“Never been a big believer in the whole silence is golden thing.…”
“Since you don’t know how to shut up, I think it’s time someone taught you.”
The second bell rang.
“Hurry!” Cro-Magnon Crony #1 said. “I can’t be late for class.…”
“Can it,” Riley said as he reached into the urinal with his bare hand, pulled out the toilet cake, and held the pink puck up to my face.
I tried to free myself, yanking both arms until I thought they’d pop from their sockets—but it was no use.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Me? I’m not doing anything.” He brought the puck up even closer. “You, on the other hand, missed breakfast.”
Cro-Magnon Crony #2 chuckled.
“Wait,” I yelled. “Can’t we just settle this like mature young adults? You stay on your side of the hallway from now on and I’ll stay on mine?”
“Open wide.…”
I cricked my neck back as far as I could, facing the ceiling. “Heeeeeeelp!”
Cro-Magnon Crony #1 wrapped his sweaty palm across my mouth.
“Move your hand,” Riley ordered.
“But what if somebody hears him?” Cro-Mag asked.
“This will shut him up.…”
As soon as my mouth was free, I started pleading with the ceiling again. “I could use a little help here!”
“You don’t have any friends at this school,” Riley snorted. “Unless you’ve made up some imaginary pals to play with?”
“Something like that…”
“So where are they now?”
“That’s a very good question.”
I knew this was a long shot, but either the Tribe would come to my rescue, or I was chowing down on a urinal cake.
“Somebody! Anybody? Pleeeeaaase!”
I’m going to take the next three seconds of my life and press the SLOW-MO button for a little play-by-play:
SECOND ONE:
Cro-Mag Crony #1 was airborne in a breath. Just when he was about to fall face-forward—his feet flipped, turning his entire body upside down.
SECOND TWO:
Cro-Mag Crony #2 let go of my arm. He was about to make a break for the door, but suddenly he found himself flopping through the air alongside his friend.
SECOND THREE:
I saw Riley look down at his feet.
So I looked down at Riley’s feet.
A lasso of jump ropes lay open and loose around his tennis shoes. Riley didn’t have enough time to turn and see where the other end of the tether went, but I could make out the length of yellow cord reaching up into the rafters of the bathroom ceiling.
Yardstick is one heck of an engineer.
In one swift swish, the jump rope cinched itself around Riley’s ankles and launched him off the floor.
He let go of the urinal cake, and it splattered across the floor.
“It’s been good hanging out with you guys,” I said, pinching the puck between my fingers. “We should do this again.”
I leaned into Riley’s face and brought the cake up to his lips. “Now you open wide.…”
Just as I was about to score a goal and ram that pink puck past his teeth, Riley shut his eyes. “Please,” he whimpered. “Don’t!”
Wait a minute. What am I doing?
I took a step back, dropping the urinal cake to the floor.
Just who is the bully here?
“Let’s get you down before somebody—”
Peashooter dropped from the ceiling.
Yardstick and Compass followed, climbing down into the stalls.
Before Riley or either of his clones could spin around and see who had just joined us, Compass and Yardstick slipped sweaty headbands over their eyes, blindfolding them.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Peashooter stormed up to me. “Unfinished business.”
• • •
Riley made his grand entrance into the girls’ locker room strapped to one of the office rolling chairs. He had been stripped down and blindfolded. His mouth was covered with duct tape, and he was now wearing nothing but a pair of girl’s underwear.
Written in Sharpie marker across his chest, along his arms and legs, was: Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will always hurt me.
A knot had formed in my stomach before Peashooter and Yardstick gave Riley the ol’ heave-ho into the locker room.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“This is how we deal with bullies,” Peashooter whispered. “After this, Riley won’t be bothering you—or anyone else—ever again.”
Bullying the bullies.
Interesting tactic.
On a silently mouthed count of three, Peashooter and Yardstick shoved Riley inside. The two slipped under the bleachers before the first cry of surprise.
