Scab for Treasurer? Page 5
My best friend is soon swallowed up by the crowd. Sweet! This is going to be my best stunt ever.
Never Missy is beside me. She is twirling a paper umbrella above her left ear. “Miss Sweetandsour said we couldn’t do any giveaways. No fair.”
“Yes, fair,” I shoot back. “I am not giving anything away. Kids are bringing stuff to me. There’s no rule against that.”
Her face red, Never Missy stomps away.
I’ve never felt so good. Or so powerful.
“Scab, will you eat fruitcake?” shouts Carlton Cho. “It’s been in our pantry for, like, ten years.”
“Bring it!”
Isabelle is charging toward me, wildly shaking her carton of chocolate milk. “Scab McNally, you take those signs off right now. I thought you were kidding with this whole human vacuum thing.”
She really ought to know better. “No such luck,” I say. “I’m doing the stunt.”
“You’re nuts,” says Isabelle. “Completely nuts.”
“Yeah, I’ll eat any kind of nuts,” I say loudly for everyone around us to hear. To her, I hiss, “Go away, Izzy. You’ll ruin everything.”
“You think I’m ruining it now?”
Bug spit! She is going to tattle.
“Come on, Isabelle, it’s only for a few votes.”
“Of all the stupid stunts you’ve done in your lifetime, Scab, this tops it. You’re going to get sick. Or worse.”
“I can do this. What about all the crazy recipes I’ve invented on my own, like peanut butter–root beer floats and salami-applesauce wraps?”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“My stomach can take it. You said so.”
“What I said was that your stomach was going to explode.”
“Trust me, Isabelle, I can eat anything.”
“Anything?” says Lewis.
“I’m not eating dirt, Lewis!” I shout. I move my sister to the end of the row. “Please, Isabelle, don’t tattle. This is my chance to win the election.”
* SCAB NEWS *
BY ISABELLE C. MCNALLY (FIRST RUNNER-UP, GIRL SCOUTS REGIONAL POETRY CONTEST)
* 8:25 a.m.: Scab forgot his campaign signs at home. He hasn’t written anything for his speech tomorrow either.
* 9:38 a.m.: Scab took my lunch, but I got mine back at first recess. Mom, please write his name on his lunch sack in GIGANTIC letters so this does not happen again.
* 12:14 p.m.: I saw Scab at lunch. HINT: I can’t tell you if he’s up to something, but you might want to ask him what he’s having for his lunch tomorrow.
* 1:54 p.m.: Laura told me she saw Scab turning all of the books upside down in the library display case!
* 4:37 p.m.: Scab threw me out of his lab (how rude!) and locked the door.
* 6:07 p.m.: Scab still hasn’t put the jar of pickles back yet in the refrigerator. There’s some kind of fungus stuff growing on them. It waved to me. GROSS!
This concludes Scab News for today. Isabelle Catherine McNally reporting.
“I don’t see what a stupid stunt has to do with being president.”
Why do girls have to make everything SO complicated?
“It’s simple. They bring it. I eat it. They think it’s a great stunt. They vote for me.”
“But . . . why?”
“It’ll prove I have guts,” I say. “Kids like kids with guts. Kids with guts make good leaders, don’t they?”
“Maybe. . . . I don’t know.”
“Please, Izzy, don’t tattle.”
“You should be writing your campaign speech, not doing dumb stunts for attention.”
“So you won’t tell? See, Izzy, everybody is really excited about this.”
My sister sees the line of kids eagerly talking and laughing. She sees my clasped hands begging her to be on my side. For once.
Isabelle sighs. “All right. I won’t tell. But if you get sick and die, don’t come running to me.”
CHAPTER
9
The Most Important Thing
Someone is knocking at my lab door.
“Can’t you read the sign? My lab is C-L-O-S-E-D, Isabelle.” I am on the floor doing sit-ups. It’s part of my training. I always do a hundred sit-ups before every stunt.
Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
Now that I think about it, twenty sit-ups are probably plenty.
Two more sharp knocks.
“Go away, Izzy! Can’t you spell? I’m in training.”
