101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (5 page)

“No way, Hic. Nope. No. Never. I mean, what would a beautiful, brilliant girl like Hayley see in a chapped-nose geek like me?”

Hic bristled. “Do not accept that golf goon's estimation! You are a talented wordsmith, a faithful friend, a brilliant inventor—”

“HA!” I shoved my bike onto the sidewalk, tore off my helmet, and threw it onto a gopher hole.

Hiccup followed, clattering over the curb. “Sneeze, what exactly transpired at the Invention Convention®?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“This does not solely concern Hayley, does it? MM's X-ray vision reveals difficulties with the Nice Alarm. Also, that you are in desperate need of ”—he made a mechanical noise while examining my butt—“new underpants.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed. “Medicine Man has X-ray vision?”

“In actuality, no. Today's sophisticated superheroes are endowed with CAT scan capabilities. Incidentally, your right sock has sustained a hole in the vicinity of the littlest piggy.”

I dropped my bike, grabbed him in a headlock, ripped off his helmet, and knuckled his carrot hair with noogies. He yelped. Then, in a maneuver worthy of Houdini, he escaped, twisting my arm behind my back.

“My clavicles!” I groaned.

He froze. “Your
what
?”

“Gotcha!” I aimed to elbow him in the stomach.

With a sharp cry that sounded like
kee-yap,
his ankle hooked mine—and jerked. I toppled, dragging him with me. We thudded onto the grass, laughing like loonies in a painful jumble of punches and spokes, legs, and gears.

“Impressive,” I admitted when we untangled ourselves.

“Where did you learn that stuff, a ninja correspondence course? Or from your brothers?”

He folded his arms beneath his head and grinned at the leaf awning above us. “I acquired my self-defense techniques in a hapkido class to protect myself
from
my brothers.”

I jolted upright. “
You
? Mr. Don't-Breathe-on-Me-Because-I-Might-Bruise, taking martial arts?”

“Six days a week, three hours a day, the entire duration of your absence.”

“No wonder you're in such great shape! Can you break a board with your bare hands?”

“And my bare feet.”

“Without getting a splinter?”

“I carry tweezers, just in case.”

“Hiccup, this is huge! Why didn't you tell me? We're best friends!”

“Why haven't you told me about the Invention Convention®? We're best friends!”

Ouch
. Or should I say:
Touché.

Hiccup knew all too well about the endless hours I'd spent toiling on the Nice Alarm. He was the alarm's first test subject, an experiment that nearly resulted in a nose amputation—his.

He knew too about the endless hours I'd toiled at Gadabout, scrimping and saving every dollar to pay for the convention. He actually overcame his fear of rust long enough to sand the corroded sluice at Hole #10, the Abandoned Gold Mine—presenting me with his meager wages.

Then there was
101 Ways to Bug Your Parents
, the book I wrote in summer school last year and hawked from the boys' bathroom at Jefferson Elementary. Hiccup's last-minute wacky cartoons were what made the cover eye-catching, each page hilarious. I could've sold thousands of copies and used the proceeds to attend the convention a whole year earlier—if the book hadn't been confiscated by the school board and practically gotten our sixth-grade teacher fired. (But that's another story.)

Hiccup deserved to know. He'd
earned
the right to know. So I told him. About marching through the great glass doors of the convention center in San Francisco, the Nice Alarm tick-ticking as proudly, eagerly as my shoes on the polished linoleum floor . . .

About shaking hands with Mr. Sterling Patterson, president of Patterson Novelty Enterprises: the man who answered my query letter requesting a demonstration, who'd considered mass-producing my invention . . .

Last but not least, I told Hic about that long-awaited, dream-come-true meeting . . .

. . . and how it had ended quickly, nightmarishly, with four curt words:

“But! What?! Not!” Hic sputtered like popcorn in hot oil. “Didn't Mr. Patterson give you a chance to properly demonstrate the alarm?” He clapped a hand to his mouth, eyes wide with dismay. “Oh, doh! You dibn't ambudade his dose, dib you?”

