by Natale Ghent
Itchy raised his hand. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” Boney asked.
“No. But what if I do?”
“Then hold it until the manoeuvre is over.”
Boney helped Itchy through the clubhouse window onto the big east branch of the clubhouse tree. Itchy inched along the branch to his position, trying not to catch the pants of his father’s Elvis costume on the bark of the tree. He steadied himself to keep from falling as Squeak leaned out the window and handed him the feather pillow.
“Hold this end up,” Squeak instructed. “I’ve loosened the stitches so the feathers will explode when you swing it.”
Itchy nodded. He looked at Boney. “This had better work,” he threatened.
“Don’t worry,” Boney assured him again. “It’ll scare them senseless. When I give you the signal, you push off the branch, start swinging the pillow and spitting blood. I’ll be down on the ground working the rope so you don’t fall. Got it?”
Itchy-Elvis nodded.
“Ready with the tar and spotlight?”
Squeak saluted. “Ready, Chief.”
“All right,” Boney said. “I’m going down the street to wait for Larry Harry and the evil twins. Remember the code.”
“Two sharp whistles,” Squeak answered obediently.
“Right,” Boney said. “As soon as you hear those whistles you’ll know I’ve spotted them. When they start to chase me, I’ll signal with the flashlight to Squeak. Squeak gives Itchy the signal to get ready,” Boney made a slashing motion with his hand in Itchy’s direction, “and it’s showtime! Any final questions?”
The boys shook their heads.
“Good. I’m off. Good luck, men.” Boney saluted his friends.
Squeak saluted back. Itchy-Elvis raised his hand to salute but almost slipped from the tree in the process and decided to just nod instead.
Boney slid down the pole to the ground. He skulked along the length of the house, hiding behind bushes and making his way to the street, trying to avoid the prying eyes of his nosy neighbours. Ducking out of the street-lamp light, he scurried behind Squeak’s father’s car. From this vantage point, he could see Itchy’s mother sitting in a chair on her porch at 27 Green Bottle. He would have to take evasive measures. Crouching low, he slipped alongside the car into the street and shuffled quickly past Itchy’s house, hiding behind Mrs. Pulmoni’s old station wagon. But as he did this he was ambushed by Itchy’s terrier, Snuff, who came snarling out from behind some garbage cans and grabbed the cuff of Boney’s pants with his needle-sharp teeth.
“Get off me, you stupid mutt!” Boney growled hoarsely, struggling to pull his leg clear of the dog. But when he jerked his leg back, he lost his balance and tumbled into the street from behind the car, with the dog snapping and pulling on his pant leg.
“Is that you, Boney?” Itchy’s mother called from the porch.
Boney waved back as though nothing was wrong, still trying to pull his leg free. Snuff snarled and tugged even harder. Several lights snapped on along the street.
“Oh, dear!” Itchy’s mother cried once she’d realized what all the confusion was about. “Snuff! You stop that this instant! Bad dog! Bad dog!” And then she gave two sharp whistles. “Come here right now!”
Boney wrestled with Snuff, trying to step over the dog and wrench himself free. Kicking and struggling, he tripped over his pant leg and fell to the ground, hitting the concrete. The flashlight bounced from his hands and blinked twice before rolling to the centre of the street, where it was instantly crushed by a passing car.
“Get outta the road, kid!” the driver barked as he drove by.
Boney looked at the crushed flashlight with dismay. He tried to pull himself upright, but Snuff still clung to his pant cuff, growling and snarling. “Go on!” Boney shouted, giving him a quick kick and sending the dog skittering backwards to the curb.
“I’ll get his doggie treats,” Itchy’s mother called out, running into the house.
Snuff geared up and rushed again, but this time Boney stepped quickly out of the way and began running back to the clubhouse to warn the other Odd Fellows that the falling flashlight was not the official signal. He raced back to the tree, arms waving, Snuff barking and growling behind him.