Where was I? Nineteen, I think. And . . . twenty. Whew!
My door is opening.
“Geez, don’t you have ears? I said—Oh, hey, Dad. If this is about what Isabelle put in her report about me, it’s not true. I didn’t turn all the library books in the display case at school upside down.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.” When I see him grin, I know it is okay to confess. “I forgot one.”
He chuckles. “What are you in training for?”
* SCAB’S TIP #9 *
BEFORE DOING YOUR DARE-DEVIL STUNT, suspend all experiments for at least forty-eight hours. You can’t do a stunt if you’re grounded for figuring how much tapioca pudding it takes to fill your sister’s knit Hello Kitty hat.*
*Two and two-thirds cups
“Oh—nothing. I was trying to get Izzy to stop bugging me.”
My father nods and looks around at the mess. My workshop desk is covered with stuff: books, magazine articles, papers, scissors, glue sticks, duct tape, dog treats, earmuffs (don’t ask). Little yellow sticky notes are plastered on my computer, on the wall, on my clock, even on my model airplanes. Some of the sticky notes have ideas for inventions. Some have ideas to fix things that are wrong with old inventions. A few have questions that I hope to find the answers to. The place may look like a tornado hit, but I know where everything is.
When I catch my dad glancing at my open inventor’s notebook, I spring up. My notebook is full of top secret stuff. “So what’s up?”
He turns. I slide past him and quietly shut the notebook. This is Scab’s Inventor’s Notebook #2. My other one is hidden behind my dresser in my blue plastic Hot Wheels collector’s case. My notebooks contain all of my ideas, questions, notes, experiments, projects, inventions, and formulas. Everything is backed up on external hard drive and CD, of course.
* NOTES *
* Do fish sneeze?
* Are jelly beans made from jellyfish?
* Don’t use Fruit Roll-Ups for edible sock invention
* Brocco-bot: mini robot that eats your broccoli
* Distance from Odor ÷ Size of Nostrils (-Amount of Snot in Nose) = Speed of Smell
My dad kneels down to pet Joe. My dog is taking a nap on pile number three (clean laundry I am supposed to put away, but never do). “Your mom said you didn’t want to come down for dinner. You okay?”
“Uh-huh. Not hungry, that’s all.”
“Too many pizza rolls after school?”
“Yep,” I lie. I sure can’t tell him I am making room in my stomach to vacuum up tomorrow’s gross-out buffet, can I?
“Did you have a good lunch today?” He is sizing me up, which has me worried that Isabelle broke her promise. She has this evil way of tattling without really tattling. She’ll let you ask a bunch of questions, then nod or shake her head after each one until you guess what’s on her mind. She tattles without saying a word. See what I mean? Evil.
“I sure did,” I say, keeping my voice cool and calm. “Bologna, egg, marshmallow, and ketchup sandwich.” My voice cracks.
“Sooooo. How’s the election going?”
“It’s going.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say in your speech?”
“Oh, yeah. You bet. Absolutely.”
Haven’t a clue. The most important thing is my stunt.
“You know, the most important thing, Scab,” my dad says, “isn’t winning. It’s trying.”
Trying? He’s kidding, right? Nobody remembers who tried to win the World S
eries.
“So do your best. Take the high road. Be a good sport.”
Does he want me to do all of these things? How about if I pick just one?
“And remember, son, no matter what happens, your mother and I will always be proud of you.”
I cringe. I’m getting the No Matter What Happens speech. That’s the one your parents give you when they are certain you are about to tank. Ouch.
My lab door bursts open so hard it ricochets off the little rubber stopper on the wall. “Scab, I’ve got the— Oh.” Doyle stops short. He’s holding a piece of paper. He throws his arm behind his back. Real cool. Not. “Hi, uh . . . Mr. McNally.”
“Doyle.” My dad stands up. “You boys wouldn’t be cooking up anything, would you?”
“A new invention,” I say before my best friend starts leaking secrets all over my floor. “We’ll show you when we get further along, Dad.”
“All right,” says my dad, eyeing us. “Just don’t blow up the house.”
Doyle scoots past my dad, keeping his arms behind him. His face has no color. I slap him on the back. Hard. He starts breathing again.
