by C. W. Trisef
“I’ve been trying to be coy all night!” Bubba said in consternation.
“Tho thorry to interrupt,” Ivan announced from the cockpit, “but ve have arrive-ed.”
And they certainly had. Ivan parked in front of Tybee High and opened the passenger door, extending his hand to assist the girls.
When everyone else had exited, Ret, who was feeling somewhat apprehensive about the evening, turned to Mr. Coy and asked, “Any advice, sir?”
“Yes,” he said cheerily. “Always tip your hat and shine your shoes.” When Ret looked back at Mr. Coy for an explanation, he noticed a curious cap on his head. Its flat top, which extended beyond his head a few inches in all directions and was extraordinarily clear, remained in place thanks to an elastic string pulled under his chin. In many respects, it looked like a cross between an upside-down dinner plate and a party hat. Then Ret glanced at the black shoes of Mr. Coy’s tuxedo, which were as shiny as glass. Mr. Coy reached to adjust his hat, which sent bright light shining downward from underneath its overhanging rim.
“Tip your hat,” he repeated. Then he rose from his seat and squatted in the middle of the limousine. For a brief moment, the light from his hat shined on his shoes, and then he disappeared from sight. “And shine your shoes,” his voice said. He reappeared when he leaned back in his chair, the hat’s light shining on his lap.
“The black mirror,” Ret deduced with amazement.
“Travel size,” Mr. Coy smiled with pride. “All thanks to miniature solar panels. Now, don’t you have a dance to attend?”
“We both do,” Ret reminded him.
“Yes, well, don’t wait for me.” And, with that, Mr. Coy stepped out of the car and vanished from sight.
And just in time, too. Ret had scarcely caught up with Ivan, who was following behind Bubba and the girls as they made their way to the school’s main doors, when he heard someone yell, “There he is!” Suddenly, an army of reporters and newscasters emerged from the shadows, video rolling and cameras flashing. Ret’s heart skipped a beat as he realized his worst nightmare was coming true—that he would be made the center of attention at an event he hardly wanted to attend—when, to his surprise, the crowd surged around Ivan.
“Mr. Coy! Mr. Coy!” they shouted at the bewildered butler. “What made you decide to finally reveal yourself?”
“Mr. Coy! Mr. Coy!” every mouth hollered at Ivan. “What business brought you to Tybee Island?”
“What goes on in your elaborate house?”
“Why did you ruin our nature preserve?”
“Why have you never shown your face before?”
The cameras’ flashes blinded Ivan like lightning. The commentators’ microphones sprang up in front of him like weeds. Ret and his friends were squeezed to the sidelines.
“He’s not my dad! He’s not Mr. Coy!” Paige protested till she was red in the face, her voice lost in the uproar. She turned to her party and asked, “Where is my dad?”
“Ret was the last one out of the limo,” Ana was quick to point out. Paige turned to Ret for an answer.
“He’s around here somewhere,” was all he could say. They watched as Mr. Kirkpatrick, the assistant principal, pried Ivan away from the mob and rushed him inside the school.
“Zith ith an outrrage!” Ivan declared once they were safely on the other side of the melee.
“I sincerely apologize, Mr. Coy,” Mr. Kirkpatrick said, his anxiety apparent. “I am Mr. Kirkpatrick, the assistant principal. Principal Stone wishes he could have been here to meet you, but he had other business to attend to this evening.”
“My name ith not Mithterr Coy!” Ivan’s fury only exacerbated his thick accent and lisp.
“I know you’re upset, sir,” Mr. Kirkpatrick consoled, talking quickly, “but we’re certainly glad to have your help chaperoning tonight. Do you mind taking this station at the beverage counter?”
“And I am not a thaperrone!” Ivan stated. “In my countrry, ve doo not haf zethe thaperrone zingth. Do you know vhat we haf in my countrry? A czar! Czarth ith vhat ve haf—or, at leatht ve uthed to. None of zethe thaperrone people.”
“Here you go,” the assistant principal nudged, shepherding Ivan behind the drink bar. “Enjoy your night on the Mediterranean,” he said, happily walking away. “Oh, and have a few drinks on the house!”
