Electric Boogerloo

by Mark Maciejewski

The Colonel lumbers down the stairs as I’m gathering my things to go. He takes a look at me and stops. “You okay? You look like you ate a bad sardine.”

  I almost ask if there’s such a thing as a good sardine, but I really don’t want to have that discussion right now. My stomach’s been upset over the thought of getting expelled. But when Mrs. Norris said the world “girlfriend,” for some reason it was like throwing a flare into a pool of gasoline.

  “Not feeling well, sir. I think I’ll head home.”

  He flips me a lazy salute. “Understood.”

  Before the Colonel shuts the door behind me, I turn. “Tell Moby I’ll call him later?”

  “Roger that.”

  As I head out toward home, I pray Moby doesn’t have too much coffee. If we’re going to spot the thief tomorrow, everyone will need a good night’s sleep.

  • • •

  Jarek pulls up just as I’m climbing the stairs to our front porch. Normally I know it’s him without having to look, since his ancient Acura sounds like two blenders fighting inside of a garbage can. But I don’t realize it’s him until I hear the trademark screech of his tires as he jerks to a stop. The car sounds different, even though it looks the same. If the car were a dog, it would be time for one last trip to the vet.

  My cousin pops out of the car, all smiles. “Not bad, yes?”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  He looks offended. “I tuned it.”

  I thought tuning something made it sound better.

  “I wanted it to sound cool.”

  If the sound of a fart echoing inside of an empty soup can is his idea of cool, he’s hit the bull’s-eye.

  I roll my eyes. “Awesome.”

  “Do you think?”

  “No.” The comment might cost me a ride or two, but do I really want to ride around in the dysentery mobile?

  He waves off the comment and follows me into the house.

  By the smell coming from the kitchen, my mom is making my favorite, Polish stir-fry. Polish stir-fry is just like regular stir-fry, except instead of fresh veggies cooked in a wok and served with rice, it’s Hamburger Helper.

  Jarek kisses my mom on the cheek and hands her a red-and-white can.

  “What’s this, Jarek?”

  “You told me to bring vegetables.”

  My mom examines the can. “These are fried onions.”

  He puts his palms up and hunches his shoulders. “Yeah, vegetables.”

  My mom just shakes her head and opens the can. The contents go into the stir-fry, just like whatever else happens to be lying around.

  Jarek and I wash our hands and set the table.

  “You find the Boogerman yet?”

  I shoot him a look to keep his voice down, but my mom probably can’t hear us over the sizzling pan of meaty goodness on the stove. “No, but I have a plan.”

  Jarek chuckles. “I’m sure you do. Just make sure your parents stay bolivious.”

  I consider correcting him, but I’m pretty sure he says things wrong to make me mad, so I let it go. “I’m always careful. Why would this be any different?”

  He shrugs. “Uncle Kasmir just seems more . . . irritable than normal. Plus, they asked me to cover for both of them at the shop tomorrow. Something’s up.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. I can’t remember a time when at least one of them wasn’t there. Jarek is right; something is up if both of them need to be gone at the same time.

  My dad gets home just as we finish setting the table. I study him as he drops his briefcase in the living room and takes off his windbreaker. He does look out of sorts, but not the way Jarek described. He kind of looks like a balloon with just a little bit of air let out of it.

  My mother says grace, then dishes us all up. My mom’s feelings get hurt when I attempt to make her Polish “delicacies” edible by adding ketchup. But for some reason today she doesn’t care when I hose down a plate of stir-fry. I turn the bottle upside down over my plate and squeeze it like it owes me money.

  When I only have about half the correct amount on top of my meal, my dad suddenly takes the bottle from my hands and sets it on the table out of my reach. “Enough. Ketchup does not grow on trees.”

  I don’t argue, but I do look at my mom out of the corner of my eye. She’s shooting my dad the we’ll talk later look.

  Then Jarek discovers something more uncomfortable than silence. “Something bothering you, Uncle Kasmir?”