“If you change your mind about dinner, come on down, boys. We’re having Chinese chicken salad.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”
When my dad leaves, I shut the door and shove my chair under the doorknob. “What have we got?”
Doyle hands me the sign-up sheet.
“This isn’t so bad,” I say, looking over the list of food I’m going to be horking down tomorrow. “I can do these. What is it with Lewis and dirt?”
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO SEE
* SCAB EAT? *
* Cloey — boiled liver and onions
* Meggie — pickled herring jam
* Juan — stinky cheese
* Beth — sardines
* Elliot — creamed cabbage
* Alec — my mom’s steamed prune pudding
* Kinsey — lemon
* Lewis — gooey pumpkin guts and dirt
* Henry — fried squid
* Felicia — lime Jell-O with nuts & tuna
* Jordyn — garlic
* Carlton — fossilized fruitcake
“Ignore it. I crossed it out,” says Doyle. “The best part is, you only have to eat one bite of each thing.”
“No problem. Easiest daredevil stunt ever.”
Doyle flops onto my bed. “I talked to Will. He’s going to keep Mrs. Zaff busy so she won’t get in our way.”
“He is? How?”
“Pop out his trick shoulder.”
“Good. It’s creepier than the knee.”
“I was thinking we’d set up at table four—”
“Where’s Never Missy’s food?” I ask, scanning the list a second time.
“She didn’t sign up to bring anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“That’s weird.”
“Nah, she’s scared. She knows she’s going down. You’re going to smoke her in the election and there’s nothing she can do about it. It’s over. I’ll bet she doesn’t even come to school tomorrow. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m going to set you up at table four. It’s right in the middle of the row where everybody can see you . . .”
As Doyle talks, I can’t help but wonder what Never Missy is up to. It’s not like her to give up so easily. On the other hand, she was pretty steamed at me today. Could Doyle be right? Has Never Missy decided to give up? She’s never lost before. It’s tough to lose. I ought to know—I do it once a week. Sometimes twice.
I lie down beside Joe on the pile of clean clothes. I don’t feel so good. I’m not hungry. I’m not sick. But I’m not well, either. I don’t know what’s wrong. Nerves, I bet. I take a deep breath and listen to my best friend talk about the stunt. I’m glad he’s here, because I can’t shake the feeling that a bunch of slimy green tentacles are out there.
Somewhere.
Waiting to strike.
CHAPTER
10
Showtime
Have a nice day. Have a nice day. Good luck with the stunt, Scab.”
A second away from hopping off the bus, I swing my head around. Zombie eyes are staring into mine. The corners of Ms. Rigormortis’s mouth inch upward. Was that a smile? Before I can decide, the lips are a straight line once again. “Have a nice day. Have a nice day.”
I hop off the bus. Doyle meets me at the curb. We walk to class in silence. There is nothing to say. He knows what he needs to do. I know what I need to do. I am so focused, it takes me a few minutes after the bell rings to realize the desk in front of me is empty. I can see into the shelf. There are several blue pens, the red puffball pen, a heart-shaped eraser, and a couple of those dumb yellow paper umbrellas. A see-through purple plastic ruler is teetering on the edge of a pencil holder. It looks like Never Missy is going to be tardy. Miss Sweetandsour takes roll after the bell. About twenty minutes into our geography lesson I realize Never Missy isn’t tardy. She isn’t coming at all! How about that? Doyle was right. She is scared of me. She’s given up. I’ve won! Scab McNally, Class President. I should print it on a T-shirt or something.
“My dad boiled up a fresh batch of liver last night,” Cloey whispers into my ear.
I figured. I could smell her from the parking lot. I turn around. Cloey is wearing a white V-neck sweater with three giant sunflowers sewn on the front. The yellow petals stick out in 3-D.
“I’m ready,” I say. “If I eat the liver, you’re going to vote for me, right?”
She bites her lip. “Ummmmm.”
“Come on, Cloey.”
She touches the brown center of one of the 3-D sunflowers. “If you eat a bite of everything, I guess I could vote for you.”
