To Catch a Mermaid (3 page)

“I bet seven dollars,” Winger said. “You’re gonna win for sure.” Winger never played Kick the Ball Against the Wall. He wasn’t allowed to because he wore glasses and had fake front teeth. But he kept score. He could keep score while opening ketchup packets and while picking all the shredded lettuce off a cafeteria hamburger. He could keep numbers in his head for days, without forgetting them. “No one can beat you.”

“You got that right.” They started up the sidewalk. Boom continued to kick the apple as they went.

“So, what’s wrong with Mertyle this morning?” Winger always asked a lot of questions about Mertyle. Boom suspected that his best friend had a crush on his sister.

“She has spots,” he told Winger. “She’s nuts.”

“What kind of spots? Like pimples? Pimples are dis-gusting.”

“Sunflower spots,” Boom said, but he didn’t want to talk about Mertyle. He wanted to focus on the tournament. He needed to warm up his foot. He kicked the apple again, so hard that it flew over a picket fence.

Crash!
The sound of breaking glass pierced the chilly air — a sound Boom had heard far too often.

“Hey!” a man shouted.

Boom and Winger didn’t even look at each other. They took off at full speed, rounding the next corner like racehorses with blinders on. Boom’s mind raced even faster than his legs. He couldn’t get in trouble again. Not again. Last week his soccer ball had dislodged a gutter, and yesterday his football had bonked the mail-lady on the head.

“Hey!”

Don’t look back,
he told himself.
Just keep running.

But Winger wasn’t fast enough, and when Boom did look back, Winger was in the clutches of Mr. Jorgenson, Fairweather’s retired chief of police.

Chapter Four:

The Principal’s Office

P
rincipal Prunewallop’s office smelled like bad breath, which she had a constant case of. At Christmas time, all the teachers gave her boxes of peppermint candy, but Principal Prunewallop did not like peppermint. The next year they tried spearmint, but it turned out she was allergic to it. Then came wintermint and listermint, but she never ate them. Instead, she handed out the little green candies to her unlucky visitors.

Winger nervously unwrapped his listermint and popped it into his mouth. Boom stuffed his into his jacket pocket, where he had stuffed thirteen other mints from recent visits to the principal’s office.

“Well, Mr. Broom and Mr. Wingingham. Your teacher tells me that you were both one hour late to class this morning.” The principal’s hair was pulled back so tightly that veins pounded at her temples. “Which one of you is going to tell me why you were late?”

Boom and Winger looked at each other without turning their heads. Winger bit down on his mint, then blurted, “Cat stuck in a tree.”

Boom cringed. They had used that excuse last week. Winger never thought clearly when he got nervous. “My sister’s sick again,” Boom said. “She needed spot remover.”

Principal Prunewallop drummed her long fingernails on her desk. “I am well aware of your sister’s
condition.
” She whispered the word “condition,” and Boom felt his face go red. Seemed he wasn’t the only one who thought that Mertyle was a lunatic. “In fact, I shall send the truant officer to your home next week to investigate.” That would not be good.

The principal opened a rather thick file with Boom’s name on the outside. Boom fidgeted and tapped his shoes together. His big toe stuck out a hole. Luckily, it was not his kicking foot. He shifted his bottom, which had gone numb. He hated this office, with its bad smell and uncomfortable chairs.

“This has been a difficult year for you, Mr. Broom,” Principal Prunewallop stated, peering over the top of the file. She had pity in her voice, and Boom clenched his jaw. He wanted to kick people who pitied him. “Your rambunctious nature continues to interfere with your studies. And you, Mr. Wingingham, you should choose your friends more wisely.”

It wasn’t Boom’s fault that Mr. Jorgenson, the retired chief of police, had lectured them for forty minutes. With his flabby chin and bulging eyes he had said, “Boys need discipline. That’s what I always say. In my day, boys didn’t run around in the street causing trouble. They had jobs from dawn until dusk. If they were bad seeds, then they were locked in cellars until they were eighteen, then shipped off to fight in wars. In my day, if a boy broke a window he went directly to jail.” When exactly was “my day”? The middle ages? Mr. Jorgenson was nuts too.

Principal Prunewallop suddenly looked up from the file. “Did you hear that?” she asked. The only thing Boom had heard was Winger gagging on his mint. The principal turned to her office window, which overlooked the playground. She pressed her eye to a telescope that stood on a tripod. “Aha!” she exclaimed. “Just as I thought. I distinctly heard the sound of a bursting bubble.” She stood and opened the window. Big orange underwear glowed through her stretchy white pants. She had the biggest butt Boom had ever seen.

With the principal’s attention diverted, Winger spat out the horrid pieces of listermint into his hand. They glistened with saliva. Boom tipped back in his chair while Winger looked around for a place to dispose of the pieces. Boom knew they had to figure out a way to get out of this situation. Tardiness meant only one thing, and he couldn’t miss lunch recess.

“Principal Prunewallop,” Boom began, “the only thing I have to do after school today is buy some fish, and then I could come back and make up the time.”

She ignored him. “Young lady in the green sweater,” she called through a megaphone. “Yes, I’m speaking to you. Gum chewing is not allowed on the playground. Stop that right this minute. Don’t you dare try to hide that gum beneath the monkey bars. You will report to my office immediately.”

The principal whipped around so quickly that Winger dropped his mint pieces onto the rug, and Boom almost fell backward in his chair. “Now,” she said, returning to her own chair, “back to the unfortunate business of your tardiness. That hour will be made up. You will both come to my office directly after lunch, today.”

