101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (11 page)

Hayley re-snatched and held the pass aloft, forcing Goldie to leap like a poodle desperate for treats. “Since when do you have a nursing degree?”

“Since when do you have projectile vomiting?”

“Since the moment I first read one of your nauseating gossip columns.”

“Well!”
Goldie stamped a hoof. “You didn't think my
investigative reporting
was nauseating two days ago! For your
information
, Hayley Barker, you wouldn't know
half
of
you know what
about
you know who
if it weren't for
me
!
And
you still owe me a
scoop
as payment!”

“I'm sure the janitor has something you can scoop,” Hayley said coolly.

The second warning bell rang, drowning out Goldie's retort.

“Enough with the Hall Pass Ping-Pong,” I said. “We're late.” I whisked Hayley into the hall, smacking into Ace, knocking his sunglasses askew.

Both dark brows arced in mild surprise. He brushed what were probably my “cooties” off his shirt. “Where's the fire,” he asked with a yawn.

“That-a-way,” I said, motioning into the office. “And I wouldn't go in there if I were you.” I whisked Hayley to the right toward our English class, my chest full-to-bursting with admiration. “Wow, Hay, I've never seen girls spar like that before. You really nailed her!”

“Huh. You're next, buddy boy. You almost smothered me!”

“You
squealed
.”

“I never.”

“It's true! You sounded like Goldie.”

She snorted. “There's no reason to insult me!”

“Don't you remember? Right after I said Cullen likes you, you—”

Hayley squealed again—then clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Golftees,”
she muttered. “It
is
true!” She gave a weak laugh. “It's just—I can't believe he likes me. It's crazy. He's a senior. I'm a middle schooler. Yet, he
likes
me! Did he say anything else? Tell me from the beginning! What was he wearing, how did you ask, does he want to meet me?”

“Look behind you,” I instructed. “Where's Goldie? Is she following us?”

Hayley risked a peek. “She's outside the main office, talking to Ace. She's reaching for her tape recorder . . . slinking this way! I never should've asked for her help. She'll stalk me to my grave to get the scoop about me and Cullen!”

“Yep, especially now that I've ruined her exclusive,” I said. “So it's time for evasive action. You've got the hall pass—and I've got a plan.”

I grabbed her elbow and whirled us in the opposite direction, struggling like salmon against the powerful stream of students. I waved at Goldie, who scowled as she was swept past.

The final bell rang.

We launched into my sanctuary-away-from-sanctuary: the nurse's office.

“Boy, howdy!” The school nurse greeted me with a weathered smile, a Texas twang, and a hearty back clap. Then he pulled me into a rough hug. “Long time no see, Sneeze!”

Tony Sandoval used to ride buckin' broncs in the rodeo circuit till he traded his saddle and spurs for thermometers and doctor scrubs. Hiccup and I spent so much time in his office last year (me because of my allergies; Hic because of his hiccups), Tony considered us his
wheel-horses
(good friends).

He tipped an imaginary hat at Hayley. “Afternoon, Miz Barker. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Goldie's face appeared in the doorway, gloating her
I've-got-you-now!
smile before jerking from sight. She'd lurk out there indefinitely, waiting for us to leave or waiting to overhear something juicy—whichever came first. My plan was to make her believe Hayley's hiccups warranted treatment. Long, tedious treatment.

“HAYLEY HAS A NASTY CASE OF HICCUPS,” I said.

“That a fact? No need to shout, son.”

“It's true, Mr. Sand-
hic!
-val,” Hayley said, catching on. She handed him the hall pass. “I'm
hic!
ing like crazy.”

“Well, ma'am, I got just the thing to fix you fine as frog's hair!” Tony opened a cabinet. He pushed aside containers of rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and bandages before choosing a slim-necked bottle. “Heard 'bout this remedy from a lady-friend of my acquaintance. Thought our friend Hector might be needin' it first, but no matter.” He tipped the opaque green bottle. Thick dark stuff oozed onto the spoon. “Down the hatch!”

