101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (7 page)

The cool morning air already held a hint of heat. My nose felt dry and crackly inside and out. I stifled a sneeze. Maybe tomorrow—my first day of high school!—would bring fog. Drizzly weather is much easier on my allergies.

Halfway to Hayley's, my stomach grumbled a breakfast reminder.
Rats.
I'd forgotten to grab the last two pieces of cold, congealed pizza from the fridge.

I about-faced and pedaled toward Dave's Donuts. I'd just reached the gas station next door to Dave's when I spotted a regal Roman nose and an elegant French braid.

Eep!

I slammed on my brakes.

The nose and braid belonged to the last person in the universe I wanted to see today, or
any
day: July Smith, a.k.a. Ace's older sister (though he was loath to admit it), a.k.a. The Queen of the Clubs (because to give the illusion of school spirit she always belongs to at least fifty of 'em), a.k.a. the Nice Alarm thief (though she was loath to admit it—but that's another story). July and a cluster of girls wearing jean shorts and burgundy T-shirts were unrolling a huge banner that read
PEP CLUB CAR WASH TODAY! SUPPORT THE PHHS GOL—

I didn't bother to read the rest of the banner. I about-faced again, telling my stomach it would have to be satisfied with a vending machine breakfast at Gadabout.

I reached the course just as Big Ben bonged seven times. I parked and locked my bike, peeking up at the Barkers' apartment. The kitchen lights blazed. My stomach squeezed.

I sniffed my armpits, smoothed my hair, and assumed an expression of nonchalance.

“Morning,” I drawled, striding into the gingerbread office. Hayley wasn't there.

I grabbed my Gadabout cap and name tag, and hurried to the greens.

She wasn't there either.

When Hayley was little, her mother, an engineer, built a secret hideout on the course for Hayley to play in. After her mom died, Hayley would creep inside it whenever she needed time alone to think—or cry. I was the only person she'd ever told about it, the only person she'd invited inside.

I knew Hayley's MO. She wouldn't come out till she was good and ready. If that was sooner than later, I should get busy. Hayley didn't tolerate slackers.

I spent the morning on neglected maintenance stuff: unclogging the mossy mechanism of King Arthur's moat filter, oiling ore cars from the Abandoned Gold Mine, performing the Heimlich maneuver on the golf-ball-choked Volcano.

Usually when I'm focused on mechanical things, the joy of work eclipses everything else. A gadget's workings unroll in my head like a wall map in geography class, and I'm the explorer, discovering the New World of wrenches and wheels . . . rivets and steel . . . pliers, polly-toggles, and gears.

Huh. Not that day. Every time I heard the scuff of shoes on plastic grass, the crunch of gravel, or the click of putter against ball, I'd veer off course, heart leaping, expecting Hayley. But it was only kids playing a round of mini-golf... or Mr. Barker with his jingly pocket-coins and more stuff to add to my fix-it list.

Finally, at noon, while helping him with lunch in the Snack Shack, I screwed up my courage to ask: “Where's Hayley today?”

“Didn't she tell you?” Mr. Barker poked a long fork at four hot dogs that hissed and spit on the grill. “She left early to go shopping.”

“Grocery?”

“Clothes.”

Clothes?
Hayley?

I peeled open four buns. Tried to keep my voice Ace-cool. “Who'd she go shopping with?”

“Goldie.”

“Goldie ?”
The buns fell to the scuffed floor.

“Five-second rule!” Mr. Barker snatched them up and laid them across the grill to toast. “Have to admit, I was surprised too,” he said, chuckling. “Goldie and Hayley mix about as well as oil and water.”

“This could be a good thing,” he went on. “Hayley hasn't been interested in girl stuff since her mother died. That was fine for a while. But now, well, I'm not exactly the role model a budding young woman needs.” He waved at his baggy shorts and rumpled aloha shirt, then scratched his unruly curls with the fork handle. “I'm a dad. A guy. What do I know about mascara and bras?”

