Against All Odds

by Natale Ghent

“Yes, thank you,” Squeak mumbled. He turned and shoved the registration number at Boney, who helped pin it to the back of Squeak’s shirt. When Boney was finished, Squeak took the handle of the wagon from Itchy and wheeled the StarSweeper along the cliff, scouting for the next-best position, muttering bitterly under his breath the entire time. He glowered at the spy. “This would have been easier if someone hadn’t stolen my spot.”

  When at last they settled on a location, the three boys positioned the wagon, Squeak fussing over the precise placement of his rig.

  “Should we remove the tarp from the plane?” Boney asked.

  Squeak looked at the spy’s well-hidden entry. “No.”

  Boney licked his finger and held it in the air. “There’s a bit of a headwind. That could slow us down.”

  “The StarSweeper will cut right through it.” Squeak continued to fiddle with the plane as more and more contestants arrived.

  “Oh no,” Itchy suddenly said, pointing to the bottom of the hill. “Who invited those guys?”

  It was Simon Biddle and Edward Wormer, the Odds’ schoolmates and lifelong scientific adversaries … and Larry Harry and Jones and Jones!

  CHAPTER SIX

  CRASH AND BURN

  “Hey, doofus!” Larry Harry called out as he parked his entry beside Squeak’s. “You may as well go home because you know I’m going to win.”

  Itchy leapt in front of Larry, shoving his skinny white fist into the bully’s face. “Oh yeah? Says who?”

  Larry shrank away in terror, hiding behind his hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!”

  “You’d better be kidding,” Itchy snarled, waving his fist at Jones and Jones, who cowered behind Larry. “Now move your wagon! We don’t want you anywhere near us.”

  “Okay, okay.” Larry ducked his head and ordered Jones and Jones to move his wagon to the other side of the field.

  But just as Larry Harry wheeled his rig away, Edward Wormer pulled up beside Squeak, parking his wagon next to the StarSweeper. Simon Biddle parked on the other side and began immediately adjusting the tarp covering his craft so that no part of his secret entry would be prematurely exposed.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Wormer greeted the Odds, his metal braces flashing in the sun. “Ooo, nice shirts,” he mocked. “What are you? The kitten club?”

  Itchy sheltered the basket of kittens with his hands.

  Squeak scowled. “These shirts are for a good cause. And by the way, I’d rather you didn’t set up next to me.”

  “What difference does it make?” Wormer quipped. “I’m going to win, regardless of where I park my wagon.”

  Boney clenched his jaw. “I could suggest another place to park your wagon.”

  Biddle snickered into his hand.

  “That goes for you, too, Biddle,” Itchy jumped in.

  Wormer nodded toward the spy, who seemed to be watching and taking notes from his position at the other end of the cliff, his identity hidden behind the mirrored visor of his black helmet. “Who’s the ninja?” he sneered at Squeak. “A friend of yours?”

  Boney crossed his arms. “We thought it was your mother, worm breath.”

  Squeak turned to Boney with a confused look. “Why would we think it’s his mother? That’s a totally illogical response.”

  “Ha, nice try.” Wormer glared at Boney.

  Boney grimaced back. “You’re going to eat our dust, Wormer.” He turned to Squeak and whispered from the corner of his mouth. “Do you think we have anything to worry about?”

  Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles. “Of course not.” But he looked over his shoulder at the spy all the same. “What could he possibly be writing?”

  “I’m thirsty,” Itchy said, pulling the water bottle out of his knapsack.

  “Don’t drink the kittens’ water!” Boney barked.

  Itchy bristled. “I told you I wouldn’t do that. What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “I can answer that.” Wormer produced a newspaper from his bag and tossed it at Itchy’s feet. “Read it and weep, paleface.”

  There, on the front page, blazed a huge headline: MYSTERY CLOWN BOY TERRORIZES TOWN! Beneath the headline was a blurry photo showing little more than a streak of pasty skin and red hair.

  Itchy placed the kittens on the ground and snatched the paper up. “What’s this got to do with me?”

  Biddle scoffed. “Recognize the face?”

  Itchy studied the photo.

  “Oh, come on,” Wormer goaded. “You know it’s you.”

