101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (6 page)

“Don't you have any tomatoes, Mr. Barker?” he asked. “They're an excellent source of vitamin C that will boost the baby's immune system.”

Dad yodeled into the cavernous fridge, “Hel-loo! Any tomatoes in there? Nope, sorry. Will ketchup or moldy salsa do?”

Hic sniffed. “I think not.”

“I'm impressed with your nutritional knowledge, Hector,” Mom said. “Perhaps we'll hire you as the baby's dietician.”

Hic looked hopeful, but Dad sniffed. “I think not.”

We tore into the pizza. Not Hic. He selected one slice, peeled off the cheese, discarded the crust, and lectured us on the dangers of sodium nitrates in pepperoni. Mom made him lick at the tomato sauce, though, because tomatoes are an excellent source of vitamin C.

For dessert we gnawed on the frozen Milky Way bars (except Hic, who fretted about cracking a tooth). That's when Dad ruffled his already ruffled hair, cleared his throat, and announced, “Stephen, I'm afraid we have bad news.”

I felt a queasiness that had nothing to do with sodium nitrates. “Plain, ordinary bad news?” I asked. “Or ‘We bought you a new tropical fish' bad news?”

My parents have a nasty habit of springing bad news at the dinner table and bribing me with a new fish to ease the springing of bad news at the dinner table.

“
Our
news isn't fish-worthy,” Dad said, shooting a glance at Hiccup. “But—
ow!
” He gawped at Mom. “Did you just
kick
me?”

“Sorry,” she said, nibbling her candy bar. “Crossed my bloated ankles.”

Hic snatched our plates and began scrubbing them in the soapy sink.

I gripped my chair. “I'm ready, unless I need a cigarette and a blindfold.”

“Your schedules for both schools came in the mail while we were gone,” Mom said, slipping an envelope from beneath her placemat. “You got all the classes you registered for—except PE.”

“That's
good
news!” (I'd made a point of
not
registering for PE.)

“You're required to take phys ed,” said Dad. “And in order to get yourself from Patrick Henry to Jefferson Middle in time for PE, I'm afraid you'll have to drop your third period class.”

I swallowed.
“Which. Class. Is. That?”
I asked, knowing the answer before Mom took a printed form from the envelope and read aloud:

“Computer-aided design.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I can't drop that class. I won't!”

“I understand your disappointment,” Mom said, “especially coming on the heels of Mr. Patterson—”

“You don't understand at all, Mom. CAD is crucial for the Nice Alarm—and all the other inventions bursting to get out of my brain!”

Dad said, “Maybe next semester you could—”

“I can't wait four months to work on my inventions!”

“No one's asking you—”

I shoved backward, chair shrieking against the floor. “CAD is the main reason I agreed to take morning classes at Patrick Henry. And now you're making me drop it?
Why?
So I can trot around a grass-infested field, sneezing my nose off?”

“Sweetheart, it's out of our hands,” Mom said.

“The state requires that every student your age take PE,” Dad explained.

“This is unacceptable!” I kicked my chair. It crashed onto its side.

Hiccup jumped, soapsuds flying.

“Stephen Wyatt.” Mom's tone was scarily calm. “Right now it's your behavior that is unacceptable.”

Dad pointed his candy bar at me. “Enough with the melodrama. Go to your room. We're all punchy from traveling. We'll discuss this in the morning.”

“But—”

“Now.”

“But—”

“What part of
now
don't you understand?”

“Fine, okay, whatever,” I grumbled. “C'mon, Hic.”

“Hector goes nowhere but home,” Dad said.

“I cannot depart just yet, Mr. Wyatt.” Hic stood twisting a dish towel. “There is still the sensitive matter I must discuss with him.”

“Do you mean to say you haven't told him yet?”

Hiccup's freckles blotched.

“Told me what?” I asked.

“Pretend it's a bandage, Hector,” Mom advised. “Best just to rip 'er off fast and get it over with.”

