by Lee Wardlaw
Hayley gaped. “You’re—jealous!”
“I’m what?” My nose tickled. I scrubbed at it—ow!—to subdue the sneeze.
“You heard me! Jealous. Because he writes better than you do. Even his subject matter is better than yours. Cullen doesn’t make lists of how to annoy parents or teachers. He writes about important, enchanting things. If a kiss could be sent through cyberspace, you would read this e-mail with your lips. There! Isn’t he a master of eloquence?”
I rolled my eyes. “A master of mush, maybe.”
“Think what you like. I think he’s a genius.”
“Let’s not exaggerate.”
“G-E-N!” Her chin tilted. “I-U-S!”
“If you insist,” I said with a bow.
A golden tornado whirled between us. “Gotcha!” Goldie exclaimed, sending my sandwich and Cullen’s letters flying.
Chapter Seventeen
My stomach gurgled as I looked forlornly at my sandwich. “Thanks heaps, Goldie,” I said.
“Is this the you know where you two met yesterday morning?” she asked with a smirk of disappointment. “Not much of a hiding place. I found you like that!” She snapped two ring-encrusted fingers. “Ooo, what are those?” The fingers itched toward Cullen’s e-mails.
“Fritos,” I said.
“Not those. Those.”
“None of your business.” Hayley zipped the printouts into her pack with a rrrrip of ultimatum: Don’t touch—Or. Else. “What do you want? Sneeze and I are having a private conversation.”
Goldie flicked at her hair. “I’m here to offer my congrats on your miraculous recovery from the hiccups! And speaking of hiccups, I just got the scoop that Sneeze is persona au gratin with Hector!”
“Unless he’s a potato,” Hayley said, “you mean persona non grata.”
“Whatever. Sneeze, dish the dirt! What’s with you and Hic?”
“They had a misunderstanding,” Hayley said. “Now scoop somewhere else, please. We’d like to be left alone, if you don’t mind—”
“Oh, but I do!” Goldie wriggled with smugness. “And it was way more than a misunderstanding.” She flipped through several pages of her notepad. “Here’s the buzz: Sneeze stole the Bee directly from Hiccup’s hive!”
“That’s a lie!” I said.
Hayley frowned. “Who, or what, is the Bee?”
“Hiccup’s one-and-only true love!”
“Hic has a girlfriend?” Hayley gave a whoop. “That’s great! Good for him! Good for her! It’s about time someone realized what a sweetie he is. When did this happen? Who is she? What’s her name?”
“Joonbi Park,” Goldie went on, consulting her notes again. “She’s a major celeb in the world of marital arts, known competitively as the Bee because she swarms to quick victory, her opponents defeated before they know what’s stung ’em.”
“Martial arts, Goldie,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Joonbi is trained in martial arts, not marital arts.”
“Whatever.” She clicked her pen. “Hiccup’s told me his version of this sordid story of friendship, betrayal, and karate chops. How about you?”
“Steve!” Hayley shot me another SOS. “You stole your best friend’s girl?”
“He’s not my best friend,” I said.
Hayley snorted. “Since when?”
“Since he stole Hiccup’s Bee!” Goldie said.
“Joonbi is not Hic’s girlfriend!” I said.
“But you admit you stole her,” Goldie said.
“Did you?” Hayley asked.
“No! You should know by now that ninety-nine point nine percent of anything emanating from Goldie’s mouth is highly suspect.”
“Hmph!” Goldie hmphed. “Is that so? Then why is the Bee buzzing around telling everyone that she loves you?”
“What?”
“And why,” Goldie continued with a head flounce, “is she asking what classes you have, who your friends are, and where you hang out? Hmmmmm?”
“I don’t know. But if she’s my girlfriend, she wouldn’t have to ask, would she?”
“Sounds like a flimsy argument to me,” Goldie said. “Maybe it’s time I interviewed Joonbi myself. Her side of this love triangle should make an excellent lead story for my gossip column on Friday!”
I leaped to my feet. “That’s it!” I said. “I’m done. I’m gone!”
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Goldie demanded.
“We haven’t finished our talk!” Hayley said. “You haven’t eaten lunch!”