Hayley eyed it with an SOS.

Outside, in the hall, I heard Goldie exclaim: “What are
you
doing here?”

“AND AFTER HAYLEY DRINKS THIS POTENT MEDICINE,” I said, glancing at the exit, “SHE'LL NEED TO LIE DOWN FOR AN HOUR, RIGHT, TONY? SO YOU CAN MONITOR HER PROGRESS?”

A smile twitched his lips and he winked one sun-strained eye. “Hard t' say, son. Could be longer. Ev'ry case responds differently.”

I motioned for silence. Tiptoed to the door. Poked my nose, then head, into the hall.

“Is the coast clear?” Hayley asked,
sotto voce
.

“Unless she learned at Spy Camp how to disguise herself as a drinking fountain.”

“Is that nosy slanganderer gunnin' for you again?” Tony asked.

Hayley snorted. “If you mean Gossiping Goldie, the answer is yes. Are you sure she's gone, Steve?”

“Positive.”

“Then so are my hiccups, Mr. Sandoval.”

“Dang. I wanted to see this remedy in action. Well, no sense wastin' it.” Tony slurped, coughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not bad. Needs lettuce, is all.”

Hayley sniffed the cap. “What
is
this stuff?”

Tony laughed. “Balsamic vinegar.” He settled into his leather swivel chair, legs stretched onto his desk, boots crossed at the ankles. “Time to 'fess up, wheel-horse,” he drawled. “What can I really do ya for?”

Tony could read me like a Zane Grey novel. “Hayley and I need a private place to talk.”

“'Zat so? Where you two supposed t' be right now?”

“English. But we only need five minutes. Ten, tops.”

Tony's chili-brown eyes regarded me. One wiry caterpillar-brow raised a notch higher than the other. But he didn't ask why. He wouldn't. He trusted me. And I, him.

“Aw right.” He slapped his knees, pushed back his chair.

“Mind the store while I mosey out for a new stack of hall passes.” He ripped a pass from its pad and stuffed the remainder into a cluttered drawer. “This one seems t' be my last,” he added with another wink.

After he'd gone, Hayley perched on the cot beneath the window. I moved to sit beside her. Then, remembering her entrancing scent of fresh peaches, I veered to Tony's leather chair. It smelled safely of saddle soap.

“Ask away,” I said.

Hayley tried to smile into my eyes, but one corner of her lower lip trembled.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She crumpled a fistful of skirt, then smoothed it again. “It's just—this is pointless. It doesn't matter what Cullen said about me. ‘
No dating till you're fourteen,'
Daddy says. That's a whole year away! By then Cullen will have graduated. Moved back to Hawaii . . .”

“But we've gone out together lots of times,” I said. “To the movies and on hikes. Bike rides to the beach. Your dad's always been cool about that.”

“Those weren't dates, Sneeze. Daddy trusts you. You're my
friend
.”

I spun the chair so Hayley couldn't see the arrow protruding from my chest.

“Besides, we're rarely alone,” Hayley went on. “Hiccup joins us. Or Ace appears. He hung out at Gadabout practically twenty-four/seven this summer. Weird, huh? Do you think maybe he has a thing for Goldie?”

I choke-laughed.

“Ridiculous, I know. But she lurked there almost every day too, interrogating us about Pierre. I saw him only twice. At least, I
think
it was him: once slinking out of Lickety-Split Chick with a greasy bucket o' wings. The second time, buying a package of powdered donuts—at a carwash!”

“Mon Dew,” I said with another choke-laugh. “Neither could've been Pierre!”

“Probably not. This guy had a mustache too.” Hayley stood to pace, fists clenched. “What's happening to me? I'm acting insane. I never should've asked Goldie what classes Cullen's in. I never should've asked you to find out if he likes me. It was crazy. Stupid. And it just makes everything harder.”

She sighed. The sound resonated inside my chest like a sad echo calling from the deep darkness of a dank well.

I ached for her . . . with her . . . .

