Pennybaker School Is Headed for Disaster

by Jennifer Brown

  “Sure,” I said, studying Arthura Crabbe very carefully. “She’s inside. Go on over.”

  Two teeth flashed between her squeezed cheeks. “Thanks, Thomas Fallgrout. Have a good day.”

  She hopped all the way onto her bike seat and started pedaling, easing out of Chip Mason’s driveway and across to ours. I watched as she got off, removed her helmet, shook out her hair, and skipped up our walk to the front door. After a few seconds, Erma appeared, and Arthura disappeared inside our house.

  After a beat, Chip turned to me. “Hey, Thomas?”

  “Yeah, Chip?”

  “You never said. What is it people think about me that I should be so worried about?”

  I grunted with frustration. “Nothing, Chip. Just forget it. I’ve gotta go.”

  Before he could argue, I swept up my pencil and index card and walked back home, wondering how I would avoid Mom and Grandma Jo and Erma and Arthura until Dad got home.

  TRICK #13

  POOF OF SMOKE AND THE GHOST CAT APPEARS

  Pettigrew Park was the actual center of Boone County and was the hub of all things play. There were baseball diamonds and tennis courts, playgrounds, spraygrounds, skate parks, shelters, fields, running trails, and soccer goals. Everyone went to Pettigrew Park.

  But today, Pettigrew Park wasn’t looking so much like a hub. In fact, it was looking pretty empty. Way emptier than I expected it to look, especially given that I had told the guys to be there at noon to practice, and not a single one of them was there. I was the captain; they were supposed to take me seriously.

  I took a seat on the merry-go-round and pushed myself in circles with my feet. I pulled out my straw and studied it. I wasn’t sure why this was suddenly so important to me, but it was, especially since things had gotten so weird with the missing head and all. I smoothed the tape around the straw, pulled out a wadded knot of paper from my pocket, and popped it into my mouth.

  So nobody was going to show up. Okay. I could deal with that. But just because they weren’t practicing didn’t mean I couldn’t practice.

  Still spinning, I raised the straw to my mouth and pushed the spitwad into it with my tongue. I waited until I’d made a few revolutions and chose a target—a pine tree on the edge of the playground. I took a deep breath and spit with everything I had.

  I missed.

  But not by much.

  I chewed up another piece of paper and tried again. I missed again, but then the next time I hit the tree with a thop, right in the center of the trunk. It was great, so I did it again. And again. Next thing I knew, I had forgotten all about everyone standing me up at the park, I was having such a good time. I started experimenting with doubles—thop thop—and then triples—thop thop thop. I worked my feet in the dirt to spin the merry-go-round faster and faster, so fast I almost couldn’t see the tree as it whizzed by. I loaded up again, took a deep breath, and …

  “Gross!”

  I planted my shoes in the dirt so hard it almost pulled me completely off the merry-go-round. I slowed to a stop, but not slow enough for my eyes to catch up with the rest of my body. The world was swoopy and out of focus. I turned myself toward the sound of the voice, and my vision sharpened on the form of Patrice Pillow, who was standing right next to the pine tree, wiping a spitwad off the center of her forehead.

  Louis XIV: Spitwad sniper demise. Lethal lugie.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I guess not,” she said. Her face was all scrunched up in a way that reminded me of Arthura Crabbe in her bicycle helmet.

  “I missed my target,” I said.

  “Well, it’s good to know I wasn’t the target. Nasty.”

  She wiped her palms on her skirt and then brushed her hands together as she walked toward the merry-go-round. She sat next to me. I wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but when she started to dig her toe into the dirt and turn us, my stomach started to feel a little wonky. Too much spinning. Too much girl.

  “So it’s true, then, huh?” she asked.

  “What’s true?”

  “That you’re still insisting on having the spitwad war. Despite, you know, everything that’s happened.”

  I picked up my feet and sat cross-legged, scooting back so I was in the center of the merry-go-round. “Well, why not? I mean, I don’t get it. It was just a statue.”

