Here Comes Trouble

by Kate Hattemer

  “Are they mechanical?” I said.

  “They’ve got moth larvas inside,” said Jéro.

  Another jumped, and another. It was so weird. Just when you thought they were normal dried beans, they’d twitch.

  “Wow,” I said, imagining the possibilities. “You know how Ms. Hutchins always has that big salad for lunch?”

  “So?” said Soup. (His mom is a naturalist; that’s how he got named Marsupial. But everyone calls him Soup.)

  “So I’ve got the perfect plan,” I said. “We’ll send Flynn to the teachers’ lounge. If anyone asks, he got lost looking for the bathroom. He opens the fridge, finds her salad, dumps in the beans, and no one’s the wiser.”

  They stared at me. Flynn had edged closer when he heard his name, and he was the first to speak.

  “Isn’t there a sign on the door of the teachers’ lounge? Wouldn’t I know it’s not the bathroom?”

  “You’re not going to get in trouble on your first day at Camelot. Oh, hey, everyone, this is Flynn. My cousin. Flynn, meet Jéro, Freddy, and Soup.”

  They nodded.

  “Back to the plan,” I said. “Flynn? Try first period, because that way if you’re redirected, we’ll have three more chances before lunch—”

  “I’m not feeding my beans to Ms. Hutchins,” said Freddy.

  “She wouldn’t eat them. She’d be about to eat them. They’d be on her fork, and then…” I gave a sudden, twitchy hop in my best impression of a Mexican jumping bean. “Imagine her face!”

  “I like my beans,” said Freddy. “I want to see the moths hatch.”

  “They’re pets,” said Soup.

  “Would you put a dog in Ms. Hutchins’s salad?” said Jéro.

  “Besides,” said Flynn, “I think I can find the bathroom.”

  “You’re all missing the point,” I said.

  Alex would have understood. Alex would have called my idea and raised it. Who knew what would have happened? Things tended to spiral out of control when Alex and I worked together.

  How would I ever prank again without her?

  PHWEEET! PHWEEET!

  Mrs. Andersen whistled on her knuckles to call us inside.

  * * *

  —

  “HELLO, HELLO!” said Ms. Hutchins. She’s our homeroom teacher and our science teacher, so we have her for seventy minutes first thing in the morning. I like Ms. Hutchins. She’s pretty chill, except when it comes to veganism and science. “I hope you all had a wonderful summer.” She smiled, pretending she’d missed us the way they make teachers do. “Who did something exciting?”

  “I went to Washington, D.C.,” said Jeremiah Johnson.

  “I went to the mall in Duluth,” said Goldie Grandin.

  “I got Mexican jumping beans,” said Freddy, spoiling the prank once and for all.

  “I got chicken pox,” said Tabitha Andrezejczak.

  “Chicken pox is extinct,” said Jéro.

  “Not for me,” Tabitha said proudly.

  “I always knew you were a mutant,” I whispered.

  Tabitha rolled her eyes and whispered back, “Nothing’s as mutant as your face, Soren Skaar.”

  “Soren!” said Ms. Hutchins. I jumped. “I believe something exciting happened to you this summer!”

  “Uh…”

  My summer: Kicking a ball against the woodpile. Playing Settlers of Catan with Ruth. Seeing what Ivan would and wouldn’t eat. Rereading Harry Potter, all sad because the Fred to my George had moved away.

  What was Ms. Hutchins talking about?

  “Would you introduce our new student?” she said.

  Oh!

  Flynn was perched on the edge of his seat, his feet tucked up on the rung. “Yeah,” I said, “so that’s my cousin.”

  “Soren! Where’s our Minnesota politeness? Let’s hear a real introduction!”

  I coughed. “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to present the Flynn Skaar, straight outta Brooklyn.” That got a laugh, even though Alex would have said it was overused. “Flynn likes…” Uh-oh. What did he like? “He likes banjo, green tea, soccer, and—”

  “Science!” said Flynn. “I love science!”

  Ms. Hutchins beamed. “Flynn,” she said, “why don’t you tell us a bit—”

  He was already on his feet. Here was something else Flynn liked: an audience. “Hello, everyone!” he said. “I’m thrilled to be here in Camelot for my sixth-grade year! I hail from New York, and I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have about life in the city.”

