Darwin (?) tips the brim of his hat to me. “Pleasure as always, Chub.”
They spin on their heels and head off to fulfill their end of the bargain.
Ten minutes later Moby meets me in the back corner of the locker room. He hands me the bottle of dish soap I requested in a brown paper bag. His face is bright red, like it gets when he’s nervous. I recognize the look. It’s his look of panic when we are about to break the rules. He breathes in giant, whooping gulps. I need to calm him down before he loses it and chickens out.
I put the soap in the pocket of my sweatshirt and give him the paper bag. “Breathe into this.”
He inflates and deflates the bag violently a few times before his breathing slows to a normal rate, then he wipes sweat from his forehead and nods to me that he’s ready. I run through the plan with him one more time. All that’s left is to wait for the McQueens to do their thing, and Moby can get to work.
Less than a minute passes before the voice of the school secretary, Mrs. Osborne, crackles over the intercom.
“Mr. Kraley, please go to the upstairs boys’ room immediately!” Her voice quivers like a dog pooping out a peach pit. “There’s been a . . . an . . . accident!” She must forget to take her finger off the button, because before the speaker crackles off: “Dear Lord, is that a mushroom?”
Moby and I chuckle. Once again the McQueens have proven they are worth whatever price they ask.
We quickly take up our position behind the door to the coach’s private office. Right on cue the door flies open, almost smashing us, but I catch it just in time. Mr. Kraley bursts into the hall, buttoning up his custodian uniform. As he runs the other way, Moby and I spring from our hiding spot and slip into the empty office.
The mascot costume of the Alanmoore Kangaroos lies in a heap on the floor where Mr. Kraley jumped out of it when he heard the announcement.
The kangaroo mascot costume doesn’t fit any of the kids in school, so Mr. Kraley gets paid to wear it at games and special occasions, like track tryouts. I feel a little bad for putting him through what he’s about to discover in the boys’ room, but for the plan to work I need him out of the suit.
Moby winces when he gets a whiff of the inside of the costume. I’ve never once seen it in my parents’ shop to be cleaned, and the inside has absorbed years’ worth of Mr. Kraley’s BO. Moby makes a face similar to the one I imagine Mr. Kraley will make when he sees the result of the McQueens’ plug job.
He holds the suit as far from his nose as possible. “It smells like the time the Colonel’s ingrown toenail got infected!”
I sympathize with the kid, I really do, but we are too far into the plan to stop now. To show solidarity, I grab the giant foam kangaroo head and take a whiff. It takes an act of sheer will not to throw up. “It’s not that bad.”
Moby rolls his eyes and snatches the head back from me. “Next time I’m coming up with the plan and you’re wearing someone’s dirty laundry.”
That will never happen. I am the brains here.
“We can talk about that,” I say. I turn to check the hall through the small window in the door, and when I turn back, Moby is stripped to his underwear and stepping into the suit.
I slap my forehead. “Why are you naked?”
“I don’t want my clothes to stink. Duh.”
Like I said, I’m the brains.
I help him pull the suit on and zip it up, then hand him the head. He takes one last deep breath of fresh locker room air and then pulls it on, completing the costume.
“How do I look?” he asks through the mesh-covered hole in the kangaroo’s neck.
I look him over. The suit is four sizes too big, and it slumps on his scrawny frame. He resembles an experiment to cross a giant rat with a shar-pei.
“Perfect,” I say, doing the snaps that keep the head from falling off. “Oops, almost forgot.” I tuck the bottle of dish soap into the kangaroo pouch.
He gives me the thumbs-up sign.
“Remember, in and out quick, like we planned.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
“And absolutely no improvising,” he recites.
The library is on the fourth floor and looks over the football field and track, where the tryouts are held. I sneak in and creep behind the stacks of books farthest from the librarian’s office. I don’t have to be that stealthy; she’s older than the school, and even if she’s awake, she probably couldn’t hear a herd of buffalo stampede through the nonfiction section. I make it to my lookout window just as Moby hops out of the locker room toward the track, and I watch through my dad’s borrowed binoculars as he clumsily makes his way toward the tryouts.
