The Odds Get Even (2 page)

“That was back in grade four,” Boney said, defensively.

“Or how about the time you wanted to see if magnifying glasses really can start fires and practically burned
the school down?” Itchy demanded. “That was last week!”

Boney waved dismissively. “It worked, didn’t it? Besides, everything we’ve done has been performed in the name of science.”

“Science!” Itchy shouted. “How old are we?”

“Eleven,” Boney said.

“Yeah, eleven! And we want to live to be at least twelve. You’ve almost killed us a hundred times since we were born—all in the name of science!”

There was a pause in the argument as Boney considered Itchy’s accusation.

After a very long while, Squeak, who had been blinking and staring at his two friends, got up and moved toward Escape Hatch #2.

“Where are you going?” Itchy barked.

“Home,” Squeak said. “I want to begin work on our invention for the convention.”

Boney’s eyes widened. “You have an idea already?”

“Of course,” Squeak said. “But nothing I care to divulge at this time.” With that, he grabbed his notebook from Boney’s hand, blinked, and disappeared down the pole.

A second later, there was a small shout from the bottom of the tree. Boney and Itchy peered through the escape hatch to find Squeak lying in a heap on the
ground at the base of the pole, his goggles askew on his face.

“I’m all right,” he called up, then stood, adjusted the goggles, brushed himself off, and promptly walked into the base of the tree.

“I’m all right,” he said again.

Itchy and Boney watched as Squeak drifted from the backyard toward the shed.

“Veer right!” Boney called down.

Squeak adjusted his trajectory just before stumbling off the walk into the garden.

“I wonder what his invention idea is,” Itchy mused, slurping loudly on the straw of his empty slush.

“I don’t know, but I bet it’ll be good—as long as Larry Harry doesn’t sabotage it.”

“It’s not just Larry Harry we have to worry about,” Itchy said. “The convention entries get better every year. That weenie Edward Wormer has some good ideas. And Simon Biddle, too. Stacy Karns is also pretty smart. And it doesn’t hurt that she collaborates with fifteen of her friends.”

“Don’t worry about Wormer and Biddle,” Boney said. “They’re just amateurs. Squeak can out-think those guys any day. And Stacy can collaborate with as many friends as she likes, she’ll never come close to Squeak’s brilliance. His ideas are truly inspired. It’s like the ghost
of Leonardo da Vinci whispers in his ear or something. I wish that would happen to me.”

“William!” Boney’s aunt shouted from the kitchen window. “Dinnertime!”

Boney groaned.

“I’m off too, then,” Itchy said, stepping gingerly around the egg on the floor of the clubhouse. “There’s no food here anyway.”

“Right,” Boney said, still absorbed in thoughts of revenge against the egg bombers.

Itchy wrapped his skinny legs around the escape pole and slid out of sight. Boney remained, thinking deeply, until his aunt hollered out the kitchen window again. Then he slid down the pole as well.

I
n the kitchen, Boney’s aunt ladled a big, sticky heap of something orange and oozing onto his plate. “You’ve been spending far too much time in that clubhouse of yours, young man,” she said. “Have you even looked at your homework?”

Boney stared at the steaming pile in front of him. “We were discussing our invention for the convention.”

“Always with the science,” his aunt clucked. “You’re going to end up just like your father.”

“Mildred!” Boney’s uncle admonished from behind his paper. He was reading the stock exchange pages, as usual. He had a job at a bank as a small-loans officer, and he was always going on about the price of this and that, despite the fact that no one else seemed to care, least of all his wife, whose sole purpose in life, Boney believed, was to kill every insect in existence and to create the
worst-tasting food on the planet with canned soup. She’d even threatened to write a cookbook.

Boney poked cautiously at the orange goop with his fork. “What is this?”

“It’s
Busy Day Casserole
.” His aunt beamed.

“Another soup-can recipe?” Boney asked with dismay.

“It’s a wonderful meal, full of nutrition and time-saving goodness.”

“So…it’s spaghetti with soup,” Boney said.