“I vould,” Ivan shouted in reply, “but I doubt you haf any vodka!” Realizing he was stuck at his post, Ivan surveyed his surroundings. “A thaperrone—ha! At leatht ze decorrationth ith love-ely. Rremindth me of beaooteefool Rruthia.”
The dance’s Mediterranean theme was most befitting for such a formal event. The school’s ordinary commons had been transformed into a museum of Old World style and detail. Elaborate tapestries concealed lockers while ornate rugs dampened the mincing of girls’ heels. Metal wall grills hung between paintings of manicured vineyards and portraits of fruit and floral displays. Bright-colored table cloths ran along the bases of wrought iron candleholders and dishes of pure olive oil. Unsightly corners had been turned into attractive nooks where friends lounged in orange and golden yellow armchairs under portions of a fabricated tile roof. A few windows had been cracked to allow the salty sea breeze to mingle with the scent of lavender and rosemary shrubs.
“How romantic,” Ana sighed as they toured the commons, determined not to let the evening’s raucous start lessen her fantasy.
“I can’t believe he’s not here,” Paige said, obviously upset. “I just can’t believe it! No, actually, I can because this is what always happens. He always breaks his promises.”
“It’s okay, Paige,” Ret said, trying to console her. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. You never know with your dad; he may just appear out of thin air.” She gave him a funny look. “I’m sure what he’s doing is very important.”
“That’s what he always says,” Paige said, rolling her eyes. “I need a Pepsi.” She made a beeline for the drink shack. Ret followed her, relieved that the dance floor wasn’t part of her stress relief.
“I’ll have the usual, Ivan,” she ordered.
“Coming rright up,” he obeyed. “I zink I am getting ze hang of zith thaperrone zing, vouldn’t you thay? All ov ze childeren love me!”
“That’s because they all think you’re Mr. Coy,” Ret pointed out.
“Yeah,” Paige said in between sips, “apparently being a deadbeat dad makes you a celebrity.”
“Ana, my dear,” Ivan said loudly, seeing her coming. “Vhat can I get foorr you and your blue frriend?” Ana skipped from the dance floor to the beverage counter, pulling Bubba behind her. The song had just ended, and they were breathing heavily and happily.
“Oh, just some water, Ivan,” she panted, though smiling. “Bubba sure knows how to dance. Nice apron, Ivan.”
“Zank you,” Ivan replied. “I found it in one of ze drawerrs. Your vaterr, madam.”
“Thank you,” Ana said, receiving the cup from Ivan. She turned to face Ret and Paige and asked, “Some dance, huh?” With his elbow on the bar, Ret supported his head with his fist while Paige downed the rest of her Pepsi, slammed the cup on the counter, and wiped her upper lip clean with the back of her hand.
“Come on, girl,” Ana said, grabbing Paige by the wrist. “Tell me all about it in the ladies’ room.” They hurried off.
Ret passed the time by keeping a careful eye on Bubba. On account of his outlandish suit, he was not hard to spot as he wandered among the student body. Strangely, he never stopped to talk with anyone, and no one seemed to recognize him, which Ret thought was odd for such an outgoing upperclassman. If anything, he looked suspicious, especially when Ret saw him finally speaking with someone.
“Evening, Quirk.”
“Evening, Bubba. Love the suit.”
“I feel like a clown,” Bubba said. He glanced at Mr. Quirk’s garb, a bright yellow, double-breasted suit with green polka dots, and added insultingly, “Now I know how you must feel every day.”
“I think you lo
ok rather dashing,” Quirk admitted.
“You would,” Bubba said. “Where’s Stone?”
“Not here, as planned.”
“Did he get my text?” Bubba asked.
“Oh, yes,” Quirk answered. “He sends his thanks.”
“Cooper took the bait.”
“He always does,” said Quirk. “And his sister?”
“She’s head over heels for me, which is understandable.”
“Well you’d better head back to Mr. Cooper’s side,” Quirk instructed, “because here come those heels now.” He discreetly pointed towards Ana and Paige as they reemerged from the restroom. “Come and get me when you’re ready,” Quirk reminded, “and remember: act natural,” and suddenly his body became alive with the music as he galloped onto the dance floor.
The beat and bass of the lively dance sounded more like a faint pulse to Mr. Coy as he undetectably made his way to the administrators’ offices. Once safely inside the main wing, he tipped his hat, cutting off the stored solar light and reappearing.