  The class was staring, openmouthed. So much for him acting nervous last night.

  “Soren’s right, I’m currently a banjo-tea-soccer kind of dude, but my passions change a lot. Let me give you my usernames so you can keep up.”

  We aren’t allowed to have phones or iPods or anything in school, but he spelled them out, and Goldie wrote them down. And if Goldie does something, other girls do it too.

  “Long story short,” said Flynn, “Adidas over Nike, pita chips over potato chips, Yankees over Mets. That about sums it up! That’s me!”

  He popped into his seat. “I like pita chips too,” Goldie whispered.

  “Well, I like the Yankees,” said Freddy.

  “You do not,” I reminded him. When they’d swept the Twins last year, Freddy had bought a Baby Ruth bar just to smash it to a pooplike pulp on his driveway. “You hate the Yankees.”

  Nobody paid attention to me. “Pinstripers, unite!” said Flynn, giving Freddy a high five. He turned to Goldie. “Potato chips are just too greasy, right?”

  Goldie and Freddy looked extremely pleased with themselves. Everyone else looked jealous.

  “The grease is the good part,” I said. I was ignored.

  Luckily, nobody was paying attention to Ms. Hutchins, either, and she had a lot more power. “Class!” she called, clapping her hands. “Class! Quiet, please! No video announcements today since we’ll have an assembly later, so let’s dive into our course material. This is our sixth-grade theme!” She gestured to the banner strung above the whiteboard: THINK LIKE A SCIENTIST! “Who can tell us what that might mean?”

  Dead silence.

  Finally, Soup raised his hand. “Do we get to wear safety goggles this year?”

  “We’ll see,” said Ms. Hutchins wearily. “Anyone? What does it mean to think like a scientist?”

  “Follow the scientific method,” said Emily Garcia. “Ask questions, gather background information…”

  “Absolutely.” Ms. Hutchins turned to the whiteboard. “Let’s start with a quick review of the scientific method. And yes, you should be writing this down.”

  It was going to be a long year.

  WE WERE WELCOMED home by Martha. “COCK-A-DOO-ARGH-ACK-ECK-EH!”

  “Is that normal?” said Flynn.

  “For Martha, yes,” I said. “For roosters, no.”

  “I’ve got to visit Jim Bob,” said Ruth. “He’s been missing me all day. Want to come meet him, Flynn?”

  “The hog?”

  “The American Yorkshire piglet,” she corrected him. “He’ll love you! He’s so friendly.”

  “I don’t like pigs,” said Flynn.

  “You’ve never met a pig like Jim Bob.”

  He hesitated.

  “Are you scared?” I said.

  “No!”

  “Come on!” said Ruth. “I’ll let you feed him his bottle!” She grabbed Flynn’s hand and began dragging him to the pigpen. He looked at me the way a shipwrecked rat looks at a piece of floating timber.

  “Flynn probably needs a snack,” I told Ruth. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” said Flynn, shaking himself free.

  “Your loss!” said Ruth.

  We turned toward the house. “I was a bi
t scared of Jim Bob before I met him,” I said. “Because you should see his mom, Mr. Flick’s prize sow. Her name’s Hercules Mulligan and she weighs six hundred pounds and snorts like a rhino.”

  “Stop,” Flynn moaned.

  “But Jim Bob’s nothing like that.” I considered the facts of life as I opened the kitchen door. “Well, not yet.”

  In the kitchen, Ivan was banging a spoon on his high-chair tray. Dad was reading a seed catalog, which he threw down upon our entrance. “Soren! Flynn! All hail the conquering students! How was school? Tell me all about it!”

  After a day at home with Ivan, Dad gets way too excited about humans who can talk in full sentences. “It was fine, thanks, Uncle Jon,” said Flynn.

  “Details!” cried Dad.

  “Our classes were good. But I think I’ve already learned a lot of the stuff we’re doing in science.”

  “Flynn won Scientificopardy!” I said.

  “Bless you!” said Dad.

  “No, Scientificopardy! A review game Ms. Hutchins invented. Jeopardy! plus fifth-grade science, minus prize money.”