I laughed. “No, I didn't amputate his nose. The Nice Alarm worked
nicely
.”

“Then what was the reason for his negative response?”

A rusty nail scratched a painful memory in my head: Mr. Patterson's polite smile erasing even before the alarm's second tap on his shoulder.

“He thought the alarm was
too
nice,” I explained. “He told me”—I imitated his booming voice—“
Mr. Wyatt! In this tech-savvy world, our customers want novelty items that offer more whiz-bang for their buck!”

“Whiz-bang?”
Hic frowned. “I don't understand. Would he prefer an alarm clock that launches fireworks?”

“Maybe.”

“But an incendiary device wouldn't awaken sleepers gently. It would jolt them to consciousness, forcing them to flee their beds to extinguish a fire!”

“Which defeats the whole purpose of the alarm.”

“Exactly!”

“
Exactly
!” I nodded, relieved we agreed, relieved that I'd told him—and that he understood.

“To whom will you demonstrate the alarm now?” Hiccup asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely Patterson Enterprises is not the only company producing novelty items.”

I kicked at my bike tire. Hic didn't understand after all. “Didn't you hear what I said? The Nice Alarm is a flop! A failure! It fizzled—end of story.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Hiccup leaped to his feet like MM come to life: fists on hips, jaw set. “You cannot surrender now, Sneeze! Mr. Patterson is just one person, one opinion. You must demonstrate the Nice Alarm to others. If it is rejected again, then you must demonstrate it to someone else, and to someone else after that, until you succeed!”

My stomach twisted. “No. I'm done, Hic. I can't face being rejected again.”

“The
alarm
was rejected,” Hic said, “not
you
.” He righted his bike, hooked his helmet into place. “If you choose not to contact other manufacturers, then the only person responsible for the Nice Alarm's demise is . . .
yourself
!”

Ouch. He had a point.

“How'd you get so smart, Hector?”

“It is the company I keep,” he said, flashing an embarrassed smile. “Although, I am not totally without flaws. There exist two major snags in this scenario. First, due to prohibitive travel costs, you cannot demonstrate the Alarm in person to additional potential buyers. Second, due to extreme risk factors, you cannot ship your sole prototype to said buyers for examination.”

After I'd translated his “snags” into English, the proverbial lightbulb switched on inside my head. “Ah, but that's where CAD comes in handy!”

“CAD?” Hiccup frowned. “Coronary artery disease?”

I laughed. “
Computer-aided design
. It's one of the classes I signed up for this semester at Patrick Henry High.”

I'm considered a “gifted” student. So, in addition to attending Jefferson Middle this year, my parents pulled strings to allow me to take three advanced high school courses as well. I was especially excited about CAD because that class would teach me how to design, build, and test 3-D invention prototypes on the computer. CAD is a cheaper, easier way to invent because you don't have to fork out big bucks to erect a working model until you know for sure it works.

“My original plan,” I explained to Hiccup, “was to use CAD for inventing stuff to ease Mom and Dad's lives after Sis is born. Stuff like the Loaded Diaper Pager and Butt-Oh-So-Fresh and the Rubber Baby Body Burper. But since Sis isn't due till December, I can use part of the semester to create CAD plans for the Nice Alarm—the kind I can submit via e-mail to other manufacturers.”

“Brilliant!” Hiccup said. “And I assume you will need assistance researching names and addresses of additional novelty companies? I humbly offer my services.”

“I humbly accept.” I glimpsed my wristwatch. “Yikes, I gotta get home, Hic. I haven't even had a chance to say hi to the Guys!”

The Guys (Edison, Bell, Ben, and the Wright Brothers) were my tropical fish. I'm allergic to all things feathered and furred, so the Guys were the only pets I'd ever owned. Hiccup fed them at his house while I was away. I wouldn't entrust my scaly confidants to anyone else. I mean, Hic was the kind of guy who'd take a bullet for them.

“I hope they behaved themselves,” I said, straddling my bike. “That ornery Ben—always first in the chow line. And Bell! Does he still play hide-'n'-seek in the sunken treasure chest?” I chuckled. “Never mind. Fill me in tomorrow, okay?”

