Here Comes Trouble

by Kate Hattemer

  She turned away. I heard footsteps from my end too. Flynn popped into the kitchen. “Just getting a special treat for the charaders!” he trilled. “Wait. Why are you on the computer?”

  Alex came back. “It’d be a whole lot easier for me to help if I knew— OKAY, MOM, JUST A SEC—”

  “I thought you were drying the dishes,” Flynn said.

  “I was,” I told him. “I am.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll keep you company.”

  “Soren?” said Alex. “My mom’s making me get off. Quick, tell me who—”

  Flynn came up behind me to peer into the screen. “Who’s that?”

  “Yeah, who’s that?” said Alex.

  I had no other option: I slammed the computer shut.

  “Was that a girl?” said Flynn.

  I glared at him. “I don’t need your company.”

  He straightened. “Okay. I’ll leave.”

  Every time I’m mean, I feel awful about it two minutes later. It’s that two-minute window that’s the problem.

  “Do leave,” I said. “Stay out of my life.”

  He left. I finished the dishes. Two minutes passed, and I felt awful. I went upstairs and lay on my bed. Our house is small and the walls are thin, and I could hear them playing charades, rounds of clapping and laughing, Ivan yowling in joy. He probably got to act out being a tiger. That’s his favorite thing in the world to do, especially when he gets to bite Mom’s leg. The five of them, they sounded like a family. I looked at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling. In my old room there was a turtle, but here I didn’t know the animals yet. I bet Flynn didn’t see the turtle. It took a while to find it. You had to squint. It was the kind of turtle that only came out if it really, really felt at home.

  PRINCIPAL LEARY APPEARED on the projector screen. “Good morning, students and teachers. We’ve got several announcements this morning. Art Club will meet during lunch in Mr. Rilling’s room….”

  Soup whispered, “Stunning tie.”

  It looked like a blackboard, and down the front it said A B C in wobbly, chalked letters.

  “He’s worn it before,” whispered Tabitha. “Last April, I believe.”

  Jéro busily tabulated the Video Announcements Necktie Betting Pool results. “Ouch,” he said, glancing at Chloe. “She’s got a problem.”

  I peered at his notes.

  “She’s down like seven bucks,” he said. “She should just cut her losses. But no…”

  He pointed to her name. Polka dots all month, it said. Odds: 80–1.

  “I think she’s trying to win back all her money at once,” said Jéro.

  Chloe was slightly teary as she scrawled a note for him. Put it on my tab. New bet: Christmas tie tomorrow.

  It was only October.

  “Five hundred fifty to one,” said Jéro.

  Leary was still droning on. “If you’d like to audition for the winter play, Alice in Wonderland, you can sign up in Ms. Babbitt’s room. The Library Helpers will meet after school today for a fun hour re-alphabetizing the picture books. That’s all. Thank you. It’s a lovely day for learning.”

  Ms. Hutchins snapped up the projector screen. “Class,” she said.

  Her left eyebrow had a slight twitch.

  “We need to have a serious discussion,” she told us.

  I couldn’t believe it. Flynn had told her.

  “A serious discussion.”

  We all sat up straight and opened our eyes wide and solemn, trying to look innocent. Ms. Hutchins angrily paced under the THINK LIKE A SCIENTIST banner. I wished she’d decided to talk to me alone instead of calling me out in front of the whole class. “I have received information that’s very disturbing,” she said. I craned forward to see the paper in her hand, but it was folded too small to see the writing. “Someone in this class—one of our very own—has made a disastrous decision.”

  I tried not to squirm. She was really building this up.

  “The results of our Coke-versus-water experiment have been severely compromised. Someone”—she waved the paper—“has tampered with the bean plants. Someone has sabotaged our experiment.”

  “Who?” asked Billiam.

  I could feel the flush starting. I’d gotten in trouble before, of course, but always with Alex. This was different. I was all alone, and soon everyone in the class would turn toward me—

  “I don’t know,” said Ms. Hutchins. “It was an anonymous tip and it named no names. But I’ve done a quick soil survey, and I have reason to believe it’s correct.”