My cheeks blazed hot enough to char a cow at fifty paces. I opened the fridge to chill my head in the lettuce drawer.

“She needs a feminine touch,” Mr. Barker continued. “So shopping with Goldie seems healthy. Normal. Know what I mean?”

I nodded, although
healthy
and
normal
weren't adjectives I (nor, ordinarily, Hayley) would've used to describe Trudy Laux. I mean, Ace hadn't assigned her the nickname Goldie (inspired by a snoopy resemblance to Goldilocks in The Three Bears) for no reason. She would gleefully rat out her own great-grandma if it meant obtaining juicy
information
.

“They'll be home after dinner,” Mr. Barker was saying. “Goldie's mother drove them to San Diego to some big sale at the outlet mall.” He plopped the hot dogs on paper plates, shook a bag of Fritos over them, and handed me a napkin. “Is there a problem? I have Goldie's cell phone number if—”

“No, no! Just wondering. Thanks for lunch.” I took my food and soda outside, sitting at the lone picnic table beneath its lopsided umbrella. The dogs, nestled in their buns, glistened with grease beads. Despite not having had breakfast, I pushed the plate away.

How could Hayley scamper off on my first day back at Gadabout? To go
shopping,
of all things? With
Goldie,
of all people? Didn't she know how much I'd looked forward to working here with her again? Didn't she know I wanted to talk to her about the convention and the alarm and the Guys? Didn't she remember that I was starting high school tomorrow—without her and Hic? Didn't she
care
?

“Hey.”

I jumped. Ace appeared, hands in his pockets.

“Geez,” I said, heart stuttering, “where'd
you
come from?”

“Nowhere.”

“What's up?”

“Nothing.” Over the top of his sunglasses he perused the patio, Snack Shack, and greens as if searching for someone.

“Who you looking for?” I asked.

“Nobody.” He turned to leave.

“Where you going?” I called.

“Nowhere.” He disappeared behind the Pirate Ship.

I splotched ketchup onto the hot dogs.

“Good afternoon.”

I jumped again, splotching ketchup on my shorts. “Ace, if you don't—”

Hiccup bowed, his elongated body so stiff and straight you could've ironed a shirt on it. Sweat darkened his hair to a leaf russet color. He wore a martial arts uniform—white with a red fire-breathing dragon embroidered over his heart. The flames spelled:
Hapkido Family Fitness
.

“Oh, it's
you
,” I grumbled, wiping at my shorts. “What do
you
want?”

“I came to inquire after your emotional state.”

“Oh.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How do you feel?”

“My fish are dead. I'm smothered in ketchup. How do you think I feel?”

“I am sorry.”

“So I've heard.” I chomped the first dog in half.

“May I sit down?”

“It's a free country.” I ripped another savage bite.

Hiccup adjusted the umbrella to give himself a scrap of shade. Then he examined the bench splinters, chewed gum wads, and termites. Satisfied, he spread out a napkin, sat, and said: “You probably prefer that I leave—”

“You got that right.”

“—however, I have something of importance to tell you.”

“Yeah? Whose fish did you kill today?”

Hiccup squirmed. “I learned of it this morning in my hapkido class. It should be of great interest to you.”

I chug-a-lugged my soda and belched.

Hiccup coughed delicately into a napkin and continued: “Master Yates, my instructor, informed us that if we train at the
dojang
—the studio—for at least an hour every day after school, we can waive our physical education requirement.”

“Thanks for that riveting news bulletin.”

“Don't you understand the implications? This waiver applies to
all
students. If you register for martial arts classes,
you won't be required to take PE.”

I stopped chewing. “Is this a joke?”

“The school district just needs a form, signed by your parents and Master Yates, affirming that you are getting consistent, challenging exercise every day.”

My hopes leaped. “I won't have to drop CAD?” My hopes belly flopped. “But I don't know squat about martial arts. I'd make a complete fool of myself!”

