Against All Odds Page 2

  “Don’t be illogical,” Squeak said. “I have no intention of launching the StarSweeper in a populated area.” He disappeared into his garage then reappeared with a large red metal flatbed wagon. “I need you to help transport the plane to the test site.”

  “What test site?” Itchy asked.

  “Starky Hill.”

  “Starky Hill?!” Itchy choked. “That’s thousands of feet—straight up! It’s way too humid for that type of activity.” He tightened his lime-green bandana.

  “It’s 612 feet up, to be exact,” Squeak said. “And it’s the site of the flying competition. I want to get a feel for the place before the contest tomorrow. Besides, it’s totally secluded. No one will be able to observe us there. I don’t want any spies stealing my design before the contest.”

  Itchy snorted. “Spies?”

  “It’s been known to happen.” Squeak squinted at the sky. “They’re everywhere.”

  Boney and Itchy squinted at the sky, too. It was completely clear, and blue as a robin’s egg.

  “You’re not worried about that storm last night, are you?” Boney asked.

  Squeak stared back at him. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  Itchy groaned. “Oh great. Now he’s quoting Spock.”

  “That’s Shakespeare,” Squeak said.

  “Spock, Shakespeare, who cares? What could that storm possibly have to do with spies?”

  Squeak refused to answer.

  Itchy clawed at his hair. “Oh sure … spies fly around in clouds, causing thunderstorms so they can steal people’s stupid ideas.”

  Squeak folded his arms across his chest. “I see no reason to stand here and be insulted.”

  Boney rubbed his chin. “I don’t think I’d recognize a spy if I saw one.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Squeak agreed. “That’s why they’re spies.” He checked his watch. “It’s three-twenty. We should get going. Help me lift the Star-Sweeper onto the wagon. Boney, you take the tail. Itchy, the other wing—gently. Okay, gentlemen, on the count of three …”

  Boney and Itchy obediently reached for the plane.

  “One … two … three … lift.”

  “Hey, it’s light!” Itchy exclaimed as the boys easily lifted the plane onto the wagon.

  “As I already explained, it’s a revolutionary design.” Squeak draped the plane lovingly with the tarp. He turned to his friends. “All right. Boney, you man the tail to keep her steady while I pull the wagon. Itchy, you cover the wing.”

  Squeak gripped the handle of the wagon and began carefully hauling the plane through the backyard. The boys navigated the length of the garage to the sidewalk and trundled along the street. They rolled past Itchy’s house, where his father could be seen practising his Elvis routine in the living room. They rattled past Mrs. Pulmoni’s place, where her cat peacefully sunned itself on the porch, and past Mrs. Sheider’s schnauzers barking savagely through her screen door.

  At the end of the street, Squeak pulled the wagon gingerly down the curb, careful not to jostle the plane too violently. The boys worked their way across the intersection and up the curb on the other side. As they progressed down the street, cars slowed to get a better look. Neighbours gawked from lawn chairs and from behind closed curtains.

  The boys crossed the forked road leading down to the Haunted Mill. Boney shuddered as he remembered the ghost and how it had terrorized their bully, Larry Harry. But the Odds had nothing to fear now, because the ghost was gone and Larry Harry had been reduced to a crying baby. He wasn’t a threat anymore. Besides, Larry had spent the first six weeks of summer at his family’s cottage. The Odds hadn’t seen him once since the end of school.

  When they reached the base of Starky Hill the boys began to methodically climb, taking turns pulling the wagon. By the time they reached the top of the cliff, the three friends were panting like tired dogs.

  “We made it,” Boney gasped.

  Squeak checked his watch again. “Four o’clock. It took exactly forty minutes to get here.”

  “I’m dying of thirst,” Itchy croaked, wiping the sweat dramatically from his neck.

  Squeak produced a canteen of water from his military messenger bag and handed it to his friend. Itchy removed the cap and guzzled water as if he’d just walked across the Sahara Desert.

  Boney yanked the canteen from Itchy’s hands. “Save some for the rest of us.” He took a big swig, and then handed the canteen back to Squeak.