Hic nodded, mouth grim.

“You're scaring me, people,” I said. “What's going on?”

Hic sighed. “I shall explain everything, Sneeze. Will you please accompany me upstairs?”

“Gladly,” I answered, although what I felt more was dread.

Hic knotted the dish towel into an origami flower. Ears pinking, he presented it to Mom. “A blossom for a blossom . . . to remember me by.”

“How thoughtful, Hector,” she murmured. “It's very . . . cottony.”

“Maybe we should offer
him
a blindfold and cigarette,” Dad muttered.

“Hush,” Mom said.

As we left the kitchen, you could've heard a cat whisker drop.

Hic led the way through the living room, up the stairs, and down the hall to my bedroom. He paused outside the door, straightening his shoulders before nudging it open.

I craned around his tall, skinny form and glimpsed my aquarium. It sat, as usual, on the desk next to my bed. I felt a thrum of excitement.

I burst into the room. Snatched a small yellow container from my bookshelf, ready to sprinkle the food flakes, eager to watch my buddies zip to the surface, tails wriggling, mouths gulping, blowing kiss-bubbles of thanks . . .

But—

So was the water . . . and the turquoise gravel . . . and the plastic kelp . . . and the little plastic treasure chest with diver.

“Hiccup,” I said, facing him. “Where are the Guys?”

He stared at the carpet, rubbing a stain with the toe of one sneaker.

“Where. Are. The. Guys.”

He rubbed harder.

“
WHERE?
” I demanded.

In the olden days (meaning every day of Hector's life until last May), this was the moment he would've started hiccupping. Hic used to hic whenever he felt flustered, flummoxed, frightened, fretful, or fraudulent (hence, the nickname Ace bestowed upon him). The hiccups lasted hours, often a week or more.

But those days were gone. Hiccup had been cured. There were no hics forthcoming this time to help him stall for time.

“The Guys . . .” he admitted at last, “. . . expired.”

“
No
.” I felt numb. Dumb. “I don't understand.”

“
Expire
:
to die. Cease to exist. Perish. Succumb
. In other words, the Guys are”—he gulped a nervous giggle—“
ex-fish
.”

“I know what ‘expire' means. What I don't understand is
how
. Sure, Edison was old, possibly senile. But the others—”

“It was an accident,” Hic said. “A terrible, terrible accident.” He slumped into my desk chair, head in his hands. “The aquarium needed cleaning. I followed your instructions exactly. Yet, afterward, there remained the most disgusting, decaying organic matter stuck to the glass.” He shuddered. “So I used cleanser—”

“You used
cleanser
?”

“—and bleach—”

“You used
bleach
?”

“—to scrub every nook and cranny—”

He lifted his head, eyes shining at the memory. “Sneeze, you should've seen it! The aquarium sparkled like new. The Guys were dazzled! Grateful! They waved their little fins at me from where they watched in the auxiliary bowl. But within moments of being reintroduced to the tank, Edison began swimming perpendicularly. Ben darted to his aid, but halfway there he lost all volition. Then they were floating, belly-up—”

“You didn't really follow my instructions, did you?” My voice sounded scarily calm like Mom's had minutes before. “And the Guys, they didn't just expire, did they? They were murdered. By
you
.”

“It was an accident! You must believe—”

With a strength and fury I didn't know I had, I wrenched Hector to his feet. Shoved him out the door. Slammed it in his shocked and zitty face.

I flung myself onto my bed, trying not to cry.

A minute—or a million—passed.

Then—a tentative knock.

The door creaked. Hic tiptoed into the room again. “Please, please,
please
forgive me, Steve,” he said, his voice ragged.

I hunched toward the wall.

