101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (8 page)

“Ulterior,”
I said.

“What
ever
. Do you want to hear this or not? Anyway, as soon as Mother and I picked her up, I could tell she—Hayley, not Mother—was freaking out about something but couldn't or wouldn't spill it. So I used my new Spy Camp interrogation skills on her, and they worked like a lucky charm! Get this:
Hayley is in love!
Since you're her best friend, she wants to confess
everything
, but she's afraid you'll laugh at her or be grossed out or—”

My heart skipped. Tripped.

In love? Hayley? Could this mean she . . . ? Me . . . ? We . . . ?
“Goldie, are you absolutely positive about this?” I asked.

“Because if I find out you're messing with my head, I swear I'll—”

“Sneeze, I don't care if you believe me or not. I get paid either way!”

“Hayley
paid
you?”

“She will. With . . .
information
.” I could almost hear Goldie's smug smile curling. “So where's this
you know where
Hayley asked you to meet her?”

“None of your business,” I said. “Thanks for the message. In return, you'll get your exclusive about the convention. But that's all. Understand?”

“Hmph!”
Goldie replied, and clicked off.

Tuesday. Seven a.m. Gadabout Golf.

Hole #13, the Great Pyramid, rose before me. Steep. Silent. Solid.

Only Hayley and I knew what secret lay within.

At the base of the giant triangle, my fingers searched the rough, rectangular blocks for what my eyes couldn't find in the fog: a smooth metal bump poking through the jagged cement.

I pressed it. The bump clicked. A nearly invisible door sprung open.

I crouched. Ducked inside. Scuffle-crawled through the dark tunnel, scraping my knees on the gritty floor. I conked my head twice, zigging where I should've zagged. Ahead, I spotted an ocher glow.

I scuffled faster.

“Sneeze? That you?”

“Yep!” I emerged in the Tomb Room, squinting against the glare of a camping lantern. “Unless you've told someone else—”

Hayley snorted. “Never.” She plunked the lantern on a rickety table. An old teddy bear, missing one eye, toppled to the floor. “I wasn't sure Goldie would give you the message. Or that you'd show up.”

My heart flip-flopped. The room seemed smaller, stuffier than I remembered. “Why wouldn't I show up?”

Hayley didn't answer. Instead, she plunked onto a cushion, her back resting against the wall. She arranged her skirt to cover her legs.

Wait—Hayley was wearing
a skirt
.

And
a blouse
.

Never, ever, had I seen her wear anything except jeans or shorts, tees, and sneakers. (And her dangling golf ball earrings, of course.)

“Whoa,” I said.

“Wow,” I said. “You look—”

Her SOS zeroed in on my face. “I look what?”

“Nice,” I managed to gasp.

“Huh. I don't usually look nice?”

“No. Yes! I mean, today it's a—nicer nice.”

She plucked at a ruffle. “Goldie helped me shop for this stuff. It's the first day of school, so I thought I should look—nice.”

“That's—nice,” I said.

She tossed the Cyclops bear at me. It smacked my face and I giggled.

I found another cushion to sit on. “Why didn't you think I'd show up?”

Hayley kept plucking at her skirt. “I was rude to you the other day. For not writing to me this summer.”

“I should've sent a postcard.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I saw one that made me think of you, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” My memory traveled to a funky roadside diner. Redwood grizzlies, carved by chain saw, guarded a cobwebby rack of faded postcards. One pictured a mini-golf course called Wacky Woods.

“With a Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, just like yours here at Gadabout,” I said. “Except their Babe has more bird poop.”

Hayley laughed.

No matter what I'd vowed to the contrary, I had to tell her. I had to tell her how I felt. IHADTOTELLHER-HOWIFELTRIGHTTHISVERYINSTANT!

Both of us blurted: “I have something to tell you!”

She laughed again. “Mine's important!”

“Mine too!”

“I wasn't sure I should tell you. But it concerns you.”

“Mine too! I mean, mine concerns you.”

Hayley rose to her knees, the skirt pooling around her like a blue pond. “You go first.”

My heart thumped so hard my lungs felt squished. “No. You. First.”

“I'm not sure how to begin,” she began. She gazed at the ceiling as if it held the answer. “I've never felt like this before. Filled to the brim with—I don't know what, but I'll explode if I don't say it quick, so here goes:
Ilikesomeone!
”

“What?”

She repeated slower, louder:
“I. Like. Some. One.”

My breath caught. “Me too.”

“Someone who doesn't know.”

“Me too.”

“But I want that someone to know.”

“Me too.”

“Today
.
”

“Me too.”

“I feel so much better talking to you about this!”

“Me too!”

We grinned at each other. Breathed at each other.

I would do that—if I could do it while looking at Hayley.

“Tell me all about him,” I said.

“You really want to know?” she asked with a shy smile.

Shy
was not a word found in Hayley's smile dictionary. I felt a rush of pure, sure confidence, like the first time I tested the Nice Alarm—and it worked.

“Absolutely!” I scooted closer to better hear.

“Well . . .” Hayley peeped at me through her lashes. “. . . from what I hear, he's very smart.”

“Oh?”

“And clever.”

“Oh!”

“And funny.”

“Ho-ho!”

“He has an inventive way with words.”

“Yo-ho!”

“He just changed schools. He's never attended Patrick Henry before.”

“Oh no?”

“He's actually in one of your classes.”

“Oh-ho!”

“And he's so
handsome
!”

Uh-oh.

“His last name is Hanson, but Goldie says his nickname is—”

My voice came out flat. “Cullen Fu Handsome.”

“You
know
him?” Hayley looked as if she didn't remember we'd all been at Gadabout the other day, as if no one had been at Gadabout except her and . . .

An icy hand plunged into my chest and ripped out my heart.