  She dragged her toe and we skidded to a stop. She turned and shook her head at me. “You have to quit talking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “‘Just a statue.’ It will make people …” She pressed her lips together.

  “Make people what?” I slipped my straw back into my pocket.

  She ducked her head. “You know … suspicious.”

  I stared at her, and she sighed.

  “Listen, Thomas. I wrote this story once. It was about this newlywed couple, and they were being haunted by the ghost of a feral cat.”

  “A cat,” I repeated. “Really? Who gets haunted by a cat?”

  She socked me in the shoulder. “Hush; you’re missing the point. This cat was really making their lives miserable. Things were going missing, doors were closing on their own, noises in the dark, that kind of thing. And the wife, she was starting to lose it. Like, really lose it.” She swirled her fingers at her temples in the universal motion for “crazy.” “But the husband, he was doing okay, you know? He was just going on about his life like normal. He couldn’t understand why his wife was so freaked out about this cat. He told everyone that nothing was going on. That his wife was the problem. But it turned out he was the cat from the very beginning.”

  She stared at me meaningfully.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “The guy was a cat? Like a shapeshifter or something?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No. Why does everyone say that?” She slapped her palms on her knees. “The guy was the one doing the haunting.”

  “So he was dead?”

  She grunted and whacked her knees again. “No!”

  “Well, how could a live guy be a ghost? Don’t ghosts, by definition, have to be dead?”

  “He wasn’t an actual ghost. He was doing things to make it appear that the cat was haunting her.” She looked like she’d had to explain this way too often.

  “So I’m a guy pretending to be a cat,” I said. “I still don’t get it.”

  “You’re not a … You aren’t pretending … Ugh; just forget it. Forget I said anything.” She stood up, and the merry-go-round turned slowly from her movement. “I shouldn’t have bothered to come here.”

  That was when it dawned on me, the whole point of her cat story. I slid to the edge of the merry-go-round and stopped it. “Wait. So you’re saying people think I’m the one who stole the head of horror?”

  She closed her eyes like she was in pain. “You shouldn’t call it that.”

  “Sorry. The statue. You think I stole the statue?”

  She shrugged. “I was just telling you a ghost story. It’s my unique gift, remember? Just like yours is making things disappear.”

  I stood. “Okay, there are a lot more magic tricks than just making things disappear,” I said. “There are card tricks, sawing people in half, lots of chemistry tricks, making things appear … wait. I can make things disappear. So people do think I stole the head. Why would I want that horrible thing?”

  “You shouldn’t call it that,” she said again. “Actually, I need to go. My mom wanted me to come home for lunch.” She edged away from me like I was a hungry grizzly and we were alone in the forest.

  “But you have to convince them,” I said, following her. She sped up. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “See you at school, Thomas,” she said, and jogged down one of the paths into the woods.

  “I’m not the ghost cat! I’m not!” I yelled, but she was already gone and didn’t hear me.

  TRICK #14

  CHAINED TO THE THUNK

  I spent extra time on my tie on Monday morning, pulling
it into a perfect knot, yanking on the edges until they were stiff and straight. They tickled each side of my chin every time I moved.

  Louis XIV: Deadly tickle fight. Worse, nondeadly tickle fight with Erma, who tinkled every time someone touched her armpits. (Trust me. I learned this the hard way.)

  I also brushed my hair carefully, using water and some of Dad’s gel to smooth it down over my forehead. I even gel-glued the cowlick flat on the back of my head. I pulled out a clean white shirt (the one I’d been saving for second semester) and used Mom’s sewing kit to attach two buttons to my vest. They weren’t the real buttons—as far as I knew, my vest’s real buttons had been in the basement of Pennybaker School since my first day, when they popped off and rolled down the stairs. I’d replaced one with a green button from Grandma Jo’s old coat, and the other with a pearly white button from one of Erma’s old Easter dresses. But at least my vest buttoned, and if I held my books carefully in front of me, nobody would be any wiser.

  I washed my face and brushed my teeth and even rinsed with mouthwash. A guy couldn’t make a good impression with zombie breath.