I didn’t intend to do either. Not there. Not now. There comes a point when a guy can take only so much soap opera before he starts needing an acid bath.
Without a backward glance, I hotfooted straight to my school sanctuary: the nurse’s office.
“Com bin, Steeb, com bin!” Tony said, chewing the words through a meaty sandwich. He downed the mouthful with a swig of soda, then brushed crumbs from his scrubs. “Is Miz Barker with you again too? No? More’s the pity. I like her salt. But I s’pose a man’s gotta sit with his own, now and again, away from the buckle bunnies.”
I didn’t know what buckle bunnies were, but if furry, diminutive rabbits were involved, most likely so were girls.
“What’s your pleasure today, Steve? Allergy shot or grub?”
“Grub.”
“Take a seat and strap on the feed bag!” Tony leaned forward in his leather chair, grabbed another soda from the mini-fridge, and lobbed it (the soda, not the fridge) across his desk.
The cold, wet can smacked into my hand. I spritzed it open and copied his swig. Sharp, sweet bubbles fizzed my nose. I sneezed.
“I’m right honored to see ya twice in two days,” he said.
“Specially since you must be busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob-eatin’ contest. How’s things at Patrick Henry? Keepin’ above snakes?”
“I think so.” Conversations with Tony were sometimes as difficult to translate as Cullen’s. “My classes are tough, but a good kind of tough, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” More crumbs snowed onto his shirt. “Makin’ any friends?”
“One or two.”
“Makin’ any enemies?”
“One or two.”
He laughed. “Then you’re doin’ sumthin’ right. Say, what’s happenin’ with that ingenious alarm clock o’ yours?”
I’d forgotten he didn’t know what happened at the convention. Quickly, I filled him in. But as he started to offer condolences, I added: “I’m okay with Mr. Patterson’s decision, Tony. He isn’t the only fish in the sea. I’ll use what I learn in my CAD class to design a virtual mockup I can submit to other companies.”
“That’s what I like to hear. No hangin’ up the fiddle for you!” Tony wedged the last of his sandwich into his mouth and extended a hand. We shook, his encouragement sealed with mayo.
“Sweet on any gals yet?” he asked next.
“No.” I twisted the stem off my apple.
“Not even the salty Miz Barker?”
“No!” I studied the apple for wormholes.
“Now that’s a yarn if ever I heard one. C’mon, Stephen, acknowledge the corn and let’s talk about it. Might as well, seein’s how you obviously didn’t come here to eat.”
I plopped the untried apple back into my sack. “There’s nothing to talk about. I like Hayley. She likes someone else. End of story.”
“Oh, that’ll happen a lot.”
I choked on a gulp of soda. “You mean . . . I’m gonna feel like this . . . more than once?”
Tony winked. “How ya think I got hitched four times?”
“Four . . . ?” The room reeled. “Man, how’d you do it? How’d you let yourself fall for girl after girl after girl if you knew things wouldn’t last?”
He grew a Cheshire cat grin. “Ya don’t never got a say’bout where that heart of yours is goin’ or who it’s goin’ with! A heart has its own mind, and that’s a fact. Besides, when yo
u start courtin’ a gal, your brain’s not thinkin’ one twitch o’ a cat’s tail about The End. No sir. It’s too busy bein’ roped and tied and led around by your heart to allow much thinkin’ ’bout anythin’ ’cept . . .” Tony paused, his chili-brown eyes trance-like, his voice tumbled low. “ . . . ’cept the fresh-cream scent o’ her skin that makes ya dizzier than any fancy perfume. The way her hair flows black as a river on a moonless night. Or how when she looks at ya, your insides shiver like a lake when a breeze breathes over it.”
I swallowed. “Is that a poem?”
“Naw. But she was.”
“Which one?”
“All of ’em.”
I crumpled my sack. Hurled it into the trash. “I don’t want to feel like this again,” I said. “Never. Ever. It—hurts.”
“I didn’t say it don’t,” Tony replied. “That kind o’ pain compares only to a good tramplin’ by a fifteen-hundred-pound rodeo bull. ’Course, ya don’t think about that happenin’ neither. The moment you touch his back, there’s nuthin’ on your mind ’cept hang on.” He tapped a picture frame with a calloused finger. “Remember this?”
