101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies (9 page)

Due to that minor (her word) patent infringement, the school district banned July from all future student invention activities. She also lost her scholarship to an elite private high school. That meant that if the Amys were here, July was holding court close by. And since she blamed me for her plummet from grace, well, let's just say the last thing I needed today was her royal wrath.

“Are you
positive
it's him?” I heard the Amys say.

“
Pretty
positive!”

“We could ask him!”

“Yes! Let's ask him!”

I about-faced and escaped by plunging into another student tsunami. I washed up in homeroom barely in time for attendance.

My first two periods that morning featured “tree” classes: chemis
try
. trigonome
try
. I regretted not taking baske
try
. My parents had decided I should skip eighth grade because most of the courses at Jefferson didn't challenge me enough. No chance of that here. “
Master the material and be ready for an overkill
,” my chem teacher announced as she distributed our textbooks. My trig teacher began: “Trigonometry comes from the Greek words
treis,
meaning three;
gonia,
angle; and
metron,
meaning measure.” The remainder of his lecture was, well, all Greek to me.

Third period, at last!
Computer-aided design
. Now that was a language I could understand.

I clutched my campus map and jostled giants to the second floor, my book pack thumping against my thigh. What a relief Mom and Dad okayed Hic's suggestion that I take hapkido instead of PE. I couldn't wait for this class to begin, couldn't wait to tackle the animation modeling software, to “draw” the virtual model of the alarm.

The CAD room greeted me with three long rows of gleaming white, state-of-the-art computer stations, each with flat-screen monitors and ergonomically correct chairs. A chemical odor emanated from the new electric-blue carpet. The computers hummed.

I grabbed a chair next to the wall, slung my pack under the desk, sank into the cushy seat, twirled twice in excitement, and gave the keyboard a flick. It glided into position.

Cullen the Bear shambled in and overtook the seat beside me. My stomach lurched, colliding with my heart.

I shrank in Cullen's shadow, practically diving to the bottom of my pack, pretending to search for a pencil.

“Howzit,” he said, not unfriendly.

“Mmpf,” mmpfed my pack-covered head.

Students streamed in and chose seats. The bell rang, the door closed, and class began.

I came up for air. Slumped lower in my seat. I felt sick. Dizzy
.

You can do this, Steve. You
will
do this. You promised Hayley
,
remember?

Half an hour later, the teacher finished her lesson and suggested we experiment with the software. Since I hadn't heard a word of her lecture, I tippy-tapped random keys while sneaking peeks at Mr. Handsome.

He wore shorts and a faded yellow tank top with a drawing of a sno-cone on it. The tank read
Haleiwa Shave Ice
. His wide, dark brown fingers capered across the keyboard like he was playing jazz piano.

What the golf tees did Hayley see in this guy, anyway? Sure, he was tall. Muscle-y. Handsome . . .

Okay, so I wasn't tall. And my muscles were as rubbery as overcooked spaghetti. And my nose looked liked it had barely survived a nasty altercation with a garlic press. But I had something Cullen didn't have:
B-R-A-I-N-S.

I emerged from Cullen's shadow and, before I could change my mind, blurted, “Hi! Hello! Need any help?”

“No tanks, brah,” he answered. “Got it wired.”

Well, at least I could tell Hayley I offered to help and Cullen declined. One favor down, one to go. And I had an entire semester to get around to number two. I mean, I promised only to
ask
if he liked Hayley. I hadn't specified
when
I'd ask . . .

A carpet fluff snuffed up my nose.

“AH-
CHOO
!”

“Eh, don't I know you, brah?” Cullen's keen, blackish eyes regarded me and my wad of tissues.

I shifted closer to the wall. “Nope. Yep. We sorta met a couple of days ago at Gadabout Golf.”

Cullen grinned. “You da
keiki
wen gave Marcos da metaphorical bloody nose!”

“Marcos?”

