by Lee Wardlaw
A shadow fell across us from behind. “I want to know too,” Ace said.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
He straightened his sunglasses. “Tell you what?”
“Forget the innocent act, Ace. What did you whisper to Hic that made him rush off to the snack bar?”
He shrugged. “Not much. Just to ask the waiter for a tablespoon of . . . balsamic vinegar.”
“Balsamic vin—?” Then I remembered. “When Hic rejoined us, he wasn’t hicking anymore, was he? Tony’s cure—it works! But Ace, how did you know . . . ?”
A smile jerked his lips—then vanished.
“You!” I began. “You were outside the nurse’s office that day when Hayley pretended to have the hiccups! You and Goldie overheard Tony talking about the vinegar! You led Goldie away from the door, didn’t you?”
He shrugged again, but I knew I was right.
“You like Hiccup, don’t you, Ace,” Hayley said.
Another shrug. “Always have.”
Hayley hid a smile and nudged me. “The contract . . . ?”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But both of you have to promise never to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
Hayley crossed her heart.
Ace mimed sticking a needle in his eye.
I took a breath. “I said no to the publisher because he wanted to publish my books without Hiccup’s illustrations.”
Hayley gasped. “Why didn’t you tell Hic?”
“We’re not exactly, uh, speaking these days.”
“But he is—was—your best friend! He wouldn’t want you to turn down that kind of opportunity because of him.”
“That’s the other reason I didn’t say anything.” I sat at the pool’s edge, dangling my feet in the water. “It’s been Hiccup’s dream to get his cartoons published. How could I tell him the publisher thinks his art is no good? Especially when I think it is. I mean, he worked hard helping me research 101 Ways to Bug Your Parents. And his cartoons, they enhanced the list, made it funnier.”
Hayley sat to dangle her feet too, her sun-warmed arm touching mine, prickling the hairs there.
Ace moved to join us.
“You like Hiccup, don’t you, Steve,” Hayley said.
“Always have.” I splashed her with my foot.
She laughed and splashed back.
Ace froze. His dark brows arced as if he was seeing something, seeing us for the first time. Without a word, he turned and headed for the high dive.
Hayley watched him go, then bent to twiddle her fingers in the water. “By the way,” she murmured, her lips hidden by the curled C of her hair. “Now that Ace is gone, I can tell you. You won’t need to forward e-mails from Cullen anymore.”
I couldn’t look at her. “How come?”
“He—we—decided it was best not to write each other anymore.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Hayley. I know you really liked—him.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for being such a good friend. I never would’ve learned what an amazing writer Cullen is, what an amazing person Cullen is, if it wasn’t for you.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Goldie let out a shrill whistle. One arm waved like a palm tree in a hurricane as she pointed to the high dive.
Hayley squinted into the glare and I shielded my eyes as we watched Ace scale the steep metal rungs of the high dive. Up, up, up he went. When he reached the top, he parted the mass of balloons, sauntered the length of the board, bounced thrice with wide circular arm motions, and then—
—launched into a perfect jackknife dive.
When he hit the water, it barely splashed. He surfaced two seconds later, sunglasses still in place.
Goldie, Hiccup, Pierre, and Joonbi clapped, hooted, and whistled.
“Did you know he could do that?” I asked. “I didn’t know he could do that!”
“There’s a lot about Ace we don’t know,” Hayley said.
Huh. There’s a lot about a lot of people you don’t know . . .
She squinted again at the high dive. “Those are the ugliest balloons ever. If I were Joonbi, I’d hate my sisters too!”
“Maybe we should get rid of them for her. The balloons, not her sisters.”
Hayley leaped to her feet. “Great idea. Race you to the top!” She shot up the ladder, a steel-blue rocket aiming for the stars.
I made it as far as the second rung. High altitudes cause my stuffed nose to pound. “Can you untie them?” I called. “Or do you need scissors?”
“I’ll just pop them! Oh, Stephen, you’ve got to come up here! The view is amazing! I can see Hiccup and Joonbi—they’re sitting together, talking! And I can see the tennis courts and the lawn bowling area and the riding stables and the golf course and—”
She faltered. Stuttered.
