This Can't Be Happening at MacDonald Hall!

by Gordon Korman

  The window of room 201 opened silently and a shadowy figure climbed out and dropped to the ground. Bruno crept around the edge of the deserted campus, across the dark highway and over the wrought-iron fence that surrounded Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Beside the residence building he picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them at a second-floor window.

  After a few moments the window opened and a familiar head appeared. “Bruno? … Is that you?” a voice whispered.

  “Who else?” said Bruno. “Listen, I have to borrow Petunia for a couple of days.”

  “What for?”

  “I have to get rid of a friend,” Bruno replied. “Can you get her down to me?”

  “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  Bruno waited. Finally a cage appeared in the window and began to dangle slowly towards the ground, suspended by an Indian belt, three pairs of panty hose, one bathrobe belt and the bathrobe itself.

  “Got it,” whispered Bruno. “Thanks, Diane.”

  “Don’t mention it. Just don’t forget to feed her.”

  “What does she eat?” Bruno asked.

  “This,” the girl replied. A bag of Mi-Choice Skunk Chow sailed out of the window and clunked Bruno on the head. Women! he thought in disgust.

  With the caged skunk under one arm and the skunk food in the other, he made his way to Macdonald Hall and into his room. After hiding Petunia under his bed, he changed Elmer’s alarm clock to his own customary rising hour — 8:45 — and fell asleep.

  * * *

  Although it was well after midnight, a dim light still shone in the print shop. Boots and the editor of the school newspaper were labouring over the press. A single sheet of newsprint lay before them.

  “I’ll tear it out,” Boots said, “so it’ll look as if it’s from a real newspaper.”

  “Is there really such a disease as creeping caliotis?” the editor asked.

  “I hope not,” grinned Boots. “Awful, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is. What are you going to do with the clipping?”

  “It’s for a hypochondriac friend of mine,” Boots explained. “By the time I get through with him, he’ll be a basket case. Thanks a lot for your help.”

  “Any time … I pity your friend, though.”

  “I don’t,” Boots replied grimly.

  * * *

  “It’s quarter to nine!” screamed Elmer, bounding out of bed and hitting his head on the wall. “Who changed my alarm clock?”

  “I did,” said Bruno, dressing rapidly. “It’s about time you learned to get up at a civilized hour.”

  “But what about breakfast? I’ll starve! What about classes? I’ve never been late in my life! What will they do to me?”

  “If you’re five minutes late, you get a detention,” Bruno explained gravely. “If you’re ten minutes late, it’s the rack.”

  At 8:55 Elmer flew out of the room with his shirt tails flapping, his belt dangling and his shoelaces untied. He was unwashed and uncombed — but he had five minutes to spare.

  As soon as Elmer had gone, Bruno reached under his bed, pulled out the cage and opened the door. “Good morning, Petunia. I trust you slept well. How about some breakfast?”

  Ignoring the food, Petunia stepped daintily around the room examining her surroundings.

  “So okay, no breakfast. I’ve got to go to class now anyway,” said Bruno. “Be a good girl, Petunia — and when Elmer comes in, scare the living daylights out of him!”

  * * *

  At first light Boots began to put his plan into action. He checked the phony newspaper article before putting it into his desk drawer. Large red spots. Boots took a small paper bag from under his pillow. It contained a brush and a jar of poster paint. With great care he began to dab red spots on the face of his sleeping roommate. He examined his handiwork, silently congratulated himself and went back to bed. When he opened his eyes again at eight, George was just waking up.

  “George, what’s wrong with you?” Boots cried. George turned pale. “Wh-what do you mean?” he stammered.

  “There are big red spots all over your face! See for yourself.” Boots motioned towards the mirror.

  George looked at his reflection and shrieked. “What is it? What is it?”

  Boots gasped. “Omigosh! I think I know!” He opened his drawer, dug around in the contents and finally drew out the newspaper article. “This was in Thursday’s Star — my mother sent it to me. Listen!” He began to read:

  “Creeping caliotis, a rare tropical disease, has killed nine people in Toronto within the last thirty-six hours. The disease is believed to have come to Canada through imported livestock and is highly contagious. Major symptoms are large red spots scattered over the facial area, followed by shortness of breath, then head, throat and chest pains.”