“Yellow rat bite. Wen threaten you wit one whoosha.”

He must mean Scarecrow. But I didn't recall any rodent nibbles.

“You got
koa,
junior boy,” Cullen continued. “But keep clear of Marcos, eh? No like talk stink, but from what I seen, dat
moke
make
pilikia
.”

I stared at Cullen's shark-tooth necklace. It glistened bone-white and sharp under the fluorescent lights.

“I really, really, really don't want to offend you,” I told him. “But—I don't understand a word you're saying.”

Cullen's grin gleamed. “Sorry, brah. In da islands, when my bruddahs talk story, we speak Pidgin. Hawaiian dialect.” He ticked his massive fingers: “
Keiki
mean kid.
Koa
is courage, da stuff of
ali'i
, Hawaiian royalty.
Talk stink
—
”

“Bad-mouthing someone?” I guessed.

He nodded, pleased.
“Moke
is tough local guy.
Pilikia
spells trouble.
Rat bite
, dat's one bad haircut.”

I laughed. “What about the other word?
Whoosher
. Is that a volcano?”

“Dat's one golf term,” Cullen said. “It mean whack a ball so hard, air whooshes from da impact.” He nudged my chair closer with his paw-foot. “So what's da scoops? What's a
menehune
like you doin' here?”

“You mean, what's a kid like me doing in a high school like this?”

“Yeah.”

“I skipped eighth grade,” I said. “Part-time, anyway. I take three classes here in the mornings, four at Jefferson Middle School after lunch.”

“Fo' real kine? You serious? Cool . . .”

Cullen continued to ask me questions while we explored the software. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and I surprised myself by telling him about the Nice Alarm. In return, he shared his love of drawing (he designed the logo on his T-shirt) and his desire to learn digital art. He hoped to get a golf scholarship so he could attend one of the California universities and study animation. Just in case a scholarship didn't come through, he'd moved to Southern California to live with his “Auntie.”

“I like fo' establish residency here,” he explained. “It make state college affordable.”

“My best friend—I mean, this guy I know—plans to study art in college too,” I said. “He's expanded his cartoon superhero into a graphic novel he wants to get published.”

“Fo' reals? Cool. I like fo' see dat.”

The end-of-class bell rang. I scribbled the homework assignment and hooked my pack over one shoulder. Cullen led the way into the hall, his flip-flops slapping against the soles of his brown feet. Guys leaped aside, offering a wide berth. Girls pointed and swooned. “Cullen
Handsome
,” I heard one whisper.

Cullen didn't notice. “Hang loose,” he said, strolling toward the stairs.

“Hey, wait!” I trotted after him. “I want to ask you a question. About . . . a girl.”

“Wot girl?”

“The girl at Gadabout.”

Cullen adjusted his shark's tooth. “There was
wahine
there? Oh, da girl with da notepad. Kept hopping like she needed da
lua
? Bathroom?” He shuddered. “Ho, she give me chicken skin. Goose bumps. Not da good kine.”

“That would be Goldie,” I said. “I meant the other one.”

“Ada one?”

How could he not remember? How could anyone lay eyes on Hayley and not have her image burned forever into his memory cells?

“Short hair the color of rice,” I said. “Golf ball earrings. Ice-blue eyes.”

“Oh, da one with da squint. She get one headache?”

“No, she have
koa,
” I said, thinking about the way Hayley had challenged Scarecrow/Marcos.

“You're right,
menehune
.”

“So, do you like her?”

Cullen shrugged. “How I can like her? I don't know her.” “I mean, do you think she's pretty?”

“She 'bout the same age as my niece. Both
keiki
. Both da cute. Not as cute as
ku'uipo
. My sweetheart, Annie. She live in Hawaii. What like fo' ask me 'bout Hayley?”

“Never mind!” My chest almost exploded with joy.
Cullen didn't like her! Cullen thought she was a little kid!
“I'm meeting a friend for lunch at Jefferson Middle. Aloha!”

