Authors: Natale Ghent
T
he next day at school, the Odds managed to avoid Larry Harry and Jones and Jones for several classes. They slipped from homeroom undetected, and made it through geography and English without so much as a small incident. But by science class, Larry was wadding up paper and spitting it through a straw into Itchy’s hair, which was so wild and unkempt that he couldn’t even feel the impact. The Odds simply focused on their science lab, where a Bunsen burner flamed beneath a test tube of unidentified purple liquid, until a particularly large spitball hit the test tube, knocking it to the desk and setting their entire station on fire.
The Odds leapt off their stools, shouting unintelligibly. Mr. Harvey sprang from behind his desk, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and blasted the fire with foam until it was out. The lab station resembled a giant burnt marshmallow. The teacher even blasted several shots at
Itchy’s hair, convinced it was part of the problem.
“What happened here?” Mr. Harvey demanded.
Boney lifted his scorched lab manual from the desk. It was dripping with foam from the extinguisher. “It was an accident, sir,” he said, scowling at Larry Harry, who by this time was innocently working away on his side of the room. Jones and Jones snickered as Itchy drew some foam from his hair and discovered the spitballs.
“Disgusting! I can’t go through the rest of the day like this.”
But as bad as the situation was, he had to admit that spitballs in his hair was better than getting creamed in lacrosse, which is exactly what happened next, when Boney and Itchy went out for gym.
Out at centre field, Boney stared back at Larry, lacrosse stick in hand, body poised to spring. He shot a look over at Itchy, who gripped his lacrosse stick in goal, his entire body shaking with fear. Larry bared his teeth like a wolverine. Colonel R. blew the whistle. Boney dove, snatching up the ball, only to have Larry trip him with his stick. Boney thumped to the ground, the ball bouncing across the grass. Larry scooped it up and drove it at Itchy, who was hit by Jones and Jones as he rushed forward, crashing him backwards into the net.
“It’s a plot,” Itchy groaned as he and Boney limped
home after school that day, Squeak at their side. “They’re determined to kill anyone with an IQ over fifty.”
Boney gritted his teeth in pain. “Don’t worry. Larry’s going to be sorry he was ever born.”
Itchy stared at him incredulously. “
I’m
sorry I was ever born. It’s going to take me months to get these spitballs out of my hair.”
Boney and Squeak helped him up the stairs to his house.
“See you after dinner at the clubhouse tonight,” Boney said. “And don’t forget to bring something to eat, if you can.”
“Eat…right,” Itchy said as he staggered into his house and shut the door.
“See you soon,” Squeak called out to Boney as the two boys parted ways.
When Boney entered the kitchen, the smell of frying onions made him forget his agony. Was it possible his aunt was actually cooking something good?
“Smells great,” he said, just as his aunt dumped a can of soup into the pan.
Boney grimaced and made his way to his room, dropping his books on his bed. He did some science homework, starting a new notebook to replace the one ruined in class that day. He thought about his essay for English for a while. When he grew bored of that,
he washed carefully behind his ears to be presentable at dinner. He didn’t want his aunt to have any reason to keep him detained that night. Boney pored over his math text then, finishing the last of the equations assigned that day in class. At 6:30 on the dot, his aunt called him down for dinner.
At the supper table, his uncle was in his usual spot, reading the paper. He smiled as Boney took his seat, then frowned when he saw the grey glop on his plate. Folding his paper, he sighed resolutely and began to eat. Boney did the same, eating methodically until his plate was clean.
“May I have another serving?” he asked, holding up his plate.
“Well, of course, dear,” Boney’s aunt gushed, heaping another glop onto Boney’s plate.
His uncle watched with concern as Boney finished his second helping, then pushed his dishes to the centre of the table.
“May I be excused?”
“Have you finished your homework, young man?” Boney’s aunt asked as she cleared the dishes.
“Yes, ma’am,” Boney said, leaving the table and pulling a plastic container from the cupboard.
His aunt eyed the container suspiciously. “Just where do you think you’re going with my best Tupperware?”
Boney put on his most sincere face. “I wanted to share some of your delicious casserole with my friends.”
His uncle whistled softly under his breath.
His aunt twisted her mouth to one side. “Don’t they have food of their own?”