“Pasta,” his aunt corrected him.

“Don’t sass back, boy,” his uncle muttered. “There are hungry children in the world who would love to have such a fine meal.” He flapped his newspaper dramatically, folding it into a neat square before depositing it on the chair beside him. His face instantly drooped as his eyes fell upon the steaming pile of orange goop on his own plate. He and Boney exchanged looks of dread. His uncle took a tentative taste of the goop, his mouth contorting in disgust. He pointed to the garbage behind Boney.

Boney grabbed two teaspoons from the table and pressed them over his eyes in an attempt to distract his aunt so his uncle could ditch the food. “Look! I’m an alien!”

But his aunt was not so easily fooled. “What nonsense!” she said, snatching the spoons from Boney’s eyes and handing him a napkin.

Boney began to eat, pinching his nose. His uncle did the same, but he refrained from holding his own nose. They shovelled the casserole into their mouths as though they were starving.

“Now, no need to wolf your food,” his aunt said, standing by the table with the red gingham tea towel she kept permanently fixed over her arm. “There’s plenty more in the oven.” Her gaze suddenly shot up to the ceiling. “Do you hear that buzzing?” she asked.

“Uh-uhnn,” Boney and his uncle mumbled in unison, shoving the food into their cheeks until they looked like chipmunks.

“Robert?” Boney’s aunt said, her voice tinged with hysteria. “Do you hear that buzzing? There’s a bug in here somewhere.” She began jumping around the room, snapping her tea towel wildly at the ceiling. “There it is!” she shrieked as a housefly zipped across the kitchen. “Get it, Robert!”

Boney’s uncle craned his neck toward the ceiling as his wife leapt and shouted, cracking the tea towel with shocking force, snapping a row of empty glass jars from the top of the kitchen cupboards to the floor with a horrible crash.

“Now, now, Mildred,” Boney’s uncle spluttered through his moustache.

“May I be excused?” Boney mumbled, his mouth stuffed to capacity with canned-soup casserole. He
didn’t wait for an answer but bolted from the table, leaving his aunt and uncle to contend with the fly and the broken jars.

Upstairs in the bathroom, Boney spat the casserole into the toilet and flushed. His real mother would have never made him eat such horrible things, he thought, as he rinsed his mouth with water. Then he ran to his room and unearthed a jawbreaker from his sock drawer to help remove the awful metallic soup-can taste.

Moments later, he heard the toilet flush again, and his uncle’s horrified face appeared in the doorway of his room. “Got another one of those jawbreakers?” he asked. He shuddered as Boney searched through his sock drawer and produced another candy. “It’ll be our secret,” his uncle whispered, pressing his finger over his lips as he closed the door to Boney’s room.

When his uncle was gone, Boney went over to his window and lifted the end of the Tele-tube to his lips. The Tele-tube was one of Squeak’s inventions: a clear, flexible, plastic tube that connected the boys’ rooms and functioned as a means of covert communication without adult detection. Their houses were narrow, and all the boys had bedrooms facing the backyard. That meant that each of them was able to run a length of tubing through holes drilled in the sash of their windows (courtesy of Squeak and his father’s tools), and run the tubes between
the branches of the elm trees that grew in identical fashion between each pair of houses, concealing them from prying eyes. What’s more, Boney and Itchy kept towels at the ready to hide the ends of the Tele-tube should the grown-ups come into their rooms. Squeak didn’t need to worry about parental detection because his father was an electrician and worked so much he was never home for long, and his mother was gone, having left to join a travelling cabaret when Squeak was just a child—a fact Boney’s aunt would never let anyone forget.

The Tele-tube was light-years beyond the boys’ earlier Dixie cup system, which Squeak deemed “antiquated,” and which required louder voices and constant vigilance to prevent the string from tangling, especially when Itchy’s fox terrier, Snuff, was on the prowl. The only drawback to the Tele-tube was that Squeak, who lived in the middle at 25 Green Bottle, had to relay messages from Boney at 23 to Itchy at 27. But since Squeak was free from parental scrutiny, he simply ran lengths of tubing from both his bedroom windows so that he could talk to Boney and Itchy simultaneously from the comfort of his bed.

