The Zucchini Warriors (3 page)

“Oh, hello.” Elmer appeared in the bathroom doorway. “What can I do for you?”

“Elmer. Just the man I wanted to see,” said Bruno. “We need you to help us with the new floor plan for the rec hall.”

“But I understood that the new facility will be constructed only when the football team begins to meet with some success,” Elmer protested.

“In other words, soon,” said Bruno. “So see what you can come up with. The Fish dumped all over our last plan. I think he hates staircases. Maybe we should go for a one floor, ranch-style layout.” He looked thoughtful, and mused, “Then how would we get in the scenic overview?”

Suddenly Boots’s sharp eyes detected some movement by the base of the computer, and he grabbed Bruno’s shoulder. “Look!”

“A rat!” Bruno exclaimed. “They’ve got rats in Dormitory 2!”

“No!” Elmer bent down and picked up a small brown creature. “It’s my latest experiment.”

“Experiment?!”
chorused Bruno and Boots in horror.

“You’re not going to — like —
dissect
it or anything?” Bruno added.

“Of course not,” said Elmer, highly insulted. “This is a Manchurian bush hamster, a rare species descended from both the cat and rodent families.”

Both boys stared. The Manchurian bush hamster was about the size of a kitten, only thinner, with shorter fur all over its body, except for the neck. There the hair was long and stiff, forming an elaborate frame for the small head.

“Well, what are you going to do with it?” asked Boots.

“The Manchurian bush hamster is in danger of becoming extinct,” lectured Elmer. “They breed very seldom, and no one knows how to make them reproduce more frequently. If an answer can’t be found soon, I’m afraid we might lose the whole species.”

Bruno brightened. “Well, those bush hamsters’ troubles are over if you’re on the case, Elm. You’ll figure it out, no sweat.”

Elmer shook his head sadly. “I’m not doing very well, Bruno.” He indicated a cage containing three other bush hamsters. “I’ve had these four animals since the summer, with no results. I’ve worked with changing their habitat, their body temperature, even their diet, but I can’t seem to find the key.”

Bruno shrugged. “You’re the genius. We’re just the football heroes.” Seeing that Elmer was honestly distressed, he added, “Seriously, Elm. You’ll think of something.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Elmer,” said Boots, who genuinely liked Elmer, but was never quite comfortable around Macdonald Hall’s number one student.

Elmer smiled. “Thank you. And I’ll have that floor plan ready for you soon.”

* * *

The roster for the Macdonald Hall football team was posted on the bulletin board outside the gym.

Boots regarded the list with mixed emotions. “I’m the quarterback,” he said, his voice flat. “Couldn’t they find anyone better than me?”

Bruno, who had just found his own name on the list, was terribly pleased. “I made it! Great! I’m on the offensive line.” He turned to Boots. “What do
they
do?”

Boots was still scanning the sheet. “Look at this! Sidney got picked, too! Now we don’t even need the other team! That guy could tackle himself!”

Bruno was reading off familiar names. “There’s Larry, and Pete, and Wilbur, of course — he isn’t going to like this.”

“Mark didn’t make it,” Boots observed.

“That’s okay,” Bruno decided. “Pretty soon he’ll be busy with the school paper, writing articles about our glorious victories.”

Boots was nervous. “Bruno, if this is our team, there aren’t going to be any glorious victories.”

Bruno was still reading. “Dave Jackson — isn’t he that guy from Buffalo? And who’s this Myron Blankenship?”

“Dave’s roommate,” said Boots. “The red-headed kid who didn’t shut up for five seconds all through the tryouts. I hope earplugs are included in our equipment.”

“We’re going to be great,” Bruno decided. “I can hardly wait till the team meeting tonight.”

* * *

Just before seven o’clock that evening, the twenty-six draftees for the football team assembled on Mr. Carson’s doorstep at the Macdonald Hall guest cottage.

“The other teams are in big trouble!” snarled Calvin Fihzgart menacingly. “I pity the poor guy who has to stand in the line against me! I hope he’s got his life insurance paid up!”

“Why?” asked Pete Anderson.

“Because I’m the roughest, toughest, meanest guy in the whole league! My nickname is The Beast!”

“You mean you’ve played football before?” Boots asked hopefully.

“No! But these nicknames have to start somewhere, and this one’s starting right here! The Beast! That’s me!”

“Hey, did you guys know that Rob Adams has a boil on his butt the size of a quarter?” piped Myron Blankenship.

