Cheesie Mack Is Not a Genius or Anything (15 page)

She instantly laughed. “I spit in the dip, stupid runt!”

I sort of coughed, then spit the half-chewed hunk out, hitting Goon in the neck and cheek with threads of celery covered in bean dip. She jumped up and pushed me off the first step. I’m not grossed out by
spit—it’s not poison or anything like that—but puking it back at her seemed like the right thing to do.

“You just blew it!” I shouted. “I wasn’t going to tell Mom and Dad about how you hid my tickets. Mrs. Crespo left it up to me, and I wasn’t. But now—”

She came after me, but I ran. I am faster than she is by far. I was all the way to the sidewalk before she had gone eight steps.

“You can’t prove I did anything!” she yelled, stopping in the middle of the yard.

“I’ll give you one chance,” I taunted, bouncing from foot to foot. “You actually did me and Georgie a favor. Because of your cheating, you guaranteed that we would win, so I’ll forget the whole thing if you apologize.”

“I am going to totally kill you.”

“That does not sound like an apology.”

She charged, but just before she reached me, I faked her out by taking a step toward the driveway, then ducking around her and running up the front steps. That’s one of my best moves in touch football. I was inside the house and down the hall before she even reached the front door.

At times like this, I always prefer Mom to be the judge. She is very smart and really hard to trick. Dad is also very smart, but I think he is more of a softy. Sometimes he is just too willing to believe Goon, even when he should know she is lying. Granpa doesn’t like to get involved in kid arguments. “I get enough of that crap-eroo all summer long,” he always says.

My running and Goon’s chasing were not exactly quiet, so when I charged into Dad’s office, he knew trouble had arrived.

“Stop,” he commanded. “Stand right here.” He pointed at the side of his desk. Goon hurtled in a moment later, ready to clobber me.

“What’s going on?” Dad asked.

“I wasn’t going to say anything about what Junie did at my party,” I started, “but—”

(Notice that I do not call her Goon in front of my parents. You can probably guess why.)

Goon interrupted. “I’m not going to stand around and listen to him lie.” She turned to leave like she had done with Mrs. Crespo, but Dad called her name in a stern voice, and she froze.

It took an eternity for me to tell Dad about the ticket stubs because Goon kept interrupting with “Liar!” and “It’s his word against mine!” and “He has no proof!”

Dad just listened, and when he had heard enough, he put up his hand … and the room got quiet.

“Junie,” he said, “give me your shorts.”

I was surprised, but Goon was so stunned, her mouth hung open.

Finally she shook her head. “No.”

Dad started to stand, which would have meant huge trouble, so Goon gave in instantly. She unbuttoned her shorts, dropped them around her ankles, and stepped out. She looked
really
angry.

I know some families are modest—Dad calls it “uptight”—about underwear, but our family is pretty relaxed, at least about me and Goon. Mom demands certain “standards of decency.” For example, we are not allowed to come to the dinner table in underwear, and Granpa is not allowed to watch the Red Sox in his boxer shorts, which bothers him because he claims to have a lucky pair he won off Big Papi in a poker game—which I think is a total lie. Granpa says if you don’t know who Big Papi is and you like baseball, you should “hang your head, move to New York, and become a stinking Yankee fan.” IMO, he takes watching the Red Sox way too seriously.

Dad stuck out his hand, and Goon kicked her shorts over to him. He picked them up and peered into her back pockets for a long time. Finally he looked up at me.

“What color were your tickets, Ronald?”

“Red. Bright red.”

Dad nodded, then leaned back in his chair and spoke to Goon in a very friendly voice, which, because of what he said, sounded ominous. (I just learned that
word. It means—ow-hooo-eeeee—something spooky bad is going to happen.)

“Based on the evidence, I know exactly what occurred. So I’m going to give you a chance to tell the truth. Listen up, Junie. Small penalty for the truth. Big penalty for a lie.”

“What evidence?” Goon asked. She did not sound so cocky.

“I’m the one asking the questions here,” Dad answered quickly.

Goon fidgeted, sort of rocking from one foot to the other. I did a quick calculation in my head. If Goon told the truth and Dad gave her a “small penalty” like he said, I’d get only 24 points because there’d be no doubling for “big punishment.” With the current score 623–592, 24 points would only bump it up to 623–616, and I’d still be behind. This was my big chance. I needed her to lie, so I began chanting to myself, “Lie, lie, lie.”

I guess my lips must have been moving because Goon looked at me and said, “Shut up.”

“Time’s up,” Dad said. “What’s the story?”

Goon stood there like a statue. She looked angry or frightened or ready to cry … I couldn’t tell which. She had to answer Dad, but would it be the truth or a lie?

Before you read any further, guess what she did. The answer is in the next chapter. But don’t peek!

D
id you make a guess? Well, I did, too. While Goon was squirming, here’s how I thought about it:

1. I was sure that Goon had put the stubs in her back pocket at the beginning of the party. I saw her do it.
   
2. I was certain that she would have thrown them away before she got home. (My sister is mean, but also very smart. She gets excellent grades in middle school and is especially good in science. Last year she built a model volcano that erupted out fake lava and smoke and really stunk up the science fair. Very cool.)
   
3. I could not guess what evidence Dad had
   found. Maybe there was none and he was trying to trick her into confessing.
   
