The Odds Get Even

by Natale Ghent

  Boney and Itchy stared blankly back at him.

  “A ghost detector,” Squeak clarified for his friends.

  “Oh, no…” Itchy said. “Not with the ghosts again. I can’t stand it!”

  “How does it work?” Boney asked.

  “Don’t tell him,” Itchy moaned, pulling at his flaming orange hair.

  “It senses electromagnetic disturbances,” Squeak explained. “It seems ghosts leave a trail behind—like a snail—only electromagnetically, when they move through space. I read about it in Ghost Hunters magazine.” He pulled the magazine from his bag.

  “What do you need to build it?” Boney asked.

  “Not much at all: a capacitor from an old tube radio, some copper wire, a toggle switch, some kind of handle—preferably Bakelite—a standard Weller forty-watt iron, some Deans ultra-connectors, a couple rare earth magnets, and a dual-polarity air ion detector. No one has ever done anything like this before at our school.”

  Itchy’s pale face grew even paler. “Don’t I have a say in this? What if I don’t want to build a ghost detector?”

  “First prize is five hundred dollars,” Squeak said. “I overheard Mr. Harvey telling Principal Loadman they’re increasing the prize money to encourage more students to enter the competition.”

  Itchy’s face lit up.

  “Then we’ll need hard facts for our convention entry,” Boney said. “We can do field research at the haunted mill once we build the Apparator.”

  Itchy’s face fell. “Oh, great.” He kicked angrily at a stone on the sidewalk. It shot through the air, ricocheting loudly off the door of a shiny red convertible double-parked in front of the school.

  Boney’s eyes widened. “Itchy…that’s Prisoner 95’s car you just dinged.”

  “That’s the prisoner’s father’s car he just dinged,” Squeak corrected him, seconds before his Ghost Hunters magazine was snatched from his hands.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” an angry voice demanded.

  The Odds spun around and found themselves face to face with their mortal enemy, Larry Harry.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PRISONER 95

  Larry stood in front of the school, bookended by his henchmen, Jones and Jones. The twins were wearing identical brown sweaters and had matching soup-bowl haircuts; their faces were splattered with freckles. The schoolyard swarmed loudly with students.

  “I asked you a question, doofus,” Larry sneered at Itchy. “If I find one little scratch on my dad’s car, you’re going to get it. And what’s with the stupid purple shirt, son of Elvis?”

  Jones and Jones howled with laughter.

  “Give back our magazine,” Boney said.

  “Make me,” Larry taunted. He looked briefly at the zombies on the cover. “What is this, Bonehead? Your family album?”

  “Just give it back,” Boney insisted. “Or else.”

  “Did you hear that?” Larry said, looking at Jones and Jones. “Bonehead is threatening me.”

  He took a step closer to Boney, who bravely stood his ground. Itchy and Squeak took several steps back.

  “I don’t like the smell of this,” Squeak said. “It smells like danger.”

  “Smells like what?” Larry growled, looming in Squeak’s face.

  Squeak stared at the tops of his running shoes. “Like d-danger,” he stuttered.

  Larry gave Squeak a shove. “What are you, some kind of nutter?”

  “He’s not a nutter,” Boney defended his friend. “It’s syne…something, a condition that makes you muddle things up a bit…anyway, it’s not real.”

  “Sounds stupid to me,” Larry scoffed, turning to his sidekicks for approval.

  “Yeah, sounds stupid!” Jones and Jones guffawed.

  Squeak pushed nervously at the bridge of his goggles. “Actually, it’s a condition characterized by access to different sensory perceptions that are often apparently incompatible—”

  “How would you like me to make your head incompatible with your neck?” Larry snarled.

  Just then the bell rang, sending kids shrieking and running into the school. Miss Sours, the boys’ homeroom teacher, appeared, lurching toward the group like a reanimated corpse.

  “What’s going on here?” she sniffed, her rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose.

  Larry handed the magazine back to Boney. “Thanks,” he said pleasantly, as though Boney were his best friend.

  Miss Sours scowled. “You heard the bell,” she snapped. “Get to class.”

  “Sure thing, Miss Sours,” Larry said. He turned to Itchy. “No hard feelings, eh, Red?” He clapped Itchy forcefully on the back, crushing an egg over his purple shirt.

