Against All Odds (2 page)

When they reached the base of Starky Hill the boys began to methodically climb, taking turns pulling the wagon. By the time they reached the top of the cliff, the three friends were panting like tired dogs.

“We made it,” Boney gasped.

Squeak checked his watch again. “Four o’clock. It took exactly forty minutes to get here.”

“I’m dying of thirst,” Itchy croaked, wiping the sweat dramatically from his neck.

Squeak produced a canteen of water from his military messenger bag and handed it to his friend. Itchy
removed the cap and guzzled water as if he’d just walked across the Sahara Desert.

Boney yanked the canteen from Itchy’s hands. “Save some for the rest of us.” He took a big swig, and then handed the canteen back to Squeak.

Itchy sniffed indignantly. “You don’t have to be so rude about it.” He peered over the edge of the cliff and gulped. The cliff’s jagged face dropped vertically to the rocks below. “That’s a long way down.”

Squeak nodded. “It’s the perfect place for a flying competition. It provides an adequate amount of airspace to practise the necessary manoeuvres.”

Boney held up the
StarSweeper
‘s manual. “Are we ready for the test flight?”

Squeak produced the black control box from his bag. Boney and Itchy uncovered the plane and lowered it like a delicate cake to the ground. Squeak flipped the toggle switch on the control box, raising the antenna. “Gentlemen … prepare to launch.”

“Wait!” Boney shouted. “There’s someone else here!”

B
oney pointed to where a small figure moved along the ridge of the cliff in the distance. “Someone’s watching us.”

Squeak quickly covered the
StarSweeper
with the canvas tarp and shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. “I can’t see anything.”

Itchy pointed like a frantic baboon. “I see him! Over there.”

Pulling his antique brass telescope from his messenger bag, Squeak snapped it to full length and began earnestly scanning the landscape. “I see him now. He’s running away.”

“Let’s get him!” Boney said. “Come on!”

Itchy tightened his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Squeak blinked behind his goggles. “Affirmative. It would be illogical to leave the
StarSweeper
unattended.”

“Fine,” Boney said. “I’ll go myself, then.” He took off running, jumping over boulders and skittering through gravel. His arms pumped as his sneakers kicked up clouds of dust. The mysterious figure ran in front of him, sprinting toward the treeline at the base of the hill. He was dressed entirely in black and wearing a shiny, black motorcycle helmet, his face hidden behind the mirrored visor. He was small but incredibly fast, like some kind of space leprechaun, his arms and legs whirling like pinwheels as he ran. Boney ploughed down the hill, determined to catch him. Several times, the spy looked over his shoulder, the sun flashing off his visor as he quickened his pace.

“Hey!” Boney shouted. But the spy only ran faster. Boney gritted his teeth, his arms and legs a blur. “I’m going to catch you!” he yelled as the distance between him and the spy began to shrink. Encouraged, he ran harder still, getting closer and closer. But just when he thought he would catch him, the spy dashed into the dark forest and vanished.

Boney rushed into the woods, skidding to a stop in front of a big maple tree. His chest heaved as he searched the woods, his hair clinging to his sweat-soaked forehead. Sunlight filtered softly through the branches. Starlings chucked and whistled in the treetops. The spy was nowhere to be seen. He’d disappeared without a trace.

Boney looked around for several more minutes before giving up and dragging himself back up the cliff to where Squeak and Itchy waited.

“What happened?” Itchy called out as Boney approached. “Did you catch him?”

“Were you able to identify him?” Squeak asked.

Boney shook his head. “I couldn’t tell who it was.” He leaned his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “He was wearing a black helmet. He had the visor down so I couldn’t see his face.”

“Who do you think it was?” Itchy asked. “Do you think he was spying on us?”

Squeak chewed on his nails. “That’s the only logical explanation for wearing a helmet in this heat.”

“But how would he have known we’d be here?” Itchy wondered. “Maybe he followed us from the house.”

Boney shook his head again. “I don’t know. But he was little—and fast.”

“Little and fast
…”
Itchy repeated, as though that description would somehow help them solve the riddle. “Could it be someone on the cross country team at school?”

Squeak paced back and forth, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. “No one could possibly have known we were going to test-run the
StarSweeper
here today …”

“Well, whoever he is, he’s gone now,” Boney said. “And I don’t think he’ll be back. I chased him all the way to the woods.”

Itchy turned to Squeak. “Do you still want to testrun your plane? Because it’s almost suppertime.”

