WE LIVE ON a dead-end street, not a block, but we’ve been having this party for as long as I can remember. It’s a good time. Some adults grill, and some get competitive with desserts, and there’s a bike-decorating contest and a watermelon-seed-spitting contest, both of which Ruth dominates, and there’s chalk and bubbles and cornhole and Bruce Springsteen. The grown-ups are too busy chatting to keep track of how much pop you’re drinking, and the food is amazing. Last year Mrs. Andrezejczak made this thing that was like s’mores in a casserole dish, all these layers of chocolate pudding and graham crackers and marshmallows. I had so much that I threw up in Mr. Flick’s pigpen, and then his pigs ate it, but, frankly, it was so good I didn’t blame them. And it’s not like it was all that digested.
“Oooh!” squealed everyone when Ruth showed up with Jim Bob. “He’s so cute!” Some of the boys tried to hold back, the ones who care about being tough and not-so-secretly think boys are better than girls, but you could tell they wanted to ooh and aah too.
Jim Bob was lying stomach-up in Ivan’s old stroller, and Ruth had dressed him in baby clothes: a ruffled bonnet with holes for his ears and a onesie that said iPood under the Apple logo. He looked highly pleased with himself.
“Can I hold him?” asked Goldie.
“Sure.” Ruth hauled him out of the stroller.
“How much does he weigh?”
“Eight pounds,” said Ruth, chucking him under the chin. “Still a wunt, aren’t woo, my wittle sparewib?”
“I need a picture.” With her spare hand, Goldie wriggled her phone out of her back pocket and handed it to Flynn. “Smile, Jim Bob!”
“Stunning,” Flynn pronounced. “Give that a classic filter and you won’t believe the number of likes you’ll get.”
Flynn was as popular as Jim Bob, and he didn’t even have to wear an iPood onesie to get there. He’d made friends. Real friends. He’d gone over to Goldie’s after school on Friday, and they’d eaten pita chips, he’d said, and watched this old movie called Clueless.
“I want a picture too!” said Kiyana.
“I already called next!” said Evelyn.
The ladies-in-waiting follow Queen Goldie—that’s what Alex used to say. So Flynn was automatically friends with Kiyana and Evelyn and Tori. And all the boys liked him. He made them look so good at soccer that he was impossible not to like.
“I’ll be the official photographer,” said Flynn. “And if you don’t have a phone, I’ll get them on mine and send them to you.”
Flynn was fine. Flynn was great. I just didn’t need to line up to get my photo taken with Jim Bob. I lived with Jim Bob. We could do an uncle-nephew picture anytime. I dropped back and sat on an overturned recycling bin. “Are we even going to play Spud this year?” I wondered.
“Why would we want to do that?” said Olivia, the smallest Andrezejczak triplet. She’s randomly two inches shorter, even though they’re supposedly identical. That’s because Lila and Tabitha were stealing her food back in the womb.
“Because we always play Spud at the block party? Because it’s fun?” said Tabitha. “Round them up, Lila.”
Lila’s lips were drawn. “They’re busy. We’ll wait.”
Me and the Andrezejczak triplets were the only ones not into the photo shoot. “Maybe we’re getting too old for Spud,” I said. I got the feeling the Vocabulary Workshop book calls melancholy. The block party would be over soon, over for a whole other year, and it wasn’t even that fun anyway. It was like a banana-flavored Tootsie Roll. Gross but also too small.
“They’ll want to play soon,” said Lila.
“The only thing they want to do is take pictures with Flynn,” I said.
“They just have to get the newcomer out of their systems,” said Lila.
“I wish I could get the newcomer out of my system,” I said without thinking.
“That’s mean,” Lila told me, but Tabitha looked interested.
“I thought Flynn was a good guy.”
“He is a good guy.” I wished I could take back what I’d said. “I meant Jim Bob.”
“Oh,” said Lila. “Yeah, I bet it’s no fun to have to shovel out his pen.”
