The No-Good Nine

by John Bemelmans Marciano

  “Does he have to come?” she said to the Know-It-All and the Brat. They shrugged.

  The numbers on the board started to flip, and our train got assigned to track 8. We had ten minutes to board.

  The Rude wanted to wait for the Hooligan, but we dragged him away.

  “Don’t worry, he can figure it out,” I said, now 99 percent lying.

  We snuck around the outer edges of the terminal. The biggest problem was the Brat’s trunk. I did wind up helping with it—I’m honest that way—but it was the size of a small house and too heavy to carry. We had to drag it, with the Rude pushing from behind. It was LOUD!

  “What’ve you got in here?” the Rude said. “Rocks?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s full of clothes,” the Brat said. “And silver coins.”

  We stopped to look at him.

  He shrugged. “We need money, remember?”

  “I should be getting more than half a buck for this!” I said.

  “Wait,” the Rude said. “You got paid?”

  “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

  Even with the noise of the dragging, the Truant Officer never looked once in our direction. He just kept writing in his journal.

  Train station crowded.

  I stand my post, still in my impenetrable disguise.

  No sign of the children anywhere.

  No wonder he never managed to catch me!

  When we finally finished dragging the trunk to track 8, the Brat pointed ahead and told us to put it in first class.

  “You put yourself in first class and you put us back in third class?” the Rude said.

  “Of course I did!” he said. “That’s where the servants always sit.”

  “Well, push this the rest of the way yourself, then,” the Rude said, giving the trunk a kick and walking away. “I’m gettin’ on the train!”

  Before he did, though, he looked around the station for the Hooligan.

  Still no sign of him.

  “All aboard!” the conductor yelled.

  We all got seats, except the Rude, who stood on the steps by the open door, searching for his pal. About a minute before the train was supposed to leave, he saw him. He wanted to yell but he couldn’t.

  The Hooligan was standing right next to the Truant Officer!

  How could that Russian not see him? And what was the Hooligan doing just standing there?

  “He can’t figure out which train we’re on!” the Rude said. “How are we gonna let him know and not get caught?”

  If you wanted smarts, you needed the Know-It-All. If it was money, the Brat. But sneakiness? That was my department.

  “Hey, Glorious,” I said.

  The Vainglorious smiled, pleased someone had finally called him Glorious.

  “The Cruel left her bag on the platform,” I said, talking as fast as I could. “Do you see that guy over there in the big beard with the furry hat? He brought it for her. Can you go run and get it?”

  “Why should I be the one to do it?” he said.

  “Because the train’s about to leave and none of us can run as fast as you!” I said.

  “Well, that is surely true. . . .”

  “Please?” the Cruel said, and batted her eyes at him. “You’ll be my hero!”

  He smiled a dopey smile.

  “You’ve gotta run—now! Go!” I said, slapping him on the back. The Vainglorious made a dash down the steps of the train, like he was the star of some adventure serial.

  “And make sure you tell him you’re with the No-Good Nine!” I called after him.

  At the same moment, the Truant Officer finally stopped writing in his journal long enough to realize who was standing next to him.

  “You!” he said to the Hooligan. “You are coming with me, you negodnik runaway!”

  Before he could grab him, however, the Vainglorious stepped in between them.

  “I’m with the No-Good Nine!” he said proudly.

  “Hooligan!” we all yelled from the train. “RUN!”

  The Hooligan saw us all hanging out the windows of the train and took off as fast as he could.

  “All aboard! Last call!!”

  “What are you doing?” the Vainglorious said as my archenemy handcuffed him. “Where’s the Cruel’s bag?”

  The Truant Officer left the Vainglorious standing there and took off after the Hooligan. He was a lot faster than he looked. Even with the beard.

  The train started to move CHUG-chug CHUG-chug.

  The Hooligan made a leap for the Rude’s outstretched arm—grabbed it!—and the Rude pulled him in. I slammed the door shut behind the Hooligan, right in the face of my nemesis.

  “STOP!” the Truant Officer hollered, running alongside the train. He tapped his shiny badge against the glass. “STOP in the name of the tsar!” he yelled. “I mean, STOP in the name of the Sewickley Department of Attendance!”

  We all stuck our heads out the windows as the train overtook him.

  I was a little sorry to say goodbye to him.

  But I was the only one.

  “So long, sucker!” the Hooligan yelled.

  The Cruel blew kisses to the Vainglorious. “Bye-bye, hero!!”