Squeak consulted his watch. “According to my timepiece, it’s only four-thirty-six.”

Itchy clutched his stomach. “I know. But I usually have a pre-supper snack. If I don’t eat now, I’ll be dead soon.”

Squeak sighed, rustling in his messenger bag and producing a sandwich. “I’ve been carrying it around for a couple of days, but it’s probably still edible. You may want to give it a sniff just in case …”

Itchy plucked the sandwich from Squeak’s hand, unwrapped it, and stuffed it into his mouth until his cheeks bulged like a crazed chipmunk’s. “Mmm … peanut butter and honey. I love when the honey gets all crunchy.”

Boney grimaced. “Yuck.”

Itchy finished the sandwich and stripped the green bandana from his forehead. He shook it out before wiping his mouth, then tied the bandana back around his head.

“Are you through?” Squeak asked.

Itchy patted his stomach. “That should hold me off for a few minutes.”

“Good.” Squeak did a quick scan of the horizon with his telescope. When he was satisfied the spy was no longer around he carefully uncovered the plane.

Boney opened the instruction manual, leafing through the pages until he found the ignition sequence. “Okay, let’s run her through her paces. Are we ready?”

His eyes locked on Squeak’s.

Squeak raised the antenna on the black control box, finger poised over the switches. “Gentlemen, record the time for the log, please.”

Itchy consulted his Mickey Mouse watch. “Ten to five.”

“Ten to five,” Squeak repeated, then nodded at Boney.

“Ignition,” Boney said.

Squeak moved to flip the switch. There was a blinding flash as a giant beam of light shot out of the sky. The boys stood frozen in their sneakers, the beam of light throbbing over them, Itchy’s screams barely audible over the roaring wind.

T
he wind howled around the Odds, throwing dust and gravel in the air. The strange light pulsed and scanned, and the boys gaped vacantly as a series of smaller coloured lights began to flicker on and off in rapid succession.

Behind a tree in the woods, the spy watched in secret, shooting dozens of photos as the huge cone of light began to slowly rotate over the three friends.

Then, just as suddenly, the lights flickered off and were gone. The wind immediately stopped. The dust settled around the boys. They looked at each other, dumbfounded, their hair horribly dishevelled.

“What are you waiting for?” Boney asked Squeak. “I said ignition.”

Squeak wiped the dust from his goggles and stared back in confusion. “What happened to your hair?”

Boney ran his hand over his head. “You should talk. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The two boys turned to Itchy. His hair was even more clownlike than usual.

“What?” He looked at his watch. “Hey! It’s ten after five. We’d better get this over with because I’m starving.”

Squeak raised his eyebrows. “You said it was only ten
to
five.”

“Did I?” Itchy took his watch off, shook it, and held it to his ear. “It’s still ticking …”

“Something’s not right,” Squeak said.

Itchy licked his lips and spat. “Man, it’s dusty out here. I’m going to die of thirst.”

“Seriously … there’s something really unusual going on,” Squeak said.

Boney held up the airplane manual. “Is anybody at all interested in the test run?”

“Uh, yes, of course, in a minute …” Squeak dug his telescope from his bag and raised it to his eye to scan the surroundings one more time, then abruptly lowered it, cleaning the lens with the corner of his T-shirt. “I can’t see a thing.”

Itchy looked over his shoulder. “Does anyone else feel strange?”

“Strange how?” Squeak asked.

“Stranger than usual. I feel like I have a big hole in my stomach.”

Squeak frowned. “But you always have a hole in your stomach.”

“Can we get on with it?” Boney said. He blew the dust off the manual and looked for the proper page. “Are we ready?

Squeak nodded.

“Ignition.”

Squeak engaged the switch on the black control box and the
StarSweeper
roared to life. The jet engines whined, creating small tornadoes of swirling dust behind the plane.

“Lights,” Boney called out over the noise of the engines.

Squeak flicked another switch and a set of small lights appeared along the length of the plane, with several red lights on the tail and one large white light at the front.

“Flaps.”

Squeak moved a lever back and forth. The flaps on the wings responded with small waving movements. “Prepare for takeoff.”

The plane lurched forward, engines whining loudly as it slowly rolled toward the edge of the cliff. Squeak taxied the plane to within ten feet of the edge, then turned to Boney. Boney drew in his breath.

“Takeoff!”

