The Odds Get Even

by Natale Ghent

  His uncle watched with concern as Boney finished his second helping, then pushed his dishes to the centre of the table.

  “May I be excused?”

  “Have you finished your homework, young man?” Boney’s aunt asked as she cleared the dishes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boney said, leaving the table and pulling a plastic container from the cupboard.

  His aunt eyed the container suspiciously. “Just where do you think you’re going with my best Tupperware?”

  Boney put on his most sincere face. “I wanted to share some of your delicious casserole with my friends.”

  His uncle whistled softly under his breath.

  His aunt twisted her mouth to one side. “Don’t they have food of their own?”

  “They do,” Boney conceded, “but their parents don’t cook as well as you.” He forced his mouth into a smile.

  His aunt beamed proudly. “You can use the old margarine tubs,” she said, handing Boney several plastic containers from under the sink.

  “Thanks.”

  Boney began ladling out the casserole, the grey glop thumping into the containers. He flattened it down with a wooden spoon, secured the lids, then placed the tubs in a paper grocery bag. He added several slices of bread for good measure, then scoured the cupboards for something sweet. He found a tin of bran muffins and decided they were better than nothing, even if they were hard as hockey pucks. He wished he could bring something good, like chocolate chip cookies or brownies, but his aunt didn’t believe in feeding children “such junk.”

  “Sorry, Rufus,” Boney apologized as he tossed a few hard muffins in with the bread and casserole.

  Folding the paper bag, Boney carried the care package to the clubhouse.

  Itchy was already waiting, wearing an ill-fitting black-and-yellow knit toque and swinging languidly in the old tire, his mom’s bike leaning against the oak tree. “There’s one for each of us,” he said, producing an identical yellow-and-black toque from his coat pocket.

  Up in the clubhouse, Boney pulled the toque over his head and rolled the rim until he could see properly. The two boys unfolded the Elvis costume and began to sew while they waited for Squeak.

  Eventually, they heard a struggling sound, and soon Squeak’s head appeared in Escape Hatch #1. He stared at Boney and Itchy’s hats.

  “There’s one for each of us,” Boney said, pointing to a third toque on the table.

  “Oh…are we establishing a dress code?”

  Boney turned to Itchy.

  “My mom thought it’d be nice to have matching hats, seeing as we have the clubhouse and all.”

  “That was nice of her,” Squeak said. “I bet you can’t guess what I’ve got.”

  “Leftovers?” Boney said.

  “Wrong!” Squeak raised his hands, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s another mascot!”

  “Squeak, no!” Boney yelled as Itchy lunged to cover the Elvis costume.

  Squeak opened his hands. But instead of a dog, he unleashed a small, fuzzy chick onto the clubhouse floor.

  “A bird?” Itchy asked.

  “A hen,” Squeak answered proudly. “My dad ordered her for me from the farm co-op. I figured she would make a great mascot because when she’s old enough to lay eggs we’ll have a continuous supply of ammo to use against Prisoner 95 and his fellow convicts.”

  The little chick peeped as it began scratching and searching the clubhouse for bugs.

  “See how good she is?” Squeak beamed. “She can reduce the standing bug population and she doesn’t mind being high up in a tree.”

  Itchy handed Squeak the toque from the table. “I hate to burst your bubble, Squeak, but chickens can’t fly.”

  “I am aware of that,” Squeak answered, obediently donning the toque. “They roost. They fly just enough to get up and down safely.”

  “If you roll up the rim, it’ll fit better,” Boney said. He looked at the chick. “I think she’s cute. What’s her name?”

  Squeak worked the rim on the toque. “I think we should call her Henrietta.”

  The chick peeped as though in agreement.

  “Henrietta it is,” Boney said. “What does she eat?”

  “She likes everything,” Squeak said, adjusting his hat. “But I bought her some feed, just in case.” He pulled a handful of ground corn from his pocket and scattered it over the clubhouse floor. The chick began greedily pecking and scratching at the corn.

