Here Comes Trouble

by Kate Hattemer

  “What’s going on, Jon?”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened before—”

  “Nothing like what?”

  We tiptoed into the kitchen and peeked around the doorframe. Mom was peering up at Dad, her work laptop open in front of her.

  “Jon?” she said. “Are you all right? And why aren’t your pants zipped?”

  “Well—”

  “One of those scalawags clog the toilet? Well, the plunger’s where it always is. Unless Ivan had it up in his crib again—”

  “It cracked,” Dad whispered urgently.

  “The plunger? That clogged, huh—”

  “The seat.”

  “The what?”

  “I cracked the seat.”

  “You what?”

  “Lucinda,” said Dad in despair, “I must have sat down too hard—I was in a bit of a hurry—or maybe it was on its last legs—but I sat, and the seat, well…It broke.”

  “You broke the toilet seat?”

  I made the mistake of looking at Tabitha, who was bright red and quietly shaking. I had to stuff the collar of my shirt into my mouth.

  “Yes,” whispered Dad. “I don’t know what to say, Lucinda. I heard it crack.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DOWNSIDE TO this prank: it’s clearly a prank. Mom marched right in to check out the damage, and it was pretty obvious that a bag of macaroni hadn’t casually strolled over to the toilet and taped itself under the lid.

  But the upside: nobody can be that mad. We were doubled up laughing, flopped on the floor, when Mom and Dad came storming into the living room with the macaroni. “It just crunched, right?” I managed.

  “I sat down,” Dad said darkly, “and that crack—it was dead-on the sound of a toilet seat breaking.” The ends of his belt were still flapping around his thighs. “You should have seen me. I was up like a shot.”

  That was enough to send us into another gale of laughter. Mom and Dad started laughing too.

  “Why didn’t I think of this one myself?” said Mom.

  “Did you booby-trap any other toilets?” said Dad. “No. You know what? Don’t answer that question.”

  “Maybe we’ll go over to the Andrezejczaks’ for a while,” I said innocently. “See what’s going on over there.”

  Mom lifted her eyebrows at Dad. He shook his head, but not like no. More like why even bother?

  “Be back before dinner,” said Mom.

  “Have fun,” said Dad.

  “I don’t think you have to tell them that, Jon.”

  * * *

  —

  ALEX SAID THERE was a hope that when her mom came back at six, we could persuade her to stay for dinner, and we’d eat really slowly, and it’d end up too late to drive to Effie, where they were going to stay with Alex’s aunt, and they’d have to spend the night with us.

  No such luck.

  Mrs. Harris whipped into the driveway at six o’clock sharp. She came up to the door to get Alex and thank my parents, but you could tell she wanted to hit the road. She was bouncing on her heels and she kept glancing at her phone. “I trusted my new stylist,” she told my mom. “I left my whole business in her hands. And now I’ve got a text that she snipped a man’s ear!”

  “Snipped it, or snipped it off?” I said.

  “Given my luck, snipped it off,” said Mrs. Harris. “Why did I leave for a day? Who up and leaves the thing they care most about? Abandons it?”

  “But what about the ear? Can they reattach it?”

  “Probably not,” she said gloomily.

  I knew it. Those haircutters always get way too close with the scissors, and Mom never believes me when I tell her I’m in danger. “I am never getting my hair cut again,” I said.

  “I’m positive it was just a nick,” Mom said to both me and Mrs. Harris. “Everything will be fine, Marilyn. Give him a coupon for a free haircut and he’ll settle down.”

  “He’d better,” said Mrs. Harris. “Go take one last bathroom run, Alex, because we’re going all the way to Minneapolis and we’re not stopping.”

  Mom ran her hand through the back of my hair. “You’re getting pretty scruffy, Soren. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll make an appointment for next week.”

  Ugh.

  “Bye,” I told Alex when she got back. “See you—see you next time.”

  “Bye,” said Alex. “Yeah. See you. Bye, Soren.”

  This was the second time I had to watch Alex drive away, not knowing how long it’d be till I’d see her again. It didn’t get any easier.

