Chase Jordan had made wonderful arrangements. A tour guide met their bus and took them in through a special entrance. With the Summit underway, most of the White House had been cordoned off to the usual tour groups, but there were still parts of the enormous building open to the public, and the Owls were going to see other rooms in the White House that visitors rarely see.
Chase Jordan high-fived the Owls as he joined them for the tour. He was wearing his Washington Wall track pants and a Capitals T-shirt.
The guide was great. She told stories about the history of the White House, and even one wild story about a child ghost – a young son of Abraham Lincoln who had died there – who people claimed to have seen over the past century and more. She took them through the portrait gallery and showed them various rooms – including the Lincoln bedroom, where rich tourists were allowed to pay to stay over. No one seemed more pleased with the tour than Muck, the history lover. Chase Jordan added the odd story from the present. He even showed them his secret hall, where he and his brother sometimes played hockey mini-sticks below the glowering portraits of Herbert Hoover and George Washington.
“We’re going now to see the Oval Office,” the guide told them. “That’s where the President does most of his work.”
“Is he there now?” Fahd asked.
The guide shook her head, smiling. “No. I’m afraid not. There are special meetings going on in the West Wing, where we won’t be allowed today. They might prove to be the most important meetings in the world this year. So you’re lucky to be here on such a historic occasion.”
“Fantastic!” Sam said. “We get to be a part of history!”
Travis felt Sarah nudging his arm. She had a worried look on her face.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Have you seen Nish?”
Travis looked around.
No Nish, anywhere.
“I think I saw him and Chase slip through that door back there,” Sarah whispered as quietly as she could.
Travis squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head violently.
Surely not.
Anything but that.
16
Muck and Mr. Dillinger were so wrapped up in the tour of the White House that neither was aware that a Screech Owl had gone missing.
Travis felt sick to his stomach. Normally, if one of the players was missing, there would be an instant alert and they would all go off and try to find the straggler. But this wasn’t normal. This was Nish, and he was with the President’s son. They were in the White House, Chase Jordan’s own home. So it was hardly as if Nish was lost.
Maybe Nish had just gone to the bathroom or something. That would be perfectly normal: Chase taking Nish off to a washroom in another part of the White House.
But he didn’t believe it. And he knew, as captain, he should let Muck or Mr. Dillinger know if something was wrong.
They spent about fifteen minutes in the spectacular Oval Office. They saw the chair where President Kennedy had sat. They were told that here was where the critical decisions had been made for every war America had fought – including both world wars and the Vietnam War – and here was where the famous tapes had been made that caught President Nixon in a lie and led to his resignation in disgrace.
The tour of the Oval Office over, they headed out through a corridor towards the garden, where the President held so many of his press conferences. Just as Travis decided now was the time to tell Muck and Mr. Dillinger, a door swung open and Nish and Chase Jordan spilled through.
Both looked like they’d seen a ghost.
“Where were you guys?” Fahd asked.
“Nowhere,” Nish said quickly.
“Washroom,” Chase Jordan said. “Nish isn’t feeling well.”
That explains Nish’s look, Travis thought. But what about Chase? He looked just as shocked. They couldn’t both have been ill, could they?
“Something’s happened,” Sarah whispered to Travis.
Nish was uncommonly quiet on the bus ride back to the hotel. No farting noises, no burping or belching or screaming at the top of his lungs. No irritating tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap on the window. Just Nish sitting quietly near the front of the bus, his hands folded in his lap as he stared out like an elderly tourist interested in the architecture of downtown Washington.
Something had happened. Travis just wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.
17
They had two hours to kill before heading off for the next game, this one against the Portland Panthers, the team the Owls had come up against in so many other tournaments.
Muck told them they could take a nap in their rooms or go for a walk around the block, but nothing energetic and no straying too far.
Travis tried to doze off a while. Fahd began flipping once again through the TV channels.
Click.
“Darn!”
Click.
“Stupid!”
Click.
“Gimmee that!” someone screamed out.
It was Nish, his hand shaking as he reached out and demanded the remote from Fahd.
“GIVE IT TO ME!” Nish shouted.
“Okay, okay,” Fahd said, flipping it to him.
Nish jammed it into his belt. “You watch way too much television, you know,” he said angrily.
“And you don’t?” Fahd asked.
“Muck wants you to get ready for the game,” Nish said, his face beaming red. “Think about that, not some stupid cartoons.”
With the remote control still jammed in his belt, Nish walked out and slammed the door.
Nish had never gone for a walk in his life. He adored cartoons. And since when had noise ever bothered him?
“I don’t understand,” said Lars.
“There’s something he doesn’t want us to know,” suggested Travis.
“Or see,” added Fahd.
“What do you mean?” Travis asked.
“He took the remote,” Fahd said. “It can’t be just to stop me watching cartoons.”