Boney leaned toward the end of the Tele-tube, opening his mouth to speak. But instead of words, a giant burp erupted and rumbled along the length of the tube into Squeak’s room.

“Uhhhh!” Squeak howled from the other end of the tube. “Sounds putrid! Smells like anguish.”

“Sorry,” Boney apologized.

“Another soup-can recipe?” Squeak asked.

Boney stifled another burp. “It was orange this time. What kind of soup is orange?”

“Perhaps it was cheddar cheese soup,” Squeak answered thoughtfully.

“What did you have for dinner?” Boney asked.

“Same as every night.” Squeak sighed. “TV dinner. It’s the only thing my dad knows how to make. And he doesn’t do it very well. The peas were still frozen in the tray and the Salisbury steak was like a hockey puck. Dad was going to take them back to the grocery store until he realized he hadn’t turned on the oven. Then he realized the oven was broken, so he just soaked the trays under hot water in the sink.”

“Eeeehhh…”

“I just wish he’d let me cook. I’m actually quite good at it. But he insists on cooking when he’s home. I guess it makes him feel more like a parent.”

“Sounds like you could use a jawbreaker.” Boney found another in his sock drawer and pushed it into the mouth of the tube, lifting the end so the jawbreaker rolled along the length between the two windows.

“Thanks,” Squeak said. There was a rustling sound
from Squeak’s end of the tube. “Itchy wants to know what’s going on,” he relayed to Boney.

“Tell him I have a plan for revenge.”

There was a pause, then Squeak’s voice floated through the tube again. “He doesn’t like the sound of it.”

“I haven’t even told him what it is yet,” Boney scoffed. “Tell him he has to do it. It’s the element of surprise we need here.”

Another pause.

“He says he’s not going to the haunted mill,” Squeak reported.

“It doesn’t involve the mill or ghosts or anything!” Boney yelled, growing irritated with Itchy’s stubbornness.

Squeak was just about to relay Boney’s message when Boney’s aunt was heard calling up from the bottom of the stairs.

“William? What’s going on up there?” And then the distinct sound of high heels climbing the steps.

“Red alert!” Boney shouted into the tube. “Adult approaching. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for school.” Boney tossed the towel over the Tele-tube, jumped into bed fully dressed, and snapped out his light just as his aunt burst through the door to check on him.

She gazed suspiciously around the room, but found Boney sleeping peacefully.

Once his aunt was gone, Boney changed into his pyjamas and uncovered the Tele-tube, whispering, “Good night, Squeak. Good night, Itchy.” He covered the tube and climbed into bed as Squeak’s small voice floated into the room.

“Goodnight, Boney.”

Boney nestled in to sleep, but not before releasing another horrible, smelly, orange burp.

“Ugh,” he winced. “Canned soup.”

T
he next morning, Boney rushed out the door to collect Squeak and Itchy for school. He waved to Mr. Johnson across the street, who was already up and mowing his perfectly manicured lawn. He jumped to avoid Mrs. Pulmoni’s cat, who streaked across the street with Itchy’s dog, Snuff, in wild pursuit. He ducked to avoid the rolled newspaper thrown carelessly by the paperboy, but he got hit in the back of the head all the same by a second paper as he approached Squeak’s place.

“You should duck,” Squeak said, appearing around the corner of his house, dragging a large can of garbage to the curb.

“I swear he aims right at me,” Boney grumbled, grabbing a handle on the can to help. “I forgot it’s garbage day.”

“You forget every week,” Squeak said. He held his wrist up to his goggled eyes and peered at his watch.
“If you hurry, you have time to take it out so you don’t get in trouble when you get home after school today.”

Boney raced back and dragged the can of garbage from behind his garage to the curb, stepping quickly aside to avoid Mr. Peterson, who zipped past on his bike, bell ringing, the way he did every morning on his way to work.