“Exactly,” I said. But Tabitha gave me a laser-like look, one of those beady-eyed beams of observation straight out of an alien movie, the kind that does a quick brain probe and knows just what you’re thinking and why. That’s the thing about Tabitha: she’s an alien. Just kidding. The thing about Tabitha is that she notices. Everything.
“Flynnie!” cried Goldie, so loud that I looked over. “Your turn for a pig pic!”
“That’s okay,” said Flynn.
“You have to! It’ll be such a great photo!” She thrust out Jim Bob. Flynn shied away. Jim Bob squawked.
“Whoa!” said Ruth. “Support his neck!”
“I don’t want to hold him right now,” said Flynn.
“But when else would you use the pig emoji?” said Goldie. “It’s your turn!”
“I just don’t want to.”
He was turning red, a blush that trickled all the way down the collar of his black V-neck shirt. I decided to save him. And myself.
“Hey, everyone!” I yelled. “Who wants to play Spud?”
“Me!” said Tabitha.
“I call captain!” said Billiam.
“You can’t call captain!” said Jéro.
In the hubbub, Ruth returned Jim Bob to his stroller. “I’m taking him home,” she told me. “He needs a rest.”
“Good idea,” I said. “You’re not bringing him back, right?”
“Nah,” said Ruth. “Enough excitement for one day.” She tucked a baby blanket around his head so only his snout and eyes showed. “Right, my wittle bacon bit?”
“Soren!” called Tabitha. “You just got picked! You’re on Billiam’s team!”
I ran back over. Flynn poked me. Thanks, he mouthed.
“Huh?” I said. “Come on. Do you know how to play Spud?”
THE BELL RANG. Ms. Hutchins pulled down the projector screen. We have announcements in homeroom, and a few years back they switched to a live video broadcast. It was supposed to be a great technological innovation, but all it really means is that we have a daily betting pool on Principal Leary’s necktie.
Today it was patterned with tiny pencils. “Good morning, students and teachers,” he said from behind his desk. “Lots of announcements this Friday morning. The Safety Patrol will meet after school in Mr. Doyle’s room….”
Jéro flipped through his records. He wants to be a bookie when he grows up, so he runs the Video Announcements Necktie Betting Pool. You propose your bet to him (“Red on Tuesday,” “New tie any day this week,” “Three consecutive days of stripes”), and he calculates odds and keeps a massive spreadsheet with the running totals.
“…anyone interested in playing basketball this winter should see Coach Compton for a training schedule….”
I hadn’t made any bets yet this year, so I wasn’t too invested. But it’s always fun to watch my classmates’ faces as they win or lose fortunes. Chloe Ting looked really upset. She’s the worst gambler in the class, and I think she’s addicted, too. Meanwhile, Milton DeVoe was bouncing lightly in his seat, looking pleased with himself.
“…and the Rubik’s Fanatiks will meet during lunch in Ms. Rodney’s room for a special cube-greasing event,” Principal Leary said. “WD-40 will be provided.”
He set down the paper. “One final note regarding behavior in the lunchroom.” I sighed and tuned out. I know how to behave in the lunchroom, even if actually behaving in the lunchroom is sometimes a different story.
Alex and I never got to do this prank we’d imagined, where we’d hack into the school network and interrupt Principal Leary’s announcements with some other video. We hadn’t decided what we’d show: she wanted a call to revolut
ion; I wanted baby pandas on a slide. We hadn’t figured out how to hack the network, either, but the Internet has instructions for everything.
I sank down in my seat. I’d never pull it off without her.
“Food is to be eaten, not thrown,” said Principal Leary. I probably couldn’t even pull off a food fight without her. I looked around the classroom. Chloe was frantically sorting a pile of nickels and pennies. Jéro was scribbling odds on his bookie notepad. Flynn was patting his hair, which he’d gelled this morning, I’d noticed, and Goldie, Kiyana, Evelyn, Olivia, and Tori were all sneaking looks at Flynn. Everyone else looked bored.
Nobody else looked like they missed Alex.
That, I thought, was the weirdest part of this year. It was like I was the only one who’d noticed she’d left.