I jerked to my feet. I had the urge to fling my cushion at the wall, to fling Cullen at the wall. Seemed fitting, as that's where my heart had been flung.

Funny how a heart can keep beating despite its squashedness.

In my coolest, calmest imitation of Ace, I pinched a lint speck from my shirt. “I was there too, you know. He's that Hawaiian guy on the golf team. The team that was gonna whomp me. How could I forget the guy who insulted you and Gadabout by calling mini-golf
jungle ball.”

“I'm sure he didn't mean that the way it sounded,” Hayley said. “And he stopped the team from whomping you, remember?”

“No, your dad did that.”

Get out now, Steve. Quick
—
before you start blubbering
.

I pretended to gasp at my watch. “Yikes, I've gotta go! Mr. Handsome isn't the only guy starting his first day at Patrick Henry.”

Hayley caught my arm.

I froze. Afraid if I moved, she'd let go of my arm. Afraid if I moved, she wouldn't let go of my arm.

“That's the other reason I wanted to talk to you this morning,” she said. “I have a couple of favors to ask.”

“What kind of favors?”

“Goldie did a little investigative journalism for me—”

“You mean
snooping
?”

“—and found out Cullen's got a computer class with you. Since you're such a computer whiz, I was hoping you might help him—if he
needs
help, that is. Goldie says he got into some nasty trouble when he lived in Hawaii, so he's on academic probation here. If he doesn't get a B in every class, the coach will kick him off the golf team.”

“We wouldn't want that,” I said under my breath.

“What?”

“I said, what's the other favor?”

She tucked her bangs behind one ear. The golf ball earrings quivered. “I'm embarrassed to ask. But you're my best friend. I don't trust anyone else . . .”

“Ask what?”

“Would you ask him . . . ask Cullen . . . if he
likes
me?”

I didn't know I had a second heart. But there it was, oozing to the floor, joining its mate in a gory gelatinous puddle.

“I'm late,” I said.

I dove into the tunnel. Scrambled gopher-like through the black. Welcomed the whimpers of my shredded knees. That was pain I understood.

“Steve, wait!”

Hayley scrambled out behind me, hair mussed, skirt dusty.

“I feel rotten,” she said. “I shouldn't have made you come here this morning. I shouldn't have bugged you with favors. I'm sorry! That was inconsiderate of me. This is your first day of
high school
! You must have other stuff—important stuff—on your mind. Forget I asked. It's lame to think that he . . . that I . . . we only saw each other once, anyway. Love at first sight! Huh. It's crazy. It doesn't exist, right?”

The fog swirled around Hayley's head like a halo. Wet diamonds clung to her cheeks, her lashes.

In a voice I didn't recognize, I said, “All right. I'll ask him.”

“What? Really? Are you sure you don't mind? Oh,
thank you
.” Hayley scrunched me in a hug. I smelled sun-warmed peaches. A silken thread of her hair caught on my upper lip.

Then she was skipping backward to Gadabout's gates. “Meet me for lunch! Our usual spot, under the pine tree, behind Jefferson gym. You can tell me everything then. Not just what Cullen says, but about your first morning as a high-schooler. And who it is you like! We didn't have time to talk about that. And I want to hear about the convention!”

“Sure.”

Hayley halted mid-skip. Her SOS powered up. Locked on target.

Yep, she knew. She knew me well, Hayley did. Kind of . . .

“Mr. Patterson doesn't want to buy the Nice Alarm, does he,” she said.

I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Nope.”

“Huh. What does
he
know.” Defiance blazed in her eyes. “You'll keep inventing anyway. The Nice Alarm will get built.
No. Matter. What
. Right?”

“Right.”

Hayley placed a hand over her heart, eyes still ablaze. “This is gonna sound corny, Steve, but you—you're the bravest person I know. Attending that convention alone, taking the risk to show Mr. Patterson the alarm, putting yourself and your dreams out there. That. Was. So. Brave.”

She turned and, tripping a little on her new skirt, raced through the gates.

“I've been braver,” I whispered into the fog.

I caught the school bus around the corner from Gadabout, diving through the doors a nanosecond before they clamped shut. I thudded into the last half-empty seat. The guy snoring at the window snapped awake, hugging his skateboard like a baby blankie. “'Lo,” he said groggily, emitting raspberry Pop-Tart fumes. He smacked his lips and slumped back to sleep.

I don't remember the rest of that ride. Only that my heart beat in funny jerks. My brain chanted along:
Don't. Think about. Her. Don't think. About. Her. Don't. Think . . .

Airbrakes hissed. The bus lurched to a stop. We'd arrived. A human tsunami roared down the aisle, spewing students into the parking lot. Pop-Tart nudged me with his skateboard. “End of the road.”

“Eep.” I sneezed six times, fumbled in my pack for my official Patrick Henry High School student ID card (in case anyone challenged my right to be there), and stumbled down the stairs. Pop-Tart nudged harder and a bazooka blast of adrenaline panicked me into the fog and through the main doors of my first morning at PHHS.

Surprisingly, high school wasn't that different from middle school. Everyone still rushed around, overwrought, clanging lockers, lugging books, hunting for classes, racing to beat bells. Yeah, at first I felt like I'd crashed into the Land of the Giants. Bodies were bigger. Voices, deeper. Faces, hairier. (I'm talking guys here.) Otherwise, it was déjà vu all over again.

Especially when I heard two familiar squeals:

“Is
that
who I
think
it is?

“I think it
is
!”

The Amys are inseparable best friends, both named you know what, who had morphed into inseparable identities. I'd met them last spring when I joined Jefferson Middle's Inventor's Club. At the time, their idol, the aforementioned July Smith, was prez and the Amys served as her minions-turned-veeps. Their reign ended when July attempted to pass off the Nice Alarm as her own creation.