The Odds Get Even

by Natale Ghent

  “Yes, Rufus. Don’t you get it? We arrange with Rufus to do exactly what he did to us. That way the Apparator isn’t a total loss.”

  Itchy scrubbed at his hair. “I don’t know, Boney…maybe we should just cut our losses and think about an invention for next year.”

  “We could bring the Polaroid camera,” Squeak offered. “That way we could document the carnage and post the photos the next day at school.”

  Boney snapped his fingers. “Now you’re talking!”

  “What if Rufus doesn’t want to do it?” Itchy asked.

  “Simple. We’ll bring more food.”

  Squeak adjusted his goggles. “Let’s do it.”

  “Great,” Boney said. “Let’s meet in front of Itchy’s after dinner. Everyone, bring food—that means you too, Itchy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GETTING THE GHOST

  “Where are you going with all this food?” Boney’s aunt demanded.

  “We get hungry when we play in our clubhouse,” Boney fibbed.

  His aunt sighed. “Well, I can’t say I blame your friends for wanting to eat my home cooking. I’m sure their parents don’t give a second thought to good nutrition, with so much junk food in the world. And poor Squeak must be half starved, what with his mother gallivanting around the country.” She whipped her tea towel from her arm and snapped it viciously in the air at some invisible buggy intruder.

  Boney smiled and nodded, dropping a margarine container of casserole like a brick to the bottom of a paper bag. He tossed in a few hard muffins and a container of jiggling lime-green gelatin studded with candied fruit. Stuffing the bag in his knapsack, he proceeded to the garage and hopped on his Schwinn.

  Squeak was already waiting in front of Itchy’s on his bicycle when Boney arrived. Itchy appeared at the door, wearing a long, multicoloured, hand-knit scarf and munching on a turkey drumstick.

  “Where’s your food for Rufus?” Boney asked.

  “It’s right here,” he said, holding up a small brown paper bag.

  Boney frowned. “What’s in it?”

  “Bread and butter,” Itchy happily declared.

  “No turkey?”

  Itchy chewed on the drumstick. “This is the last of it.”

  Boney scoffed. “Right. Let’s go.”

  The Odds rolled along the road to the mill, Itchy munching on the drumstick as they went, Squeak swerving back and forth with his goggled vision. When they reached the ruins, the boys parked their bikes and stepped gingerly into the open space.

  “It’s so spooky at night,” Itchy said, tossing the turkey bone to one side and licking his fingers.

  “It’s hardly after dusk,” Squeak said.

  Itchy pointed to the sky. “Look at the moon. It’s coming up already, and it’s nearly full. Wasn’t the ghost supposed to come out when the moon is full?”

  Squeak nodded. “That’s what the reported sightings all say.”

  The Odds stood in the centre of the ruins. Boney called out quietly, “Rufus…are you there?”

  There was a scrabbling sound from across the mill.

  “Is that you, Rufus?”

  “Who’s there?” a voice called out.

  “It’s me, Boney. And Itchy and Squeak.”

  Rufus appeared timidly from behind a pile of stones.

  “We brought you more food,” Boney said, holding up the brown bag.

  “Well, isn’t that nice,” Rufus said, taking the bag and opening it greedily.

  Itchy produced his bag, too. “I brought bread and butter.”

  “And another TV dinner,” Squeak offered. “It’s actually hot this time.”

  Rufus sat down happily on the log by the firepit and began hungrily tucking in. “Isn’t this just the nicest surprise. You boys are so kind.”

  The Odds watched as Rufus tore through the casserole and muffins, then peeled back the cover on the TV dinner. He dipped Itchy’s bread and butter heartily into the gravy, the way he’d done before, savouring the taste as though it were a five-star meal. When he was finishing off the peas, Boney approached him with their request.

  “Rufus…we were wondering if you could help us with something.”

  Rufus lapped up the last of the TV dinner. “Sure, boys. What is it?”

  Boney looked at Itchy and Squeak, who looked back skeptically.

  “We have this problem…remember the bully we told you about, the guy we call Prisoner 95?”