  “But why?” said Poppy. “Why would someone do that?”

  “All I can say, guys, is not everyone cares about scientific integrity,” Ms. Hutchins said sadly. “Science speaks the truth, and that’s why I love it. It has no agenda, no motives. And scientists have a sworn duty to add their contributions, however tiny, to the mass of human knowledge, to what we have learned to be true about the universe.”

  The class was enthralled. She sounded like a teacher in a movie. I wondered if she’d written out the speech beforehand.

  “But,” she said, and took a long pause, “but, this can’t happen when someone chooses to spoil science for everyone else.”

  She had the whole class shaking their heads.

  “We’ll need to abandon our bean-plant experiment. What a waste of time and resources. It’s a shame.”

  She turned to find a whiteboard marker, and I glanced at Flynn. He was gazing forward, so innocent-looking it didn’t even seem like he was trying to look innocent. He probably thought I’d be grateful that he hadn’t told her it was me.

  Well, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t get in trouble, sure. But my prank was still ruined. My harmless, hilarious prank.

  Ms. Hutchins wrote Scientific Ethics on the board. “Who can explain why ethics play such an important role in a scientific experiment?”

  There was a strip of air between Flynn’s seat and Flynn’s butt; that’s how hard he was raising his hand. “An experiment without ethics means nothing,” he said. “If scientists cheat on their results, we can no longer trust science.”

  “Exactly!” crowed Ms. Hutchins. We all relaxed. She’d come down from that red zone of teacher anger. “And if we cannot trust science, then what, class?”

  “We’re no longer human,” intoned Soup.

  Ms. Hutchins gave him a weird look. “I was thinking more along the lines of losing confidence in the medicines we take, the foods we eat…”

  “Right,” Soup said quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

  “Ethics are essential in science,” said Ms. Hutchins. “And sadly, unethical procedures are rampant. Many experiments are sponsored by someone who is set to profit. Did you know that nearly every study about the benefits of milk is funded by the dairy industry?”

  Ah, the vegan agenda we’d come to know and love. Flynn nodded along.

  “I’ve changed the plans for our next unit,” Ms. Hutchins told us. “We’ll be exploring scientific ethics! It’s a fresh look at our theme, ‘Think Like a Scientist.’ We owe a lot to our anonymous informer.”

  What about our anonymous culprit? I wanted to ask. We owed a lot to him, too.

  THAT NIGHT WAS Make Your Own Taco Night. I filled three shells with meat and dumped on cheese and sour cream and salsa. Dad had put out some vegetables, but I never bother with those.

  I risked the target seat next to Ivan’s high chair, since he seemed too busy packing his nose with guacamole to throw anything at me. “Flynn!” Mom called up the stairs. “Dinner!”

  Flynn scooted into the kitchen. “Ooh! Is this farm-fresh zucchini?”

  “Picked it today,” said Dad. Gardening is his stress relief. He hauls out the playpen, plops in Ivan, and weeds for hours. “We had a bumper crop.”

  “Tragically,” said Ruth.
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br />   Dad eyed her. “What was that, young lady?”

  “Magically,” Ruth said smoothly. “I’ve always thought zucchini has a magical taste, you know.”

  “Really,” said Dad.

  “Magical like Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans,” I said, trying to help her out.

  “Yeah, the booger-flavored one,” Ruth muttered to me.

  “Excuse me?” said Dad.

  “The sugar-flavored one,” said Ruth.

  “Zucchini is a rather sweet vegetable,” said Dad. “You’ve got a very sophisticated palate, young lady.”

  Ruth basked. Flynn filled his tacos with so much zucchini he’d never get them closed. I’d been avoiding him since science class. I’d played Quidditch instead of soccer at recess, even though running around with a broom between my legs was obviously not going to end well, and I’d dawdled on the walk home from the bus stop so he and Ruth could get ahead.

  “Well, Flynn,” said Dad, “your mother Skyped me while you were at school today.”

  I watched Flynn. He didn’t even perk up. He just swallowed his bite and said, “Oh?”

  “She misses you, but she’s doing well. She sold another tapestry.”

  “Yeah, she texted me,” said Flynn.