“I said GO ON!” Boney screamed at the dog as he hit the old rubber tire at the base of the tree, stumbling wildly. He flailed to the ground and was suddenly splashed by a cold shower of sticky honey water. The spotlight blasted on. The Polaroid flashed. There was a horrible shriek followed by a thud as Itchy-Elvis leaped from the tree, feathers exploding everywhere. The blood capsules burst, gushing red goop from Itchy’s mouth as his chin hit the ground, the special-effects eye popping from its socket and rolling into the dirt. The Polaroid whirred and a picture appeared from the camera, the image of Itchy in mid-flight slowly coming into focus. The light at the side of the house turned on and there stood Boney’s aunt and uncle, with looks of shock and horror on their faces as the feathers from the exploded pillow floated gracefully down, adhering to Boney’s honey-covered clothing. The whole mess was highlighted like a vaudeville show by the spotlight, still faithfully manned by Squeak.
“That stupid old tire,” Boney moaned from the ground.
Boney’s aunt took one look at Itchy and fainted. Itchy’s mother could be heard calling for Snuff down the street.
“Is…is that his eye?” Boney’s uncle asked, pointing to the fake eye in the mud.
Boney retrieved the eye from the ground. “It’s okay. It’s only a fake.”
He held the dripping eye in the air, the eyeball bouncing on the end of its spring. His aunt fluttered awake, took one look at the eye, and fainted again.
“Come, now, Mildred, it’s only a fake,” his uncle tried to console her, tapping lightly on her hand. He turned to Boney. “You’d better clean this up quickly and hope your aunt doesn’t remember a thing after she wakes up.” He gathered his wife and took her inside.
Boney pushed the eye into his pants pocket and leaned over to see if his friend was all right. He shook Itchy’s arm.
“Itchy…are you okay?”
Snuff trotted up to his master and began licking the fake blood from his mouth and cheeks.
“Snuff, cookies!” Itchy’s mother called from the street.
The dog tore from the yard, racing to get his treat.
Itchy groaned, his eyes blinking. “What happened?” he asked, raising his head shakily. He looked up at the feather-covered Boney. The spotlight streaming behind him made him look like an angelic chicken. “Am I dead?” he gulped.
“You jumped too soon,” Boney-Chicken explained. “The flashlight was a false alarm. And I tripped over your old tire.” He helped Itchy to his feet.
“Oh no,” Itchy said, looking at the blood-stained Elvis outfit. “My dad’s going to kill me.”
“We’ll get it dry cleaned,” Boney said, supporting Itchy around the waist. “Squeak—douse the light.”
Squeak turned off the spotlight, then slipped down the escape pole to where Boney and Itchy stood.
“My dad’s going to kill me,” Itchy moaned again, looking at the red-stained suit.
“I’m pretty sure those blood capsules are water soluble,” Squeak said, handing Itchy the Polaroid snapshot. “It’s a good picture…if that’s any consolation…”
“We’ll have the Elvis costume cleaned and back in the closet before your dad notices it’s gone,” Boney said.
Itchy just shook his head. “Bad idea,” he mumbled. “I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning.” He crumpled the snapshot in his hand.
CHAPTER NINE
A KING-SIZED MESS
Boney and Squeak helped Itchy into Boney’s house and sat him on a chair in the kitchen. Boney unfastened the strap on the hockey helmet and worked it off Itchy’s head. They could hear Boney’s aunt wailing hysterically from her bedroom upstairs, and Boney’s uncle softly consoling her.<
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“Wait here,” Boney told Itchy. “I’ll get you some clean clothes from upstairs.”
Boney reappeared moments later with a bundle of clothes from his bedroom. He handed them to Itchy, then guided him to the bathroom off the kitchen. When Itchy reappeared he was wearing one of Boney’s old Superman T-shirts and a pair of his faded old jeans. His face was newly scrubbed, but there was still a light stain on his cheek where the fake blood had been.
“At least it’s better than the shirt Squeak lent me,” he said. He surveyed the ruined suit, his face crumpling in anguish. “I may as well just run away and join the circus.”
“It’ll be okay,” Boney reassured him. “We’ll take it to Mr. Martini’s cleaners. He’s open late on Thursday nights.”