“Then why?” asked Lars.
“So we couldn’t watch,” said Travis. “There’s something on TV that’s bothering him.”
“Let’s check it out,” said Fahd.
“We can’t!” Lars said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He took the control – remember?”
Fahd giggled. “I know he took it,” he said. “But don’t forget he also brought one.”
The TV remote from home! The one that was supposed to get Nish access to those movies he was always trying to see.
“Where is it?” Lars demanded.
“In his equipment bag,” Fahd said.
All three looked at each other.
“I’m not sticking my hand in there!” said Fahd.
“We need one of those dogs!” laughed Lars.
“C’mon,” said Travis. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
They gathered over Nish’s hockey bag like they were about to defuse a bomb. Travis quickly unzipped the bag.
“Open the window!” Fahd called.
“I’ll get it!” Lars said, glad for an excuse to back away.
Travis held his nose and reached his free hand in, moving it about quickly. His imagination raced with wild ideas: tarantulas, lizards, rattlesnakes, rotting corpses, slugs, horse droppings …
“It might not be so bad,” Fahd said in a calm voice. “Everything’s fairly fresh since they blew up his other bag.”
Travis groped around, then felt something that was either a rock-hard chocolate bar or the remote. He pulled it out.
Mrs. Nishikawa’s missing remote!
“I’m surprised the plastic didn’t melt,” said Lars.
Travis aimed Mrs. Nishikawa’s remote at the television and pushed “power.” The television clicked, hissed, then brightened. He pushed the channel button.
Click.
A nature show.
Click.
News.
Click.
More news.
“It’s the same old junk!” Fahd whined. “There’s nothing here about the hockey team.”
Lars seemed unconvinced. “If there’s nothing on but news,” he said, “maybe it’s the news he doesn’t want us watching.”
Travis clicked over to CNN, the all-news channel. There were more reports from the White House. Then more political experts. Then reports from the countries involved in the Summit.
“Bor-ring!” Fahd called out every so often.
“A few more minutes,” said Lars. He seemed to be losing hope himself.
The news anchor was smiling now.
“A most unusual development today at the White House Summit,” she said. “We go now to Andrew Carter for a report.”
The three boys watched as the picture turned to a CNN reporter standing just in front of the White House.
“White House staff have been scrambling since before noon to explain the circumstances behind today’s bizarre developments at the Summit …”
The screen switched to stock shots of the Summit: mostly men talking to other men, men meeting in corridors, men gathered around a long table.
“Around 10:45, according to witnesses, a door to the boardroom where the main Summit participants had gathered burst open, and what appeared to be a naked young man wearing only a hockey goaltender’s mask ran into the room, stopped sharply, and ran right back out …
“Both sides have accused the other of deliberately trying to sabotage the Summit with this unusual incident …
“CNN has obtained amateur videotape of the incident taken by one of the participating officials. We apologize for the poor quality, but it does give some sense of what occurred late this morning at the White House …”
The screen went fuzzy, a lens moved in and out of focus. The video was of poor quality, as warned, but clearly showed men gathering in a room and sitting down. Then the picture jumped and blurred across the room to catch only the hasty exit of the young man.
A young man wearing nothing but a goalie mask, his big, naked bum churning out the door.
“I’d recognize that butt anywhere,” said Lars, shaking his head.
Travis closed his eyes, hoping it would go away. When he opened them the film was being run again. Nish’s naked butt, on instant replay!
CNN switched back to the reporter, who was doing his best not to smile.
“Early reports were that this was a prank pulled off by the President’s hockey-loving son, Chase, but the White House has strongly denied that the naked youngster is Chase Jordan …
“The White House has assured Summit participants that an immediate investigation will be carried out and, once identified, the guilty party will issue an apology. The incident is being treated as a scandal in parts of the Middle East, where public streaking is not considered quite as humorous as it might be here in North America. The President, according to sources, is furious over the incident and fearful that it may derail the agreement he had hoped could be reached today.”
Travis flicked the channel.
More news on the White House streaker. More videotape replay.
Another channel, one more shot of the streaker.
“That’s our teammate,” Lars said.
“Internationally famous,” added Fahd, “just like he always wanted.”
18
“Very funny!”
Jeremy Weathers’s goal mask went flying across the room and slammed into the far wall.
There wasn’t a Screech Owl in the room not howling with laughter. Well, there was one. Wayne Nishikawa, CNN headline news, the “butt” of every joke in America.
“I just wanted you to know where you were sitting,” Jeremy called back to Nish as he scrambled to pick up his goalie mask.
“I know where I’m sitting!” Nish snarled.
“Right on the most famous big butt in America!” Sam roared, and the dressing room howled once more with laughter.
The President had issued immediate apologies to each participant in the Summit, and they had been accepted. The Summit was once again underway.