  “I have a box for her, too,” Squeak said. He climbed back down the ladder and then reappeared with a box and an old towel. “She can sleep in here at night.” He placed the box on the floor, pulled one side down to create an entranceway, and carefully arranged the towel inside. The little chick hopped into the box and nestled in the towel.

  Itchy leaned over to take a closer look. “I guess having a chicken for a mascot isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of appropriate.” He scratched the chick on the top of her head. “Better start laying eggs fast,” he said, then returned to his sewing. He affixed another sequin to the costume and held it up proudly. “Can you believe it? It’s finally done!”

  “We have to celebrate!” Boney said, opening the cooler and producing three cans of ginger ale. He tossed one to each of the boys then cracked his open with a loud hiss. “To a job well done!”

  The boys clinked their cans together.

  Itchy guzzled his soda, slurping loudly. “I never thought it was possible.” He let out a huge burp.

  Boney and Squeak did the same.

  “Now we can focus on our invention,” Squeak said.

  Boney turned to Squeak. “Hey, what’d you bring for Rufus?”

  “A TV dinner.”

  “How’s he supposed to heat it?” Itchy asked.

  Squeak shrugged.

  “What’d you bring?” Boney asked Itchy.

  Itchy produced half a dozen purple Pixy Stix. Boney raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” Itchy said defensively. “I wasn’t about to give him my Pez.”

  “Even Squeak’s uncooked TV dinner is better than that,” Boney admonished.

  “Actually, TV dinners are precooked,” Squeak corrected him. “They just need to be heated up.”

  “Right…” Itchy said. “What’d you bring, then, Boney?”

  “Supper Surprise Casserole.”

  “Are you trying to kill him?”

  “It’s the only thing I had. I brought bread, too, and muffins.”

  “Mmmmmm…delicious,” Itchy mocked.

  “It’s better than a bunch of stupid Pixy Stix—and all the same flavour, too.”

  “Shall we go, gentlemen?” Squeak said, interrupting the argument.

  Itchy folded his father’s costume carefully, placing it in a bag to protect it on the short trip home. “Take care of the clubhouse while we’re gone!” he called out happily to Henrietta as he climbed down the ladder.

  Henrietta peeped cheerfully from her box.

  THE THREE FRIENDS pedalled quickly down the street, skidding to a stop in front of Itchy’s house. They marched in procession up the stairs and through the door, up to the second floor and down the hall to the closet, where Itchy hung the costume with great reverence.

  “Never again,” he vowed as he straightened the bag covering the suit.

  “Never again,” Squeak echoed.

  Snuff appeared from Itchy’s bedroom. Boney lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing the Blaster. The dog cowered, slinking silently back into the shadows.

  “Come on, guys,” Boney said. “Let’s go.”

  Back on the street, the Odds pedalled to the Old Mill. When they reached the dilapidated stone foundation, they rested their bikes against the wall and carried their food offerings to the firepit.

  “Where are the rest of the Pixy Stix?” Boney asked Itchy, who had produced only two sticks instead of six.

  “I got hungry on the way,” Itchy said, his tongue a brilliant purple.

  “You’re hopeless,” Boney sighed. He placed h
is care package on the log by the pit. Squeak and Itchy did the same.

  “Rufus,” Boney called out in a loud whisper. “We’ve brought something for you.”

  “Some crappy casserole and a frozen TV dinner,” Itchy called out before Boney could smack him on the arm.

  “Who’s there?” a voice rasped from behind a pile of stones.

  “It’s us,” Boney said. “The kids you scared the other night.”

  “That could be anyone,” Squeak whispered to Boney.

  “The three kids who discovered your identity,” Boney corrected himself.

  The boys waited expectantly. At last Rufus appeared from behind the rocks. Boney held up the care package.

  “What’ve you got there?” Rufus asked.

  “Food,” Boney said.

  Rufus eyed the bags hungrily. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  “It isn’t the greatest food in the world,” Boney apologized.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Rufus said, pulling the casserole and the frozen TV dinner from the bag.

  Itchy reluctantly handed over the last two purple Pixy Stix. “Here,” he said. “We brought you these, too.”

