The Odds Get Even

by Natale Ghent

  Itchy suddenly bolted, running toward the school, frantically stuffing his sandwich in his mouth. Larry Harry and Jones and Jones took up the chase.

  “But it’s too early to go in yet,” Squeak said, running alongside Itchy.

  Itchy ran faster. “Who cares? I’d rather sit in the office than face that criminal this early in the morning.”

  Boney caught up to his friends. “I promise, after my plan is enacted, we’ll never have to run from those creeps again.”

  “If we survive that long,” Itchy wailed, yanking on the door to the school.

  The Odds clattered up the stairs, bursting breathlessly into Mr. Harvey’s science lab. Mr. Harvey looked up in surprise from his desk.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where’s the fire, boys?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Harvey,” Boney said. “We’re just excited about our invention for the convention.”

  “Yeah,” Itchy said, looking nervously over his shoulder as Larry Harry cruised menacingly by the classroom door.

  Mr. Harvey pulled an entry form from his desk and handed it to the boys. “I’ll be interested to see what you come up with this year.”

  “Oh, I believe you’ll be impressed,” Squeak said as he pulled a pen from his breast pocket and began to fill out the form.

  “That’s doubtful,” a voice said behind them.

  The Odds turned to see Edward Wormer sitting at the back of the class, filling out a form. He clicked his pen shut, then rose from his seat and strolled over to where the boys were standing. He shot a glance over Squeak’s shoulder.

  “The Apparator,” he read aloud. “Is that a typo?”

  Squeak spun around, whipping the form behind his back. “All entries are confidential until the day of the convention. You know the rules.”

  Wormer raised his eyebrows smugly as he folded his entry form and handed it to Mr. Harvey. “And winner takes all,” he said. “I already know what I’m going to buy with the prize money.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Itchy said. “So do we!”

  “Great,” Wormer said. “You can help deliver it to my house, then.” He glided confidently from the classroom, the Odds squinting angrily at him as he left.

  “He’s not going to win,” Squeak vowed as he quickly filled in the rest of the form and handed it to Mr. Harvey.

  “Who cares?” Itchy said, peering into the hall where Larry Harry and Jones and Jones stood. “We’re going to get killed anyway.”

  “They’ve got football practice,” Boney reminded him.

  “Yeah, but we’ve got gym first thing this morning,” Itchy whined.

  Squeak looked at his watch. “Well, at least we’ve got time to review the schematics for the Apparator before class.” He looked at Mr. Harvey. “Is it okay if we use the science lab?”

  Mr. Harvey agreed and the boys bustled to the back of the class. They pored over Squeak’s drawing until the bell rang, calling them to homeroom.

  The boys took their seats. Miss Sours was already glowering overtop her glasses.

  “I didn’t get a chance to outline my plan for revenge,” Boney complained, leaning toward Itchy and whispering in his quietest voice.

  “Mr. Boneham!” Miss Sours shrieked, smacking her yardstick across her desk.

  Larry Harry grinned menacingly from across the room, smacking his fist in the palm of his hand.

  “I’ll tell you in gym,” Boney murmured from the corner of his mouth.

  As usual, Miss Sours walked up and down the aisles, monitoring the students while the announcements were read over the loudspeaker, the class jumping with relief from their seats when the bell rang and hustling from the room. Except the Odds, who lingered cautiously at the back of the class, afraid Larry Harry and the evil twins were waiting for them in the hall.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Boneham?” Miss Sours sniffed.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then get to class!”

  The Odds huddled together as they moved down the hall toward the gym lockers. When they reached the end of the hall, Squeak ducked into the library, waving sympathetically to his friends.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  Boney and Itchy continued along the hall and down the stairs to the change room. Thankfully, it was empty. Larry Harry and all the other boys were already changed and heading toward the lacrosse field.

  “At least I have a decent shirt to wear today,” Itchy said, pulling on a lime-green T-shirt.

  Boney raised his eyebrows skeptically but said nothing while he changed into his gym clothes. He placed his arm around Itchy’s shoulders as they left the school for the playing field. “Now e’s my plan for revenge.”

  “MOVE IT, PEOPLE!” Colonel R. shouted, blasting on his whistle from centre field. “Same teams as yesterday!”

