“Sure,” I said, eyeing the biscuit. Sausage. And cheese. That’s what was inside it.
“I want to congratulate you on winning the sled race, Ferrell. Your victory was a miracle,” she said.
“But I didn’t win,” I said. Gooey orange cheese and grease from the sausage dripped out onto the sides of the plates. I sucked up all the spit in my mouth and swallowed hard to keep from drooling down my chin. I wanted that cheese and sausage bad.
“Well, in the eyes of all of us here at Garfield Middle School, you’re a winner. And a hero. And, oh, for goodness’ sake, please, eat. Don’t wait for me.”
“It’s not vegan by any chance, is it?” I asked. But I could tell by the way my stomach was howling, like a werewolf at the moon, the sausage was made from real meat.
“They’re beef, made without any added by-products and no sulfites. I read the box before I tossed it into the recycling bin.”
The back of my neck was tingling, and the hairs on my arms were standing straight up. I sat on my hands to keep from grabbing the biscuit off the plate. “I don’t eat meat. No animal products. My mom forbids me to ever touch the stuff. Ever,” I said. Luckily, I’ve had to say that exact speech enough times that I can do it automatically, without thinking.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Why, the mere idea of eating animal flesh must be terribly offensive to a vegan,” she said. She stood up, grabbed the plate, and dumped my biscuit right into the garbage can. She slammed down the lid. Then she took her own sausage biscuit and shoved it into her top desk drawer.
I hooked my feet around the chair’s legs to keep myself from jumping up and diving headfirst into the dirty bin for cheesy sausage. This had happened to me before in the school cafeteria, when they were serving fried chicken one day. The smell was so delicious, I had to go out onto the playground for fear my hands were going to get all hairy and I was going to grow a beard and do something crazy and out of control. It took eight Oreo cookies and two boxes of Cracker Jacks to calm me down that day.
“I wonder if your healthy eating habits might be the explanation for your amazing resilience,” she mused. “You must eat a lot of vegetables.”
“Almost never. I hate vegetables,” I said. “We’re definitely not into the health thing.”
“Oh, I see. Well, then, you must be very conscious of our planet and your carbon footprint,” she said.
I was glad she came up with a reason that was satisfying to her, because I didn’t have one to offer her. I didn’t know why we never ate meat. My parents didn’t think people who did were bad people or anything, and it wasn’t like they ever carried around signs saying save the cows. Once, I asked them about it, and my mom got uncomfortable. They simply said it was too risky for us Savages and left it at that.
“Now, I’d like to request a small favor,” Ms. Goodkind said. She poured a little more orange juice into my cup, and I took a big swig. I held the pulp on my tongue and felt the hairs on my arms start to relax. “My son Jeffrey was wondering if he could bring you to his first grade’s show-and-tell.” She looked at her watch. “It starts in fifteen minutes.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never been anyone’s show-and-tell before.”
She stood up and smiled. “So, you’ll do it?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Would it be too much trouble if we swing by your house and get the sled, too? I’m sure the children would love to see it. We won’t let them touch it, of course,” she said.
“The sled’s gone. I haven’t seen it since I wrecked it on the hill.”
“Oh, my goodness. Yes, I remember reading in the newspaper that someone saw it blow away, like sparkling fairy dust in the wind.”
“I hadn’t heard that one,” I said.
She held the door open for me. “What a shame it couldn’t have been bronzed and put on display in our library. Imagine what that would do for our enrollment here at Garfield.”
When we left Ms. Goodkind’s office, Ms. Bland was writing stuff down and talking to a kid I’d never seen before.
“Ms. Goodkind,” Ms. Bland said, “we’ll need you to sign here in order to complete this boy’s enrollment. His name is Bruce Littledood, and he’s been dropped off by his dad—”
“I’m sorry, young man, but I’m not available at the moment, and I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Ms. Goodkind spoke rapidly. She whispered to Ms. Bland, “Perhaps you can offer him the sausage biscuit in my top drawer. Tell him to chew slowly, and hopefully, I will be back before he finishes.” Then she put her arm across my shoulders and said, “Come on, Ferrell, dear.”