  Jones and Jones roared as they ran with Larry toward the school.

  “My shirt!” Itchy moaned. “That filthy criminal crushed an egg on my shirt!”

  “Stupid jerk,” Boney cursed.

  “At least he didn’t hit you in the face with it,” Squeak said.

  “Gee, that’s a relief,” Itchy scoffed. “How am I supposed to go to school covered in egg?”

  “Why don’t you change into your gym shirt?” Squeak suggested.

  “Because my gym shirt is covered in dirt from when Jones and Jones dragged me through the mud,” Itchy groaned.

  “That was last week,” Boney said.

  “So, my mom hasn’t done laundry yet, has she?” Itchy snapped.

  “Perhaps you should learn how to run the washing machine yourself,” Squeak advised.

  “Perhaps I should learn how to fight.” Itchy kicked at the air with his skinny white legs.

  “Ah…maybe not,” Boney said.

  “You can wear my gym shirt,” Squeak offered. “I never wear it, so it’s clean. I’ve still got that get-out-of-gym-permanently note my dad wrote me.”

  “Yeah, how’d you pull that off, anyway?” Boney asked.

  “I told him it interfered with my studies. And my vision’s not so good.” He pointed to his goggles and smiled. “Come on, you can change before class starts.”

  The boys ran to Squeak’s locker. Squeak produced his gym shirt and handed it to Itchy.

  “Hurry up, or we’re going to get a detention,” Boney said.

  Itchy looked over his shoulder at the other students streaming through the hall. “I’m not changing in front of everybody.”

  “You have no choice. We don’t have time to go to the bathroom.”

  Itchy shook his head, looked over his shoulder again, then quickly pulled his shirt up over his skinny shoulder blades. A group of girls squealed in horror as they passed.

  “Ewwwww!”

  Itchy threw his purple shirt to the ground and desperately tried to pull Squeak’s shirt on as quickly as possible, but got his head caught in the neck. “It’s too small!” he screamed.

  Boney grabbed the hem of the T-shirt and yanked with all his might until Itchy’s orange mop popped through the neck. The shirt barely covered his stomach and the sleeves bunched horribly under the arms.

  “I can’t wear this!” Itchy wailed.

  “You have no choice,” Boney said. “We’re going to be late.”

  The Odds skidded into class, causing Miss Sours to sneer over her glasses. The boys took their seats near the back of the classroom. Itchy hunched at his desk, moping. He tugged on the hem of the shirt to cover his stomach, causing the back to ride halfway to his shoulders. To make matters worse, Larry Harry and Jones and Jones snickered knowingly from their seats on the other side of the room.

  “I guess there’s a considerable difference in our sizes,” Squeak observed.

  “This shirt wouldn’t fit a doll!” Itchy hissed.

  “Silence!” Miss Sours shrieked, slamming a yardstick on the top of her desk.

  Itchy waited until the chalk dust settled before attempting to speak again. He leaned closer to Boney, whispering, “I don’t care what it takes, I want revenge.”

  “You’ll get it,” Boney promised
. “I’ve got it all planned…”

  “Are you hard of hearing, Mr. Boneham?” Miss Sours rasped.

  Boney, Itchy, and Squeak shot straight up in their seats, along with the rest of the class, assuming their most attentive poses.

  “No, ma’am,” Boney mumbled.

  “Then why are you still talking?” Miss Sours asked. She came out from behind her desk, moving like a wooden cart with square wheels. Jerking her way down the aisle, she held the yardstick in front of her as she walked, swirling it in threatening circles. “I don’t want to hear another sound from your end of the room, do you hear me? Not a peep, gurgle, or cheep. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Boneham?” She attempted to smile, her teeth yellow and pointy like a hamster’s.

  Boney averted his eyes, but when he did, his gaze fell upon a horrific sight: Miss Sours’s leg hair, poking like needles through her nylons. It gave her shapeless legs the appearance of two skinny cacti, stumping malevolently along between the desks. The idea was so ridiculous that before he could stop himself, Boney let out a loud and very obnoxious snort. In a flash, the yardstick came down with a sickening crack across his desk.