“Oh my God—look!”
Why it hadn’t dawned on me to bolt is beyond me.
“Is that…Riley Callahan?”
The moment his name was uttered out loud, the stunned silence that had overtaken the girls quickly shifted into something much more malevolent.
“It is! It totally is!”
One girl laughed. Then another. The more voices that added to the cackling, the louder the sound intensified—until it sounded wretched.
Inhuman.
Those girls transformed into a horde of werekids, turning on one of their own.
That’s when I ran.
As much as I thought I wouldn’t mind Riley getting a little taste of tribal comeuppance, I felt like I had abandoned him to be torn to pieces by that rabid pack.
• • •
My name was on the lips of a few too many students that day.
Boy, were my ears burning.
When Coach Calhoon pulled the gag out from Riley’s mouth, the finger-pointing commenced: “It was Spencer Pendleton!” Riley cried. “He did this!”
When Mr. Simms was called to fix a “busted pipe” in the boys’ bathroom, he discovered Callahan’s cronies dangling from the ceiling instead: “Spencer Pendleton sneak-attacked us!”
When Pritchard called me into his office to hear my side of the story, he didn’t say anything for the longest time. Jaw clenched.
I couldn’t tell if he expected me to speak first, so I kept quiet.
He finally broke the silence. “You’re here so much I should start charging you rent.”
“Maybe you just enjoy my company, sir?”
“Do you always have a witty comeback? Or do you ever bite your tongue?”
“I’ve bitten my tongue plenty of times. You’d think I wouldn’t have any tongue left by now.…”
“Greenfield has gone through an earthquake since you arrived,” he said. “Damaged property. Broken trophy case. Stolen school supplies. Misplaced equipment. Smoke bombs. Vandalism. And now this incident with Riley and his friends!”
“But I haven’t done anything!”
Technically speaking, it was the truth.
“I’m not an idiot, Spencer. I know it’s you. I may not be able to prove every single last act of sabotage yet, but a student saw you running from the gym today.”
“Okay, yes, I was there. But it wasn’t me, I swear.”
“Then who was it?”
I stopped myself from saying anything more. The walls had eyes.
More like the ceiling had ears.
“Consider this strike one.” Pritchard sighed. “Three strikes and you’re out, Spencer—and I do mean out. Out of my school. For good.”
I looked up at him, locking on to his eyes.
“You’re staying after school today for detention.”
“What if I’m already serving a detention for Mr. Rorshuck?”
“We’ll just have to add on another one,” he said, shaking his head. “But from the moment you step into this building, there will be eyes on you. Twenty-four/seven!”
His weren’t the only ones.…
“It’s a deal, Jim,�
�� I said. “You won’t be sorry, I promise.”
“Please don’t call me Jim.”
GHOST STORY NUMBER TWO: YARDSTICK
Chosen Name: Yardstick
Given Name: Jack Cumberland
Area of Study: Mathematics, Engineering
Weapon of Choice: Yardstick spear, Javelin harpoon, Magic tricks.
Last seen: 6th grade
Notes: Shy. Speaks only when spoken to. Genius engineer.
YARDSTICK FIELD NOTES ENTRY #1:
LOCATION: AUDITORIUM
TIME: THIRD PERIOD. 10:30 A.M.
Every year, Greenfield Middle School holds its annual talent show.
YARDSTICK: Stepping on stage before the whole school is just about the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll never do anything like that again.
His shyness was so out of sync with his physique. Yardstick had a solid six or seven inches over the average student—but his voice was barely there. I had to lean in to hear what he was saying.
His yearbook photo could hardly contain him. The photographer couldn’t fit his head in the frame without pulling the camera back—and still the top of his head was cropped off.
It may have said his name was Jack Cumberland in the yearbook, but his classmates called him Scarecrow.
