“That’s your takeaway for the class?” said Ms. Hutchins.
“Um,” I said, “I think there’s one more slide.”
I’d made the last slide in a delirious haze at two a.m. I had no recollection of what it was.
“In conclusion,” I said, hoping it was some sort of conclusion.
I clicked.
Oh no.
Well. I didn’t have a choice. I had to go for it.
“Always remember,” I read with gusto, “when you fudge data…”
I clicked, and the rest of the motto twirled onto the screen.
“…you say ‘fudge you’ to the scientific community!”
The class exploded into laughter.
“Soren!” said Ms. Hutchins. “Utterly inappropriate! What were you thinking?”
“I guess I thought it was catchy.”
“You should know better.”
“Sorry, Ms. Hutchins.”
Oops.
YOU ONLY GO into Mom and Dad’s bedroom if (a) you’re deathly ill or (b) you’re in the biggest trouble of your life. Or, once, when I decided that having the flu was a great chance to stockpile vomit ice cubes, both (a) and (b).
“Sit on the couch, young man,” said Dad.
“We’ve seen the online grade book,” said Mom.
They loomed over me. I’ll spare you the lecture—I’m sure you can imagine it—but basically, I was grounded until my science grade improved. “But it’s not about the grade,” said Dad, trying to make himself feel better about his parenting. “It’s about attitude. It’s about work ethic. We want you to do your best, Soren, and your best is not a presentation that gets a…”
He peered at the laptop.
“A seven.”
“Ouch,” I said involuntarily. It sounded really bad when you said it out loud.
“How is a seven even possible?” said Dad.
“Ms. Hutchins is a really hard grader,” I said.
“Then how did Flynn get a ninety-eight?”
“Well, Flynn should have gotten a hundred, so—”
“You should have gotten a nine?”
* * *
—
IT’S HARD TO plan a prank when you can’t leave the house. On Friday, when I should have been planning with the triplets, or playing on Jéro’s dock with him and Soup and Freddy, or kicking it with Alex, my real best friend—on Friday, when Flynn went rollerblading with Goldie and Kiyana, when Ruth went to Wallaby’s sleepover birthday party, when even Ivan, Ivan the Terrible, had a playdate—well, on Friday, I took the bus straight home, alone.
“It’s just you and me, Soren!” Dad crowed. “And I’ve got exciting plans for us!”
“Really?”
“Father-son bonding!”
I hoped he wanted to play catch. We used to throw around all the time, but then Ivan was born. “I’ll get the mitts,” I said.
“It’s time for the Great Chicken Migration!”
“Wait, what?”
“I’ve taken a deep dive into the chicken-farming blogosphere, and we’re going to move them to the mudroom for the winter. It’ll be good for both their egg production and their mental health.”
“But the mudroom’s full of our stuff!”
“That’s where you and I come in.”
“Must be nice to have a kid,” I muttered. “Forced labor.”
“You’re referring to your life, or mine?” said Dad.
We started clearing out the mudroom. It was like an archaeological dig, a layer of boots and coats drifting over the summer rubble of deflated water wings, unpaired flip-flops, and the badminton net. Finally we got to the distant past: crumpled vocabulary quizzes and dried-out stinkbug corpses. “Whew.” Dad surveyed the lawn, where we’d dumped all the stuff. “This is a bigger job than I’d imagined.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” I suggested. “Finish up tomorrow when everyone’s home.”
He eyed me. “What do we say? Chores build…”
“Character,” I finished grumpily.
It took a few hours, but by the time we sorted all that crap and dumped in pine shavings for the chickens’ bedding, I was actually feeling good. I’d never admit this to Dad, but there’s something weirdly fun about working hard enough to sweat and get hungry, especially if you’re working outside. “We’ll keep their feeder out in the yard,” said Dad, “so they’ll get exercise and fresh air.”
“Hopefully they’ll do their pooping out there too,” I said.
“We can always dream.”
“You can. I have better things to dream about than pooping.”
He laughed, and I felt a warm pop!, like I was a can of Coke that someone had just opened, like I was all fizzy and alive. “Look at this nifty heat lamp I ordered,” said Dad.