“They do,” Boney conceded, “but their parents don’t cook as well as you.” He forced his mouth into a smile.
His aunt beamed proudly. “You can use the old margarine tubs,” she said, handing Boney several plastic containers from under the sink.
“Thanks.”
Boney began ladling out the casserole, the grey glop thumping into the containers. He flattened it down with a wooden spoon, secured the lids, then placed the tubs in a paper grocery bag. He added several slices of bread for good measure, then scoured the cupboards for something sweet. He found a tin of bran muffins and decided they were better than nothing, even if they were hard as hockey pucks. He wished he could bring something good, like chocolate chip cookies or brownies, but his aunt didn’t believe in feeding children “such junk.”
“Sorry, Rufus,” Boney apologized as he tossed a few hard muffins in with the bread and casserole.
Folding the paper bag, Boney carried the care package to the clubhouse.
Itchy was already waiting, wearing an ill-fitting
black-and-yellow knit toque and swinging languidly in the old tire, his mom’s bike leaning against the oak tree. “There’s one for each of us,” he said, producing an identical yellow-and-black toque from his coat pocket.
Up in the clubhouse, Boney pulled the toque over his head and rolled the rim until he could see properly. The two boys unfolded the Elvis costume and began to sew while they waited for Squeak.
Eventually, they heard a struggling sound, and soon Squeak’s head appeared in Escape Hatch #1. He stared at Boney and Itchy’s hats.
“There’s one for each of us,” Boney said, pointing to a third toque on the table.
“Oh…are we establishing a dress code?”
Boney turned to Itchy.
“My mom thought it’d be nice to have matching hats, seeing as we have the clubhouse and all.”
“That was nice of her,” Squeak said. “I bet you can’t guess what I’ve got.”
“Leftovers?” Boney said.
“Wrong!” Squeak raised his hands, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s another mascot!”
“Squeak, no!” Boney yelled as Itchy lunged to cover the Elvis costume.
Squeak opened his hands. But instead of a dog, he unleashed a small, fuzzy chick onto the clubhouse floor.
“A bird?” Itchy asked.
“A hen,” Squeak answered proudly. “My dad ordered her for me from the farm co-op. I figured she would make a great mascot because when she’s old enough to lay eggs we’ll have a continuous supply of ammo to use against Prisoner 95 and his fellow convicts.”
The little chick peeped as it began scratching and searching the clubhouse for bugs.
“See how good she is?” Squeak beamed. “She can reduce the standing bug population and she doesn’t mind being high up in a tree.”
Itchy handed Squeak the toque from the table. “I hate to burst your bubble, Squeak, but chickens can’t fly.”
“I am aware of that,” Squeak answered, obediently donning the toque. “They
roost
. They fly just enough to get up and down safely.”
“If you roll up the rim, it’ll fit better,” Boney said. He looked at the chick. “I think she’s cute. What’s her name?”
Squeak worked the rim on the toque. “I think we should call her Henrietta.”
The chick peeped as though in agreement.
“Henrietta it is,” Boney said. “What does she eat?”
“She likes everything,” Squeak said, adjusting his hat. “But I bought her some feed, just in case.” He pulled
a handful of ground corn from his pocket and scattered it over the clubhouse floor. The chick began greedily pecking and scratching at the corn.
“I have a box for her, too,” Squeak said. He climbed back down the ladder and then reappeared with a box and an old towel. “She can sleep in here at night.” He placed the box on the floor, pulled one side down to create an entranceway, and carefully arranged the towel inside. The little chick hopped into the box and nestled in the towel.
Itchy leaned over to take a closer look. “I guess having a chicken for a mascot isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of appropriate.” He scratched the chick on the top of her head. “Better start laying eggs fast,” he said, then returned to his sewing. He affixed another sequin to the costume and held it up proudly. “Can you believe it? It’s finally done!”
“We have to celebrate!” Boney said, opening the cooler and producing three cans of ginger ale. He tossed one to each of the boys then cracked his open with a loud hiss. “To a job well done!”
The boys clinked their cans together.
Itchy guzzled his soda, slurping loudly. “I never thought it was possible.” He let out a huge burp.
Boney and Squeak did the same.
“Now we can focus on our invention,” Squeak said.
Boney turned to Squeak. “Hey, what’d you bring for Rufus?”
