by Lin Oliver
“I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she said.
Billy tried to answer, but his brain turned immediately to cream cheese. Luckily, Ruby was so comfortable in her own skin, she didn’t need an answer.
“My sister Sofia is auditioning for your sister’s band. She’s a bass player. My mom made me come along because she doesn’t want me to stay alone in the house. And Sofia sent me up here to get her backpack from your kitchen.”
Ruby paused and waited for an answer. Billy opened his mouth, but what came out sounded something like “Oooo … uhhhh … uhhhh … eeeuuu … oooo … ummm.”
“Spit it out, ducky.” Billy tried to locate the voice but couldn’t. “Up here, Billy Boy.”
Billy looked up to see Hoover Porterhouse floating on the ceiling above Ruby’s head.
“You sound like a train stalled on the tracks. Give it some steam, my friend.”
“Don’t push me,” Billy whispered. “I’m trying.”
“Try faster. Your potential new friend is waiting. She’s not going to stand there forever.”
Turning to Ruby, Billy said the first thing that popped into his head, “I bet you barely recognized me standing up.” He tried to sound light and breezy. It must have worked because Ruby laughed.
“Yeah, you seem to have had a little trouble with your feet today.”
“I’m going to go ahead and blame that on my shoes,” Billy answered. “They’ve got a mind of their own.”
“Maybe you should wear different shoes tomorrow.”
Billy tried to come up with a funny answer to that, but his brain returned to its former cream-cheese state. After an awkward silence, Ruby went into the kitchen, got her sister’s backpack, and headed back down to the basement, where the bass guitars were still thumping out the beat.
“Well, that was a start,” the Hoove commented, drifting down from the ceiling and hovering at Billy’s eye level. “You almost got a conversation going except you kind of petered out at the end.”
“I’m shy with new people, and that pressure from you didn’t help.”
Billy turned on his heel and stomped off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. But a closed door was no barrier for Hoover Porterhouse, who zipped into Billy’s room right after him.
“It is not my fault you ran out of steam,” he said. “You just stood there like a statue while your tongue took a vacation to Argentina.”
“I was just trying to think of something funny to say.”
“Well, here’s what it looked like from the ceiling. It looked like you were either going to barf all over your shoes or pass out. Either move would have been highly unacceptable to the lady in question.”
“You don’t understand what happened between me and her today at school.”
“Please make it an appetizing story.”
“I tripped going up the front steps. And she was watching.”
“Tripped? What was the last thing I told you before you left this abode?”
“I know. Do you think I had a plan to trip? It just happened. Look, I even scraped up my hands.”
Billy held his hands up in front of the Hoove, who suddenly turned even paler than he already was.
“Don’t show me that. Skin that is not attached to a person makes my blood curdle. Or it would, if I had blood.”
“Well, I’m not thrilled about the situation either. You can’t believe how my hands hurt when I went to baseball tryouts after school. I could barely hold the bat. And when I was fielding, the palms of my hands stung every time the ball came to me.”
The Hoove, who had flopped himself down on Billy’s bed, suddenly popped to his feet and glided over right next to Billy’s face.
“Wait a minute,” he said, looking outraged. “You went to baseball tryouts and you didn’t tell me?”
“Since when are you in charge of my schedule? And please, would you back off? You smell like a sack of sour oranges.”
“It happens when I get upset. My scent can get a little tart. But don’t try to change the subject. Did you make the team, is what I want to know.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Atta boy. What position? Catcher? Naw, a scrawny kid like you would never be a catcher. So what are you, center field? Second base? Shortstop? Speak up.”
“You’re looking at the new assistant scorekeeper of the junior varsity baseball team at Moorepark Middle School,” Billy announced with some pride.
“So what does that mean? You work your way up to head scorekeeper?”
“No, they don’t have that position.”
“Billy Boy, let me shed some light on this situation for you,” the Hoove said. “What you’re telling me is that you get no playing time. You are going to sit on the bench and keep score. Your hands are never going to touch a ball or a glove.”
“The coach didn’t say that.”
“Trust me, he was thinking it.”
Hoover paced back and forth in the way that ghosts pace, which is to say, there was no pacing involved. He just floated back and forth across the room at an accelerated rate.
“I don’t know why you didn’t consult with me, Billy. You happen to be looking at the batting champion of the San Fernando Junior Cougars. They say I was headed for the majors. I know a thing or two about baseball. Show me your stance.”
Billy reluctantly picked up one of the aluminum bats that was propped up in the corner of his room and assumed his best batting stance.
“No wonder you weren’t chosen,” the Hoove said, casting a disapproving eye at Billy. “Look at you. Plant your feet farther apart. Sit into the stance. Put your hands together on the bat. And get your elbow down. You look like you’re some kind of poultry, flapping your wings for a takeoff.”
Billy tried to make each adjustment as Hoover called out instructions. He was so busy concentrating on keeping his elbow down and his butt in that he didn’t notice the figure standing at his bedroom door.
It was Rod Brownstone.
“You have to be the weirdest dude that’s ever lived here,” he said. “Do you make a habit of talking to yourself?”