“Swear?”
She bends her pinky. I forgot. Girls pinky swear. Guys spit swear. It think it means more when you hurl saliva, but what can you do? I hook my pinky around hers and we shake on it.
I look at Never Missy’s chair. There’s a crack in the seat. I know it’s dumb, but I am starting to feel sorry for her. Kind of. I wanted to beat her, sure, but I never meant to frighten her away. What if she never comes back to school? I decide that, since I am almost president, I won’t be mad at Never Missy anymore for snagging my glow-in-the-dark rat. I lean forward and push the tippy purple ruler back into her desk.
SCAB’S SECRET TO SUCCESSFUL
* SPIT SWEARING *
PUT YOUR LIPS TOGETHER LIKE YOU’RE GOING to suck a really thick milk shake through a straw. Suck in as much air as you can. Gather up all the spit at the back of your throat, aim at your target, and then blow with everything you’ve got. Spit missile!
It’s nearly lunchtime when Miss Sweetandsour looks around the room. “You’ve all been so quiet this morning. Who are you and what have you done with my class?”
“We’re hungry,” I say, rubbing my stomach. “I sure hope there’s something good for lunch today.”
Everybody laughs. Our teacher looks confused.
When the bell rings, we race for the cafeteria. On the way, Will gives me a slap on the back. “Go get ’em,” he says, rotating his shoulder. “I wish I could see it.”
“Thanks for keeping me from getting Zaffed.”
“Any time. Good luck.”
We knock knuckles.
“Come on, Scab,” says Doyle. “Do you have enough water? How are you feeling? Should you eat something first? I brought some crackers—”
I give him my best lion roar. “Let’s do this!”
Doyle goes into the cafeteria ahead of me. “Make room for Scab! Clear the way for the Human Vacuum!”
As I pass, kids start clapping and yelling.
“Go, Scab!”
“You can do it!”
Supreme sweetness! I punch the air above my head. This is going to be my greatest stunt ever. My heart is slamming against my chest. I take a few deep breaths. I hop from one foot to the other while Doyle lines up everybody’s food on table four. Now is the time
to use my “don’t” strategy. Don’t think. Don’t smell. Don’t taste. The idea is to chew once (twice tops), swallow, and keep moving. When Doyle is through, he nods for me to step up to the first container. Whew! My eyes fill with water. Instantly, I know what this is: Cloey’s liver and onions. Doyle hands me a bottle of water. I twist off the cap.
“Quiet!” my best friend shouts to the crowd. “The Human Vacuum needs absolute silence. We’re about to start.”
Everyone hushes up. They huddle in. I search their faces. I don’t see Isabelle. I hope she isn’t in the main office tattling. I feel warm. And a little dizzy.
Doyle looks at me. “One bite, remember?”
“Right.” I gulp. The key to a successful stunt is mind over matter. If I believe I can do it, I will do it. Your body naturally follows your brain. Simple as that. I wiggle my fingers. They feel funny. Tingly.
“I’ll give you the signal,” says Doyle. There is no time limit, but we both know the faster I go, the sooner I finish. “Ready?”
I take a swig of water. I glance around. Still no Isabelle. “Ready.”
“Set.”
I reach for the plastic fork. I am inches from stabbing Cloey’s liver and onions—
“Wait!”
The crowd moans.
“You down there,” Doyle calls, peering down the table. A couple of third graders are leaning over the last plastic container. “Get back. In fact, everybody, take one step backward. Give the Human Vacuum some room.”
Murmuring, the kids do what he says. I’m glad. My T-shirt is sticking to my back. My feet are broiling. My fingertips are frostbitten.
“What about a barf bag?” That’s Cloey.
“Got one,” answers Doyle. He pulls a dark green trash bag from under the table. He nudges me and grins. “We’re not going to need it, though, are we?”
“Nope.”
Doyle raises his hand for quiet, and the chatter dies down. “Ready, Scab?”
I take two big breaths. I shake out my icy hands and remind myself this is all about brain over body. Mind. Over. Matter. I pick up the fork. I give my best friend a nod.
“Set.”
Mind over matter. Mind over matter.