  My dad stops chewing and looks at my cousin. By the look on Jarek’s face it’s obvious he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. Does tuning your car make you an idiot, or is it the other way around?

  “Nothing for you boys to worry about.”

  My mom clears her throat to get my dad to look at her, but he’s developed a sudden interest in the pattern on his dinner plate. When he still doesn’t look up she puts her fork down and says, “Kasmir, they are old enough to talk about these things.”

  My dad puts his fork down too and rubs his forehead. I really don’t think I want to hear whatever it is.

  “It is not a big deal. Just things to do with business.”

  Not satisfied with his explanation, my mom takes over. “Business is slow. If we want to keep up with the competition, we need to take out a loan to get new machines.”

  Is that all? I was worried it was something really serious.

  I can see my dad has said the last he intends to say on the subject.

  My cousin, however, is not as perceptive. “But you told me never to borrow from anyone.”

  My dad’s nostrils flare with his breath. At least if he starts breathing fire, it’ll hit Jarek and not me. “This is true, but we are not borrowing from anyone. We are borrowing from ourselves.”

  Jarek gets a quizzical look. I get ready to dive under the table if he makes one more comment to my dad.

  Before he can shove his size thirteen foot in his mouth again, my mother interjects. “This is why we need you tomorrow. We need to go to the bank to sign papers on a home equity loan.”

  Realization dawns on Jarek’s face and he nods. “I know this. You borrow money out of your house.” He finishes the math in his head. “You borrow from yourself. No way you can lose.”

  I’m almost not paying attention anymore. My mind is on one thing and one thing only. Tomorrow I have to catch the thief, or else my parents will have to look for a house in a different city when Lockhart drops the axe on me.

  My dad has resumed eating and he actually appears relieved that it’s all out on the table now. “Almost right,” he says. “The only way this goes bad is if we had to sell this house before the loan is paid off. If that happened, we’d have to sell the shop to pay it back.”

  My mother tries to sprinkle some sunshine on the conversation. “Stop scaring the boys, Kasmir. There are other options.”

  “True,” my dad says. “If we had to, we could always move back to Poland and work for Stanislaus.”

  Suddenly, a plate of Polish stir-fry covered in a layer of ketchup doesn’t look quite as appetizing.

  CHAPTER 19

  In my dreams last night, me and my parents moved into a refrigerator box behind the Dumpsters at my new school. Not only did I not recognize any of the other students, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I stumbled around the place trying desperately to get anyone to talk to me, but they all shoved me away like I had leprosy or something.

  Then I realized why no one was responding. I was speaking English and everyone else was speaking Polish.

  I’m not sure if my shout when I wake is in real life, or in the dream. It doesn’t matter. The puddle of sweat on my pillow is real. My dad has been itching for a reason to move back to the old country, and if we have to sell the house and move to a different school district because I get kicked out of Alanmoore, he’ll have one.

  I’d set my alarm for half an hour earlier than normal to make sure I have enough time to get to school and spread the rumor a little more before
the first bell that the Boogerloo was going to be returned at lunchtime. But I must be so tired from tossing and turning all night that I hit the snooze button without even realizing I did it.

  When I finally open my eyes, I’ve slept through my half-hour cushion, and almost another hour. I’ll barely make it on time if I fly out of bed and sprint the whole way.

  I crash through the back doors of school a second before the second bell rings, not technically late. Luckily, Mrs. Badalucco is distracted toweling off her chins, which gives me the chance to slide into homeroom unnoticed.

  Shelby glances over when she sees me, then quickly looks away. If the disappointment on her face could be weaponized, my parents would buy out her stock.

  Moby waves at me, and I shoot him a chin-raise in acknowledgment. The caffeine must still be in his system because he looks a lot more chipper than usual.

  Then I owl my neck around to Megumi. She stares back stone-faced for a minute. What kind of mystery infraction did I commit to get her upset? She finally lets me off the hook with a wink.

  Mrs. Badalucco starts class by talking about the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the start of World War I.

