Pennybaker School Is Revolting

by Jennifer Brown

  We thanked him and headed back toward our bikes, Colton and Buckley punching each other in the arm and laughing, Owen showing Flea a music app that actually included a didgeridoo sound, and Wesley practicing his western walk, which looked a little bit like the way Grandma Jo walked that time she accidentally sat in Erma’s Jell-O.

  “Well, we tried,” Chip said. We cut between two cars and skirted the log fence that separated the parking lot from the pasture. “We can probably think of another way to get to him. Perhaps we can find out where he grocery shops …” He shaded his eyes with one hand and gazed across the pasture toward the church at the other side. There were two kids playing in the churchyard, and another sitting on top of the fence and staring across at us. “I could probably find out where he takes his dry cleaning.”

  Wait a minute. Fence. Pasture. Kids. Church. The only thing separating us from Mr. Faboo was a field.

  “No,” I said. Chip walked on a few steps before realizing I’d stopped. I pointed across the pasture. “We can still get to him.”

  Chip gazed across the pasture with me. “Send carrier pigeons?”

  “What? No. Who would do that?”

  “Seemed more practical than smoke signals. Although I suppose we could investigate the telegraph if we want to remain historically accurate.”

  I put my arm around his shoulder, mostly to shut him up, and turned him so we were both looking over the pasture. “I was thinking of something a little more … sneaky.”

  He thought it over. “Invisible ink?”

  “No, Chip, jeez. Sneaking over. Sneaking.” I tiptoed in place to show him what I meant.

  It seemed to take a moment for it to sink in, and then he took a deep breath. “You don’t mean breaking and entering?”

  “Well, I mean, no, I don’t think anyone really breaks and enters into a field. But, yes, I’m thinking of just … sneaking over.”

  “Bad idea, Thomas,” Chip said. “Really bad idea. That’s stealing.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, if that guy at the gate had let us in, I wouldn’t have to.”

  Chip gave me a look I’d seen on Mom’s face before. “You still don’t have to. We can pursue the dry cleaner option. Nobody will think this is a good idea. Hey, guys—”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish. I walked over to the fence, slung one leg over, and scrambled to the other side. It was a low fence, and I didn’t have to drop far to be in the pasture. In fact, it was only about waist high, but it felt like I was miles away from the rest of them already, especially since all their mouths were open with shock at seeing what I’d done.

  “You should come back,” Flea said.

  “I’ll be five minutes,” I said.

  “Don’t do it, Thomas!” Chip cried, but the words were to my back, because I was already loping across the field.

  Funny thing about fields—they seem small until you’re running across one. I was out of breath, and when I glanced back, the guys seemed really far away. But so did the church. The only thing that didn’t seem far away was … that … bull … over there.

  I froze, one foot up in the air in mid-run. I held my breath; the bull let out a snort. I remained motionless; the bull dipped his head low. I tried not to blink; the bull took two steps toward me.

  I let out a throat-ripping scream and bolted. The bull let out a snort and followed.

  I ran like I’d never run before in my life. Part of me was wishing Coach Abel was there to see it—maybe he would be so impressed he would let me out of ballroom dancing. Maybe he would tell his college coach friends and I would get a track-and-field scholarship and—

  My foot hit a rock. Of all things to be out in the middle of a field. A rock. Everything happened in slow motion. I made yuh yuh yuh sounds, my arms wheeling. The bull’s hooves thundered behind me. The cow pie that was exactly face-length away got closer, and closer, and closer. I had just enough time to glance at the guys, whose faces were all big O’s of surprise.

  I managed to turn my head at the last moment, so at least it was only my ear that got plugged with things I don’t even want to think about, and not my mouth. Splat.

  But at the moment, all I could think about was the bull. The bull that was still coming at me, or at least I thought that was what I was hearing out of my one good ear. I pushed myself up onto my hands and feet and scrambled to get away, my shoes sliding in the same mess that was covering the side of my head.

  Just as I got my footing and started to run toward the fence again, I noticed the bull take a hard turn to the left. I didn’t stop, but I looked over my shoulder.