Itchy looked up, a spark of hope glimmering in his eye then fading again at the sight of the blood-stained costume. He shook his head, burying his face in his hands. “I’m done. This is a disaster.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Boney insisted. “I promise.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Itchy groaned into his hands. “As soon as you start making promises, everything goes horribly wrong.”
Boney ignored his friend. “It won’t take more than an hour.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” his uncle said, appearing suddenly in the kitchen and trying to look stern. “Your aunt is upstairs with a sick headache. Go home, boys. Boney is grounded for the rest of his life. Do you understand?” he said, raising his voice so his wife would hear. “The rest of his life!”
The boys rose obediently.
“But Uncle!” Boney protested.
“Please, Boney, not another word,” his uncle said as Itchy and Squeak slunk out of the house, the screen door slapping lightly behind them. “I want you to…uh…clean yourself up then go to your room and think about what you’ve done.”
Boney dragged the dirty costume up the stairs to his room. He threw the costume on his bed, and slumped down beside it. Grounded for life? It seemed like a harsh punishment given the circumstances. After all, no one got really hurt.
Boney moped for a while, then found some clean clothes and shuffled across the hall to the shower. There was so much honey, and so many feathers in his hair, he needed half a bottle of shampoo just to get it clean. What’s more, he had to keep unclogging the feathers from the shower drain.
When Boney returned to his room, Squeak’s voice drifted over the Tele-tube. “Is anybody there?”
Boney removed the towel and pressed the tube to his lips. “We really messed up this time.”
“It was simply a malfunction,” Squeak consoled. “The plan was a good one…if it had turned out the way we imagined.”
“We didn’t get revenge on Larry Harry. The whole thing was just a big failure.”
“There’s still the Invention Convention and the ghost at the mill.”
“I’m grounded for life,” Boney said.
“You’ve been grounded for life before,” Squeak reminded him.
“My aunt fainted twice.”
“She fainted three times over the parachute caper.”
“True…”
“What are we going to do about Itchy’s dad’s costume?” Squeak asked.
Boney leaned his chin in his hand. “I have to get it to Mr. Martini’s or Itchy will never speak to me again. If he hadn’t left that stupid old tire at the bottom of the tree, things might have ended better.”
“Uh, yeah…”
“Anyway, I’m going to wait until my aunt and uncle are asleep, then sneak out and bike the costume over to the cleaners.”
There was a pause as Squeak considered Boney’s new plan. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s our only hope. If Itchy’s dad comes home from his show and finds his spare Elvis costume missing, Itchy is going to run away and join the circus.”
“It’s too bad we don’t have a robot,” Squeak said. “We could send it to the cleaners with the Elvis costume instead. That way, nobody would get in trouble.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Squeak sighed, “joining the circus might not be so bad. Itchy likes animals. At least, he’s always eating animal crackers in class…”
There was a sudden flurry of footsteps outside the bedroom door.
“Got to go!” Boney whispered, throwing the towel over the Tele-tube and leaping into bed. He turned off the light and shut his eyes as though asleep.
The door to his room flew open. His uncle stood frowning in the doorway, his long shadow stretching across the floor. He surveyed the room, then closed the door with a click.
BONEY WAITED until he was sure his aunt and uncle were asleep before slipping from bed. He pushed his feet into his sneakers then crept across the room. Opening the door a tiny crack, he shut it just as quickly. His uncle had fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. He could see him from the top of the stairs.
Boney checked the alarm clock beside his bed. It was after ten o’clock. Itchy’s father was due home at midnight. That left less than two hours to get the costume to the cleaners and return it. Boney scratched his head. He had to get out. But how?
He eyed the window, where the Tele-tube lay concealed beneath the towel. He would have to get out that way, he decided. There was no other choice with his uncle sleeping on the couch in the living room.
Boney uncovered the Tele-tube. “Squeak, are you there?” he whispered.
There was a soft rustling at the other end of the line.
“I’m here,” Squeak’s sleepy voice answered.
“There’s a slight glitch in the plan,” Boney reported. “Uncle is snoring on the couch. I’m going to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?” Squeak asked.