I looked around and caught a glimpse of a short kid wearing a plaid shirt. It was the kid with the fancy sled from the Big Sled Race, the kid who’d gotten all excited about my pollypry feather.
I waved to him and said, “Go, Broncos.” Just a friendly little reminder to never accuse me of being a Packers fan.
But he scowled at me and raised up his fist. Then, without making a noise, he mouthed something that looked like I’m going to get you.
Chapter Five
ON OUR WAY HOME FROM the bus stop, I told Mary about how the plaid kid from the race was now a new kid at school. Neither of us remembered seeing him come down the hill, which wasn’t really surprising. After all, as Mary says, I’m the king of daydreaming, and she’d spent some time fuming after her drain had become unplugged.
“I talked to him at the top of the hill before the race. We discussed aerodynamics. What’s his name again?” Mary asked.
“Bruce something-or-other . . . Peeweeman, I think. Or Littledude—yeah. That’s it. Bruce Littledood.” I stood in front of her on the sidewalk and said, “What does it look like I’m saying when I do this?” And I mouthed the words, I’m going to get you.
She blinked her eyes. “Do it again,” she said. And I did. “It looked like you said, ‘A burrito, achoo.’ ”
“No, that wasn’t what he said. It makes no sense. Here, look at me again, and I’ll say it slower.”
I stood in front of Mary again, put my hands on her shoulders, and mouthed the words slowly.
“This is an invalid experiment, Ferrell. To test the results accurately, you needed to get him on tape saying whatever it was he said. There’s a safety camera behind Ms. Bland’s desk, and it tapes everyone who comes in. Maybe we can get access to that footage.”
“Too much trouble,” I argued. “This is easier. Just tell me what you think I said.”
Mary sighed and shook her head. “You said, ‘I’m. Going. To. Get. You.’ ”
“Yes! That’s what I thought he said! I was right!”
“I heard you that time. You whispered it.”
We started walking again.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, because that really is what the kid said. I’m going to have to wear orange and blue every day just to prove to him my Broncos loyalty. Remind me never to wear any Packer green, okay?”
“I’ve never heard of such an adamant Broncos fan. He was probably annoyed because you were holding him up. I know I would’ve been. He needed Ms. Goodkind’s signature, but because of you and your ridiculous immortality, she had to drive you to the elementary school to be her son’s emergency show-and-tell specimen.”
“Most people don’t get punched because of that.” I stopped on the sidewalk to think for a second. “Maybe he was swatting at a fruit fly.”
“There are no fruit flies in winter,” Mary said. “Look, Ferrell, you better get your fight face on or this kid is going to be on your back for the rest of the year.”
“A fight face, huh? Do you mean like this?” I jutted my jaw forward and stuck out my bottom teeth.
Mary laughed. “You couldn’t look menacing even if your life depended on it.”
“Oh, yeah? What about this?” I furrowed my eyebrows and flared my nostrils.
Mary laughed harder. Sometimes, when I get on a roll, she laughs so hard that she barely makes any noise at all. She just squeaks through h
er nose.
“Or how about this to curdle your blood!” I jumped in front of her, making the Incredible Hulk pose, and grunted like a crazy man, saying, “A burrito, achoo!”
“You don’t look scary, you look like Curious George!” she managed to gasp.
“Bwa-ha-ha-ha! I am the Incredibly Curious Hulk, and I shall eat the girl in the teal-blue hat!” I stomped in circles around her, like a monster-monkey, scratching my armpit until, at last, there it was: the squeaky nose thing. My mission was accomplished.
When we reached my house, Mary was still breathless from laughing, but she suddenly jolted to a stop. I looked toward where she was gazing. The pollypry feather was taped to the front door with a note attached to it.
Mary pulled off the paper and opened it. It read:
YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET AWAY WITH THIS.
—B. L.
Chapter Six
THE NEXT MORNING I SAT eating my breakfast at the table with Dad while he worked on the bookshelvers’ schedules for the library.