  All finished, I stood back and studied myself in the mirror. I looked … pretty much the same, except my tie-wad wasn’t so waddy and didn’t look as much like a blob of brown mold growing out of my chest. I let out a gust of air I’d been holding.

  “Useless,” I said to the mirror. I popped off the buttons and threw them in the trash.

  “What was that?” Dad was standing in the doorway, his morning coffee in hand like always.

  “Do I look like a ghost cat to you, Dad?” I asked, turning one way and then the other.

  “A ghost cat,” he repeated. He pondered, pooching his lips. “Nope. I’d say you look much more like a scurvy pirate. Or maybe a runaway lab experiment gone wrong.” He made a monster face and then winked at me in the mirror, but when he saw that my expression didn’t change (not to mention, I didn’t even bother to make my fingers into a pirate hook at all), he got serious. “What’s up, pal? What’s a ghost cat, anyway?”

  “He’s a guy who tries to make everyone think everything is normal so he can drive his wife crazy,” I said, pushing past him. I picked up my backpack, which was leaning against the wall next to the stairs.

  “I didn’t know you were married. I’d have bought you a gift,” Dad said, following me. We reached the bottom of the stairs, and he put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him. “Really, you’re not making any sense. Is everything okay?”

  I nodded, then shook my head, then nodded again. “I guess so. It’s just that Mrs. Heirmauser’s head is missing, and I think maybe people think I took it.”

  Dad’s hand fluttered near his heart involuntarily, all joking instantly over. “Yes, I heard about this heist. Such a shame that someone would do that. Everyone in the town loved Mrs. Heirmauser. She was the best.”

  “So I hear,” I mumbled, heading toward the kitchen, which was eerily missing the sound of Mom and Grandma Jo bickering. I could smell sausage. My stomach growled.

  “I don’t understand, though. Why would people think you took it?”

  “Arthura thinks he took it,” Erma said. She popped an orange slice into her mouth and smiled an orange-rind smile at me.

  “Shut up, Erma,” I said, sliding into my chair.

  “Thomas,” Mom scolded. “Don’t tell your sister to shut up.”

  I piled sausage and scrambled eggs on my plate. “Fine. Erma, be quiet or I’ll spit in your juice.”

  “Not much better,” Mom said.

  Erma pulled the orange slice out of her mouth. “Blah blah blah blah blah,” she said, to prove that when Mom was around, she didn’t have to be quiet just because I told her to. And that she wasn’t worried that I would actually spit in anything.

  Dad sat next to me. He was holding his briefcase in his lap, and he had his suit coat on. “You didn’t answer me,” he said. “Why would people think you took the Heirmauser statue?”

  I bit into a sausage and shrugged. “I guess because I don’t get why it’s such a big deal. That head was gruesome.”

  Mom gasped and dropped a spatula. Dad flinched, and a wave of coffee splashed out of his cup and onto the kitchen table. Grandma Jo chuckled.

  “See? He totally took it,” Erma said. “Arthura’s very intuitive.” She stuck another orange into her mouth and opened a book, her legs swinging under the table. She didn’t even notice the look of fear everyone was giving me.

  “Thomas,” Mom said in a low, ominous voice. “Did you take Mrs. Heirmauser’s statue?”

  “Who knew the little guy had it in him?” Grandma Jo added. Still giggling, she ruffled my hair. I tried to duck away. I’d spent all that time gelling and combing for nothing.

  “Mother!” Mom scolded. “This is no laughing matter. That statue is very important to the history of Boone County. Whoever took it is public enemy number one right now.”

  “Cool,” Grandma Jo breathed. “You’re a celebrity, Tommy!”

  Wait. Public enemy number one? I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded really serious. I had wanted to be number one at a lot of things in my life, but “public enemy” was definitely not one of them. It sounded kind of dangerous. And lonely.

  “I didn’t take anything,” I said, dropping my sausage onto my plate. I looked around. Everyone was staring at me as if to say, Of course, that’s exactly what someone who stole something would say. “I swear! I didn’t even like that thing. It creeped me out. Why would I want to take it? Don’t you guys believe me?” I looked around the room. Nope, they didn’t believe me at all.