  “Well, well, well!” said Dad. “Congratulations!”

  “The questions weren’t that hard,” Flynn said modestly.

  Maybe not for him. I found them hard. Over the summer, I’d forgotten everything I’d ever learned about igneous versus sedentary-or-whatever rocks. I couldn’t name a single parasite besides Ivan, and I knew King Philip Came Over, but for what, who the heck knew? But Flynn had nailed every one.

  “And guess who’s my lab partner?” said Flynn.

  “Who?” asked Dad.

  “Hint: she assigned them alphabetically by last name.”

  “And that means…”

  “Dad,” I said, “me and Flynn have the same last name.”

  “Oh!” Light dawned. “The Skaar Science Squad! Eh? How’s that for a team nickname?”

  “Love it,” said Flynn at the same time as I said, “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “Lucky Soren,” said Dad. “Partnered with the champion of Scienti-Scientifo-Scientisto—er, the review game! So what else happened? Outside of the science classroom?”

  “We had auditions for music groups,” said Flynn, patting his banjo. “Mr. Brandoon was very impressed, he said, but I guess there aren’t banjo parts in band music, so I have to do Intermediate Choir.”

  “I got Intermediate Band,” I said from inside the refrigerator, where I was digging for after-school sandwich ingredients. I play the trombone. Badly.

  “I’m going to ask Mr. Brandoon if the choir and band can work together to perform one of my original songs.” Flynn strummed a chord. “Roosters we have heard on high / Sweetly crowing o’er the plains.”

  “Maybe for the holiday concert!” said Dad.

  “My goal is to have a full concept album by the end of the year. O Strum, All Ye Faithful, I think I’ll call it. What do you think?”

  “I can’t wait to hear the whole thing,” Dad said. “Ivan! Play with Gloria or eat your tomato soup! Not both!”

  “SWIM!” yelled Ivan.

  Dad, sighing, took away the soup, but not before Ivan had dipped in his favorite Barbie headfirst. I lidded my sandwich. “This is a work of art,” I said.

  “Soren,” said Dad, “offer your cousin half your sandwich.”

  “I think it has corn syrup.”

  “Offer,” said Dad through gritted teeth.

  I had just taken a massive bite. “Ouldoo ikaffuh myanditch?”

  “Huh?” said Flynn.

  I stuck my jaw forward and, feeling like a rattlesnake who’d done well for himself, swallowed. “Would you like half of my sandwich?”

  “That’s okay.” He eyed it. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  I didn’t see the problem, myself. Peanut butter, banana, marshmallow, and pickle on sourdough. Every major food group was represented.

  “PLAY!” yelled Ivan.

  “I’ll play with you,” said Flynn. “Hi, Barbie!”

  “BARBIE NOT BARBIE!”

  Flynn didn’t even know what the Barbie’s name was. “He calls her Gloria,” I said. “After the baby sister in the Frances books. Right, Ivan?”

  “IVAN NOT BABY!”

  “Uh, you missed the point, dude.”

  Flynn leaned in. “Hi, Gloria!”

  “He likes to throw her,” I said. “I’d be careful if I were you.” Ivan glowered at me.

  “Will you play with me, Gloria?” said Flynn.

  Ivan regarded him suspiciously.

  “Glo-Glo-Gloria!” said Flynn. “Will you take me on a tractor ride?”

  We don’t even own a tractor.

  “Will you give me a farmland tour?”

  Ivan giggled.

  “I can play too,” I told Ivan. “Gloria! Want to go for another swim in the tomato soup?” I tugged at the Barbie’s leg, but Ivan only grasped her more firmly. “Come on, Ivan. Give her to me. Swim time, Glo!”

  “NO!”

  I yanked. Ivan yanked back.

  “Fine.” I returned to my sandwich.

  “Oh!” said Flynn. “Soren—watch out—”

  I glanced up just in time to see Ivan’s eyes narrow and his arm rear back in a windup. Gloria winged through the air. She spun toward me, limbs akimbo, drops of soup pinwheeling from her hair—

  She hit me right in the eye socket.

  “Gloria!” said Flynn, all fake shocked. “Who taught you to fly?”

  And Ivan, that little traitor, he giggled. Again.

