Dodger for President (9 page)

 

Students were openly turning away from James in disgust now, and there were definitely pockets of laughter around the room. Mrs. Starsky went up to James again, with what must have been a second warning. Dodger wrote: “HAY! THIS MITE BEE OK!”

 

Okay then, back to my speech, my monologue, my oration. I was saying that I should be president, leader, commander in chief of the armed forces, big kahuna, head honcho, silverback male of the school because of my experience. Also, I would like to thank Mrs. Starsky, this lady here, the massively boring woman to my left, she of the rancid coffee breath, and—”

 

“ENOUGH!” Mrs. Starsky roared, ripping the cord out of the microphone. Then, in front of the whole school, she screamed and yelled at James until he stormed off the stage. As he passed me,
he hissed, “I don't know how you did this, but you are dead, deceased, extinct, six feet under, pushing up daisies!
This isn't over!
”

Boy, even if they get to go first, some people are just never satisfied.

After James stalked off, Mrs. Starsky plugged the microphone back in and introduced me. As I stood to approach the microphone, Lizzie whispered, “Good luck!” Dodger grabbed his marker again and wrote, “SK8ER WALK!” I gave it my best shot. At the podium, I looked out over the audience and tried to look serious and important. Dodger wrote, “SMILE!” So I did. Then he wrote, “NOT TWO MUCHHH!” I worked on smiling without smiling too much, took a deep breath, and gave my improved, polished speech. I don't know how much of it anyone actually heard, though, because the whole room was pretty much in an uproar. But at least I didn't make a fool out of myself. And if James had looked like a massive idiot—well, it had been kind of his choice. I mean, I almost could have felt a tiny bit sorry for him, but it wasn't like I had
told
him to go first or anything.

When we walked out of the auditorium, the
last thing I saw was Dodger's hands, reaching up over the crowd in a double V-for-victory sign.

For the rest of the day, people were talking about James's speech all over the school. Mrs. Starsky was flustered and grumpy; every time our class settled down, we could hear other teachers yelling at their classes to be quiet, and I kept hearing whispers and murmurs in the halls:
loogie
. . .
coffee breath
. . .
silverback male
. . .
hock
. . .
gargle
. . . I'm happy to say I didn't run into James or Craig all day, but then, on the way out to the bus lines, Lizzie and I saw them huddled together under the slides at the playground.

“Willie, come on!” Lizzie said, pulling on my arm. “We have to go listen to what they're saying.”

I was horrified. “What do you mean? We can't just walk over there—Beeks will kill me! And it's not nice to sneak up and eavesdrop.”

Lizzie looked a little embarrassed. She leaned against the school wall, pulled a dropper out of her coat, and used it to drip three drops of a brown, smelly liquid on the sole of each of her shoes. “I never got to finish telling you this the other day,” she said, “but Dodger made me promise that the
next time I saw Craig and James talking, I should use this. It's called Tincture of Distraction, and while you're wearing it, nobody can concentrate on you unless they're in physical contact with you. It only works once on a pair of shoes, but it will let us sneak up on them without being noticed.”

“And why do we want to do that?”

“Dodger told me that Craig needs help, and we're the only ones who can give it. The Great Lasorda told him so.”

“But we don't trust the Great Lasorda. Plus, if he wants to help Craig so badly, why doesn't he just give the kid three wishes himself?”

“He can't,” Lizzie said. “Craig is Irish.”

“So what? I'm Irish, too,” I replied.

“You're only half-Irish. Dodger said that, according to the Inter-Magical Cooperation Accords of 1817, only fully licensed leprechauns may help full-blooded Irish children with domestic problems. The Great Lasorda could get fined seventeen doubloons, a pint of pixie dust, and an ounce of myrrh if he interferes directly with Craig's family trouble.”

“Myrrh? What the heck is myrrh?”

Lizzie gave me a pained look as she bent down to grab my right sneaker. “Does it matter, Willie? Craig needs our help, and I promised.”

Sometimes it stinks being the good guys.