  Rufus thought for a minute then nodded. “Yes, I do remember you mentioning him.”

  “Well…we thought if maybe we scare him and his friends, they might leave us alone.”

  “Scare them?” Rufus said. “What do you have in mind?”

  Rufus continued to eat while Boney laid out his plan.

  When Boney finished talking, Rufus placed the empty containers back in the bag, wiped his face and hands clean with a handkerchief that he produced from his breast pocket, and eyed the boys with a look of concern. “I don’t know, boys…”

  “You just have to help us, Rufus,” Boney pleaded. “Just this once. If you scare Larry Harry, we promise not to ask you for anything else again.”

  Rufus tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket and sighed. “It isn’t easy for me, you see. I’m really quite shy. And I’m afraid…of what might happen. I just want a normal life. These things can get out of hand. Someone could get hurt.” He squinted up at the moon.

  “It’s just this once,” Boney said. “It would mean so much to us.”

  Rufus stared at his shoes for a moment. “When do you want this to happen?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Boney said. “There are only three days left before the convention is judged, and we’d really like Larry Harry to get what’s coming to him before he sabotages someone else’s invention.”

  The three boys held their breath as they looked hopefully at Rufus. Rufus sat back on the log, thinking. He rubbed his chin and shook his head.

  “You boys have been very kind to me,” he said at last. “And you really do remind me of my own sons. I wish there was something I could have done to help them along in life.” He paused thoughtfully. “Besides, I think it’s time for me to leave this place.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Boney asked.

  “Yes. I’ll do it. Just this once.”

  “That’s so great, Mr. Rufus,” Boney gushed. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

  BACK AT THE CLUBHOUSE, the boys analyzed every detail of their plan to get even with Larry Harry.

  “But how are we going to get him to come to the Old Mill?” Itchy asked from his position on the floor, chin on his folded hands, as he watched Henrietta scratching at her supper. He took a small pinch of the hen’s grain and put it in his mouth, nodding with approval.

  “Simple,” Boney replied. “We’ll send him a note and tell him to meet us there. He can’t refuse an opportunity to beat us up.”

  “What if the plan doesn’t work?” Itchy said. “What if it backfires, like every other plan we’ve hatched over the years?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Boney said. “The plan is good and it will work. I promise.”

  “If it doesn’t, we’ll have to go back to Plan H,” Squeak said, pulling more corn from his pocket and scattering it on the clubhouse floor.

  “What’s Plan H?” Itchy asked.

  “Henrietta,” Squeak said. “She should be laying eggs by the spring, and then Larry Harry will be sorry he ever messed with us.”

  “Oh, he’ll be sorry all right,” Boney said.

  Itchy rolled onto his back. “There’s still one more week of lacrosse. I hope Larry doesn’t kill us before we have the chance to get back at him.”

  “Roger that,” Boney said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A MEATLOAF MONKEY WRENCH

  The next morning, the Odds were on their best behaviour. Even Miss Sours, who was on a yardstick rampage in homeroom, could find no fault with them. The boys breezed through their classes, determined t
o make it through the day without incident so as not to disrupt their plan to get even with Larry Harry that night.

  “We just have to make it through gym,” Itchy prayed as he held his lacrosse stick in goal.

  Boney stared back at Larry Harry, who growled like a rabid dog from centre field. Boney squinted his eyes, bolstered by the knowledge that by nightfall he would have the last laugh—at Larry’s expense.

  Colonel R.’s whistle pierced the air. Boney dodged as Larry ploughed past him, snapping up the ball. He turned, driving the ball at Itchy, who raised his stick instinctively and, causing great surprise to everyone, caught the ball with a grunt as it whizzed toward his head. Jones and Jones charged toward Itchy, who gaped at the ball in momentary disbelief then quickly flipped it as if it were a ticking bomb to Boney, who was back on his feet and holding his stick expectantly in the air. Boney caught the ball and drove it down the field to Wormer, who ducked, allowing the ball to zip over his head and into Larry’s stick. Larry drove the ball to Jones, who flipped it to Jones, who drove it at the net, hitting Itchy square between the shoulders as he turned to avoid the ball, knocking him breathless to the ground.