  The Rude had his own way of saying goodbye. He jumped up on a seat, pulled his pants down, and stuck his butt out the window.

  “Enjoy the full moon!”

  My archenemy’s face went white, while the Vainglorious looked dumber than ever. We all cheered.

  Except for Goody-Two-Shoes. She just whispered to herself,

  “What have I gotten myself into?”

  EPISODE THREE:

  THE THIEF

  13. HAPPY 1932!

  “So, what are all you kids doing on a train alone, eh?”

  “We’re the youth group of the International Geographical Explorers Club. We’re collecting samples of Canadian snow to compare against American snow.”

  “Well, that’s interesting, eh?” the lady said.

  It was already the fifth story I’d made up on the ride. With each one, the Cruel shot me an ever-icier look.

  She was stuck in the seat next to me. Or rather, I was stuck next to her.

  The girl was terrifying! But all the other seats were taken.

  The two pals—the Rude and the Hooligan—sat next to each other right in front of us. In the aisle across from them were the Know-It-All and Goody-Two-Shoes, who were quickly becoming just as tight a pair. It was as if being smart and nice had drawn them together like magnets. Honestly, I think it was a mistake either of them was on the Naughty List.

  The Brat, of course, was all alone up in first class. Not that anyone would have wanted to sit next to him anyway, let alone become best pals with him. Because he was, well, a brat. But I still would’ve taken him over my present seatmate.

  I was trying to think of something to say to her when the Cruel said, “Don’t even think of talking to me. And don’t look at me.”

  She tapped the armrest between us.

  “You see this? This is mine. Pretend that there’s an invisible force field that extends from here up. And if you accidentally cross it, you die. Got it?”

  I gulped. And nodded.

  “It’s time! It’s time!” a passenger from the seats in back began to yell. The entire train car chanted:

  Ten!

  Nine!

  Eight!

  Seven!

  Six!

  Five!

  Four!

  Three!

  Two!

  One!

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  Streamers flew, paper horns blew, and a champagne cork went

  POP!

  (Even though it was Prohibition, and booze had been illegal since before I was born, people still managed to always ha
ve it for special occasions. And not-so-special ones too, come to think of it.)

  “Welcome 1932!” someone toasted. “You just gotta be better than 1931!”

  “Hear hear!” everyone said.

  After some celebrating, the conductor came through and loudly announced it was time to quiet down. “Lights out in five minutes!”

  Soon after, everyone on board had fallen asleep. Including me.

  But in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of someone crying.

  I looked over at the Cruel. Asleep. I should’ve known it couldn’t be her.

  The Know-It-All and Goody-Two-Shoes were both passed out too, so I got up to have a look at the other two.

  The Rude was not only asleep, he was drooling out of his mouth, and his nose was making horrible sounds. He was disgusting even when he was unconscious.

  The Hooligan was leaning against the window, his face buried into his coat. I thought he was asleep too, but no—he was the one crying.

  “Hey,” I said, touching his shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nuttin! Shuddup!” he said. “Go away!”

  “No, seriously—what is it?” I whispered. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “You better not, or I’ll pound you!” he said, and looked toward me long enough to shake a fist in my direction. He was holding his rabbit’s foot in it.

  His face and eyes were red and watery.

  “Look, I cry all the time,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “That’s because you’re a sissy.”

  I wanted to tell him I was lying—because I was—but I wanted to know why he was crying more than I wanted to set the record straight on how often I cried.

  “It’s because I ain’t never been away from home before!” he said, snapping. “O.K.? You happy now? So I’m a big sissy, too!”

  I told him I hadn’t ever been away from home either.

  “Are you lying?” he said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  But I was.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was still the middle of the night when we switched trains in New York. We had hours to wait, so I lay down on the platform and went to sleep.

  I woke up to a kick in the ribs.

  “C’mon!” the Rude said. “Train’s comin’!”

  It was morning. We got on the train with another long ride ahead of us, after which we would have to switch again. By tonight, we’d be in Quebec City, where we’d get to sleep in a hotel. I’d never slept in a hotel before, and the Brat had promised to put us up at the Ritz! “It’s the only place my family ever stays.”

  (I was just worried we’d have to do the dishes or stay in the bathroom or something.)

  I again got stuck next to the Cruel. So as not to accidentally break her invisible wall of death, I stood up in the aisle so I could talk to the others.