  Right on cue George began to puff. “I’m having shortness of breath!” he gasped. “I ache all over! I’ve got creeping caliotis! Get me to the infirmary right away!”

  “No, don’t move!” Boots cried. “Listen!” He continued to read: “Chances of survival are drastically reduced if the victim attempts to move around. Complete bed rest is essential.” Boots handed the clipping to George. “Read it for yourself,” he said. “You’d better get back to bed right away.”

  George nodded and crept into his bed. The possibility that his life — though barely started — might soon be over stunned him.

  “I’ll get Dr. Leroy right away,” Boots assured him. “But first — no offence — I think …” He wheeled out George’s quarantine screen and placed it between the two beds, making sure the sign was on George’s side.

  “Creeping caliotis!” George moaned. “Tell the doctor to hurry!”

  “I will,” Boots promised. “But don’t you move from that bed. You need complete bed rest or you’ve had it.” Boots picked up his books and headed for class — leaving George at death’s door.

  * * *

  At four that afternoon Bruno hurried to his room with a jar containing the last of the five hundred and fifty ants he owed Elmer. As he was about to open the door, a loud scream erupted from within, followed by an enormous crash. The door flew open and out shot Elmer, his expression wild, his nose bleeding. He ran full-tilt into Bruno, knocking him down and sending the jar of ants spiralling into the wall, where it shattered. Once again Dormitory 2 was crawling with insects.

  “My ants!” Bruno shrieked, in perfect imitation of Elmer.

  “Skunk!” cried Elmer. “What’s a skunk doing in our room?”

  Bruno had been waiting all day for that question. “I’m a skunkologist,” he explained. “My world is the skunk world.”

  Elmer just stared at him. Then Petunia trotted out into the hall and Elmer screamed again.

  “Stop that,” warned Bruno. “If you upset her, she’ll spray the whole place.”

  Elmer crouched behind Bruno and continued to scream as the skunk explored the hall.

  “Shut up!” called a voice. “I’m trying to do my homework!”

  A door opened and a boy peered out into the hall. “Oh, no! Ants!” he cried. “They’re back! And this time they’ve brought a skunk with them!”

  More doors opened. Soon dozens of boys were milling around.

  “Ants!”

  “Skunk!”

  “Help!”

  Bruno, worried that Petunia was going to be trampled in the riot, picked her up and carried her over to Elmer. “Here, Petunia,” he said. “Kiss and make up. You weren’t nice. You gave Uncle Elmer a nasty fright.” Elmer backed away, trembling.

  “Stand still!” Bruno ordered. “You’ll step on my ants!”

  “You keep ants too?” cried one boy. “201’s a bughouse!”

  “I had ninety-six ants in that jar,” Bruno sternly informed Elmer. “You owe me ninety-six ants.”

  Only then did Bruno notice a familiar figure standing at the end of the hall, his arms folded, watching. Mr. Sturgeon spoke quietly, but every boy heard and obeyed. “All o
f you — into your rooms. Walton, give me that skunk.”

  Bruno held Petunia out to Mr. Sturgeon. She bit his finger. “I’ll get her cage, sir,” Bruno said quickly. He went into his room, fished the cage out from under the bed and locked Petunia in. “Here she is, sir.”

  “You carry it,” ordered Mr. Sturgeon. “And follow me. Unless I’m mistaken, this animal is the pet of a young lady at Miss Scrimmage’s. I am not going to ask how it came into your possession because, frankly, I do not wish to know. But we will return it to its owner together.”

  * * *

  Boots tiptoed into his room after classes. The light was dim and the victim lay still on his bed, looking paler than the sheets and apparently breathing his last.

  “Where have you been?” George moaned. “Where’s the doctor?”

  “Brace yourself,” Boots told him, tying a handkerchief around his face like a surgical mask. “Dr. Leroy has creeping caliotis too; so does three-quarters of the school. They’re dropping like flies. It’s a full-fledged epidemic!”

  “Has anybody died?” George asked, terrified.