So far, so good.
As usual, the Arch is the center of attention. He’s easy to spot, even from a distance, since he’s half a foot taller than pretty much everyone else trying out. The only other kid his size is Julius Jackson, the star of the track team.
The two of them are racing side by side, but at the end the Arch pulls way out in front and leaves Julius in his dust. The Arch waves to the few kids who’ve gathered in the bleachers, then jogs off to the next event. Julius lies on the track by the finish line, gasping for breath and shaking his head. The group of kids who normally high-five him when he wins a race is gone. They’ve forgotten all about him. Now they’re orbiting the new fastest kid on the track team.
The Arch is making a big show of flopping over the high jump bar, and Coach Farkas scribbles notes on his clipboard and giggles like a little girl with a new pony. At least the coach will be preoccupied when Moby pours the dish soap into the Gatorade.
Even among jocks, kids sort themselves into ranks by popularity. That means the Arch and his buddies get to drink first. If this works the way the Colonel claimed, the Arch—and maybe a few other unfortunate victims, including Coach Farkas—will be lucky to make it halfway to the gym before pooping his pants. And it’s pretty tough to look presidential with a tracksuit full of explosive butt-chowder.
The mascot is at every school function, so nobody pays particular attention to the mutant kangaroo skulking toward the Gatorade. Moby waits for the crowd to be distracted before lifting the lid off of the giant tank of purple liquid. Then he pulls out the bottle of soap and squeezes it into the tank with both hands.
“Now get out of there!” I say under my breath.
Moby puts the empty bottle into his pouch, screws the lid back on the tank, and starts to walk away. I almost let out the breath I’m holding—almost.
He’s ten feet away and no one has so much as glanced at him when he stops in his tracks, turns, and walks back to the Gatorade.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself, then glance around to make sure Mrs. Belfry didn’t hear. Moby looks ultrasuspicious as he creeps back to the table like a villain in a cartoon. Panic washes over me as he grabs the lid and spins it back off the tank! He’s improvising and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I almost can’t watch what happens next.
He reaches a paw into the jug and stirs the Gatorade.
I put down the binoculars and slap my forehead in disbelief. When he’s done, he pulls his paw out and shakes it off. The gray fur is stained purple all the way up to the elbow.
He’s halfway across the track on his way back to school when I spot a commotion out of the corner of my eye. The Arch has finished his high jump exhibition, and now he’s launching shot puts around the field like artillery fire. A crowd gathers to watch him—put?—but something is different about his posture. For once the Arch is more interested in someone else’s actions than his own. His gaze is fixed on the deflated kangaroo shuffling across the track toward the locker room.
He tilts his head like a curious dog as he watches the purple-armed creature. Then the look on his face changes. He may not have figured it all out, but apparently he’s figured out enough to try to stop it. My blood runs cold. Moby is as good as caught.
The Arch looks over the heads of the crowd toward the only thing
that could’ve stained the costume—the Gatorade. Coach Farkas is holding the cooler above his head, about to grab the spout to pour the soapy purple beverage into his mouth. The Arch is too far away to save him.
The next three seconds unfold in slow motion. I turn the binoculars back to the Arch; he’s lifting a shot put into the crook of his neck. He turns away from the normal landing zone, crouches low, and explodes back up, launching the heavy metal ball over the heads of the crowd. I stare in disbelief as it flies through the air in the completely wrong direction. Has the Arch lost his mind?
The question is answered a second later when the shot put smashes into the Gatorade cooler and knocks it out of Coach Farkas’s hands. The force of the impact crushes the cooler and sprays Gatorade everywhere, coating Farkas from head to toe. First he looks stunned, then angry as he glares around for the culprit. I’ve fogged up the lenses of the binoculars, but I wipe them on my sweatshirt in time to see the Arch jog up to him and say something that seems to calm him down. Coach Farkas flicks a handful of purple bubbles off his shoulder.
