Pickle (4 page)

“You're right. I didn't mean … Sorry,” I said. Oliver shrugged and we walked down the block. “UNLESS, he's really a thirty-year-old baby-faced CIA agent undercover at Fountain Point to bust … Mr. Roberts for an illegal gambling ring. Maybe they're taking bets on how we do on our spelling tests.”

“Interesting theory, Ben,” Oliver said in a way that sounded like it was definitely not an interesting theory. “We'll just have to wait and see.”

 

9

A Side of Bean

After school the next day on my way to Lupe's, Bean Lee jumped out from behind an alley trash can. She wore red overalls with “Stand Back” written on the front pocket.

Bean is kind of famous, in an Internet way. She started that Cat vs. Dude site with the cats fighting action figures and stuff. And you should know that Bean has more than one pair of red overalls. She has another pair with a patch of a panda bear playing drums,
and
some green ones with holes in the knees that she wears striped tights under. She wears a blue feather boa sometimes, and she's sewn animal ears onto most of her hats and hoodies. You'd think it would be easier to see her coming, but she made me jump. She makes me jump a lot.

“Mr. Diaz, we have an important matter to discuss.”

I'd passed Bean digging around in her locker when I left school, so I don't know how she beat me to the corner. The way she acted made me think it had something to do with Frank. Plus, they hang out together a lot. And I heard he helped her set up
www.catvsdude.com
. “My associate would like to accept your organization's offer … with stipulations.”

“What associate?” I said. I tried to look confused.

“Are you organizing a prank task force or running a bad acting club?”

I shrugged. Bean stared me down.

“My little sister does a better job playing dumb. I know everything. Our mutual friend is willing to join forces—with conditions.” She crossed her arms, and we had some sort of silent standoff. I think she tried to tell me to chill out telepathically, but I wasn't ready to give in. It could have been a bluff. She waited for me to slip up and tell her everything. I made a face that said I had no idea what she could possibly be talking about, but it only lasted about ten seconds.

“Fine. What kind of conditions does Frank have?” I said. Bean cracked her knuckles and smirked.

“Number one. If Frank's in the club, your friend, Mr. Junior Principal, is not,” she said. “Actually, that one is mine.”

I could have told Bean that Hector wasn't invited, but I didn't like her bossing me around.

“Listen, Bean, I—”

“NUMBER TWO”—Bean held up her hand to shush me—“I, too, am interested in joining. You can have us both, or neither.” She stuck her chin out and stood tall, but she was still a foot shorter than me.

“No way,” I said. “I get to pick who's in the club. Besides, he wasn't supposed to tell anybody. He already broke the rules.”

“I'm not just anybody. And I am a crack-proof safe for secrets,” Bean said. “Plus, Principal Lebonsky and I aren't exactly on the same side.”

“The, um, club is by invitation only. Sorry, Bean.” I was only sorry in a feeling-a-little-bit-guilty way. Not a regretful way.

“Okey dokey, artichokey. I'll let Frank know that you're not into it.” She skipped back toward the school. I felt relieved that she'd given up so easily. It started dawning on me that it might have been
too
easy, when she stopped and swiveled back around. “Too bad. We could have done a lot with the costumes.”

“What costumes?”

“The ones in my dad's shop, silly. Lee's Costume & Party? It could have been kind of super.”

So, then there were four of us.

 

10

A Cryptic Message

I checked my email in the morning. And then I called Oliver.

“Frank is like a super spy,” I said after Oliver let me have it for waking him up.

“What? Why?”

“He just emailed me! He's never emailed me before. And I've never emailed him! I checked. How did he get my email address? Do you think he hacked my computer?”

“I think he used the roster they gave us at orientation,” Oliver said, and hung up. That bummed me out a little bit, but then I opened the email and it was in Japanese. I didn't even know Frank knew Japanese, and I don't know why he thought I did. I called Oliver again.

“It's not even in English,” I said.

“What's not in English?” Oliver said in a deep, slow voice.

“Did you fall back asleep?”

“Yes.”

“But we were just on the phone, like, a minute ago.”

“So?” he said. “I was up late rehearsing for
Hello, Dolly!
The spring play? I have the lead, you know.”

“You're Dolly?”

“No! I'm Horace Vandergelder,” Oliver said.

“I don't know what that means.”

“What do you want, Ben?”

“Well, I opened Frank's email. It's in Japanese or something. Why does he think I know Japanese?”

“That sounds like a question for Frank,” Oliver said. Then he hung up again.

I found the school roster in the junk drawer in the kitchen and called Frank up.

“Hello, Ben,” Frank answered. “You have questions about my message.”

“How did you know?” I said. I heard Frank yawn.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, you know the email you sent? It looks like it's in Japanese. I don't really know Japanese, so I wondered if you could, like, send it in English?”

“I don't know Japanese. Neither do you. Neither does Ms. Ruiz, Principal Lebonsky, or most anybody else in our school. In case your email has been compromised,” Frank said. While he talked my computer beeped and another email popped up from an Agent Fix-it with a link to an online email language translator and a note:

Next time it might be in Russian.

“Whoa. Who's Agent Fix-it?” Maybe Frank had invited someone
else
into the club.

“That would be me,” he said, and hung up.

So cool. I translated the email that Frank sent, and it turned out to be a paragraph cut and pasted from the Board of Education website. It said that any student could form a club at school by telling the head office. If the office accepted the group as a legitimate organization and it had four or more members, it qualified for special funding from the Parent Teacher Association (P.T.A.).