  OVER THE COURSE of the next week, my black eye went from black to purple to blue to orange to green. “What happened?” said Jéro at lunch on Tuesday.

  “I told you. I got kicked.” I hadn’t mentioned that a Barbie had done the kicking. “But you should have seen the other guy.”

  I’d broken off Gloria’s leg.

  When we got freed from the cafeteria, we all milled out to the—well, I won’t say field, but it’s a fieldish thing, 90 percent dirt, 10 percent scrappy weeds that try so hard but get stomped down every day at 11:35 a.m. Recess soccer’s fun, though sort of stressful because there’s no ref. That means when there’s a dispute, whoever yells the loudest wins.

  We rotate captains. That day it was me and Billiam Flick. He said, “I’ll take Freddy.”

  “Hmm,” I said. I tried to look like I was deciding, even though I already knew. “I’ll take…hmm…Flynn.”

  “Him?” said Billiam.

  After a week of school, I’d finally convinced Flynn to make his recess soccer debut. Nothing he’d done so far would make anyone think he’d be good at soccer. He’d worn a lot of skinny jeans and swirly shirts and caps, and he’d won another review game, Who Wants to Be a Scientistionaire?

  “Him,” I repeated.

  “O-kay,” said Billiam, skeptical. “I’ll take Randall.”

  “Goldie,” I said. She jogged over and low-fived Flynn. They were friends now.

  We picked the rest of the teams, and I took the kickoff. I tipped it back to Jéro, who dribbled a couple of yards and paused, looking up for the pass. Freddy and Randall converged.

  “Look at Soup!” I yelled.

  Jéro passed. Soup thinks he can dribble, but Kiyana stole the ball from him in about half a second. She took it up the line. Then, in a streak of paisley, appeared Flynn.

  I don’t know how he did it. One second Kiyana was whizzing up the wing; the next, Flynn was whizzing in the opposite direction. He dodged Randall, and he dodged Freddy, and he glanced up even while he kept moving full tilt ahead. Poppy Moore was posted in the center. He crossed the ball to her. All she had to do was stick out a foot. The ball ricocheted into the goal.

  I blinked.

  “Goal!” shouted Goldie.

  “Goal?” said P
oppy. “I—I—scored?”

  “You scored!” yelled Flynn.

  “I scored!”

  Usually she spends the whole game braiding clover.

  “Get back in position,” I called. “No time for celebration.”

  Billiam kicked off with a long pass to Jack. Jack tried to get it to Randall, but again Flynn intercepted. He dribbled around Randall like Randall was a cone—they do kind of look the same—and he crossed a high floater to Soup, who’d been keeping pace down the field. Soup leapt and headed it into the dead center of the goal.

  “Brilliant!” cried Flynn.

  Next he assisted Goldie, then Jéro, then me. We gave up one on a penalty kick after Poppy accidentally handballed, but we were still winning 5–1.

  PHWEEET! That was the two-minute warning. Billiam kicked a clod of weeds. “Let’s quit now.”

  “We’re playing to the end,” I said.

  Jack tapped it to Freddy. Flynn, with a burst of speed, was on him. He had the ball. He took off toward their goal, the ball staying on his toes like it was glued there. Billiam approached. With a flick of his foot, Flynn megged him. Billiam tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground. Flynn didn’t even look back. Randall and Jack were advancing, but Flynn threaded the needle between them.

  “Yeah, Flynn!” yelled Jéro.

  He reached the grassy spot near the goal. In a last, desperate attempt to stop him, Freddy went for the slide tackle. Flynn wasn’t fazed. He jumped over Freddy, caught the ball on the other side, and casually slotted it into the corner of the goal.

  “FLYNNIE!” cried Goldie in glee.

  “I’ve never seen moves like that in real life,” said Soup.

  “He’s related to you?” Billiam said to me.

  PHWEEET! PHWEEET!

  My team gathered around Flynn. Both teams gathered around Flynn. They were beaming. They tugged at his sleeve and slapped him on the back. That’s what you want to do when you see something amazing. You want to touch it. If you see a cupcake frosted like a Lego or a caterpillar that looks like a squishy string of beads, you want to reach out and touch it with your very own hand. Touching it makes it real.