101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies
Page 8
But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Because . . .
I knew how Hayley would feel. I knew how her breath would stop. How her heart would splat against the wall, oozing to the floor in a quivering clump, where it would jerk-jerk, jerk-jerk, each beat a painful wrench, a rip, a reminder . . .
I didn’t want her to feel that. I didn’t want her to suffer. I wanted to save her. Protect her.
So I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and listened as the lie crept along my tongue, squeezed through my lips, and sidled to her ears:
“Yes, Hayley. Cullen Hanson likes you.”
Chapter Twelve
Hayley squealed.
I winced in pain and shock. Hayley had always firmly believed that the serrated squeals of girly girls were a moral flaw of character. Yet, here she was, morally flawing away in a pitch that could slash tires in Montana.
To save her soul (and my ears), I did the only thing I could think of: I clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Mmmppfft!” Her eyes stretched. She scrambled to pry off my fingers.
“Young man!” The spiky-heeled secretary had returned with my form. “If you don’t stop that this instant, you’re going straight to the principal’s office!”
“Gaaa!” I reclaimed my hand and took the form. I’d seen quite enough of Mr. Garrett’s accommodations last year, thank you very much. (But that’s another story.)
“PDA is seriously frowned upon at this institution,” the secretary said with a serious frown.
“What’s Pee Dee Ay?” Hayley asked.
“Oh, puh-LEEZE,” Goldie said, materializing beside us. “Public Displays of Affection!”
“Pub—Affec—No!” I said. “That wasn’t—I didn’t—I was just—”
“Helping me hold my breath,” Hayley said. “I’ve got—hic!—hiccups.”
The secretary’s frown grew seriouser and seriouser. “I seriously doubt a case of hiccups could be serious enough to warrant such serious—”
“Oh, hon, you must be new.” Goldie patted her arm. “Lemme give you the scoop on Hiccup Denardo.”
“I don’t get hiccups often,” Hayley said, “but when I do”—she lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper—“Steve was just trying to stave off the projectile vomiting.”
The secretary took two serious steps backward. “In that case, perhaps you should see the nurse.” She scribbled a hall pass and held it out by the tippy-tips of her talon-like fingernails.
Goldie snatched the pass. “I’ll see that she gets there safely.”
Hayley snatched it from her. “I’d rather Steve went with me.”
“But I’ve got gobs of experience treating your affliction.” Goldie snatched the pass again.
Hayley re-snatched and held the pass aloft, forcing Goldie to leap like a poodle desperate for treats. “Since when do you have a nursing degree?”
“Since when do you have projectile vomiting?”
“Since the moment I first read one of your nauseating gossip columns.”
“Well!” Goldie stamped a hoof. “You didn’t think my investigative reporting was nauseating two days ago! For your information, Hayley Barker, you wouldn’t know half of you know what about you know who if it weren’t for me! And you still owe me a scoop as payment!”
“I’m sure the janitor has something you can scoop,” Hayley said coolly.
The second warning bell rang, drowning out Goldie’s retort.
“Enough with the Hall Pass Ping-Pong,” I said. “We’re late.” I whisked Hayley into the hall, smacking into Ace, knocking his sunglasses askew.
Both dark brows arced in mild surprise. He brushed what were probably my “cooties” off his shirt. “Where’s the fire,” he asked with a yawn.
“That-a-way,” I said, motioning into the office. “And I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” I whisked Hayley to the right toward our English class, my chest full-to-bursting with admiration. “Wow, Hay, I’ve never seen girls spar like that before. You really nailed her!”
“Huh. You’re next, buddy boy. You almost smothered me!”
“You squealed.”
“I never.”
“It’s true! You sounded like Goldie.”
She snorted. “There’s no reason to insult me!”
“Don’t you remember? Right after I said Cullen likes you, you—”
Hayley squealed again—then clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Golftees,” she muttered. “It is true!” She gave a weak laugh. “It’s just—I can’t believe he likes me. It’s crazy. He’s a senior. I’m a middle schooler. Yet, he likes me! Did he say anything else? Tell me from the beginning! What was he wearing, how did you ask, does he want to meet me?”
