The Big Stink

by David Lubar

  At that instant, the bell rang, and Ridley dropped Ferdinand.

  “You set your watch to exactly match the school clock?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Abigail said.

  “Probably not.”

  We headed in for lunch. They’d sliced up the periods so everyone could have a chance to sit and eat. Ours was the first of the three lunches, which meant the place was pretty clean. I didn’t want to think what it would look like after the third group was finished. Probably like a trash pile.

  “Some things never change,” Mookie said as we reached the cafeteria.

  He was right. It was just like the first day of fifth grade. “This stinks,” I said.

  “It definitely brings back bad memories,” Abigail said.

  3

  Snot What I Wanted

  “Where should we sit?” I asked.

  The popular kids had already grabbed the nice tables. We ended up in the back of the room, near a noisy vent fan. The table had one short leg and rocked every time anyone moved.

  Denali shook the table, then held up the bun that came with her soup. “Rock and roll,” she said.

  “Hard as a rock.” Mookie bounced his roll off his tray. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  Denali put her roll on top of her head. “Rock on!”

  “Hey!” Adam slapped his forehead, then looked up at the ceiling.

  A drop of water had splashed on his head. I looked up over him. There was a leak in the ceiling—just like back at Belgosi. It wasn’t raining outside, but that didn’t matter—the water came from somewhere in the pipes.

  “This isn’t fair. How come we always get the worst spot?” I pointed across the room at the sunny table by the window where Shawna and her friends were giggling and chatting. The way the light hit them, they looked like one of those old Dutch paintings you see in the museums. “We have just as much right as they do to sit where we want. Or them.” I pointed at the jocks.

  Another drop hit Adam on the head. “I guess this place will get closed next,” he said.

  “Yay—no school anywhere,” Mookie said.

  “We’ll never be that lucky,” Adam said. “They’ll find somewhere to put us.” He got up and went to the other side of the table. Another drop fell and splashed on the empty seat. “Hey, Nate, pass me my burger.”

  I handed Adam his burger. He opened his mouth to take a bite; then, just before chomping down, he stopped and sniffed. He removed the burger from between his teeth, held it closer to his nose, and sniffed again.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It smells funny,” he said.

  “It’s cafeteria food,” Denali said. “It’s supposed to smell funny. They aren’t allowed to sell anything that smells good. It’s a state law.”

  “Not this funny.” Adam thrust it under her nose. “Take a whiff.”

  Denali pulled back. “No way.”

  “How about you?” Adam asked Ferdinand. “Take a whiff.” He held the burger out. Ferdinand screamed and dived under the table.

  “Good thing it wasn’t the chicken cutlet,” Denali said. “That’s really terrifying.”

  “Here.” Adam turned toward Mookie. “You’re the food expert. Is this bad?”

  “I can’t smell anything.” Mookie pointed at his nose. “I got a cold.”

  “No kidding, Abigail said. “You’ve been sniffling and snorting like a bloodhound all morning.”

  “No, I haven’t.” It looked like Mookie was about to say more, but instead he wrinkled his nose, shut his eyes, and let out one monster of a sneeze. Right on the burger.

  “Hey!” Adam yanked his hand back and stared at the burger, which now glistened like a large light-brown gem. Or maybe the eye of a fly would be a better description.

  “Sorry.” Mookie wiped his nose with his palm. “I guess I messed up your burger.”

  “It’s yours now.” Adam tossed the burger on Mookie’s tray.

  “Wow. Thanks.” Mookie wiped his nose again, then grabbed a bag of barbecue potato chips. “Want these?”

  “No. I want a gallon of bleach and a pot of boiling water. But I guess I’ll have to settle for the slimy yellow soap in the boys’ room.” Adam got up and headed down the hall, holding his right hand away from his side.

  Mookie wiped the bun with a napkin, then took a bite of the burger.

  “Gross,” Abigail said. “Someone sneezed on that.”

