by David Lubar
I headed around the side of the school. Ridley was still behind me. I ran a loop all the way around the building. Kids were watching us. It reminded me of one night when Dad and I saw a TV show where a crocodile was hunting a zebra. You just knew it was going to end badly for the zebra. That’s what all the kids expected. They figured Ridley would catch me and tear me to pieces. As far as they were concerned, he was an eighth-grader and I was just a little kid.
I didn’t see Abigail. That was good. She’d gone to get a teacher. I couldn’t send Mookie. Guys can’t snitch. You do it once, you get a reputation. But it was fine for Abigail to go get help.
On my second lap, I could tell that Ridley was losing his breath. He was huffing like someone trying to get a campfire started from a glowing stick. When we got back to the playground, I was happy to see Principal Ambrose standing by the back door.
“Hold it, you two! What’s going on?”
I skidded to a halt in front of him and put my hands behind my back.
“We were playing tag,” Ridley said between gasps as he caught his breath. He glared at me, daring me to call him a liar. “Our teachers told us to play games with the younger students.”
I was going to explain that it wasn’t a game, but the principal was way ahead of me. “I remember you,” he said to Ridley. “You spent a lot of time in my office. You keep your hands off these students. If you so much as touch one of them, you’ll face criminal charges.”
Wow. I never thought Principal Ambrose would come down so hard on Ridley. But that was great. Ridley wouldn’t dare touch me—or anyone else—after that warning.
“Go back inside,” Principal Ambrose said.
Ridley slunk off. I was about to thank the principal when he spun toward me and said, “As for you, I don’t know what you did to instigate this, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” He looked from me to Mookie and then back. I saw a glimmer in his eyes. He had to have remembered the last time he’d seen us, back in the Belgosi boys’ room, the day I realized something was really wrong with me. “I mean it,” he said. Then he walked off.
“Thanks,” I said to Abigail.
“It was nothing. Just try to stay away from him.”
“That’s my plan.” I looked around for Ferdinand. He was back on his feet. He was a bit wobbly, but didn’t seem to be in pain. “Come on,” I said to Mookie and Abigail. I headed back toward the swings.
“Why are we going there?” Mookie asked.
“So you can help me find my fingers.” I held up my right hand. My index and middle finger had snapped off when I’d swung around the leg. I hadn’t even felt it, but I’d seen them go flying.
After we found the fingers, we took them over to the side of the school so nobody would hear my screams. The only time I feel pain is when I glue pieces back on. It doesn’t hurt for long, but it hurts a lot.
“Sorry I couldn’t puke when you needed me to,” Mookie said when we got back to the playground. I don’t know why it didn’t work.” He jammed a finger back down his throat.
Someone smacked my shoulder. “Hey! I warned you not to play with my brother.”
I turned and found myself facing Rodney.
Before I could say anything, Mookie, who still had his fingers down his throat, made a gagging sound, bent halfway over, and hurled right in my direction. I managed to leap out of the way.
Rodney wasn’t so lucky. He got nailed right across his shirt. He looked down, screamed, and ran off.
“Hmmm,” Mookie said after he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s working now.”
The lunch bell rang.
“The bugs are getting another feast.” Abigail pointed to the part of Mookie’s latest deposit that had managed to reach the ground. “I, on the other hand, seem to have lost my appetite.”
“I’ll eat your lunch if you don’t want it,” Mookie said. “I’m really starving now.”
“Hey, I’m just glad there’s no way Ridley can hurt me,” I said. I figured I was safe from Rodney for a while, too. The last time he’d been nailed this way, he’d stayed out of school for a week.
“Don’t be so sure you’re safe from Ridley,” Mookie said. “A guy like him, he’ll try to find a way to get even.”
“I’m not worried. At least he won’t be there at lunch.” That was true. But after lunch, we had gym. Ridley wasn’t just there—he was there with a plan.