Lizzie started anointing my sneakers with the stinky stuff. The first one went fine, but she slipped a bit with the second one. “Oops,” she said. “Oh, well—three drops, five drops, what's the difference?” I think maybe she's been hanging out with Dodger too much lately, if you want to know the truth. Anyway, then we tiptoed around the back of the playground and up the tube slide. From in there, we could hear every word Craig and James said, amplified by the plastic walls around us.

“James, I still don't understand what happened with the speech today.”

“Craig, I already told you, I couldn't help myself. It was like I was a puppet or something. Somebody was
making
me say that stuff.”

Craig didn't sound convinced. “You mean, like, they changed the words on your paper?”

“No, I mean they were controlling my brain! I wanted to read my speech the way it was written, but I just couldn't do it.”

“Oh,” Craig said. “So all we have to do is go to Mrs. Starsky and tell her that somebody was controlling your brain, and everything will be fine.”

We heard a thwack, and Craig said, “OW! What did you do that for?”

“You idiot! Don't you know anything about politics?”

“Um, no. I don't. I'm only running for vice president because you told me to. You said I didn't need to know anything, that all I had to do is stand near you and look scary.”

“Well, the first rule is that you never apologize for the truth. You make up a half-truth, deliver a half-apology, and then find a way to blame your opponent for the whole issue. It's called the weasel defense.”

“Huh?”

“Listen: Let's say I had gas, okay?”

“Uh, okay. You had gas.”

“Right. So I totally blasted one off, like, right in the middle of class. And then Willie Ryan made a face. Using the weasel defense, I'd say, ‘Wow, did you hear that? Someone in this room has an innocent little tooting problem. I'm sorry for bringing
this up, but my opponent doesn't seem to have any respect for our classmates who face physical challenges.' Then, whatever Ryan says, he looks like the bad guy.”

Craig still had that doubting tone as he said, “And this
works
?”

“Are you kidding me? Have you ever listened to an election campaign? How many times did George W. Bush get elected? It's foolproof.” We heard a thud and then some muffled, colorful language from Craig. “What's the matter, Craig? You just dropped your school bag; it's not like it's a big deal or anything.”

Craig blurted, “Look, James! There are TWO cell phones in my bag. Not one, TWO!”

“Which means?”

“Which means my little brother forgot to take his phone with him to his dad's house, and then I accidentally threw it in my bag.”

“So?”

“So, now when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he won't be able to call me.”

“Okay, so you'll go home and tell your mom to drive you over there.”

“I can't. She'll be at work, and there's no way my stepdad will drive me there. It's like twenty minutes each way. Plus, he hates seeing my
other
stepdad. Anyway, I can't tell them about my brother's night terrors, because then our mom won't let him go see his dad at all.”

“Wow, sounds major.”

“It
is
major, you jerk! Now my brother's going to be scared and alone, with nobody to—”

I could tell Craig really felt horrible. He might have been the toughest kid in the fifth grade (twice!), but he sure did have a soft spot for his brother. I started to wonder whether I would have been as worried if it had been Amy alone and scared in the dark. My thoughts were interrupted by a horrible burning sensation in my left big toe. It was hard to reach my foot, lying there in the tunnel, with Lizzie's feet in my face, but I managed. I ripped off my shoe, and in the dim reddish light coming through the plastic, I could see that the drops had eaten right through my sneaker and into my toe. I tried to check out the damage, but it was hard to focus my attention on the toe. I
realized that the magic was spreading to my foot! Another wave of pain shot through me, and I winced. This made Lizzie slip. Her left knee whacked into my bruised cheekbone, and I dropped the sneaker. It clattered all the way down the slide, stopping with a resounding thump at the last turn.

James said, “Wait! What's that? Remember you thought you saw something here the other night? And then today something made me give that speech? I bet this place is haunted! I'm getting out of here!”

“Stop, James! What about my little brother? You're the smart one—you have to help me figure out what to do!”

At that moment, Lizzie shifted her weight in an attempt to get her knee out of my aching eye. We slipped about two feet down the slide with a shuffling, squeaky sound. James heard it and said, “Sorry, dude, but when it comes to ghosts, it's every man for himself! Later!” James's footsteps echoed as he charged away from the playground.