4. I was sure that Goon was thinking the same thing, so it seemed likely that she would continue to lie.
   
5. But maybe Goon would tell the truth because she knew that Dad hates lying more than anything. If he caught her lying, she’d get some gargantuan (you should learn this word—it means humungous but is
   much
   classier) removal of privileges, like maybe not getting to go to Camp Leeward. That would be awful for Goon and also
   terrible
   for me. It’s bad enough having to miss camp in order to be with Georgie, but for Goon to stay home, too? Ugh! Or maybe Dad would let her go to camp, but make sure that instead of having fun with her friends she would have to sort the mail or do other camp chores for Lois. (Remember Lois? I mentioned her many chapters ago, so
   maybe you forgot that she’s Granpa’s ex-wife, and she owns the camps.)
   

After thinking about all this, I decided she would lie.

What did you decide?

*   *   *

Answer: Truth. Goon confessed.

Her punishment? Not much. Just two weeks of doing my dishwashing duty, a puny penalty. And Dad actually thanked her for not lying. I only got 24 points. I’m still behind in the Point Battle.

Later I asked Dad about the evidence, but he said, “Case closed.”

It’s a mystery. If you have a good idea of what Dad knew, please go to the evidence page on my website.

After dinner, Georgie came over with his father. Mr. Sinkoff had bought us a super-giant, super-gooey éclair for dessert. Yum. When he went into the den to talk with my dad, we ran into the kitchen and divided the éclair. Very messy!

I had just picked up my half when Goon walked
in, heading for the refrigerator. She elbowed me “accidentally” as she passed, smooshing my nose into the éclair filling.

I would not even mention this except for the Point Battle. Gunking up my nose with Georgie watching would be worth 2 points for Goon. That’s why I waited while she grabbed some grapes from the fridge. When she turned around, I slowly wiped the goo off my nose, licked my finger, and said, “Oh my gosh! This is the most delicious treat I have ever had in my whole life. Too bad there’s only enough for two kids.”

She couldn’t do anything except stick out her tongue. What a baby! Insult canceled. No points for her.

Meanwhile, Dad and Mr. Sinkoff were setting up stuff in the den for their monthly poker game. I think there are eight men who play, but they do it at a different house each time, so they’re only at my house one and a half times each year.

(Okay. I know that it’s impossible to be at my house
a half of a time
. But twelve months divided by eight men does equal 1.5, so … Aha! I just called Glenn
Philips. He said I am right, but there’s a better way to say it:
They’re only at my house three times every two years
. If you don’t understand, Glenn’s explanation is on my website. You can look at it there.)

By the time we finished our éclairs (I had to wash my face!), a couple of my dad’s friends had arrived, so we went upstairs to my room. I flipped the light switch, which turned on the lamp on my bedside table. Deeb was lying in the middle of the room. Georgie took two steps in, spun halfway around, and did a huge back-flop onto the bed. Deeb jumped up beside him. Georgie held his nose and pushed her off. I sat in my desk chair and called to her. She settled down next to me.

No one said anything for a while. Finally Georgie gave out a big sigh and said, “Cheesie, when we go to The Toad tomorrow …” And then he stopped and pulled a pillow over his head.

“You afraid?”

“Of what? A little old lady? Heck no!”

He threw the pillow at me, but I batted it down. There was another long silence while I booted up my
computer and Georgie tossed the tennis ball that I keep next to my bed up toward the ceiling.

(Sometimes when I’m reading in bed, I squeeze that tennis ball over and over. I have developed a very strong grip for someone my size. You should try it.)

The movement of the ball got Deeb’s attention. She lifted her head and followed it with her eyes, but her body never moved.

“Georgie, we should give the penny back,” I said.

“What if there’s, like, a curse on it?”

“A curse (toss)? Get serious (toss).”

“That would explain the invisible writing.”

“There was no invisible writing (toss).”

“Sort of was. Eureka, remember?”

“Cheesie, listen (toss). The note we left didn’t say
what
was in the envelope (toss). It just said there was
something
(toss). The necklace is enough. Ol’ Prott will be thrilled.” Georgie put the ball down and pulled the coin store receipt out of his pocket and read aloud, “ ‘Lincoln Head cent—1909-S.’ I really want to keep it. It’s the coolest thing I ever found in my whole life.” He dropped the receipt on the bed.

Goon must have been lurking and spying in the hallway because she suddenly zipped into my room and snatched up the receipt. “What’s this?”

“None of your beeswax!” I said, grabbing for it. The receipt ripped, leaving me with just a scrap showing the coin store’s name and address. “Give it back!” I shouted, but she ran across the hall into her room and locked the door.

(Granpa taught me to say “none of your beeswax.” He says it’s what kids used to say when he was a boy.)

I banged on her door. “Gimme that piece of paper! If Dad comes up here … If I tell him … You’re gonna be in big trouble again.”

The door opened suddenly. “I hid it.” She grinned. “Tell me everything, or else you’ll never find it.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “It’s a penny. That’s all.” Georgie stood right behind me nodding his head.

“Don’t fib me, runt. I read what’s on that paper. It’s really old. Where’d you get it? You stole that coin, didn’t you?”

“Shut up. Georgie found it in his basement. It’s no
big deal. It’s only worth three bucks. I’ll prove it.” I spun around and went back into my room, plopped down in my desk chair, and pulled up the website that showed how much old Lincoln cents were worth. I started to point. I started to speak.

But I was speechless.

Remember about a million pages back how I said I had made a mistake by looking up the 1909 coin instead of the 1909-S? It was right at this moment that I saw my error.