When we got out to the field, Ridley glared at me. Then his jaw started moving up and down, like he was chewing a really tough piece of beef jerky.
“He looks like a cow,” Mookie said.
“Except bigger.” Then I saw something that worried me. There was a flicker of light in his eyes—the sort of spark you see when someone gets an idea. One side of his mouth curled up into a sneer.
“Hey, Coach,” Ridley said.
“What do you want, Mule?”
I guess that was Mr. Scotus’s nickname for Ridley.
Ridley pointed right at our cluster of fifth-graders. “How about we play against them. That would toughen them up. Make real men out of them.”
“Yeah,” the kid next to him said.
“Let’s do it!” another larger creature shouted.
All of them joined in.
“We are so dead,” Mookie said. “Especially you. I know you’re already dead, but after this, you’ll be like double dead.”
Nearby, I heard a sound like crickets. I looked over at Ferdinand. He was trembling so hard, he was sending out sound waves.
I pointed toward Mr. Scotus. “He won’t let it happen. We’ll be okay.”
We all watched Mr. Scotus. He also did the chewing thing for a moment. Then he got the same evil smile as Ridley. I realized that Mr. Scotus was the sort of person kids like Ridley turned into when they grew up.
I was wrong. We were definitely doomed.
12
Horsing Around
Just when I figured my body was about to be crushed like walnut shells on the football field, Mr. Lomux, of all people, said, “No way.”
Every head in the class turned toward him. “He’s my hero,” Mookie whispered. “I’ll never try to make his veins pop again.”
But our rescue didn’t last very long. “My kids need to earn the right to play yours,” Mr. Lomux said. “We’ll play fifth against fifth, and eight against eighth. The winners will play on Friday. Okay—choose up sides. Mort, Steven, you’re captains.”
As we waited to get picked, I knew two things: Whichever eighth-grade team had Ridley would win, and whichever fifth-grade team had to play against him on Friday would do more than just lose—they’d get broken into pieces. Especially me.
“I’ll take Ferdinand,” Mort said.
“I’ve got Dilby,” Steven said.
Everyone, including Ferdinand and Dilby, froze for a moment. Then I realized what was happening. Mort and Steven both wanted to lose.
“This is amazing,” Mookie said as the picking continued.
“It’s like Opposite Day,” I said. The kids who always got picked last—and I knew all about how that felt—were getting picked first. I’d lost my spot as last-pick right after I became half-dead, so I got scooped up in the middle.
I ended up on Mort’s team. “Nobody score,” he said as we huddled.
“We have to do more than that,” I said. “We have to make sure they score.”
“I’ve got that covered,” Mort said.
He took the hike and threw a hard pass right at Adam, who was on the other team. As the ball hit Adam in the chest, he clutched at it. Then he stared in horror. But Mort rushed over and touched him before he could drop the ball. We’d managed to turn it over on the first play.
Steven took the snap, then dropped the ball. Everyone stood there.
“Play!” Mr. Lomux screamed. “Start playing or you’ll do five thousand push-ups every class for the rest of the year.”
Seven veins bulged on his shiny bald head.
Both sides tried to make it l
ook like we were playing for real, but we were all trying to lose. Finally, around the middle of the period, Mort got a great idea. He stood way back, took the hike, then dashed the wrong way and fell down in our end zone.
He didn’t need to be touched. In our gym-class rules, a play ended if the ball carrier hit the ground. The other team scored a safety. We were down two to nothing.
Of course, on the next play, the other team did the same thing, tying the score at 2–2. With a long shotgun hike, there was no way anyone could catch the quarterback before he reached the wrong end zone.
It was our turn again. That was good. I realized, since our side had thought of it first, we’d either win or tie, depending on when the period ended. Things were looking up.
“Time out!” Mr. Lomux screamed. He stormed over to Mr. Scotus and started talking.
The girls, who were resting after running laps, were watching us. Abigail wandered over to me and Mookie. “What’s happening?”
I explained how we were each trying to lose.