Geez, I’ve created a monster . . .
“Look behind you,” I instructed. “Where’s Goldie? Is she following us?”
Hayley risked a peek. “She’s outside the main office, talking to Ace. She’s reaching for her tape recorder . . . slinking this way! I never should’ve asked for her help. She’ll stalk me to my grave to get the scoop about me and Cullen!”
“Yep, especially now that I’ve ruined her exclusive,” I said. “So it’s time for evasive action. You’ve got the hall pass—and I’ve got a plan.”
I grabbed her elbow and whirled us in the opposite direction, struggling like salmon against the powerful stream of students. I waved at Goldie, who scowled as she was swept past.
The final bell rang.
We launched into my sanctuary-away-from-sanctuary: the nurse’s office.
“Boy, howdy!” The school nurse greeted me with a weathered smile, a Texas twang, and a hearty back clap. Then he pulled me into a rough hug. “Long time no see, Sneeze!”
Tony Sandoval used to ride buckin’ broncs in the rodeo circuit till he traded his saddle and spurs for thermometers and doctor scrubs. Hiccup and I spent so much time in his office last year (me because of my allergies; Hic because of his hiccups), Tony considered us his wheel-horses (good friends).
He tipped an imaginary hat at Hayley. “Afternoon, Miz Barker. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Goldie’s face appeared in the doorway, gloating her I’ve-got-you-now! smile before jerking from sight. She’d lurk out there indefinitely, waiting for us to leave or waiting to overhear something juicy—whichever came first. My plan was to make her believe Hayley’s hiccups warranted treatment. Long, tedious treatment.
“HAYLEY HAS A NASTY CASE OF HICCUPS,” I said.
“That a fact? No need to shout, son.”
“It’s true, Mr. Sand-hic!-val,” Hayley said, catching on. She handed him the hall pass. “I’m hic!ing like crazy.”
“Well, ma’am, I got just the thing to fix you fine as frog’s hair!” Tony opened a cabinet. He pushed aside containers of rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and bandages before choosing a slim-necked bottle. “Heard ’bout this remedy from a lady-friend of my acquaintance. Thought our friend Hector might be needin’ it first, but no matter.” He tipped the opaque green bottle. Thick dark stuff oozed onto the spoon. “Down the hatch!”
Hayley eyed it with an SOS.
Outside, in the hall, I heard Goldie exclaim: “What are you doing here?”
“AND AFTER HAYLEY DRINKS THIS POTENT MEDICINE,” I said, glancing at the exit, “SHE’LL NEED TO LIE DOWN FOR AN HOUR, RIGHT, TONY? SO YOU CAN MONITOR HER PROGRESS?”
A smile twitched his lips and he winked one sun-strained eye. “Hard t’ say, son. Could be longer. Ev’ry case responds differently.”
I motioned for silence. Tiptoed to the door. Poked my nose, then head, into the hall.
“Is the coast clear?” Hayley asked, sotto voce.
“Unless she learned at Spy Camp how to disguise herself as a drinking fountain.”
“Is that nosy slanganderer gunnin’ for you again?” Tony asked.
Hayley snorted. “If you mean Gossiping Goldie, the answer is yes. Are you sure she’s gone, Steve?”
“Positive.
”
“Then so are my hiccups, Mr. Sandoval.”
“Dang. I wanted to see this remedy in action. Well, no sense wastin’ it.” Tony slurped, coughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not bad. Needs lettuce, is all.”
Hayley sniffed the cap. “What is this stuff?”
Tony laughed. “Balsamic vinegar.” He settled into his leather swivel chair, legs stretched onto his desk, boots crossed at the ankles. “Time to ’fess up, wheel-horse,” he drawled. “What can I really do ya for?”
Tony could read me like a Zane Grey novel. “Hayley and I need a private place to talk.”
“’Zat so? Where you two supposed t’ be right now?”
“English. But we only need five minutes. Ten, tops.”
Tony’s chili-brown eyes regarded me. One wiry caterpillar-brow raised a notch higher than the other. But he didn’t ask why. He wouldn’t. He trusted me. And I, him.