  “Not yet,” Boots replied gravely, “but there are lots in comas. The army has sent a medical unit and the campus is in quarantine. There’s even a roadblock.”

  “But did you tell them about me?” George groaned.

  Boots nodded. “Of course, but you’re three hundred and fifty-second on the waiting list. Don’t worry. I’ll stay and take care of you until help comes.”

  George was overcome with gratitude. He reached for a paper and pencil on the night table. “I’ve been writing my will,” he croaked, his throat obviously very sore. “I’m going to leave you my Magneco for your devotion, Melvin.” He wrote a few lines and collapsed back onto the pillow. “Could you get me a cold cloth for my head?” he pleaded. “I must have a terribly high fever.”

  Boots wet a washcloth and gently placed it on his roommate’s forehead. “I’d better go and write my mother,” he said sadly. “If I catch creeping caliotis from you I’ll want her to have a last few words to remember me by.”

  “Ooooh!” groaned George. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and picked up the wet cloth to rearrange it. Large red blobs covered the white terrycloth. He stared at it for a few seconds, then rubbed it across his cheek. More red blobs.

  “Paint,” said George softly; then louder, “Paint … You tricked me! I’ll kill you!” He leaped out of bed, grabbed a cricket bat and tore after Boots, who by this time was out of the room and halfway out of the building.

  * * *

  Mr. Sturgeon, Bruno and Petunia were making their way across the campus when Boots flashed by. “Hello, sir!” he panted.

  Seconds later a pyjama-clad George Wexford-Smyth III thundered by in hot pursuit, screaming and waving a cricket bat.

  Bruno did not dare comment, but as they continued on their way, he distinctly heard Mr. Sturgeon murmur, “I hope he catches him.”

  Chapter 7

  Desperate Measures

  Bruno was getting impatient: Elmer was having real trouble falling asleep. How was he ever going to get out to see Boots? And he had to see Boots. The present strategy was getting them into more hot water than they had ever known existed.

  Bruno had to admit that he was having fun, of course, but the results were disturbing. As he lay in the darkness he could still hear Mr. Sturgeon’s voice: “There will be no more ants, no more skunks — and no more privileges, Walton.” Bruno grinned in the darkness. He was accustomed to making his own privileges.

  It was well after midnight when Elmer finally fell asleep. About time, thought Bruno as he opened the window and crawled out onto the deserted campus. Staying in the shadows cast by the dark building, he made his way to Dormitory 1 and tapped lightly on Boots’s window. Several minutes passed without an answer. Bruno’s second tap echoed loudly in the stillness of the night. Finally Boots peered out and beckoned. Bruno hoisted himself up and through the window.

  “George is in the infirmary suffering from exhaustion,” Boots explained. “It seems he doesn’t run thirteen times around the campus every day.”

  Bruno just kept staring at the room. “Wow! What a set-up! Look at those stereo speakers, and his computer, and the —”

  “And the TV,” interrupted Boots, opening the closet door to reveal a gleaming silver machine. “I told you so.”

  “Boy,” Bruno exclaimed, “I can hardly believe it!”

  “Just wait until you see the bathroom,” Boots said, motioning Bruno inside. “No drugstore in the country is this well equipped.”

  Bruno whistled. “And I thought you were exaggerating when you told me about all this! I still say Elmer takes the cake, but George sure is a strange one!” He sat down on George’s bed. “Now, what’s been happening? You first.”

  Grinning despite his problems, Boots related the story of George’s mint stamps, then went on to the epidemic of creeping caliotis. Bruno found it hard to believe that anyone would spend the day dying in bed just because of a few paint spots until Boots handed him the clipping.

  “Pretty slick.”

  “Very slick,” Boots agreed sarcastically. “So slick I’ve lost my privileges for three months! And that means I can’t go to the dance at Miss Scrimmage’s on Saturday.”

  “What makes you think they’d let us in there anyway? Remember what we did the last time?”