Skyscraper
Flagpole
Air Control
Elevator Shaft
He was in the sixth grade when he disappeared, soon after what happened in the talent show.
He told me his story while we were watching this year’s parade of untalent, from the auditorium rafters. We’d hidden ourselves along the light grid directly above a steady stream of crappy song-and-dancers, crappy rappers, and crappy stand-up comedians.
At the moment, Yardstick had a solid rope of phlegm slithering down his lips. He slurped the loogie back into his mouth and swallowed.
YARDSTICK: The longest I’ve ever gone is about a foot.
ME: Was that your talent? Loogie yo-yo?
YARDSTICK: Nope.
ME: What, then?
YARDSTICK: Magic.
I thought he was kidding at first, so I laughed.
Bad move on my part.
I saw him wince, just the slightest pinch in the corner of his eyes, and I realized that he was one hundred percent not joking.
ME: Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.
YARDSTICK: It’s okay. I’m over it now.
ME: You sure?
YARDSTICK: Like Peashooter says, “Speak softly and carry a big yardstick.”
I’m pretty sure that’s not what President Teddy Roosevelt said when he originally said it, but why quibble?
This was the most Yardstick and I had ever talked to each other. In fact, it was the most I’d ever heard him say in one sitting—period.
Yardstick peered down at Sarah Haversand attempting to do an interpretive dance routine. He summoned as much phlegm from his chest as his lungs would allow, a quart at least, and let the saliva ooze from his mouth.
Six inches and counting…
Seven inches and counting…
Eight inches and counting…
Nine—
The tendril snapped. The loogie took a dive straight down, smacking Sarah directly on the head. She brought her hand up and patted the dampness on her scalp, only to look up toward the rafters, eyes wide in horror, and shriek.
She probably thought a pigeon just pooped on her head.
YARDSTICK: We better book it.
ME: Good idea.
YARDSTICK FIELD NOTES ENTRY #2:
LOCATION: UNDER THE BLEACHERS
TIME: THIRD PERIOD. 11:00 A.M.
Before his big night, Yardstick’s mom had helped him into his father’s tuxedo from some long-gone wedding. It was too short in the sleeves—which was no good. If his limbs poked out from his miniature tuxedo, he would’ve revealed the ingenious pulley system underneath.
YARDSTICK: Magic is really just engineering. The hand’s always got to be quicker than the eye, so I designed this hidden quick-draw rig.
ME: Hidden what?
YARDSTICK: All you need is some Velcro, a drawer slide, some wire and tubes—and presto! You’ve got your own concealed pigeon-release rig.
Yardstick couldn’t afford a dove—so he had to spend an entire afternoon at the park, struggling to catch a pigeon with his bare hands.
ME: You had a pigeon stuffed under your tux the whole time?
YARDSTICK: I should’ve figured out a better ventilation system.
When Yardstick took to the stage, the audience could see his sixth-grade scarecrow legs trembling.
YARDSTICK: I felt like my heart was gonna bust right out of my rib cage. I’d never been so nervous in all of my life.
He’d spent weeks leading up to the show, practicing.
Perfecting his approach.
Rehearsing the pigeon trick over and over again until he knew the routine inside and out.
The judges were teachers. Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Witherspoon. Mrs. Royer. Mr. Rorshuck. They all sat stone-faced in the front row, watching Yardstick pull out a never-ending noose of handkerchiefs from his tux.
YARDSTICK: I could feel the sweat soaking through my clothes. Like I was drowning inside my tux.
Not to mention his poor pigeon.
When it was time for his grand finale, the trick that would really wow the crowd, what Yardstick didn’t realize was that his feathered assistant had already suffocated inside his armpit.
YARDSTICK: The mechanics of the trick itself worked perfectly. I had constructed this trigger system where all I needed to do was squeeze a key ring in my fist, setting off the drawer slide down the length of my arm and releasing the pigeon into the air.
ME: But…?
YARDSTICK: But when the pigeon popped out of my sleeve, it had already kicked the bucket.
