The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies (3 page)

C
icarelli was the
greatest wizard in Florence. Citizens came to him from all over Europe for spells, potions, and advice. They believed his magic arose from the herbs he gathered or the words he muttered from behind his long beard. In truth, they didn't care all that much about the source, as long as the magic worked. And, in truth, they were wrong about the source.

Cicarelli cast his spells with his mandolin. All it took was the right combination of notes. An A-flat combined with a C-sharp might cause the potion he was brewing to bring its user wealth. A D-minor chord could turn the same potion into a cure for poison. A tremolo on an open E string might help transform a curse into a blessing. Cicarelli knew only one spell he could cast—or uncast—without his mandolin. But that was enough.

Daminieri was an unexceptional wizard, mediocre at best, who wanted Cicarelli's power. For years he lurked in shadows and listened to rumors. At last, through bribes, treachery, and skulking talents a rat would envy, he uncovered the
secret of the mandolin and vowed that he would steal it and become the most powerful wizard in Italy.

A half hour before sunrise, when wizards are at their weakest but the unexceptional are not all that much changed, Daminieri crept into Cicarelli's home and lifted the mandolin from its peg on the wall.
It isn't guarded,
he thought, amazed at his good fortune. He crept back out to the street and then scurried to his shack at the edge of the city.

There he sat, with the mandolin in his hands. “I will discover all of your secrets,” he whispered.

He placed one hand on the neck and the other by the sound hole. He pressed the strings against the fret board, forming a G-major chord, and strummed.

The music was not pleasant.

“It is flat,” he muttered. “I would think Cicarelli would keep his instrument in tune.”

“No,” said a voice from outside his window. “It is sharp.”

Daminieri clutched the mandolin tighter as he recognized the speaker. He turned toward the window and found himself face-to-face with Cicarelli.

“Very sharp,” Cicarelli said. There was a note of sadness in his voice.

Daminieri looked down at his hands. His face grew pale as he saw what the sharp strings had done to his fingers. His face grew even more pale as blood poured from his wounds.

Cicarelli stepped in through the door and took the mandolin from Daminieri's hands—or what was left of them. “You'll live,” he said. “Unless you try to steal from me again.”

He uncast the sharpness from the strings and wiped the blood from the neck with a cloth. Then he carried his mandolin home where it belonged.

I
thought I was
out of luck when they canceled the local carnival this year. I love stuffing my face with carnival food like deep-fried candy bars and corn dogs, and then going on extreme rides that fling you upside down so fast that parts of you don't catch up until an hour later. There's nothing like a high-speed tumble with a gut full of grease to test whether you really have a strong stomach. So far, I've passed every challenge. Nothing makes me sick.

But last year, some forty-year-old guy who watched too many action movies tried to jump from one horse to another on the merry-go-round and broke his leg. He sued the town. He didn't win, but the town spent a ton of money on lawyers, and refused to allow another carnival.

I thought all was lost until Buzzy Skantz came stomping up my porch this morning. “Ryan! Hey, are you there?” he shouted. He banged on the door, yelling, “Bang! Bang! Bang!”—just in case I didn't realize someone was seeking my attention.

“What's up?” I asked when I got to the door.

“There's a carnival over in Lakewood,” he said. “My mom's going to drop me off. Want to come? Don't be a bum, chum.”

I would have instantly shouted,
Yes!
but Buzzy is kind of hard to hang out with. He reminds me of those comedians who shout everything instead of talking. Unlike the comedians, though, he isn't funny. Just loud.

On the other hand, a good carnival is so loud, I might not even be able to hear Buzzy. “Sure. I'll go.”

“Baboom!” he shouted, thrusting his arm in the air like he'd just won an Olympic gold medal. “We're on. We'll pick you up at seven. Not eleven. It'll be heaven.” He ran off the porch, making race car noises.

What have I done?

I told myself it would be fine. The memory of funnel cake, cotton candy, and supersweet lemonade eased my worries.

Buzzy swung by at seven that evening. I was waiting on the porch. I could have been waiting inside a locked safe buried in a pit in my backyard and I wouldn't have missed him.

“Ryan! We're here! Get it in gear! Or I'll kick your rear!”

Did I mention Buzzy thought he was a hip-hop star? I got in the car and thanked Mrs. Skantz for the ride.

She nodded and turned up the radio, real loud. Lakewood was a thirty-minute—or a one-hundred-twenty-shout—trip. But at the end of it, sure enough, there was a carnival, full of food, rides, and games.

“Have a good time,” Mrs. Skantz said as she pulled up near the entrance. “I'll be back for you at ten. Remember to stay away from the food. You know it makes you hyper.” She handed Buzzy five dollars.

That's not going to go far,
I thought. Everything at a carnival is expensive.