“Why? Won’t it be warm in the mudroom?”
“Not warm enough, and it’s for light, too. We’ll set it to turn on at four a.m. If the chickens don’t get a fourteen-hour day, they’ll go into a molt and stop laying eggs.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“You know your mother,” he said. “She won’t buy feed if they aren’t producing.”
Mom grew up on a farm in North Dakota. She doesn’t believe in pets.
“You lure them in while I set up the lamp,” said Dad. “Then I think we’ll be done.”
I scattered a trail of feed from coop to mudroom. “Bawk-bawk-bawk!” I called. Pecking and chattering, Dotty, Potty, Eugenie, Hatty, and Betty II waddled along the trail. They hopped in, nipped around, and settled down. Chickens aren’t easy to stress out.
But Martha was still lingering in the coop.
“Come on, Martha!” I said, keeping my distance. “Here, boy!”
“COCK-A-DOO-ARGH-ACK-ECK-EH!” Martha screamed. He didn’t move.
“Martha! Martha! Don’t you want to be nice and warm for the winter?” I said.
He swiveled his head, but only because Mr. Nelson’s car had pulled into the driveway. Flynn hopped out. “Ooh!” he said. “Are we winterizing the chickens? I’ve read about this!”
I skulked back. When I’d seen him whispering with the Goldie gang at recess, I’d gotten that being-talked-about feeling, which was confirmed when they spent all social studies shooting me evil looks. But he hadn’t said a word to me. I’d also seen him taking the Scotch tape up to his room, probably to fix the mural, and probably, while he was at it, to draw another picture of me looking bad. He had several new options.
Dad was giving him a tour of the mudroom. “But we’re having trouble getting Martha to recognize his new home,” Dad said.
“Relocation is hard,” said Flynn. “What about a treat? Something to soothe him?”
“COCK-A-DOO-ARGH-ACK-ECK-EH!”
“Excellent idea!” said Dad.
“I’ll get some yogurt,” said Flynn. “Martha loves it.”
How would he know?
But sure enough, when he came back with a dish of plain yogurt, Martha hopped happily into the mudroom. “Wow,” said Dad. “Flynn, what would we do without you?”
“Yogurt’s good for his digestive health, too!” said Flynn.
Dad slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Thank you.”
I trudged after them into the house. You could really tell they were related from the back. Their hair lay the same way, and their shoulders, too. “We’ll do an easy dinner,” said Dad. “How do veggie burgers sound, Flynn?”
“With hummus?” he said. “And pickled red onion?”
“Wonderful!”
* * *
—
FLYNN AND RUTH were refusing to walk with me again. They’d speed-walk if I walked normally and they’d dawdle back if I tried to catch up. Flynn I could handle, I guess, but it
really annoyed me that he’d gotten Ruth on his side. She wouldn’t have even remembered she was mad at me without his constant reminders.
Luckily, the triplets stuck with me. “Let’s make this spelling-bee prank happen,” I said, eyeing Ruth and Flynn twenty feet ahead. We hadn’t had any good ideas yet, but it wasn’t till tomorrow.
“Whatever we do, let’s be careful,” said Olivia.
“Naturally,” said Lila, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t like her authority being questioned, especially by the runt. “Nobody wants to get caught.”
“No, I mean…let’s make sure we don’t ruin the spelling bee.”
“Why?” said Tabitha. “Because darling Flynnie’s in the bee?”
“No!” said Olivia, blushing. Obviously, she meant, Yes!
Lila shrugged. “We’ll do the prank at the end of the assembly. After the bee’s over.”
“But what’s our prank?” I said.
Tabitha’s eyes glinted. “I have the perfect idea.”
She told us. Olivia shook her head. “Ruth would never let us borrow him,” Olivia said. “He’s like a pet to her. No. He’s like a son.”
“Who says we’ll ask her?” I said.
“He’ll be fine,” said Tabitha. “He’ll like it.”
“And Ruth will think it’s funny,” I said. “Eventually.”
