“Oh, gross,” Sam whispered. “He means the one that doesn’t flush in C Block.”
“A map will not be necessary, Theo,” a dangerously quiet voice said beside them. Mrs. Robertson stood there, having appeared like some kind of ninja English teacher. Her face was granite. “It sounds like you know exactly where Buzz’s phone is, so please go there and retrieve it.” She pursed her lips. “After you bring it to my classroom, you can make your way to the head teacher’s office.”
A few snickers of laughter erupted in the lunch hall.
All eyes were on Theo.
“But miss,” he protested. “It wasn’t me.”
The English teacher gave a hoot of laughter. “Now that really is make-believe. Go. I won’t tell you again.”
Theo shoved back his chair and stomped out of the cafeteria, but not before throwing Buzz a look that said he’d make him pay.
Mrs. Robertson turned to Buzz. “And you follow me. I didn’t get a chance to have a word with you earlier.”
Sam patted Buzz’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you later.”
Buzz slunk out of the lunch hall, head down so he didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. They were probably all sniggering about Theo’s text message or feeling sorry for him. Neither scenario was great.
He could feel the weight of someone’s gaze on him and he forced himself to glance up. It was the girl in the cobweb leggings. She was sitting alone, her lunch untouched, and she was close enough that she must have overheard the whole argument with Theo. The girl was staring right at him, but her eyes seemed dark and cloudy, as if she was deep in thought.
Buzz looked away, but the image of the girl remained in his head as he walked into Mrs. Robertson’s classroom.
The English teacher urged Buzz to take a seat and then sat behind her desk. Now that they were out of the cafeteria, the granite in her face had softened.
“Listen, I know things are tough for you at the moment, Buzz,” she began, “and Theo’s prank was cruel.” She gazed at him steadily. “But don’t judge him too harshly. You both have missing people in your lives. That’s a difficult thing to deal with. And it can’t be helped by the media’s obsession with that missing weatherwoman.”
Buzz frowned. Theo’s brother had gone missing more than a year ago now. People said he’d gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd. But that’s nothing like what’s happened to Mum, he thought. And the whole thing with that weatherwoman, Eleanor Bright, was different again—the reporters were saying they thought she’d been abducted. Why was Mrs. Robertson even trying to compare them? He realized that his English teacher’s lips were still moving and he forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
“You’re smart, Buzz,” his teacher said. “Even if you don’t always realize it. And that’s why I’m giving you this second chance.” She wagged a finger at him. “You’re too quick to give up on things you don’t understand, and you don’t like asking for help. You need to work on that.” Mrs. Robertson drummed her slender fingers on the surface of her desk. “So, do we have a deal?”
“Not sure, miss,” Buzz replied honestly, wondering what he’d missed.
His teacher’s blue eyes filled with disappointment. It was an expression so similar to the one his father wore whenever they spent time together that it made Buzz’s throat close up on itself. Mrs. Robertson’s fingers stilled on the desk. “You’ve got the weekend to write the essay on Theseus and the Minotaur again. You’re far better than what you produced today and I want you to prove it.”
Buzz crossed his arms, wondering when Mrs. Robertson and his father had become the same person with the same speech. Maybe they get their material off the internet: areallylonglecture.com.
“If you get stuck, just ask your father,” Mrs. Robertson continued, and Buzz noticed that a star-struck expression had crossed her face. “He’s an expert in this area, after all. You’re really very lucky to have such a famous and well-respected professor of mythology available to help you.”
Buzz snorted to himself. If by “available” you mean never at home, then yeah, my father is awesome. He felt a nerve twitch along his jaw. There was no way, never in a month of Sundays, that Buzz would ask for or accept the Prof’s help.
CHAPTER TWO
Friggatriskaidekaphobia
Buzz kicked the empty soda can and watched it skitter across the deserted lane, its crushed sides scraping against the ground. It was probably the only kicking he’d get to do for days. He still had no idea if Coach Saunders would let him play tomorrow—Sam said he’d do his best to convince him, but they both knew Coach could be stubborn.