  The Know-It-All and Goody-Two-Shoes, unfortunately, only wanted to talk about boring stuff. They were as bad as grown-ups. The Know-It-All also had made handwritten copies of the magazine article for us to read and study. Again: There should be no studying when you’re running away from home!

  Thankfully, the Rude and the Hooligan were into interesting stuff, like baseball, boxing, horse racing, and movies.

  We spent hours talking about who was the best hitter, the strongest puncher, the fastest horse, and the scariest monster.

  I picked the best one, of course—Mr. Hyde—while the Rude picked Dracula, and the Hooligan said Frankenstein.

  “Is that because you look like Frankenstein?” the Cruel said.

  “Ooooooh—crusted!” the Rude said, and laughed.

  The Hooligan punched him in the arm.

  When we got bored of all that, we did ten thousand rounds of “My Name Is Yon Yonson.” It went:

  “My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there. The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson, I live in Wisconsin. I work in a lumberyard there.’ The people I meet as I walk down the street say, ‘Hello!’ I say, ‘Hello!’ They say, ‘What’s your name?’ I say: ‘My name is Yon Yonson—’”

  “SHUT UP!” the Cruel yelled.

  The rest of the train car clapped.

  “Were we being annoying?” the Rude said.

  * * *

  • • •

  The last train ride was the shortest, and worst. We had run out of things to talk about, and I just wanted to be off of trains!

  Making it even worster, the Know-It-All spouted out facts about every stop the train made.

  “Rochester! Home of George Eastman and Eastman Kodak, which he f-f-f-founded. He is the inventor of the modern camera, and one of the nation’s greatest philanthropists, b-b-b-being currently involved in establishing a new worldwide calendar with thirteen months.”

  “Do you have to make everything seem like school?” the Hooligan said.

  My thoughts exactly.

  But he didn’t stop.

  When we crossed the border into Canada—my first time in a foreign country!—the Know-It-All ruined the moment with a lesson on the history of Prohibition in Quebec.

  “Because alcohol is legal in the province and city of Quebec, it is a popular base for smuggling. This has led to the rise of v-v-vicious criminal rings operated by bootleggers and rumrunners. In fact, the entire rise of the Syndicate and organized crime in America is largely tied to this illegal cross-border l-l-liquor trade.”

  “We know, we know!” we said.

  Like we didn’t watch the movies or listen to the radio? Heck, it was hard to be alive in 1931—er, 1932—and not know all about Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, and—the baddest gangster of them all—Al Capone.

  FINALLY we heard the conductor say the words we had all been waiting for:

  “Next stop! Quebec City!”

  “Quebec City was settled by the French in—”

  “Aw, shuddup!” the Hooli
gan said.

  The Brat was waiting with his trunk on the platform when we got off.

  “How was it back there with the cows and the luggage?” the Brat said. “Hah!”

  “How was it up in first class with the jerks?” the Hooligan said. He looked around to see if anyone was laughing at his joke.

  We were not.

  It was then that I noticed something very strange. The people here—it was like they didn’t know how to talk!

  “They’re speaking French,” the Know-It-All said.

  I had no clue they spoke French here, but not only did the Know-It-All know, he had prepared a list of questions in French along with the likely responses he would receive.

  Armed with index cards, he tried getting us a taxi.

  It didn’t go so well.

  Whatever he said sure sounded like French to me, but none of the taxi drivers seemed to have a clue what he was saying, and he didn’t understand their responses back.

  “None of their answers m-m-m-match my cards,” he said, flipping through them.

  The station was starting to get deserted, and we were starting to get nervous. We definitely didn’t want to spend the night here. It was freezing, and a little bit scary.

  The Know-It-All kept at it, until

  “They don’t speak that kind of French,” a voice said.

  The voice was coming from a tramp-looking boy, about our age. Except he wasn’t a boy—she was a girl.

  She was dressed like a boy, with long pants and suspenders and a hobo cap like the Rude wore. But she had a thick braid of black hair that hung like a rope down her back and she was definitely a girl.

  “Not that it matters,” she said. “No taxi’s going to take seven kids anyway. But I will!”

  What did she mean, she would?

  14. PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

  “What do you mean, you will?” the Brat said.

  “I can take you to your hotel,” the tramp-girl said.

  “You can drive?” the Brat said.

  “Look who’s talking,” I said.

  “Of course I can drive!” she said. “I’ve been driving for years! I’ve got a delivery truck parked right out back.”