  Colonel R.’s whistle trilled, indicating end of play and game over. Boney rushed over to Itchy, who lay sprawled over the grass, his skinny arms and legs splayed out like a lanky white starfish.

  “Itchy, that was fantastic!”

  “I think my back’s broken.”

  “Take him to the nurse,” Colonel R. barked as Boney and Itchy limped off the field.

  “Did you put the note in his locker?” Itchy asked, his eyes glazed with pain.

  “Yeah,” Boney said. “Just before we came down for gym. Now all we have to do is get to the Old Mill and wait for nightfall.”

  The nurse patched Itchy together with a bandage around his back and another around his head. When she was finished, the two boys went looking for Squeak and found him hiding behind the stacks in the library. As they left the school, Itchy pulled his yellow-and-black toque over the bandage on his head.

  “It’s a good thing my mom made this hat so big.”

  “How do we know Larry will show up at the Old Mill?” Squeak asked again.

  “We don’t know,” Boney said. “But I’d bet my stash of jawbreakers that he will. He can’t refuse my offer.”

  “What did you write in the note?” Squeak asked.

  “I told him to meet us at the Old Mill after dark…or else.”

  “Or else what?” Itchy piped up, a look of panic on his face.

  “Or else…nothing. I didn’t say what.”

  “So…just a general ‘or else’ threat,” Squeak qualified.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Boney said.

  Itchy suddenly turned as though to run away. Boney and Squeak grabbed his arms. Itchy’s knees buckled. “I don’t like the sound of this, Boney. Larry has it in for me already. Look at me! I’m covered in bandages from head to toe. If this thing fails tonight, you may as well plan my funeral!”

  Squeak helped steady Itchy on his feet, then pulled the Apparator from his messenger bag. “I just can’t help feeling disappointed,” he said, glumly. “I had such high hopes for this invention.”

  Just as he said this, the Apparator was wrenched from his hand. Itchy shouted with terror at the sight of Larry Harry.

  “What’s this, pipsqueak?” Larry said, brandishing the Apparator.

  Boney lunged for the detector. “Give it back.”

  Larry tossed the Apparator from hand to hand. “Is this your big secret invention? A nightlight?”

  “It’s an apparitions detector,” Squeak said, trying to grab the Apparator.

  “Speak English, dog-breath, or I’ll stuff you in a sewer hole.”

  Squeak took a guarded step back. “It’s a ghost detector.”

  “Aaaahhhh! Don’t tell him,” Itchy howled.

  Larry grabbed Squeak by the shirt. “A ghost detector…how does it work?”

  Squeak gaped at Larry from behind his goggles as Itchy frantically flagged a passing car for help. When the car actually slowed down, Larry lit out with the Apparator in hand.

  “I’ll see you tonight, suckers!” he shouted, crumpling up Boney’s note and tossing it in Itchy’s face.

  “He took the Apparator!” Squeak cried.

  “What are we going to do?” Itchy wailed.

  “We don’t need the Apparator for tonight,” Boney said.

  “We’re doomed,” Itchy moaned.

  “No we’re not,” Boney assured him. “Come on.”

  The three boys walked down the street, Itchy looking cagily over his shoulder, Squeak dragging his heels. The sound of Elvis music could be heard as they approached Itchy’s house. When they walked up the stairs, the front door flew open to reveal Mr. Schutz striking a pose in the doorway in his newly sequined outfit. He glanced at Itchy’s bandages and curled his lip. “You betta watch yourself, boy. You’re turning into a mummy…or something.”

  Itchy’s mom rushed to the door wearing something that looked like a cross between a hand-knit sweater and a full-length wool gown. “Oh, my poor baby!” She began kissing Itchy all over his bandaged head.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” Itchy said.

  “How did this happen?” she demanded.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Itchy insisted. “It was just a stupid lacrosse accident.”

  “I’m going to call your teacher.”

  “Oh, no. Please, Mom. That would only make matters worse.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Schutz,” Boney said. “After tonight, this will never happen again.”

  “What’s happening tonight?” she asked.