“It was a grievous mistake. I swear on MM's cape that I'll buy you as many fish as you want to replace—”

“Replace? Ha!” I said, my words bitter yet muffled against the pillow. “
Nothing
can replace good friends, Hic. The Guys and I, we've been through everything together: building the Nice Alarm, writing the ‘bug' books. My inventor's block, your hicking marathons. They deserved better than”— I rolled to face their executioner—
“death by disinfectant!”

He flinched, eyes red.

“So where are they now?” I demanded. “What did you do with their bodies? Tell me you didn't”—my voice broke—“
flush
them?”

“Don't be ridiculous!” He was aghast. “I planned a proper burial. Composed a requiem: ‘Ode to the Inventor's Fish.' But before I could begin the ceremony, another catastrophe occurred. Dasher, or maybe Dancer—”

My heart squirmed. “Oh, no.”

Hic released a long, shuddering breath. “After I scooped the Guys from the aquarium—deceased fish decay rapidly, you know—I relocated them to a sterile dish while I searched for a suitable coffin. But the bleach fumes triggered a fainting spell. I put my head between my legs for a second, two at the most, and while distracted, Dasher or Dancer”—he choked—“
slurped the Guys up.”

I felt sick. Tears welled in my eyes. I faced the wall again. I couldn't bear the sight of him. “Go home, Hector.”

“May I get you a glass of water? A cup of soothing chamomile tea?”

“Good-bye, Hector.”

“Yes, perhaps that would be best for now.” He covered me with a blanket. Switched off the light. “May I call tomorrow to check on you?”

I didn't answer. Just clenched my eyes and wished him away.

“Sneeze?”

He made an odd sound like a cough-choke. “I said I was sorry! I loved the Guys too! And I took expert care of them every single day for almost three months until—well, at least you could say thank you for that!”

“Thanks,” I hissed into my pillow, “for nothing.”

I jolted awake.

A frayed edge of satin tickled my cheek like my blanket at home. The familiar scent of WD-40, oozing from well-oiled inventions, lingered in my pillow.

But I didn't hear the soothing burble of my aquarium. And I couldn't see the Guys, their iridescent scales disco-dancing under the tank light.

A faint warning bell rang deep inside my head.

My heart revved. I groped for the bedside lamp. Squinted in the glare.

I was home after all, surrounded, comforted by the gadgets I'd invented over the last ten years. Contraptions spilled from my closet, filled my shelves: the Keep Kool Baseball Kap with attached mini-sprinkler... See to Pee, the glow-in-the-dark toilet seat . . . Lazy Lick, an electronic ice-cream-cone holder... Cut 'n' Putt, the golf club that trims your lawn as you play.

And the Nice Alarm.

Mom or Dad must've brought it from the kitchen after Hic left and I fell asleep. It hunched on my dresser, merrily informing me of the time: 5:30 a.m.

I yawned, flopping on my side toward the aquarium. “Guys, you won't believe the nightmare I had last night . . .”

Then I remembered.

With a moan, I sagged back against my pillow, my mind churning everything that happened to me yesterday. I mean, I hadn't even been home twenty-four hours, and already I'd:

Would Hayley sit at my deathbed? Wipe my feverish brow with a golf towel, wet with her tears . . .?

Stomach knotting again, I flung aside the fantasy along with my blanket. I was looking forward to working at Gadabout after such a long break. But I also felt apprehensive about seeing Hayley. Who would greet me today? The no-nonsense girl I knew and (eep!) loved? Or the one-second-I'm-happy-to-see-you-the-next-I'm-peeved-for-no-reason girl?

Even more worrisome, could she tell from my face how I felt about her?

Only one way to find out . . .

I opened my suitcase and dumped the wadded contents onto my bed. Everything smelled of sea salt, damp French fries, and flowery motel soap. I plucked out the least wrinkled shorts and T-shirt I could find and got dressed.

Mom and Dad snored away across the hall. Downstairs, I scribbled a note to them, dabbed sunscreen on my tender nose, hooked on my tool belt, hopped onto my bike, and headed to Gadabout.