  “Not someone,” Mookie said after he took a second bite. “Me. It’s okay if I sneeze on my own burger. I already have all my germs. I’m not a stranger to myself.”

  “No, you’re just stranger,” Denali said.

  Mookie sniffled. Then he held the burger up to his nose and sniffed. “Hmmm. I’m still pretty stuffy, but it does smell beefier than usual. But that’s not a bad thing. Meat’s supposed to smell beefy. Right?” He shrugged and kept eating.

  Luckily, lunch ended soon after that, before Mookie could spray anybody else’s food. Unluckily, we had gym next. Unlike lunch, it wasn’t just for our grade.

  We were doubled up with the eighth-graders. Worse, we were doubled up with our gym teacher and theirs. Worsest—and I know Abigail would tell me that’s not a real word, but it’s definitely the right one here—Mr. Lomux was back. He’d been out for a while, sort of thanks to me, and gym had been fun.

  “Oh no,” Mookie said when we got out to the field. He pointed at the middle school gym teacher. “He looks tougher than Mr. Lomux. Sort of like a bulldog.”

  Mookie was right. Mr. Scotus looked like a bulldog who hadn’t gotten enough sleep. He was all muscles and bulges, with a snarl that could shatter a rock, and dark circles under his eyes.

  “Hey,” Mookie said. “Speaking of dogs, what kind of dog should a zombie get?”

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t even going to bother trying to guess.

  “A rottweiler,” Mookie said. “Get it? Rot-weiler.” He doubled over, laughing, until Mr. Lomux blew his whistle and told Mookie to stop fooling around.

  We played touch football. Luckily, they didn’t mix the classes together. We got to play with kids our age. “I’m glad we’re not playing against Ridley,” Mookie said.

  I watched as Ridley stuck out his arm and clotheslined two kids with one shot, putting them flat on their backs. I could just picture what would happen if he did that to me. My head would rip off and bounce across the field. A soccer game would break out as kids kicked my cranium back and forth.

  “Ridley looks like he enjoys hurting people,” I said.

  “Just like Rodney.” Mookie nodded his head toward the gym teachers, who were sitting on the bleachers, talking. “They don’t care, do they?”

  “It doesn’t look like it.” Another kid got taken off his feet when Ridley rammed into him with a killer block. He did a double flip before he landed. Ridley smiled like he’d just thrown his third strike in a row at a bowling alley. Rodney was doing damage, too, but I was on his team today, so I was fairly safe.

  After gym, we went back to the classroom. It was crowded, but it was a lot safer than the field.

  “You want to hang out?” I asked Mookie and Abigail after school.

  “Can’t,” Abigail said. “Eye doctor.”

  “I can’t either,” Mookie said. “My mom won me these totally awesome sneakers in a contest. They’re the kind that light up. We’re going to get them right now.”

  I sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” Abigail said.

  “It’s Bear Season,” I told her.

  “Already?” Mookie asked. “It was Bear Season just a little while ago.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It happens twice a year.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Abigail asked.

  I explained it to her.

  “That sounds adorable,” she said.

  “You’re not even close.” Hoping a giant hole would open up and swallow me, I headed home.

  4

&nbs
p; A Cute Discomfort

  I had the house to myself for several hours, which meant I could totally relax and not worry about doing something that would make Mom suspect I wasn’t a normal kid. But I knew it wouldn’t last. When she burst through the door, her arms loaded with catalogs and posters, she was buzzing like she’d chugged thirty-two cups of coffee and a half a case of energy drinks.

  The buzz had started as a small tremor a week or two ago, but kept growing as Bear Season approached. That’s what Dad and I called it. Bear Season. It had nothing to do with hunting. That’s when Stuffy Wuffy, the build-your-own-bear store where Mom worked, brought out its new line of bears and bear outfits. Much to my amazement, there were lots of people in this world who enjoyed dressing up stuffed bears in different outfits, so they looked like cowboys, kings, or clowns.

  I guess it was good that Mom had a job she liked. The problem was, she liked it way too much and wanted everyone else to like it, too.