  THAT NIGHT IT rained, and it kept raining straight through to Monday morning. That didn’t stop Dad from making us walk to the bus stop. “You know the rule,” he said. “Skaars walk unless…”

  “It’s below zero with gale-force winds,” Ruth and I recited glumly. Dad has a lot of call-and-response sayings like that. “Trash goes in…,” he’ll say, and we’ll chant, “The proper receptacle!” Or, “Skaars are too nice to…” “Act exclusive!” He’s trying to mold us in his image.

  Flynn and Ruth and I set out together, but they started speed-walking right away. They were sharing Flynn’s Metropolitan Museum of Art umbrella. I didn’t have an umbrella, just a hood, and Dad had made me wear these janky, too-big rain boots I couldn’t go fast in. “Hey,” I yelled. “Wait up.”

  Flynn’s head bent toward Ruth’s, and I heard her giggle. They started walking even faster. “Guys!” I called.

  No response. I kicked a wet bundle of leaves. All that did was throw a bunch of water down the boot, so now my sock was soggy too.

  The triplets weren’t on their porch. I thought about waiting for them, but I was worried I’d miss the bus and Dad would be mad and I’d be late and Ms. Hutchins would be like, “Your cousin was on time.” So I sloshed on, getting farther and farther behind.

  When I got to the bus stop, the triplets and Ruth and Flynn were all clustered under the gigantic umbrella. “I can’t wait to change into my tennis shoes,” I announced. Nobody looked up. I elbowed my way in. “How’d you get here so fast?” I asked Lila.

  “Mom drove us,” she said. “Look.”

  They were huddled around the worm in Ruth’s palm. “I saved him,” said Ruth. “He was stranded on the sidewalk.”

  “Ruth,” I said, “there were hundreds of stranded worms.”

  “Yeah, but only one was Mr. Wiggly.”

  He was definitely wiggly. That much I’d give her. “You like worms?” I asked Flynn quietly.

  “Nope. That’s why my hands are in my pockets.” He shook his hair off his forehead. “Yours are too.”

  I looked down. Yep. I gave Flynn an embarrassed grin. “Guess so.” I couldn’t be squeamish—I had a reputation to maintain—but honestly, I don’t like worms much either. It was those pink, pointy ends they had. No thanks.

  “I think Mr. Wiggly knows you’re the one who saved him,” Olivia told Ruth. “Look, he dances a bit whenever you get your face near.”

  The bus pulled up, clanking and splashing. Flynn wrestled with his umbrella and the rest of us lined up to get on. “If Mr. Wiggly’s so smart,” I told Ruth, “we should use him in a prank.”

  “No! He’s my friend!”

  “What better fate for a friend than to be used in a prank?” said Tabitha.

  “You guys have one-track minds,” sighed Flynn.

  “Don’t even think about touching Mr. Wiggly,” said Ruth.

  The bus was damp and steamy, and my socks were so wet I could feel my toes pruning, and all the seats were gone so I had to sit with Billiam Flick. But I found myself in a good mood. It was fun to get along with people. It was a lot better than fighting. We rattled to school. What if Mr. Wiggly ended up in Principal Leary’s pocket? Or in a teacher’s microwave lunch? Not that any of
these pranks would happen, but there was no harm in imagining.

  * * *

  —

  FLYNN WENT TO Goldie’s after school to work on their science presentations, so Ruth and I went home alone. “How’s Mr. Wiggly?” I asked her.

  “He died in math.”

  “Me too,” I said. We’d had a polygon quiz.

  “Mr. Snyder let us bury him in the hamster cage. We had indoor recess so we did a whole funeral. Wallaby sang ‘Tears in Heaven.’ ”

  “Wow. Sounds sad.”

  “Nah, it was fun. Hopefully I can find Ms. Wiggly on the way to school tomorrow.”

  That reminded me. “Do you think Dad would let me have the triplets over?”

  “No. No way. It’s a school night and you haven’t done your homework.”

  “How do you know I haven’t done my homework?”

  “Have you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Ha. Told you. Why can’t you meet them on the tree platform?”

  “Because it’s pouring rain.”