I’d seen the photo last year. But to be polite, I peered again at the faded picture of a much younger Tony—clad in jeans, boots, and plaid shirt—hovering over a Hummer-like beast with sharp horns the size of bazookas.
“This here’s the famous Red Rock,” Tony explained. “World Champion Buckin’ Bull. He’s tossin’ me like he tossed the other three hundred an’ eight cowboys who tried to sit him.”
“Wow. You rode that sucker?”
“Ain’t you listenin’? Red Rock was unrideable. He retired undefeated. But I gave him a go. Three times.”
“Three . . . ! Tony, you could’ve gotten maimed. Killed. Why’d you do it?”
With his thumb he wiped dust from the frame’s wooden edge. “’Cause Red was the greatest challenge. And each time I gave him a go, I knew I’d learn somethin’ important about him, somethin’ important ’bout myself that I could use one day. So the risk of not ridin’ him was greater than the fear, greater than the risk it took to give him a whirl. Get what I’m sayin’?”
“I think so.” I peered a final time at Red Rock’s massive body, his sharp horns, roiled dust beneath jackknifing hooves. “You’re saying that compared to love, bull-riding is a piece of cake.”
The end-of-lunch bell rang.
Tony shook his head. “Why do I even try with you, boy? Might just as well be a guard dog barkin’ at a knot.” He swept off his hat and swatted me. “Get outta here. Go on, move your tail to English before I buck you there myself!”
Laughing, he planted a boot on my butt as I escaped out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Time oozed the rest of that hot school day till I felt as melted as the clocks Salvador Dalí painted in the picture my art teacher discussed. Of course, it didn’t help that my classes were made further surreal by:1. Hiccup, radiating at me the vengeful fury of a thousand suns
2. Goldie, emanating gloat rays I took to mean I-found-Joonbi-and-guess-what-she-told-me!
3. Pierre, peeking fearfully at me from beneath his beret in case Goldie’s gloat rays meant I’d told her where he’d been MIA all summer
4. Ace, holding another textbook. (And he wasn’t even using it as a pillow!)
5. Hayley, engrossed in writing, over and over in her binder: Cullen Hanson, Mrs. Cullen Hanson, Hayley Hanson, Hayley Barker Hanson, Ms. Hayley B. Hanson, ad nauseam
I couldn’t wait to get to hapkido. Today, with any luck, I’d learn how to kick something. Hard.
Have you ever been walking along, deep in thought, when a bee zips out of the wild blue yonder and bounces off your face?
That’s what happened to me at Hapkido Family Fitness as I left the boys’ locker room.
Except this Bee zipped faster than your average insect.
And weighed eighty pounds more.
“Steve! There you are!”
Bounce.
“Aaaaaa!” I stumbled backward into the door. It swung outward, smacking me into Joonbi’s slender arms.
“Aaaaaa!” I bounced off her again, landing on my butt.
A petite but strong hand with dainty shell-pink nails hauled me to my feet.
“I finally found you!” Joonbi said in her lilting laugh. “Did you get my messages? I called you four times last night.”
HIC!
I turned toward the angry sound. Steps away, Hiccup stood, arms crossed, at the entrance to the dojang. His eyes bored into mine in an SOAA (Squint of Attempted Assassination).
“I couldn’t wait to talk more 101 Ways to Bug Your Parents ,” Joonbi continued without my answer. “I tried to find you at school this morning, but no one knew what classes you’re taking.”
I started to explain about Patrick Henry, but thought better of it.
“At lunch, I met this girl who claimed to be one of your ‘bestest best friends.’ But she wouldn’t tell me anything about you unless I agreed to an interview for the school paper. When I said no, you should’ve seen her reaction! She actually stamped a foot! Reminded me of Jek ki, my oldest sister. Truth!”
“That would be Goldie,” I said, relieved that Ms. Snoop hadn’t succeeded in getting or giving any . . . information.
“I hope she’s not your sister or something.”
I choked. “Great golf tees, NO!”
“Are you still free to get a smoothie after class? Aigoo, don’t let Master Yates see your belt dragging on the floor like that! Allow me.”