“Aw right.” He slapped his knees, pushed back his chair.
“Mind the store while I mosey out for a new stack of hall passes.” He ripped a pass from its pad and stuffed the remainder into a cluttered drawer. “This one seems t’ be my last,” he added with another wink.
After he’d gone, Hayley perched on the cot beneath the window. I moved to sit beside her. Then, remembering her entrancing scent of fresh peaches, I veered to Tony’s leather chair. It smelled safely of saddle soap.
“Ask away,” I said.
Hayley tried to smile into my eyes, but one corner of her lower lip trembled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything.” She crumpled a fistful of skirt, then smoothed it again. “It’s just—this is pointless. It doesn’t matter what Cullen said about me. ‘No dating till you’re fourteen,’ Daddy says. That’s a whole year away! By then Cullen will have graduated. Moved back to Hawaii . . .”
“But we’ve gone out together lots of times,” I said. “To the movies and on hikes. Bike rides to the beach. Your dad’s always been cool about that.”
“Those weren’t dates, Sneeze. Daddy trusts you. You’re my friend.”
I spun the chair so Hayley couldn’t see the arrow protruding from my chest.
“Besides, we’re rarely alone,” Hayley went on. “Hiccup joins us. Or Ace appears. He hung out at Gadabout practically twenty-four/seven this summer. Weird, huh? Do you think maybe he has a thing for Goldie?”
I choke-laughed.
“Ridiculous, I know. But she lurked there almost every day too, interrogating us about Pierre. I saw him only twice. At least, I think it was him: once slinking out of Lickety-Split Chick with a greasy bucket o’ wings. The second time, buying a package of powdered donuts—at a carwash!”
“Mon Dew,” I said with another choke-laugh. “Neither could’ve been Pierre!”
“Probably not. This guy had a mustache too.” Hayley stood to pace, fists clenched. “What’s happening to me? I’m acting insane. I never should’ve asked Goldie what classes Cullen’s in. I never should’ve asked you to find out if he likes me. It was crazy. Stupid. And it just makes everything harder.”
She sighed. The sound resonated inside my chest like a sad echo calling from the deep darkness of a dank well.
I ached for her . . . with her . . . .
And answered her sigh the only way I could.
“Maybe . . . maybe I could arrange for you and Cullen to meet at Gadabout one afternoon,” I suggested, without even the faintest glimmer of how to arrange that. I’d just have to worry about those pesky details later. “You could pretend he’d come to play mini-golf,” I went on. “Your dad wouldn’t suspect a thing.”
“But Daddy threatened the entire Patrick Henry Golf Team! They’ll go to jail if any of them steps foot at Gadabout again.”
No wonder I like Mr. Barker . . .
“Well, um . . . what about phone calls?” I asked. “That’s not dating.”
“Money’s tight, so Daddy canceled our cell service. And if he heard Cullen’s voice on our landline, I wouldn’t be allowed to date till I’m forty.”
Really, really like Mr. Barker . . .
Hayley thumped onto the cot, then heaved herself up again. “You’re sweet, Sneeze, trying to help and all, but it’s hopeless.” Resignation drenched her voice. “Let’s go to class. If we stay put any longer, Goldie will start a rumor that I’m dating Tony.”
I swallowed. Then blurted: “E-mail!”
“What?”
“Cullen can write to you. By e-mail.”
“No way. Daddy and I share the same computer. If I start getting e-mails from a stranger, especially a strange guy—”
The proverbial lightbulb clicked on inside my head.
I had a plan. The only question was: Would it work?
Worry about those pesky details later, Sneeze.
“What if . . .” I began, “what if Cullen sent the e-mails to me first and then I forwarded them to you? Your dad would see only my return e-mail address. He wouldn’t care about my e-mails. After all, I’m just a . . . a friend.”
Hayley fingered a golf ball earring. “That might work! Cullen and I could get to know each other through e-mails. Then I could talk to Daddy about changing his mind, about letting me date sooner.”
“Um, yeah.”
She faced me, body straight and solemn like the other day when she stood atop the North Pole. “You’d do this for me?” she asked, blue eyes unblinking. “You’d let Cullen send e-mails for me to you first? And you’d forward them?”