“Have you noticed he always rings his bell after he nearly runs us down?” Boney complained. “We’d better hurry up and get Itchy or we’ll be late for school.”

Itchy wasn’t waiting on his porch when his friends arrived. As usual, he was nowhere to be seen. But his dog, Snuff, was there. Snuff ran up to the boys, growling viciously at Boney.

“I hate that dog,” Boney said.

Squeak leaned over and picked the dog up. “But he’s so sweet,” he laughed as Snuff happily licked his face.

“Well, he hates me.” Boney reached to pet Snuff, but the dog growled angrily. “See? He really
hates
me.”

“Maybe that’s because you fell on him when he was a puppy.”

“It wasn’t my fault! I tripped.”

“You were chasing him.”

“He took my favourite baseball cap.”

“He was only a puppy,” Squeak said. “He didn’t know any better. I hope someday you two can be friends.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Boney tramped up the stairs to Itchy’s house. “What would happen if Itchy was actually on time for once?” he asked as he rang the bell.

Squeak pondered his friend’s question. “I believe there’d be a rift in the space-time continuum and life as we know it would end.”

The front door swung open and Itchy’s father appeared, wearing gold glasses and a tight-fitting white spandex Elvis outfit, with sequins sparkling around the cuffs. The boys weren’t the least bit surprised to see Itchy’s dad dressed like this. He’d been impersonating Elvis since long before the three boys were even born. They weren’t sure exactly how much work there was in such a field, but Mr. Schutz always seemed to have somewhere to go.

“My fans are here,” he said in his best Elvis voice. He pointed dramatically at Boney and started singing “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.”

This made Snuff yelp, and he leapt from Squeak’s arms, streaking into the house.

“Hi, Mr. Schutz,” the boys chimed.

“Big day today,” Mr. Schutz said, striking a pose and giving a wide, toothy smile. “I’m making my debut at
the Bingo Hall tonight. Gonna give the ladies a thrill.” He gyrated his hips, running a hand through his greasy black hair.

“Uhhh…that’s great, Mr. Schutz,” Boney said. “Is Itchy ready?”

“Itchy, Itchy, Itchy…” Mr. Schutz snapped his fingers repeatedly as though trying to recall the name. “Oh, yes. The boy. Itchy!” he yelled up the stairs.

When Itchy appeared, his father swung the door wide and ushered him out, handing him a bag of garbage on the way.

“Itchy has left the building,” he said, then added, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” before slamming the door.

The door instantly opened again and Itchy’s mother appeared in a bright-purple bathrobe. She handed Itchy a quarter for candy apple day—Itchy’s favourite day of the school year—then kissed him on the head. “Have a good day at school, dear,” she said. “Oh, and Boney…could you thank your aunt for the soup-can recipe? I’ve added it to the dozen others she’s given me.” She smiled and closed the door again.

Boney turned to Itchy in horror. “Does she actually use those recipes?”

“Never. She’s too busy redecorating all the time.” Itchy tugged at his bright-purple T-shirt.

“Nice,” Boney said.

Itchy rolled his eyes. “It’s my mom’s latest favourite colour. She dyed everything in the house purple.”

“It sets off your hair,” Squeak mused.

Itchy ignored him, pushing his candy apple quarter into his pocket. “Did you guys bring money for candy apples?” he asked, hopefully.

Squeak and Boney shook their heads.

“You’re the only one of us who likes them,” Squeak reminded him.

“Ehhh…yeah,” Boney agreed. “They’re really kind of disgusting.”

“Disgusting? I love them.” Itchy’s jaw dropped. “All that gooey red candy goodness.”

Boney cringed. “You’d think you’d hate them after last time, when Larry threw one at you and it stuck in your hair.”

“It was fine after I washed it.”

“It took you an hour to pick the hair off the apple,” Squeak said.

“Yuck.” Boney shuddered as the boys stomped down the stairs to make their way to school.

The Odds walked along the sidewalk, Squeak drifting dangerously close to the curb as the garbage truck roared around the corner. It jerked loudly to a stop and a man in blue coveralls jumped out, tipped a few cans
into the back of the truck, then threw the empty cans to the sidewalk, narrowly missing the three boys, who jumped in unison to avoid getting hit. The truck lurched forward to the next house.