Squeak pushed the throttle. The engines began to sing, and the
StarSweeper
skipped along the ground, wheels bouncing over the gravel as the plane picked up speed. It streaked toward the edge of the cliff, dropped over the side, and was gone in a puff of dust. Boney and Itchy gasped. Seconds later, the plane reappeared, rising in the air, and tearing across the sky like a supersonic dragonfly.

“You did it!” Boney and Itchy cheered, jumping up and down.

Squeak smiled as he worked the controls, the plane arcing in a wide circle around the sun.

“Do a loop-de-loop!” Itchy said.

Squeak’s fingers moved easily over the buttons. The plane shot into the air, engines surging louder as it climbed, then slowly curved back, scribing a perfect loop as it lassoed the clouds. Squeak pushed the plane harder, the craft twisting like a corkscrew until he let it drop in a spiral free fall.

Itchy clutched his hair. “It’s going to crash!”

The plane suddenly powered back to life and zipped across the sky. Itchy applauded. Squeak smiled. He flew the plane around, testing its maximum velocity and control for several minutes before bringing it in for a landing. Its wings dipped up and down as it navigated
toward the cliff. Hitting the parched ground, the plane jounced across the gravel, its engines winding down until it came to a stop in front of the boys.

“Amazing!” Boney shouted.

Squeak beamed. “Gentlemen, our test flight was a success.”

“You’re definitely going to win the grand prize,” Boney said, clapping him on the back.

“Yeah, that was great,” Itchy agreed. “But can we go home and have supper now? We’re going to be late.”

While the boys were congratulating themselves and packing up their things, the spy spirited away through the trees.

Back on Green Bottle Street, the three friends manoeuvred the plane into Squeak’s garage, stowing it carefully. Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles.

“Don’t forget the competition starts at nine a.m., so we’ll have to leave at seven-thirty at the latest,” he said. “That gives us forty minutes to get to Starky Hill and enough time to set up.”

Itchy complained under his breath about the early start time. Boney saluted, then cut through the hedge at the back of Squeak’s house to his aunt and uncle’s yard.
He was hoping his aunt hadn’t noticed he was late for dinner.

But he had no such luck. She was standing in the kitchen, red gingham tea towel over one arm, wringing her hands. His uncle sat at the kitchen table, looking cagey.

“William Boneham!” his aunt barked the second Boney stepped through the door. “Where have you been?”

Boney opened his mouth to answer but his aunt cut him off sharply.

“Supper should have started by now! Do you think I’m running a restaurant? And what have you been up to? You’re a filthy mess. Just look at your hair!”

Boney ran his hand through his hair, glancing warily at the stove to where a big silver pot stood waiting on the burner. He didn’t mind missing dinner, especially when his aunt made one of her awful soup-can recipes. He tried to appear casual. “Oh, that’s okay, Auntie, I’m really not that hungry.”

“Nonsense!” she snapped.

“Now, Mildred,” Boney’s uncle sputtered through his moustache. “Boys will be boys.”

“Oh phooey,” his aunt said. “Anyone with any common sense would appreciate a nice, warm meal and actually show up on time for dinner. Your friend Itchy understands.”

Boney stared at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His aunt straightened the gingham tea towel on her arm. “He’s been here at least three times in the last half hour, leering through the kitchen window like some kind of cotton-headed vampire. I gave him at least half a dozen oatmeal cookies but he just keeps coming back for more. The boy must have a tapeworm, he eats so much.” She paused, tilting her head. “But he wouldn’t take any of my casserole …”

Boney opened his mouth to speak but his aunt cut him off again.

“Then Mrs. Sheider called, complaining that Itchy was gaping through her windows as well. But she didn’t have her glasses on at first and she thought he was a prowler so she let the dogs out to chase him off. What on earth has gotten into that boy? Doesn’t Itchy’s mother cook?”

Boney glanced at his uncle for confirmation but his uncle simply looked the other way, leaving him on his own to deal with his aunt. “Uhhh … that’s not possible,” Boney said. “Itchy was with me and Squeak all afternoon. We weren’t bothering anyone. We were up at Starky Hill.”

His aunt scowled. “Don’t argue with me, young man. It’s rude.”

“But Auntie …”

His aunt silenced him with a wave of her wooden spoon. “Not another word. Go wash, then take a seat and eat.”

Boney knew better than to protest further. He washed in the bathroom, then returned and pulled a chair from the table, sitting obediently while his aunt busied herself reheating his dinner. She huffed and puffed, clattering dishes and pots in a show of irritation. When at last she placed Boney’s plate in front of him, she stood sentry, waiting for his reaction.