Moby! He’s been spotted by the Arch, and even with a head start there’s no way he can outrun him in the costume.
I scan the track with the binoculars. Halfway up the path to the gym lies a kangaroo head. A few yards farther up, in a wrinkled heap, is the hide of a purple-pawed mascot. Moby is nowhere to be seen. At least he left his underwear on.
I glance back to see if anyone is going after him. What I see makes my blood a few degrees colder. The Arch is looking directly back at me, a sharky grin plastered on his face.
CHAPTER 4
The next day at school I wait for the hammer of justice to drop. The Arch knows it was me, and he’s way too much of a butt-kisser to let me get away with something like this. I may have finally pushed my luck too far.
What makes my stomach turn is the fact that I haven’t seen Moby since he pulled his Houdini act. The kid can disappear like a fart in a hurricane when the heat is on, but he always answers my call later. I haven’t heard a word from him since things went wrong, and he didn’t meet me before school, either. Moby might improvise at the wrong time, but he doesn’t improvise when it comes to his schedule. Everything in his life has to happen at its proper time or he gets . . . weird. He missed his afternoon toilet break once and convinced his dad he needed two days off school to get back in sync. I’m starting to think that maybe he moved to Brazil to avoid Mr. Mayer. Maybe he thinks I’m mad about him ruining the plot. Don’t get me wrong—I was, but now I just want to make sure he’s all right.
The desk next to me squeaks. I turn, expecting to see Moby, but it’s not him. Other than the Arch, it’s the last person I want to talk to. Shelby peers at me, her bird-girl stare magnified by her glasses. She purses her lips in an obnoxious smirk. I didn’t think it was possible for her to be more annoying than she already was, but I was wrong.
She folds her hands on the desk, clearly wanting me to ask what the smirk is about. I’ve never started a conversation with a girl before, and I don’t intend my first one to be with a girl as annoying as Shelby.
“Did you hear about track tryouts?” she whispers.
I don’t want to look interested, but I’m dying to hear what everyone is saying. I shrug, knowing she’ll tell me no matter what.
“Someone put soap in the Gatorade.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning.
“But Archer Norris foiled the scheme just before Coach Farkas took a fateful sip,” she says, sounding all dreamy.
She pulls a cloth handkerchief out of the cuff of her sweater and dabs her forehead. My urge to smile vanishes. She thinks the Arch was the good guy yesterday! And did she really need to use the words “foiled” and “fateful” in the same sentence?
“Good for Archer.” I hope it’s the end of the conversation. The first bell rings and kids fill the classroom.
“Still,” she whispers, “it almost worked.”
What is that supposed to mean? Does she know it was me? If so, what would it cost to keep her quiet? Maybe I can swipe her a couple of old-lady sweaters out of the funeral home’s donation pile at the dry cleaning shop.
It doesn’t matter. I know the Arch’s heroics are all that kids will talk about. I clench my hands in frustration. I’m sick of being foiled, but at least Moby didn’t get caught and expelled for streaking.
Moby slinks into the classroom right as the second bell rings. He’s wearing his dad’s law school sweatshirt, which fits him about as well as a parachute. He sits at his desk, his hands jammed in the pouch pocket of the sweatshirt. When he finally glances my way, I shrug at him in the universal sign for What gives?
He pulls his hand partway out of the pocket and shoves up his sleeve. My scalp flushes instantly. His arm is stained purple all the way to his elbow.
A quick scan of the room tells me no else has caught him purple-handed. He jams his hand back into the pocket, and I slap my head hard enough that some kids turn around to look.
“You know, Maciek,” Shelby says, sitting extra upright, “the drama club meets on Mondays and Wednesdays. You should come check it out.”
“Hurm,” I mumble. I have about as much interest in the drama club as I have in helping my mom shop for bras, but it might come in handy someday for a plot. I make a mental note to show up at least once.