He kicked the can again, enjoying the loud crunch as his foot connected with the aluminum. Unfortunately, the sound of his soggy phone sloshing in his pocket was louder.
Yep, just another Friday the thirteenth, Buzz thought. Full of ritual humiliation, pain, and disappointment.
“Friggatriskaidekaphobia,” a familiar American accent said from up above him. “That’s what you’ve got.”
Buzz stopped and looked up. He had no idea where the girl from the cafeteria was hiding, and for a moment he wondered if she was actually invisible.
He narrowed his eyes as he spotted a pair of battered purple Converse poking through the foliage of the tall oak that hung over the lane.
“Friggatriksa—” Buzz gave up. He wasn’t even going to try and get his mouth around that word. “What?”
“Friggatriskaidekaphobia,” the voice repeated. “It’s a phobia of Friday the thirteenth.”
“Listen, I don’t have a phobia of Friday the—” Buzz broke off. “Hey, how’d you know what I was thinking about in the first place?”
The oak leaves rustled, and then the girl in the cobweb leggings suddenly dropped onto a lower branch of the tree.
She grinned. “That’s not important. Surely, what’s far more interesting is how Friggatriskaidekaphobia got its name.” She began to shimmy along the branch. “Although that Theo boy said your dad is a professor of mythology, so I’m guessing you already know.”
“You guessed wrong,” Buzz replied. The girl’s smile became even wider, and he could tell that she was really desperate to tell him. “Okay, how’d it get its name?”
“Well, the first part of the word Friggatriskaidekaphobia is derived from the name Frigga.” The girl slid a bit farther along the branch until she was directly above his head. It bent alarmingly. “You know who Frigga was, of course.”
Buzz was distracted. That branch really doesn’t look very safe, he thought, although he’d be the first to admit that heights weren’t his thing and so he wasn’t great at climbing trees. “Don’t you think you should come down?” he asked. “What are you doing up there anyway?”
“I was waiting for you,” the girl replied. “Plus, I’m really good at climbing trees, so I thought I’d make my own entertainment.”
“You were waiting for me?” Buzz repeated, wondering why he wasn’t more creeped out. “Why? And how’d you know I’d even come this way?”
The girl wrinkled her nose, pushing up the glasses that perched precariously at the end of it. “You seemed nice, and your sister told me what route you’d walk home.”
“How very helpful of her.” Buzz shook his head, wondering why Tia was so determined for him to be friends with this girl.
“So, where were we?” the girl asked. “Ah, yes, Frigga. So obviously you know who she is.”
Buzz scratched his head, curly tendrils snagging his fingers. The name did actually sound kind of familiar. The Prof must have mentioned the name to Tia at some point. But, as Buzz usually tuned out when his father was talking about mythology, it was no surprise he couldn’t remember anything specific about the name. He shook his head.
“Frigga was the Norse goddess of the harvest and the family, and wife of the chief of the gods, Odin,” the girl explained. “In English, the day Friday is named after her. Frigga’s day.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Buzz said. “Al
l the days of the week are named after Norse gods, right?”
“Wrong.” The girl sniffed. “All but one—Saturday. That one is named after the Roman god Saturn, but some say that Saturday once belonged to the Norse god Loki.” She edged a bit farther along the branch, and it bent even more alarmingly. “Saturday was Loki’s day. A day of mischief.”
Despite himself, despite the fact that it had something to do with mythology, which was all a load of made-up hogwash, Buzz felt his interest spark. “Really? What happened? Why’d this Loki guy lose his day?” He heard the branch give a protesting creak. “Hey, will you get down from there?”
“Okay, okay.” The girl dropped down from the tree in a swift, graceful movement and gave a little bow. “Happier now that I’m on the ground?”
Buzz nodded. “Much. Tell me more about Loki, then.”
“Actually, Loki brings us to the second part of the name for your phobia.”
