101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (23 page)

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Authors: Lee Wardlaw

BOOK: 101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies
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“I think you mean
mastodonic,
Goldie,” I said.
“What
ever
.” She slipped her sunglasses to the top of her head to read Hiccup's pamphlet over Joonbi's shoulder. “Hiccup, this list is an absolute
scream
! Number twelve is to
die
for. Number seventeen is to
double-decker die
for!”
“Oh-hoh-hoh-hoh-HO!”
Pierre agreed, laughing through his nose, his pining apparently at an end. “Feest zee eyes on numbaire twenty-zree! My leetle brothaire will finally get eez comeuppityance!” He kissed Hiccup on both cheeks. “Eye saloot you, mon ami!”
“Interesting,” Ace observed. “He was never your friend
before
.”
Joonbi flung her arms around Hiccup, grinning impishly and squeezing him so hard he burped. The air smelled momentarily like salad dressing.
“This is the most hilarious thing I've ever read!” she said. “It's even funnier than
Bug Your Parents
. Thank you, Hector. I feel so much better! Even my stomach doesn't hurt as bad. Truth!”
“You are most welcome,” Hic replied with a solemn bow. But he could barely conceal the grin tugging at his lips.
“I smell a
best seller
!” Goldie said. “Hiccup, I hope you plan to sell this book
immediately
to the Ridiculous Reads Publishing Company—unlike
someone else
who shall remain
nameless
.”
Gosh, could she mean little ol' me?
“My desire, first and foremost, was to write this book for Joonbi,” Hic admitted. “But perhaps I should consider selling it.”
Whoa. Had I heard that right?
“Oooo,
you'll be
famous
!” Goldie said.
“Notoreeous!” Pierre agreed.
“You'll have a grand, flatulent lifestyle!”
“Affluent
lifestyle,” I corrected absently, still sort of shocked by Hic's words.
“What
ever
.”
“But Steve,” said Ace. “This is your idea.”
“It is and it isn't.”
“But the idea of writing a book about bugging—”
“Ideas can't be copyrighted,” I said, trying to ignore the pang of—what?—in my chest. “And I don't have any siblings. It wouldn't make sense for me to write that list. So Hiccup can do whatever he likes.”
Hic avoided my eyes but responded with another bow.
“Zen, tray magnifique! Eet shall be so!” Pierre clutched his rib cage, gasping in paroxysms of glee.
“Oh-hoh-hoh!
Read numbaire eighty-two! Eet. Eez. Too. Much!”
While Ace, Goldie, and Pierre clustered closer to Hic and Joonbi, Hayley motioned for me to join her at the other side of the pool.
“I can't believe you're not furious with Hector,” she said.
“Naw. Just . . . disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” She fixed me with an intense SOS. “Stephen J. Wyatt, tell me the truth. Why did you turn down that four-book contract?”
A shadow fell across us from behind. “I want to know too,” Ace said.
“I'll tell
you
if you tell
me
.”
He straightened his sunglasses. “Tell you what?”
“Forget the innocent act, Ace. What did you whisper to Hic that made him rush off to the snack bar?”
He shrugged. “Not much. Just to ask the waiter for a tablespoon of . . . balsamic vinegar.”
“Balsamic vin—?” Then I remembered. “When Hic rejoined us, he wasn't hicking anymore, was he? Tony's cure—it works! But Ace, how did you know . . . ?”
A smile jerked his lips—then vanished.
“You!” I began.
“You
were outside the nurse's office that day when Hayley pretended to have the hiccups! You
and
Goldie overheard Tony talking about the vinegar! You led Goldie away from the door,
didn't you
?”
He shrugged again, but I knew I was right.
“You like Hiccup, don't you, Ace,” Hayley said.
Another shrug. “Always have.”
Hayley hid a smile and nudged me. “The contract . . . ?”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But both of you have to promise never to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
Hayley crossed her heart.
Ace mimed sticking a needle in his eye.
I took a breath. “I said no to the publisher because he wanted to publish my books without Hiccup's illustrations.”
Hayley gasped. “Why didn't you tell Hic?”