  “I could help you sneak them in,” said Ruth, perking up. “Call them up. I’ve got just the plan.”

  * * *

  —

  TABITHA PICKED UP after one ring. “Hello?”

  “Oh, hey,” I said, relieved it wasn’t some weird relative. “I want to do another prank.”

  “Me too.”

  “But we’ve got to be inside—”

  “Tell him we can’t have friends over on school days,” said Lila in the background.

  “I know that, Lila,” Tabitha said snippily. “We want to plan too, Soren—”

  “Tell him I’ve got a new legal pad,” I heard Lila say.

  “I can talk to him myself—no—quit it—”

  There was a bump and a lot of staticky feedback.

  “Hello, Soren,” said Lila smoothly into the receiver. “Ouch! Tabitha!”

  “Can you guys get out of the house?” I asked.

  “Sure, we’re allowed outside. But it’s raining, in case you didn’t notice. And maybe we could get an exception and invite you over if we’d done our homework already, but we haven’t even started Ms. Hutchins’s giant presentation, and that’s due the day after tomorrow.”

  “I don’t even know my topic.” I paused, distracted. But I had to shake it off. I’d worry about the presentation later. “No, but listen. What I’ve been trying to tell you: Ruth can sneak you in.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s got a plan.”

  Another bump. More static. “Tell Ruth she’s amazing!” Olivia shouted into the phone. “Ouch, Lila! Stop that—ow—”

  Lila was back. “Hi again. We’ll be over straightaway.”

  “Give us thirty minutes,” I said. “And come to the front door.”

  “But you guys never use the front door.”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  —

  TWENTY-TWO MINUTES LATER, Ruth rambled into the kitchen. Dad was cleaning out the cabinet beneath the sink, and Ivan was whizzing around in his baby walker. He uses it even though he can walk now, I’m sure because he can get up some serious speed.

  “Can I make scrambled eggs?” Ruth asked Dad.

  “Sure.”

  Ruth whisked a few eggs, turned the stove up to the max, and gave me the thumbs-up. I sidled out of the kitchen and went to the front door.

  “WHEEEEEE!” I heard Ivan shout.

  “Ivan!” said Dad. “Ruth, could you corral him on that side of the kitchen? I’ve got a lot of dangerous household chemicals out over here.”

  I couldn’t see, but based on the furious screaming and revving of wheels, Ruth was holding Ivan by his collar. I peeked in. When I saw a wisp of smoke from the stove, I ducked back to the front hall.

  “SET IVAN FREE!” Ivan yelled.

  “Just a sec, Ruth,” said Dad. “Let me get the bleach onto a high shelf—”

  “He’s really pulling,” panted Ruth.

  “One second—”

  And there it was, the smell of burning eggs. If you’ve never smelled it, don’t. It’s kind of like the yolk of a hard-boiled egg plus a fart, but it’s all warm and smoky too.

  “Your eggs!” shouted Dad.

  BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP! That was the smoke detector.

  “Oh no!” cried Ruth, sounding only the tiniest bit fake. “I totally forgot!”

  “Get that pan off the stove!”

  BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP!

  “Should I let go of—”

  There were pounding footsteps, clattering wheels, and a clang.

  “WHEEEEEE!” yelled Ivan.

  I opened the door. The triplets darted in.

  “Up the stairs,” I muttered. “And step on it.”

  BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP!

  They started to run upstairs, me on their heels, but our plan had one major flaw:

  Dad sprinted to the front door to fan out the smoke.

  We were caught red-handed.

  “Do not move,” he said.

  The triplets and I froze midstep.

  Dad fanned the door back and forth. Cold air rushed in, and a raft of raindrops. With one last, drawn-out, resentful beep, the smoke detector fell silent.

  Ruth peeked into the hallway. “Oh,” she said sadly. “Caught.”

  Dad surveyed me and the triplets, stock-still on the stairs. Ivan, smirking, wheeled out to the hall. After automatically checking Ivan’s tray for the bleach bottle, Dad looked back to me. “I guess I knew that someday you might try to sneak a girl up to your room. But I always thought it’d be one, not three.”

