101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (25 page)

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Mom laid into the horn.

“Do you want me to stay so we can talk?” Dad asked. “I don't mind. I've already seen
The Holy Grail
a hundred and forty-seven times.”

“No, thanks.” Then, because I knew he really wanted to help me somehow, I said: “But would you bring me some ice cream?”

“What flavor?”

“Pistachio and strawberry.”

“Will do!”

Mom laid into the horn again.

“Coming, Barbara, coming!” Dad said, hustling to the garage. “Honestly, woman, we're only forty-five minutes late!”

 

Four hours later, I lay flat on my back, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling—just as I had for the last four hours.

No, I hadn't thought about homework. I hadn't thought about anything. My brain felt barren. Benumbed.

The phone jangled and I jumped, one flailing arm knocking the Nice Alarm to the floor. The second hand broke off.

“GOLF TEES!” I shouted.

The phone jangled again. I snatched the receiver and shouted: “WHAT!”

Silence.

Then:
“Menehune?”

“Cullen?” I flopped back down on the bed. “I didn't mean to scream at you, but I—”

Something strange and urgent in Cullen's voice wrenched my stomach. “Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you.”

My neck prickled with chicken skin. “Warn me about—?”

“What do you mean?”

I lurched to my feet. “They're coming after me?
Here
?
Now?
But my parents aren't home. I'm alone! Cullen, you said I was safe, that Marcos wouldn't try—”

I heard muffled voices through the receiver. Then scuffling, scraping sounds, like Cullen had stuffed his cell phone into a back pocket.

“Cull? Cullen!”

“Sorry. Had to hide da phone. Listen, menehune. Marcos, he one pupule
—
crazy
—
moke
.
But he not stupid. He not going hurt you. I tink da buggah going make pilikia at Gadabout. Warn da squint-eye girl, eh? Your ku'uipo
.”

“Hayley's not my—”

“Cullen, can't you help me stop them?

The call disconnected.

Hands shaking, I punched Hayley's number.

My heart th-thumped through two rings, three, four . . .

Five rings. Six . . .

“Hello?”

“Hayleyit'smedon'thangup!”

She hung up.

I hit redial.

“Hayley,
please
don't hang—”

She hung.

I hit redial again.

“This is an emergency!” I screeched when she answered. “If you won't to talk to me, fine! At least put your dad on!”

“Daddy's not here, he's on a date,” Hayley said. “I'm hanging up now
for the last time
. Don't call again. I won't answer.”

I slammed down the phone.

Fine, just fine
.

Why am I trying to warn her, anyway?
I thought as I paced the room.
Hayley doesn't need my protection. She's said so, more than once. Let Marcos and his goons do whatever they want. I've been terminated. Banished. I'm an ex-employee. Gadabout isn't my problem anymore . . .

I flung myself into my desk chair. Flicked on my computer. Picked the Nice Alarm off the floor.

But I couldn't.

When I stared at my computer screen, or at the broken alarm cradled in my hands, or even when I closed my eyes, all I could see was
Her
: Hayley as she looked that late afternoon when she climbed atop the North Pole and stood like Joan of Arc—straight and proud and beautiful in her determination to protect Gadabout.

Okay, so maybe she wore cut-off jeans and a steel-blue tee instead of armor. And maybe fighting for her dad's mini-golf course with the dyspeptic moat frogs and a Tower of Pisa that drooped instead of leaned wasn't as heroic as defending France.

But Hayley never did stuff to be a hero. She did stuff for the same reason she'd stuck by me when I got inventors' block . . . and scolded me for purposely bugging my teachers in seventh grade . . . and nagged me till I agreed to take morning classes at Patrick Henry High, even though all I really wanted was to hang out at Jefferson Middle with her and Hic.

The reason?

I raced to the garage, grabbed my bike, and pedaled into the night.

 

When I reached Gadabout Golf, all seemed normal.

Quiet.

I stashed my bike in the bushes. Dashed the dark stairs to the Barkers' loft. As usual, the porch light was burned out. Over my heart pounding in my ears, I could just barely hear the muted music and laughter of a late-night TV show.

I rapped on the door.

No answer.

I rapped harder.

Someone lowered the TV volume . . . padded across the wood floor . . .

“Daddy? Did you lock yourself out?” A cold blue eye peered at me through the peephole. “Oh, it's
you
. Go away.”

“Let me in! It's important!”

“Cullen warned me to warn you! He thinks Marcos and the goons are coming to make trouble at Gadabout.
Tonight!
”

She snorted. “Why would they do that?”

“Because they know we are—we
were
—friends. Cullen says they can't hurt me without casting suspicion on themselves. So they're going to hurt something I love instead: Gadabout.”

“They wouldn't dare. Daddy swore if he saw them here again he'd call the cops!”

“They're not expecting to get caught, Hayley. They don't know I know! They don't know that Cullen and I became friends when—”

“When you were
pretending
to help me?
Pretending
to be
him?”

I winced. I couldn't blame her for not believing me. After all, I'd done nothing but lie to her for the last two weeks . . .

I heard a faint crash of metal on concrete. The crash came from somewhere on the course.

I thumped the door with my fist and hoarse-whispered:
“Did you hear that? Someone's on the greens!”

“It's raccoons. A family of 'em,” Hayley explained, but her voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “They've been rooting around the trash cans for an hour. Go home, Stephen. Your ploy to get me to talk to you won't work.”

Another metallic crash. Then the shatter of breaking glass.

“That's not raccoons, Hayley! Call the cops. Hurry!”

“Do it! Call 911! Do it
now
!”

