101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (24 page)

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Authors: Lee Wardlaw

BOOK: 101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies
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“AHHHHH-
CHOOOOOEY!”
Marcos twitched.
The ball arced—
and rolled past the hole
.
Half the crowd released a collective moan. The other half clapped, cheered, and shook hands with the team from Thomas Paine High.
Marcos's face paled. Then it darkened to cherry punch . . . roasted eggplant . . . black death . . .
He let out a roar.
“I recognize that sneeze!
Where is he? Where is that snot-nosed punk!”
“Eep!” I tried to edge backward, but my legs turned rubbery like overcooked spaghetti.
I saw a club sweep high—and charge.
People squealed, shouted, scattered . . .
“YOU ARE SO DEAD!” Marcos screamed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Run!
my brain ordered my legs.
Run
—
or die!
The next thing I remember, I was dangling from a thick tree limb, heart pounding, chest heaving, my hands and ankles clutching for dear life. Marcos raged below, cussing, grunting, flailing with his club to whomp me like I was a human piñata.
“Mr. Mathias!” a voice shouted.
Marcos swung and missed again. He bellowed in frustration.
I hugged the limb tighter, the bark scraping my cheek.
“Mr. Mathias,
stop right now
.”
“No!”
“Put the club down. You're embarrassing yourself! You're embarrassing our team. You're disgracing Patrick Henry High.”
“I don't care!” Marcos stabbed at me with a finger. “This punk cost me the game, Coach! He ruined my chance at the championship! If he hadn't sneezed, I would've sunk that shot. He messed with me on purpose! He's a sneaky, snotty, conniving—”
“That's enough.” The coach's tone left no room for negotiation. “Leave him alone and come with me.
Now
.”
Marcos spat a curse word, flung his club to the grass, and stormed toward the clubhouse.
“You okay, kiddo?” the coach asked, peering at me upside down. “Did he hurt you?”
I gulped. Licked my lips. Croaked: “I'm—okay.”
“Do you need help getting out of that tree?”
“Yep.” My hands and feet felt permanently bonded to the limb.
Something brushed the tips of my straggly hair.
“Relax your feet, Stephen,” Hayley advised, gently touching my head again. “Uncross your ankles. Then relax your legs.”
I did as I was told.
“Relax da fingers,” Cullen added. “First one. Den da others. No worries. I got you,
menehune
.”
I let go.
His massive arms caught me around the waist, eased me to the ground, steadying me as the blood rushed to my head.
“You aw right?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I took a dizzy step. “Thanks.”
“Yes, thank you,
Cullen
. . .” Hayley said, her voice filled with Sigh.
No-oh-no
. Panic washed over me again. Hayley and Cullen were standing mere molecules away from each other!
“Time to leave, Hayley,” I said, yanking her arm.
“Ow. Let go.”
The coach patted my shoulder. “I'm sorry about Mr. Mathias, kiddo. Inexcusable behavior. Inexcusable.” He shook his head. “Mr. Hanson, excellent game. You played very well. We'll talk later. I need to make sure Marcos doesn't leave the country club before he and I have a little chat.”
The coach left.
I yanked at Hayley again. “Time to—”
But Joonbi, Hiccup, and the rest of the gang clamored around me.
“Are your muscles and tendons sprained or sore?” Hic asked, his face pale, frightened. “I insist you receive immediate medical attention! And it would behoove you to remember RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.” He patted my shoulder, my arm, my back, my shoulder again.
“I'm okay, Hic. Really.”
“I'm so embarrassed,” Joonbi said, hanging her head. “All my years of training, and I did nothing! When that guy charged at you, I should've taken him down. But he looked crazy and he came at you so fast! Father will be disappointed in me.”
“Sparring in the safety of a
dojang
is far different from an authentically dangerous situation such as this,” Hiccup assured her. “None of us realized Marcos's intent, nor his insanity, until too late.”
Joonbi beamed a grateful smile.