Instead of that bird soaring over everybody’s heads, an explosion of feathers and blood splattered across the entire front row. The body of that feathered projectile shot directly into the face of one particular student.
Guess who?
Riley Callahan. Pow! Pigeoned right in the kisser.
Nobody clapped. Everybody screamed.
Yardstick was too afraid to bow. He ran offstage, all the way home.
YARDSTICK: All I wanted was for everyone to leave me alone.
Especially Riley and his cronies.
“Beanpole! How’s the magic act? Learn any new stupid tricks?”
“Whatcha gonna do, Scarecrow? Pull a dead rabbit outta your butt?”
“Skyscraper! How’s it feel to have the whole school hate you?”
The one magic trick he wished he’d done that night was disappear.
So, finally—he did.
One day, Yardstick stopped showing up to classes. His desk sat empty. His locker unopened. His library books unreturned.
Now you see him, now you don’t.
Poof.
ll of you are consumed with a desire to extend the glory of the Tribe!” Peashooter addressed us from within the bowels of the boiler room.
With detention done for the day, I had just enough time to slip into the basement for a quick visit before heading home.
Now I found myself standing at attention as Peashooter marched past, inspecting each member one by one. The acne on Compass’s face seemed to catch fire in proximity to his leader. Yardstick might as well have grown an extra six inches when he walked by.
Sporkboy’s arms were mummified in bandages. On each of his round, apple cheeks were a pair of Band-Aids intersecting in the middle to form an X.
After he’d crashed headfirst into the trophy case, I would have expected him to sit the next few nights out. But, nope—here he was, standing in formation among the rest and sucking on a lollipop, hungry for whatever Peashooter had up his sleeve.
Talk about team spirit.
“You long to humiliate those arrogant students who dared make fun of us!”
Sully was leaning against a pipe. She
glanced over at me and rolled her eyes behind Peashooter’s back, as if to say, Can you believe this guy?
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. A giggle slipped out before I could swallow it down.
Peashooter stopped in front of me. I could read: FEAR across one fist. Over the knuckles of the other, it said: LOATH.
“All of you wish to be able to say with pride…” he brayed, straight into my face, “I was with the victorious army of the Tribe!”
Peashooter’s demagoguing monologues needed footnotes.
His speech came straight from world history that morning.
Forget about dealing with Napoleon Bonaparte in class.
I had Peashooter the Awesome.
“I don’t mean to overstep my jurisdiction here,” I piped up. “But I’m not so sure that’s exactly what Napoleon had in mind when he said that.…”
Peashooter did a double take.
“Since when did you start paying attention in history?”
“As far as short French generals go,” I said, “I’ll admit I’m no pro. But I’m pretty positive Napoleon wasn’t talking about getting back at his classmates for teasing him.…”
I’m sorry, Peashooter, but you’re no Bonaparte.
Whenever Compass got angry, fresh fields of whiteheads sprouted across his cheeks. “You’ve got a lot of nerve contradicting our captain.”
“All I’m saying is—Peashooter’s twisting Napoleon’s words around. If you listen to the whole speech, you’d know he makes his soldiers promise to respect their enemy.”
“Respect?” Compass huffed. “Our enemies don’t deserve our respect.”
“Napoleon even says to the people he was about to conquer,” I continued, “We are waging a war as generous enemies, and we wish only to crush the tyrants who enslave you. While you just want to get back at everybody because some students made fun of you a long time ago.”
Peashooter pulled out that grin of his. But this time, I could see his eyes slightly tightening.
I’d hit a nerve.
“Sorry, Spence,” he said. “Stick with your fibbing. Leave history to me, okay?”
“Spencer’s got a point,” Sully spoke up.
Didn’t see that coming. Nobody did. Not even Peashooter.
We all stared at her.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she asked. “You’re talking about revenge.”
Homeroom Headhunters Page 10
