The Odds Get Even (11 page)

T
he next morning, the Odds were on their best behaviour. Even Miss Sours, who was on a yardstick rampage in homeroom, could find no fault with them. The boys breezed through their classes, determined to make it through the day without incident so as not to disrupt their plan to get even with Larry Harry that night.

“We just have to make it through gym,” Itchy prayed as he held his lacrosse stick in goal.

Boney stared back at Larry Harry, who growled like a rabid dog from centre field. Boney squinted his eyes, bolstered by the knowledge that by nightfall he would have the last laugh—at Larry’s expense.

Colonel R.’s whistle pierced the air. Boney dodged as Larry ploughed past him, snapping up the ball. He turned, driving the ball at Itchy, who raised his stick
instinctively and, causing great surprise to everyone, caught the ball with a grunt as it whizzed toward his head. Jones and Jones charged toward Itchy, who gaped at the ball in momentary disbelief then quickly flipped it as if it were a ticking bomb to Boney, who was back on his feet and holding his stick expectantly in the air. Boney caught the ball and drove it down the field to Wormer, who ducked, allowing the ball to zip over his head and into Larry’s stick. Larry drove the ball to Jones, who flipped it to Jones, who drove it at the net, hitting Itchy square between the shoulders as he turned to avoid the ball, knocking him breathless to the ground.

Colonel R.’s whistle trilled, indicating end of play and game over. Boney rushed over to Itchy, who lay sprawled over the grass, his skinny arms and legs splayed out like a lanky white starfish.

“Itchy, that was fantastic!”

“I think my back’s broken.”

“Take him to the nurse,” Colonel R. barked as Boney and Itchy limped off the field.

“Did you put the note in his locker?” Itchy asked, his eyes glazed with pain.

“Yeah,” Boney said. “Just before we came down for gym. Now all we have to do is get to the Old Mill and wait for nightfall.”

The nurse patched Itchy together with a bandage
around his back and another around his head. When she was finished, the two boys went looking for Squeak and found him hiding behind the stacks in the library. As they left the school, Itchy pulled his yellow-and-black toque over the bandage on his head.

“It’s a good thing my mom made this hat so big.”

“How do we know Larry will show up at the Old Mill?” Squeak asked again.

“We don’t know,” Boney said. “But I’d bet my stash of jawbreakers that he will. He can’t refuse my offer.”

“What did you write in the note?” Squeak asked.

“I told him to meet us at the Old Mill after dark…or else.”

“Or else what?” Itchy piped up, a look of panic on his face.

“Or else…nothing. I didn’t say what.”

“So…just a general ‘or else’ threat,” Squeak qualified.

“Yeah, something like that,” Boney said.

Itchy suddenly turned as though to run away. Boney and Squeak grabbed his arms. Itchy’s knees buckled. “I don’t like the sound of this, Boney. Larry has it in for me already. Look at me! I’m covered in bandages from head to toe. If this thing fails tonight, you may as well plan my funeral!”

Squeak helped steady Itchy on his feet, then pulled the Apparator from his messenger bag. “I just can’t help
feeling disappointed,” he said, glumly. “I had such high hopes for this invention.”

Just as he said this, the Apparator was wrenched from his hand. Itchy shouted with terror at the sight of Larry Harry.

“What’s this, pipsqueak?” Larry said, brandishing the Apparator.

Boney lunged for the detector. “Give it back.”

Larry tossed the Apparator from hand to hand. “Is this your big secret invention? A nightlight?”

“It’s an apparitions detector,” Squeak said, trying to grab the Apparator.

“Speak English, dog-breath, or I’ll stuff you in a sewer hole.”

Squeak took a guarded step back. “It’s a ghost detector.”

“Aaaahhhh! Don’t tell him,” Itchy howled.

Larry grabbed Squeak by the shirt. “A ghost detector…how does it work?”

Squeak gaped at Larry from behind his goggles as Itchy frantically flagged a passing car for help. When the car actually slowed down, Larry lit out with the Apparator in hand.

“I’ll see you tonight, suckers!” he shouted, crumpling up Boney’s note and tossing it in Itchy’s face.

“He took the Apparator!” Squeak cried.

“What are we going to do?” Itchy wailed.

“We don’t need the Apparator for tonight,” Boney said.

“We’re doomed,” Itchy moaned.

“No we’re not,” Boney assured him. “Come on.”

The three boys walked down the street, Itchy looking cagily over his shoulder, Squeak dragging his heels. The sound of Elvis music could be heard as they approached Itchy’s house. When they walked up the stairs, the front door flew open to reveal Mr. Schutz striking a pose in the doorway in his newly sequined outfit. He glanced at Itchy’s bandages and curled his lip. “You betta watch yourself, boy. You’re turning into a mummy…or something.”

Itchy’s mom rushed to the door wearing something that looked like a cross between a hand-knit sweater and a full-length wool gown. “Oh, my poor baby!” She began kissing Itchy all over his bandaged head.

“I’m okay, Mom,” Itchy said.

