101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (13 page)

He eyed himself in the mirror, adjusted his belt, combed a hand through his hair. “How do I look?”

“Courteous,” I said. “Self-controlled.”

“That will suffice.” With a slight swagger, he strode from the locker room.

“Students dismissed!” Master Yates announced.

I shuffled off the mat, muscles sore and squeaky. Hiccup's bangs were plastered with sweat, his eyelids drooped with tiredness. But I could tell from the way his eyes glittered that it was a good kind of tired. The kind I often feel while wrestling with one of my inventions—meshing gears, adjusting torques, tightening screws—when
SNAP!
everything fits, clicks, runs Just Right.

A straggle of students followed us to the sidelines, heading for the locker rooms. Most, though, clustered around Joonbi Park like she was a movie star or something. Voices trampled voices to ask advice, offer compliments, beg for a handshake. A camera appeared. Joonbi's polite smile seemed to levitate in flash after flash after flash.

“You're not the only one who thinks she's magnificent,” I said to Hic.

“Mm-
hic!
-hm,” he replied, mesmerized.

We hung back until the adult class started and Master Yates shooed Joonbi's throng of fans off the mat. She made a beeline for a bulky equipment bag.

“Excuse us, Joonbi,” I said. “My friend and I, we—”

“No more pictures,” she said, dabbing her face with a towel. Her voice still had its firm lilt, but it flowed younger, softer than it had on the mat.

“We just wanted to introduce ourselves. I'm Steve, and this is—”

I found Hic crouched behind me, attempting to take his pulse. I yanked him up. “This is Hector.”

“We've met,” she said, tossing the towel aside. “Thank you for sparring with me, Hector. You have excellent falling skills.”

My hackles stiffened. “That's harsh!”

“That's a compliment,” Joonbi said. “You probably didn't know, being a white belt. When you take a fall, it's crucial to avoid hesitating or tensing up. You need to relax, to flow through the fall. Otherwise, you can get hurt. Remember: Keep it smooth.”

Hic bobbed in agreement. “Smooth.
Hic!
Good.”

Joonbi hefted her bag over one petite shoulder and waited.

Hiccup and I exchanged looks.

“I expect you want something else?” she said.

Hiccup and I exchanged looks again. His mouth and eyes formed three panicked
O
's.

“Like what?” I asked.

She released a light sigh. “The usual? My autograph, my father's autograph? Then I suppose you want my sisters and me to perform at your next birthday party. Sorry, I'm temporarily retired.”

“We just wanted to say hello,” I said.

“Truth?” Joonbi released her ponytail. Black hair rippled to her shoulders in liquid waves. Her voice rippled with enthusiasm. “Hey, you guys really don't know who I am!” She swung around, almost knocking Hic to the floor with her bag. “Will you join me for a snack? There's a fast-food place on the next block. The chicken is greasy, so I'm forbidden to eat it, but they serve awesome smoothies!”

“Sure,” I said. “We'll grab our gear from the locker room, then meet you outside. Okay with you, Hector?”

“Smoothies.
Hic!
Good.”

Joonbi winged out the door. Hiccup stood gaze-hicking after her, so rooted to the spot I'd either have to drag him—or spray weed killer on him. It seemed easier to fetch his gear myself.

“Why are you talking like a caveman?” I asked, thrusting his bag into his arms, urging him toward the exit.

“I don't know!” he wailed. “Each glimpse of her transforms my brain into cerebellum slush. Perhaps I had best head home to feed D and D.”

“Oh, no you don't. Dasher and Dancer can snack on a rug till you get there. For now, just focus on being less monosyllabic and you'll be fine.”

We emerged from the studio. When she spotted us, Joonbi zipped away like a bumblebee, whiz-zigging and buzz-zagging pedestrians, hum-hovering at a stoplight, then darting across the street and to the entrance of Pierre's dad's fast-food joint, Lickety-Split Chick.

A cowbell clanged as Joonbi pushed open the door. The fowl odor of batter-fried drumsticks assaulted my nose and I sneezed. “Hector and I know the owner of this place, don't we, Hector?”

“Hic!”
he answered.

“That isn't something to brag about,” Joonbi said with a twitchy smile.