“What?” I said, inching to the third rung. “What else do you see?”
Then I heard it.
The squeal. That serrated, girly-girl squeal:
“I SEE CULLEN!”
Chapter Twenty-six
Hayley streaked down the ladder, practically landing on my head. “Cullen’s on the golf course!” she said. “He’s playing golf!”
Varsity Tournament Today . . . Lemon County Welcomes . . .
“Where?” I asked.
“I just told you! On the golf course! There!” She pointed beyond the hedge. “He’s with the goons and another team. There’s a huge crowd!”
Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine High Schools!
Oh no.
OH NO.
I grabbed Hayley’s hand. “What are you going to do?”
“I want to watch him play. I want talk to him. For real this time, face-to-face!”
“But I thought you two decided—”
She shook off my hand. Sped away.
I sped after her at warp speed, slip-sliding on the wet concrete.
The lifeguard blew a whistle. “Walk, please!” she hollered. “WALK!”
“Yeah, fine, no problem!” I slowed to a speedy stroll until some guy accidentally distracted the lifeguard by canonballing atop two preschoolers.
I kicked into warp again. “Hayley, wait!”
She was yanking on shorts and shirt over her bathing suit . . . stuffing her feet into sneakers . . .
Another whistle blast.
Goldie’s ESP (Extra-Snoopy Perception) bristled to attention. “Is there a fire? A celebrity sighting? What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Nothing!” Hayley said. “I just saw—a friend. I need to talk to him.”
“Him? You mean he’s a he? A guy?” Goldie snatched her notepad from the table. “That means only one thing: Cullen Fu Handsome!”
Hayley flung open the gate, tore along the path.
“This is a bad, bad idea,” I said, catching her at last.
“Why?”
“Because . . . because . . .” I floundered for a plausible explanation. “You might fluster him! Ruin his concentration!”
“I’m not an idiot.” Hayley dodged two elderly ladies in tennis togs. “I just want to watch him play. I won’t talk to him till after the tournament.”
I heard a stampede behind me. Hic, Pierre, Ace, and Joonbi were charging down the golf cart path, Goldie in the lead.
“They’re playing the eighteenth hole,” Joonbi said. “That means the tourney’s almost over. Which team are we rooting for?”
“Zee burgundee boyz,” Pierre said.
Hayley had reached the crowd. “I can’t see anything from back here!” She snaked in between onlookers, ducking an elbow here, a camera bag there.
I serpentined in her wake, Goldie & Co. in tow.
“Ooo, it is him!” Goldie squealed. “Cullen Fu Handsome!”
“Shhhhhhhhh!”
A cluster of spectators glared at us, fingers to their lips.
“Sorry,” Hayley whispered. “Sneeze, can you see Cullen? Did he take his shot yet?”
The crowd burst into polite applause.
Hayley danced a little jig. “Yes!”
I peered around a she-bear of a woman wearing a sun visor, and caught a glimpse of Cullen as he plucked his ball from the hole. He waved it at the crowd. They burst into applause again. She-bear and Hayley clapped hardest of all.
“Who’s winning?” Hayley asked her. “Do you know Cullen Fu Hanson’s score?”
The woman turned. She was a dead ringer for Cullen, only prettier and less muscley. And sans the triangle goatee.
Auntie!
“You know my Cullen?” Auntie asked, smiling.
Hayley nodded. “Is he your son?”
“Nephew.” Auntie’s voice swelled with pride. “He pau now. Shot under par today. Da team captain, he go next. To win, he need to sink dis short putt. Den we go to state championship. Piece of cake, eh? Hush, now. Here he come.”
Marcos the Moke.
My stomach squirmed. I hadn’t been this close to him since that day at Lickety-Split Chick.
He selected a club from his bag, gave a thumbs-up to the crowd, and strutted onto the green. His ball lay about three feet from the hole.
Piece of cake, indeed. I’d sunk a million shots like this at Gadabout. There was no way Marcos could miss—even blindfolded.