  Boots smiled as he recalled the last dance — Miss Scrimmage’s gymnasium hung with pink and silver streamers, the walls ringing with music and laughter. It was just as the buffet supper was about to be served that the forty ounces of scotch Bruno and Boots had poured into the punch bowl reached Miss Scrimmage’s head. Suddenly she ripped the chaperone’s badge off her shapeless black dress, hauled a startled Mr. Sturgeon onto the dance floor and started into her own extraordinary version of the funky chicken. At that point the young ladies lost what little restraint they had and the party quickly turned into a wild rock festival, with Miss Scrimmage being the life of the party. The next morning she could not get out of bed and seemed to be suffering from something that looked suspiciously like a hangover.

  “Three months without privileges!” scoffed Bruno, jolting Boots back to the present. “Mine were suspended indefinitely! But I don’t care — Diane’s not going to be at the dance anyway.”

  “Cathy will,” said Boots miserably. “By the way, speaking of Diane, what were you doing with Petunia?”

  With a great smile of satisfaction Bruno related the first episode of the ants and then their second coming. “To make a long story short,” he concluded, “the exterminator has had to come twice — at my expense. I’m now known as Bad Luck Bruno in Dormitory 2. Elmer is so scared of me he just about faints when I walk into the room.”

  “So where is all this getting us?” demanded Boots.

  “I don’t know about you,” Bruno replied, “but my dorm is circulating a petition to get rid of me. If it comes to you, sign it.”

  “But that doesn’t help me,” Boots complained. “I cannot and will not live in this hospital-stock exchange any longer!”

  Bruno shrugged and stretched out on George’s bed. George probably would have collapsed had he known that his bed was absorbing another person’s germs.

  “We’ll just have to show The Fish how awful George and Elmer really are,” Boots decided.

  “How can we do that?” Bruno protested. “They’re only awful to us.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to make them awful,” Boots insisted. “Report to the old cannon at 0100 hours Sunday with a collection of distinguishable Elmer Drimsdale possessions. I’ll bring some stuff belonging to George. If we can’t frame them right into the Don Jail, my name isn’t Melvin P. O’Neal! As of this moment,” he added, “the p stands for ‘pushed around for the last time’!”

  Chapter 8

  Raid!

  George was carefully hanging up his tuxedo and brushing off the velvet lapels. “What a superb evening!” he remarked,
knowing full well how much Boots had wanted to go to the dance. “The young ladies danced like angels, and the ballroom was a masterpiece of décor.”

  “It really must have been great,” Boots agreed sarcastically. “After all, what could be more elegant than waltzing over the foul lines of a basketball court?”

  George ignored him. “And the food — a really extravagant buffet!”

  “Yes, I know,” said Boots sourly. “Colonel Sanders’ boys make it finger-lickin good.”

  “It’s a shame that you were unable to attend, Melvin, but if you insist on acting like a barbarian —”

  “Just shut up and go to sleep,” Boots snapped.

  George changed into his pyjamas, still trying to give the impression that he had had an enchanting evening.

  “You know, I’m sort of glad I didn’t go,” Boots murmured reflectively. “Can you imagine all the germs a guy could pick up at that kind of affair?”

  George sniffed and got into bed without another word.

  When his roommate was sound asleep, Boots went into operation. Fifteen minutes later the window opened and out he went — along with a monogrammed money clip, a shiny new cell phone and a gold pen and pencil set, all clearly the property of George Wexford-Smyth III.

  * * *

  Elmer had not gone to the dance either. “I don’t see how everyone can go and dance with girls,” he said with disgust. “Girls are so icky! I’m glad you didn’t go, Bruno. At least one person in this school besides me has some sense.”

  “Yes, Elmer,” Bruno sighed, ready to make his move as soon as his roommate went to sleep. He watched in dismay as Elmer set up an elaborate tripod supporting a high-powered telescope. “Aren’t you going to bed?” he asked.

  “On a clear night?” Elmer replied, as if Bruno had suggested the impossible. “On a clear night I can scan the whole sky.”

  “Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  “I’m an astronomer,” Elmer explained. “My world is the heavens, the universe, the vastness of intergalactic space … Now if you’ll excuse me, my telescope is a little out of focus.”

  “You are a little out of focus,” said Bruno sourly.