“Bus your tray when you’re done eating,” said Principal Leary. I’d heard this lecture so many times I could mouth along. “And check around your seat for debris,” we both said, him out loud, me with just my lips.
I’d never make it through a year like this.
Something had to change.
Your whole life doesn’t have to change just because Alex moved, Mom had said. Keep doing what you like to do.
Fine, I thought. I would.
* * *
—
AFTER SCHOOL, WHILE Flynn and Ruth were still stuffing their faces with Dad’s special stovetop pepper popcorn, I went to the computer. Alex was online. “Hey,” I said, feeling a rush of relief even to see her face. “Hey. So.”
“What’s up?” she said. She was eating a granola bar.
“I have to prank. I have to.”
“I knew you’d get there,” she said. “It’s like pooping. You can only hold off the urge for so long.”
I kind of wanted to keep exploring the comparison—school was obviously the toilet, but what was the toilet paper? What made it smell? Did Alex and I have prankarrhea?—but I had more important things on my mind. “I had an idea in science,” I told Alex. “Help me figure out how it’ll work?”
Alex set down her granola bar. “Gladly,” she said.
It felt like riding a bike on the first warm-enough day in the spring. Back at it, and it was just as good as ever. I told her my plan. “You need detention,” said Alex.
“Right!” Detention means you have to clean whiteboards. “Brilliant.”
“You’ll be alone in the classroom—”
“Left to my own devices—”
“Do something bad enough that you get detention twice a week,” she said. “For, say, three weeks. It’s got to be pretty bad, but don’t accidentally get suspended.”
“Good point.”
She gave a happy sigh. “This is awesome.”
“Yeah, I just wish—”
I shut up, but not fast enough. We both knew what I was going to say. It killed the mood. It reminded us that this was actually like riding a bike on a random warm day in February, when a blizzard’s on the way.
“How’s your prank?” I said.
“Oh,” she said, “fine. I guess. You know the girl in my reading group?”
“Ol’ Butt-Braid?”
“Yeah, her. Sophia. I told her about it, but she didn’t even get excited. She was just like, ‘Oh! Goodness gracious! I can’t risk getting in trouble!’ ”
“She actually said that?”
“Pretty much. Not those words, but you know.”
“Weird.”
“No, I like her. But I’m not pranking with her.” Alex started crumbling the half-eaten granola bar.
“Go it alone.”
“I don’t know if it’s worth it.”
“You’ve got a great idea. It’ll kick off the year.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just do it. You’ve got the Post-it notes already, right? Sneak in during recess. I believe in you.”
“Maybe.”
“You can’t hold it in. Remember? You said so yourself. Like pooping.”
That got a small smile.
“It’s unhealthy to hold it in,” I said. “You’ll get a stomachache.”
“True,” said Alex. “Constipation kills.”
THE SETTING: A lunchroom in the basement of a school in Camelot, Minnesota. There’s a hot-food line, tables, garbage cans, and signs Student Council made that say, in big bubbly pink letters, Throw Out Your Trash or Else You’re Trash! It smells like ketchup and sweat.
THE TIME: 11:22 a.m. Smack-dab in the middle of fifth- and sixth-grade lunch.
THE ENEMY: Mrs. Andersen roams the room, and Principal Leary stands at the doors with his arms crossed. The rest of the teachers are at the faculty table, highly distracted by their conversation, which is probably about something super fascinating like, I don’t know, mortgages.
THE HERO: Soren Skaar sits at a sixth-grade table. He—
I—
—said, “Hey, is anyone not going to drink their milk?”
“You can have mine,” said Freddy, tossing me his pouch. We used to have milk cartons, but they switched to pouches to save money and room on garbage. You just poke in your straw and suck it down. It was weird at first—you felt like a hummingbird stabbing its long beak into a flower—but we got used to it.
“Thanks.” I punctured Freddy’s pouch with his straw. I’d already set up mine.
“What are you doing?” asked Soup.
“Nothing.”
“Is this…” His eyes lit up. “Does this have something to do with Alex?”
I told you. She’s legendary.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, dude,” said Soup, “but I know I’m a fan. Here. Take mine.”