“I, ahem, would prefer to accompany you now. It's imperative we discuss a matter of great sensitivity. After you disinfect yourself, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And perhaps I might stay for dinner? That is, if
She
doesn't mind.”

Hiccup's eyes glazed like dreamy donuts. They tend to take on that look whenever one of us mentions Mom.

“We're having pizza,” I warned. “What about your allergy to wheat gluten? And what's this matter of ‘great sensitivity' you need to—?”

Before I could finish, Hiccup vaulted his bike and blasted off.

I thunked my helmet into place and scrambled to catch up, coasting behind him into the garage and edging with care past Dad's vintage 1976 Caddy convertible. The trunk yawned. Inside it, hunched like a boxy toad next to the jumper cables, sat the Nice Alarm.

I leaned in. Lifted it out. The clock tick-ticked in perky, perfect time. Its arm with padded glove fell forward and patted me twice on the shoulder as if to say:
You did your best, Sneeze. Thanks for trying.

I returned the reassurance:
I won't give up. Someday, you'll be built for thousands to enjoy . . .

“Steve?” I heard Mom call. “That you?”

“It's me, Mrs. Wyatt!” Hic yipped, charging through the back door. “Hector! Hector Denar—
gaaack
!”

Ah, he'd spotted the Belly.

I placed the Nice Alarm on the kitchen counter and hurried to the living room. Hic stood staring, stammering, “You're—you're—”

“Behemothic?” Mom guessed with a weary smile. She lay on the sofa, her swollen feet propped on pillows. The Belly served as a mounded desk with letters, bills, and catalogs cascading into a mail moat below.

“No, no!” Hiccup insisted. “You're
small
, Mrs. Wyatt! Infinitesimal!”

“Dear, sweet Hector. You lie like your dogs. But you've grown faster than E. coli this summer, hasn't he, Steve?”

I hadn't noticed (how had I
not
noticed?) that Hiccup stretched at least three inches above me now. His face was a battlefield, freckles engaged in a great civil war against a battalion of red, angry zits.

“I'm starved,” Mom said, arising with a grunt. “Stay for dinner, Hector? We're having pizza, curdled milk, wilted lettuce, and a bag of Halloween candy I found in the freezer. That's all we've got till I buy groceries tomorrow.”

“Mm-
mm
!” Hiccup exclaimed. No surprise. He would cheerfully snack on broken glass if it meant dining with Mom.

“
Stephen
.” She grimaced. “You're
green
. Did one of your inventions decompose again?”

“No, Mom.”

“Then what—?”

“It's a long story, Mom.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“No.” I grinned. “I'll go shower now.”

“Yes, you will. And Hector: Call your mother and let her know you're staying for dinner. I don't want her to worry.”

“I shall do that,” Hic lied, and Mom pretended to believe him. She knew he wouldn't bother to call because his mother wouldn't bother to worry. Not with five other boys, seven dogs, seven cats, and a husband or two to worry about.

After only minutes in the shower, I was lassoed by the succulent scent of re-heating pizza. (
Mental note: Design a “Mama Mia! Alarm” that tantalizes you to consciousness with pizza aromas
.) I didn't even bother going to my room to dress. I just snagged Dad's ratty robe from where it hung behind the bathroom door and leaped the stairs, three at time, to the kitchen. There I found Dad tossing a limp salad, Mom fussing with the silverware, and Hiccup fussing over Mom. He pulled out her chair and, with a flourish, draped a napkin across the Belly.

“Hector, I'm pregnant, not an invalid,” Mom said with a hint of exasperation, although I could tell she enjoyed the attention.

Dad studied the kitchen clock. “Hector, my boy, you've set a personal record. Two months, three weeks, four days, five minutes, six seconds since you last dined with us. But I'm sure you'll make up for lost time in no time.”

It needles Dad that Hiccup spends so many “family meals” with us. Probably because Hiccup spends so many of our family meals needling Dad about his questionable food choices.

Hiccup eyed the bowl of wilted lettuce with his own version of Hayley's SOS.