He made a big production anyway, to keep the crowd in suspense and himself in the spotlight. First he hunched, eyeing the hole while stroking his chin. Next he placed his club on the ground to measure the miniscule distance. Then he removed his cap to scratch his scarecrow hair and stroked his chin again.
“If he licks his finger and checks the wind direction,” Hayley muttered, “I’m going to scream.”
“You’re so tall, Hector,” Joonbi whispered. “Can you tell me what’s happening? I can’t see a thing!”
“There is ample space right here,” Hiccup said. He took her hand and helped her wedge into the spot directly in front of me.
The inky tuft of her ponytail tickled my nose.
“Uh, Joonbi, could you move to your left just a tad?”
Marcos stood over the ball, club grasped in his hands.
I scrubbed at my nose. “Joonbi, your pontytail—”
Marcos wiggled his butt. Glanced at the hole. Glanced at the ball. Hole, ball, hole, ball . . .
The crowd held a collective breath.
Another butt wiggle.
Another fierce nose tickle.
And then—
I tried to hold back. Honest, I did. I pinched my nostrils and sucked in a breath so hard that I almost absorbed Joonbi’s entire head, but as Marcos attempted to tap the ball—
“AHHHHH-CHOOOOOEY!”
Marcos twitched.
The ball arced—
and rolled past the hole.
Half the crowd released a collective moan. The other half clapped, cheered, and shook hands with the team from Thomas Paine High.
Marcos’s face paled. Then it darkened to cherry punch . . . roasted eggplant . . . black death . . .
He let out a roar.
“I recognize that sneeze! Where is he? Where is that snot-nosed punk!”
“Eep!” I tried to edge backward, but my legs turned rubbery like overcooked spaghetti.
I saw a club sweep high—and charge.
People squealed, shouted, scattered . . .
“YOU ARE SO DEAD!” Marcos screamed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Run! my brain ordered my legs. Run—or die!
The next thing I remember, I was dangling from a thick tree limb, heart pounding, chest heaving, my hands and ankles clutching for dear life. Marcos raged below, cussing, grunting, flailing with his club to whomp me like I was a human piñata.
“Mr. Mathias!” a voice shouted.
Marcos swung and missed again. He bellowed in frustration.
I hugged the limb tighter, the bark scraping my cheek.
“Mr. Mathias, stop right now.”
“No!”
“Put the club down. You’re embarrassing yourself! You’re embarrassing our team. You’re disgracing Patrick Henry High.”
“I don’t care!” Marcos stabbed at me with a finger. “This punk cost me the game, Coach! He ruined my chance at the championship! If he hadn’t sneezed, I would’ve sunk that shot. He messed with me on purpose! He’s a sneaky, snotty, conniving—”
“That’s enough.” The coach’s tone left no room for negotiation. “Leave him alone and come with me. Now.”
Marcos spat a curse word, flung his club to the grass, and stormed toward the clubhouse.
“You okay, kiddo?” the coach asked, peering at me upside down. “Did he hurt you?”
I gulped. Licked my lips. Croaked: “I’m—okay.”
“Do you need help getting out of that tree?”
“Yep.” My hands and feet felt permanently bonded to the limb.
Something brushed the tips of my straggly hair.
“Relax your feet, Stephen,” Hayley advised, gently touching my head again. “Uncross your ankles. Then relax your legs.”
I did as I was told.
“Relax da fingers,” Cullen added. “First one. Den da others. No worries. I got you, menehune.”
I let go.
His massive arms caught me around the waist, eased me to the ground, steadying me as the blood rushed to my head.
“You aw right?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I took a dizzy step. “Thanks.”
“Yes, thank you, Cullen . . .” Hayley said, her voice filled with Sigh.
No-oh-no. Panic washed over me again. Hayley and Cullen were standing mere molecules away from each other!
“Time to leave, Hayley,” I said, yanking her arm.
“Ow. Let go.”
The coach patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Mr. Mathias, kiddo. Inexcusable behavior. Inexcusable.” He shook his head. “Mr. Hanson, excellent game. You played very well. We’ll talk later. I need to make sure Marcos doesn’t leave the country club before he and I have a little chat.”
