The Odds Get Even
Page 13
“It’s Wormer, sir.”
Colonel R.’s whistle pierced the air. “Play ball!”
BACK IN THE LOCKER ROOM, Itchy happily changed into his jeans. “You know, I think I might actually enjoy lacrosse,” he confessed, pulling on a new blue sweater vest.
“It’s a great game,” Boney agreed. “Now that Larry Harry is out of the picture.”
“Did you see his face?” Itchy gloated. “He was scared silly.”
“I wonder what got into him,” Boney said, laughing.
“We have to find Squeak and tell him. He’ll love it.”
Just then, the change room door burst open and Squeak rushed in.
“We won!” he squealed, jumping around like a monkey.
Boney grabbed his friend. “Whoa whoa whoa…what are you talking about?”
“The Invention Convention!” Squeak shouted. “We won!”
The boys raced from the change room to the gymnasium. Flying through the doors, they could see the giant blue ribbon pinned to the top of their display. They clung to each other, jumping up and down with excitement.
“I knew we’d win!” Boney said. “I just knew it! San Diego, here we come!”
BY 7:00 THAT NIGHT, the gymnasium was crowded with students and their parents, milling around, admiring the Invention Convention displays. Itchy and Boney stood proudly in front of their table, while a journalist from the local newspaper furiously snapped photos.
“Now…one with the whole family,” the man said, gathering everyone together.
Itchy’s father and mother huddled next to Boney’s aunt and uncle.
“That’s my boy,” Itchy’s father said. “A chip off the old block.”
“We’re so proud of you, William,” Boney’s aunt cooed.
“Very proud,” Boney’s uncle echoed.
“But where’s Squeak?” Boney asked Itchy. “He said he’d meet us here.”
“There he is!” Itchy said, pointing across the gym.
Squeak scurried up, a huge book under his arm, his face lit with excitement. “I found him!” he said, heaving the book onto the display table.
“Who?” Boney and Itchy asked.
“I looked everywhere and I thought I’d never find him, but I did, eventually, in the Encyclopedia of Rural History.”
“There’s an Encyclopedia of Rural History?” Itchy asked.
Squeak thumped the book open, pushed his goggles to the top of his head, and pointed to a black-and-white photo on the page. “Look! It’s him—it’s Charlie!”
Boney and Itchy peered at the old photo. Staring back at them was picture of a man, clad in blue coveralls, wearing thin wire-rimmed glasses.
Boney looked at Squeak with surprise. “It’s Rufus!”
“Not Rufus,” Squeak said. “Charlie. His real name is Charlie—just like it said on his coveralls. His name was Charlie O’Reilly, and he died in an accident at the mill in 1897. One of the beams gave way and he was trapped without food and water in a room beneath the mill. He died of thirst and hunger, the book says.”
“That would explain why he eats so much,” Itchy said, pulling a chocolate bar from his pants pocket.
Boney scratched his head. “But why did he tell us his name was Rufus?”
Squeak turned around and pointed to the logo on his messenger bag. “He took the name off my bag.”
“I don’t get it,” Itchy mumbled, his mouth full of chocolate.
“It’s quite simple. He saw the name Rufus on my bag and he borrowed it to disguise his identity.”
“What for?” Itchy asked.
“If we’d known his real identity, we’d have never talked to him in the first place, would we?” Squeak explained.
Itchy mulled this over. “I guess not.”
“Of course we wouldn’t have,” Boney jumped in.
“There’s more,” Squeak said, quickly flipping the page of the book. “Charlie was survived by three sons: Carson, Frederick, and Garret.”
Boney rubbed his chin. “Maybe that’s why he agreed to help us—we really did remind him of his sons.”
Itchy furrowed his brow, chewing on the last of his chocolate bar. “So…Charlie was a ghost pretending to be a man who was pretending to be a ghost…”
Squeak nodded.
“Once again, I’m totally confused.”
Boney suddenly pointed to the door of the gymnasium. “Hey, Squeak, your dad’s here!”
Squeak’s father strode up, an adult version of Squeak, with his round face and big blue eyes. He smiled proudly, a big gap showing in his front teeth. “This is my boy,” he said, throwing his arm around his son.
“Smile!” the journalist called out, his camera popping with a great big flash.
CHAPTER TWENTY
-THREE THE SWEET TASTE OF SUCCESS
Boney lounged in the clubhouse, one foot dangling over the arm of his brand-new easy chair. Itchy sat at the table, stuffing his face with peanut butter and honey crackers, a can of pop in each hand. He selected a jar of chocolate sauce from the well-stocked clubhouse shelves and opened it, pouring sauce liberally overtop of his crackers. Squeak sat on the floor, organizing his stash of newly acquired special-effects gear. Henrietta scratched happily next to him, wearing a small, hand-knit sweater.
“This is the life,” Itchy said, dribbling chocolate sauce onto his tongue. But he stopped mid-dribble as a familiar, hoarse laugh rose up from below. Itchy slammed down the jar of chocolate sauce and bolted to the window. It was Larry Harry with Jones and Jones, walking down the street.
“Hey, Larry,” Itchy shouted down. “Look out for the ghost!”
Larry looked around in terror and began to run, with Jones and Jones stumbling frantically on his heels.
“Why don’t you go steal some mail!” Itchy taunted.
Snuff burst out from behind some garbage cans and took up the chase, growling and snarling ferociously.
“Ahhhhh! Get it off me! Get it off meeeee!” Larry hollered as he ran.
Itchy shook his head. “Tsk, tsk…look at them go. You’d think they didn’t like us or something.”
Boney smiled. “I just might like that dog after all.”
“Uh…guys,” Squeak called from his place on the floor. “We’ve got a problem.” He held Henrietta in the air. “She’s a he.”
Itchy scratched his head. “Huh?”
“She’s a he,” Squeak said again.
Itchy turned to Boney. “What’s he talking about?”
“Henrietta is a Henry,” Squeak explained. “I’ve been reading up on this, and our chicken isn’t a hen at all, he’s a rooster.”
Boney raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Squeak nodded. “Yep. No eggs for us.”
Itchy scratched his arm thoughtfully. “Well…I guess it’s a good thing we don’t have to worry about Prisoner 95 any more.” He raised his cans of pop. “To Charlie,” he said.
“To Charlie,” Boney and Squeak toasted, raising their pop cans in the air.
Itchy guzzled from both cans, then wiped his mouth with a loud sigh. He looked at his friends happily.
“What should we do for the convention next year?” Boney asked.
“How about aliens?” Squeak said.
“As in UFOs?” Itchy gulped.
“Yeah, and other strange phenomena.”
“That would be so cool!” Boney said.
Henry cheeped happily from the floor.
Itchy pulled on his wild red hair and groaned. “Oh, no, here we go again…”
THE END…?
Acknowledgment
Thanks to my family and friends for their love and support. Thanks to my editor, Lynne Missen, and the entire staff at HarperCollins. Special thanks to Naomi and Doug, Akka, Chris and Richard, and my gal pal, Svetlana Chmakova.
Copyright
The Odds Get Even
Copyright © 2009 by Natale Ghent.
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