  Sure enough, there was Chip Mason, waving his arms and yelling, “Hah! Hah!” and then running like the dickens as the bull turned its attention from me to him. Chip sprinted, knees high-kicking, all the way to the fence line and catapulted over it like a track star. The bull stopped short of the fence and huffed and snorted in frustration.

  I slow-jogged to the fence where the rest of the guys were waiting, then slowly climbed it. When I dropped to the other side, they all took a step back, looks of revulsion on their faces.

  Owen pointed at the side of my face. “Dude, you fell in a—”

  “I know what I fell in,” I snapped. I whipped off my shirt and began scrubbing my cheek and ear, gagging every couple of seconds. The ride home was going to be freezing, but I would rather go home with frostbite than with cow patty on my face.

  Chip joined us, breathing heavily, his cheeks pink and exhilarated. “Wow, when that bull has to go, he has to go,” he said.

  And that was all it took for the guys to burst into raucous laughter.

  “Let’s just leave,” I said. I had already started shivering, but still I sank my shirt deep into a trash bin when we walked by. “By the way, thanks, Chip,” I said.

  He waved me off. “Oh, no problem. I learned a thing or two from your grandma. It was nice to get a chance to try out my skills. She’ll be happy to hear they worked.”

  I should have known.

  “And we didn’t even get to see Mr. Faboo,” I said.

  “I know,” Chip added mournfully. “I had a whole list of smithing questions to pose to him, too.”

  “That’s not why … Never mind.”

  “We’ll just come back another time,” he said brightly. “I’m sure we can borrow the admission fee from my mom.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll think about it.” Chip wasn’t the kind of guy who would understand this, but it was hard to make yourself want to go back to a place when you were leaving with cow patty in your ear.

  We saddled up on our bikes and waited for Chip to put on his elbow pads and kneepads. The ride home was mostly silent except for Colton and Buckley, who told every cow-poop joke they could think of. I just tried to concentrate on not freezing to death while the cold air drove through me.

  We got back to Chip’s house, and he invited us all in for hot chocolate. “Except maybe you’d like to shower first?” he suggested to me. “My mom is surprisingly patient with a lot of messes, but perhaps not that particular kind of mess around the kitchen.”

  I shrugged and walked my bike back across the street. I wasn’t in the mood to toast with anyone anyway.

  Just as I opened my garage door, I heard a surprised yell. I turned back to see Buckley pull something out of his back pocket and hold it up in the air. “Look at that! Twenty dollars!” he yelled. “We could have gone in after all.”

  I pursed my lips and pushed my bike inside, trying not to notice the slapping and snapping sounds of Chip and Wesley doing their secret handshake.

  TRICK #24

  AN EXPLOSIVE ILLUSION

  The next day, I woke up to cold again. My window was open, and when I went to close it, my suspicions were finally confirmed. A butterscotch candy, the kind Grandma Jo kept in her pockets at all times, was lying on the windowsill, half in and hal
f out of the window. I picked it up and rushed downstairs.

  Grandma Jo was watching TV, her usual solitaire game laid out on the TV tray in front of her.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  Grandma Jo motioned toward the kitchen. “Last I saw, she was making oatmeal for your sister,” she said. “If you hurry, you can probably get some, too. If you like boring old oatmeal, that is.”

  I walked over and set the candy on the TV tray, right on top of the ace of spades. Grandma Jo gazed at it, then went back to her show without so much as batting an eye. I picked up the candy and dropped it on the two of hearts.

  “You can eat that as far as I’m concerned,” Grandma Jo said disinterestedly. “But if you spoil your breakfast, you’ll have to answer to your mother.” She pushed the butterscotch to the edge of the tray.

  I slid it back over the two of hearts. “This was in my room this morning.”

  “Okay,” she said. She gave me a light shove with her pointer finger so that I shuffled two steps to the right. “You make a better door than window,” she said. Man, she was good.

  “I know you’ve been sneaking in and out through my window,” I said. She finally gave me a steely stare.

