The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4

by Roy MacGregor

The red light came on.

  The Screech Owls had won in sudden-death overtime!

  And Nish had scored his Pavel Bure goal!

  22

  Travis wasn’t exactly sure when Nish had first noticed the cameras. He couldn’t have missed the crews running onto the ice to film the Owls piling on top of him. But it seemed to Travis that Nish must have seen them earlier; why else would he have tried his crazy play? Travis didn’t much care. It had worked. Nish had his Pavel Bure goal – and the Owls had the championship.

  Nish put on a humble act when the cameras closed around him and the reporters began peppering him with questions. He called it a “lucky play” and gave credit to his teammates, but Travis didn’t believe it for a moment. Nish was in his glory.

  “Maybe Letterman will call,” Sam said sarcastically as the rest of the Owls stood around watching Nish fielding questions.

  “Guinness won’t be,” said Sarah, giggling.

  She was right. Nish might have come to New York to moon – but instead he’d ended up a star.

  After Travis had accepted the trophy, and medals were being presented to both teams, he noticed the camera crews talking with the organizers. Then just when it seemed he should pick up the trophy and hold it over his head for a victory lap of Madison Square Garden, the organizers, with the Wheels’ coach in tow, hurried over to Muck.

  They talked briefly, Muck scowling but eventually giving one quick nod of his head. He came back to the Owls and called them all in around him.

  “They’ve a chance to get on the network news apparently,” Muck said, unimpressed. “But the television people want to shoot a shootout. You willing to do that?”

  It was clear from Muck’s expression that he himself didn’t want to. But Muck was Muck, never one to force his opinions on others. He was leaving it up to the team.

  “You betcha!” said Nish, still beaming from his moment of glory. He couldn’t get enough.

  “Sure,” said Andy.

  “Why not?” said Sam.

  Muck nodded once, curtly. “Fine, then,” he said. “I’ll let them know.”

  The organizers seemed delighted. They immediately cleared the ice of everyone but two camera crews, one on each side of the slot area where the shooters would be coming in. Jeremy and the Wheels’ goaltender both took their positions.

  The players all went back to their benches while the coaches made up their lists.

  Sarah would shoot first.

  Travis second.

  Nish third.

  Muck read down through the entire list. Travis was thrilled. He could feel his heart pounding. He hoped he scored.

  Sarah scored easily, a beautiful tuck play as the goalie shot out his stick to poke-check her, and she simply let the puck slide into the net off her backhand.

  The big Detroit centre scored on a hard slapshot that blew right through Jeremy’s pads.

  The Owls were still congratulating Sarah when Travis, looking down the bench, noticed something very unusual.

  Sam, who was far down the list, had her helmet and gloves off and was very carefully pickpocketing Mr. Dillinger’s first-aid belt.

  She was taking out the scissors.

  Muck tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re up,” he said.

  Travis came out onto the ice to a nice round of applause for the winning captain. He loved it. If only the ice surface had been flooded so he could feel that glorious snap and sizzle when he made his turn.

  He picked up the puck and wished there was no heavy snow on the ice. He was afraid of losing the puck, and he couldn’t stickhandle very quickly. His legs felt funny, like rubber one stride, like lead the next.

  Travis came in, faked, went to his backhand, and lifted the puck as hard as he could.

  Ping! Off the crossbar.

  Travis heard the crowd groan. He slammed his stick in disappointment, but in truth he wasn’t that upset. It was just a shootout for fun, after all. It didn’t count. And as only hockey players understand, if you’re going to miss, the best way is off the crossbar.

  As Travis skated back to the bench and his teammates shouted his name, Nish came over the boards.

  Right behind Nish, giggling, sat Sam. She held up the scissors in one hand, and raised a thumb with the other.

  Sarah was doubled over, laughing so hard tears were coming down her cheeks.

  What was going on?

  Nish made a grand circle before picking up the puck. It was as if he was on parade. He did some fancy stickhandling and took lots of time.