“We're not exactly, uh, speaking these days.”
“But he is—was—your best friend! He wouldn't want you to turn down that kind of opportunity because of him.”
“That's the other reason I didn't say anything.” I sat at the pool's edge, dangling my feet in the water. “It's been Hiccup's dream to get his cartoons published. How could I tell him the publisher thinks his art is no good? Especially when I think it is. I mean, he worked hard helping me research
101 Ways to Bug Your Parents
. And his cartoons, they enhanced the list, made it funnier.”
Hayley sat to dangle her feet too, her sun-warmed arm touching mine, prickling the hairs there.
Ace moved to join us.
“You like Hiccup, don't you, Steve,” Hayley said.
“Always have.” I splashed her with my foot.
She laughed and splashed back.
Ace froze. His dark brows arced as if he was seeing something, seeing
us
for the first time. Without a word, he turned and headed for the high dive.
Hayley watched him go, then bent to twiddle her fingers in the water. “By the way,” she murmured, her lips hidden by the curled C of her hair. “Now that Ace is gone, I can tell you. You won't need to forward e-mails from Cullen anymore.”
I couldn't look at her. “How come?”
“He—we—decided it was best not to write each other anymore.”
I swallowed. “I'm sorry, Hayley. I know you really liked—him.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for being such a good friend. I never would've learned what an amazing writer Cullen is, what an amazing person Cullen is, if it wasn't for you.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Goldie let out a shrill whistle. One arm waved like a palm tree in a hurricane as she pointed to the high dive.
Hayley squinted into the glare and I shielded my eyes as we watched Ace scale the steep metal rungs of the high dive. Up, up, up he went. When he reached the top, he parted the mass of balloons, sauntered the length of the board, bounced thrice with wide circular arm motions, and then—
—launched into a perfect jackknife dive.
When he hit the water, it barely splashed. He surfaced two seconds later, sunglasses still in place.
Goldie, Hiccup, Pierre, and Joonbi clapped, hooted, and whistled.
“Did you know he could do that?” I asked. “I didn't know he could do that!”
“There's a lot about Ace we don't know,” Hayley said.
Huh. There's a lot about a lot of people you don't know . . .
She squinted again at the high dive. “Those are the ugliest balloons ever. If I were Joonbi, I'd hate my sisters too!”
“Maybe we should get rid of them for her. The balloons, not her sisters.”
Hayley leaped to her feet. “Great idea. Race you to the top!” She shot up the ladder, a steel-blue rocket aiming for the stars.
I made it as far as the second rung. High altitudes cause my stuffed nose to pound. “Can you untie them?” I called. “Or do you need scissors?”
“I'll just pop them! Oh, Stephen, you've got to come up here! The view is amazing! I can see Hiccup and Joonbi—they're sitting together, talking! And I can see the tennis courts and the lawn bowling area and the riding stables and the golf course and—”
She faltered. Stuttered.
“What?” I said, inching to the third rung. “What else do you see?”
Then I heard it.
The squeal. That serrated, girly-girl squeal:
“I SEE CULLEN!
”
Chapter Twenty-six
Hayley streaked down the ladder, practically landing on my head. “Cullen's on the golf course!” she said. “He's playing golf!”
Varsity Tournament Today . . . Lemon County Welcomes . . .
“Where?” I asked.
“I just told you! On the golf course! There!” She pointed beyond the hedge. “He's with the goons and another team. There's a huge crowd!”
Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine High Schools!
Oh no.
OH NO.
I grabbed Hayley's hand. “What are you going to do?”
“I want to watch him play. I want talk to him. For real this time, face-to-face!”
“But I thought you two decided—”
She shook off my hand. Sped away.
I sped after her at warp speed, slip-sliding on the wet concrete.
The lifeguard blew a whistle. “Walk, please!” she hollered.
“WALK!”
“Yeah, fine, no problem!” I slowed to a speedy stroll until some guy accidentally distracted the lifeguard by canonballing atop two preschoolers.
I kicked into warp again. “Hayley, wait!”