Mr. Funk comes into the room, late as usual, just as the voice of Mr. Mayer crackles over the intercom. “Good mooooorning, Alanmoore. A few announcements to start the day. Track tryouts went well despite some . . . shenanigans.”
At least we get some recognition. Shelby shoots me a sideways glance, which I ignore.
“The list of students who made the team will be posted blah, blah, blah . . .” As Mr. Mayer babbles on, Mrs. Osborne scurries into the room without her usual knock and hands Mr. Funk a small slip of paper. She races out again without her usual embarrassed smile.
Mr. Funk glances at the piece of paper, then at me. This is it. Here comes the hammer. Mr. Funk doesn’t have to say anything—the look on his face says it all. I put my books back into my bag and stand as kids turn to see who is in trouble. Shelby gives me a worried look.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been busted. The important part is for me to look calm and cool as I make the long walk out of the silent classroom. There’s no point in causing havoc if you’re going to look all apologetic as soon as you get caught. It’s just the cost of doing business. Mrs. Osborne won’t look me in the eye as I walk into the school office. She may as well wear a flashing sign that says DISAPPOINTED.
I grab the seat by the door to the principal’s office and wait to be summoned, but my butt cheeks barely kiss pine before the door opens.
“. . . appreciate your help. It will be dealt with.”
I look up and there in front of me is the Arch. He gives me a nasty smile, then turns back toward the office.
“And congratulations,” Mr. Mayer practically gushes. “I hear you are our new track team captain.”
The Arch shrugs. “I guess so.” The fake humility in his voice makes me want to barf. “It’s the least I can do for this school.” He looks down at me and winks. I put my finger in my mouth like I’m trying to gag.
“From what Coach Farkas says, the throw that saved him from drinking the tainted Gatorade was a new county record.”
The Arch puts on his most casual look. “By, like, eight feet, or whatever.”
I almost sprain a muscle rolling my eyes. Here I am trying to lead sixth graders out of the middle school popularity vortex, and this meathead is getting patted on the back for chucking a metal ball?
I make an exaggerated coughing noise that sounds a lot like a word you can get detention for using.
The Arch pretends to notice me. “I think your next appointment is here, Mr. Mayer.” He swings his backpack onto his shoulder, nearly smashing me in the nose with it.
“Good luck, cube ball,” he says under his breath so Mrs. Osborne can’t hear.
“What did you just call me?” He fake-lurches at me.
I flinch and it makes him grin. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Osborne,” he says in the voice kids use only when they’re sucking up to adults.
Mr. Mayer’s voice has authority in it I’ve never heard before. “Mr. Trzebiatowski! Please step into my office.”
My pranks have landed me in the principal’s office before, so it doesn’t have the mystique it had when I was younger. Still, I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be. I shut the door behind me and take my regular seat.
Mr. Mayer sits behind his desk, looking at me over his glasses.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself this time?”
I consider my options. I could deny it, but he knows it was me.
I could say it was all a big misunderstanding, but he knows it wasn’t.
I could plead insanity; everyone knows the story about a kid a few years back that everyone called the Fink. The Fink was a legendary troublemaker at Alanmoore who once got away with pantsing the old principal at a pep rally. They say he claimed temporary insanity caused by inhaling chalk dust while cleaning erasers. But it’s probably just a rumor. For all I know, the guy might’ve never existed.
In the end I decide none of those responses are my style.
“Mr. Mayer,” I say, looking him straight in the eye, “it was me. I admit to the whole thing.”
He lets out a long breath, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. Then he stares right back at me without blinking. Finally he lets out another long breath and put his glasses back on. He slumps in his chair and loosens his tie.
“I know it was you, Maciek,” he says. “And I can’t keep covering for you.”
I walked in once while Mr. Mayer was playing poker on his school laptop. Ever since then he’s gone pretty easy on me. The rumor is that the old principal was fired when the school board found out he was deejaying on the weekends. I guess Mr. Mayer doesn’t want me mentioning his hobby to anyone. I don’t understand why anyone would want to play a game where losing actually costs you money, but whatever.
I Am Fartacus Page 3