“Interesting,” she said. “It’s like the puzzle of the slower horse.”
I waited for her to explain what she meant. “It’s a classic problem. A man has two sons. Each son owns one horse. In his will, the man leaves all his money to whichever son has the slower horse. So they have a race, but both sons just sit there on the horses.” She pointed at our two teams. “Same thing.”
“So what did they do?” I asked.
Abigail shook her head. “Nope. I’m not telling you. You can figure this one out. It’s not that hard. If I always give you the answers, your brain will get lazy.”
I thought for a moment. Then I saw it. “They switch horses!”
“Right,” Abigail said. “Now, each one wants to race fast on his brother’s horse so his own horse is slower.”
“Huh?” Mookie said. “I don’t see what that has to do with us.”
“I’ll tell you later.” I pointed at the gym teachers. “The important thing is that they don’t figure it out.” And that looked like a safe bet. Mr. Lomux and Mr. Scotus were both scratching their heads and talking.
“It’s sort of like watching two mules trying to solve an algebra problem,” Abigail said.
“It is kind of sad,” I said.
A second later, Mookie shouted, “I get it! I get it!”
Everyone looked at him. Then, before I could clamp a hand on his mouth, he yelled, “It’s a good thing they’re not making our losing team play their winner.”
Oh, no . . . I watched the teachers. Maybe they still wouldn’t catch on. My hopes vanished when they stopped scratching their heads. They talked. They nodded. Mr. Lomux came over and pointed at us. “Fifth-grade losers play the eighth-grade winners.”
We fought hard. But we lost. Across the field, I kept watching Ridley hammering the kids on the opposite team. One kid got knocked right out of his sneakers.
“We have two days to live,” I said as we walked off the field.
“Maybe I’ll be sick that day,” Mookie said.
“I wish I could do that.” My mom totally overreacted any time I got sick. I couldn’t risk another trip to the doctor. I’d been lucky enough to get through the last one.
13
Costume Foolery
Mom was in the living room when I came home from school, sitting on the couch. That was weird. She should have been at work. When I got closer, I saw she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I wasn’t too worried. Mom cries pretty easily. Dad and I won’t even stay in the living room when there’s a sad movie on. If something really bad had happened—like when my hamster died—she would have been waiting by the door for me.
“Nothing,” she said. She sniffed, then wiped her nose with a tissue.
“Is everyone okay?”
She nodded. “Everything’s fine. I just made a mistake at work.”
“Hey, everyone makes mistakes,” I said.
“Not like this.” She reached over and picked up something from the couch. She held it up. It was big, floppy, and sort of shapeless.
“What’s that?” It was Wednesday, which meant the bear outfits had arrived at the store. But the thing in her hand couldn’t possibly be one of those.
“It’s supposed to be a Stuffy Wuffy Jammy Bear outfit. I ordered the wrong size.” She held up a bear. Then she draped the pajamas over it. The bear looked like it was inside a tent. The hood, all by itself, was bigger than the bear. “It’s the first time they ever let me order the outfits, and I made a huge mistake on the computer. I hate those little drop-down windows where you have to click on a choice. They always seem to change when I’m not looking.”
I tried to think what Abigail would do. “Can’t you get larger bears?” I asked.
“Nobody wants bears that big,” she said. “They’d be huge.
I noticed there was other stuff piled on the couch. “What’s with the wings?” The instant I said that, and heard Mom’s gasp, I felt bad.
“I messed up that, too,” she said. “I’m so bad with computers.”
I couldn’t argue with that. The one time Mom had tried to order a pair of shoes online, she’d ended up getting fifteen pounds of potato salad delivered to the house. Dad and I were never able to figure out exactly how she had managed to do that. Actually, even though he works with numbers, Dad isn’t all that much better than Mom when it comes to going online. That sort of stuff is best left for kids, since we understand the Internet.
“Are those the angel wings?” I asked.
Mom nodded. “Wrong size. Wrong shape.”