  Both cameras were on him as he came over the blueline. They knew who this was – the kid who had scored the spectacular goal and won the game in overtime – and it was pretty obvious that if any footage made the network news, it was going to be of Nish.

  But wait, there was something wrong with Nish’s pants! They seemed impossibly low!

  Nish tried a fancy sidestep, and his hockey pants dropped right down over his skates.

  He tripped and slid helplessly along the ice.

  Travis heard two wild squeals of laughter down the bench. Sarah was high-fiving Sam, and Sam was furiously snipping the air with the scissors.

  She had cut Nish’s suspenders!

  Nish was still down, his pants around his ankles, both camera crews zooming in on the overtime hero.

  He was going to be on network television.

  And only a sweaty pair of boxers had kept him from setting a world record for mooning.

  THE END

  Horror on River Road

  1

  “Thanks a lot, pal!”

  Travis Lindsay’s voice shook. He could feel the blood rising in his face, his throat stinging from the sharp rasp of his own words. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry at his best friend, Wayne Nishikawa.

  They were standing outside the Bluebird Theatre, Tamarack’s only movie house, and Travis had his fists stabbed down as far as possible in the pockets of his Screech Owls team jacket. He was surprised at how tightly clenched they felt, like they needed to be contained before something terrible happened.

  Travis had never hit anyone in his life – not even in a hockey game – but he knew, in an instant, how easily it could happen. If Nish had been standing there in his full hockey equipment, helmet included, instead of in a T-shirt and shorts with that stupid sheepish look on his face, Travis might have tried to hammer him into the ground to make his point. But all he could do was yell.

  “You stupid idiot! What were you thinking?”

  Travis knew he was headed down a useless road with that question. Nish didn’t think. Nish just acted. And he had acted the perfect fool this evening.

  Travis had waited all week for this movie. He and Nish had seen parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, and VII of The Blood Children – “Most Frightening Hollywood Sequels Ever Made!” “Two Stumps Up!” – and finally Part VIII had arrived in Tamarack on a Saturday night in early June. They were determined to be there for the very first showing of what was sure to be a long run.

  The two friends – make that former friends – had watched the first seven movies in the blood-curdling series in the comfort of Nish’s living room. Nish had somehow convinced his long-suffering mother that there was something “educational” in movies that featured one-eyed, slimy aliens from outer space, haunted graveyards, flashing blood-stained scythes, rolling heads, exploding eyes, hideous zombies, and spine-tingling, horrific screams.

  “Trav and I believe,” Nish had told his poor mother, all the while winking behind her back at Travis, “that all such movies should be banned.”

  Mrs. Nishikawa, one of the sweetest, most naive human beings Travis had ever known, had nodded slowly as she stacked the dishes, a small smile on her face showing how proud she was of her well-meaning son.

  “What we want to do,” Nish had continued, as if making a speech, “is work on a school project on how harmful horror movies can be to kids.” He neglected to mention that the movies were all rated AA.

  Mrs
. Nishikawa had thought it an excellent idea and congratulated Nish on showing such maturity. But Travis knew differently. He couldn’t believe how trusting Mrs. Nishikawa could be. Did she not realize school was almost out for the summer holidays and that no one would be doing school work? He wondered if she would ever ask to see their project after they had supposedly written it up.

  But Mrs. Nishikawa had never asked to see anything. She even made them popcorn and brought in cold pop as Nish and Travis happily watched one rented Blood Children movie after the other – something the Lindsays would never permit Travis to do – until they had enjoyed all seven.

  Travis could never decide whether he really liked horror movies. He liked to be frightened, but not terrified. He liked being scared, so long as he was certain it would quickly pass. At Nish’s house, Travis was able to make sure he had every safety device at his disposal: the pause button on the remote control, the washroom, bright lights in the Nishikawa living room, and, if necessary, Mrs. Nishikawa’s happy, comforting face seeing him to the front door before the frantic race home – preferably before dark.