“I don’t know,” said Lila. “She’s already mad at us for leaving her out. And then if we use—”
“It’s a great idea,” I said. I looked ahead at Ruth and Flynn, trudging along with their heads bent close, his messenger bag bumping her giant green backpack. “Let’s do it. Once she sees how funny it is, Ruth won’t mind at all.”
“SHUSH!” MS. HUTCHINS kept saying as we found our seats in the gym. “Silence, sixth graders!” It had no effect. The spelling bee hadn’t started yet, though the fourteen kids who’d advanced from the classroom competitions were already seated onstage. There were about ten teachers up there too, trying to figure out how to turn on the mike.
“Anyone want to bet on the winner?” said Jéro.
“I’ll bet a nickel on Flynn,” said Olivia.
“Ten cents on Justice,” said Soup. “He won last year.”
“The winning word,” cried Chloe, wildly waving a dollar bill in Jéro’s face, “will be reindeer!”
“Soren?” said Jéro. “Want to bet on your cousin?”
I nudged my backpack, which was unzipped at the top, a bit farther under my seat. “I’m good.”
Mr. Pickett must have bumped the right switch, because his words suddenly filled the gym. “This mike design is bullpoop”—he didn’t say bullpoop, though—“that’s what it is, absolute bu— Wait, is this working?” He turned bright red and thrust the mike at Principal Leary.
Leary shook his head at Mr. Pickett, who slunk back. It was nice to know that teachers could get on principals’ bad sides. It made them seem almost human. “Welcome to the spelling bee,” said Principal Leary. He explained the rules while I peered over Jéro’s shoulder to see whether anyone had won big by predicting Leary’s solar-system tie. Pluto was featured right down by the tip. I guess it was an old one.
Macintosh Avery had drawn the first seat. “Your word, Macintosh,” said Principal Leary, “is nonchalant.” Macintosh is a third grader who comes up to about my knee, but he nonchalantly whipped it off.
Next up was Gordon Spinner, a second grader. “Scenic,” said Principal Leary. Gordon missed the first c and burst into tears, but he got a solid round of applause for being the first loser.
Nevaeh Diggs got chandelier.
Rob Diedrich Jr. got patrician.
John Lovinsky missed imbecile, which is kind of funny if you think about it.
Flynn, wearing a tuxedo T-shirt and pants that stopped in the middle of his calf, was next. He got artisanal. I zoned out. Spelling’s boring even when it’s you who’s doing it. The spellers finally burned down to three: tiny Macintosh, reigning champ Justice, and Flynn.
I’d been zoning out on Tabitha’s ponytail, which I didn’t know until she turned around and I realized I’d gone kind of cross-eyed. “Is something wrong?” she said.
“No, I’m fine.”
She raised her eyebrows. But are you ready? she mouthed.
I was. Three spellers left. It’d be soon now. The plan was to set off the prank the second the winning word was spelled, before anyone had time to leave.
Justice went down on dromedary. His eyes welled up. I quickly looked away.
Macintosh got pachyderm, and rattled it off like it was cat.
Flynn got trattoria. His voice was shaking, but he nailed it. Then Macintosh screwed up fracas pretty hard. There was a q involved. Flynn had to spell it right to win. He stepped up to the microphone.
“Fracas,” he said. “F—”
I lifted my backpack to my lap. Lila and Olivia were on either side of me, and they leaned forward to give me cover.
“R—”
I opened the backpack. Jim Bob, curled cozily inside, blinked as he woke up from his morning nap. He looked groggy. My greatest fear was that he’d go right back to sleep. The prank would fail, and fail hard.
“A—”
I set the backpack on the floor and nudged at the bottom with my foot. I figured it’d take him a minute to discover his escape hatch and make a move, but he nosed out right away. He took off down the row of seats. “Grab him!” I hissed at Lila, and she swiped at him, but it was too late. There was a flutter of squeals and laughter as he poked his way down the row.
“C—”
“Stop him!” I whispered, waving frantically, but nobody heard me. Jim Bob reached the center aisle. Like a midfielder who breaks out of a clump of defenders and hits his stride in the open grass, he took off across the shiny wooden floor.