“Shut up,” said Dave Jackson in annoyance.

“He takes a pillow to class to sit on.”

“I said shut up.”

“They’re going to lance it tomorrow.”

“This guy’s a real blabbermouth,” Bruno whispered to Boots.

The door opened, and Mr. Carson appeared and ushered them inside. “Hi, men. Glad you could come by. Make yourselves comfortable in the living room.”

The boys arranged themselves in various attitudes on the chairs, the sofa and the rug. Boots looked around. The normally sedate parlour was plastered with football pennants and pictures of big Henry Carson, number 58, in his professional heyday, both as a Toronto Argonaut in the Canadian Football League and later as a Green Bay Packer. There were also several stills from his famous beer commercial and a more recent photograph of him dressed as Mr. Zucchini, shaking hands with the President of the United States.

Pete Anderson looked questioningly at Mr. Carson. “Isn’t Coach Flynn going to be here?”

Carson looked startled, then slapped his forehead. “Aw, no, I forgot the coach! He’s going to kill me! Listen, men, do me a favour and don’t tell him about this.”

He tore into one of several cartons that were piled in a small pyramid in a corner of the room. “Our uniforms are beautiful. Look at this.” He pulled out the top jersey and held it up for all to see. On a red background with white lettering, it read:

MACDONALD HALL

MR. ZUCCHINI

WARRIORS

“Terrific,” muttered Wilbur under his breath. “We’re the Zucchini Warriors.”

Proudly Mr. Carson turned the jersey around. Above the number was the name RAMPULSKY.

“It’s me!” Excitedly Sidney leaped to his feet and stepped forward to receive his jersey. He tripped over the coffee table and landed face first in a box containing a pair of football shoes.
“Oof!”

Dave Jackson hauled him back to his feet. “Sidney, are you all right?”

Sidney blushed through the pattern made by the impression of the cleats on his cheek. “I’m okay.”

“That’s what the other teams are going to look like after I get through with them,” predicted Calvin Fihzgart ominously. “Footprints on the face.”

“Hey, have you guys heard that Marvin Trimble hasn’t had a bath since July?” came the whiny voice of Myron Blankenship.

“Shut up!” said Dave.

“Anyway,” Mr. Carson went on, tossing Sidney’s jersey back into the box, “your gear’ll be waiting for you in the dressing room at practice tomorrow.” He began to pace back and forth in front of them. “Men, there are three things that have shaped me: Macdonald Hall, football and Mr. Zucchini. And I promised myself that as soon as I got my hands on a few bucks, I was going to come back to the Hall and build not just a football team, but
the
football team. So here I am. And here you are.”

Bruno jumped up. “And together we’re going to do it!” he howled.

Boots sank into his chair.

“Right!” roared Henry Carson, putting a massive arm around Bruno’s shoulders. “Walton, you’ve got spirit! I nominate you for captain! Okay, men?”

The group cheered its approval.

“And I pick Boots O’Neal as co-captain!” Bruno added joyfully.

Boots tried to decline the honour, but his frantic signalling was ignored by his raucous teammates. He glared at Bruno.

Henry Carson was glowing pink with pleasure. “All right, men! The football season is now officially on! I want you out on that field all suited up every day after classes — starting tomorrow!”

“Even in bad weather?” asked Wilbur timidly.

“The Beast loves bad weather!” Calvin snarled. “You can be meaner in mud!”

In the midst of the excitement, Mr. Carson threw open his front door to reveal two Mr. Zucchini wagons, bells ringing. “Snack time!”

The jubilation died instantly.

“Oh, wow,” said Bruno into the painful silence. “Zucchini sticks. I just can’t get enough of that Blue Cheese dressing.”

“Come and get it!” crowed Carson.

But still the group hung back, until Larry Wilson was struck with inspiration. “Fan-tastic!” he exclaimed. “But I’m still stuffed from dinner. So I’ll take mine ‘to go.’ I’m always starving by lights-out.”

“Me, too!” chorused twenty-five other throats.

“Great idea!” bawled Carson. “They’re delicious cold, too. Help yourselves, men. And I’ll see you on the field!”

Walking back from the guest cottage, the boys had nothing but praise for Larry.

“Man, you saved our lives!” exclaimed Dave.

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “Elmer might have to step down as school genius. Quick — where’s the nearest garbage can?”

“What are you — nuts?” Bruno stopped the procession. “Don’t let me see anybody throwing out those zucchini sticks. If Hank the Tank sees them in the garbage, it’ll break his heart!”