“Do you make a habit of barging into people’s rooms without even being invited?” Billy responded. “People you hardly know?”
“I brought over a pineapple upside-down cake my mom made for your family,” Rod explained. “And your mom said I should come in and establish a relationship with you. That’s a quote.”
“That sounds like my mom, all right.”
“I didn’t want to come because I make it a point not to hang out with assistant scorekeepers who don’t have an ice cube’s chance in the desert of being a ballplayer.”
“For your information, Brownstone, I’m working on my batting stance with a private coach who was almost in the majors.”
“Really? Well, did your coach notice that those toothpicks you call arms don’t have enough muscle to hold a bat? Not like these guns.” Rod held up his arms, flexed his biceps, and kissed them both. Billy looked at his own meager biceps and decided no kissing was called for.
Rod’s arrogance infuriated the Hoove. He was not about to let this blowbag insult Billy. The Hoove was actually surprised that he cared so much.
“Billy Broccoli, you cannot let him get away with that,” he said, his voice full of anger. “Answer him.”
But Billy just stood there feeling helpless. Deep down, he knew Rod was probably right. Being the assistant scorekeeper of the baseball team was almost like not being on the team at all.
Hoover couldn’t stand it. He wanted to protect Billy from this bigmouthed kid. And that really surprised him, since in all his ninety-nine years of being a ghost, he had never felt this way about any of the other kids he had been assigned. What he really wanted to do was punch Rod in the nose, but if he did that, Rod would punch Billy. Besides, the Higher-Ups did not look kindly on physical violence of any kind. So he had to move to Plan B, which was to scare Rod into a quivering clump of Jell-O.
“How did you do that?” Rod asked Billy.
The Hoove knew the fun had just begun. He floated over to Billy’s desk and lifted it a few inches off the ground, then made it shake violently in midair.
“Do you see that desk vibrating?” Rod asked, his voice cracking.
Billy was starting to enjoy this.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t mess with me, Broccoli. I know you see what I see. How are you making that happen?”
“I’m standing right here in front of you,” Billy said. “Doing nothing.”
“Well, then, you are an alien,” Rod said. “I’ve always known this house had a weird vibe, but I’ve never seen anything this strange. It’s almost as strange as you. I’m out of here, and by the way, don’t invite me back. You and your room creep me out.”
“First of all,” Billy said, “I didn’t invite you. And second of all, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Rod was in such a rush to get out of there, he pulled a Hoove. He tried to walk through the door without opening it, and smacked his forehead right into it. Furious, he flung the door open and tore down the hall without looking back.
Billy burst out laughing, and so did the Hoove. They could hardly contain themselves, as each did their own impression of Rod trying to get out of the room. Thunk! Bang! Slap! Billy was practically crying with laughter. As he and the Hoove replayed the image of Rod Brownstone thumping into the door and then tearing down the hall almost peeing in his pants with fear, Billy thought for the first time that maybe having your own personal ghost could be useful after all.
CHAPTER 8
Rod Brownstone was in a panic as he sprinted out of Billy’s room. He wasn’t the kind of guy who showed fear easily, but whatever had happened in that bedroom had rattled his ever-confident cover. As he reached the kitchen, he spotted Ruby, Sofia, and Breeze coming up from the basement, and screeched to a full stop just before crashing into them.
“Hey, ladies,” he said, trying to recover as best he could. He tried desperately to appear calm and self-assured, but he must not have been too convincing because Breeze took one look at him and asked, “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be? What could possibly be wrong? I can’t think of one thing. I was just hanging out with your brother.”
Ruby smiled. “Billy?” she said. “He’s cute, in his own trippy kind of way.”
“Yeah, you could say that if you think dorks are cute, that is,” Rod shot back.
He didn’t like it one bit that Ruby said something nice about Billy. He always thought every girl had a secret crush on him, and it offended him that Ruby Baker didn’t seem to be joining the club. Besides, what could she possibly see in Billy Broccoli that she didn’t see in him? He certainly did not want to hear anything positive about that little squirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought began to hatch — a thought that he was going to change Ruby’s opinion of Billy Broccoli.
He decided to start right then and there with a list of everything that was wrong with Billy, beginning with his short stature and moving on to his clumsy feet. But before he could get out a full sentence, Sofia interrupted him.
“Ruby, we have to go,” she said. “Mom said we have to be home by five o’clock, which was ten minutes ago. Sorry to play and run, Breeze.”
“That’s okay,” Breeze answered. “Now that you’re in the band, we’ll have lots of time to hang out when we rehearse.”
Sofia and Ruby said good-bye to Breeze, leaving Rod standing there feeling frustrated that he hadn’t gotten Ruby to fall madly in love with him.
“Who’s in the mood for flank steak?” Dr. Fielding asked as he came into the kitchen to get the meat out of the refrigerator.
“Me,” Breeze answered. “I’m starving.”
“I thought you were a vegetarian, sweetie.”
“That was yesterday, Dad.”
“Oh, I see. Well, the fire’s all ready. I just came in here to get the steaks.”
“I guess I should go, then,” Rod said. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinnertime.”