  There were times when I wouldn’t have minded being thousands of miles away from my parents, but Flynn always seemed weirdly nonchalant about the whole business. Maybe he was used to it since his dad moved to Berlin when Flynn was a toddler. I guess Ruth was thinking the same thing. She said, “When’s the last time you saw your dad?”

  “He visits New York every year, just about,” said Flynn. “But we’re not really that close.”

  “Are they still officially married?” I said.

  I got a scowl from Mom, but Flynn didn’t seem to care. “Yep,” he said. “I guess why bother getting a divorce if you don’t have to.”

  “Would you guys bother getting a divorce?” Ruth asked our parents.

  “That’s not in the picture, honey,” Dad said at the same time as Mom said, “Yes.”

  He glared at her.

  “Hypothetically,” she added. “If we were in the same situation as Flynn’s parents. Which we’re not, Ruth.”

  “Hmph,” said Dad.

  “I see,” said Ruth.

  Dad turned grumpily to Ivan. “Ivan, we don’t put salsa in our ears.”

  “IVAN LIKE SALSA!”

  Grimly, Mom began to excavate Ivan’s ears. A strained silence fell. Flynn was the only one who didn’t get the message. He hummed as he drizzled hot sauce over his zucchini mountain.

  The tune sounded a lot like a Christmas carol.

  “So!” I said. “I have a question. A hypothetical question.”

  “Some of us,” Dad said pointedly, “seem to enjoy hypothetical thinking.”

  “Honestly, Jon,” huffed Mom.

  “Say you see someone breaking a rule,” I said. “But it’s not hurting anyone. Would you tell?”

  “Ooh,” said Dad. Nothing cheers him up like a good ethical dilemma. “Is there such thing as a victimless crime?”

  “Never,” said Mom.

  “Well, that’s simplistic,” said Dad.

  “Maybe it seems like you’re not hurting anyone,” she said. “But when you dig a bit deeper, you’ll no doubt find that you are.”

  “But what if you’re making people happy, too?” I said. “More people than you’re hurting?”

  “And what about questioning authority?” said Dad. “Civil disobedience? Principled rebellion? Do we want to raise a child who unthinkingly accepts every rule handed to him?”

  “I don’t think we’re in any danger of that,” said Mom, just as Ivan cackled.

  Stupidly, I looked over.

  “Hey—no—don’t throw tha—” I said.

  He nailed me in the forehead with a loosely packed ball of ground beef and sour cream.

  “Ivan!”

  A rivulet of sour cream trickled down my cheek.

  “Straight to the bathtub, boys, both of you,” said Dad, his voice tight. “And I am putting you, Ivan, straight to bed after that.”

  “NO! DADDY WON’T!”

  “I’d like to see you stop me,” said Dad. He stripped off his shirt in preparation for handling Ivan. I took off mine and used it to wipe my face. I was furious. At Ivan, technically, but really at Flynn. As I walked by him on my way out of the kitchen, I gave his chair leg a good hard kick. He jolted forward. Zucchini fell off his fork into his lap.

  “Oops!” I said in a totally fake voice. “Sorry! I’m such a klutz!”

  Dad was busy getting Ivan into an armlock, but I was sure Mom saw. She didn’t say anything. Moist chunklets of meat slid down my neck. I got to the shower as fast as I could.

  “RUTH, SOREN,” said Dad when we got home the next day, “I’d like you clean the chicken coop this afternoon.”

  “Nooooo,” Ruth and I wailed in unison.

  “Do not whine,” said Dad. “You two took responsibility for the chickens, and part of responsibility is not whining. In fact, I’d like you to do it now. Before snack, before homework.”

  Flynn slunk around the corner. “I’ll help.”

  “Thanks,” said Ruth, “but you don’t want to do this job. Help us some other time.”

  “But I want to help you guys now,” said Flynn. He glanced at me. Did he look nervous? Eager? Both? It reminded me of him with the green tea, right before I’d taken a sip and spewed it across the kitchen.

  “We don’t need you,” I said. “We don’t want you either.”