  Itchy and Boney joined the group of skinny misfits milling around the bench.

  “I have to fall out of what?” Itchy said, staring at Boney in horror.

  “The tree,” Boney said. “But you don’t fall. You fly out of the tree like a screaming demon.”

  “Oh, that’s better,” Itchy derided. “For a minute there I thought I had to fall out of a tree. I’m not doing it. It’s too dangerous.”

  “The lowest branch is only ten feet up,” Boney said. “Besides, I’m rigging up a harness system controlled by a rope. We’ll wrap it around the branch and I’ll work the rope so you won’t get hurt.”

  “Why can’t you wear the harness and I control the rope?” Itchy asked.

  “Because I’m the bait,” Boney said. “I’m going to lure them in.” He made a motion with his hands as though luring a fish with a rod and reel.

  Itchy stared at his friend in disgust. “Why doesn’t Squeak lure them in?”

  “Because I’m the fastest runner. They’ll chase me, I’ll run back, then work the rope.”

  Colonel R. blew his whistle. “Take your positions!”

  Larry Harry’s team ran onto the field, swinging their lacrosse sticks threateningly. The misfits bumped into each other, shoving and arguing over who was playing what position.

  “I don’t like it,” Itchy complained, jogging next to Boney.

  “You can’t chicken out this time,” Boney said. “Don’t you want to get those criminals back for what they’ve done to us? It’s a great plan! They’ll pee their pants and die when they see you streaking out of that tree.”

  “…I don’t know…” Itchy said.

  “Get a move on!” Colonel R. screamed, his whistle piercing the air. He pointed at Itchy and Larry, indicating the start of the game, then blew his whistle again as he dropped the ball.

  Larry dove, scooping up the ball and driving it right at Itchy, hitting him square in the stomach. Itchy doubled over and collapsed. Boney rushed to his friend and helped him to his feet.

  “Do you want to be a human target for the rest of your life?” he asked as they limped across the field to the nurse’s office.

  Itchy slumped against Boney’s shoulder. “Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth in pain. “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ZOMBIE ELVIS

  Later that week, the boys convened at the clubhouse.

  “I don’t have any white sheets,” Itchy reported to his friends, his disembodied head poking through the hole in Escape Hatch #1. “But I found an old tire and a camera.” He plunked a Polaroid Swing camera onto the clubhouse floor. “It has film in it and everything. I left the tire at the base of the tree. It’s too heavy to carry up the ladder.”

  “Hey! I lent you that camera months ago,” Squeak said, snatching up the Polaroid and checking it for damage. “What are we supposed to do with an old tire?”

  “We can hang it from a rope,” Itchy said, climbing into the clubhouse.

  Boney and Squeak stared in bewilderment at Itchy’s popsicle-pink T-shirt.

  “My mom dyed all the white sheets pink to suit her most recent decor decision,” Itchy explained. “She dyed the towels and all our underwear by mist
ake, too. The whole house is just one big bubble-gum-pink nightmare.”

  Squeak furrowed his brow with concern. “Why would we hang a tire from the clubhouse?”

  “To swing on,” Itchy said. He held up a length of rope.

  Boney rolled his eyes. “I asked you to do one simple thing,” he said. “We need you to dress in white for our revenge plan.” He turned to Squeak. “What about you, Squeak? Do you have any white sheets at your place?”

  Squeak shook his head. “Dad and I use sleeping bags. It’s for the best, really, because I can’t imagine what the sheets would look like if Dad were responsible for washing them.”

  “Well, we can’t have a pink ghost,” Boney said.

  “What do you mean, ghost?” Itchy jumped in. “You said there weren’t any ghosts of any kind in this plan.”

  “Not any real ones,” Boney replied. “Just fake ghosts.”

  “You said I could be a zombie.”

  “Right. You’re a zombie. But we still need a white sheet.”

  “Why don’t you provide the white sheet, seeing as this whole zombie thing is your idea?” Itchy demanded.

  Boney sighed. “You know my aunt only buys red-and-black plaid flannel sheets. She read somewhere that they repel bugs.”

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Itchy said with a measure of relief. “Guess the plan is off.”