“Nonsense, young Rod.” Bennett put a hand on his shoulder and gave him the comforting squeeze he had perfected in his years of being a dentist. “You’re welcome to stay. There’s plenty of food. Billy isn’t much of a meat eater.”
“His favorite food is potato chip sandwiches,” Breeze said. “Oh, and he likes to eat olives off the tips of his fingers. He’s what you call majorly weird. And let’s not forget the tonsil.”
“He eats tonsils?” Rod asked.
“Not that I know of,” Breeze said. “But I wouldn’t put it past him. He keeps his own tonsil in a jar under his bed. Yesterday, he actually tried to display it on the countertop in the bathroom we share, but I said, ‘No way, José…. I’m not putting on my makeup staring at something that used to be in your throat.’ ”
“How old is that tonsil?” Rod asked.
“Beats me. Five years old. Maybe seven.”
“I believe Charlotte mentioned Billy had his tonsils removed when he was six,” Dr. Fielding said. “That would make it five years old. It’s almost ready to start kindergarten.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
“It must look gross,” Rod said.
“The human body isn’t gross, Rod,” Dr. Fielding said. “It’s fascinating. Now, if there were still pus on the tonsil, I could understand your reaction. But the tonsil itself is just a ball of tissue made up of blood and cells and protoplasm. Not entirely different from the steaks we’re having for dinner.”
“Eeuuwww, Dad,” Breeze said. “I think I just became a vegetarian again.”
“Rod, why don’t you call your mother and ask if you can stay for dinner,” Dr. Fielding said as he headed toward the back door with the plate of steaks. “And, Breeze, get Billy and tell him the food will be on the table in seven minutes…. Three and half minutes per side is my secret for medium rare perfection.”
On his way out, Dr. Fielding grabbed a long two-pronged fork that he used for flipping the meat, and a timer that was set for exactly seven minutes. Breeze reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out her cell phone.
“You can use my phone,” she said to Rod, “while I go grab the little one.”
“There’s no point in calling. My mom’s at work until seven. And my dad’s taking Amber to Indian Princesses, so I’m fine for a while. Besides, I really want to check out your brother’s tonsil.”
“Suit yourself,” Breeze said. “But I’m warning you. You’re going to be grossed out.”
As Rod followed Breeze down the hall, he decided to bring up the subject that was bothering him. “Hey, Breeze,” he began. “Have you ever noticed anything strange going on in Billy’s room?”
“Yeah, only like every minute he’s in there. Don’t forget, this is the kid who draws bolts of lightning on his feet with a Sharpie.”
“I mean anything really strange, like, say, pictures spinning or furniture moving?”
Breeze stopped abruptly and turned to stare at Rod. “Now who’s acting strange?”
Rod shut up fast.
Breeze knocked on Billy’s door and, as usual, entered before she was even finished knocking. Billy was sitting at his desk with his math book open, copying some problems onto a sheet of notebook paper. His calculator was out although he hardly ever needed to use it. Math was his best subject and he could do most calculations in his head. He was surprised to see Breeze, and even more surprised to see that Rod was back. Billy knew that if the Hoove were still there, he’d have scared Rod away again, but the Hoove was gone, having left the premises as soon as Billy st
arted his homework. The Hoove said he was allergic to homework. He said it gave him a rash, which Billy didn’t exactly understand. Hoover had no skin, so what exactly did the rash appear on? But the Hoove was not interested in Billy’s logic, and simply floated out through the window, saying he’d be back when he’d be back.
“Dad says dinner is in seven minutes,” Breeze announced.
“We’re having steak,” Rod added.
“We?”
“Yeah, your stepdad invited me for dinner. I think he likes me, but then, who doesn’t? I’m used to being admired. Like that girl Ruby who was here. She’s a fan. I can just feel it.”
“Right, Brownstone,” Billy snarled. “Everyone loves you. According to you, that is.”
“You got that right,” Rod said, pushing his way farther into Billy’s room. “Hey, dude, if it’s okay with you, I was hoping to get a look at that tonsil you keep in a jar.”
Billy jumped to his feet and stared at Breeze.
“You … you … you told him about my tonsil?” he stammered. “I thought we had a pact.”
“It slipped out, Billy. Honest. I didn’t mean to say it.”
“Fine, then watch this slip out.” Billy turned to Rod. “You know that high school guy who drives the red —”
Breeze pounced on Billy like a tiger. “Don’t you dare tell!”
“I won’t tell,” Billy said, removing her hand from over his mouth. “Because unlike some people I know, I keep my word.”
While Billy and Breeze argued about which secrets they would or would not spill, Rod took the opportunity to casually glance around the room for the tonsil. He thought he spotted it under the bed, just where Breeze said Billy kept it. Trying to look completely natural, Rod inched his way across the room, stuck his foot under the bed, and slid the jar out into the open. He bent down, picked it up, and held it up to the light to inspect its contents.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. The fluid in which the tonsil lived was murky, the color of old fish-tank water. And the tonsil itself had a long, fleshy string trailing behind it, like a halfrotten tail. Every now and then, when Rod rotated the jar, the tonsil would turn on its side and bounce off the side of the glass.