“Their son feels exactly the same way,” I continued. “He's a wannabe French chef. Puts béarnaise sauce on PB-and-Js. His mom is a total health freak. Serves tofu molded into the shape of turkey at Thanksgiving, with minced rice cakes as ‘stuffing.' Hector can fill you in, right, Hector? You two grab an empty booth and I'll get the smoothies.”

I translated that to mean
Please don't leave me alone with her!
Or
Please don't order me a strawberry smoothie because I'm allergic to strawberries and my face will blotch like pepperoni pizza!
Or both.

“I'll. Be. Right. Back,” I promised his pleading expression.

“A fruit smoothie for me,” Joonbi said. “Milk products disagree with my stomach.”

I winked at Hiccup. He and Joonbi had something in common already!

I followed a trail of chicken footprints painted in mustard yellow on the floor leading to the front counter. A kid wearing an egg-yolk-colored uniform and a beak-red paper hat posed behind the cash register. A badge pinned over his heart read:
Your order is free if it's not ready lickety-split!

“Welcome to Lee-kee-tee-Spleet Cheek, sir,” he said. “May eye pleeze take zee order?”

“Pierre?”
I couldn't believe it. “I thought you despised your dad's place! You once swore on a stack of quiches that you'd never work here!”

“Eye am afraid, sir,” he replied haughtily, “zat you 'ave mistooken me for anothzaire person. Eye am not zis Peeyaire of whom you speek. My name eez Monsewer Fee-leep de Bergerac, and you will not forget eet!”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Fee-leep. But during your next break, you might want to wash your face. You've got chocolate syrup smeared under your nose and just below your ears. Or is that tar?”

He bristled. “Zat, sir, eez my moosetache and sideburnz!”

I choked on a laugh. “Did you draw them with Magic Marker?”

“Bah! For your eenformation, eet eez wis eyebrow penceel zat eye—” Realizing his mistake, Pierre clutched for his beret, which was not on his head, and instead crushed the red paper hat. “Sacré bleu, zat eez zee third 'at today! She will be fureeous wis me!”

“She who?” I asked.

“Never zee mind. Now pleeze—be gone!”

“I haven't ordered yet. I'd like three smoothies, please. Nothing with strawberries or milk products. What flavor do you recommend?”

“Zey are all good,” Pierre insisted with an anxious glance over his shoulder.

Hiccup appeared at my elbow. “You have been gone an interminable interval! I cannot stop hicking when I'm around
Her
, yet here you stand, frivolously conversing with—
Pierre
!”

Pierre threw up his hands. “Oh
, carotte
!” he spat, using his favorite blasphemy, which, unbeknownst to him, is actually French for carrot.

“PIERRE!” Hiccup repeated, louder. “Is this where you've been all summer? You abhor this establishment! Whatever induced you to—”

“Philip!” a female voice called from the kitchen. “What's the trouble, are you swearing at the customers again, don't make me come out there!”

Cold worms slithered down my neck.

That voice. It sounded uncomfortably familiar . . .

“Do not trouble yourself, my leetle cheeken wing!” Pierre called, panic strangling his words. “All eez under control!”

“Did you squash another hat, you're only issued four a month, they don't grow on trees, I don't want to dock your pay, but as assistant manager—”

Pierre frantically ironed his hat with his hands. He wrenched it onto his head. “My 'at eez fine, Juliette! Every-zing eez fine.”

“Don't call me Juliette,” ordered the voice, distaste saturating her tone. “And I am not your little chicken wing! When you've finished with that customer, get back here on the double, I've got two club meetings I'm late for and this grease trap isn't going to clean itself!”

“Oui, my leetle sweet beak!” Pierre crooned. He glared at us and skittered from view. I heard slicing and scooping and pouring, then the roar of ice-grinding blenders. He reappeared and thrust three overflowing “peech smoozies” across the counter. “Zay are, 'ow you say, on zee house. Take zem and go! Queek-lee. And pleeze—” Pierre glanced over his shoulder again and whispered, eyes desperate: “Do not breethe a word of zis to Goldee.”

I zipped my lips. “Your secret is safe wis us.”