“Sausage!” Buzzy screeched as he leaped from the car. He went running toward the first booth—Sonny's Super Sloppy Sausage Sandwiches. They must be good sandwiches—there was a mob of customers. Buzzy ducked under some elbows, dodged around a couple people, and disappeared from sight. He popped back into view seconds later with a sandwich in his hands. By the time I reached him, he'd already devoured half of it.

“Bite?” he asked, thrusting the chewed end toward my face. “Tastes just right. Pure delight.”

“No thanks.” I stood back for the twelve seconds it took him to gobble down the remaining half. I liked sausage, but I wanted something sweeter. As we walked away from the booth, I saw the sausage seller glaring at Buzzy.

“Rides!” Buzzy shouted. He sprinted toward the midway. I stopped at a booth and bought some ride tickets, then followed him to the Scrambler.

“You go ahead,” he said.

That was weird. I gave the ninety-year-old guy who ran the Scrambler my ticket and climbed into one of the open cars. While the guy was checking that everyone was strapped in, Buzzy snuck past the gate and slipped onto the seat next to me.

So that's how he planned to stretch his five dollars. What a slimeball. I wondered whether he'd stolen the sausage, too.

It turned out the Scrambler was a big mistake. Spinning in the air with a shouter who still has bits of a Super Sloppy Sausage Sandwich in his mouth isn't a great thing to do if you're wearing a white T-shirt.

“Another ride?” Buzzy asked when we staggered off the Scrambler. “Let's stay outside. Don't try to hide.”

“In a while. I want to get some food.” And I didn't want to get in trouble if he tried to sneak onto another ride. I followed my nose to the funnel cake stand and bought myself a sugar-covered mass of deep-fried happiness.

Just as I was picking up my plate from the counter, Buzzy grabbed my shoulder and shouted, “Open wide! I found the coolest ride!”

The jolt sent my funnel cake sliding off the paper plate into the dirt. As I was wondering whether I could pick it up and brush it off, two little kids ran right over it.

“Let's go!” Buzzy shouted, tugging at me. “You're slow. Can't say no.” He dragged me over to a really run-down-looking ride at the far end of the midway.

The sign in front, made of large individual flaking red letters that dangled from a crossbar above the entrance, read,
WILD BLUE YONDER.
The
Y
was hanging at an angle like it was ready to drop off. The rusted ride might have been blue a long time ago, but it sure didn't look very wild. It was basically a small jet with two seats on a shaft that could swing in different directions. The jet itself looked like it could rotate on the end of the shaft. Not bad—but I really didn't want to be next to Buzzy when I was being shaken all over the place.

Scratchy music played from somewhere at the base of the ride. I recognized the song. It was the air force theme about flying off into the wild blue yonder. Okay—so the name sort of made sense.

A dozen kids were lined up, waiting their turn. There was a gate right inside the entrance. Kids moved inside the gate after they gave the guy their ticket.

“You go ahead,” I told Buzzy.

“Okay. Hey, look!” He pointed over my head. As I turned, he stuck his foot in front of me and shoved me from behind.

I let out a shout as I tripped and fell into the only mud puddle in the whole carnival. A couple people came over to help me up, including the guy who ran the ride. He looked a lot like the guy who ran the sausage booth. Maybe they were brothers. After I got to my feet, I saw Buzzy at the front of the line. He'd hopped the gate.

The guy glanced at Buzzy, but didn't say anything. He just let him on. Before the next kid could get in, the guy said, “One at a time.”

The ride started out slowly, then picked up speed. In a moment, it was really swooping around. It looked cool enough that I almost wished I was on it. Then again, I could always ride it after Buzzy got off.

“It's not
mild
!” Buzzy shouted as he swooped past.

I noticed that the letters in the name shook. On his next swoop, Buzzy shouted, “You're such a
child
!”

The letters shook again. But not all of them. I realized it was just the
I, L,
and
D.
That was weird. They bounced like someone had given the support post a hard kick.

As Buzzy shot past again, he yelled, “This is
wild
!”

The letters in
WILD
shook, then fell off the crossbar, one at a time. The
W
barely missed the head of a kid who was standing in the line.

Buzzy was now riding the
BLUE YONDER
.

“Me!” he shouted as he swooped by. “I'm riding.”

Next swoop, he pointed at me. “You're
not
!”

The
N
and the
O
in
BLUE YONDER
shook. There wasn't a
T
. I wondered whether letters would fall only if they matched the whole word. Not that it mattered—as long as
nobody was standing underneath the sign, nobody would get hurt.

Buzzy ran through a half dozen rhymes for
not,
and then shouted, “You don't have a
clue
!”

As the
L, U,
and
E
shook, my eyes locked on the sign. I'd always been good with word games. What I saw made my knees buckle. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I realized that Buzzy's words might matter a lot.
Don't say it,
I thought. But I knew it was coming. He was running out of other words.

“The ride's not
through
!”

I wondered if there was any way I could get him to be quiet.