“Operation Window.”
“As in…climbing out the window?”
“Roger that.”
“I’m not sure I like the smell of this,” Squeak said. “It sounds very prickly.”
“It’s not prickly at all,” Boney countered. “I have to save Itchy from the circus.”
“It seems rather drastic. Our windows are quite a ways up.”
“It’s getting late,” Boney said. “I have no choice.”
“Boney…” Squeak’s cautious voice filtered through the tube. “Be careful.”
CHAPTER TEN
SAVING ITCHY FROM THE CIRCUS
Boney pulled a sweater over his T-shirt, emptied his piggy bank into his pockets, filled his Triple-X Turbo Blaster water gun that he’d got for his birthday the year before with water from the large glass next to his bed, folded the stained Elvis costume into a pillowcase, and unlocked the window. Raising the sash slowly, Boney was careful not to disconnect the Tele-tube from its housing in the frame.
He stuck one leg over the sill, dangling it tentatively over the ledge. He paused, gathering his courage. The air felt cool against his skin. Bending forward, he pushed his head and shoulders through the opening. Squeak’s worried face peered back at him from across the divide that separated their two houses. He pointed down with concern.
Boney looked down. The ground seemed a lot farther away at night than it did in the daylight. But he couldn’t turn back now. He gave Squeak the thumbs-up, at the same time measuring with his foot the distance to the trellis that supported his aunt’s precious climbing roses. Lowering himself down, his sneakered foot probed for a foothold, the thorns of the roses scratching and clawing at his leg. When at last he found his footing, Boney grabbed the wooden trellis and lowered himself out the window.
Moving slowly, Blaster in one hand, pillowcase in the other, Boney desperately tried to avoid the sharp claws of the roses. They pulled at his pants and his shirt, tearing at the fabric. More than once, he had to stifle a cry as a thorn pierced his hand. “I hate roses,” he cursed through clenched teeth as he picked his way down to the living-room window. Looking through, he could see his uncle on the couch, his chest rising and falling, his moustache billowing in and out with each breath. B
oney ducked out of sight as his uncle snorted and jumped, rolling like an old walrus onto his side.
When he was sure it was safe, Boney continued his descent. Everything was working beautifully. He was just about to congratulate himself on his stealth when the pillowcase containing the stained costume caught on a big thorn. Boney tugged. The pillowcase wouldn’t budge. He tugged again. Still nothing. Then he yanked, and the pillowcase ripped along its seam, sending Boney crashing in a heap to the ground, the Triple-X water blaster bouncing from his hand, the wind knocked with a loud grunt from his lungs. He lay there in agony, terrified to move lest his uncle appear.
Squeak’s window rattled open. “Are you okay?” he whispered down.
“I’m fine,” Boney answered, rubbing his ankle. He waved Squeak off, retrieved the water gun and pillowcase, and pulled himself to his feet, making his way across the lawn to the garage.
Inside the garage, Boney knelt down, removing the playing card and clothespin he kept pegged to the spokes of his bike. Normally, he liked the noise the card made, but tonight, silence was essential. Setting the card and pin aside, he grabbed the pillowcase and wheeled his bike noiselessly from the garage. Just to be safe, he walked the bike to the street before slinging his leg over the crossbar and pushing off.
As he pedalled past Itchy’s house, he heard the familiar sound of Snuff’s nails scrabbling down the concrete walkway in pursuit. Snuff raced up to the bike, but before he could attack, Boney aimed the Blaster gun and hosed the dog in the face, sending Snuff skittering with a yelp back to the porch.
Boney pedalled faster, tucking the gun in the pillowcase, the pillowcase bumping wildly against his knee. When he reached the cleaners, he skidded to a stop and rested his bike against the wall of the building.
The door jangled loudly as Boney entered the store, the smell of chemicals and scorched cloth jumping into his nose. Mr. Martini stood like an undertaker behind the counter, a thin, grey-haired wisp of a man with thick, black-framed glasses even bigger than Squeak’s goggles. Boney thumped the pillowcase onto the counter