101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (12 page)

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Authors: Lee Wardlaw

BOOK: 101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies
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“
You
said I'd get an exclusive! And I will. I always get my . . .
information
.”
“Not this time,” I said.
“Then you force me to dig up something juicier.”
I felt what Cullen called “chicken skin” prickling my neck.
I scooted my desk out of Goldie's reach and returned to more pressing issues, such as how to weasel out of my sticky situation without:
Hayley finding out and firing me and/or never speaking to me again;
Cullen finding out and adding my pearly whites to his shark-tooth necklace;
Having to immigrate to Antarctica.
Considering my dislike for writing, the South Pole seemed the best solution. Brutally cold, yes. But at least I could live a life virtually sneeze-free. I mean, what were the odds I was allergic to penguins and lichen?
 
After school, I rode the city bus to the hapkido studio, making a point to sit six seats
behind
Hiccup. I knew he wouldn't attempt to glance at me over his shoulder for fear of a recurrence of torticollis, a neck injury he imagined he'd sustained during the first test of the Nice Alarm. (But that's another story.)
Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky at the studio. By the time I handed in my registration form and purchased a uniform, Hic was the only person left in the boys' locker room who could help me dress. I slipped easily into the elastic-waist pants, but the button-less shirt looked like an IQ test for Einstein. And we were due in the
dojang
in two minutes.
I swallowed a fish scale of anger—but could not, would not, gulp my pride.
Instead, I shook the shirt, bull-fighter-cape-style, hoping how-to instructions might flutter out from inside.
No such luck.
Time passed . . .
Hiccup lingered.
Finally, I let slip a faint
“Help.”
Hiccup had been waiting for just that moment.
He leaped, MM-style, over two benches to my side and showed me how the shirt crisscrossed in front, tying beneath with a hidden string. “The outer flap will stay in place once we get your belt on,” he explained. “Take off your shoes. We train barefooted and—
Oh, my
.”
“What's wrong?”
“Your pants!”
I took a gander—and groaned. Hiccup and I wear the same waist size. But where his pants barely brushed the top of his bony feet, mine dragged behind me like the train of wedding gown.
“Maybe if I do this”—I hiked the pants under my pits—
“and keep my arms pinned to my sides . . .”
“Not a good look for you.” He jerked my uniform waist-level again. “And without the use of your arms, you will be incapable of defending yourself properly. This will solve the problem”—he rolled each hem into a thick wad at my ankles—“until
She
can alter them.”
Ha. Dad did all the hemming, patching, and button sewing at our house. Mom proclaimed herself Non-Seamstress for Life the Halloween I turned seven. That's when she stitched me a Frankenstein costume that featured two left legs.
Hic completed my ensemble with a stiff white cotton belt, tied in what I assumed was his own complicated version of Goldie's knot.
“Make haste and follow me.” He padded briskly into the
dojang
, a gigantic workout area with glaring fluorescent lights and whirling ceiling fans. Spongy blue mats, edged in red, covered the wide expanse of floor. Mirrors lined one wall. Above it were the words:
Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-control, Indomitable spirit.
“Those are the five tenets of hapkido,” Hiccup explained. “We recite them at the end of every lesson.”
He bowed before stepping onto the blue mat. I did the same, feeling dizzy.
We joined a cluster of about twenty uniformed girls and guys. They sat stretching their hamstrings and other assorted muscles I didn't know the names of and had probably never used before.
A tall, taut man with a salt-and-cinnamon beard strode into the room. A black belt encircled the waist of his uniform. Joining him was a girl with almond-shaped eyes and shell-pink toenails. She was the size of a fourth grader, but she carried herself as someone older—despite the inky ponytail sprouting from her head like a sea anemone.
An older student in a red belt leaped to his feet and barked, “Attention!”
Everyone lined up, bowed, and chanted, “Good afternoon, Master Yates.”
I copied them, almost toppling as the blood rushed to my brain.
“Good afternoon, students,” Master Yates replied with a solemn bow. “I'd like to introduce Joonbi Park.”
An excited murmur rippled across the room. Students nudged each other. One whispered:
the Bee!
“Since Ms. Park's reputation precedes her,” Master Yates continued, “you know what an honor it is to have her with us.”
“Hic.”
My head snapped toward Hiccup.
Was that
you? I mouthed.
Don't be ridiculous!
“Ms. Park has just entered the eighth grade,” the master continued, “but, as you may know, she has already earned her black belt in taekwondo. She chooses now, however, to walk a new path. She will train at our studio for several months, learning the hapkido principles of Hwa, Won, and Yu.”
“Hic!”
Hector, It
was
you!
It wasn't . . . was it?
He peered inside the front of his shirt as if his navel held an explanation.
Master Yates said, “Ms. Park, will you give us a demonstration?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” she replied in a lyrical but firm voice. “May I have a volunteer to act as my sparring partner?”
“Hic-hic!”
Hic clamped his hands over his mouth.
“Excellent,” Joonbi said. She motioned for Hic to join her at the mirrors.
He twitched a
no,
staring at her with zombie eyes.
The student behind gave him a not-so-gentle push. Hiccup stumbled forward into an awkward bow.
“Fighting stance!” Master Yates said.
“Hic!”
Then—
“Ki-hap!”
It happened in half a blink.