  Itchy looked at him like he was crazy. “Me? Are you kidding? This could be anyone, it’s so fuzzy! It could be a sasquatch, for all I know.”

  “A red-headed sasquatch,” Biddle said.

  Boney took the paper from Itchy. He and Squeak pored over the photo and skimmed the article, then looked at Itchy with concern.

  “What?” Itchy said. “You don’t actually think it’s me, do you?”

  Boney paused. “It says you’ve been peering into people’s windows.”

  “And stealing food,” Squeak added. “Someone’s blueberry pie was taken right off their windowsill …”

  “I would never do that!” Itchy insisted.

  Boney held up the paper and read aloud: “Multiple sightings throughout the town … voracious appetite … stolen food …”

  Itchy tore the paper from Boney’s hands. “It’s not me! I swear! Look at the picture. Does that look anything like me?”

  Boney and Squeak stared blankly back at him.

  Itchy clawed at his hair. “I’m telling you, it’s not me!”

  Biddle snorted. “Oh sure. There are hundreds of pasty, red-headed clown boys running around town, stealing food, and looking through people’s windows.”

  Wormer’s braces flashed. “Admit it. You just can’t control yourself.” He made an eating motion with his mouth.

  Squeak and Boney had to restrain Itchy as he lunged at Wormer, his skinny white legs kicking wildly in the air. “It’s not me!” he shouted, throwing the newspaper at Biddle’s feet.

  “Fine, already,” Biddle said. “It’s some other pasty, red-headed kid. What do I care?”

  “You’d better care!” Itchy threatened, kicking dust at Biddle like an angry chicken.

  Squeak loosened his grip on Itchy’s arm. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

  “Here,” Boney said, digging into his pocket and slapping some quarters into Itchy’s hand. “Go get some lemonade—and bring some back for me and Squeak.”

  Itchy took the quarters, grimaced at Biddle and Wormer, then punted the newspaper as he made his way over to the refreshment booth. Moments later, he was back, empty-handed and wearing Boney’s Superman shirt. The kittens jumped from their basket and hid in the grass, hissing and growling when they saw him. Boney frowned.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “And where’s your kitten shirt? I suppose it’s okay for us to walk around looking stupid but not you?”

  Itchy looked at him stoically.

  “What happened to the lemonade?” Boney demanded. “I told you to bring some back for me and Squeak. What is wrong with you?”

  Itchy just stared at him, then turned and silently walked away. The kittens hissed and growled as he left.

  “Geez,” Boney cursed, shaking his head.

  Squeak pointed to the newspaper, a concerned look on his face. “Do you think it really is Itchy …?”

  Boney snatched the paper from the ground and slammed it into a trash can. “I don’t know. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  A minute later, Itchy returned, carrying three cups of lemonade. He was wearing the pink shirt again.

  Boney took a cup of lemonade. “That’s more like it.”

  “I came as fast as I could,” Itchy said. “There’s a big line for drinks.” He took the opportunity to scowl at Biddle and Wormer as he handed a cup to Squeak.

  Biddle and Wormer scowled back. Squeak just downed the drink in a single shot and
began fussing with the tarp on his plane again. While he did this, more onlookers and contestants arrived, until there was a line of more than twenty entries fringing the edge of the cliff. Some of the people gawked at Itchy, pointing and whispering behind their hands the way the others had done earlier.

  “Maybe if you took that green bandana off, you wouldn’t attract so much attention,” Boney said.

  Itchy sulked. “But it keeps the sweat from dripping into my eyes.”

  Boney gave him a look.

  “Fine.” Itchy tore the bandana from his forehead and crammed it in his back pocket. “Satisfied?” Boney shrugged.

  At nine o’clock sharp, the loudspeaker crackled and a tall man in a straw fedora began to speak, his voice engulfed in a blare of feedback. Wormer and Biddle shouted in pain, covering their ears with their hands until the feedback subsided.

  “Weenies,” Itchy jeered, unwrapping a chocolate bar and taking a huge bite. “As if I’d go around stealing pies …”

  Boney eyed him with suspicion. “Where’d you get that chocolate bar?”

  “I bought it at the concession stand. Why?” Boney stared at his friend.