  Itchy sniffed indignantly. “You don’t have to be so rude about it.” He peered over the edge of the cliff and gulped. The cliff’s jagged face dropped vertically to the rocks below. “That’s a long way down.”

  Squeak nodded. “It’s the perfect place for a flying competition. It provides an adequate amount of airspace to practise the necessary manoeuvres.”

  Boney held up the StarSweeper‘s manual. “Are we ready for the test flight?”

  Squeak produced the black control box from his bag. Boney and Itchy uncovered the plane and lowered it like a delicate cake to the ground. Squeak flipped the toggle switch on the control box, raising the antenna. “Gentlemen … prepare to launch.”

  “Wait!” Boney shouted. “There’s someone else here!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SPIES

  Boney pointed to where a small figure moved along the ridge of the cliff in the distance. “Someone’s watching us.”

  Squeak quickly covered the StarSweeper with the canvas tarp and shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. “I can’t see anything.”

  Itchy pointed like a frantic baboon. “I see him! Over there.”

  Pulling his antique brass telescope from his messenger bag, Squeak snapped it to full length and began earnestly scanning the landscape. “I see him now. He’s running away.”

  “Let’s get him!” Boney said. “Come on!”

  Itchy tightened his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Squeak blinked behind his goggles. “Affirmative. It would be illogical to leave the StarSweeper unattended.”

  “Fine,” Boney said. “I’ll go myself, then.” He took off running, jumping over boulders and skittering through gravel. His arms pumped as his sneakers kicked up clouds of dust. The mysterious figure ran in front of him, sprinting toward the treeline at the base of the hill. He was dressed entirely in black and wearing a shiny, black motorcycle helmet, his face hidden behind the mirrored visor. He was small but incredibly fast, like some kind of space leprechaun, his arms and legs whirling like pinwheels as he ran. Boney ploughed down the hill, determined to catch him. Several times, the spy looked over his shoulder, the sun flashing off his visor as he quickened his pace.

  “Hey!” Boney shouted. But the spy only ran faster. Boney gritted his teeth, his arms and legs a blur. “I’m going to catch you!” he yelled as the distance between him and the spy began to shrink. Encouraged, he ran harder still, getting closer and closer. But just when he thought he would catch him, the spy dashed into the dark forest and vanished.

  Boney rushed into the woods, skidding to a stop in front of a big maple tree. His chest heaved as he searched the woods, his hair clinging to his sweat-soaked forehead. Sunlight filtered softly through the branches. Starlings chucked and whistled in the treetops. The spy was nowhere to be seen. He’d disappeared without a trace.

  Boney looked around for several more minutes before giving up and dragging himself back up the cliff to where Squeak and Itchy waited.

  “What happened?” Itchy called out as Boney approached. “Did you catch him?”

  “Were you able to identify him?” Squeak asked.

  Boney shook his head. “I couldn’t tell who it was.” He leaned his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “He was wearing a black helmet. He had the visor down so I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Who do you think it was?” Itchy asked. “Do you think he was spying on us?”

  Squeak chewed on his nails. “That�
�s the only logical explanation for wearing a helmet in this heat.”

  “But how would he have known we’d be here?” Itchy wondered. “Maybe he followed us from the house.”

  Boney shook his head again. “I don’t know. But he was little—and fast.”

  “Little and fast …” Itchy repeated, as though that description would somehow help them solve the riddle. “Could it be someone on the cross country team at school?”

  Squeak paced back and forth, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. “No one could possibly have known we were going to test-run the StarSweeper here today …”

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s gone now,” Boney said. “And I don’t think he’ll be back. I chased him all the way to the woods.”

  Itchy turned to Squeak. “Do you still want to testrun your plane? Because it’s almost suppertime.”

  Squeak consulted his watch. “According to my timepiece, it’s only four-thirty-six.”

  Itchy clutched his stomach. “I know. But I usually have a pre-supper snack. If I don’t eat now, I’ll be dead soon.”

