101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (16 page)

“We're supposed to do the exercises on pages twenty-four through twenty-eight.”

Ace took a pencil from behind one ear and scribbled inside the front cover of his book. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

He slid the pencil back into its “holder.”

“Was there something else?” Hayley asked.

He half hesitated. “Nope.”

With a nod at me, he disappeared.

Bewildered, Hayley and I stared at each other.

“What
was
that
?” we blurted at the same time. Then we both laughed and I had an overwhelming urge to hug her. Hayley was still Hayley after all, somewhere deep inside . . .

“About those e-mails?” I prodded.

“Oh! Yes! They were—” She stopped to SOS. “Hey! How did you get Cullen to write to me last night? You didn't see him until this morning in class!”

“I, uh, he gave me his e-mail address yesterday,” I fibbed. “So I can, you know, help him with stuff. Like you asked me to.”

The SOS eased, then flashed again. “You kept your promise? You didn't read his e-mails to me?”

“Yep
to your first question
, nope
to the second.”

“You
swear
?”

I raised my right hand. “I solemnly swear on this bologna-and-Frito sandwich that I did not read Cullen's e-mails to you.” (Technically true, because Cullen hadn't actually e-mailed her.) I took a crunchy bite. “How come you didn't write him back? I
know
you had things to say.”

Hayley blushed. “I wanted to, but Cullen asked me not to. Not yet, anyway. He thought it would be safer, less of a chance of my dad finding out. Also, he said”—she closed her eyes—“
My words are my gift to you. For now I want nothing in return other than the delight of knowing you are reading my deepest emotions
. Isn't that beautiful?”

“Are all his e-mails as
handsome
as his face?”

Her eyes flew open and she snorted. “Handsomer!”

I imitated her snort.

“Huh.” She pointed her apple at me. “Just because a guy is gorgeous doesn't mean he's got the brains of lava rock!”

“Cullen's smart, is that what you're saying?”

“Smarter than you!”

I smiled. “Can't argue with that. But is he a good writer?”

“Better than good. He's brilliant!”

It was my turn to blush.

“It's like he's known me for years,” she continued. “We're that linked, that in tune with each other. Listen!” She removed several computer printouts from her notebook, smoothed them against her skirt, and read:

“Dear Hayley: I'll never forget the moment we met. You didn't like me. You were angry with me. Yet, it was your anger I found appealing. Because when I searched beyond the clenched fists, the suspicious squint, and the sharp edge of your voice, I saw pride and confidence and the reason behind your anger. You were protecting what you love, what you believe in: Gadabout Golf
.”

“Is
golf
all he can think about?” I asked.

“He's romantic too! Listen to this:
I didn't believe in love at first sight—until you walked by again
.”

“I think I read that once on a Valentine card.”

“And this!
You've taken my heart, Hayley. I'd beg you to return it
—
except the more you take, the more I seem to have
.”

“Oh, golf tees! First he doesn't have a heart, then he has too many. Can't he make up his mind?”

Hayley gaped. “You're—
jealous
!”

“I'm
what
?” My nose tickled. I scrubbed at it—ow!—to subdue the sneeze.

“You heard me!
Jealous
. Because he writes better than you do. Even his subject matter is better than yours. Cullen doesn't make lists of how to annoy parents or teachers. He writes about important, enchanting things.
If a kiss could be sent through cyberspace, you would read this e-mail with your lips
. There! Isn't he a master of eloquence?”

I rolled my eyes. “A master of mush, maybe.”

“Think what you like.
I
think he's a genius.”

“Let's not exaggerate.”

“G-E-N!”
Her chin tilted.
“I-U-S!”

“If you insist,” I said with a bow.

A golden tornado whirled between us. “Gotcha!” Goldie exclaimed, sending my sandwich and Cullen's letters flying.

My stomach gurgled as I looked forlornly at my sandwich. “Thanks heaps, Goldie,” I said.