  “Oh, wonderful—you’re here,” she said as she dumped her armload of goodies on the dining room table. “Don’t move. I’ve got so much to show you. This is so exciting.” She went back to the car for more. I thought about hiding, but I knew she’d just hunt me down.

  “Come look,” she said after her third trip. “We have all the posters and flyers. You’ll be the first person in your class to see any of this.”

  And the only one.

  I went over and let her show me a sickening amount of cuteness. Luckily, about ten minutes after the torture began, Dad walked through the door. Mom spun in his direction. I took advantage of the distraction and escaped into the living room.

  Mom snagged Dad right away and showed off her treasures. I felt sort of sorry for him, but not sorry enough to stick around. I had the feeling she could repeat the demonstration to each person in the country, one at a time, and not get any less enthusiastic.

  I flipped on the TV, plunked down on the couch, and switched to my favorite show.

  Or tried to.

  Instead of werewolves with flamethrowers, I found myself watching ice-skating ponies.

  “What?” I looked at the little logo on the corner of the screen. It was the right channel and the right time, but it wasn’t the right program.

  I checked the guide. My program was gone. Just like that! I surfed around and found something to watch, but I wasn’t happy that they’d killed my show. I felt like chucking the remote against the wall, but I knew that would mean I’d miss more than just one show. I’d miss television, freedom, allowance, and everything else that made life—I mean, death—worth living. So I settled for muttering a couple bad things about the people who ruin perfectly good TV schedules.

  I slumped down on the couch. In the distance, I could hear Mom telling Dad all the stuff she’d already told me.

  She came into the living room after she was done. I slid lower on the couch, trying to discover whether being dead gave me the power of invisibility.

  Maybe it did. Mom walked past me. But then she stopped, walked back, bent over, and sniffed the top of my head. I wriggled away. She leaned over farther and sniffed my neck.

  “Mom! Stop that!”

  “Did you take a shower?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Of course.” I made sure to use the bathroom—both the toilet and shower—just as much as I had when I was alive, even though I never needed to use the toilet. It’s amazing the kind of things moms keep track of.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  She frowned and sniffed again. “You need to scrub better.” She walked away, but turned back and said, “And use soap.”

  “I do use soap!” What did she think—that I washed myself with sand? After she left, I lifted my arms and sniffed my pits. They were fine. No smell. I never smelled. The only kid in our class who smelled was Hubert Thuleau. He was also the only kid in our class who had a mustache. Or, at least, some whiskers on his lip.

  Five minutes later, Dad walked past me. He stopped, too, and sniffed. Then he lifted his own arms and sniffed his pits.

  “It’s not me,” he said. He went over and opened the window.

  I was sure I didn’t smell. Then another thought hit me: Maybe I was losing my sense of smell! My sense of taste was pretty numb, and I didn’t feel pain. But so far, I could hear, see, and smell. It would be awful if I lost my sense of smell, or any of my other senses. But there was a very easy way to find out if my nose was working.

  I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out one of Dad’s cheeses. He likes this fancy stuff from the cheese shop over in Hurston Lakes. Mom leaves the house when he eats it, or makes him go out to the porch. I read the label. STINKING BISHOP. Talk about an honest name. I peeled off the paper that the cheese was wrapped in and took a whiff.

  “Cheese!” I gasped as the rotting odor smacked around inside my head. My nose definitely worked—though it might be a while before it forgave me for sniffing something so stinky. Obviously, the bishop had died way before me, and then been kept in a warm, sunny spot, along with a bit of roadkill and a pinch of ground-up stinkbug. I put the cheese away and went back to the living room.

  By the time Dad finished making dinner—in other words, by the time he’d pushed the right buttons on the microwave to turn the frozen family-size box of lasagna into a steaming-hot family-size box of lasagna—the Bear Season material had spread from the dining room through most of downstairs. The house was filled with catalogs and posters. Everywhere I went, I found myself face-to-face with a sickening amount of cuteness.