  “Oh, do you, now? And how do you suppose you’ll prove it?”

  I picked up the butterscotch and waved it in her face. “You’re pretty bad at concealing evidence.”

  “I put that there yesterday afternoon,” she said. I raised my eyebrows at her. “In case … a bird … got hungry.” She matched my raised eyebrows.

  “I also found your racing bib.”

  She sat back and crossed her arms. “Prove that it’s mine.”

  “There’s a trophy in your room,” I said.

  “It’s always been there,” she countered.

  “I saw you get into a car with a racing helmet on.” I crossed my arms to match hers.

  We stared each other down. Her eyes narrowed and her nose twitched. “Okay, kid. What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” I said. Again, she raised her eyebrows at me. “For now,” I added.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “So you want your owesies on retainer.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  She scooped up her cards and sifted them into a tidy deck, then began casually shuffling them. “It means if I want you to keep my secret—and I do—then I owe you one.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That.”

  “Noted. Anything else?”

  “Just … why are you sneaking around in the first place?”

  She began laying out her cards again. “Because if your mother had her way, I would never leave the house except to drink tea and read books and make quilts. She’ll never understand the exhilaration of feeling the wind in your hair as you fly down a stretch of drag track or the excitement of engines revving so hard and loud you can feel it in your teeth. To her, that stuff is dangerous. To me, it’s what makes me want to get out of bed every morning.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her that? Mom is understanding.”

  We both snickered. Okay, so Mom was understanding about almost everything—but not about Grandma Jo’s need for adventure. Or anything even slightly dangerous.

  “Your Grandpa Rudy spent his whole life making things disappear and tying himself in knots and doing water escapes. How could I go from that life to the one your mother would have me lead?”

  I supposed she couldn’t. That was one of the things I loved about magic—there was a certain level of daring to most of it. Maybe, in a way, I was just like Grandma Jo. Even if on the outside I was kind of a chicken, on the inside I liked adventures.

  “So I will owe you one, young man,” Grandma Jo said. “But I will also continue to use your window. Barf and the others will be here tonight. There’s a demolition derby going on over in Winville.” She stretched out her arms like she was holding onto a steering wheel, then made car noises with her mouth, acting like she was crashing into things. “I’m the reigning champ,” she whispered. “I have to go defend my title. But if you don’t keep my secret, I’ll be stuck listening to golden oldies radio in my room tonight instead.”

  I tried to imagine Grandma Jo being happy doing something like that, and I just couldn’t. Grandma Jo would never be a golden-oldies type of grandma.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” I said. I popped the butterscotch into my mouth and headed off to find breakfast. “I’ll let you know when I need payback.”

  I was halfway through a homemade blueberry muffin when the doorbell rang. I heard Erma’s bare feet slap on the entryway floor and the door open.

  “Thomas! It’s for you,” she yelled, and I was surprised that she didn’t add any sort of insult to it. Erma liked Chip—or, as she was known to call him once or twice, Chippy Wippy—but she wasn’t afraid to call me a name when Mom and Dad weren’t around. Maybe Erma was growing up a little.

  I shoved the rest of the muffin into my mouth and headed toward the front door.

  “It’s about time,” Erma said. She grinned and added, “Cow-pie face.”

  Nope, not growing up at all.

  I wiped the side of my face and stuck my hand in her hair. She squealed and ran away. Of course, my face had been completely cleaned of cow pie for a whole day, but even just the thought of cow pies was enough to make fifth-grade girls scream. To Erma, my head was probably forever cow pied.

  Chip wasn’t alone. All the guys were standing behind him. Colton and Buckley were giggling. I scowled.

  “Hey, Thomas,” Chip said. “You want to come over?”

  “No,” I said, and started to close the door. Chip reached out and held the door open.

  “But I have another lead.”

  “No offense, Chip, but your leads stink.” At the word “stink,” Buckley and Colton howled, and even Wesley, Flea, and Owen cracked smiles. “Ha ha, yes, I said ‘stink.’ Your leads stink like cow poo, okay?” I started to close the door again, but Chip continued to hold it open.