  “What? Do you think I stole it?”

  Boney raised his hands in truce. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Where are the kittens?”

  Itchy spun around, searching the grass. The kittens were playing with some children across the field. He grabbed the basket and ran to retrieve them, but returned with the basket empty. “The family wants to keep them.”

  “All three?”

  Itchy nodded. He was about to launch into an explanation but was interrupted by another blare from the loudspeaker.

  “Ladies and gentlemen … we are thrilled to welcome you to the twenty-third annual Flying Fiends Amateur Aircraft Competition. Before we begin, let me regale you with a bit of history …”

  The announcer droned on as the sun rose higher in the sky. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, children ran around, onlookers picnicked, and contestants shifted anxiously in their sneakers. All except for the spy. He stood with pen and notebook at the ready, scribbling intently. Squeak bristled.

  “Maybe he’s writing his will. He’s going to need it after today.”

  “Or a grocery list,” Boney said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Itchy brightened. “I could use some groceries.”

  Boney shook his head. “You’re not making a good case for yourself.”

  “I can’t help it if I get hungry all the time,” Itchy said, clutching his stomach.

  The announcer finally drawled to a close. He ended his speech with a request for donations as he removed his hat and wiped his brow with the red kerchief he would later use to signal the start of the race. “You all know the rules,” he bellowed. “Be creative! First craft to circle the orange halfway pole and return across the finish line takes the prize. May the best man win! Gentlemen … please … take your marks.”

  There was a sudden flurry of activity as the entrants uncovered and manoeuvred their planes to the proper spots on the cliff edge, each desperately trying to catch a last-minute glimpse of the other entries. Wormer’s plane looked like some kind of modified World War II Mustang. Biddle’s was a strange sphere made from concentric wooden rings that revolved around each other, and had to be launched from a giant golf tee. Larry Harry’s craft was a balsa wood biplane. The other entries included a miniature microlight plane; a model Twin Otter plane; a helicopter; some kind of crazy, wingless rocket ship that looked like it was made from old margarine tubs; a Fokker F28; a Brewster Buffalo; and an assortment of scratch-built prop planes.

  Itchy pointed scornfully at Biddle’s wooden sphere. “What is that?”

  Biddle’s nose twitched. “Only the most revolutionary craft known to man, pie boy.”

  “Ha!” Itchy laughed, turning to gauge Squeak’s reaction.

  But Squeak was too busy staring through his telescope, hoping to get a closer look at the spy’s entry. “It looks like some kind of stainless steel body,” he said. “Single tail thruster with dual jet engines. There’s no way his plane will be faster than the StarSweeper. It looks far too heavy to outclass us.”

  Boney pulled on his chin. “Forget about it for now, Squeak. The race is going to start any second.”

  Squeak closed his telescope and stuffed it back into his bag. He held the black metal control box with both hands, a thin bead of sweat forming on his upper lip.

  “Contestants,” the announcer called. “Start your engines!”

  Dust filled the air as the planes jumped to life, some backfiring, some whining, some sputtering slowly then spinning to a high-pitched buzz. Larry Harry’s balsa wood plane exploded instantly in a cloud of black smoke, its propeller flying off and landing in the gravel behind the announcer. Itchy and Boney laughed and pointed until Larry Harry and Jones and Jones stomped off in a rage, dragging the remains of their entry away on their wagon.

  Squeak tested the rudder and flaps on the Star-Sweeper, spooling up the engines in preparation for takeoff. Wormer revved his engine in challenge. Biddle increased the velocity of his wooden sphere, the concentric circles whirling faster and faster around each other until the entire craft was just a blur. Squeak inched the throttle forward, until the StarSweeper‘s jets began to scream. The three boys glowered at each other, fingers poised for battle.

  The announcer raised his red kerchief against the yellow glare of the sun. He held it there for what seemed like an eternity, and then dropped his arm like a guillotine.

  “Go!”