  Squeak squinted from behind his goggles. “Where’d your aunt read that?”

  “Some women’s magazine. Come on, Itchy,” Boney pleaded. “There must be something you can wear. Go back home and look harder.”

  “I’m telling you, we don’t have anything!” Itchy shouted.

  “Try again!” Boney insisted. “I ran around collecting everything else.” He pointed toward a pile of stuff to one side of the clubhouse: a length of webbing, a silver bucket, two flashlights, an old hockey helmet, a spotlight, and a feather pillow.

  “And I brought all my special-effects materials,” Squeak said. “Foam latex, silicone prosthetics, makeup, hair pomade, gelatin, wigs, false teeth—a creepy eye.” Squeak held this up to his face, the eyeball bouncing lazily on the end of a spring. “I even received my blood capsules in the mail today.” He produced a small cellophane bag filled with little capsules and sniffed it. “Smells like revenge to me.”

  Itchy took the bag from Squeak. “How do they work?”

  Squeak opened the bag and popped a capsule in his mouth. “You just put them in your mouth like this…and when you’re ready, bite down like a great white shark.” He clamped down on the capsule and the fake blood spurted between the gap in his teeth.

  “Cool,” Itchy said.

  “See?” Boney enthused. “We’re going to dress you like a zombie-ghost kinda thing and send you flying out of the tree with blood and all kinds of horrible stuff. When Larry gets a look at you, he’s going to cry like a baby for his mother. And we’ll have the photos to prove it.” He held the Polaroid in the air.

  “And when they’re begging for mercy, I’m going to tar and feather them—just like in medieval times,” Squeak added, gesturing to the silver pail.

  “Where are we going to get tar?” Itchy asked.

  “Well, we can’t use real tar,” Squeak confessed. “But I thought of something just as good.” He pulled a large jar of honey from his messenger bag. “If we dilute this by 20 percent with H2O, it should have the desired viscosity. It’ll take them weeks to wash this honey from their hair.”

  “This could be awesome,” Itchy said.

  “It will be awesome,” Boney encouraged him. “So all we need now is something white for you to wear. I’m sure there’s something at your house. Come on. Squeak and I will help you look.”

  OVER AT ITCHY’S HOUSE, Itchy opened the linen cupboard door, revealing a stack of pink sheets and towels.

  “See?” he said. “Everything’s pink. There’s not a white thing in the house.”

  Boney frowned at the pink sheets, his eyes drifting over to the open closet at the end of the hall. “What about that?” He pointed to Itchy’s father’s gleaming white Elvis costume.

  “Oh, no,” Itchy protested. “Forget it.”

  “It’s perfect,” Boney said, walking over and lifting the plastic covering from the suit.

  “Ahhhh! Don’t touch it!” Itchy slapped Boney’s hand away. “That’s my dad’s spare. Nobody touches his costumes.”

  “Can’t you just see it, Squeak?” Boney murmured, his eyes glazed with a trance-like ecstasy. “This costume will be perfect…”

  “Those sequins would create quite an effect in the right light,” Squeak agreed. “And those flared cuffs and sleeves will flap brilliantly as he’s flying out of the tree like a…like a…” Squeak’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.

  “Like a screaming zombie Elvis,” Boney said.

  “Am I the only one who isn’t crazy here?” Itchy threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think you understand. If anything happens to that costume, I’m dead.” He yanked the plastic back down over the suit.

  “But you said it’s his spare,” Boney said, removing the costume from the rod. “We have to do it.”

  “No,” Itchy refused.

  “Just imagine how amazing it’ll be…”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “It’s brilliant!”

  “Can’t we just build the Apparator instead?” Itchy pleaded. He watched helplessly as Boney drifted down the hall with the costume. “I’m so doomed…”

  UP IN THE CLUBHOUSE, Itchy folded his sparkling arms across his chest as Boney tightened the waistband on the costume with some safety pins. Squeak fussed with Itchy’s makeup, adding the finishing touches to Zombie Elvis. You could hardly recognize Itchy, he looked so different. His hair was jet-black and slick with pomade. He had sideburns pencilled to the corners of his twisted blue mouth. One eye dangled horribly from the socket, while the other was distorted and sunken. His face was powdered a ghastly white and his hands were covered in horrible Frankenstein scars.

