And then—I totally saw eyes. They were staring right at me.
Somebody was up there!
I bolted up from my chair, pointing toward the panel.
“Look! Look!”
“What are you doing, Spencer?” Mrs. Witherspinster stormed over, ready to throttle me in front of the entire class.
“The ceiling! Somebody’s up there!”
At that very moment, my Leaning Pencil of Pisa decided to loosen itself from the ceiling panel and hit my world history teacher directly in her left eye.
ou’d believe me if I told you that I didn’t staple Assistant Principal Pritchard’s hand on purpose, right?
Obviously I had been aiming for the hand reaching out from his ceiling.
Pritchard grabbed me when he should’ve been helping me go after whoever it was creeping through the crawl space of his school. I even had to jump on top of Pritchard’s desk so I could reach the fiberglass panel that had just opened above his head.
Not that Pritchard noticed that part. All he saw was me—this lunatic seventh grader pouncing on top of his desk, grabbing his stapler, flipping it open like a butterfly knife, and trying to make a break for the rooftop.
A stapler isn’t the best choice of weaponry, I know, but I had to think on the fly. So I snatched the first thing I could get my hands on.
If Pritchard hadn’t wrapped his arms around my stomach and tried to pull me down, I wouldn’t have lost my balance and slapped his stapler against his wrist.
But I’m getting way ahead of myself.
• • •
“Do you really expect us to believe you saw someone in the ceiling?” Withersprout huffed. Her eye was looking a bit bloodshot from where the pencil had hit it.
Thank goodness it had been the eraser end.
“I was trying to flush them out!”
So that part was a lie. But the first part wasn’t.
Honest.
“There’s no one up there!”
“Mrs. Witherspoon.” Assistant Principal Pritchard calmly cleared his throat. “Did you leave the rest of your class unattended?”
Witherspore’s face flushed, matching the red hue of her pencil injury.
“I should get back.…”
“Thank you,” Pritchard said. “I’ll handle this from here.”
Witherspleen gave me the stink eye with her wounded peeper as she left. Pritchard waited until the door had completely closed behind her, sealing the two of us inside his office.
“Any idea why you’re here, Mr. Pendleton?”
“Almost gouging my history teacher’s eye out with a pencil?”
“Can you think of any other reason why?”
“You got me.” I shrugged.
“No guess whatsoever?”
I made a personal inventory of all the things I’d done since arriving at Greenfield two days ago, trying to figure out what I was getting pinned for: Pepper-spraying another student with my inhaler? Tagging the bathroom stall with a permanent marker?
Possibly.
I can neither confirm nor deny any of these accusations. Until I know what exactly I’m being tried for, I am pleading the Fifth.
“I’m not out to get you,” he said. “I’m merely here for the truth.”
“Sure hope you find it, sir.…”
When Pritchard leaned back in his chair, I caught the slightest smirk creeping out from the corner of his lips.
Did I just make him laugh? I think I did!
He tried to swallow his chuckle by covering it with a cough, but I totally heard it.
“You know, Spencer—you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age. Smart kid. Quick with a comeback. Chip on your shoulder.”
Touché, Pritchard. Nice touch. Butter me up all you want, but I won’t fold that easily.
“How’d that work out for you?” I asked.
“Not so well.”
Can I trust him? Tell him what I saw in Witherwhatev’s class?
“Adjusting to a new school can be difficult,” he said. “I understand that.”
“You do?”
“There’s a whole new set of rules to learn, and that can be tough,” he said. “Now—I went ahead and did a little homework on you.”
“You did my homework—for me?”
“No. I did my homework on you.”
“It wasn’t my fault, sir…whatever it was.”
“I want you to know that I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt here, Spencer. As far as coming to my school is concerned, you have a clean slate.”
“That’s a relief to hear.”
“All I ask for in return, however—is a promise.”
“What kind of promise?”
Assistant Principal Pritchard leaned in closer. “How about we make a deal?”
What is it with adults trying to make deals with me?
“Well, Jim,” I leaned in. “Do you mind if I call you Jim?”
“Let’s stick with Principal for now.”
“Guess we’ll just have to work our way up to Jim,” I said, chuckling.
“It’s Principal Pritchard.”
“Don’t you mean Ass-istant Principal, sir?”
“Mr. Pritchard is fine.”
“You see, Ass-istant Principal Pritchard, sir—well, it’s complicated.”
Pause. Total silence. Staring contest.
Pritchard cleared his throat. “I put in a phone call to the ass-istant principal at your last school.”
“…You did?”
“I’ve heard pretty much all I need to hear from Mrs. Condrey about how you handled yourself there.… But I’d rather hear it from you.”
I looked at the clock. If I really milked it, I could stay in his office until second period ended.
“Well,” I said. “Where would you like me to begin?”
That’s when the panel above Pritchard’s head pulled back a crack.
Somebody was up there.
I’m being spied on.
Pritchard hadn’t noticed. He was too busy talking about I don’t know what.
“We discovered a lot of items have mysteriously gone missing this morning,” he continued. “Office supplies, mainly. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”
This was my chance.