And answered her sigh the only way I could.

“Maybe . . . maybe I could arrange for you and Cullen to meet at Gadabout one afternoon,” I suggested, without even the faintest glimmer of how to arrange
that
. I'd just have to worry about those pesky details later. “You could pretend he'd come to play mini-golf,” I went on. “Your dad wouldn't suspect a thing.”

“But Daddy threatened the entire Patrick Henry Golf Team! They'll go to jail if any of them steps foot at Gadabout again.”

“Well, um . . . what about phone calls?” I asked. “That's not dating.”

“Money's tight, so Daddy canceled our cell service. And if he heard Cullen's voice on our landline, I wouldn't be allowed to date till I'm forty.”

Hayley thumped onto the cot, then heaved herself up again. “You're sweet, Sneeze, trying to help and all, but it's hopeless.” Resignation drenched her voice. “Let's go to class. If we stay put any longer, Goldie will start a rumor that I'm dating Tony.”

I swallowed. Then blurted:
“E-mail!”

“What?”

“Cullen can write to you. By e-mail.”

“No way. Daddy and I share the same computer. If I start getting e-mails from a stranger, especially a strange guy—”

The proverbial lightbulb clicked on inside my head.

I had a plan. The only question was: Would it work?

“What if . . .” I began, “what if Cullen sent the e-mails to me first and then I forwarded them to you? Your dad would see only
my
return e-mail address. He wouldn't care about my e-mails. After all, I'm just a . . . a
friend
.”

Hayley fingered a golf ball earring. “That might work! Cullen and I could get to know each other through e-mails. Then I could talk to Daddy about changing his mind, about letting me date sooner.”

“Um, yeah.”

She faced me, body straight and solemn like the other day when she stood atop the North Pole. “You'd do this for me?” she asked, blue eyes unblinking. “You'd let Cullen send e-mails for me to you first? And you'd forward them?”

“Of course.”

“You wouldn't read them?”

I squelched a squirm. “Of course not.”

“You'd send him my answers?”

“Of course.”

“You wouldn't read them?”

Another squirm-squelch. “Of course not.”

“I could send them to him myself,” she went on, “deleting them from my Sent Mail folder afterward so Daddy wouldn't see. But in case I forget or something, it would be so much safer if—”

“I said I'd do it, Hayley.”

Her face lit with the spit and flash of a Fourth of July sparkler and she whispered:
“You are the Best. Friend. Ever.”

What. Had. I. Done?

What in the name of Thomas Alva Edison had possessed me to tell Hayley that Cullen would e-mail her?

Sure, my plan was simple:
I
would impersonate Cullen.
I
would write the e-mails. That way, Hayley wouldn't get her heart broken. But what, exactly, could I write that:

wouldn't make “Cullen” sound like a dork?

wouldn't make me sound like a dork dorkily impersonating Cullen?

Those were the not-so-simple, gee-I-really-should've-thought-of-those-pesky-details-before-I-promised-he'd- write-her parts of the plan.

Hunched over my notebook, I spent most of English, history, Spanish, and art scribbling down, then scratching out, fits and starts of “Cullen's” letter while simultaneously trying to ignore the attempts of my “friends” to bug me, such as:

The
tunk-tunk-tunk
of Goldie, in full pout mode, kicking the back of my chair;

Ace snoring a two-note, tone-deaf tune;

The guilt-inducing barbs Pierre muttered in murdered “French”;

Hiccup peeking at me every two seconds with the same woe-is-me expression Dasher and Dancer wear whenever their food bowl has been licked clean for a whopping thirty seconds;

Hayley's glazed glow.

Even my teachers seemed bent on bugging. They expected me to parse sentences, recall long-dead emperors, direct Paco y Felipe a la biblioteca, and mix a batch of gloopy papier-mâché that reeked like curdled oatmeal.

Didn't these people realize I had more important things on my mind?

I whirled on Goldie. “Sssssstop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop kicking my chair!”

“Okay.”

I whirled again. “You said you'd stop!”