“Is
this
the
you know where
you two met yesterday morning?” she asked with a smirk of disappointment. “Not much of a hiding place. I found you like
that
!” She snapped two ring-encrusted fingers.
“Ooo
, what are
those
?” The fingers itched toward Cullen's e-mails.

“Fritos,” I said.

“Not those.
Those
.”

“None of your business.” Hayley zipped the printouts into her pack with a
rrrrip
of ultimatum:
Don't touch
—
Or. Else.
“What do you want? Sneeze and I are having a private conversation.”

Goldie flicked at her hair. “I'm here to offer my congrats on your
miraculous
recovery from the hiccups! And speaking of hiccups, I just got
the scoop
that Sneeze is
persona au gratin
with Hector!”

“Unless he's a potato,” Hayley said, “you mean
persona non grata
.”

“What
ever
. Sneeze,
dish
the
dirt!
What's with you and Hic?”

“They had a misunderstanding,” Hayley said. “Now scoop somewhere else, please. We'd like to be left alone, if you don't mind—”

“Oh, but I
do
!” Goldie wriggled with smugness. “And it was
way
more than a misunderstanding.” She flipped through several pages of her notepad. “Here's the
buzz
: Sneeze stole the Bee directly from Hiccup's hive!”

“That's a lie!” I said.

Hayley frowned. “Who, or what, is the Bee?”

“Hiccup's one-and-only true love!”

“Hic has a girlfriend?” Hayley gave a
whoop
. “That's great! Good for him! Good for
her
! It's about time someone realized what a sweetie he is. When did this happen? Who is she? What's her name?”

“Joonbi Park,” Goldie went on, consulting her notes again. “She's a
major
celeb in the world of marital arts, known competitively as the Bee because she swarms to quick victory, her opponents defeated before they know what's stung 'em.”

“Martial arts, Goldie,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Joonbi is trained in
martial
arts, not
marital
arts.”

“What
ever
.” She clicked her pen. “Hiccup's told me
his
version of this sordid story of friendship, betrayal, and karate chops. How about
you
?”

“Steve!” Hayley shot me another SOS. “You stole your best friend's girl?”

“He's not my best friend,” I said.

Hayley snorted. “Since when?”

“Since he stole Hiccup's Bee!” Goldie said.

“Joonbi is
not
Hic's girlfriend!” I said.

“But you admit you stole her,” Goldie said.

“Did you?” Hayley asked.

“No! You should know by now that ninety-nine point nine percent of anything emanating from Goldie's mouth is highly suspect.”

“Hmph!” Goldie hmphed. “Is that
so
? Then
why
is the Bee buzzing around telling
everyone
that she
loves
you?”

“And
why,
” Goldie continued with a head flounce, “is she asking
what
classes you have,
who
your friends are, and
where
you hang out?
Hmmmmm?
”

“I don't know. But if she's my girlfriend, she wouldn't have to ask, would she?”

“Sounds like a flimsy argument to me,” Goldie said. “Maybe it's time I interviewed Joonbi myself. Her side of this love triangle should make an
excellent
lead story for my gossip column on Friday!”

I leaped to my feet. “That's it!” I said. “I'm done. I'm gone!”

“Just
where
do you think
you're
going?” Goldie demanded.

“We haven't finished our talk!” Hayley said. “You haven't eaten lunch!”

I didn't intend to do either. Not there. Not now. There comes a point when a guy can take only so much soap opera before he starts needing an acid bath.

Without a backward glance, I hotfooted straight to my school sanctuary: the nurse's office.

“Com bin, Steeb, com bin!” Tony said, chewing the words through a meaty sandwich. He downed the mouthful with a swig of soda, then brushed crumbs from his scrubs. “Is Miz Barker with you again too? No? More's the pity. I like her salt. But I s'pose a man's gotta sit with his own, now and again, away from the buckle bunnies.”

I didn't know what buckle bunnies were, but if furry, diminutive rabbits were involved, most likely so were girls.