  Finally, Dad cleared his throat and took his coffee cup to the sink. “Of course we believe you, pal,” he said. “If you say you didn’t take it, then we”—he glanced at Mom—“have to believe you.” He rumpled my hair, too, but suddenly I didn’t care as much. “Have to believe you,” he’d said. Not “want to,” not “do,” but “have to.” If I couldn’t even look innocent to my family, what was the point in trying to prove my innocence to a whole school full of strangers?

  I had a feeling I was about to have an Everyone at School Hates You, You Lying, Stealing, Liary Stealer Adventure.

  Just like before, Wesley wasn’t waiting for me in our usual spot in the vestibule. There were a few kids hanging around, most of them whispering to each other while they peered at the pedestal. Principal Rooster had put on a curly brown wig and bent behind it so that his chin was resting on top, posing as Mrs. Heirmauser.

  If the original statue had been scary, this was the stuff night terrors were made of.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a boy who was passing by. He opened his mouth to answer, but when he turned and saw who he was answering to, he snapped it closed again and raced away, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Samara Lee and Dawson Ethan were standing nearby, their heads pressed together.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked, butting between them and gesturing toward Principal Rooster.

  They both flinched and then gave each other meaningful glances, before Samara crossed her arms haughtily and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I asked.”

  She cinched her arms tighter around her chest. “Well, we’re not going to tell you. Traitor.”

  I stumbled back a step. “Traitor?”

  “Samara,” Dawson hissed in a warning-type voice.

  Her eyes grew wide; his eyebrows went up in response. Her lips pursed. He tilted his head down and gazed at her under lowered brows. She huffed. He puffed. They were having a whole conversation with their face muscles. Which would have been kind of awesome if they hadn’t been talking about me. The traitor. Finally, Samara’s arms went straight by her sides, her fists clenched, and she growled.

  “Fine,” she said. “Principal Rooster is trying to make everyone feel better by doing a re-creation of the stolen statue.” She put extra emphasis on the word “stolen.” “But it’s not working, because
everyone knows that he’s not the real Mrs. Heirmauser. And nobody feels safe with a thief walking freely among us.” This time, she put extra emphasis on the word “thief.“

  I wanted to argue with her, to tell her that I was no thief and that I was just as upset about this as everyone else—which, okay, I wasn’t, and probably everyone knew that, and that was precisely the problem—but before I could even open my mouth, she grabbed Dawson by the wrist and pulled him away. They went into the office, where Miss Munch was lying on the floor with a cold compress across her eyes.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t feel safe with a thief walking among us, either,” I said, but nobody was listening to me. They were all too busy whispering to each other about me.

  I glanced back at Roostermauser. Was it just me, or was he showing a few more teeth than he had been a moment ago? And had the angry crease between his eyebrows gotten deeper? I shivered and headed toward class.

  I wound wearily through the desks in Facts After the Fact. It had been a long day. Nobody was really talking to me, though it seemed like everyone was kind of talking about me. Someone had written an essay entitled “The Untrustworthy Stranger” in Lexiconical Arts and dropped it on my desk. Someone else had written the words GIVE IT BACK on my locker. Wesley, Owen, and Flea ate lunch in the library, so I sat alone at our table. Someone stole my banana cream pie while I was buying a second milk to go with it.

  It didn’t take a genius to see that Arthura was right and Patrice was right and Mom was right—I looked guilty, everyone thought I’d stolen the head, and I was public enemy number one.

  Fortunately, I had my crew in Facts After the Fact class. I was looking forward to an hour of spitwad practice. I hoped Mr. Faboo was wearing his George Washington wig. It made a great target.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said, plunking my backpack on my desk.

  Wesley didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up from the picture he was drawing, although I could tell by the way his fingers were jerking and his hair looked kind of sweaty around the ears that he wanted to. I snapped my fingers in front of his face. He didn’t budge.