  Never, however, had the boys seen a horror movie in a real theatre. It was something Travis had often imagined, with a shudder. The lights would be down. The screen would be huge. Other viewers – strangers, their faces hidden in the dark – would be screaming. Travis wanted desperately to go, but didn’t know for sure if he could handle it.

  “We’ll get cigars,” Nish said. “Light ’em up before we hit the box office and they’ll figure we’re adults.”

  Sure, Travis thought, a couple of miniature adults wearing peewee hockey jackets and smoking huge cigars. That’ll fool them for sure.

  Nish pushed, but Travis refused to detour past his grandparents’ so they could “borrow” a couple of his grandfather’s big, stinking old Corona cigars. Travis didn’t steal. He didn’t smoke. And he had no intention of looking like an idiot. What next? he wondered. False beards? Canes? Hearing aids? The two of them in walkers and wearing adult diapers?

  In the end, they tagged along with Mario Terziano’s older brother, who was taking his date to the new movie and thought it a lark to pay for the boys’ tickets and sneak them in, as long as Nish and Travis didn’t actually sit with them.

  Passing for fourteen seemed to do something to Nish. He was even more outrageous than usual. Instead of sitting quietly in a corner of the theatre where they might go unnoticed, Nish insisted they sit dead centre. While they waited for the previews to begin, he made animal sounds, shouted out “KAW-WA-BUNGA!” and “EEE-AWWW-KEEE!” and once even passed wind loudly before holding his nose with one hand and raising the other high to point straight down at Travis.

  Travis slid lower and lower in his seat.

  The previews did nothing to settle Nish down. He whistled and stomped and clapped his hands. He began cracking jokes about the action on screen, and when some of the audience laughed, he got even louder.

  Travis hoped desperately that Nish would settle down once the main feature began, but he was out of luck. The Blood Children: Part VIII started, and as Travis sank ever lower into his seat, Nish seemed to grow in his.

  First head that got lopped off, Nish shouted out, “That was a no-brainer!”

  First alien that popped out of a graveyard, Nish blew a bugle charge as if the cavalry were coming.

  The aliens moved on some sort of jet boots that enabled them to float just above ground, and they carried vicious scythe-type weapons that twisted at the end like an illegally curved hockey stick.

  It was too much for Nish to resist. When the aliens moved in for their first civilian massacre, he leaped to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “Go Leafs Go!”

  Once he hit on this hockey theme, Nish was lost. In the movie’s very first “romantic” scene – a long, passionate kiss between a gorgeous blonde actress and a handsome soldier who turned out to be a vampire – he shouted, “Two minutes for no neck protector!”

  Instead of screaming in terror, the theatre was howling with laughter. Nish had become part of the entertainment.

  But not everyone was delighted by his contribution. At one point the theatre manager, Mr. Dinsmore, had walked slowly up and down the aisles, flashing his light along the seats. But when he passed by Nish, Mr. Dinsmore saw only what every adult in a position of authority saw: Wayne Nishikawa sitting up straight, innocent as a choirboy, hands politely folded in his lap.

  The Blood Children: Part VIII was particularly gross. Severed heads flew about the screen. Arms and legs were chopped off by a madman with a chainsaw. Aliens blew up. Blood splattered against the camera, dripping down the screen.

  “Where’s Tie Domi when you need him?” Nish shouted.

  When the movie slowed for some dull romantic development, Nish scooted out of his seat and made for the refreshment counter. He came back with two tall drinks and handed one to Travis, who took it and sighed deep into his seat. Perhaps the drink would shut Nish up; at least he wouldn’t be able to shout with his mouth wrapped around a straw.

  But Nish had no intention of drinking his huge pop. He pulled out the straw and dropped it on the floor. He twisted off the plastic lid and dropped that, too. Then, to Travis’s astonishment, Nish began spilling out his drink. Travis cringed, hearing the liquid splash onto the floor.

  The theatre floor, made of polished concrete, slanted downward towards the screen, so the liquid immediately ran away under the rows of seats in front.

  Is he nuts? Travis wondered.