  Squeak released the brakes. The StarSweeper streaked off in a shower of gravel, Wormer’s Mustang buzzing just inches behind. The margarine-tub rocket arced in the air and sizzled over the edge of the cliff, crashing and melting like processed cheese on the rocks below. Biddle’s sphere rolled off its tee, whipped around in the dirt, then zipped over the edge and shattered, landing in a heap of kindling next to the melted rocket at the bottom of the cliff. The Fokker F28 and Brewster Buffalo droned behind the Mustang, hot on the StarSweep-er‘s tail. Squeak pressed the little yellow button and the StarSweeper blasted forward, leaving the other planes behind like insects in the clouds.

  Itchy and Boney cheered, their fists pumping “Go, Squeak, go!”

  “Ha ha!” Itchy gloated. “The prize money is ours!” Squeak looked over his shoulder with glee and noticed that the spy’s plane hadn’t even left the ground. The spy nodded his helmet in Squeak’s direction as he held his control box to one side and pushed the ignition button. There was a flash of blue light and a strange, low whir, like the sound of a powerful turbine spinning into action. The ground began to tremble and all heads turned to see blue flames shooting from the back of the spy’s plane. The spy pressed another button and the jet ripped off the cliff with an earth-shattering boom, the shock wave knocking several bystanders to the ground with its force. The crowd gasped in unison. The spy worked the controls, sending the jet straight into the sky in a big loop before zipping past Squeak’s plane, only to slow down and cruise easily behind the StarSweeper. The crowd roared.

  Squeak gritted his teeth as he pressed the red button on his control box. The StarSweeper surged forward, its wings vibrating against the force of the air current. He turned to look at the spy, who was looking back at him, the sun glinting off his visor. The spy raised his finger and wagged it at Squeak before pressing another switch. The afterburners blazed, and his plane roared to within inches of the StarSweeper.

  “Go faster!” Itchy yelled.

  Squeak hit the throttle. But no matter how fast the StarSweeper went, it could not shake the spy’s plane. Squeak tried dodging and looping and outmanoeuvring, but the spy was stuck to him like glue. He glanced over his shoulder again and was sure he could hear laughter as the spy stood, finger hovering over the controls of his plane. There was a moment’s pause, then the spy pressed a button. A small hatch retracted at the top of his jet and a mechanical arm appeared from the opening, a mini-gun attached to the
end.

  “Noooooo!” Squeak howled as the gun hammered, tearing the StarSweeper into a thousand pieces that rained down from the sky in a shower of flames. Squeak gaped in disbelief, the control box slipping from his hands onto the gravel as the spy’s jet looped around the halfway pole and returned to the cliff, lapping the other planes and landing with awe-inspiring precision.

  “We have a winner!” the announcer shouted.

  Boney’s jaw dropped. “Who is this guy?!”

  The spy raised his fists in victory. The crowd cheered and clapped. Squeak hid his face in his hands.

  “It can’t be legal to blow someone’s plane out of the sky,” Itchy protested.

  “Well, it was certainly creative,” Boney said. “I guess that makes it fair.”

  Squeak shook his head, muttering vacantly to himself. “Annihilation … total, complete, absolute annihilation …”

  Edward Wormer poked Squeak on the arm, his own plane resting safely on the ground once again. “Looks like it’s back to the drawing board for you.”

  “What are you talking about, Wormer?” Itchy jumped to Squeak’s defence. “You didn’t win either!”

  Wormer’s braces flashed. “Yeah, but at least my plane didn’t get blown out of the sky in front of everybody. How embarrassing.”

  “Almost as embarrassing as getting caught stealing someone’s pie,” Biddle added, his head thrown back in laughter as he walked away.

  “Not as embarrassing as that stupid wooden sphere at the bottom of the cliff!” Itchy yelled after them.

  But Biddle and Wormer just laughed all the louder.

  The loudspeaker crackled as the announcer took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen … please join me in the winner’s circle to present the award. What a show of fiendish creativity by the winning competitor!”

  “Come on, guys,” Itchy grumbled. “We don’t need to stand here and watch this.”

  Squeak sighed in defeat. “No … it’s okay. I’d like to meet the person who kicked our butts. Maybe I’ll learn something.” He shuffled toward the stage, shoulders hunched, Boney and Itchy trailing behind him.

  The crowd thundered as the announcer placed a gold medal around the spy’s neck. Another man handed the spy a big gold trophy and the giant-sized winner’s cheque for one thousand dollars.