“Thanks.”
I set up Soup’s pouch right next to Freddy’s. Now was the moment. Principal Leary and Mrs. Andersen were far enough away that I’d have some time before I got tackled, but close enough that they’d know it was me. Three weeks of Tuesday/Thursday detention, that was my goal.
I positioned the first straw.
Three.
Two.
One.
With the flat of my hand, I squished the milk pouch.
Thwsssst!
There was a faint whistling sound. A stream of chocolate milk shot out and arced through the air. My mouth fell open. I’d wanted to do this since day one of milk pouches, but Alex and I had a strict rule: we were never bad for bad’s sake. We were bad only in service of the greater good.
“Ew!” squeaked Billiam from the other table. “Hey!”
“Whoever’s doing that, stop!” cried Kiyana.
“There’s milk on my shirt!” yelled Jeremiah, plucking it from his chest.
“THERE’S MILK,” yelled Goldie at the top of her lungs, “ON MY FISH STICKS!”
That got everyone’s attention.
The boys at my table were pointing and laughing, but I didn’t let myself get distracted. Calmly, coolly, I squashed the next bag. The milk shot out. “AHHH!” yelled Poppy and Emily, leaping out of the way.
“SOREN!” bellowed Principal Leary. He and Mrs. Andersen were advancing upon me, but it was hard for them to get through all the chairs and legs that blocked the aisle as kids dove for safety. “STOP THAT!”
Three weeks of detention, I reminded myself.
Not one week. Not two weeks. Three.
I locked eyes with Principal Leary, and I squished the last bag.
The arc of milk wasn’t pointed at him, but it crossed the path he’d have to take. There was no way around it. Mrs. Andersen hung back, but Principal Leary gritted his teeth and sprinted through the milk stream just like you’d sprint through a sprinkler. When he got through, he had a dribbled streak of brown across his white shirt.
“It’s washable,” I told him. “I checked.”
“Soren,” he said, panting from either sprinting or rage, “go to my office. Now.”
I HELD MY breath as we walked in the kitchen door after school. So far, everything had gone perfectly. I’d gotten my three weeks of detention, and I’d cleaned up the lunchroom during recess. I was just hoping Principal Leary hadn’t called home.
Dad spun around from the stove. I was braced for him to tell me to report to their bedroom for a serious conversation, young man, do not pass Go, do not collect an after-school snack, but instead he said, “Hello, schoolchildren!” Phew. Normal. “Hello, rational speakers of English! I am so pleased to see you!”
“Hey,” we said.
The whole room reeked of play dough. You know how. Like French fries except off. Dad was cooking up a new batch in the wok.
“PLAY WITH PLAY DOUGH!” Ivan shouted from the table.
“Ooh!” said Flynn, settling down next to him. “What color do I get?”
“FINNIE GET BLUE!”
“What do I get?” asked Ruth.
“ROOFIE GET RED!”
“What about Sorie?” I asked him.
Ivan eyed me, absentmindedly massaging a glob of purple play dough into his left eyebrow. Finally he said, “SORIE NO GET!” He cackled.
“Fine. I don’t even want to play.” I went over to the stove. “Hey, Dad,” I said quietly. “I signed up to help Ms. Babbitt with sets for the winter play.”
“Wonderful!” said Dad. “Thrilled to see you taking an interest in the theater!”
“Er, right,” I said, shifting from foot to foot.
“Backstage, though? I wouldn’t have expected a Skaar to shy from the spotlight.”
“I love the spotlight,” said Flynn from the table.
“We know,” I muttered. Dad gave me a lips-pursed, head-tilted look, the one that tells you you’re on thin ice.
“So,” I said, looking at my feet, “I’ll need to stay after school Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Okay.”
“For the next three weeks.”
Before he was a stay-at-home dad, Dad was a lawyer. He says all his lawyerly skills are permanently encrusted beneath a layer of diapers and carpools and vomit and Hop on Pop, but sometimes they peek out. “Three weeks?” he said, eyebrows rising. “And then never again?”
Here Comes Trouble Page 5