She was yanking on shorts and shirt over her bathing suit . . . stuffing her feet into sneakers . . .
Another whistle blast.
Goldie's ESP (Extra-Snoopy Perception) bristled to attention. “Is there a fire? A celebrity sighting? What's going on?” she demanded.
“Nothing!” Hayley said. “I just saw—a friend. I need to talk to him.”
“Him?
You mean he's a
he
? A
guy
?” Goldie snatched her notepad from the table. “That means only one thing:
Cullen Fu Handsome!
”
Hayley flung open the gate, tore along the path.
“This is a bad,
bad
idea,” I said, catching her at last.
“Why?”
“Because . . . because . . .” I floundered for a plausible explanation. “You might fluster him! Ruin his concentration!”
“I'm not an idiot.” Hayley dodged two elderly ladies in tennis togs. “I just want to watch him play. I won't talk to him till
after
the tournament.”
I heard a stampede behind me. Hic, Pierre, Ace, and Joonbi were charging down the golf cart path, Goldie in the lead.
“They're playing the eighteenth hole,” Joonbi said. “That means the tourney's almost over. Which team are we rooting for?”
“Zee burgundee boyz,” Pierre said.
Hayley had reached the crowd. “I can't see anything from back here!” She snaked in between onlookers, ducking an elbow here, a camera bag there.
I serpentined in her wake, Goldie & Co. in tow.
“Ooo, it
is
him!” Goldie squealed. “Cullen Fu Handsome!”
“Shhhhhhhhh!”
A cluster of spectators glared at us, fingers to their lips.
“Sorry,” Hayley whispered. “Sneeze, can you see Cullen? Did he take his shot yet?”
The crowd burst into polite applause.
Hiccup stretched on tiptoes. “He just sunk his putt.”
Hayley danced a little jig.
“Yes!”
I peered around a she-bear of a woman wearing a sun visor, and caught a glimpse of Cullen as he plucked his ball from the hole. He waved it at the crowd. They burst into applause again. She-bear and Hayley clapped hardest of all.
“Who's winning?” Hayley asked her. “Do you know Cullen Fu Hanson's score?”
The woman turned. She was a dead ringer for Cullen, only prettier and less muscley. And sans the triangle goatee.
Auntie!
“You know my Cullen?” Auntie asked, smiling.
Hayley nodded. “Is he your son?”
“Nephew.” Auntie's voice swelled with pride. “He pau now. Shot under par today. Da team captain, he go next. To win, he need to sink dis short putt. Den we go to state championship. Piece of cake, eh? Hush, now. Here he come.”
Marcos the Moke.
My stomach squirmed. I hadn't been this close to him since that day at Lickety-Split Chick.
He selected a club from his bag, gave a thumbs-up to the crowd, and strutted onto the green. His ball lay about three feet from the hole.
Piece of cake, indeed. I'd sunk a million shots like this at Gadabout. There was no way Marcos could miss—even blindfolded.
He made a big production anyway, to keep the crowd in suspense and himself in the spotlight. First he hunched, eyeing the hole while stroking his chin. Next he placed his club on the ground to measure the miniscule distance. Then he removed his cap to scratch his scarecrow hair and stroked his chin again.
“If he licks his finger and checks the wind direction,” Hayley muttered, “I'm going to scream.”
“You're so tall, Hector,” Joonbi whispered. “Can you tell me what's happening? I can't see a thing!”
“There is ample space right here,” Hiccup said. He took her hand and helped her wedge into the spot directly in front of me.
The inky tuft of her ponytail tickled my nose.
“Uh, Joonbi, could you move to your left just a tad?”
Marcos stood over the ball, club grasped in his hands.
I scrubbed at my nose. “Joonbi, your pontytail—”
Marcos wiggled his butt. Glanced at the hole. Glanced at the ball. Hole, ball, hole, ball . . .
The crowd held a collective breath.
Another butt wiggle.
Another fierce nose tickle.
And then—
I tried to hold back. Honest, I did. I pinched my nostrils and sucked in a breath so hard that I almost absorbed Joonbi's entire head, but as Marcos attempted to tap the ball—

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