“Better his heart than my stomach,” said Wilbur feelingly.

“Bruno, I really don’t think Mr. Carson goes through the trash cans.”

“We can’t take the chance — partly for our rec hall, but mostly because Hank the Tank is a great guy.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do with them?” Wilbur challenged. “Eat them?”

Bruno grinned, his dark eyes gleaming. “Of course not. We can’t throw them out, but we can give them a burial at sea — flush the evidence.”

It was a very merry football team that made its way back to the three dormitories that evening.

“Why so quiet, Boots?” Bruno asked as the two entered room 306. “You haven’t said anything since the meeting.”

“Bruno, there are no words to describe how much I want to wring your neck!”

Bruno looked amazed. “Why?”

“Up until tonight,” his roommate said accusingly, “our noses were completely clean. Sure, you were bugging The Fish the first day, and you opened your mouth at the assembly — that’s nothing. But now you’ve made us captains of the football team, which means that when something goes wrong with the Zucchini Warriors, The Fish is going to come to
us
.”

Bruno laughed. “You know what your problem is? You worry too much, and about the wrong things. Why are you thinking about problems that don’t even exist when you should be thinking about how we’re going to get two jumbo orders of zucchini sticks down the toilet?” He hefted the two plates and switched on the bathroom light. “Grab the Blue Cheese dressing, Melvin. We’ve got a job to do.”

* * *

It was ten o’clock that evening when Mr. Sturgeon returned home to find his wife waiting for him anxiously.

“Well, William? What was so urgent that they had to contact you at this hour of the evening? Did it have anything to do with that awful yelling coming from the guest cottage after dinner?”

The Headmaster looked grim. “I have a theory about that, Mildred, but I don’t think you’re going to believe it.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, dear?”

“Mildred, I have just witnessed the unclogging of no fewer than twenty-three toilets in our three dormitories.”

Mrs. Sturgeon was taken aback. “Twenty-three in the same night?”

“Twenty-three in the same
hour
. And from each one we removed a glutinous mass of zucchini sticks, cemented in by sauce. I have rarely seen anything quite so disgusting.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I devoutly wish
I
didn’t. I took the liberty of checking the roster of Carson’s football team. It matches exactly the map of plumbing disturbances at Macdonald Hall. Thank heaven a few of the players are roommates, or we would have had three more pipes to clear.”

Light dawned on Mrs. Sturgeon. “The sounds from the cottage were a team meeting. Henry gave the boys zucchini sticks, and they — they disposed of them in the manner they felt best. How awful.”

“It gets worse, Mildred. That tattling Blankenship boy told me that the idea for this assault on the plumbing came from Bruno Walton …” He looked up at the ceiling. “Why didn’t I know that?”

“Calm down, dear. It’s all over now.”

“On the contrary, Mildred — it hasn’t even started yet. These twenty-six boys are loyal to Carson not because of the football team, not because of the recreation hall they want, but because they somehow believe that over-weight, muscle-headed ex-football player is ‘one of the gang.’ Why, while I was putting Walton and O’Neal on dishwashing duty for their evening’s efforts, Walton was accepting it gladly, and begging me not to hold a grudge against Carson!”

His wife smiled sympathetically. “So it comes down to you against Henry, just like it was thirty years ago.”

“I’m afraid not. This time it’s me against everybody — Carson, the Board and the students.” He sighed heavily. “I’m getting too old for this.”

Miss Scrimmage’s sister was in town from Port Hope, and various girls had been selected to prepare for tonight’s dinner party. Cathy Burton and Diane Grant were entrusted with baking the cake, an apple-crumb confection that was the Headmistress’s favourite dessert.

Without much enthusiasm, Cathy sprinkled the final spoonful of brown sugar onto the crumb topping. “Okay, Diane. Fire up the oven. We’re ready to roll.”

Diane made no move. “Cathy, is there something wrong?”

“Why would you think something’s wrong?” asked Cathy morosely.

“Because you mope twenty-four hours a day,” replied Diane readily. “And you climb up to the roof every afternoon to watch Macdonald Hall practise football. And you do nothing but crab about how lousy they are. And now, for the very first time in your career as my roommate, you’re about to serve Miss Scrimmage and her sister a
real
cake. No extra ingredients — no horseradish, no Tabasco, no ground jalapeno peppers. Why, I’ll bet you’re not even planning to drop it on the floor. What’s the matter with you?”