Joonbi’s arms encircled my waist, lassoing me with the belt. She stood so close that the inky tuft of her ponytail itched my nose.
I sneezed.
“Steve, I can’t tie this when you’re arching away like that. I don’t bite. Truth!”
HIC-HIC!
Two more angry eruptions from Hiccup. His SOAA practically bored straight into my skull, through the wall, and into the skateboard shop down the block.
“Tuck one end of your belt under like this, bend the short end over . . . ” Joonbi hum-buzzed while she worked. “ . . . pull both ends to tighten and the finished knot resembles a fortune cookie! See?”
“Cool,” I said, free at last to sidle away and scrub my tickled nose. “Thanks.”
“Now for your fortune!” Joonbi pretended to read from a scrap of paper: “You will share secrets with a new friend while imbibing a liquid refreshment.”
“Secrets? But I don’t have any—”
“HIC-HUMPH!” Hic stomped into the dojang.
“Business before pleasure, though,” Joonbi said. “Today you’ll be learning how to defend yourself with an unlikely weapon.”
“What kind of weapon?” My mind swirled with exciting possibilities: nunchuks, bokkens, maybe even the ’alngegh, a Klingon battle ax.
“A cane!” Joonbi announced.
“A cane cane? You mean like what little old men use?”
“I told you it was an unlikely weapon!” Joonbi zipped into the dojang, where the rest of the students had assembled.
I hurried after her and tripped—sprawling onto the padded mat.
“Excellent falling skills!” For the second time in five minutes, she hauled me up.
I glanced back to see what I’d tripped over.
“My apolhic!gies,” Hiccup said with a bow. “My left foot inadvertently strayed into your path.”
Inadvertently, my foot!
“Apology accepted,” I said coolly.
“Attention!” a red belt ordered.
Students bowed to Joonbi and raced to form lines on the mat.
I turned to take my place with the other white belts—
—and sprawled in another face-plant.
“My apolhic!gies,” Hiccup said. “Restless Leg Syndrome.”
“I’ll Restless Leg Syndrome you,” I muttered.
I didn’t get the chance.
Master Yates strode into the dojang. Class began immediately with warm-up exercises an
d forms. Then, after dividing us into groups of separate belt levels, Master Yates ran through a series of basic blocks, strikes, and kicks. I punched and ki-yupped till my muscles shrieked, but I managed not to embarrass myself.
The “best” was saved for last. Fifteen minutes before class ended, Master Yates clapped his hands for silence and gestured at the equipment shelves. “Choose a cane for today’s weapons lesson.”
Several younger students gamboled across the mat to snatch canes. They hobbled in circles, clutching their backs, cracking geezer jokes, and cackling like wizened crones in a fairy tale.
Master Yates clapped his hands again and murmured a reprimand. Red-faced, the students slunk back into line.
“Your perception of the cane and its owner is a common one,” Master Yates said with a wry smile, “and may be used to your advantage. There is hidden strength in appearing weak, frail, or injured. An assailant may make the mistake of assuming you are easy prey, discovering all too late that you are not.
“The greatest strength of the cane is this: It is a potent defensive weapon! Unlike most weapons, it is already drawn. Therefore, if an attack is imminent, you can strike with instantaneous, dramatic speed and power to disable your assailant. Like so.”
Master Yates motioned for Joonbi to join him at the mirrors. “Fighting stance!”
Joonbi pretended to rush him with a knife.
Cane in hand, he pantomimed several fast, hard strikes and hooking techniques to disarm and take her down. Each movement was focused and controlled; never once did he actually touch or hurt her with the cane, although she pantomimed that he had. The entire demonstration took seconds. Joonbi faked a grimace from where she lay on the mat. Then she sprang to her feet and bowed.
Everyone applauded.
“Choose your sparring partners!” Master Yates said.
Hiccup headed straight for me.
Joonbi zigzagged between us. “If we’re quiet,” she whispered, “we can talk while we train.”
She proceeded to show me the correct way to hold the cane, block an attack, and take down an attacker.
“I was wondering,” she murmured, “if you’ve ever thought of writing another bugging book? 101 Ways to Bug Your Sisters , perhaps?”