I sprinted down the hall, squeezing between students. The loose strap of my pack caught on a drinking fountain, jerking me backward. I yanked it free—

—and smashed into a tight stomach clad in a burgundy knit shirt.

“Watch it, punk!” the shirt said. It smelled of peppermint.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and looked up, up, up into the face of Scarecrow—aka, Marcos the Moke.

“Eep!” I said, and sneezed four wet times.

Marcos chortled in disgusted glee. “Look who it is!” He gripped my shoulders. “Right
under our nose
!”

His golf goons sniggered and contracted around me like a giant noose.

“Ha-ha” I said, struggling to break free. “Never heard
that
one before. Thought it up all by yourself, did you?”

His fingers burrowed deeper. He gave me a hard shake. “What are you doing out of your swamp, punk? And why are you at Patrick Henry?
Brown
-
nosing
your future teachers?”

“
Ow!
I mean, no, I'm delivering a note. To my brother. My older,
hulking
brother. He's on the football team. He
tackles
.”

“You're a pathetic liar.” Marcos yanked the pack from my shoulder and began rummaging.

I tried to snatch and sprint, but his three look-alikes muscled closer.

“Ugh, just clumps of wet snot rags. But what's this?” Marcos flashed my ID card, then flicked it across the hall. He tossed my chem and trig books too. “We're in the presence of a brainiac: a nerd who keeps his
nose to the grindstone
. Bet he even has his
nose in a book
while sitting on the john!”

His goons guffawed.

“So that's why he
thumbed his nose
at us the other day!” chimed in Goon #3, beeping my sore schnoz. “That's why he had his
nose in the air
. He thinks he's smarter than us!”

“A judgment error,” I insisted. “My allergy meds make me delusional.”

“Maybe we should
rub your nose
in it,” said Goon #4.
Talk about flogging a dead joke . . .

“Walk with us, punk,” Marcos said. “I have a cramp in my arm. Nothing a few rounds with my club won't cure.”

“I don't have time to play golf,” I said with another futile struggle.

Marcos smirked. “Who said anything about golf?”

I gulped. Goons #2 and #3 pinned my arms to my sides, sandwiching me so tightly between them I felt like a slice of bologna. With Marcos in the lead and Goon #4 cutting off my escape route from behind, they hustled me to the double doors overlooking the quad. Below, students lunch-munched.

“Which way?” #2 asked.

“Through the industrial arts building, to the lower field,” Marcos said. “Take it nice and slow. We don't want anyone getting suspicious. We're just giving our new pal the freshman tour . . .”

They lurched me down a flight of stairs and edged the noisy crowd. Flocks of seagulls wheeled overhead, dive-bombing for French fries, splitting eardrums with their frenzied squawks. Even if I braved a cry for help, no one would hear me above that racket.

The fog lifted. I blinked in the bright sun. Probably the last time I'd see it—provided none of the birds left a farewell donation in my eye.

Two high-pitched shrieks rivaled the decibels of the gulls. “You
didn't
!”

“I
did
!”

“You
couldn't
!”

“I
could
!”

I'd recognize those shrieks—and gull-like brain cells—anywhere.

I grasped at a straw of hope.

Would they help me? Had they forgiven me for ratting out their idol?

I scanned the quad for July Smith's Roman profile, her elegant French braid . . .

No sign of her. Probably at a club meeting. I had to take that chance. I had to flag down the Amys. There was no one else—

—and time was running out.

With every ounce of my strength, I wrested one arm from Goon #2's grasp, waved it like a rogue windshield wiper, and screamed: “Hey, Amy! Over here!
Amy! Hellooo!
”

The Amys turned. Cocked their heads like parakeets. Their beaks—uh, lips—curled and dimpled and opened to shriek:

“It
is
him!”

“So it
is
!”

They flew across the quad, flung themselves between my captives, and smothered me in a clumped hug.