“What's your pleasure today, Steve? Allergy shot or grub?”

“Grub.”

“Take a seat and strap on the feed bag!” Tony leaned forward in his leather chair, grabbed another soda from the mini-fridge, and lobbed it (the soda, not the fridge) across his desk.

The cold, wet can smacked into my hand. I spritzed it open and copied his swig. Sharp, sweet bubbles fizzed my nose. I sneezed.

“I'm right honored to see ya twice in two days,” he said.

“Specially since you must be busier than a one-toothed man in a corn-on-the-cob-eatin' contest. How's things at Patrick Henry? Keepin' above snakes?”

“I think so.” Conversations with Tony were sometimes as difficult to translate as Cullen's. “My classes are tough, but a good kind of tough, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” More crumbs snowed onto his shirt. “Makin' any friends?”

“One or two.”

“Makin' any enemies?”

“One or two.”

He laughed. “Then you're doin' sumthin' right. Say, what's happenin' with that ingenious alarm clock o' yours?”

I'd forgotten he didn't know what happened at the convention. Quickly, I filled him in. But as he started to offer condolences, I added: “I'm okay with Mr. Patterson's decision, Tony. He isn't the only fish in the sea. I'll use what I learn in my CAD class to design a virtual mockup I can submit to other companies.”

“That's what I like to hear. No hangin' up the fiddle for you!” Tony wedged the last of his sandwich into his mouth and extended a hand. We shook, his encouragement sealed with mayo.

“Sweet on any gals yet?” he asked next.

“No.” I twisted the stem off my apple.

“Not even the salty Miz Barker?”

“No!”
I studied the apple for wormholes.

“Now that's a yarn if ever I heard one. C'mon, Stephen, acknowledge the corn and let's talk about it. Might as well, seein's how you obviously didn't come here to eat.”

I plopped the untried apple back into my sack. “There's nothing to talk about. I like Hayley. She likes someone else. End of story.”

“Oh, that'll happen a lot.”

I choked on a gulp of soda. “You mean . . . I'm gonna feel like this . . . more than once?”

Tony winked. “How ya think I got hitched four times?”

“Four . . . ?”
The room reeled. “Man, how'd you do it? How'd you let yourself fall for girl after girl
after girl
if you knew things wouldn't last?”

He grew a Cheshire cat grin. “Ya don't never got a say'bout where that heart of yours is goin' or who it's goin' with! A heart has its own mind, and that's a fact. Besides, when you start courtin' a gal, your brain's not thinkin' one twitch o' a cat's tail about The End. No sir. It's too busy bein' roped and tied and led around by your heart to allow much thinkin' 'bout anythin' 'cept . . .” Tony paused, his chili-brown eyes trance-like, his voice tumbled low. “ . . . 'cept the fresh-cream scent o' her skin that makes ya dizzier than any fancy perfume. The way her hair flows black as a river on a moonless night. Or how when she looks at ya, your insides shiver like a lake when a breeze breathes over it.”

I swallowed. “Is that a poem?”

“Naw. But
she
was.”

“Which one?”

“All of 'em.”

I crumpled my sack. Hurled it into the trash. “I don't want to feel like this again,” I said. “Never. Ever. It—
hurts
.”

“I didn't say it don't,” Tony replied. “That kind o' pain compares only to a good tramplin' by a fifteen-hundred-pound rodeo bull. 'Course, ya don't think about that happenin' neither. The moment you touch his back, there's nuthin' on your mind 'cept
hang on
.” He tapped a picture frame with a calloused finger. “Remember this?”

I'd seen the photo last year. But to be polite, I peered again at the faded picture of a much younger Tony—clad in jeans, boots, and plaid shirt—hovering over a Hummer-like beast with sharp horns the size of bazookas.

“This here's the famous Red Rock,” Tony explained. “World Champion Buckin' Bull. He's tossin' me like he tossed the other three hundred an' eight cowboys who tried to sit him.”