  I immediately check out. My mind won’t stop playing out scenarios that could happen if I can’t figure out who the thief is. Do I run away before my parents can send me away? Do I throw myself on Lockhart’s mercy? Do I buy a toupee and join the army?

  When I momentarily check back in, Mrs. B has somehow turned the lesson about the war to end all wars into a story about the time she got into a fight with her sister-in-law at her cousin’s wedding. I have no clue what she’s talking about; I just know the sister-in-law started it.

  When class is over, I signal Moby, Megumi, Sizzler, and Shelby to follow me, and then I race to the Arch’s locker. The McQueens spot me and join the meet-up.

  The Arch looks as tired as I feel, and he gives me a suspicious look. “Where were you this morning, Chub?”

  I feel stupid saying I overslept, so I say instead, “I had to handle some last-minute stuff.”

  “Whatever. Is it on for lunch?”

  “I hope so. Did you guys spread the word?” I look around the circle of faces as they all nod. “Good. Then the only thing left to do is be there when the lunch bell rings, wait, and watch.”

  Moby raises his hand.

  “Yes, Mobe.”

  “What happens to the thief when he gets caught?”

  I know exactly what will happen, but I don’t want to say it out loud.

  “I mean, seriously. Are we talking jail time?”

  Megumi shoves his arm playfully. “You’re funny. Stop it!”

  Moby rubs his arm. “Okay, sorry.” He shuffles a few steps away from her.

  She laughs and looks at me. “Moby can hang with me.”

  I nod. I doubt he’ll actually be seen hanging out in the hallway with a girl, but at least he won’t feel left out. I wish everyone luck and we break it up in time to make it to our second classes before the bell.

  • • •

  When the lunch bell rings, I fly out the door on rubbery legs. I guess I’m more nervous than I thought. I dash to the top of the main staircase, then slow to a normal pace so that I don’t attract attention. My propaganda campaign must’ve worked, because the hall is much more full than normal. I mesh in with the crowd and try to eavesdrop on as many conversations as I can. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’m sure I hear the word “booger” a lot more than usual. When I get to the landing where I split my pants earlier in the week, I stop. This is the perfect vantage point for the main hall. Plus, as a bonus, the door to the walkway above the courtyard is right behind me if I need to disappear quickly.

  I made sure we’d have the entire area covered. That means spreading everyone out around every entrance to the main hall. The only problem with my spot is I can’t see the positions I assigned the others. I have to trust that everyone is where they’re supposed to be.

  Suddenly there’s a commotion under the stairs that I can’t see. I crane my neck over the railing. Troy and Marlon from the track team are hopping through the crowd like a pair of overgrown rabbits. Apparently the Arch did his part last night.

  “Is it there?” Troy calls, trying to see into the trophy case over everyone’s heads.

  Marlon, who’s taller, stops in front of the case, turns, and throws his arms up. “Negative. We do not have Boogerloo!”

  Troy catches up, and they laugh and slap hands before weaving their way out of the hall toward the cafeteria. I scan the kids who witnessed the display of testosterone-fueled buffoonery. No one is acting nervous at all, which makes me start to sweat. Something has to happen. I can’t take the fall for this. I close my eyes and say a desperate prayer to whoever is the patron saint of lazy little Polish kids who didn’t do it.

  When I open them again, the hallway is clearing out—and the Arch is standing next to me.

  “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be covering the east hallway.”

  He rubs his neck. “I got there and Shell-by was already there. She scares me, man. It’s the eyes.” It’s good to hear that I’m not the only one, but I expect improvisations from Moby, not him. “I circled around up here. I figured maybe I’d see something on the way.”

  “Did you?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. I think word got around and pretty much everyone who’s still in the building was down in the hall by the trophy case.”

  Except you.

  The sound of the door behind us slamming makes us both jump.

  He looks embarrassed that it got him too. “Ha, wind.”