If Pritchard was ever going to believe me about somebody lurking in his ceiling, I’d need proof. I needed to take action.
Play it cool. Don’t look up.
Then I noticed the stapler.
On the count of three—jump on the desk, grab the stapler, slip through the ceiling, and…
Not my best thought-out plan, I know. But we were at war with an invisible enemy—and as a man of action, it was time to show this phantom offender who it was dealing with!
One: I took a deep breath.
Two: I slid to the edge of my seat.
Three: I pounced.
And…? Well, you know the rest.
ou want gravy with that?” A loose lock of gray spilled from the cafeteria lady’s hairnet. “Don’t take it unless you’re gonna eat it.”
“Are we in the middle of a famine or something?”
“We got a cafeteria bandit on our hands again. Somebody’s always snitching food, no different this year.”
Why anyone would pilfer potatoes and gravy from the lunch ladies was beyond me.
Making my way through the cafeteria with my tray, I could hear the faint snarls of whispering werekids behind my back:
“That’s him! That’s the newbie.…”
“Did you hear? He just attacked the assistant principal.…”
“What a freak.…”
I conjured up another conversation with Sully:
SULLY: So—how’s the whole loner thing working out for you, Spence?
ME: Not that good, to be completely honest. Nobody’s going to believe me about what I saw in Mrs. Withersponge’s class—or in the hall.
SULLY: Maybe you should lay off the smart-aleck shtick for a bit,
see if that helps.
ME: And ruin the amazing reputation I’m making for myself? Never.…
“Mr. Simms.” Assistant Principal Pritchard’s voice sputtered out over the intercom. “Please come to Mrs. Witherspoon’s class. We have a busted pipe. Busted pipe in Mrs. Witherspoon’s classroom.…”
I shuffled to the nearest empty seat and took it. All I wanted was to eat in peace.
“Wrong table, Spazzma.…”
Turns out I had landed at Riley Callahan’s table. He and his cloned Cro-Magnon cronies waltzed up with their lunches, looking none too happy about my company.
“You’ve got ten seconds to find another place to eat,” he said. “Or we escort you to another table by your tongue.”
“Look—I’m sorry for macing you in the face with my inhaler yesterday, okay?”
“Ten.”
“Can we start over again? Clean slate?”
“Nine.”
“I’m really not that bad of a guy once you get to know me.…”
“Eight.”
“Please.” I took a quick swig of my milk. “All I want is to eat my lunch and—”
I choked. Milk flooded out of my nostrils.
There, staring at me from the back of my milk carton—was her.
Not just any her.
Her.
Sully. Sully Tulliver was on my milk carton. Same black-and-white yearbook picture.
“Who’s that?” Riley leaned forward.
I covered the carton with my hand before he could get a good look at the picture. “Nobody.”
Riley guffawed. “That your girlfriend or something?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Check it out!” Riley laughed as he brought his sandwich up for a bite. “Spazzma found himself a girlfriend on the back of his milk carton!”
Beaming at his own putdown, Riley took a toothy chomp out of his sandwich and…
SNAP!
Both slices of bread disintegrated into crumbs, and the crusts fell away from his fingers. Riley’s eyes grew into gulfs of panic as they stared down at the spring-loaded bar pinching his lower lip.
“Be careful.” I reached for the dangling mouse trap. “Don’t touch it.…”
Riley slapped my hands away, whimpering like a puppy. The skin around his lip was quickly turning a deep purple. He scooted backward and off his seat, nearly falling to the floor.
Automatically, I peered up. The panel above our table was pulled back.
“Look!” I yelled. “Everybody—look up!”
Everyone’s eyes remained on me.
Skeptical eyes.
“We’re not alone! Don’t you see? There are people in the ceiling! In the walls! They’re everywhere!”
A panel over the next table pulled itself back.
I needed to act fast if I was going to get people to believe me. To see what I saw.
But how?
Looking down, I noticed the perfectly round mound of processed potatoes on my tray.
Mashed potatoes. The most perfect weapon of mass consumption ever:
Slightly larger than a tennis ball, perfect for the palm of your hand.
Soft but not mushy, and thick enough to retain structural integrity.
Has an outer layer of gravy, perfect for a spitball pitch.
When it hits its target—and it most definitely always hits its target—that round mound of gravy-layered softness explodes into a paste of creamy napalm.
I stood on top of my table and threw a handful of mashed potatoes at the open space in the ceiling.
“Take that!”
I swear I had been aiming for the ceiling.
The mushy missile was well on its way to hitting its intended target, arcing up toward the shifting ceiling tiles, only to lose its momentum somewhere along the way and begin a descent back to the ground.
In retrospect, I can see how it might’ve looked like I was actually pitching my potatoes into the face of Sarah Haversand, who was sitting three tables over.
Sarah was merely the victim of food-fight friendly fire.
Cafeteria collateral damage.