One minute, Hiccup stood there.
The next minute, he didn't.
Joonbi hid a smile. With a jaunty shake of her ponytail, she held out a petite hand and hoisted Hic to his feet.
He gave a grin of thanks, straightened his shirt, and—
“Fighting stance!”
“Hic!”
“Ki-hap!”
Now you see him . . .
. . . now you don't.
Hiccup lay sprawled on his stomach, arm in an awkward twist, Joonbi's knee wedged between his shoulder blades.
He was up. Down. Thrown all around.
Three. More. Times
.
The room exploded with applause.
Despite the lingering anger I felt toward Hic and his role in the Guys' demise, I couldn't bring myself to clap. Instead, I felt a flush of deep embarrassment for him.
Yet Hic didn't seem ashamed at all. In fact, the more Joonbi jabbed, twisted, and threw him, the wider he grinned.
And hicked.
“Your turn,” Joonbi said, her ponytail a-swish. “Show me your stuff.”
“Thank you—
hic!
Perhaps another
hic!
time.” Hiccup bowed, faced Master Yates, and said, “Sir, I believe I am suffering an attack of
hic!
adhesive capsulitis. May I rest for a—
hic!
—moment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Denardo. Mr. Wyatt, please fetch your friend a cup of water.”
Your friend.
Ha. If only he knew. But I said, “Sir, yes, sir!” and hurried after Hiccup, remembering at the last second to bow, as he did, before leaving the mat.
He plunked onto a bench near the emergency exit and fanned himself with someone's discarded flip-flop.
“She is,” he breathed, “mag
hic!
icent.”
I filled a paper cup at the drinking fountain and shoved it into his hands. “Are you hurt?”
He sip-hic-gulped. “No.”
“What's with the capsulitis thingy? Have you had that condition before?”
“Don't be ridiculous. It only affects men between the ages of forty and sixty.”
“Then why—?”
“I did not wish to admit I am truly unwell.”
I snorted like Hayley. “Hic, you are always ‘unwell.' It's your state of wellness!”
“My stars, man! I just imbibed
drinking fountain water!
I must be feverish, delirious—a strong indication that I am suffering from malar
hic!
ia.”
“You're kidding me, right?”
He gazed toward Joonbi as she led the other students in sets of kicks, jabs, and punches. “I wish
hic!
I were. But I am ex
hic!
ibiting acute ague, the most common symptom of the disease.”
I plunked next to him. “In English, please.”
“Chills. Nausea. Sweating.”
“What else.”
“Hic!”
“Other than that.”
His eyes continued to gaze and glaze. “My hands and toes are numb. My heart is palp
hic!
tating. I am experiencing vertigo . . .”
“Go on.”
“I cannot—inhale—or—exhale.”
“Hmmmmm,” I said.
“I see,” said me.
Then: “Ah-
ha
!”
He clenched my arm. “Malaria?”
“No, you idiot. You like her!”
“What?” He dropped his cup.
“Who?”
“Joonbi Park!”
“
Shhhhhhh!
Not so—
hic!
—loud!” He hooked my elbow and dragged me back into the boys' locker room.
“It's true, isn't it?” I asked.
“It cannot be!”
“It be.
Joonbi
.” I twirled him to face the mirror. “Check out your eyes. They get this same glazed look whenever you're around Mom.”
“Mom who?”
Whoa. This is more serious than I thought!
“So when will you tell her?” I asked. “Joonbi, I mean.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you
like
her!”
Hiccup ogled me as if I'd morphed into a madman. “I am not telling her anything.”
“But you expected me to tell Hayley!”
“That is completely different.”
“How's it different?”
“This is about
me
.”
Ha. He had a point—even if it was a double standard.
He slumped against the sink. “It's useless anyway. How could I profess my admiration for her when my diaphragm is afflicted with these infernal spasms? She would only point and laugh at me.”
“She wouldn't laugh.”
“She would point?”
“Yes. No!
Neither
.”
“She
would
!” He pounded an angry fist against his chest. “Stephen, I do not comprehend this predicament. I've experienced nary a half a hic these last four months.
So why today?
”
“You're not hicking now,” I said. “That episode in the
dojang
, it must've been a fluke. An isolated incident.”
“Even if it was, I cannot risk telling Joonbi of my affections. What if she already”—he gulped—“
likes someone else?
”
My heart clenched. My stomach twisted. “It happens.”
“You told Hayley?” He searched my face. “You told her! And she said?”
“She—she likes Cullen Hanson.”
Hiccup's voice scaled up an octave.
“The golf goon?”
“Huh. He's not as goonish as we thought. He's in my CAD class. We talked. He's actually”—I winced the word—“
nice
.”
“He could never be as nice as you.”
“Um, thanks,” I mumbled. Man, this guy made it hard to stay mad at him. Although with all the hicking and kiyupping, I'd sorta forgotten to be mad.
Hiccup cleared his throat.
I cleared mine too. “We should go back to the
dojang
.”
“You go.” Hiccup wrenched on the faucet, splashing water on his malarial-flushed face.
“You might feel better if you, you know,
talk
to her.”
He swooned. Dripped. Gripped the sink. “
Talk? To? Her?”
“Not about your feelings, Hic. Just stuff.”
“Define
stuff
.”
“School. The weather. Childhood diseases. Or what you learned from sparring with her.”
“I don't know . . .”
I yanked his belt. “Mr. Denardo, are you a man or a mouse? Where's your perseverance? Your indomitable spirit? MM has them . . .
do you?”
He raised his head. Threw back his shoulders. Puffed out his chest. “I shall agree to a casual discourse under one condition.”
“What's that?”
“You will accompany me.”
“Sure.”
He released a long breath. “Does this mean . . . we are friends again?”
I flashed on the Guys. I really missed them, but . . . I had to admit, I missed Hic even more.
“Friends can get mad at each other, sometimes bug each other, right?” I asked.
“Right.”
“Then I never
wasn't
your friend, Hiccup.”
He blinked. Nodded. Grinned. “Man hug!” he cried, and pounced, crushing me, slapping my back so hard I almost coughed up a lung.
“Ow! Get off me!” I half laughed, half gasped.

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