  Squeak elbowed Boney hard in the ribs.

  “Oh, uh, we’re going to practise some moves to help Itchy improve his game. We’ll pick you up later, okay, Itchy?”

  Itchy disappeared into the house with his mom.

  “Don’t forget your special-effects kit,” Boney reminded Squeak as he dropped him off at his house. “And don’t worry about the Apparator. I’ll think of a way to get it back.”

  Squeak nodded listlessly and disappeared inside.

  When Boney walked into the kitchen of his own house, his aunt was there, balanced on top of a chair in her best apron and snapping her gingham tea towel like a bullwhip at the fridge.

  “Oh, William, thank heavens!” she gasped. “There’s a spider on the fridge and it just about killed me!”

  Boney stared at her in horror. His aunt only wore her best apron when company was coming. And he could smell his most dreaded meal of all cooking in the oven: meatloaf.

  “Please, William,” his aunt cried. “I think it’s poisonous.”

  “Venomous,” Boney corrected her as he grabbed a margarine tub off the table and dragged a chair over to the fridge, hoping to capture the spider and let it outside before his aunt lashed it to death. But she was whipping and snapping the towel so wildly that he had to dodge for his life. He could barely see the top of the fridge, let alone a little spider hiding out there. When the towel came dangerously close to his eyes, Boney ducked, only to be clipped in the ear.

  “Owwwww!” he howled, and the margarine tub tumbled to the floor.

  “There it is!” his aunt shrieked, whipping and snapping faster than ever.

  The spider, little more than a black speck, dashed out from behind an amber vase on the fridge and flew through the air, straight at Boney’s aunt. She screamed hysterically, falling backwards off her chair onto the margarine tub. The tub burst, splattering margarine all over everything.

  “Ahhhhhhhh!” she cried, holding up her hands. “The spider slimed me!”

  “It’s only margarine,” Boney said. “I thought the tub was empty.”

  Boney’s uncle scurried into the kitchen. “Oh, my.” He helped his wife from the floor.

  “Did you see it?” she asked. “It was the size of my hand.”

  Boney looked at his uncle and shook his head, indicating the true size of the
spider with his thumb and forefinger.

  Boney’s uncle sighed. “Now, now, dear. You don’t want to get yourself worked up before our company arrives.”

  “Company?” Boney gulped with dismay. “Who?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sampson,” his uncle spluttered.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sampson!” Boney wailed. “They’re coming here?”

  His uncle nodded.

  “But why?! All they do is eat and talk and laugh about nothing. You said you’d never invite them over again after the last time!”

  Boney’s uncle looked sheepishly over at his wife.

  “Mrs. Sampson is a friend of mine from high school,” Boney’s aunt snapped. “They’re very nice people…perhaps a little loud and messy…but they’re coming all the way from Poughkeepsie, and I’m not about to turn them out because you two haven’t a clue how to behave in good company.”

  “Yes, yes,” Boney’s uncle sighed. “You’d better go upstairs and get changed,” he told Boney. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  OPERATION SPEEDO

  Boney walked reluctantly from the kitchen, grabbing the olive oil from the table as he went. He would need the oil later on to help with his plan. That is, if his plan was still possible. With company coming, he wouldn’t be allowed out. He’d have to stay and be polite and listen to endless conversations about nothing.

  In his bedroom, Boney slumped in front of the Tele-tube, ears red from his aunt’s wayward tea towel. “Squeak. Are you there? Over.”

  “Squeak here.”

  “We’ve got a situation,” Boney said. “A fly in the ointment.”

  “Worse than Larry Harry stealing our invention?” Squeak’s dejected voice floated through the Tele-tube.

  “Much worse. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. They’re coming for dinner. And there’s meatloaf in the oven.”

  “Ehhhh…sorry to hear that.” Squeak gulped. “They stayed until midnight the last time, if I remember correctly. What’s the game plan?”

  “Operation Speedo.”

  “You own a Speedo?”

  “I have to get sent to bed early so I can sneak out undetected.”

  “Affirmative,” Squeak said. “Predicted success rate?”