I turned and leaped down the stairs, three at a time, and sprinted across the gravel parking lot to the gates. Hayley had my Gadabout keys, but I didn't need them. The lock and chain had been cut.

I pushed open the gate and slipped inside, creep-running in the dark along the familiar path to the office. That lock had been cut too. The door stood ajar.

I pushed it open with my knuckles. Peered into the blackness. The still air smelled faintly of peppermint.

I didn't go in. I knew what I'd find: chairs overturned, golf clubs snapped. Pencils, score cards, and papers strewn across the floor. Crude graffiti scrawled across the walls.

I backed away. Turned at the sound of a heavy groan like that of an ancient rotting redwood dying, falling.

Then—a tremendous splash.

It had come from the direction of Hole #17. Except, there was no seventeen any longer: only a black hole in the night where the Leaning Tower of Pisa should be.

I crept-ran again, trying to tippy-toe across crunchy gravel, trying to ignore what I sensed in the darkness: broken vanes dangling from the Windmill . . . the splintered masts of the Pirate Ship . . . flattened tombstones at the Haunted Cemetery.

I came to a halt at King Arthur's Moat. Gawked at a huge bulk submerged in the murk and mud.

Marcos and his goons had toppled the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I felt hot. Anger pricked my eyes, my neck, my arms. My fists clenched.

I had to stop them. But how? And where were they now . . . ?

Muffled laughter. A machete-like sound, hacking a trail through—

I stepped off the path and took the shortcut I knew so well: through the eerie shadows of the Enchanted Forest, skirting past Little Red Riding Hood, huffing and puffing past the Big Bad Wolf, then scaling the mossy knoll to the edge of the swamp to sneak up behind the biggest, baddest wolf of them all: Marcos the Moke.

“Marcos!” I hollered. “Stop.
Stop now
.”

He whirled—and laughed when he saw me.

“Look who it is, the Snot-nosed Kid!” He lolled against his putter, calm and casual, as if ready for a relaxing game of pee-wee golf. Only the clench of his hands and the sweat trickling from his temples gave his anger away. “So! Once again you're sticking your nose where it
snot
ought to be.”

“That sounds like my schnoz, all right.” I tried to glimpse the damage around me—shredded palm fronds, a toucan hacked in half—without taking my eyes off him. “Where are your goons tonight, Marcos?”

“Asnooze in their roost. Chickens, all three of them. Decided to keep their noses clean. July didn't show either. Now that's a surprise. This was
her
idea.” He shrugged. “No matter. How'd you know I'd be here?”

I shrugged too. “Lucky guess.”

“You lie, snot-head. Cullen snitched, didn't he? He'll pay through the nose. I've left enough evidence here to finger him and only him. And with his criminal record—”

“What—what kind of evidence?” I wanted to keep him talking so he wouldn't wreck anything else; wanted to keep him talking until the police got there.
Oh, Hayley, I hope you called the police!

“That would be telling, wouldn't it?” Marcos bent to pick up another club. “In stereo!” he cried, and lashed out with both arms, slashing more palm fronds, hacking another toucan to feathery bits. He laughed and lashed again so hard that one putter flew from his hand, landing at my feet. With the remaining club, he splintered a grass hut.

“Cut it out!” I shouted.

“What if I don't ‘cut it out'?” he taunted, panting. “You gonna fight me, Little Big Nose? Yeah? You and who else?”

“Me.”
Hayley strode from the dark to stand at my side.

“How sweet,” Marcos jeered. “Beauty and the Beak!”

“Me.
” Ace appeared too, plucking a feather from his shirt.

“And I.” A tall figure loomed behind Ace.

A grizzly-size shadow emerged from within a tangle of ferns. “Ho!” said Cullen, arms crossed. “Me too, brah.”

A police siren wailed in the distance.

“And
them,
” Hayley added with a tight smile.

Marcos's face purpled. He pointed his putter at me—and lunged.

I grabbed the putter that lay at my feet. Struck it to the left to block his attack. His club flew from his hands. He roared and bent to retrieve it, his gaze meeting mine with a frightening fury. With my club I hooked the back of his ankle—and yanked.

Marcos tumbled backward into the Swamp.

Two inches of tepid green slime seeped over his body. His head lay captured within the mossy grin of Crikey the Crocodile.

He struggled and thrashed and howled. “I'm
drowning
! Get me out of here!”

The air filled with the smell of rotting algae, Trix cereal that's been soaked in rotting algae—and peppermint.

The sirens drew closer.

Marcos thrashed again. “Brat!” he screamed. “Twerp! Snot-nosed punk—!”

I waded into the Swamp. Stood over him, club swept high.

He shrank, eyes widening with fear.

I
whooshed
the putter through the air. But at the last second, with the measured control I'd learned in hapkido, I stopped, the club hovering just above Marcos's face. And then—

—I beeped him on the nose.

“Stephen J. Wyatt,” I said, “at your service.”

 

Two hours later, the police had come and gone, taking our statements and Marcos with them.

“What will happen to him, Daddy?” Hayley asked.

Mr. Barker, who'd arrived not long after the cops, rubbed a weary hand through his curls. “There's a lot of damage,” he answered with a sigh. He surveyed Gadabout from where the six of us stood atop the North Pole. “Several thousand dollars' worth, at least. Marcos is eighteen, so he'll be charged as an adult. That means he'll face jail time.”

“And what,” I asked, my throat dry, “will happen to Gadabout?”

Mr. Barker rubbed his head again. “We've no choice. We'll have to close completely to make repairs. It could take months. I don't know what we'll do about the Tower of Pisa. It's a total loss.”