“A TV dinner.”
“How’s he supposed to heat it?” Itchy asked.
Squeak shrugged.
“What’d you bring?” Boney asked Itchy.
Itchy produced half a dozen purple Pixy Stix. Boney raised his eyebrows.
“What?” Itchy said defensively. “I wasn’t about to give him my Pez.”
“Even Squeak’s uncooked TV dinner is better than that,” Boney admonished.
“Actually, TV dinners are precooked,” Squeak corrected him. “They just need to be heated up.”
“Right…” Itchy said. “What’d you bring, then, Boney?”
“
Supper Surprise Casserole
.”
“Are you trying to kill him?”
“It’s the only thing I had. I brought bread, too, and muffins.”
“Mmmmmm…delicious,” Itchy mocked.
“It’s better than a bunch of stupid Pixy Stix—and all the same flavour, too.”
“Shall we go, gentlemen?” Squeak said, interrupting the argument.
Itchy folded his father’s costume carefully, placing it in a bag to protect it on the short trip home. “Take care of the clubhouse while we’re gone!” he called out happily to Henrietta as he climbed down the ladder.
Henrietta peeped cheerfully from her box.
THE THREE FRIENDS pedalled quickly down the street, skidding to a stop in front of Itchy’s house. They marched in procession up the stairs and through the door, up to the second floor and down the hall to the closet, where Itchy hung the costume with great reverence.
“Never again,” he vowed as he straightened the bag covering the suit.
“Never again,” Squeak echoed.
Snuff appeared from Itchy’s bedroom. Boney lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing the Blaster. The dog cowered, slinking silently back into the shadows.
“Come on, guys,” Boney said. “Let’s go.”
Back on the street, the Odds pedalled to the Old Mill. When they reached the dilapidated stone foundation, they rested their bikes against the wall and carried their food offerings to the firepit.
“Where are the rest of the Pixy Stix?” Boney asked
Itchy, who had produced only two sticks instead of six.
“I got hungry on the way,” Itchy said, his tongue a brilliant purple.
“You’re hopeless,” Boney sighed. He placed his care package on the log by the pit. Squeak and Itchy did the same.
“Rufus,” Boney called out in a loud whisper. “We’ve brought something for you.”
“Some crappy casserole and a frozen TV dinner,” Itchy called out before Boney could smack him on the arm.
“Who’s there?” a voice rasped from behind a pile of stones.
“It’s us,” Boney said. “The kids you scared the other night.”
“That could be anyone,” Squeak whispered to Boney.
“The three kids who discovered your identity,” Boney corrected himself.
The boys waited expectantly. At last Rufus appeared from behind the rocks. Boney held up the care package.
“What’ve you got there?” Rufus asked.
“Food,” Boney said.
Rufus eyed the bags hungrily. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“It isn’t the greatest food in the world,” Boney apologized.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Rufus said, pulling the casserole and the frozen TV dinner from the bag.
Itchy reluctantly handed over the last two purple Pixy Stix. “Here,” he said. “We brought you these, too.”
Rufus’s eyes lit up when he saw the candy. “Much obliged,” he said, with genuine gratitude.
The three boys watched as Rufus tucked into the food like a hungry dog. He ate silently, burning through the casserole and bread. It wasn’t until he was halfway through the TV dinner that he slowed down enough to actually speak. He looked up from the tray. “Nice hats,” he said, sopping up gravy with a bran muffin.
Boney took the opportunity to ask his question. “Mr. Rufus…” he began.
“Just Rufus, son. No need for formalities here.”
“Rufus…” Boney corrected himself. “We were wondering if you could maybe help us out with something.”
“What is it?”
Squeak produced the Apparator from his bag.
“Ahhh…yes.” Rufus pushed the food to one side and took the device, turning it over in his hands. “This is a mighty fine piece of work, boys. Couldn’t have done any better myself.”
“Except it doesn’t work,” Squeak said.
“Well, now, let’s see…” Rufus accepted a screwdriver from Squeak and began making adjustments. He tightened the coils and peered along the length of the handle. He held the tube to his ear and tapped it lightly with one finger. He checked the wires leading to the switch and clicked it on and off several times, then listened to the tube again. “Seems fine to me,” he said, handing the device and screwdriver back to Squeak.