Chapter 12
Well, that was our idea. Make a fake and substitute it for the original. No way was Ms. Kent hearing anything about this one. Simply sign up for Friday sculpture class and rip a fake. That was our assignment, if we chose to accept it. It was a lot safer than falling off a stone wall as you are climbing down and the ivy gives way in your hands. So we all took Friday sculpture class, figuring one of us would make a shredding pre-Columbian statuette . . . somehow.
“I’m giving you guys these pictures of artifacts from Aztec excavations in the 1920s,” said Prakash, handing out sheaves of papers. “You can see a few basic themes here: ball games, feathers, big ears, and prominent butts.” We stared at the pictures of grimacing gods, warrior kings and assorted ugly mugs.
Brookie pointed at a particularly gruesome specimen. “If people were really this ugly in those days, I’m glad I wasn’t there. Cool tattoos, though.”
Prakash nodded as he relaxed back in the sofa cushions, staring at the pages intently.
“These ball games look interesting. You think we should reenact some of these ball games, Ian?” asked Pete.
“Sure, Pete, any time. Be my guest. However, the losers died.” Prakash chewed his pencil as he looked at another page. “Sacrificed to the gods,” he added nonchalantly.
Pete gulped.
Ian continued, “We wouldn’t have wanted to have been there in the year 300 A.D. Human sacrifice was a pretty common feature of everyday life.” He leaned over to show us a description of an average family enjoying a holiday on the top of an Aztec temple. There was a little sketch that went with it.
Pete pointed at the sketch. “Hey, is that the victim’s heart that the priest has in his hand?” he asked.
Ian nodded.
“What did they do it for?” I asked.
“Propitiating the gods, crops, weather, boredom, whatever,” said Prakash, sitting up.
“Like, was it voluntary or something?” I asked. “Maybe it was like an honor, or winning the lotto, maybe?”
Prakash turned to Brookie. “I think we have the perfect volunteer, right here. Fetch the sacred knife, Ian. I’m kinda bored.” Both Ian and Prakash made a lunge at Brookie.
“Hey, cut it out.” Brookie’s voice was muffled as he dove under the sofa, kicking Prakash’s grip off his ankles. Ian straightened up, waving Brookie’s shoe in his hand. He tossed it to me, but I missed because I was doubled up from laughing at those two clowns.
“Looks like Brookie has feet of clay, guys; won’t let us cure our boredom with a little human sacrifice.” Ian changed his tone as his laughing tapered off. He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. “Okay, dudes, give these pictures some study, and we’ll make phony gods that really do have feet of clay. Our sacrifice will be to take Miss Apples’ art class. The result: Mr. Harley Bevison will be out of our hair. How’s that for motivation?”
Brookie was still giving Ian dirty looks.
Deceiving Mr. Bevison Page 17