I could see that. They looked more like they belonged to wasps than to angels. Giant wasps. Stingy Bear? No—that wouldn’t be a big seller. Most people didn’t like insects. There was something else on the couch. It was about the size of a silver dollar, but shaped like a flat gem. I guess Mom had messed up a bit with the decorations for Diamond Jewel Bear, too. I didn’t ask.
This was bad. I really wanted to help. “Maybe you can shrink the pajamas.”
Mom shook her head. “It’s not cotton or wool. It won’t shrink.”
Man, solving problems was hard. I made a few more suggestions, but none of them were any good either. In the end, all I could do was say the sort of thing Mom would say to me if I messed up. “It will work out okay. You’ll see.”
She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t feel that way.
I was still thinking about Mom’s problem after bedtime, when two chipmunks ran up the phone pole outside my window, holding a flashing sign that read GO TO BUM.
One of them slipped off the pole and plunged to the ground. It hit the curb and exploded. The other one managed to climb down.
As usual, I slipped out after my parents had gone to bed, and headed to the museum.
When I got off the elevator on the other side, Mr. Murphy said, “Good news, Nathan. You don’t have to be a little stinker.”
“Very funny. What did you come up with?”
“I’ll let Professor Quirlian tell you himself,” Mr. Murphy said. “I don’t want to spoil his surprise.”
“Professor Quirlian?” I asked.
“The greatest scientist on our staff,” Mr. Murphy said. “Perhaps the greatest espionage engineer ever. Come on, it’s time you met him.”
I followed Mr. Murphy down the hall. We went into an elevator, but not the kind that took us to other towns and cities. This was a normal one that went down. There weren’t any numbers on it for the floors. We seemed to move for a long while. “How deep is this place?” I asked.
“Nobody knows,” Mr. Murphy said.
The door opened and I followed him out. We went down a short hall that ended by a double door. I read the writing on the small sign next to the door: R&D
“R and D?” I asked.
“Research and Development,” Mr. Murphy said. “This is where the magic happens.”
“And the explosions?” I asked.
“Knock it off. We don’t have
that many explosions.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Nothing blows up more than once.”
Mr. Murphy ignored that. As he reached for the door, he said, “Nathan, this is our most top secret area. Very few people have been allowed in here. You must swear to me that you will never mention what you see to anyone.”
“Sure. I can keep a secret. I’ve been keeping a huge one for a while now.”
“Good point.” He opened the door, let me go first, and followed me in. I froze for a moment when I saw it was a lab. I still remembered every detail of the lab where I’d been splashed with Hurt-Be-Gone and turned into a zombie. That was at Romero Community College. This lab was a lot bigger. It was actually larger than my school’s gym.
A guy scurried up to us. He was really old, and sort of bent over, like the lady down the street from me who owns all the cats. Except he wasn’t covered with cat hair. He flashed me a huge smile.
“Professor Quirlian,” Mr. Murphy said, “this is our newest agent—Nathan Abercrombie. He’s starting to smell.”
“Wait! Solution!” Professor Quirlian skittered across the lab and grabbed something, then hurried back to me. “Brilliant! Totally brilliant.” He handed me a cotton ball. “Here. Sniff.”
I took a sniff. That was a mistake. I felt like I’d been drop-kicked in the gut by a moose. The cotton ball smelled like someone had taken a dead woodchuck, stuffed it with pus and tuna salad, and left it in a warm place for a month. “That’s awful!”
“Certainly. Stunningly awful. But now—observe.”
He dashed across the lab to a workbench and picked up a beaker. That was another thing I didn’t like seeing. It was a large glass jar of Hurt-Be-Gone that turned me into a half-dead zombie. I decided to stay where I was, safely across the room.
Professor Quirlian grabbed some tongs and plunged the cotton ball in the liquid, then pulled it out, puffed on it a couple times, and raced back to me.
“Again,” he said, thrusting the cotton ball in my face.