“A—” said Flynn, and then he saw Jim Bob. “CATCH IT!” he shrieked into the mike.
Now the whole gym looked to where he was pointing. Some kids laughed. Some kids screamed. Amid the uproar, Jim Bob made a beeline for the stage.
Flynn was totally safe up there. No piglet can jump four feet, not even at a dead sprint. But he freaked out. He shrieked again and leapt off the stage, knocking over the mike as he went. It hit the stage floor with an earsplitting burst of feedback. Jim Bob was startled. He turned tail and charged the fifth grade. A few of them were so scared they scrabbled up the gym walls to get away, like he was a rat. Principal Leary rummaged for the mike on the floor. “Catch it!” he cried into the mike. “Teachers! Students! Someone! Someone catch it!”
Jim Bob darted back and forth, oinking. He’d panicked along with everyone else. Chairs were flying as kids dove for safety.
“CALM DOWN, EVERYONE!” yelled Principal Leary into the mike. At the noise, all four of Jim Bob’s short legs left the floor. When he landed, he took off even faster in the other direction.
“CATCH THAT PIGLET!” Principal Leary shouted at the top of his lungs. “FACULTY, I AM TALKING TO YOU!”
But the teachers were standing against the walls of the gym with faces that were like, Not my problem. Principal Leary tossed the mike aside and left the stage with a flying leap that was actually pretty impressive for a dad-aged guy. He took off after Jim Bob, his face purple with rage, the solar-system necktie flapping behind.
Kids sprang out of his way. Jim Bob maintained the narrow distance between them for a while, but as they approached the fourth-grade section, Leary was gaining. He dove. He missed.
“HEY!” yelled a high, furious voice. “THAT’S MY PIGLET!”
Kicking and flailing, Ruth emerged from the mass of fourth graders. She took off in a trot toward Jim Bob. “Here, Jimmy!” she called. “Here, Jimmy-Jimmy Bobkins! Here!”
Jim Bob didn’t hear her. He started sprinting back toward the front, eyeing Flynn.
&n
bsp; Leary, grasping a side stitch, stopped altogether, but Ruth picked up the pace. So did Jim Bob. I bet he heard her footsteps and thought it was still Leary. He was heading straight for Flynn. Flynn tried to shove Macintosh in front of him, but since Macintosh was about as big as Flynn’s left leg, he didn’t offer much protection.
Ruth sprinted, but Jim Bob sprinted faster. Ten feet away from Flynn, Jim Bob hit another gear, bounding down the aisle. Flynn’s face was pure terror. Jim Bob leapt into Flynn’s arms. For a moment, Flynn clutched him, and then Ruth caught up and snatched him away.
“My darling!” I heard her cry in horror, before the whole gym was overtaken with excited shouts and banging applause.
Ruth ripped her gaze from Jim Bob and turned toward the sixth-grade section. She stared at me. Even from fifty feet away, the stare burned.
“Oh dear,” Olivia whispered. “She’s not very happy, is she?”
I slowly shook my head.
WE GOT DISMISSED to the playground for emergency recess. I tried to catch up with Ruth, but she (and Jim Bob) got whisked away to Leary’s office. Then I went over to the triplets by the fence, but Tabitha said, “Go play soccer. It looks way too suspicious to have you here right now.”
I got drafted onto Kiyana’s team. Jeremiah passed to Goldie, who tapped it to Billiam, who took it on a quick run down the wing. I charged, but Billiam blew past me and shot on goal. Kiyana did this feetfirst dive thing and just managed to knock it out of bounds.
Jeremiah lined up for the corner. A scrum formed around the goal, all eight of us jockeying for position, and I marked Jack. Jeremiah’s kick soared. The scrum exploded like a firecracker. Jack leapt left and scorched a perfect header into the goal.
Ouch. My fault. I wasn’t playing my best. I was all twitchy and high-energy, and that’s not right for soccer. You have to concentrate. It was like my mind was still in the gym, like it had become a spooked piglet itself, bouncing from one wall to the next, in one direction and another.
Here Comes Trouble Page 13