  Nish began splashing in the liquid with his feet, picking up his sneakers and slapping them down hard. It sounded like he was running through a deep puddle.

  “Gross!” Nish called out.

  A couple sitting up ahead turned and stared. Nish splashed again, faking that he was disgusted. He turned around and angrily faced an innocent-looking young man sitting alone about three seats directly behind.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Nish called. “Can’t you use the bathroom?”

  The young man blinked, not comprehending. Up ahead, the young couple began scrambling. The pop had washed up as far as their feet now, and they made squishy sounds as they left their seats and hurried for the safety of the aisle. The young man reached for his girlfriend’s hand and pulled her. She slipped and went down, screaming. Her boyfriend raised his fist at the startled young man sitting behind Nish.

  “You pig!” he screamed. “Use the washroom!”

  Travis sank even lower in his seat. He could feel the body beside him shaking: Nish, in full giggle. The young man up front, after helping his girlfriend to her feet, charged up the aisle.

  Not knowing what was going on, but sure something bad was about to happen, the man behind Nish scurried out of his seat as the boyfriend came at him. There was the sound of clothes ripping.

  “Fight!” Nish shouted. “FIGHT! FIGHT!”

  The theatre erupted in whistles and shouts. The movie ground to a halt, the lights came on, and Mr. Dinsmore and several attendants hurried down the aisle closest to Travis and Nish. It took only a few moments to break up the fight. It took slightly longer, with the lights full on, to find out that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, that the disgusting liquid was nothing more than Sprite.

  Nish’s Sprite.

  “Get out!” Mr. Dinsmore shouted at Travis and Nish. “Get out of my theatre – both of you!”

  2

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Travis was shaking, but only partly from the terror of The Blood Children. More than anything, he shook with fury.

  Here he was, finally seeing the movie he had been looking forward to for weeks, finally, for the first time, getting into a movie without adult accompaniment, and now, with the movie not even half over, he was out on the street. Not only that, but Mr. Dinsmore, pointing a long, bony finger at Travis and Nish, had threatened to call their parents to tell them what had happened. They could consider themselves “banned for life,” he said.

 
; “Banned for life?” Nish had snorted as Mr. Dinsmore pulled the door shut behind them. “Banned till the next movie comes to town would be more like it. He needs our business. And he won’t be telling any parents on us; he’d be the one in trouble for us being in there, not us.”

  Travis wasn’t going to waste any more breath arguing. There was no sense trying to talk to Nish now. It didn’t matter to Nish that they had missed the end of the show. For Nish, the show had simply moved out into the streets, where he was still the star and the plot was whatever he decided to do next.

  Travis figured the least he could do was throw him an unexpected twist, so he turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Where’re you going?” Nish asked.

  Travis said nothing, did not even turn to acknowledge the question.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nish called after him.

  Travis ignored him. Leaving Nish staring after him, he struck out for home, his sneakers sticking and snapping on the pavement from Nish’s drink. He did not hear Nish’s own sticky sneakers following; perhaps Nish knew better than to try to act as if nothing had happened. The two had fought a thousand times before, but this one would take longer to heal than most.

  It was bright along Main Street. The lights from the stores made it feel almost like daylight. There were lots of people about, some of them carrying ice cream cones, which they licked frantically in the warm late-spring air. Travis turned his thoughts away from Nish, but he was still shaking. The Blood Children: Part VIII had more than lived up to its gruesome billing.

  To get home, Travis had no choice but to turn off Main Street. He waited until the very last possibility, then chose what he knew would be a reasonably bright route, River Street. He looked into the cloudy sky. His father had called for a new moon – “It means good fishing,” he’d said over breakfast that morning – but if there was a moon it was nowhere to be seen. How Travis wished it could be a clear and cloudless night.

  River Street had good lighting, but the posts were far apart and there were no storefronts here to wash their friendly light into the street. There were more shadows than bright spots, and unlike Main Street there were no people out walking with their dripping ice cream cones.