Lizzie and I were huddled together inside the slide, trying our hardest to disappear, when all of a sudden, a huge, steely hand closed around my bare foot, and Craig yanked me out the bottom of the slide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“
HEH, HEH. HI, CRAIG
,” I said. “We were just, uh—”

“About to die? Yeah, you were.” Craig let go of my ankle, and I tumbled onto the wood chips on my butt. He stomped on my hand and kept his foot pressed down on top of my fingers. Then Lizzie slid out of the tunnel, stood up between us, and held her hand up to Craig's chest. As soon as she touched him, he flinched, as though he hadn't seen her. Which I guess was true. “Yow!” Craig said. “Where did you come from?”

“That's not important right now. Listen,”
Lizzie said, “I'm sorry we were eavesdropping on you, but you can't beat up Willie.”

“Sure I can,” Craig growled. “I could beat him up blindfolded, one-handed, hopping on one foot. Just watch me.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, figuring my only chance was to keep Craig talking. He might have been nice to his little brother, but he was killing my fingers. I tried not to think about what he could do to the rest of me. “Of course you could beat me up if I was blindfolded, one-handed, hopping on one foot. But where would the challenge be in that? In a fair fight, I'd probably kick your oversized, hairy—”

“Shut UP, Willie!” Lizzie and Craig both said at once. Then they looked at each other, rattled. Lizzie recovered first. I hoped she knew what she was doing—my hand was killing me. “As I was saying, you can't beat up Willie, because he and I are the only ones who can help you.”

“What are you talking about? And make it fast, because you already made me miss my bus. I have to get going soon, or I'll have to rush while I'm pounding on Willie, and it will ruin the fun.”

“Craig, we heard the part about your little brother. If you let us go, we can get the cell phone to him without your parents even knowing about it.”

Flynn stared at her. “You're serious? You can really bring him the phone? And you would do that—for me? Then what would I have to do for
you
to make it even?”

“Yes, we could really do it. Yes, we would do it for you. And you wouldn't owe us anything.”

“Well,” I interjected, “you might consider getting off my hand.” Craig lifted his foot, but reached down and grabbed the back of my collar in an iron death grip. I yanked my bruised fingers away, sat up, and started to put my newly burned sneaker back on.

“How are you planning on doing this?”

Lizzie said, “We can't tell you that. But I promise your brother will get the phone. Just tell us where he lives, and let us get going. Little Tyler won't have to wake up scared and alone tonight.”

Craig said, “You promise? Really?” Lizzie nodded, and he handed her the phone. “Just tell him that you're friends with Craigie-weggie, all right? I
taught him never to talk to strangers, but that way he'll know you're okay.”

“Craigie-weggie?” I asked.

“Look, Willie, I could still totally kill you.”

Lizzie said, “Come on, Willie, we don't have time for this. We have to go get the—um, we have to go get the object we need. Craig, just give us your ex-stepdad's address, okay?”

“It's Two Seventy-seven Swamp Court, in Frogtown, the trailer right near the edge of the water. You can't miss it, but watch out for Tyler's dad's pit bulls. I think there are three of them.”

Lizzie said, “Got it—Two Seventy-seven Swamp, Frogtown, three pit bulls. Let's hit the road, Willie.”

Craig said, “One more thing: Don't tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Your secret's safe with us, Craigie-weggie,” I said, and took off running toward home. As I passed Craig, I saw Lizzie pat him on the shoulder. Then she was running beside me. Behind us, Craig shouted, “Hey, wait! How did you know my brother's name?” But we didn't even look back.

As we left, Lizzie confirmed my alarming suspicion:
Her plan was to fly the magic carpet to Tyler's house. She told me to get Dodger while she “made some preflight arrangements.” I asked her whether her arrangements would include finding out how to get to little Tyler's killer-dog-infested house. She said she'd find out how to get there, no problem. I said, “Magic?” She said, “Mapquest.”