We had a group of four students, but it's not like we could go tell them that we wanted to cause trouble. We needed a cover. If we started a secret club and called it something else, something innocent and non-suspicious, we could meet at school and they'd give us money.

Double identities!

I opened a new email account under the name Agent Queso (my cheese love knows no bounds) and forwarded the email to Oliver (in Turkish), with the link to the translator.

Do you think we should start a club at school? Use the translator to respond.

Then I called him again.

“I just wanted to tell you that you have an email,” I said. “It's from someone you know, but with a fake name.”

“Okay.”

“It's from me.” He didn't say anything. “Did you hear me, or did you doze off again? I sent you an email.”

“Cool. I'll go read it.” Oliver yawned. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that's it. I just wanted you to read your email,” I said.

“Okay, if I need to write you back it will just show up in your email and you can read it when you want to. I'm not going to call you or anything.”

“All right.”

I started to say how cool it would be to have double identities when I realized that he had hung up on me again. I went back to the computer to wait for his email. I think he went back to sleep again, because I didn't get anything until lunchtime. Under “
Do you think we should start a club at school?”
Oliver had typed one word.

Sí.

He put the link to the translator on the bottom.

 

11

The Club

I stopped in the office after school to ask for the form for a new club.

“Are you starting a new group?” Pat said. She's the school secretary and she looked as if a new club would make her day. I'm pretty sure she has more Fountain Point sweatshirts than anyone else at school. The office also has about a dozen beaver figurines on the windowsills. I don't think they're Principal Lebonsky's.

“I think so,” I said. “I mean, I'm thinking about it.”

“Maybe someone's already formed a group that matches your interests, Ben.” She gave me a bright orange sheet of paper with a list of all the student organizations already at Fountain Point. She smiled and nodded, so I smiled and nodded, too, but that was weird so I looked down at the form. She kept standing there, like she couldn't wait to see my eyes sparkle with glee when I saw the perfect club met on Mondays or something. I read the list. Fountain Point Middle School has a lot of groups. They called them “Extracurricular Enrichment Opportunities.” Whatever. Basically, there are art- and gym-type things. Everything from chess club to rugby. Really. Jack MacDougal's dad is from Scotland and he started a team. I don't know who they play.

The most popular clubs on the list were the soccer team, dance squad, science club, the Beaver Band, and Oliver's beloved drama club—those I already knew about. The graphic novel club sounded cool. There were a few wacky ones, like a lassoing team. We lived in the city, not the Wild Wild West. What did they lasso—pigeons? The list said they currently had eight members. Sounded fishy to me. Maybe they were some sort of secret club, too.

After a minute, when I didn't jump up and down, Pat gave me the new club application form and another bunch of papers. Then she went back to her desk and took out a sack lunch.

The first two pages were the Fountain Point Middle School Group Code of Conduct Contract (F.P.M.S.G.C.C.C.). Pat told me I had to put my initials after each rule to show that I'd read it, and then sign the bottom. There were
a lot
of rules, in really small print. I didn't read all of them, but I skimmed it. A couple of weird ones popped out, like the group couldn't be about overthrowing the government. And each group needs a board with a president and stuff. The last rule said that Fountain Point had a zero-tolerance policy for any groups that Principal Lebonsky deemed “destructive, disobedient, or overly disruptive.”

I initialed everything and started on the application. I filled in the blanks as best I could with my name and stuff. Then I got to the “prospective group description.”

Maybe, if you started a club at school, you would have it be a Dog Appreciation Society or Happy Cookie Bakers or something. But I needed to come up with a club that other kids would not be interested in, but adults would believe that kids might find interesting. Tricky.

I looked around the office for a clue. Paper clips. Paper clip collectors? No. Fluorescent light lovers? Vintage copy machine appreciators? I tried to think of something, anything that would make a good club, while Pat picked the pickles out of her tuna salad sandwich. Copy machines might have potential. Hector and I tried to make copies of our squished faces once while we waited for his grandma. I forgot to close my eyes, and I couldn't see anything but green blobs for three hours. The copies turned out kind of cool though. I still have them taped up on my closet door.

“Nobody likes pickles this much,” Pat said under her breath. I don't like pickles much, either, so I gave her an I-heard-that look. She flicked pickle discs into the trash like tiny green Frisbees. I looked back down at the form. It became so clear what the club needed to be, it was as if the paper in my hands had turned green. I thought about it for another minute, but I couldn't think of anything better. This would be perfect.

The League of Pickle Makers was born.

I knew kids wouldn't try and join a club for pickles. Hector wouldn't be interested, either. He's hated pickles ever since he got sick from a bad egg salad sandwich.

I signed us up for a weekly meeting and put everybody's name down under the board of directors.

PRESIDENT: Ben Diaz

VICE PRESIDENT: Frank Lenny

SECRETARY: Oliver Swanson

TREASURER: Bean Lee

I felt goofy putting myself down as president, but it made me kind of happy, too. I'd never tell Bean she was treasurer. Ever. I gave the form to Pat, and she looked it over.

“Oh, honey. I'm sorry I said people don't like pickles.” She looked worried that I might be offended by her pickle dissing. “I should have offered them to you, but they had tuna juice anyway, and my husband just buys whatever is on sale. They weren't made from scratch or anything.”

“That's okay,” I said. “Pickles aren't for everybody.”