  “Aaaaaghhhh!” he cried in terror.

  Jones and Jones burst into gleeful laughter.

  Crack! Crack! Miss Sours’s yardstick found its mark with alarming precision, silencing Jones and Jones instantly. No one could explain how she could suddenly move so quickly—except Squeak, who believed she was a vampire.

  “You find this amusing, hmmmm?” Miss Sours taunted the rest of the class. “I assure you it isn’t. The next person who splits so much as a smirk will receive a detention.” She squinted across the room, sweeping the length of the class with the yardstick like a sword, daring any of the students to challenge her. Everyone sat petrified, including Jones and Jones.

  But when Miss Sours turned her back, Larry looked at Boney and made a slashing motion across his throat.

  “Jerk,” Itchy muttered.

  Crack! Down came the yardstick, and now it was Itchy’s turn to be terrorized.

  In the minutes before homeroom ended, Miss Sours’s yardstick silenced several more students. When the bell rang at last, the entire class bolted from their seats, rushing for the door.

  In the hallway, Larry made a point of smashing into Boney as he walked by, and Jones and Jones sent Itchy and Squeak slamming into the lockers.

  “I hate those stupid goons,” Itchy said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Just be happy they aren’t in our math class,” Boney said.

  “Yes,” Squeak piped up, rubbing his own shoulder. “If they weren’t so stupid, they wouldn’t have all flunked math. And then where would we be?”

  Itchy scowled. “I don’t see how it could be any worse.”

  “Believe me, it can be,” Boney said. “We start lacrosse in gym today.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FOUL PLAY

  Waiting for gym class to begin, Itchy and Boney huddled together on the playing field, arms folded, attempting to look inconspicuous. It was the last class of the day.

  Itchy tugged on the hem of Squeak’s shirt, trying desperately to cover himself. His legs stuck out like pool cues from his giant shorts. His mother bought his shorts two sizes too big, convinced Itchy would grow into them. But he only ever got taller and skinnier, making the shorts look twice as ridiculous. His mismatched socks drooped loosely around his ankles, accentuating his worn sneakers, which looked like long black canvas canoes.

  Boney was little better off, but at least his socks matched. He avoided Larry’s gaze, pretending to be fascinated by something on the ground. But it was no use. Larry and his goons wouldn’t be put off that easily.

  “Hey, Bonehead,” Larry called out. “I have a message from your mother.” He bent over and let out the most disgusting fart. His friends roared with laughter.

  “Charming,” Boney muttered.

  “It’s the most intelligent thing he’s said all day,” Itchy sneered. He tugged at his T-shirt. “It’s a good thing gym isn’t co-ed. It’d be way worse to get creamed by Larry in front of girls. We’d never live it down.”

  A sharp whistle blast pierced the air, calling the class to order.

  “Listen up!” Mr. Richards, their gym teacher, yelled.

  Better known as Colonel R., Mr. Richards had only one volume setting for his voice: loud. And he was never seen without a whistle clenched between his teeth. Even when he talked he never dropped it. He stood before the class, holding a lacrosse stick under one arm.

  “It’s the start of a brand-new unit,” he bellowed. “You all know the rules of lacrosse. We played it last year. And I don’t want anyone making like a human target this time, you got that, Red?” He glared at Itchy, whose face instantly burned scarlet.

  “Guess you’d better stay outta my way,” Larry growled in Itchy’s ear.

  “Just you watch your back,” Boney hissed in Itchy’s defence.

  “Oooooh, I’m so scared,” Larry said. “We’re gonna make mincemeat outta both of you wimps.”

  Boney opened his mouth to retaliate, but before he could get a word out, Colonel R.’s whistle split the air again.

  “All right! We need captains. Harry, you’re captain number one. Jones, you’re number two.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Itchy whined.

  “Did you say something, Red?” Colonel R. demanded.

  Itchy shook his head.

  Boney leaned toward Itchy. “He doesn’t know anybody else’s names. Ever wonder why he always calls you Red?”

  “Fine,” Colonel R. said, pointing to Itchy. “You’re number two, Red.”

  The class let out a collective groan.

  “Number two!” Jones and Jones mocked.

