especially not greedy, seedy, slimy, grimy former best friends who can’t blow a decent snot bubble without my help. If I live to be 105, I’ll never talk to Doyle Ferguson again.
“And you can keep your stupid dog poop,” I scream. “I’ll find my own!”
The red door slams shut. A kindergartner in a lime green jacket is staring up at me.
“What?” I shout.
He takes off running.
CHAPTER
7
A New Partner?
It’s weird being in the lunch line without Doyle. We like to pretend to wrestle until Mr. Hibbolt tells us to “straighten up and act like gentlemen.” That’s my cue to let out an enormous burp, which always makes Doyle laugh.
WILD BURP FACTS
DID YOU KNOW THE LOUDEST BURP EVER recorded sounded like a jet aircraft taking off? Everybody burps about ten times a day. If I chug a whole can of soda pop at once, I can burp “Yankee Doodle” straight through!
EVEN WILDER FART FACTS
YOU FART ABOUT FIFTEEN TIMES A DAY (AND MAKE two cups of foo-foo gas)! Alec toots twice that much (he isn’t allowed to buy chili in the cafeteria anymore). Farts can travel at ten feet per second. Whew! I read that termites are the largest producers of fart gas. Remind me to tell that to Uncle Ant before he eats his next batch of bugs.
Should I buy sausage pizza or spicy chili? The pizza tastes good, but the slices are tiny. If I go with the chili, I’d get a big bowl. Plus, I could let some chunky farts fly at Cloey Zittle during math. Fla-hooey!
I go for the chili. I pay for my lunch. I turn around. Doyle is already sitting at our table with Will and Alec. He’s claimed my second and third best friends for himself. Bug spit! I can’t go over there now. A drop of sweat dribbles down my back. Everything is a blur. Kids are rushing past me to get to their friends. I feel smaller. Not on the outside. Inside, I mean.