“Waste not,” he said to himself. In no time at all, he located Principal Stone’s office. He checked the doorknob: locked.
“My specialty,” Coy grinned. He retrieved a small item from his pocket and rolled it between his hands until it was long and thin. Then he slowly forced the semi-solid substance into the keyhole and waited for it to harden. After a few seconds, he turned his freshly-formed key and gently pushed open the door.
“If only the creators of Silly Putty knew what they were on to.” Coy stepped into the office to let the faint light from the hall penetrate the shadows within.
“There you are,” Mr. Coy said, spotting the two trunks just as Ret had described. He knelt in front of them and analyzed his next move. Though they were both closed, only one of the trunks was clasped shut by a large, metal lock.
“I never was the overachieving type,” Coy admitted. “I’ll get to you next,” he said, deciding not to bother with the ominous lock until later. He undid the simple fastener on the unlocked chest and lifted up the lid, sending dirt and dust into the air and onto the floor. He pinched a ring on his finger, which began to glow brightly, aiding him as he started to rummage.
Meanwhile, life on the Mediterranean carried on swimmingly.
“Who’s up for a little Turkish delight?” Bubba announced as he served Ana a plate, followed by Ret and Paige. “I’ll be right back. Save some for me!” As he paced away, he winked at Ana.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” Ana asked, lost in her daydream.
“Yeah,” Ret answered sarcastically, his mouth full of dessert, “delightful.”
Bubba pushed and shoved his way onto the dance floor until he found Mr. Quirk.
“Quirk,” he exclaimed, “it’s time!”
“Not now, Bubba,” he protested. “Can’t you see I’m leading the conga?”
“Your diversion’s working, now get going!” Bubba yanked Quirk from his place at the head of the line. Quirk slipped out of the room while Bubba returned to the table.
“Ana, Ana!” he called. “Follow me. I’ve got a surprise for you.” She stood up without delay and giddily went to him. A few seconds later, Ret grabbed Paige’s hand.
“Come on,” he said. “He’s up to something.”
Ret’s gaze remained fixed on Bubba as he snaked with Ana through the crowd, out of the dance hall, and down one of the long corridors of classrooms. Having escaped the music, Ret was no longer calling after them in vain.
“Where do you think you’re going, Bubba?” Bubba turned around sharply to face his questioner. “I’ve been watching you all night.” Ret continued to advance toward them, pulling Paige behind him. “Now it’s time for some answers.”
Ret had just come to a complete stop when Ana and Paige suddenly became hostages simultaneously. While Bubba pinned his arm against Ana’s throat and yanked her up against him, Ret felt Paige’s hand slip away and then heard her scream as Mr. Quirk held her in the same position. Ret held his ground in the middle, not sure where to look.
“Surprise,” Bubba whispered in Ana’s ear.
“Get your hands off me, you creep!” Ana demanded.
“Tsk-tsk, Miss Cooper,” Quirk hissed, “that’s not how Tybee High treats its guests.”
“I knew it,” Ret chimed in. “You don’t even go to school here, do you, Bubba?”
“Took you long enough,” Bubba teased.
“Now, Ret,” Quirk asserted, “cooperate with us, or watch your friends suffer.”
“Don’t give in, Ret,” Ana advised, squirming in Bubba’s chokehold, “I can take ‘em.”
“What do you want with me?” Ret asked. “I’m of no use to you.”
“It’s true,” Quirk said. “By yourself, you’re just a meddlesome twerp. But, add a certain spherical artifact to the equation, and you suddenly become the quintessential element—the top dog, the big cheese, the hotshot, the whole enchilada, the ivory dome, the real McCoy, the kit and caboodle, the VIP of this mystery—”
“Quirk!” Bubba interjected.
“—though I still think you’re a meddlesome twerp,” Quirk finished.
“Did you say spherical artifact?” Ret asked, pretending not to know anything about Mr. Coy’s sphere in order to see if Mr. Quirk knew any additional information about it.
“Don’t play dumb with me, boy,” Quirk snapped. “After countless months of searching, we finally know where it’s been all this time—in your attic! Principal Stone has likely raided your home by now, which means all we need is you.”