  Rufus’s eyes lit up when he saw the candy. “Much obliged,” he said, with genuine gratitude.

  The three boys watched as Rufus tucked into the food like a hungry dog. He ate silently, burning through the casserole and bread. It wasn’t until he was halfway through the TV dinner that he slowed down enough to actually speak. He looked up from the tray. “Nice hats,” he said, sopping up gravy with a bran muffin.

  Boney took the opportunity to ask his question. “Mr. Rufus…” he began.

  “Just Rufus, son. No need for formalities here.”

  “Rufus…” Boney corrected himself. “We were wondering if you could maybe help us out with something.”

  “What is it?”

  Squeak produced the Apparator from his bag.

  “Ahhh…yes.” Rufus pushed the food to one side and took the device, turning it over in his hands. “This is a mighty fine piece of work, boys. Couldn’t have done any better myself.”

  “Except it doesn’t work,” Squeak said.

  “Well, now, let’s see…” Rufus accepted a screwdriver from Squeak and began making adjustments. He tightened the coils and peered along the length of the handle. He held the tube to his ear and tapped it lightly with one finger. He checked the wires leading to the switch and clicked it on and off several times, then listened to the tube again. “Seems fine to me,” he said, handing the device and screwdriver back to Squeak.

  Squeak flipped the switch. The Apparator began to glow green, then quickly pulsed from yellow to burning-hot red. He snapped the switch off in disgust. “I just can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s picking up frequencies from the hydro lines.” He craned his neck around to look.

  Itchy sat down next to Rufus and began eating the rest of the cold TV dinner. “It’s not so bad,” he said, gesturing with a chunk of half-frozen Salisbury steak.

  Rufus laughed. “You boys remind me of my own sons. They were good boys, just like you. They used to work around here. We all did. I keep hoping I’ll see them some day.”

  “Did they invent things too?” Squeak asked, sitting cross-legged in front of Rufus.

  Rufus nodded. “Oh, yes, lots of things. Egg-timers, small water wheels, steam-whistle calliopes, and a merry-go-round that ran on a tractor engine. They even invented a saw that could cut a log in quarters in less than ten minutes.”

  Boney frowned but said nothing. A saw that cut logs in ten minutes was hardly even practical. “Where are your sons now?” he asked, sitting next to Squeak.

  Rufus lowered his eyes. “They’re gone…long gone. I keep waiting for them to come back, but they never do.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as the boys searched for something to say.

  “We were really hoping to win the Invention Convention,” Itchy finally said. He gave a big sigh, chewing thoughtfully on the TV dinner bun. “First prize is five hundred dollars.”

  “We really want to beat Larry Harry,” Squeak added.

  “Who’s that?” Rufus asked.

  “Prisoner 95, until recently known as the Fart King,” Itchy said between bites. “He’s evil and mean and he’s a big, stinking, egg-bombing cheater.”

  “He sabotages our convention entry every year,” Squeak said. “That’s how he wins.”

  “He’s our mortal enemy,” Boney added.

  Rufus looked at the boys with concern. “I’m really sorry to hear that, boys. Life is hard enough without that kind of suffering. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Boney rose to his feet. “Well, we appreciate your help all the same.”

  “Come back anytime, boys,” Rufus said, patting his stomach. “Anytime.” He opened one of Itchy’s Pixy Stix, tipped the stick back, and showered the purple powder over his tongue. “Cheers!” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE INVENTION CONVENTION

  Weeks went by. The Odds dodged Larry Harry as best they could, on and off the playing field. When they weren’t in school, they were holed up in their clubhouse, playing with Henrietta, doing their homework, or fussing with the Apparator. But despite their best efforts, the Apparator wasn’t ready when the time came for the Invention Convention.

  The boys wandered glumly through the school gymnasium over their lunch hour, Squeak bumping listlessly into the corners of tables, Itchy swimming in an oversized orange hand-knit sweater, as they looked at the convention entries. Students bustled about, securing bristol board displays and organizing their tables. They were the lucky ones who actually had entries to show. They even got to take the morning off school to set up.