  “School project,” I said weakly.

  “You know what?” Dad said. “I’m done. I’m just done. I throw up my hands.”

  Ruth and I shot each other alarmed looks. Ever since Ivan was born, we’d worried that Dad might crack. “Daddy…,” said Ruth.

  “I’m fine,” he sighed. “Ivan and I will have a nice bracing glass of pomegranate juice. You go work on your”—he paused—“school project.”

  “ALL THE WAY UP,” I told the triplets on the stairs. “We’ll use Flynn’s room.” The room Ruth and Ivan and I share was filled with dirty laundry and Duplo, and if you step on Duplo barefoot you basically die, it hurts so much.

  “Where is Flynn?” said Olivia.

  “He’s at Goldie’s. They’re working on their science presentations.”

  Tabitha clapped her hands over her ears. “LA LA LA SCIENCE PRESENTATIONS ARE NOT A THING LA LA LA—”

  “It only counts as procrastination if you feel anxious and terrible,” Lila explained. “So we have this new strategy where we convince ourselves that major projects don’t exist.”

  Olivia, tearfully twisting a lock of hair, said, “Yeah! It’s great!”

  “We’ll get it done,” Lila assured her. “We always do.”

  “Get what done?” said Tabitha.

  “Nothing!” said Lila. “Nothing at all! No deadlines! No projects! We’re free!”

  Personally, I preferred feeling anxious and terrible. I opened Flynn’s bedroom door. “Whoa,” I said.

  The room was totally different from when it’d been mine. He’d covered one of the slanted attic walls with a sheet of butcher paper, and it looked like he was in the middle of coloring and drawing and doodling all over it. It was like the cave paintings we’d learned about in social studies, except Flynn is way better at art than cavemen.

  “This is super cool,” said Lila.

  “Flynn is amazing,” moaned Olivia.

  “Hey, look, Soren,” said Tabitha. “There’s you.”

  I looked. It was a cartoon of Ivan tricking me into sitting on play dough. There was me, yeah, and there was a clod of brown stuff on the butt of my pants. �
��Great,” I said flatly.

  Now that I was looking closely, I saw one familiar scene after another. There was Flynn steeping me that poisonous green tea. There was Flynn at the block party, holding his phone and surrounded by girls. There he was, grinning at his desk, as Ms. Hutchins read aloud the anonymous tip that’d ruined my prank. There he was walking to the bus stop with Ruth, and, yeah, if you followed the road like ten inches back, there was me, walking alone.

  “I don’t get how he’s good at science and soccer and banjo and art,” said Tabitha.

  “And drawing every time I’ve ever looked stupid!” I said in a chipper voice.

  “He’s so amazing,” said Olivia.

  I sat on the floor so I’d have to crane way up to see the mural or whatever you wanted to call it. Those dumb pictures had made me crabby. “Moving on,” I said. “Let’s plan.”

  “What are we planning?” said Ruth, lingering by the door.

  “We?” said Lila.

  “I can stay, right, Soren?” said Ruth.

  I shrugged. “If they’re okay with it.”

  “Of course we are,” said Olivia. “We wouldn’t even be in here without Ruth.”

  “But can she keep a secret?” said Lila.

  “I can!” said Ruth. Her back was ruler straight and her eyes were wide. “I’m good at secrets!”

  “Prove it,” said Tabitha. “Tell us something you’ve never told anyone else.”

  “Trick question,” said Ruth. “I won’t.”

  Lila and Tabitha nodded. “She can stay.”

  “I’ll ask Dad if we can borrow his laptop,” Ruth said, and shot down the stairs.

  “Why?” wondered Tabitha.

  I shrugged. When she came back, I said, “Ruth? Why the laptop?”

  “To video-chat Alex,” she said, like duh. “You weren’t thinking we’d plan without her, were you?”

  Well, yes. I was. Based on the nonplussed looks on the triplets’ faces, they were too. Alex had called us the Dream Team after the Crackaroni Incident, but—well, we’d forgotten all about her.

  Ruth hadn’t forgotten, and Alex wasn’t even nice to Ruth.