“You belong in a
zoo
!”

Just the
O
shook.

“Go buy a
canoe
!”

I glanced at the ride operator. Maybe the ride would end before Buzzy said the wrong thing. I hoped so. But the guy was standing there with his arms folded across his chest like he was willing to let
BLUE YONDER
run all day.

Buzzy pointed at me and screamed, “I'm better than
you
!”

Oh, no. He'd said it.
You.
I looked at the sign. The
Y
fell first, leaving
BLUE ONDER.
The
U
fell, leaving
BL E ONDER.
Finally, the
O
dropped. The sign now read
BL E NDER.
The crossbar was still shaking enough to make the letters slide together. Buzzy was no longer riding the
BLUE YONDER
. He was strapped into the
BLENDER
.

I hoped nothing else would change, but I sort of knew what was coming. The jet tilted so its nose pointed straight up. The wings folded down. The tail turned into a blade that pulled into the bottom of the jet.

I flinched as a whirring sound ripped through the air. I heard Buzzy scream,
“Help!”
His scream was followed by sounds I didn't want to identify.

The whir slowed, and then stopped. The ride, still shaped like a blender, lowered itself to the ground and settled into the base. I heard a liquidy sort of slurping, like when water runs down a half-clogged drain.

I noticed a thick hose attached to the base. I followed it with my eyes, though I really didn't have to. I was pretty sure I knew where it led. The hose, snaking its way among the dozens of cables and wires that cross a carnival ground, ran all the way to the rear of Sonny's Super Sloppy Sausage Sandwich booth. I guess Buzzy was headed there himself.

I wasn't in the mood for any more rides. And I really wasn't in the mood for any food. I headed to the parking lot to wait for Mrs. Skantz. It was going to be kind of hard to explain about Buzzy. I guess I was sorry we'd come to the carnival. But I was pretty glad I didn't eat the sausage.

H
ey, I'm sorry
to bother you, but I have to talk to someone. We're both waiting for the bus anyhow, so I hope you won't mind. I don't think the next one's coming for a half hour. Okay if we talk?

“Great. I'm Linda, by the way. I think we go to the same middle school. I've seen you in the halls. You might have seen me, but I'd understand if you didn't notice me. Nobody notices me. That's how my big problem started. I was getting all sad and depressed because it seemed I'd have to go through life just not being popular or anything. Then I found this book in the used-book store. It had fallen behind one of the shelves. I had the feeling it had been there for ages. It was a book of spells.

“I know that stuff can be dangerous, but I was sort of desperate. So I looked through it, and there was a whole section of social spells, like how to make a guy fall in love with you, and how to win a contest. But I really didn't want any guy to fall in love with me at the time, and there wasn't any contest I needed to win. I just wanted a better social life.

“I found a spell that promised to make me fascinating. I knew that would do the trick. Hey—I notice you keep looking at your watch. So I guess you already figured out that I'm not fascinating. I'm my usual old boring self.

“If you guessed that I messed up the spell, you're right. The ingredients were pretty simple, except for the bat's wing. I'm not even going to tell you how I got one of those. Anyhow, I mixed it all up in a copper bowl, just like the book says, then put it in a shallow pan in the oven. Luckily, it's not something you have to drink. No way I'm drinking anything that's got a bat's wing in it. You just boil it up, and then wait for it to cool and dip your left hand in it.

“So I did all of that, and I'm all set to be popular. But the moment I dipped my hand in the mixture, I started talking. I guess you've noticed I've barely stopped to take a breath.

“What's this about? I ask myself. I check the spell really carefully, and I notice that I was supposed to use a toadstool taken from a graveyard. But I guess what I used was a mushroom or something. I'm not even sure what the difference is. The point is, I didn't cast the spell I wanted. So now I don't know what to do.

“That's a nice watch, by the way. I guess we've been here for a while. The bus should be coming pretty soon.

“Anyhow. I looked through the book, page by page, and I found another spell that was close to mine. This one was just like the one for popularity, except that it used a mushroom instead of a toadstool. As I said, I really don't know the difference. But, obviously, I ended up making the wrong spell. Unfortunately, this one wasn't in the social section. It was in the section for dealing with enemies.

“This spell lets you talk. Actually, it makes you talk. So
here I am, forced to keep talking. I've been talking for three days, now. I can't stop. Let me tell you, this is definitely not the way to become popular. I'm sure not messing with any more spells. Not ever.

“But the good thing is that the spell doesn't last forever. It's pretty easy to remove. Well, maybe not pretty easy, but it can be removed.

“Oh, look, the bus is coming.

“Anyhow, all I have to do to remove it is find someone who will listen to me for half an hour. Well, actually, it doesn't get removed. It sort of gets transferred.

“I guess I don't have anything else to say. Thanks for listening. What's that? I'm sorry, I really don't feel like hearing anyone else's chatter. Gotta go. Bye.”