“How did this happen?” she demanded.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Itchy insisted. “It was just a stupid lacrosse accident.”

“I’m going to call your teacher.”

“Oh, no. Please, Mom. That would only make matters worse.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Schutz,” Boney said. “After tonight, this will never happen again.”

“What’s happening tonight?” she asked.

Squeak elbowed Boney hard in the ribs.

“Oh, uh, we’re going to practise some moves to help Itchy improve his game. We’ll pick you up later, okay, Itchy?”

Itchy disappeared into the house with his mom.

“Don’t forget your special-effects kit,” Boney reminded Squeak as he dropped him off at his house. “And don’t worry about the Apparator. I’ll think of a way to get it back.”

Squeak nodded listlessly and disappeared inside.

When Boney walked into the kitchen of his own house, his aunt was there, balanced on top of a chair in her best apron and snapping her gingham tea towel like a bullwhip at the fridge.

“Oh, William, thank heavens!” she gasped. “There’s a spider on the fridge and it just about killed me!”

Boney stared at her in horror. His aunt only wore her best apron when company was coming. And he could smell his most dreaded meal of all cooking in the oven:
meatloaf
.

“Please, William,” his aunt cried. “I think it’s poisonous.”

“Venomous,” Boney corrected her as he grabbed a margarine tub off the table and dragged a chair over to the fridge, hoping to capture the spider and let it outside before his aunt lashed it to death. But she was whipping
and snapping the towel so wildly that he had to dodge for his life. He could barely see the top of the fridge, let alone a little spider hiding out there. When the towel came dangerously close to his eyes, Boney ducked, only to be clipped in the ear.

“Owwwww!” he howled, and the margarine tub tumbled to the floor.

“There it is!” his aunt shrieked, whipping and snapping faster than ever.

The spider, little more than a black speck, dashed out from behind an amber vase on the fridge and flew through the air, straight at Boney’s aunt. She screamed hysterically, falling backwards off her chair onto the margarine tub. The tub burst, splattering margarine all over everything.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” she cried, holding up her hands. “The spider slimed me!”

“It’s only margarine,” Boney said. “I thought the tub was empty.”

Boney’s uncle scurried into the kitchen. “Oh, my.” He helped his wife from the floor.

“Did you see it?” she asked. “It was the size of my hand.”

Boney looked at his uncle and shook his head, indicating the true size of the spider with his thumb and forefinger.

Boney’s uncle sighed. “Now, now, dear. You don’t want to get yourself worked up before our company arrives.”

“Company?” Boney gulped with dismay. “Who?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sampson,” his uncle spluttered.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sampson!” Boney wailed. “They’re coming here?”

His uncle nodded.

“But why?! All they do is eat and talk and laugh about nothing. You said you’d never invite them over again after the last time!”

Boney’s uncle looked sheepishly over at his wife.

“Mrs. Sampson is a friend of mine from high school,” Boney’s aunt snapped. “They’re very nice people…perhaps a little loud and messy…but they’re coming all the way from Poughkeepsie, and I’m not about to turn them out because you two haven’t a clue how to behave in good company.”

“Yes, yes,” Boney’s uncle sighed. “You’d better go upstairs and get changed,” he told Boney. “They’ll be here any minute.”

B
oney walked reluctantly from the kitchen, grabbing the olive oil from the table as he went. He would need the oil later on to help with his plan. That is, if his plan was still possible. With company coming, he wouldn’t be allowed out. He’d have to stay and be polite and listen to endless conversations about nothing.

In his bedroom, Boney slumped in front of the Tele-tube, ears red from his aunt’s wayward tea towel. “Squeak. Are you there? Over.”

“Squeak here.”

“We’ve got a situation,” Boney said. “A fly in the ointment.”

“Worse than Larry Harry stealing our invention?” Squeak’s dejected voice floated through the Tele-tube.

“Much worse. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. They’re coming for dinner. And there’s meatloaf in the oven.”

“Ehhhh…sorry to hear that.” Squeak gulped.
“They stayed until midnight the last time, if I remember correctly. What’s the game plan?”

“Operation Speedo.”

“You own a Speedo?”

“I have to get sent to bed early so I can sneak out undetected.”

“Affirmative,” Squeak said. “Predicted success rate?”

“Unknown at this time,” Boney answered. “But the situation is dire. I repeat, the situation is dire. Over.”

“Roger that.”

Mr. and Mrs. Sampson were already seated at the dining-room table by the time Boney appeared wearing nothing but a Speedo, some flippers, and a snorkel mask. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, glasses and hors d’oeuvres suspended in the air and mouths gaping as Boney flipped up to the table and took his seat.

“Hello,” he said.

“W-what in the world…” his aunt gasped. She turned apologetically to her dinner guests, who stared at Boney as though he had three heads.

“How odd,” Mr. Sampson mumbled.

Boney smiled as though everything was normal. “Could you pass the salt?” he asked Mrs. Sampson, who clutched at her blouse.