“Sneeze, every student begins as a white belt—a beginner. Every student makes mistakes. That's a good thing. It's the best way to learn.”

“True . . .” I said, remembering the seven prototypes I'd built of the Nice Alarm. With each model, each improvement, I'd discovered what worked and, more importantly, what didn't.

Hiccup went on: “The degree of discomfiture I experienced during my first class nearly incapacitated me. Yet, determined to improve, I returned the next day, and the next day, and every day since. Why? My choices were clear: I could risk the fear of embarrassment—or suffer the pain of my brothers forever slicing me into sushi.” He threw back his shoulders, thumbs stuck into the orange belt cinching his waist. “I chose the former.”

I marveled again at his new height, at the Medicine Man–like confidence. If hapkido could do this for
him
. . .

“But I'm not tall like you,” I said. “I'm a wimp. A shrimp!”

He waved away an invisible fly. “Size and strength are inconsequential. Master Yates will teach you how to divert or suppress an attacker's force, how to use an attacker's power against himself. Besides, you are coordinated. Quick-thinking. In no time at all, you'll be able to do
this.
”

He leaped to his feet and performed a whirlwind of kicks, punches, and jabs—accented with cries of
kee-yup
!

He finished with a solemn bow.

I breathed a solemn WOW.

“If not for yourself,” he added, a smile flicking his mouth, “do it for Hayley. Women cannot resist a man in uniform. Or so MM tells me.”

“Ha.” I sneezed into my sleeve. “Hayley won't find me irresistible if I'm at the hapkido studio five afternoons a week instead of working here.”

“At least consider the option.” Hiccup removed a packet of papers folded over his belt and held them out to me. “Here is the
dojang's
brochure and registration form. Class begins tomorrow at four p.m. sharp. You will need to obtain the PE waiver at Jefferson Middle's main office.”

I stuffed the papers into my pocket.

His hand continued reaching toward mine. “Good luck tomorrow morning at Patrick Henry.”

I kept my arms at my sides.

He sucked a breath and held it, as if willing me, begging me to shake hands. His fingers trembled. His cheeks reddened, then blotched blue.

I shook his hand. Fast.

“Thanks for coming to tell me,” I said. “And for the papers.”

Hic squared his shoulders. Tug-tightened his belt. “I hope to see you at hapkido.”

He loped toward the exit. When he reached Gadabout's gates, I hollered, “Hey, Hector!”

He stopped.

“I'm still mad at you, you know!”

“I know!” he hollered back, and waved without turning around.

 

11:57 p.m. My second night at home. While I was trying to fall asleep without the reassuring burble of my aquarium, the phone rang.

I groped for the receiver.

“Hic?” I grunted. “Hayley?”

“Nopey-dopey!” a smug voice sang. “Guess a-gain!

I sighed. “Goldie, it's almost midnight. Don't you ever sleep?”

“I've told you a
bazillion
times: I'm
nominal
.”

“Absolutely,” I said with a yawn. “But I think you mean
nocturnal
.”

“What
ever
. Don't you want to know why I called?”

“No.”

“Yes, you doooOOOOOoooo,” she singsonged.

“If this is about that exclusive interview, could we do it another time? Like when that big ball of gas is shining bright in the sky?”

She trilled a laugh. “Lunch. Tomorrow. Behind Jefferson gym.”

“Fine. Good-bye, Goldie.”

“Not so fast!” Her voice returned to singsong mode. “I have a mes-sage for you-uuu. From
Haaay-leeee
!”

I bolted upright. “What's the message?”

“That's it?” I asked.

“That's it.”

“Nothing else?”

I could practically hear her eyes rolling. “She
might've
said please.”

“Wait a sec.” I shot an SOS through the phone wires. “Why are
you
delivering this message? Why didn't Hayley call me herself?”

Goldie gave a conspirator's giggle. “Here's the scoop: After your party, she called to ask if I'd take her shopping today. It's obvious she couldn't care less about how she looks, so I suspected right away she had
inferior
motives . . .”