  The Odds stopped in front of Edward Wormer’s display.

  “A potato clock?” Itchy snorted, flapping an orange sleeve at the invention. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s not an original invention.”

  Wormer rushed out from behind the display. He snapped a pen from the holder in his dress shirt and clicked it. “Could you move along, please? I’ll be happy to sign autographs after I win.”

  “Dream on,” Itchy said. “That’s not even your idea. I ought to eat that potato.”

  Wormer stretched his skinny arms protectively in front of his display. Boney tugged Itchy along.

  “There are some really good entries this year,” Squeak sighed. “I spent so much time on the Apparator, I didn’t even consider the possibility of entering something else. There are only three days left before the judging begins. I can’t possibly think of something groundbreaking in three days.”

  The Odds reached Stacy Karns’s display. She and her girlfriends stood chattering behind their table, dressed in identical pink outfits, their hair clipped back with identical clasps. They didn’t even acknowledge the Odds.

  “Cheating Chopsticks?” Itchy said, picking up a pair of chopsticks glued to a clothespin. He read the title on the display. “For people who can’t master the art of eating with sticks. How stupid!”

  Squeak took the chopsticks, testing their action. “It’s actually quite brilliant. Sometimes the simplest inventions are the best.”

  “They’re certainly more marketable,” Boney said.

  Squeak sighed again. “Perhaps I was aiming too high with the Apparator.”

  The Odds moved along to Simon Biddle’s entry.

  “Dog Collar with a Light,” Boney said, reading the display board. “Now that is actually a really good idea.”

  Squeak nodded dejectedly. “Yes, it is.”

  Simon Biddle smiled proudly from behind his table, his metal braces flashing.

  “Where’s Larry’s entry?” Itchy asked.

  Squeak pointed voicelessly across the gymnasium. The Odds drifted over to Larry’s display.

  “The Cushy Cover?” Itchy said in disbelief.

  Boney shook his head. “It’s a toilet seat made of sponge.”

  Itchy gave the seat a
poke. “I guess he needs all the help he can get.”

  Larry popped up menacingly from behind his display. “Keep your hands off the merchandise, loser!”

  Itchy recoiled in horror. Boney clenched his jaw.

  “We’ll see who the loser is after the convention.”

  “Oh yeah?” Larry sneered. “Where’s your entry, Bonehead?” He gazed arrogantly around the gym.

  “It’s coming,” Boney snapped back. “And it’s a lot better than a stupid sponge toilet seat.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ve won every convention for the last three years.”

  “That’s because you cheat,” Squeak piped up.

  Larry made a fist in his face. “How’d you like me to knock your goggled lights out?”

  Boney grabbed Squeak and Itchy, dragging them away from Larry’s table and out the gymnasium door. “Come on, guys. It won’t help if we get ourselves beat up.”

  “Yeah, run away, you sissies,” Larry called after them. “You can come visit me in the winner’s circle next week.”

  Itchy folded his arms over his chest. “If he wins the convention with that stupid invention, I’m going to do something drastic.”

  “Like what?” Boney said. “Skip breakfast?”

  Itchy frowned. “I don’t know. I just wish we could stop him once and for all.”

  Squeak shook his head. “Even a sponge toilet seat is better than nothing at all.” He pulled the defunct Appa-rator from his bag. “I still don’t understand why it won’t work.”

  Boney’s face suddenly brightened. “Itchy, you’re a genius!”

  Itchy looked cagily around. “What’re you talking about?”

  Boney grabbed the Apparator excitedly. “We may not be able to win the convention, but we can still get back at Larry.”

  Squeak and Itchy stared in confusion. “How?”

  “We can use the Apparator! We’ll let him know we’re testing our invention at the Old Mill. When he shows up to sabotage our apparatus, we unleash the ghost.”

  “Great plan,” Itchy quipped. “Except there is no ghost!”

  “Wrong,” Boney said. “There’s Rufus.”

  Squeak blinked. “Rufus?”