“The boy must have a fever,” his uncle said, placing his hand on Boney’s forehead.

Boney yawned heavily. “I’m fine. May I have some delicious meatloaf, Auntie, please?”

Boney’s uncle scowled. “Just as I thought. He’s running a temperature. You’d best go to bed.” He stood up, yanked Boney’s chair from the table, and helped him to his flippered feet.

Boney gave another big yawn. “I’m so sleepy. Will you save some delicious meatloaf for me, Auntie?”

“Go,” his uncle said, pointing to the stairs.

Boney flip-flopped sideways up the steps, taking the opportunity to catch his breath several times for dramatic effect. When he was safely back in his room, he closed the door and flippered happily to the Tele-tube.

“Mission accomplished,” he whispered.

“Most impressive,” Squeak said. “I never imagined the Speedo was such a powerful weapon. What’s the ETA for the Old Mill?”

“Thirty minutes and counting. I just need to get my stuff together. Relay details to Itchy. Over.”

“Roger that.”

Boney covered the Tele-tube, then changed from his Speedo into his jeans and dark-blue sweatshirt, pushing the Blaster water gun into his waistband. He would slip out of his room, then sneak down the stairs and out the front door while his aunt and uncle were distracted by their guests. If he was quiet enough and avoided steps
three, seven, and nine, he should be able to leave the house undetected.

Taking a pile of dirty clothes from his bedroom floor, Boney arranged them under his covers in a shape that resembled his body. For the head, he stuffed a small pillowcase, placing his yellow-and-black toque on top. Then he positioned the fake head in the bed so that it looked as if he were sleeping with his back to the door. With the lights turned off, the dirty-laundry dummy struck a very convincing figure.

Boney looked out his bedroom window. The sun was already sinking below the houses on Green Bottle Street. Soon it would be dark. If all went well, by this time tomorrow, Larry’s bullying would be a thing of the past.

Unscrewing the lid from the bottle of olive oil, Boney poured some on the hinges of his door so they wouldn’t creak when he opened it to escape. The oil worked beautifully; the door opened silently.

The stairs were another matter altogether. He knew he should avoid steps three, seven, and nine, but he had forgotten about the loose board on stair thirteen. The board creaked like a coffin lid as Boney placed his weight on the step. From where he was standing, he could see his uncle being bored to death at the table and his aunt pretending to laugh at some stupid joke of Mr. Sampson’s.
His aunt turned slightly as the stair groaned beneath Boney’s foot. He stopped dead in his tracks, waited until his aunt turned back toward her guests, then navigated the rest of the stairs to the front door.

The olive oil was applied to the hinges of the front door as well. When he was sure he’d used enough to make a difference, Boney placed the bottle of oil on the floor next to the wall and proceeded to open the door—ever so silently, ever so slowly.

Just as Boney was about to slip through the door, there was a terrifying shout and he was sure he’d been caught. But it was just Mr. Sampson telling one of his stupid stories.

Crouching low, Boney snuck past the dining-room window and crept along the walkway to the garage to retrieve his Schwinn. He manoeuvred the bike to the sidewalk and made his way to Squeak’s. Once there, Boney threw a pebble at his friend’s bedroom window. Squeak appeared in the window for only a moment before disappearing and reappearing at the front door of the house, his military messenger bag stuffed with special-effects paraphernalia.

“How did you get past your aunt?” he asked as he grabbed his own bike and walked with Boney to Itchy’s.

“It wasn’t too hard,” Boney said. “I used olive oil on the door hinges.”

“What if they discover you’re gone?”

“They won’t. I made a dummy out of old clothes so they’ll think I’m still there.”

Squeak nodded in admiration.

“Did you bring your camera?” Boney asked.

Squeak opened his bag, revealing the Polaroid.

“Good.”

When they reached Itchy’s, the boys found Snuff waiting on the porch. But instead of attacking Boney the way he usually did, the little dog whined and quickly slunk down the stairs into the shadows.

“What’s gotten into him?” Squeak asked.

Boney secured his Blaster in his waistband. “Beats me.”

Peering through the living-room window, the boys could see Itchy’s father practising his Elvis routine. He gyrated and danced, striking impressive poses and singing into a dish detergent bottle. Itchy’s mother sat watching on the couch, a pleasantly tolerant look on her face.

“She’s probably seen the same routine a million times,” Boney said. “Maybe it’s time to start working on some new material…”

Just then, Itchy appeared at the door, wearing a hand-knit fuchsia balaclava. “Thank heavens you’re here,” he said. “I couldn’t stand to listen to that song one more time. He’s been rehearsing for hours.” He
looked at Squeak’s messenger bag. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Is that really necessary?” Boney asked, pointing to the balaclava.

“I don’t want to be recognized.”

“But anyone could tell it’s you,” Boney said.

Itchy looked to Squeak for support.

Squeak nodded. “It’s true.”

Itchy pulled the balaclava from his head and stuffed it in the mailbox.

“Come on,” Boney said. “We should hurry. We don’t want Larry to get to the mill before us.”