“What a
super-duper scoop
!” Goldie yelped, scribbling into her notepad. “I can see the headline now:
Golf Tourney Lost by a Nose! Team Captain Goes Bananas; Tries to Bludgeon Brainy Bugging Boy!
”
“Yeah, about that,” I said to Cullen. “I'm really, really sorry about the sneeze. I feel awful. I can't believe it. I lost the game for your team! I—I don't know what to say. The championship . . . your scholarship!”
“Yeah, das one big bummahs, man.” He made a face. Twirled his club. Gazed out at the eighteenth hole and sighed. “But . . . not your fault, brah. Part of da game is grace under pressure. Sneezes happen. Mistakes happen. Either you learn from dem, try fo' stay focused despite dem—can or no can. Marcos—he no can.”
I shuddered. “I can't ever go back to my classes at Patrick Henry, can I? Marcos will kill me. I mean, you warned me not to humiliate him again—”
Cullen shook his head. “Dat moke wen humiliate himself.”
“But he blames
me
.”
“No worries, brah. Coach will deal. Marcos no can lay one hand on you. If he try, everyone goin' know eets him, eh?”
“I guess.”
Cullen draped a heavy arm across my shoulders. “Come meet Auntie. All of you. She got one cooler full of Lappert's ice cream in da trunk of da car. Kauai pie flavor. So
ono
. Wen grind some last night and it da kine wenbrok da mout!”
“I need a translator on aisle three!” Goldie said. She nudged Ace and whispered, “But he
is
a
dreamsicle
, isn't he? No wonder Hayley is hopelessly lost in Crushville.”
Ace stuffed his sunglasses into a pocket. “Hayley likes . . . Cullen?”
“Well,
duh
.”
“I thought . . .”
“Hmph!
Don't you
ever
read my columns?”
“Not if I can help it.” He glanced at Hayley, plucked a pine needle from his shirt, and sauntered up the hill.
“There is still the matter of Joonbi's birthday cake,” Hiccup said. “If I understand Cullen's tropical terminology, I believe it would taste immensely ono with Auntie's ice cream.”
“That's a great idea, Hector!” Joonbi said. “My sisters ‘forgot' to buy ice cream for my party, but we've got millions of spoons. Let's show Auntie where to bring the cooler.” She took Hiccup's hand, buzzing him back to the pool.
Everyone else started to follow. Except . . .
“Cullen!” Hayley said. “Can I . . . may I talk to you a second?”
My head swirled. My legs felt rubbery again. “No!”
“Of course she can!” Goldie singsonged, stopping to lick her fingers and flip to a fresh page of her notepad.
Hayley snorted.
“Privately.”
Goldie turned on her heel, pebbles spraying.
“Hmph!
Like I won't find out eventually,” she muttered. “I always get my . . .
information
.” She stomped away.
“Wat's da haps?” Cullen asked Hayley, looking polite but confused. “Uh, wot your name again?”
Hayley smiled. “You don't have to pretend, Cull. Steve knows all about us, remember?”
Cullen fingered his shark-tooth necklace and glanced at me for help.
Hot panic roiled in my stomach, raced into my throat. “Hayley,” I choked. “Don't!”
But she did.
“I couldn't let things end like they did last night, Cullen. Not without you hearing how I feel too . . .”
“Last night?”
“. . . especially after all the amazing things you said, the amazing things you wrote in your letters!”
“Ha? Lettas? Eh, I need fo' go now. Da ice cream stay melting . . .”
“But—”
I stepped between them. “Let him go, Hayley,” I said. “He doesn't know what you're talking about.”
“Of course he does. He's just pretending—”
“Auntie and da keiki stay waiting,” Cullen said to me. “Aloha!” He shambled off.
Hayley moved to go after him.
“Don't.” My voice cracked. “He really doesn't know.”
“What do you mean?”
I squirmed. “It's almost four o'clock. My mom will be here any minute. Your dad too. I promise I'll explain everything later.”