“Of course.”
“You wouldn’t read them?”
I squelched a squirm. “Of course not.”
“You’d send him my answers?”
“Of course.”
“You wouldn’t read them?”
Another squirm-squelch. “Of course not.”
“I could send them to him myself,” she went on, “deleting them from my Sent Mail folder afterward so Daddy wouldn’t see. But in case I forget or something, it would be so much safer if—”
“I said I’d do it, Hayley.”
Her face lit with the spit and flash of a Fourth of July sparkler and she whispered: “You are the Best. Friend. Ever.”
Chapter Thirteen
What. Had. I. Done?
What in the name of Thomas Alva Edison had possessed me to tell Hayley that Cullen would e-mail her?
Sure, my plan was simple: I would impersonate Cullen. I would write the e-mails. That way, Hayley wouldn’t get her heart broken. But what, exactly, could I write that:
wouldn’t make “Cullen” sound like a dork?
wouldn’t make me sound like a dork dorkily impersonating Cullen?
Those were the not-so-simple, gee-I-really-should’ve-thought-of-those-pesky-details-before-I-promised-he’d- write-her parts of the plan.
Hunched over my notebook, I spent most of English, history, Spanish, and art scribbling down, then scratching out, fits and starts of “Cullen’s” letter while simultaneously trying to ignore the attempts of my “friends” to bug me, such as:
The tunk-tunk-tunk of Goldie, in full pout mode, kicking the back of my chair;
Ace snoring a two-note, tone-deaf tune;
The guilt-inducing barbs Pierre muttered in murdered “French”;
Hiccup peeking at me every two seconds with the same woe-is-me expression Dasher and Dancer wear whenever their food bowl has been licked clean for a whopping thirty seconds;
Hayley’s glazed glow.
Even my teachers seemed bent on bugging. They expected me to parse sentences, recall long-dead emperors, direct Paco y Felipe a la biblioteca, and mix a batch of gloopy papier-mâché that reeked like curdled oatmeal.
Didn’t these people realize I had more important things on my mind?
Tunk-tunk-tunk.
I whirled on Goldie. “Sssssstop it!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop kicking my chair!”
“Okay.”
Tunk-tunk-tunk.
“You said I’d get an exclusive! And I will. I always get my . . . information.”
“Not this time,” I said.
“Then you force me to dig up something juicier.”
I felt what Cullen called “chicken skin” prickling my neck.
I scooted my desk out of Goldie’s reach and returned to more pressing issues, such as how to weasel out of my sticky situation without:
Hayley finding out and firing me and/or never speaking to me again;
Cullen finding out and adding my pearly whites to his shark-tooth necklace;
Having to immigrate to Antarctica.
Considering my dislike for writing, the South Pole seemed the best solution. Brutally cold, yes. But at least I could live a life virtually sneeze-free. I mean, what were the odds I was allergic to penguins and lichen?
After school, I rode the city bus to the hapkido studio, making a point to sit six seats behind Hiccup. I knew he wouldn’t attempt to glance at me over his shoulder for fear of a recurrence of torticollis, a neck injury he imagined he’d sustained during the first test of the Nice Alarm. (But that’s another story.)
Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky at the studio. By the time I handed in my registration form and purchased a uniform, Hic was the only person left in the boys’ locker room who could help me dress. I slipped easily into the elastic-waist pants, but the button-less shirt looked like an IQ test for Einstein. And we were due in the dojang in two minutes.
I swallowed a fish scale of anger—but could not, would not, gulp my pride.
Instead, I shook the shirt, bull-fighter-cape-style, hoping how-to instructions might flutter out from inside.
No such luck.
Time passed . . .
Hiccup lingered.
Finally, I let slip a faint “Help.”
Hiccup had been waiting for just that moment.
He leaped, MM-style, over two benches to my side and showed me how the shirt crisscrossed in front, tying beneath with a hidden string. “The outer flap will stay in place once we get your belt on,” he explained. “Take off your shoes. We train barefooted and—Oh, my.”
“What’s wrong?”