Homeroom Headhunters (3 page)

omething very strange was going on here.

Somebody was screwing with me.

But before I could do anything about it I had to suffer through second period.

I had Scotch-taped one of Sully Tulliver's
MISSING
flyers to the inside of my three-ring binder. That way she'd stick with me through all six periods.

“Any bright ideas on how to survive the next fifty-eight minutes?” I asked the picture.

I could almost hear Sully answer:
Set your desk on fire?

“I've got a better plan.…”

I took a seat at the very back of the room and assembled my sharpest pencils.

“Today, we spearfish for medium-textured, fine-fissured fiberglass ceiling panels.…”

Thar she blows!

My record from my old school was six pencils in thirty minutes—and on day two here at Greenfield, I planned on obliterating my top score, in world history class.

“Wish me luck,” I whispered to Sully's picture.

“Can I get everybody's attention, please?” Mrs. Witherspoon called out just as the bell rang. “Time for our oral presentations.”

My chest seized. Oral—
what
? My mind drew a blank.

“Two minutes,”
she said. “Topic of your choice. Now, who'd like to go first?”

Witherspoon wouldn't pick me. Not on my second day. Not with only one day to prepare. That would be too cruel. No teacher is that—

“Mr. Pendleton.”
Mrs. Witherspoon zeroed in on me, a hunter eyeing her quarry. “Might I ask what all the pencils are for?”

“You can never be too prepared, ma'am.”

“Maybe you'd like to start us off, then?” Mrs. Witherspoon suggested. “What better way for you and the class to get acquainted.”

Everybody's heads turned. No one looked all too happy to be making my acquaintance.

Where did this pack of rabid werekids come from? It was like they could sniff the fresh-student smell on me and were ready to pounce.

“Is it possible to take a rain check?”

“Just because you're new to our school doesn't mean you can come unprepared to my class, Mr. Pendleton. What sort of example would that set?”

Was that
…
a challenge? I do believe so.

Greenfield really hadn't rolled out the red carpet for me. First, Riley sent me toilet diving. My clothes were still damp. And now Mrs. Wither
whatever
had to throw down the gauntlet.

I had tried to play nice—but she'd clearly provoked me.

I'd suffered enough indignities.

Time for payback.

“Well, I guess when you put it that way…
I'd love to
.”

“I have my stopwatch ready to go whenever you are.”

I took my time walking up to the front of the class, sensing each and every eye on me. My classmates' stares practically pinned my limbs to the blackboard like a frog about to get dissected.

Not one of them knew what to make of me.

Or cared.

Here's a bit of advice for the newbies, courtesy of yours truly:
The best defense is a good offense.

Looking around the room, I could tell I wouldn't be making any BFFs here. If I was going to crash and burn, I might as well have some fun with it.

“I recently moved here from…”

I scanned over the maps of the world wallpapering the classroom, thinking of a million and one other places I'd rather be.

“…Papa New Guinea,” I said.

“Don't you mean Pa
pua
New Guinea?” Mrs. Witherspittoon asked. “The islands in the southwestern Pacific Ocean?”

“That's what I said,” I said, as if I actually knew what I was saying. “Didn't I just say that? Have
you
ever been to Papua New Guinea before, Mrs. Witherspork?”

“Spoon,” she corrected me. “It's Wither
spoon
.”

“Well—
have you?
”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, then,” I said. “Maybe you might learn a little something today!”

A jaw dropped in the third row.

“Everybody in my family is an anthropologist,” I began. “I'm actually thinking about continuing their research on the Swanahanzi tribe located there.”

“The—
who
?” Witherspank asked, eyes widening.

“Swanahanzi. Headhunters. Not the nicest neighbors.…”

This was good. This was really good.

“Sounds…dangerous,” a flawlessly coiffed blonde uttered from the front row. She was wearing a tennis outfit.

Does this school even have a tennis team?

“It most certainly is,” I agreed, before turning back to Mrs. Whitherspazz. “Did you know that the Swanahanzi are the only known tribe that continues to practice headhunting?”

“…No, I didn't.”

“You mean to tell me—
and the class
—that you've never heard one bit of information,
not one tiny iota of detail
, about the Swanahanzi tribe?
Ever?
”

“I guess not.”

“The Swanahanzi build huts made out of human bones and—”

“I'm not sure if this is the most appropriate topic,” Mrs. Witherspelunking started to interrupt.

But there was no stopping me.

I cut her off. “When a tribesman kills an enemy, they'll bring the body back to their village and remove the head. Then they sew the eyes and lips shut, and eat the brains from the skull like it's a bowl.…”

“Spencer—”

“They'll add a squirt of eyeball jam for flavor and slurp the whole thing down, believing they absorb the essence of their enemy.…”

“Spencer, please—”

“And it's been rumored,” I said, gearing up for the cherry on top, “that members of the Swanahanzi have found their way to the United States, perhaps to this very town—
so you better watch
out!
”

“SPENCER!”

Suddenly those rabid werekids looked like a herd of bewildered deer caught in the headlights.

Silence. Sweet, baffled silence.

Spence:
One
.

Witherspoilsport's world history class:
Zero
.

“Well…what a vivid imagination you have, Mr. Pendleton.” She gave a less-than-enthusiastic golf clap.

“Who knows?” I couldn't resist. “They may even be here, in school, hunting as we speak!”

“Your two minutes are up, Spencer!”

I could feel every eye follow me as I strutted back to my desk.

How was that for a first-impression preemptive strike?

“So,” Mrs. Witherspittle sighed, “who'd like to go next? Anybody?”

The girl in the tennis getup impaled the air with her arm.

“Sarah. The class is all yours.”

The tennis pro cleared her throat as she made her way to the front. “Good morning, class. My name is Sarah Haversand—and today, I'd like to talk about school spirit.”

Oh boy. Here we go
.…

“School spirit is a vital part of any school. It is the very lifeblood of our student body.”

“Mr. Simms.” Assistant Principal Pritchard's voice blurted out from the intercom over Sarah's head, interrupting her presentation. “We have a busted pipe in the boys' bathroom. Busted pipe in the boys' bathroom.…”

Where were we?

Ah, yes! Back to spearfishing medium-textured, fine-fissured fiberglass ceiling tiles.

I waited until Mrs. Withersplat's back was turned, before hurling my first pencil straight up at the ceiling.

Bull's-eye!

First throw was a success. Right into the blubbery underbelly of white fiberglass. The pencil was a little crooked, like an upside-down Leaning Tower of Pisa, but it would do.

“I feel as if the students here at Greenfield don't have enough school spirit,” Sarah continued. “While I, for one, sometimes feel like I have way too much.”

Throw number two was an utter dud. Not enough thrust.

If I was going to break my record, I needed to start some rapid-fire harpooning—
and fast
.

I steadied my arm for the next shot.

Deep breath.

Focus.

Aim.

And—
fire!

I threw that pencil harder than any javelin. Its sharpened end buried itself all the way through the panel. This was Olympic gold medal material.

Then I heard a grunt above my head.

I rolled my eyes up while keeping my head bowed.

There.

One of the panels in the ceiling seemed to
breathe
. The fiberglass bulged just a bit before settling back.

“When we come together and share our pride at pep rallies,” Sarah proclaimed, “Greenfield becomes more than just another school. It feels like we're a family.”

Then it happened.

The panel directly above my head pulled back, leaving an inch of darkness.

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.