“I don’t have a phobi—”
“Triskaideka means the number thirteen.” The girl leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “And it’s thanks to Loki that many think the number thirteen is unlucky.”
“Go on.” The Prof didn’t speak much about the legends of the Norse gods—his specialty was in the mythology of lost civilizations—but Buzz wanted to know more about this Loki guy.
“There was a feast,” said the girl, her voice low, “where all the Norse gods were gathered. It was at this feast that Frigga and Odin’s beloved son, Balder, was killed. His death was caused by the thirteenth guest at the feast. It was caused by Loki.”
“Why did Loki want Frigga’s son dead?”
“Why did Loki do anything?” The girl sat down under the tree and beckoned for Buzz to do the same. “He did it because he could. Because he was a trickster and mischief was what he was best at. This time, he did not go unpunished. Loki was chained to a rock deep underground. A snake was created to guard him, to drip burning venom on his head until the Ragnarok.”
“Ragnarok?” Buzz echoed. It sounds like a kind of disease.
“It means the end of the world,” the girl explained. “It was prophesized that Loki would one day escape his bonds and try and destroy the earth. The Norse gods would be waiting for him to have their final battle.”
Buzz let out a low whistle. “That sounds totally epic.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” The girl adjusted her glasses, which had slipped down her nose again.
“How do you know so much about this kind of stuff?” he asked.
“I know a lot about a lot of things. I’m pretty smart.” She stuck out her legs and crossed them at the ankles. “But I don’t know why Friday the thirteenth is making you so miserable. It’s only a day.”
“Oh, really?” Buzz said. “The Friday the thirteenth before last, I lost the one hundred meter race at our town’s annual swim meet because I . . . I . . .” He faltered. “I had some technical difficulties.”
The memory rose to the surface just like his swimming trunks had.
The girl shrugged. “So you lost your swimming trunks. I bet it made you more aerodynamic in the long run.”
Buzz felt his cheeks get hot. “I didn’t say that’s what happened.”
“You didn’t need to. I guessed. I told you, I’m really smart.”
“And modest,” Buzz replied, surprised at how easy he found it talking to this girl. He just felt bad that he hadn’t worked that out in the cafeteria. “The Friday the thirteenth before that, I broke my ankle after trying to surf in a shopping trolley,” he continued.
“That was just dumb,” the girl replied. “It has nothing to do with the date. You’re going to have to do better.”
“Fine. Last Friday the thirteenth, my mum went missing, and I don’t think she’s ever coming home.”
CHAPTER THREE
A Walk through Tangley Woods
At least, those were the words Buzz formed in his head. They sat on the tip of his tongue, fully formed, but he couldn’t say them out loud.
He took a steadying breath. “I guess Friday the thirteenth has just always been kind of unlucky for me,” he said instead. “You saw what happened in the cafeteria today.” He frowned. “I just wish this day was over and it was Saturday already.”
“I don’t know about that.” The girl leaned back against the tree and crossed her arms, as if to keep herself warm. “Saturdays are totally overrated in my opinion.”
“Overrated!” Buzz shook his head in disbelief. “Saturdays are totally epic. You get to sleep in. You don’t have to go to school. You get to hang out with friends all day long. Watch sports, play sports, and get takeout. What’s not to love?”
“That type of Saturday does sound pretty epic,” the girl conceded. “But back home, Saturday is always the day my parents argue the most. They argue about who should do the shopping. Who should do the gardening, who should do the—” She whacked a hand over her mouth. “Oh, man,” she mumbled. “Talk about oversharing. I’m always doing that. My therapist says my filters don’t work properly.” She dropped her hand. “What I probably should have said is that I’m staying with my grandmother for a little while and she likes to plan enriching activities for Saturdays. She doesn’t have a TV, let alone Wi-Fi, and certainly doesn’t believe in getting takeout. We’re talking liver and onions for dinner on all days ending with a Y.”