  I turn around to check the door, and spot the thing sitting on the landing. The Arch sees it too and we both take a step closer. It takes me a minute to realize what we are looking at. It’s a stuffed kangaroo, like the kind you can win in the claw machine at Thunder Alley Bowling and Fine Dining, but it’s covered in something that looks like snot, and it has a piece of paper around its neck. Written on it in big black marker is one word:

  WAHOOOOOOOOLIE

  “What the heck is that, Archer?”

  “Why are you asking me? You’re the one who was sitting here.”

  Then a sound out of a nightmare echoes in the hall.

  Lockhart booms, “What are all of you doing in the hall?” She chases after kids, who flee like a flock of sparrows. “We can just as easily have lunchtime after school, if that’s what you prefer, Ms. Nickelson!”

  I need to get the snotty kangaroo before she sees it. I lunge for it, but the Arch is quicker. I grab it a split second after him.

  He grits his teeth. “Let go!”

  I grit back. “You let go.”

  Then the smell hits me, and I instantly realize what’s covering the stuffed toy. It’s rubber cement, and it’s still wet. If he wants it so bad, he can have it. I let go of it, but it won’t let go of me.

  I look at the Arch and see panic in his eyes. I’m about to tell him to back out the door and we’ll figure it out in the courtyard when I hear the sound of heels on the stairs.

  Lockhart looks at us like a snake would look at a pair of fat mice with their paws rubber cemented together. “Why don’t the three of you come to my office for a little chat?”

  In her office, Lockhart makes Mrs. Osborne unstick us from the toy while she makes herself a cup of tea. She sets the sticky, plush glob on a spare file folder on Lockhart’s desk, and scurries out of the room, probably not wanting to get splattered by chunks of middle schooler when Lockhart tears us apart.

  Me, the Arch, Lockhart, and the toy sit in silence, the fumes from the rubber cement stinging my eyes.

  “That’s funny.” She laughs, but there’s no happiness in it. “I get it, you know. The rubber cement . . . it looks like nasal effluvium.”

  I almost laugh too, but not for the reason she thinks.

  “Did either of you ever stop to think why I haven’t issued any discipline for the theft yet?”

 
Even though she didn’t read us our rights, we both elect to stay quiet.

  “It was because I had no evidence, only suspicions.” She stands up and paces behind her desk. “But now that you choose to make this into a joke, you’ve forced my hand.”

  I want to wipe the sweat forming on my forehead, but my hands are still covered in rubber cement.

  “Do either of you want to tell me anything?”

  I want to tell her a lot of things, but I don’t think any of them will make this any better. The only positive is that technically she still doesn’t have any proof, but since she caught us sticky-handed, I doubt she will really care.

  “Nothing?” She picks up the file folder with the snotty toy on it. “This is going to cost you.” With a sweep of her arm she flings the stuffed kangaroo at the trash can, but it misses and hits the wall instead. The rubber cement sticks and it hangs off the wall like a big, purple loogie.

  We both choke back giggles.

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny. Maybe you’ll think this is funny too.”

  I look at the Arch out of the corner of my eye. He is trying not to look at the kangaroo slowly walking down the wall.

  “If the Wahoolie isn’t back by the end of the school day Monday, you are both expelled.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “What!” the Arch and I cry out in unison, which barely gets a raised eyebrow out of Lockhart.

  I’m too stunned to say anything else, but thankfully, the Arch isn’t.

  “You can’t just go around throwing kids out of school without any evidence!”

  Lockhart looks at him like she can’t believe he’s serious. Then she reaches into her desk and pulls out the single largest file I’ve ever seen. When she drops it on the desk it makes a whoomp like the subwoofer in Jarek’s car. I don’t think I want to know what’s in a file that dense.

  A cocky grin crosses her lips. “Even principals as incompetent as Shelly Mayer keep detailed files of all disciplinary actions.”

  My stomach drops like a runaway elevator. I’d always banked on Mr. Mayer’s incompetence. This is not good news.

  She strips off the jumbo rubber band that’s holding the file together and opens it. She reads from one of the pages. “Arson.” She looks at us like she’s impressed. “You two have quite a colorful past.”