  Squeak sighed, rustling in his messenger bag and producing a sandwich. “I’ve been carrying it around for a couple of days, but it’s probably still edible. You may want to give it a sniff just in case …”

  Itchy plucked the sandwich from Squeak’s hand, unwrapped it, and stuffed it into his mouth until his cheeks bulged like a crazed chipmunk’s. “Mmm … peanut butter and honey. I love when the honey gets all crunchy.”

  Boney grimaced. “Yuck.”

  Itchy finished the sandwich and stripped the green bandana from his forehead. He shook it out before wiping his mouth, then tied the bandana back around his head.

  “Are you through?” Squeak asked.

  Itchy patted his stomach. “That should hold me off for a few minutes.”

  “Good.” Squeak did a quick scan of the horizon with his telescope. When he was satisfied the spy was no longer around he carefully uncovered the plane.

  Boney opened the instruction manual, leafing through the pages until he found the ignition sequence. “Okay, let’s run her through her paces. Are we ready?”

  His eyes locked on Squeak’s.

  Squeak raised the antenna on the black control box, finger poised over the switches. “Gentlemen, record the time for the log, please.”

  Itchy consulted his Mickey Mouse watch. “Ten to five.”

  “Ten to five,” Squeak repeated, then nodded at Boney.

  “Ignition,” Boney said.

  Squeak moved to flip the switch. There was a blinding flash as a giant beam of light shot out of the sky. The boys stood frozen in their sneakers, the beam of light throbbing over them, Itchy’s screams barely audible over the roaring wind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MISSING TIME

  The wind howled around the Odds, throwing dust and gravel in the air. The strange light pulsed and scanned, and the boys gaped vacantly as a series of smaller coloured lights began to flicker on and off in rapid succession.

  Behind a tree in the woods, the spy watched in secret, shooting dozens of photos as the huge cone of light began to slowly rotate over the three friends.

  Then, just as suddenly, the lights flickered off and were gone. The wind immediately stopped. The dust settled around the boys. They looked at each other, dumbfounded, their hair horribly dishevelled.

  “What are you waiting for?” Boney asked Squeak. “I said ignition.”

  Squeak wiped the dust from his goggles and stared back in confusion. “What happened to your hair?”

  Boney ran his hand over his head. “You should talk. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  The two boys turned to Itchy. His hair was even more clownlike than usual.

  “What?” He looked at his watch. “Hey! It’s ten after five. We’d better get this over with because I’m starving.”

  Squeak raised his eyebrows. “You said it was only ten to five.”

  “Did I?” Itchy took his watch off, shook it, and held it to his ear. “It’s still ticking …”

  “Something’s not right,” Squeak said.

  Itchy licked his lips and spat. “Man, it’s dusty out here. I’m going to die of thirst.”

  “Seriously … there’s something really unusual going on,” Squeak said.

  Boney held up the airplane manual. “Is anybody at all interested in the test run?”

  “Uh, yes, of course, in a minute …” Squeak dug his telescope from his bag and raised it to his eye to scan the surroundings one more time, then abruptly lowered it, cleaning the lens with the corner of his T-shirt. “I can’t see a thing.”

  Itchy looked over his shoulder. “Does anyone else feel strange?”

  “Strange how?” Squeak asked.

  “Stranger than usual. I feel like I have a big hole in my stomach.”

  Squeak frowned. “But you always have a hole in your stomach.”

  “Can we get on with it?” Boney said. He blew the dust off the manual and looked for the proper page. “Are we ready?

  Squeak nodded.

  “Ignition.”

  Squeak engaged the switch on the black control box and the StarSweeper roared to life. The jet engines whined, creating small tornadoes of swirling dust behind the plane.

  “Lights,” Boney called out over the noise of the engines.

  Squeak flicked another switch and a set of small lights appeared along the length of the plane, with several red lights on the tail and one large white light at the front.

  “Flaps.”

  Squeak moved a lever back and forth. The flaps on the wings responded with small waving movements. “Prepare for takeoff.”