The President had even answered questions about the incident at his daily press conference, but most of the questions ended in giggles, and even the President couldn’t help but laugh a few times.
“When I declared my candidacy for President,” he said with a straight face, “there were people on the other side who said they didn’t want a bum in the White House.”
The White House press gallery groaned at the bad joke, and that appeared to be it for the infamous “White House Streaker,” as Nish had become known all over the world.
Only no one knew it was Nish. The Owls knew, and probably Muck and Mr. Dillinger knew, but all the reports had blamed it on one of the President’s rambunctious kids, and Chase, to his great credit, had said nothing to set the record straight.
Nish would neither confirm nor deny that he was the White House Streaker.
“You really think there’s another butt like that in the world?” Sam had asked.
“He had a mask on!” Nish protested.
“His face,” Sarah said, “is not important. Put that butt of yours in a police lineup and anybody would pick you out.”
“Sit on it!” Nish snapped.
Mr. Dillinger came whistling through the door, carrying his portable skate sharpener. He set it up in a corner, plugged it in, and began work on some skates.
No one spoke above the grinding whine of the machine as Mr. Dillinger expertly drew skates back and forth over the stone, the sparks shooting out behind like a miniature comet’s tail.
Muck came in just as the last Owls were fastening their helmets tight. He stood in the middle of the room and stared hard at Nish.
Nish looked up once, then went back to his pre-game ritual of laying his head down over the tops of his shin pads. Travis could still see that his friend was redder than usual.
Muck said nothing. He turned and looked at all the players, one after the other.
“You know this team,” he said. “Portland’s a great side. They have size and speed. Look out for the big centre, Sarah. They’re hurting, though. The little defenceman – I forget his name –”
“Billings,” Travis said. He still had the signed card he’d exchanged with the little defenceman back in Lake Placid.
“Billings,” Muck continued. “He’s out with an ankle sprain. He won’t be dressing.”
Travis felt a twinge of regret. He knew what Billings meant to the Panthers. He also knew that not having him on the ice would help the Owls considerably, but he considered the little Portland defender a friend even though they barely knew each other.
“One more thing,” Muck said. “We win this game, we’re in the finals.”
It was all Muck needed to say. The Screech Owls played as if possessed. Sarah was exceptional, shutting down Yantha, the big Portland centre, and scoring twice herself. Dmitri scored one of his “flying water bottle” specials, and Nish scored a beauty on an end-to-end rush.
The Panthers clearly missed Billings. With no one to get the puck out of their end or make the long pass, they weren’t nearly the team they should have been, and the Owls won easily, 6–2, with Sam and Derek scoring late in the game.
Travis had three assists and felt terrific. He knew, however, that all the glory went to the goal scorers. Perhaps he and Muck would be the only two who had noticed how well he had played.
They lined up to shake hands. The Panthers were on the verge of elimination. Either they won their next game or they were headed home.
Travis went down the line, bumping gloves with the various Panthers, including big Yantha.
He was about to turn away and head for the exit when he noticed one more player coming to shake hands. It was Billings, limping badly, an upturned hockey stick for a crutch as he made his way across the ice.
He was smiling. “I gave you first star, Travis.”
Travis high-fived the open hand presented to him.
“Thanks,”
Travis said.
“See you next tournament.”
Travis nodded.
Someone else had noticed.
19
Most of the other Owls had already headed for the team bus for the ride back to the hotel when Travis, Fahd, Lars, and Nish decided to take the shortcut out the Zamboni chute and through the back door.
They were just moving into the Zamboni chute when a familiar voice barked, “Halt! Who goes there?”
Earplug!
They couldn’t see him, but they could hear him. “What is this?” Nish said. “A pirate movie?”
Travis cringed. The old Nish was back – but this was hardly the time to kid around.
“Identify yourselves immediately!” Earplug barked.
“T-Travis Lindsay,” Travis said.
“Fahd Noorizadeh.”
“Lars Johanssen.”
“Paul Kariya.”
Travis winced.
“Drop the bags!” the voice ordered.
The four Owls dropped their equipment bags.
“Up against the wall!”
The four boys moved towards the wall. Nish, having seen it so many times on television, automatically faced the wall and leaned against it, his hands high, as if he were about to be frisked.
Earplug came around the doorway, his hand tucked inside his jacket like it was petting his revolver.
“That’s the idea, Kariya!” he called out. “You others do the same!”
The three followed Nish’s lead, Fahd letting a giggle slip out as he did so. Kariya?
“What’s so funny, you?” Earplug snapped.
“Nothing,” Fahd said in a quick, small voice.
“What are you boys doing here? This is a restricted zone!”
“We’re taking a shortcut, sir!” Nish barked back, as if he were a marine recruit.
This time both Fahd and Lars giggled. Let it alone, Nish, Travis thought. Let it alone.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 30