  “Cut the crap!” Colonel R. roared, which made Jones and Jones laugh even louder. “Now move it and pick your teams!” He gave a piercing blast on his whistle.

  “Jones and Jones,” Larry called.

  “You can’t pick two people straight off,” Itchy said.

  “Who says?” Larry threatened him with a fist.

  “Fine,” Itchy backed down. “I pick Boney.”

  “Your loss,” he said with a sneer. “I pick Thomas, Reilly, Wilson, Skrobecki, Grosset, Vertolli, Hadders, and Shean,” Larry rhymed off.

  The chosen students moved over to Larry’s side of the field. Boney surveyed the rest of the class. Only the nerds were left, including Edward Wormer and Simon Biddle—both thinner than their lacrosse sticks. It was clear which would be the better team. Larry had picked all the big guys in the class. Some of them looked old enough to shave.

  “We only have nine players,” Itchy contested. “We’re short-handed.”

  “All right, let’s go!” Colonel R. barked, blasting on his whistle. “You know the rules. Choose your goalie, three defencemen, three attackers, and three midfielders.”

  “I only have nine players,” Itchy whined again, but nobody seemed to listen. He dropped his hands in defeat and turned to his team, who stood clutching their lacrosse sticks in fear. “Who wants to play attacker?”

  “I will.” Boney stepped forward. He was the only one on his team who actually knew how to play the game.

  Itchy lowered his voice. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means you have to go head to head with prisoner 95.”

  “I know,” Boney said.

  “Let’s go, ladies!” Colonel R. yelled. “Get out there and play!”

  Larry’s team assumed their positions as though they’d been playing lacrosse all their lives. Itchy’s team milled about in confusion with no real plan of any kind.

  “Move it!” Colonel R. shouted, stomping behind Itchy’s players and blasting the whistle in their ears.

  “Who’s who?” Wormer asked, his skinny legs shaking.

  “I don’t know,” Itchy answered. “But we’d better get out there before the Colonel has us for lunch.”

  “But where are we supposed to stand?” Biddle whimpered, his braces flas
hing.

  “I don’t know. Stand anywhere,” Itchy said. “Just pick a man and stand opposite him. I’ll play goal.”

  “We’re doomed,” Wormer said.

  “Hold your sticks up,” Boney advised them. “And whatever you do, don’t let them hit you with the ball.”

  Itchy’s team exchanged terrified looks.

  Colonel R. blew the whistle. He pointed at Boney and Larry, motioning for them to squat in faceoff position. Placing the ball between their two sticks, he pursed his lips to blow the whistle again. But before the whistle sounded, Larry lunged at the ball, snatched it up with his stick, bashed Boney to the ground, ran toward Itchy, and immediately drove the ball full force at his head. Itchy went sprawling to the ground with a shriek of pain, the candy apple quarter his mother gave him flying from his pocket.

  Colonel R. waved his hands in the air, blasting his whistle wildly. “You have to wait for the signal!”

  “You did that on purpose!” Boney yelled at Larry. He rushed to where Itchy lay on the ground. “Itchy…are you all right?” He slapped Itchy’s face lightly, trying to revive his friend.

  Itchy moaned. “What happened?”

  “Walk it off, Red!” Colonel R. shouted.

  Boney looked up at the gym teacher. “I think he’s really hurt.”

  “Hey, look, a quarter!” Larry Harry said, scooping Itchy’s quarter from the grass.

  “That’s my candy apple money!” Itchy cried.

  “Get him outta here, Boneham!” Colonel R. ordered. “Take him to see the nurse.”

  NURSE CANE was far more understanding than Colonel R. She gave Itchy an aspirin and some ice for the lump on his head.

  “Must be lacrosse season,” she clucked, affixing a bandage over the lump.

  “Actually, it’s jerk season,” Itchy moped. “That thief stole my money.”

  “You need to be more careful,” the nurse admonished.

  “It’s not him that needs to be careful,” Boney said. He sat on a small stool in one corner of the nurse’s office, watching.

  “Shouldn’t you get back to class?” Nurse Cane asked.

  “Oh…I’d better stay and make sure Itchy’s okay,” Boney said, not wanting to go back to face Larry Harry.