  The plane lurched forward, engines whining loudly as it slowly rolled toward the edge of the cliff. Squeak taxied the plane to within ten feet of the edge, then turned to Boney. Boney drew in his breath.

  “Takeoff!”

  Squeak pushed the throttle. The engines began to sing, and the StarSweeper skipped along the ground, wheels bouncing over the gravel as the plane picked up speed. It streaked toward the edge of the cliff, dropped over the side, and was gone in a puff of dust. Boney and Itchy gasped. Seconds later, the plane reappeared, rising in the air, and tearing across the sky like a supersonic dragonfly.

  “You did it!” Boney and Itchy cheered, jumping up and down.

  Squeak smiled as he worked the controls, the plane arcing in a wide circle around the sun.

  “Do a loop-de-loop!” Itchy said.

  Squeak’s fingers moved easily over the buttons. The plane shot into the air, engines surging louder as it climbed, then slowly curved back, scribing a perfect loop as it lassoed the clouds. Squeak pushed the plane harder, the craft twisting like a corkscrew until he let it drop in a spiral free fall.

  Itchy clutched his hair. “It’s going to crash!”

  The plane suddenly powered back to life and zipped across the sky. Itchy applauded. Squeak smiled. He flew the plane around, testing its maximum velocity and control for several minutes before bringing it in for a landing. Its wings dipped up and down as it navigated toward the cliff. Hitting the parched ground, the plane jounced across the gravel, its engines winding down until it came to a stop in front of the boys.

  “Amazing!” Boney shouted.

  Squeak beamed. “Gentlemen, our test flight was a success.”

  “You’re definitely going to win the grand prize,” Boney said, clapping him on the back.

  “Yeah, that was great,” Itchy agreed. “But can we go home and have supper now? We’re going to be late.”

  While the boys were congratulating themselves and packing up their things, the spy spirited away through the trees.

  Back on Green Bottle Street, the three friends manoeuvred the plane into Squeak’s garage, stowing it carefully. Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles.

  “Don’t forget the competition starts at nine a.m., so we’ll have to leave at seven-thirty at the latest,” he said. “That gives us forty m
inutes to get to Starky Hill and enough time to set up.”

  Itchy complained under his breath about the early start time. Boney saluted, then cut through the hedge at the back of Squeak’s house to his aunt and uncle’s yard. He was hoping his aunt hadn’t noticed he was late for dinner.

  But he had no such luck. She was standing in the kitchen, red gingham tea towel over one arm, wringing her hands. His uncle sat at the kitchen table, looking cagey.

  “William Boneham!” his aunt barked the second Boney stepped through the door. “Where have you been?”

  Boney opened his mouth to answer but his aunt cut him off sharply.

  “Supper should have started by now! Do you think I’m running a restaurant? And what have you been up to? You’re a filthy mess. Just look at your hair!”

  Boney ran his hand through his hair, glancing warily at the stove to where a big silver pot stood waiting on the burner. He didn’t mind missing dinner, especially when his aunt made one of her awful soup-can recipes. He tried to appear casual. “Oh, that’s okay, Auntie, I’m really not that hungry.”

  “Nonsense!” she snapped.

  “Now, Mildred,” Boney’s uncle sputtered through his moustache. “Boys will be boys.”

  “Oh phooey,” his aunt said. “Anyone with any common sense would appreciate a nice, warm meal and actually show up on time for dinner. Your friend Itchy understands.”

  Boney stared at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  His aunt straightened the gingham tea towel on her arm. “He’s been here at least three times in the last half hour, leering through the kitchen window like some kind of cotton-headed vampire. I gave him at least half a dozen oatmeal cookies but he just keeps coming back for more. The boy must have a tapeworm, he eats so much.” She paused, tilting her head. “But he wouldn’t take any of my casserole …”

  Boney opened his mouth to speak but his aunt cut him off again.

  “Then Mrs. Sheider called, complaining that Itchy was gaping through her windows as well. But she didn’t have her glasses on at first and she thought he was a prowler so she let the dogs out to chase him off. What on earth has gotten into that boy? Doesn’t Itchy’s mother cook?”