  Do you ever get like that? Where you’re mad at someone but also—or mostly—mad at yourself because you’re acting so mean? And since you’re mad (at yourself), you act worse (to them)?

  It makes no sense, and I do it all the time.

  “Come on, Soren,” said Ruth. “Don’t be a butthead.”

  “Don’t call me a butthead.”

  “I won’t call you a butthead if you’ll stop acting like a butthead.” She put her hands on both sides of her head and pressed inward, so it kind of looked like there was a crack going down her face. “Butthead!”

  I didn’t want to laugh but it made me. When you do that right and you have puffy enough cheeks (heh heh), you do look like a butthead. “Fine,” I said. “He can come.”

  We trudged outside. Flynn headed straight for the coop. “So how do we do this?” he said.

  “Wait!” said Ruth. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

  Flynn froze, his fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  “Back away,” said Ruth.

  Flynn reversed. When he was safe, Ruth shook her head. “That was a close one. Never get close to Martha without armor.”

  The coop is right next to the garage, where we gathered the necessary supplies. Ruth put on her bike helmet while I got my garden gloves. She gave some Rollerblade pads to Flynn.

  “Knee pads?” he said. “To deal with a rooster?”

  “Any little bit helps,” said Ruth.

  I turned to her. “You want to take Martha duty or poop duty?”

  This was a tough decision. She bit her lip. “I’ll take Martha.”

  “What about me?” asked Flynn.

  “You can watch,” I said, not looking at him.

  “I want to help,” said Flynn.

  “You can,” Ruth assured him. “Right, Soren? But watch the first round so you get the hang of it.” She tightened the straps of her bike helmet. “Ready?” she asked me.

  “Good luck, soldier,” I said.

  “Good luck, pooper-scooper,” she replied.

  We shook hands, squared our shoulders, and marched into the line of duty. The first step was to get the other chickens out of the way. That wasn’t hard, since they’re litera
lly birdbrains. I had the garage-door remote, and Ruth had a bag of frozen corn. “Open the coop door, Flynn,” said Ruth as soon as Dotty waddled near it. “Just an inch or two.”

  He opened it. I nudged Dotty out the door onto the grass. Ruth rattled the corn kernels and Dotty perked up instantly, following Ruth on the short walk to the garage. We repeated the process for Potty, Hatty, Eugenie, and Betty II. As soon as we had all five hens in the garage, Ruth jogged out and I hit the close-door button. The hens looked around in confusion: Where is our corn? Why is that large object descending from the sky? Wait—why is it all dark in here?

  They started squawking, but they were no longer our problem.

  But Martha, remember, can’t handle being penned up. The coop is see-through, so he doesn’t mind that, but the garage? He goes nuts. The one time we’d tried to stick him in there, he went on a homicidal rampage. (We ate most of Betty I, and buried the rest of her in the vegetable garden.) So we have to get him out in the yard for long enough to clean the coop.

  “Here, Martha!” said Ruth.

  He looked at us suspiciously, wondering what we’d done with all his wives.

  “Here-here-here!” Ruth clucked like a chicken. Martha seemed interested. Ruth made her arms into wings and flapped them invitingly. “Martha! BAWK-bawk-bawk-bawk!”

  Martha jumped at her. Ruth took off across the lawn, Martha in pursuit. I dove into the chicken coop with the shovel and began shoveling out the old bedding. I was going so fast I stirred up a cloud of dirt and cobwebs and feathers and poop. I tried not to breathe in. Chickens are gross.

  “BAWK-bawk-bawk-bawk!” I heard Ruth say.

  I popped my head out. They were on the other side of the lawn, Martha’s beak mere inches from Ruth’s backside. “COCK-A-DOO-ARGH-ACK-ECK-EH!” he cried.

  I ducked back in. Shovel, shovel, pant, pant, pant. I’d almost emptied it.

  “AHHH!” Ruth shouted. “CODE RED!”

  I shot out of the coop just as Martha shot in. “So much for advance warning,” I said, my heart pounding.

  “He’s getting smarter,” Ruth said defensively. “He faked me out and changed direction.”

  “Well, be on the lookout. You know what happens when you’re alone with Martha in the chicken coop.”