Hayley crossed her arms and shot me an SOS that rattled my soul. “You'd better explain now.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. My Gadabout keys stabbed the fingers of my right hand. I clutched at them, staring at the pebbles on the path.
“Stephen J. Wyatt.”
I lifted my head. Stared deep into her eyes. Took a deep breath and said: “Cullen didn't write any of those e-mails, Hayley.”
“That's ridiculous. Of course he—”
“No. He didn't.”
“Then who did?”
“I did.”
“No.”
“I
did
.”
“No.”
“And last night . . . at the Pyramid. That was me too.”
“No.”
“It's true.”
“No!”
I recited: “And what is the first kiss/I'd give to you?/A secret blurted/without words—/The cautious dot/over the
i
of
Risk
. . .”
Hayley's breath caught. Her cheeks reddened. Her hands clenched into fists.
I stood expecting, deserving, to hear her yell, scream, tear my ears off.
“Why did you do it,” she said, her voice flat. “We're best friends. We care about each other. Why would you want to hurt me, make a fool out of me? Did you think it was funny? Was this your idea of a joke?”
“No, oh, no! Everything I wrote, everything I said last night was—is—true. It's just not how Cullen feels. It's how . . . I feel.”
The blue of Hayley's eyes blanched with shock—and disbelief.
“It's
true,
” I repeated.
She shook her head. “Then why pretend—?”
“Because Cullen didn't like you!” I confessed. “He barely remembered who you were! I just couldn't bring myself to tell you that. I didn't want you to feel what I—I mean, I didn't want you to get hurt. I wanted to save you from that. I wanted to protect you.”
She snorted. “I told you before:
I. Don't. Need. Protecting
.”
She turned her back on me and didn't speak for a long time. I didn't either. What else could I say?
After a couple of minutes—or a couple of hours—Hayley faced me again. She held out her hand.
A sigh burst from my chest. I moved to take her hand in mine.
She wrenched away. “Your Gadabout keys. I want them.”
“What—?”
“I can't trust you anymore. I don't want you working for Daddy and me anymore. If you ever step one foot on Gadabout's property, I'll call the cops. That's not a threat, it's a promise. Got it?”
In a painful daze, I pulled the keys from my pocket. Dropped them into her open palm.
“Hayley—”
“Don't call me,” she said. “Don't e-mail me. And if you see me at school, don't speak to me.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “For how long?” I asked.
“For. Ever,” Hayley answered.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Are you sure you won't come with us to the movies?” Mom asked that night after dinner as she rummaged through her gargantuan purse for the car keys.
It was the third time she'd asked me. The third time I'd shaken my head.
“It's not like you to turn down a Monty Python marathon. Are you running a fever?” She touched my forehead with the back of her hand. “You've been awfully quiet.”
“I've got . . . homework on my mind, Mom.” Not entirely true. I just didn't want to explain why I didn't feel like laughing at funny movies.
Would I
ever
feel like laughing again?
Mom switched tactics, dangling a bribe like her rediscovered keys: “We'll get ice cream afterward . . .”
“Woman, if you eat any more ice cream during this pregnancy,” Dad said, “you're going to give birth to a chocolate sundae.”
“Oh, piffle.” Mom tossed the keys on the counter, stuffed a squishy lumbar pillow into her purse, tugged at her stretchedto-the-limits
Spamalot
T-shirt, and kissed me on the cheek. “We'll be home around one a.m. Finish your homework, don't open the door to strangers, and please,
please
don't test any inflammatory experiments. Coming, David?” She waddled out to the garage.
“G'night, son,” Dad said with a little wave.
“Uh, Dad? Aren't you forgetting something?” I plucked the car keys from the counter and held them out.
He snatched them with a wry smile. “Last chance to join us . . .”
I gave him a Look.
“Okay, okay. Just thought you might want to take your mind off a few pesky issues, like to lie . . . or not to lie.”
“Not anymore.”
“Did you tell your . . . friend the truth?”
“Yep.”
“Good for you! How'd it go?”
I could feel my lips twist into a shrug. “About how I expected.”

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