Boney stared at the steaming pile of grey glop on his plate. He didn’t dare ask what it was. All he knew was that it must be horrible if even Itchy didn’t want any. Looking mournfully at his uncle, he tentatively lifted his fork, his hand shaking as he stared at the mound of goo. With a quick breath, Boney stabbed his fork into the glop and raised a heaping portion to his mouth. He stuffed the food in, chewed twice, and swallowed. His eyes widened. “Hey! It’s actually good!”

His aunt beamed. “Of course it’s good. I used a recipe from the cookbook you gave me for my birthday.” She grabbed a yellow cookbook from the shelf beside the stove and held it up, reading the title out loud like some overly pleased housewife on a TV commercial.
“One Hundred Delicious Dummyproof Dishes.
Isn’t that a fun title?”

Boney looked at his uncle and grinned. His uncle winked back.

“But it’s not as good as the title I dreamed up for my own book,” his aunt said, placing the yellow cookbook back on the shelf.
“Seven Thousand Sensational Soup-Can Suppers.”

“More like
Dozens of Dinner Disasters,”
Boney muttered into his casserole, but, thankfully, his aunt didn’t hear him. She was too busy looking dreamily off in the distance, no doubt fantasizing about book signings and international fame.

“I have fifty-two recipes so far,” she mused. “I have a lot of cooking to do!” She flicked the red gingham tea towel from her arm and cracked it at some phantom bug that only she could see.

Boney shuddered at the thought of her soup-can cookbook. He dug his fork into the tasty glop on his plate, shovelling it in. It seemed he was starving after all.

His uncle relaxed in his chair as Boney scraped his fork across his empty plate. His aunt loaded his plate again, knocking the sides of the pot joyfully with her wooden serving spoon.

“It’s amazing there’s anything left in the house at all, what with Itchy coming around every five minutes.” She placed the empty pot in the sink and began to scrub it.

Boney just smiled dutifully as he inhaled his second serving. When he was finished, he ate three oatmeal cookies for dessert and excused himself, bringing his dishes to the sink. “Thank you, Auntie, that was delicious.” He gave his aunt a small peck on the cheek.

His aunt smiled brightly. Boney saw an opportunity to approach her about the flying competition. He patted his stomach with exaggerated satisfaction.

“I’m sure glad to have eaten such a nutritious meal tonight. It will help me get through the day tomorrow.”

The smile left his aunt’s face. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Boney answered as casually as possible, “Squeak’s entering his model airplane in a race over at Starky Hill.”

His aunt pursed her lips.

“He’s been working on it for weeks,” Boney continued. “And we get to help him transport the plane to the competition. We have to leave really early, so I won’t be at the table for breakfast.” He gave his most endearing smile, hoping his aunt would overlook the part about missing breakfast.

She harrumphed, whisked the tea towel from her arm, folded it neatly, and hung it on the handle of the oven. “I’ll make sandwiches then. And I suppose Squeak and Itchy will be needing lunch, too. It’s not like their
parents will be so organized. Though I’d need a dump truck full of sandwiches to satisfy that red-headed friend of yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Boney agreed, to avoid further scrutiny. He quickly made his exit and trotted upstairs.

In his bedroom, Boney yawned. He was thinking of going over to Squeak’s house but the very idea made him feel exhausted. “Must have eaten too much casserole,” he murmured, lying down on his bed. He was just closing his eyes when he heard a rustling sound from beneath the towel that hid the Tele-tube. Squeak’s small voice floated into the room.

“Boney … are you there? Over.”

Groaning from bed, Boney flopped into the chair in front of his window. He removed the towel and held the end of the tube to his lips.

“Boney here.”

He waited for Squeak to speak, but there was silence on the other end of the line. Boney’s head bobbed sleepily. He gave another big yawn. “Are you there, Squeak?”

“I’m here,” Squeak answered.

“What’s on your mind?”

More silence. Boney’s eyes drooped as he waited. “I can’t stop thinking about our experience today,” Squeak finally said.

“What experience?”

“At Starky Hill. I think something happened.”

“Of course something happened. We tested the
Star-Sweeper 5000
and she passed with flying colours.”

Squeak cleared his throat. “Yes, she did … but I’m talking about something else … something strange.”

“Okay … what, exactly?”

There was another pause. “Missing time.”

Boney looked at his alarm clock. “Missing time? What do you mean?”

“When I asked Itchy what time it was, he said it was ten to five. But when I looked at my watch before the test flight, it was ten after five. Somehow, we lost twenty minutes.”