  “It’s a very good lead,” he said.

  “No thanks. I think I’m done searching for Mr. Faboo.” This was news to me, and I hadn’t really thought it through yet, but maybe just accepting Mr. Smith would be less bad than what I’d have to go through to get rid of him.

  Wesley gasped. “You mean you’ve given up?” He pantomimed fainting, dropping all the way to the ground with the back of his hand held across his forehead. He lay on the porch with his tongue hanging out.

  “Mr. Smith is probably really nice once you get to know him,” I said. They gaped at me. “And I like brown. And vests. Pantyhose itch and are always falling down.” That last part was true. “And research papers can be really exciting to write.”

  Even I didn’t believe that one.

  “Come on, man,” Flea said. “Mr. Smith won’t even let me bring my didgeridoo into the classroom.”

  “Yeah,” Owen agreed. “And he told me I could have only one computer at my desk. And he made me take off my satellite hat.” He pointed to his head, which was covered with a spaghetti strainer.

  “And he won’t recite Shakespeare with me,” Wesley said from the ground, although he didn’t open his eyes, and when he was done speaking, he let his tongue loll out again.

  “We need to find Mr. Faboo,” Flea said.

  “And we need your help to find him,” Owen agreed.

  “Sorry, guys; not today.” I wrestled the door away from Chip and began closing it. “You’ll have to continue the revolution without me. I’m out.”

  TRICK #25

  THE STINK BOMB

  On Monday morning, things were back to normal.

  Chip and Erma were leading a small group in a ballroom dance on the lawn. They were all wearing matching socks—ballroom dancing socks, no doubt.

  Patrice Pillow sat in her usual morning spot under the weeping willow, peering through the bare branches with a pencil and a pad of paper. Every so often she would get a wicked look on her face and hurriedly write something
down.

  Dawson was handing out homemade doughnuts, while Cecily juggled three potted plants nearby. Hilly and Milly stood on the school steps and talked to each other in acrostic, which meant I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. Stephen had strung a high wire atop the greenhouse roof and was casually sauntering across it with his eyes closed while drinking a cup of tea.

  Miss Munch was carrying the newly fixed and buffed Heirmauser head, and Principal Rooster appeared to be practicing miming. Either that, or he was actually trapped inside an invisible box.

  Everyone seemed to be doing their own thing, and I probably should have used that time to work on some magic.

  Instead, I decided to slip behind the bushes to see if Reap was around.

  “Hey, Reap?” No answer. “You there?” Nothing.

  I crouch-walked to the spot where he was always sitting. There were a couple of hunks of bread, which told me he’d been there recently, but now he was gone. I pawed at the bush a little until I saw movement inside. Two beady little eyes peered out at me.

  I picked up a piece of bread and waved it at the bush.

  “Here, buddy. Come and get it.”

  The eyes didn’t move, so I waved the bread again.

  “Come on, now. You know you want it. No?”

  There was a slight shifting forward in the bush, and my heart leapt into my throat. Wouldn’t Reap be so surprised to find out that his mystery animal came out for little old non-animal-language-gifted me?

  “That’s right,” I said excitedly. “It’s nice, yummy bread. Come out, come out. Have a snack.”

  There was another slight shift, only this time in the wrong direction, and the animal’s eyes got dimmer as it pulled farther back into the bush.

  “No!” I said. “Don’t go! It’s just a little bread. You can trust me.” I shoved my hand farther under the bush, hoping to entice it out with the sweet, bready scent. “Okay, if you won’t come out, maybe I’ll go in.” I parted the bushes a little wider, and to my surprise, a second animal—a much bigger animal—came toward me. “Hey, look, it’s a cat! Here, kitty, kitty …” But then the kitty came at me even faster, lunging at me with the strangest meow I’d ever heard. It was more of a chirp than a meow. The kind of chirp you would hear out of a …“Skunk!” I yelled, scooting back on my behind until I slammed against the school wall. “Not a kitty! Not a kitty!”