“So, what were you and Mary discussing yesterday afternoon that had you all so serious?” he asked.
“This note,” I said. “We found it taped to the door.” I told him about Bruce Littledood and how he’d raised his fist at me.
Mom set a plate of Fakin’ Bacon in front of me and took the note from my hand. “Oh, Ferrell, for heaven’s sake. What in the world could he possibly think you’ve gotten away with?” I dodged my head just before she was able to ruffle my hair.
“He seems to think I’m getting away with rooting for the wrong team. For some reason he doubts my loyalty to the Broncos,” I said, pointing out that today I was wearing my Peyton Manning jersey.
“People around here do get a little carried away about football,” Mom said.
Dad looked up from his schedules. “Did you do or say something to antagonize him?”
“I barely know him. I just met him at the race. He seemed fine that day, a little scatterbrained maybe, but not psycho or anything.”
“We can try to talk to his parents. But until then, if he gives you any problems, don’t hesitate to use your cell phone. That’s why we gave it to you.”
“No way. You can’t talk to his parents about this. Everyone will hear about it. Besides, Dad . . . Seriously, the kid is this big.” I held my hand about a foot from the floor. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Is he a friend of Mary’s?” Mom asked.
“She said she met him at the sled race.” I took a swig of juice.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “And?”
“And what?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “They talked about aerodynamics.”
“Aha.” Mom winked at Dad. “I see what’s going on here.” She chuckled and went back to the kitchen sink, where she always ate her toast.
“You think maybe the boy is jealous?” Dad asked me.
“Jealous of what? The Pollypry?”
A plate crashed into the sink.
“What?” Mom whirled around and looked at Dad. “Did he say ‘Polly Pry’?”
Dad’s mouth dropped open.
I pulled out the feather from my backpack, and Mom put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. From behind her hand she squeaked out, “How did that thing make its way back into my house?”
“It’s not dirty, Mom. If it had any diseases, I would have gotten one by now. Look how white it is—well, except for down here where it’s all black—but pollypries must be very clean birds.”
Dad leaned over, put his hand on my arm, and spoke as if he were forcing himself to be calm. “Polly Pry is the name of a person, not a bird.”
“She had feathers?” I asked.
“What you’re holding in your hand, actually, is a quill pen she used in the late 1800s.”
I stared at the feather, wondering what was so scary about it. Then I looked at my dad, waiting for more of an explanation.
He pointed to the dirty end and said, “Ink. See? There used to be a metal nib.”
Mom, still holding her hand to her mouth, lowered herself into a chair at the end of the table.
“Why is it so evil, Mom? The bird, er, I mean, the pen, er, no, the person . . . Polly Pry saved your uncle’s life, right?”
“Exactly. My great-great-uncle Alferd was a beast.”
Dad stood up, walked around the table, and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, Katherine. It’s history. Everyone’s forgotten about it, and it has nothing to do with who you and Ferrell are now,” Dad reassured her.
But Mom brushed away his arms and stood up. “I need more coffee,” she said. But instead of pouring herself another cup, she got Buddy’s leash, hooked it to his collar, and scooped him into her arms. “Come on, sweet boy.” She kissed the top of his head and walked out the door.
Dad and I kept our eyes on the door for a long time after it slammed shut, and as soon as I was sure she was not coming right back, I turned to Dad and said, “So, how did Polly Pry save my great-great-great-uncle’s life?”
Dad took a long sip of his coffee and then resituated himself in his chair. “Where do I begin . . . ,” he said, and took a slow, deep breath. I happen to know librarians live to answer questions like this.
“Polly Pry . . . She was a smart, sassy woman. She was known as a sob sister, which is what they used to call women journalists who wrote stories for the paper about events that were full of gossip, and her stories were sometimes”—Dad patted his heart—“touching.”
“Cut to the chase, Dad. I’m going to be late for school,” I urged.