“Zank you for dining at Lee-kee-tee Spleet Cheek, sir! Do come visit us again”—he lowered his voice to a growl—“over your dead bodeez!”

I handed two smoothies to Hiccup, grabbed mine, and headed to the booth where Joonbi waited. I elbowed Hic to sit beside her, but his face paled as if stung. He scooted next to me instead.

“Is one of those mine?” Joonbi asked.

I elbowed Hic again. He inched Joonbi's cup across the table, never taking his eyes off her.

“Thank you!” She plunged in a straw.

“Hic!”
said Hic.

My brain floundered for something to say besides
Nice weather we're having
and
Pardon the drool, but my friend is in love with you
.

“So tell us,” I began, “why were those hapkido students taking your picture and asking for autographs?”

“Truth?” Joonbi sucked a long slurp and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “You two really don't know?”

I shook my head.

“That's so refreshing, I'm not sure I want to tell you!” she said, but she smiled.

“We could talk about something else. Like . . . Hector! Hector is an amazing artist. Tell Joonbi about the graphic novel you're drawing, Hector.”

Hiccup hic-choked on his smoothie.

Joonbi removed the straw from her drink and licked it. “Okay, you twisted my arm. Here's the thing. Father and my
harabujy
, grandfather, are taekwondo grandmasters in Korea. They're world famous. Best of the best. If you're serious about taekwondo, you want to train with them.”

“Are you famous too?” I asked.

“My sisters and I are. Were. As a team. There are six of us. I'm the youngest.”

“That's just like Hector,” I said. “Except he has five older brothers, right, Hector?”

Hic hick-nodded.

“My sisters and I, we've studied with Father and Harabujy practically since we somersaulted out of our cribs,” Joonbi went on. “My entire life, I've done nothing but train, travel, compete; train, travel, compete! Until now.” She slurped more of the frosty drink.

“Why did you stop? Were you injured?”

Joonbi twisted the straw. “In a way. My stomach is giving me trouble. The doctors say stress, the pressure of competing, blah, blah, blah. They're running all kinds of tests on me.” She made a face. “Last week, I had to drink the most awful, chalky stuff!”

Hiccup straightened. “Barium,” he said. “A metallic powder. When mixed with
hic!
water and imbibed, it coats the inside of the upper and lower GI tract, making the intestines visible via
hic!
X-ray.”

“That's the stuff! How did you know?”

“As a youngster,” Hiccup went on, “whenever my older brothers
hic!
found me to be interminably annoying, they would lock me out of the house. My mother finally proffered me my own key. She instructed I should keep it somewhere safe. So I
hic!
did.”

Joonbi laugh-dribbled smoothie juice, then grimaced as if something jaggedly metal was inching down her throat.
“Truth?”

I nodded. I'd never forget the key incident because immediately afterward, Mom started letting Hiccup hang out at our house whenever he liked.

“I can top that story!” Joonbi said. “Once, during a training stunt, my
harabujy
swallowed a chopstick. It was stuck inside of him for twenty years!”

“Did he get splinters?” Hiccup asked.

“Worse,” Joonbi said with an impish smile. “Termites.”

Hic grinned. “Did the doctors perform surgery? Or . . .
hic!
fumigation?”

Joonbi cracked up.

Gee, these two were made for each other! Maybe I should take this opportunity to disappear . . .

“Anyway,” Joonbi continued, “medical tests take time, so the doctors advised I slow down, enjoy some R and R for several months. I didn't want to quit studying martial arts completely, though. It's like breathing to me! So I switched to hapkido. It's not easier. But it is a less competitive discipline. Already my stomach's a teensy bit better. But until the doctors know for sure what's wrong, we're staying put. No traveling, no competing.”

“Here
hic!
good,” Hic said.

“Yes, but now I've got a different kind of stress.” Joonbi ripped open another straw, twisting that one too. “My sisters are furious with me! Like I'm doing this stomach thing on purpose just to break up the act. Umma, my mom, she understands. Father is . . . disappointed. But he keeps it mostly to himself. Not my sisters! They love the limelight and the paparazzi and the fans and the traveling and the boys. So they remind me, every single day, that I've ruined their lives. It makes me feel so guilty . . .”