  “We’d better not get this suit dirty,” Itchy slurred for the umpteenth time through false teeth. “And I have to have it back before midnight. My dad checks in on it like a prison warden.”

  “No problem,” Boney said. “The whole plan shouldn’t take more than half an hour. But we’d better get ready. Larry and his fellow convicts will be walking home after soccer practice soon.”

  “At least I got to eat supper before I die,” Itchy sulked. “And it was good, too. Tuna casserole. Not like that canned-soup stuff your aunt makes.”

  “I believe canned mushroom soup is one of the main ingredients in tuna casserole,” Squeak corrected him.

  “Well, it was good anyway,” Itchy said. “My mom’s a great cook. I’m going to miss all those delicious meals when I’m dead.”

  Boney laughed dismissively. “You’re not going to die.”

  Itchy stared at him suspiciously with his one good eye, the other bouncing lightly on its spring. “Easy for you to say.”

  “Open wide,” Squeak ordered, popping several fake blood capsules into Itchy’s mouth. “Okay, you know how it works. At the right moment, bite down hard on the capsules and then spit the blood all over—making sure not to get any on the suit, of course.”

  Itchy-Elvis nodded his head, the fake eye bouncing.

  Squeak stood back, proudly admiring his work. “You’d make a great mascot,” he said. “Zombie Elvis—I don’t think any other club has such an innovative sidekick.”

  “Forget it,” Itchy said.

  “Too bad,” Squeak sighed. He turned to Boney and saluted. “He’s ready for the harness, Chief.”

  Boney produced the webbing harness and fitted it carefully around Itchy’s thin frame.

  “Are you sure this thing will hold?” Itchy mumbled warily, trying not to burst the blood capsule between his teeth.

  “Sure it’ll hold,” Boney answered confidently. “I learned how to tie a harness in Scouts, remember?
”

  “That was a long time ago,” Itchy reminded him.

  “Well, it’s kind of like riding a bike,” Boney said, cheerfully. “You never really forget how to do it.” He studied the harness for a moment. “Now where does this piece go?” he mused, holding up a loose end of rope.

  “You said you knew what you were doing,” Itchy grumbled.

  “Don’t worry. I was just kidding. See, it goes here.” He pushed the end of the webbing through a small loop at the back of the harness and secured it, tugging on the harness to show how strong it was. Itchy tugged on it as well. While he was doing this, Boney squeezed his old hockey helmet over Itchy’s blackened hair. “For extra protection.”

  “Ahhhh,” Itchy wailed. “You’re ripping my hair out!”

  “Sorry.” Boney adjusted the straps on the hockey helmet to fit Itchy’s head. Then he produced a black magic marker and a large scribble pad with a diagram of the neighbouring streets. “Okay, listen up.” He began drawing on the diagram, the way Colonel R. sometimes did on the chalkboard in gym class. “Here’s the soccer field,” he said, marking the spot on the pad with a big black “X.” “Prisoner 95 and his henchmen will finish soccer practice at 8:00. At approximately 8:15 they’ll stop to change their shoes at the bleachers, then walk down Bleaker Street to Joe’s Variety on the eight corners to purchase soda and licorice. By 8:25, they’ll be moving along Friendship to Van Avenue, where they’ll cut across the street to the alley between Walker and Johnston. They’ll reach Green Bottle at 8:33, where they’ll deposit their soda cans in Mrs. Scheider’s garbage can. They’ll stop for two to three minutes to tease her schnauzers, then throw a few rocks at Mrs. Pulmoni’s cat. That’s when I step out from behind the mailbox into the streetlight. As soon as I see them, I’ll give two sharp whistles.” Boney demonstrated, giving two loud blasts with his fingers to his lips. “When they start to chase me, I’ll signal Squeak with the flashlight,” he signalled with the flashlight, “and run back to the clubhouse to man the rope. Squeak, the second they run under the south branch, you hit them with the honey. When they’re rubbing their eyes, blind them with the spotlight. Itchy, that’s your cue to come flying out of the tree, spitting blood and swinging the feather pillow. They won’t know what hit them! Any questions?”