“Well, your great-great-great-uncle Alferd was in prison serving a life sentence when Polly Pry got wind of the story. She was the only one who believed the man was innocent, and she wanted to see him freed. So she wrote articles about him for the Denver Post. Her words were so persuasive that soon a lot of folks became interested, including the governor at that time. . . . Oh, what was his name . . .?” Dad tapped his head.
“It doesn’t matter, just keep going!”
“Let’s see, it was 1901 . . . Thomas! That’s who it was. Governor Charles S. Thomas. Polly Pry must have been some good writer to convince the governor to let that man free after what he did. . . .”
I heard Mom at the front door, stomping off the snow from her boots, and Dad suddenly sat straight up in his chair. “I’ll have to finish this story later, Ferrell.”
“Hurry, just tell me, what did my uncle do? Was he a thief? A serial killer? A vampire?”
“Worse. What he did was taboo.”
Chapter Seven
WORDS LIKE “TABOO” ARE CONFUSING to me. It sounds like it would be something good. Cute, even. Like the name of a Chihuahua or a colorful lollipop. But it’s not cute. It means doing something that is completely and socially unacceptable. In Mr. Comfy’s homeroom I sat at my desk and tried to solve a puzzle. The puzzle was this: Animals are considered beasts. But Mom referred to our dog as sweet and lovely and said her great-great-uncle was a beast. Could the man have been more beastly than a beagle who slobbers out the car window, attacks the mailman, and licks himself directly underneath his tail? I had a feeling that whatever taboo my great-great-great-uncle had committed, it was something much worse than a fart under the dinner table.
I was rudely snapped from my thoughts when Coby reached across the aisle and jabbed me in the shoulder. Bruce Littledood was being introduced to the class, and I hadn’t even noticed. I tried to tune in to what was going on.
“And until now he’s been homeschooled by his father, who is a history professor at the university . . . ,” Mr. Comfy was saying.
Standing in front of the class, the little dude looked completely harmless.
“So what made you decide to join us here at Garfield Middle School?” Mr. Comfy asked.
Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I had been helping my dad with a big historical research project, and when we finished, I felt like I needed a break.”
; “Well,” Mr. Comfy said, laughing. “I do hope we can keep things interesting here for you, since, ahem, I’d never thought of going to a traditional school as being a break.”
“Oh, it is”—Bruce Littledood laced his fingers together, pushed the palms of his hands right toward me, and popped every knuckle—padadadadada- dow—“a break.”
“I have something I’d like to share with the class,” Littledood continued. Mr. Comfy watched as Littledood stepped out of the room and returned with a big trophy in his arms. It was the Big Sled Race on Golden Hill trophy. He used both hands to raise it over his head, and then he smiled like he was about to get his photo taken.
The class muttered a few comments, like, “I was wondering who won” and “Oh, nice” and “Huh, that was, like, over a week ago.”
And then someone said, “Did you see Savage? Man, that was one freakin’ scary fall!”
“Yeah, Savage, you’re a ninja Gumby!”
“It was epic!”
“He was like that Bugs Bunny cartoon when Bugs gets rolled up into a giant snowball, and all you see are his feet and the tops of his ears.”
“No way!” I said. “You couldn’t see my ears.”
The class went into an uproar, and a few kids left their seats to pat me on the back. Littledood lowered his trophy and glared at me.
Mr. Comfy called us to order. When everyone was quiet and back in their seats, he said, “Bruce, you said you have something to announce?”
“Yes. I’m offering a rematch, next Saturday, to anyone who prefers a more challenging, death-defying sled race. It will be held on Specter Slope. If you think you can survive, you’re invited to participate.” He cradled his trophy in his arms and looked right at me. “There’s a sign-up sheet outside the cafeteria.”
He stuck his tongue into his cheek, as if he were cleaning peanut butter out of his gums, and took the empty seat right in the front of the class.
Another sled race. No, thanks. The thought of it made me want to put my head down on my desk and take a nap.
In the cafeteria at lunch, I sat at our usual table. Coby plopped down next to me, and Eilio and the other guys slid their trays onto the round table.
The Secret of Ferrell Savage Page 3