“You robbed our house?” Ana said indignantly. “Ret, what is he talking about? I’ve got to call Mom. Let me go!”
It was after Ana had finished speaking when Ret noticed the white mark on Bubba’s face again. He suddenly knew what to do. For several seconds, he stood entirely motionless until he knew everyone was watching him. Then, with both hands at his side, he quickly jerked both of his index fingers. A pair of red corals launched from Ana’s necklace, each one pelting one of Bubba’s eyes. He released his hold to rub his eyes, by which time Ana had spun around and pulled Bubba’s top hat tightly over his face. Ana flew to Ret’s side. On their way out, they grabbed Paige, who managed to slip away from Quirk when the red coral, which was still nestled in her pocket from earlier that evening, shot straight up one of Mr. Quirk’s nostrils, sending him into violent convulsions of coughing and snorting.
They hadn’t fled far when they realized they were being pursued. Bubba, sprinting at full speed, quickly surpassed Mr. Quirk, who was still trying to snot-rocket the red coral out of his nose. Bubba’s true colors were fully visible now: the absence of his hat left uncovered his hair, bright red and flaming like fire, and his rubbing had not only knocked the colored contacts out of his eyes, which now were also red, but also removed the makeup around his eyes, revealing pale white skin.
“How’s life past midnight, Cinderella?” Ana jabbed, making fun of Bubba’s new look as they neared the door to the dance hall. “I’d be mad, too, if my head was on fire.”
During the faceoff between Ret and his antagonists, an event sparked by Ivan proved to be the killjoy of the entire dance. Word had gotten around that Paige Coy’s father was in the building, and as the lure of the dance floor began to wane, most of the students had gathered around the drink bar to gape and gawk at the famous Mr. Coy. Ivan had since ceased trying to set straight his true identity, for no one quite believed him, and he didn’t exactly loathe all of the attention. The students were captivated—or, perhaps, entertained—by his accent, and he had no problem answering their questions about his former life in his homeland.
The trouble arose when someone asked Ivan to conjure up a typical Russian soda, which he gladly did. When Ivan handed the fizzing beverage to the requestor, the boy accepted it sheepishly. Soon, the crowd began to chant, “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” That’s when Ivan turned to the lad and said, “Vell, boy, good luck. Orr, ath zay thay in ze Maydeeteerranean, mathel tov!�
�
“Did he just say Molotov?” someone in the group asked. In an instant, the chants to chug turned into whispers of worry.
“No, I think he said mazel tov,” a girl correctly pointed out, too quietly to be heard above the uneasy crowd’s murmuring. “It means ‘good luck’ in Hebrew.” But it was too late.
“It’s a Molotov cocktail!” a young man shrieked. “It’s a bomb! He’s a Russian spy!”
At the word bomb, everything about the situation exploded—everything except the drink, of course. The guests scattered every whichway like insects before pesticide. The music stopped, the lights went on, and pure pandemonium reigned.
“Vath it thomething I thaid?” Ivan wondered, standing still behind the counter. “Don’t zhey teach Hebrew in thchool zhethe dayth?”
The dance was engulfed in these chaotic circumstances when Ret and the girls returned to the scene. They darted towards the bar, where they found Ivan still in shock.
“I don’t haf a bomb, I thwayr!” he promised.
“Come on, Ivan,” they said, “let’s get out of here.” They set off for the car.
Quirk and Bubba struggled to pursue their runaways in the teeming crowd.
“A bomb?” Quirk asked, repeating what he was hearing from all around him. “Did you bring the bomb?”
“No,” Bubba said, “but I wish I had—they’re getting away!”
The transition from music to mayhem did not go unnoticed by Mr. Coy. He knew his time was limited. He abandoned his unsuccessful attempts to unlock the second trunk and grabbed what he had found in the first one: a single sheet of worn parchment paper bearing ancient characters. Then he shut the lid, closed the door, and activated his black mirror. He was calmly sitting in the limousine when his daughter and the Coopers piled in.
“Put the pedal to the metal, Ivan,” Ana ordered, “now!”
“I doo not know vhat zhat meanth,” he spoke rapidly, “but, judging by zhe tone ov your voice, I veell drrive verry quick-ely.”