The coach left.
I yanked at Hayley again. “Time to—”
But Joonbi, Hiccup, and the rest of the gang clamored around me.
“Are your muscles and tendons sprained or sore?” Hic asked, his face pale, frightened. “I insist you receive immediate medical attention! And it would behoove you to remember RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.” He patted my shoulder, my arm, my back, my shoulder again.
“I’m okay, Hic. Really.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” Joonbi said, hanging her head. “All my years of training, and I did nothing! When that guy charged at you, I should’ve taken him down. But he looked crazy and he came at you so fast! Father will be disappointed in me.”
“Sparring in the safety of a dojang is far different from an authentically dangerous situation such as this,” Hiccup assured her. “None of us realized Marcos’s intent, nor his insanity, until too late.”
Joonbi beamed a grateful smile.
“What a super-duper scoop!” Goldie yelped, scribbling into her notepad. “I can see the headline now: Golf Tourney Lost by a Nose! Team Captain Goes Bananas; Tries to Bludgeon Brainy Bugging Boy!”
“Yeah, about that,” I said to Cullen. “I’m really, really sorry about the sneeze. I feel awful. I can’t believe it. I lost the game for your team! I—I don’t know what to say. The championship . . . your scholarship!”
“Yeah, das one big bummahs, man.” He made a face. Twirled his club. Gazed out at the eighteenth hole and sighed. “But . . . not your fault, brah. Part of da game is grace under pressure. Sneezes happen. Mistakes happen. Either you learn from dem, try fo’ stay focused despite dem—can or no can. Marcos—he no can.”
I shuddered. “I can’t ever go back to my classes at Patrick Henry, can I? Marcos will kill me. I mean, you warned me not to humiliate him again—”
Cullen shook his head. “Dat moke wen humiliate himself.”
“But
he blames me.”
“No worries, brah. Coach will deal. Marcos no can lay one hand on you. If he try, everyone goin’ know eets him, eh?”
“I guess.”
Cullen draped a heavy arm across my shoulders. “Come meet Auntie. All of you. She got one cooler full of Lappert’s ice cream in da trunk of da car. Kauai pie flavor. So ono. Wen grind some last night and it da kine wenbrok da mout!”
“I need a translator on aisle three!” Goldie said. She nudged Ace and whispered, “But he is a dreamsicle, isn’t he? No wonder Hayley is hopelessly lost in Crushville.”
Ace stuffed his sunglasses into a pocket. “Hayley likes . . . Cullen?”
“Well, duh.”
“I thought . . .”
“Hmph! Don’t you ever read my columns?”
“Not if I can help it.” He glanced at Hayley, plucked a pine needle from his shirt, and sauntered up the hill.
“There is still the matter of Joonbi’s birthday cake,” Hiccup said. “If I understand Cullen’s tropical terminology, I believe it would taste immensely ono with Auntie’s ice cream.”
“That’s a great idea, Hector!” Joonbi said. “My sisters ‘forgot’ to buy ice cream for my party, but we’ve got millions of spoons. Let’s show Auntie where to bring the cooler.” She took Hiccup’s hand, buzzing him back to the pool.
Everyone else started to follow. Except . . .
“Cullen!” Hayley said. “Can I . . . may I talk to you a second?”
My head swirled. My legs felt rubbery again. “No!”
“Of course she can!” Goldie singsonged, stopping to lick her fingers and flip to a fresh page of her notepad.
Hayley snorted. “Privately.”
Goldie turned on her heel, pebbles spraying. “Hmph! Like I won’t find out eventually,” she muttered. “I always get my . . . information.” She stomped away.
“Wat’s da haps?” Cullen asked Hayley, looking polite but confused. “Uh, wot your name again?”
Hayley smiled. “You don’t have to pretend, Cull. Steve knows all about us, remember?”
Cullen fingered his shark-tooth necklace and glanced at me for help.
Hot panic roiled in my stomach, raced into my throat. “Hayley,” I choked. “Don’t!”
But she did.
“I couldn’t let things end like they did last night, Cullen. Not without you hearing how I feel too . . .”