As soon as her tennis whites disappeared beneath a splatter pattern of mushy spuds, she started screaming, while Riley—mousetrap still dangling from his lower lip—took this opportunity to pick up his lunch tray and swing it at my kneecaps.
Still standing on top of our table, I leapt.
A quick description of our lunch tables, or “mobile stool units,” as they are called in the cafeteria equipment catalogue: each rectangular table has a hinge in the middle, allowing for easy storage. The flat plastic seats are mounted along the sides. If there aren’t enough people weighing the table down to the floor, and an improper balance of mass is suddenly placed on one end, the entire table can spring closed on itself—like a reverse bear trap.
When I came careering down, landing at the edge of our lunch table—the impact sent the unit bending upward, instantly turning itself into a spring-loaded catapult.
Whatever food had been on our table was slung in all directions.
For the people sitting to our right, a tidal wave of gravy washed over them.
For the people sitting to our left, a face full of cafeteria shrapnel: potatoes, green beans, carrot sticks, pizza slices, bologna.
You name it. Completely battered, smothered, and covered.
And it was looking like it was all my fault.
Again.
In the dawn of every seventh grader’s life, there comes a point where he must decide:
To food-fight—or not to food-fight?
That, my friends, was the question.
And since I was already in detention, the answer was obvious.
Leaping to my feet, I gave the battle cry:
“FOOOOOOD FIGHT!”
A blur of edible mortar shells flew through the air as each student lobbed his or her own projectile of mashed potatoes.
Clothes were covered.
Walls were splattered.
Gravy dripped.
For a few glorious seconds, it looked like it was snowing inside the cafeteria.
This was going to get me into history books:
Spence Pendleton. Food revolutionary.
Cafeteria freedom fighter.
ried mashed potato doesn’t come out of your clothes all that easily.
Or your hair. Or your textbooks.
Or anything else.
Surprise.
The goo congealed fast, crusting into a white shell, encasing everything it came into contact with.
That included around seventy werekids, and they all wanted to see me strung up from one of the gym’s basketball nets.
So the food fight might’ve been a bad idea.
And I was only halfway through my second day at Greenfield.
Instead of letting those stained students out of school early—as I had suggested, to wash up and slip into something clean—Assistant Principal Pritchard made us change into gym uniforms. Everybody who had taken part in the infamous Mashed Potato Middle School Massacre was now sporting red short shorts and gray tees with GREENFIELD emblazoned across the chest.
Very fashionable.
• • •
The cafeteria itself was covered. The ceiling had potato icicles dangling down. There was even a mashed potato snow angel from where some poor kid must have slipped and fell, then fanned his or her arms and legs over the floor.
Now it was cleanup time, and guess who got volunteered?
“Sure made a mess of this place, didn’t you?”
Mr. Simms was the janitor at Greenfield. He took one look at the crusty chaos covering the cafeteria and shook his head.
“I didn’t mean for it to get this messy,” I said. “I swear I’ll clean it all up.”
“If you tried cleaning this by yourself,” he chuckled, “you’d be here till Christmas. And from the looks of it—it’s already snowed!”
Mr. Simms slapped his hip so hard, all the keys
on the retractable chain attached to his belt jangled. As long as he was laughing, I figured I wasn’t in such big trouble.
“I’ve never seen so many confused students in my life,” he wheezed, then bent over, placing his hands on his knees. His lungs had a wet sound to them.
Sounded like an asthma attack.
I pulled the string with My Little Friend over my head.
“Here,” I said. “Take a puff of this.”
Mr. Simms took a quick hit, and his breathing eased back to normal.
“Much obliged.”
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Simms,” I said. And I was. Wasn’t his fault, you know? Janitors get dumped on by just about everybody here; the last thing I wanted was to pile on.
“Don’t worry about it.” Mr. Simms plopped his mop onto the floor. “Let’s get cleaning.”
Thirty-two tables. All covered in white scabs.
First I tried wetting down the dried potatoes, but that just turned the gunk into a messy paste. Mr. Simms handed me a putty knife and advised me to scrape the potato away like it was old paint.
“We’ll be done in no time,” he said.
“I’ll have graduated from college before we’re finished.”
I chiseled away a chunk of potato, about six inches long, only for something to catch my eye underneath.
There, carved into the cafeteria table, was the stick figure holding a spear.
“Ever seen this?” I asked.
“Looks like graffiti to me.” Simms shrugged. “Why don’t you clean that mashed crap up from the hallway?”
“It got in the hallway?”
“Boy—it got everywhere.”
• • •
Wandering around school after dark was about as end-of-the-world as it gets. I could hear my steps echoing as I walked from one end of the hall to the other.
It felt like being the last person on the planet.
I called out—“Hey!”
Only to hear my voice bounce back at me:
Hey!
Hey.
Hey…
Assistant Principal Pritchard had informed me that I wouldn’t be going home until the entire building was utterly spud-free. I had already called Mom to tell her I’d be late.
“Hey, Mom,” I had said. “I’m thinking about sticking around after school today. Catch up on some studying.”
“Let me guess: you’re in detention?”
Homeroom Headhunters Page 3