  The whole time we were eating—or, in my case, pretending to eat—Mom talked about the new products. Right after she finished her last mouthful, she said, “And I haven’t even started to tell you about the new wrapping paper and ribbons we’re getting for the gift boxes.”

  “Jog?” I asked Dad as we started clearing the table.

  He glanced over at Mom, who’d spent the last twenty minutes telling us about Angel Bear, who had a halo and wings; Diamond Gem Bear, who was covered with large jewels; and Tyke on a Trike Bear, who was the cutest cub ever—except maybe for Jammy Bear, who had adorable sleeping outfits complete with long sleeves, feet, and a hood.

  “Jog,” Dad said.

  “Shouldn’t you wait until you’ve had a chance to digest?” Mom asked.

  “No!” Dad and I both shouted.

  “That’s a myth,” I said.

  “Exercise helps digestion,” Dad added.

  “Lasagna isn’t heavy,” I said.

  We raced for our sneakers.

  “It’s just one more week,” Dad said as we put some distance between ourselves and the house. “The stuff arrives in the store on Wednesday. Mom will be busy setting things up. By next Monday, when the sale starts, things will be back to normal.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll make it,” I said.

  “Be strong. I know you think it’s silly, but it’s important to her. She’s very involved in all of this. She actually helped design some of the costumes for the first time.”

  “Angel Bear,” I muttered. I pictured Coffin Bear and even Zombie Bear. Where’s Chain Saw Bear when you need him?

  We jogged a mile longer than usual. That was fine with me. My muscles never get tired. And I don’t breathe, so I can’t get out of breath. Dad’s in good shape, especially now that we jog all the time, so he was fine with the extra distance.

  Eventually, though, we had to go back home and face the bears. As we turned the corner onto our block, I took a shot at asking Dad something that had been on my mind for a while.

  “Can we get a game system?” If I had a game up in my room, it would be so much easier to get through the night. I don’t sleep, so I’m always looking for things to do. I spent a lot of time on the computer, but I had to sneak downstairs and be real quiet. That took a lot of the fun away.

  “We?” he asked.

  “There are all sorts of cool games for grown-ups,” I said.

  “This grown-up doesn’t have time
for games,” he said.

  I realized I was using the wrong approach. “Can I get a game system?”

  “What do they cost?” Dad asked.

  “Three or four hundred for a really good one.” As I said the numbers, I realized how large they sounded. “Maybe a little less.”

  “Plus money for games, right?” Dad asked. “And controllers, and all the other things you can hook up to a system.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, we can’t afford that right now. I just got the car fixed, and it cost a lot more than I’d expected. But if you save up, you have my permission to buy a system, and I’ll treat for the first game. That’s the best I can do right now.”

  “Thanks.” I guess it was better than nothing. Though I was nowhere close to having that kind of money saved up.

  When we got inside, I excused myself to check my e-mail. I was surprised by what I found.

  5

  Sic Transit

  I had the usual e-mails waiting for me. Abigail sent me a link to a funny picture with a cat. Mookie sent me a link to some stupid jokes and a video of a guy getting smacked in the head with a frozen salmon. Nothing surprising there. But then there was this one:

  From: PeterPlowshare@freemailer.com

  To: Nathan316@tepidmail.com

  Meet me on the other side of the elevators.

  I didn’t have to be a superspy to decode the message. Peter Plowshare was the name Mr. Murphy used in the online role-playing game where he first got in touch with me. “The elevators” could be only one place. Mr. Murphy wanted me to meet him tonight at BUM headquarters. I got there by taking an elevator from the Museum of Tile and Grout. All of BUM’s elevators seemed to be hidden in places where nobody would want to go. That was pretty clever of them.

  I was amazed he’d used e-mail. He was always contacting me in the weirdest ways, using stuff like robot bats or laser beams. He was really big on secrecy. I guess that made sense, since he was a spy. Then again, I was a spy, too. Even so, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with sending messages the normal way.