Today? After lunch? 12:05? She had to be kidding!

“But . . . ,” Boom objected, with the intent of explaining that this was supposed to be his day. Boom’s day.

She held up her hand to silence him. “I know all about the Kick the Ball Against the Wall Tournament, Mr. Broom. I am afraid that your irresponsible behavior has cost you a forfeiture. At twelve-oh-five, you and Mr. Wingingham will come to my office to work on your math skills. I look forward to instructing you.”

“But —”

“No buts!”

Boom had no idea why principal was spelled with “pal.” She instantly moved up his archenemy list to position number one. Forget her. He’d go to the tournament anyway. Even if it meant a hundred extra hours in her office, it would be worth it.

“And don’t try to sneak out of this, Mr. Broom. I will be watching.” She tapped a fingernail on the telescope.

Boom’s special day broke into pieces, like a spit-covered mint.

On their way back to class, Boom and Winger passed the girl in the green sweater. She was taking very small steps toward Principal Prunewallop’s office and sniffling. Boom clearly remembered his first walk toward that menacing door, where a sign read:
AUTHORITY PREVAILS.
“Don’t worry,” he said, trying to offer some comfort. “She doesn’t spank.” Which was the only nice thing he could say about the principal. The little girl managed a weak smile.

Winger started to sniffle too. “What are you crying for?” Boom asked irritably. “I’m the one who has to forfeit the game.”

Winger took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I don’t actually have the seven dollars I bet Hurley. He’s gonna beat the daylights out of me.”

Yes, Hurley
would
beat the daylights out of Winger. That was the kind of thing Hurley Mump would do. And he would call Winger names like “weenie,” and “four-eyed freak.” Boom knew the humiliation all too well.

He reached into his pocket and found the ten-dollar bill that was meant to buy the Brooms’ evening meal. He handed Winger the money. “Just be sure to get me the change.”

Once again, the universe had conspired against Boom Broom.

Chapter Five:

The Reject Seafood Bucket

B
oom kicked things all the way to the fish market.

Principal Prunewallop had made them divide decimals to obtain rounded quotients for the entire hour. Dividing decimals into rounded quotients was like eating cake for Winger, but Boom didn’t even know what a stupid rounded quotient was. The principal had added an extra twenty minutes when she had caught him copying from Winger’s page.

Hurley had told everyone that Boom had chickened out of the competition. Most of the students were too afraid of Hurley not to believe him. Hurley had proclaimed himself KBAW Champion of Fairweather Elementary. There wouldn’t be another tournament for Boom, since he’d be at the middle school next year. It was his last chance to be school champion.

The only answer, Boom decided, was to schedule a rematch. He’d demand one, right after the flag salute at next Monday’s assembly. He’d demand it in front of everyone, and Hurley would have to agree or he’d look like a chicken.

Boom adjusted his backpack straps. Mr. Foo had included two thick textbooks in Mertyle’s huge pile of homework, and Boom had to carry the heavy load all the way to the fish market because Mertyle was a spoiled brat who stayed in bed all day and watched game shows. He kicked a huge rock that did not budge. “Ouch!” he cried. He kicked it again.

The wind picked up, but that wasn’t unusual for Fairweather Island weather. A breeze could almost always be felt, no matter what time of year. Boom approached the quiet harbor. In summertime, the ferryboat would be depositing hordes of tourists, eager to fish the island’s bountiful waters. The few inns that lined the shore would be blinking their
NO VACANCY
signs, and the pharmacy would be making a killer profit on seasick pills.

But it was March, and delivery vans and Fairweather residents were the ferry’s only customers. Most of the fishing boats slept in their sheds. Only a few fishermen braved the winter sea, which could sparkle with sunshine one day and rumble with anger the next.

Boom walked past the empty stalls at the seafood market and down the dock to where a single boat was tied up. A couple of beefy men were unloading fish.

“Is that fresh fish?” Boom asked, remembering Halvor’s instructions.

“Right out of the ocean,” the man wearing a captain’s hat replied. He scooped a fish from the boat’s hold and tossed it to the other man, who then loaded it into a big cart.

“How much can I buy for three dollars?” Boom took out three one-dollar bills — all that remained after Winger had paid his bet.

“This be prime bluefin tuna,” the captain told him. “You can’t buy one of these for less than ten dollars.”

Just as Boom had expected. That darn universe again. Halvor would be steaming mad. Viking descendants have notoriously short tempers.

“But I need some fresh fish,” Boom explained, repositioning the backpack. “All I got is three dollars.”

The captain stopped scooping for a moment. He took off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead with his upper arm. “Well, lad, you can have whatever you want from that bucket.” He pointed to the end of the dock. “That there be the reject seafood that found its way into me net. Watch your fingers. There’s some nasty critters in there.”

Reject seafood? That didn’t sound very tasty. A cold wind stung Boom’s face as he walked down the dock to where a white bucket rocked back and forth. Some clicking crabs clung to the bucket’s edge. A few had already escaped and were scuttling across the planks. Boom peered into the bucket. Green sea grass floated at the surface, and something moved beneath. The bucket rocked again, and a shiny blue-green tail emerged. It flapped about, then disappeared beneath the grass. It looked like a thick, meaty tail that Halvor could chop to his heart’s content. He wouldn’t have to know it came from the reject bucket.

Something that’s still alive is about as fresh as it gets.