“I’ve ordered blood capsules that look so real, even rescue workers can’t tell the difference,” Squeak suddenly announced. “And I got these, through mail order.” He held up a small black-and-red box. “Alcatraz Prison Cards. Each one has mug shots and statistics for some of the most famous prisoners ever to stay at Alcatraz. I thought they’d make a nice addition to our reference library.”

“Cool,” Boney said.

“Weird,” Itchy added.

Squeak opened the box excitedly. “But you know what the weirdest thing of all is? The first prisoner in the box is a guy called Harry Larry!”

Itchy stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“It’s true,” Squeak said, holding up a card. “He was caught stealing mail.”

Boney and Itchy grabbed the card from Squeak’s hand and studied the black-and-white picture.

“‘Prisoner 95,’” Boney read aloud. “‘Violation of postal laws, stealing mail. Sentence: six years.’ It’d be just like Larry to do something like that.”

“It even kind of looks like him,” Itchy said.

“Do you think he’s a relative of Larry’s?” Boney asked. “I mean…the name’s backwards, but you never know with this kind of stuff. Criminals are always changing their names around.”

“Maybe he reincarnated and came back as Larry Harry,” Squeak joked.

“Either that, or Larry’s mother has a sick sense of humour,” Itchy said.

Boney laughed. “Prisoner 95…the name suits him.”

“Yeah, because he’s probably going to end up in jail eventually.” Itchy handed the card back to Squeak. “Who else is in there? Jones and Jones?”

Squeak shuffled through the cards. “All the big names: Al Capone, Machine Gun Kelly, the Bird Man of Alcatraz. But I haven’t had a chance to read all the cards yet.”

“Why not?” Boney asked as the three boys turned the corner toward school.

“Because I spent the night thinking about our invention for the convention. It’s only a month and a half away, you know.”

“Maybe you could tell us what you’re working on?” Itchy asked.

Squeak blinked thoughtfully from behind his goggles. “An apparitions sensor—an Apparator, for short.”

Boney and Itchy stared blankly back at him.

“A ghost detector,” Squeak clarified for his friends.

“Oh, no…” Itchy said. “Not with the ghosts again. I can’t stand it!”

“How does it work?” Boney asked.

“Don’t tell him,” Itchy moaned, pulling at his flaming orange hair.

“It senses electromagnetic disturbances,” Squeak explained. “It seems ghosts leave a trail behind—like a snail—only electromagnetically, when they move through space. I read about it in
Ghost Hunters
magazine.” He pulled the magazine from his bag.

“What do you need to build it?” Boney asked.

“Not much at all: a capacitor from an old tube radio, some copper wire, a toggle switch, some kind of handle—preferably Bakelite—a standard Weller forty-watt iron, some Deans ultra-connectors, a couple rare earth magnets, and a dual-polarity air ion detector. No one has ever done anything like this before at our school.”

Itchy’s pale face grew even paler. “Don’t I have a say in this? What if I don’t
want
to build a ghost detector?”

“First prize is five hundred dollars,” Squeak said. “I overheard Mr. Harvey telling Principal Loadman they’re increasing the prize money to encourage more students to enter the competition.”

Itchy’s face lit up.

“Then we’ll need hard facts for our convention entry,” Boney said. “We can do field research at the haunted mill once we build the Apparator.”

Itchy’s face fell. “Oh, great.” He kicked angrily at a stone on the sidewalk. It shot through the air, ricocheting loudly off the door of a shiny red convertible double-parked in front of the school.

Boney’s eyes widened. “Itchy…that’s Prisoner 95’s car you just dinged.”

“That’s the prisoner’s
father’s
car he just dinged,” Squeak corrected him, seconds before his
Ghost Hunters
magazine was snatched from his hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?” an angry voice demanded.

The Odds spun around and found themselves face to face with their mortal enemy, Larry Harry.