Buzz winced. “Holey pajamas. That is all kinds of miserable.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “Holey pajamas? Is that a well-known phrase in this part of the world?”
“It’s one of my mum’s sayings.” Buzz felt heat creep into his cheeks. He had no idea why he’d said it out loud. “Where’s your home normally, then?” he asked quickly.
“New York. The Big Apple. The Melting Pot. New Amsterdam until 1664,” she replied. “Ever been?”
Buzz shook his head. His dad hated leaving Crowmarsh, which meant most holidays were spent camping in Tangley Woods. “I’d love to go, though. So many people. So much to do. I bet you never get bored there.”
The girl leaned forward and played with the frayed laces of her Converse sneakers. “No, but you do get lonely. At least I do. I always kind of wished that I had a sibling. Your sister seems nice.”
Buzz thought about Tia and how she loved to interfere in his life. “Trust me. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“But at least you have someone to talk to—when things aren’t great at home. Someone who’ll understand.”
“I guess,” Buzz responded. He and Tia tended to avoid those types of conversations. They definitely never spoke about the frostiness that existed between their parents or how that had become glacial in the months before Mum’s trip.
“You’re a guy of few words, aren’t you?” the girl said. “My parents say you have to talk the talk if you are going to walk the walk.” Her brow creased. “That’s what they’re doing right now. Talking about whether they’re going to walk out on each other. Talking about whether Dad is actually going to move to the UK with us. But I’m not supposed to know that.” She whacked a hand over her mouth again. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” she said through her fingers. “Oversharing? Grandmother says it’s not dignified to air one’s dirty laundry. But I think sometimes your washing machine may be broken and you just have to make the best of a bad situation, right?” She pinned him with her hazel gaze. “What do you think?”
“Um,” Buzz began, not really sure how to answer.
“Not um—the name is Amaryllis, but you can call me Mary.” The girl arched a dark, slightly messy eyebrow. “But never Scary Mary, just Mary, okay?”
“Okay,” he promised. “I’m Buzz.”
“Buzz, as in the sound a bee makes,” the girl mused. “Interesting. Did you know that bees are the only insects that make food that humans can eat?”
Buzz shook his head.
“Or that eating honey makes you smarter?”
Buzz shook his head again. I bet she eats a lot of honey.
>
“Why are you named after the sound a bee makes, then?” Mary asked, hardly pausing for breath. “Is your mom an apiologist?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. She’s a botanist,” he said. “What’s an apiologist?”
“It’s a person who studies honeybees,” the girl replied. “While a person who keeps bees is called an apiarist.”
“Right.” Buzz could feel all the girl’s facts raining down on him like hail. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant—it just stung a bit. “Buzz is actually short for Buzzard. My name is Frederick Buzzard.”
“So you’re named after a bird, not a bee. In fact, you’ve got a whole animal kingdom thing going on. That’s awesome!”
“Awesome?”
“Yeah, you could have been named after a flower. Imagine how annoying that would be.”
“Er, I guess,” Buzz conceded, not that he could think of any boys’ names that were flowers.
“Yeah, your name is definitely not on the annoying spectrum.”
“It’s my father’s name, really,” he found himself explaining. “I’m Frederick Buzzard the second, but strictly speaking I should be Frederick Buzzard the third because my father was named after the founder of the orphanage he was left at and—”
Mary began to chuckle.
“What?” Buzz questioned. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There I was thinking you were the strong, silent type when actually you’re quite verbose.”
Buzz was pretty sure verbose meant talkative, which seemed rich coming from Mary. “You’re pretty chatty yourself, you know,” he pointed out.
“No filters, remember?” She looked at her watch, with its big, digital face. “I’d better get home. It’s getting dark, and Grandmother will worry.” Mary jumped to her feet, held up her watch, and turned in a slow circle.
The watch gave a little beep as she faced one of the lanes that curved off to the left. A robotic voice reeled off a list of directions:
Secrets of Valhalla Page 2
