Against All Odds Page 3

  Boney glanced at his uncle for confirmation but his uncle simply looked the other way, leaving him on his own to deal with his aunt. “Uhhh … that’s not possible,” Boney said. “Itchy was with me and Squeak all afternoon. We weren’t bothering anyone. We were up at Starky Hill.”

  His aunt scowled. “Don’t argue with me, young man. It’s rude.”

  “But Auntie …”

  His aunt silenced him with a wave of her wooden spoon. “Not another word. Go wash, then take a seat and eat.”

  Boney knew better than to protest further. He washed in the bathroom, then returned and pulled a chair from the table, sitting obediently while his aunt busied herself reheating his dinner. She huffed and puffed, clattering dishes and pots in a show of irritation. When at last she placed Boney’s plate in front of him, she stood sentry, waiting for his reaction.

  Boney stared at the steaming pile of grey glop on his plate. He didn’t dare ask what it was. All he knew was that it must be horrible if even Itchy didn’t want any. Looking mournfully at his uncle, he tentatively lifted his fork, his hand shaking as he stared at the mound of goo. With a quick breath, Boney stabbed his fork into the glop and raised a heaping portion to his mouth. He stuffed the food in, chewed twice, and swallowed. His eyes widened. “Hey! It’s actually good!”

  His aunt beamed. “Of course it’s good. I used a recipe from the cookbook you gave me for my birthday.” She grabbed a yellow cookbook from the shelf beside the stove and held it up, reading the title out loud like some overly pleased housewife on a TV commercial. “One Hundred Delicious Dummyproof Dishes. Isn’t that a fun title?”

  Boney looked at his uncle and grinned. His uncle winked back.

  “But it’s not as good as the title I dreamed up for my own book,” his aunt said, placing the yellow cookbook back on the shelf. “Seven Thousand Sensational Soup-Can Suppers.”

  “More like Dozens of Dinner Disasters,” Boney muttered into his casserole, but, thankfully, his aunt didn’t hear him. She was too busy looking dreamily off in the distance, no doubt fantasizing about book signings and international fame.

  “I have fifty-two recipes so far,” she mused. “I have a lot of cooking to do!” She flicked the red gingham tea towel from her arm and cracked it at some phantom bug that only she could see.

  Boney shuddered at the thought of her soup-can cookbook. He dug his fork into the tasty glop on his plate, shovelling it in. It seemed he was starving after all.

  His uncle relaxed in his chair as Boney scraped his fork across his empty plate. His aunt loaded his plate again, knocking the sides of the pot joyfully with her wooden serving spoon.

  “It’s amazing there’s anything left in the house at all, what with Itchy coming around every five minutes.” She placed the empty pot in the sink and began to scrub it.

  Boney just smiled dutifully as he inhaled his second serving. When he was finished, he ate three oatmeal cookies for dessert and excused himself, bringing his dishes to the sink. “Thank you, Auntie, that was delicious.” He gave his aunt a small peck on the cheek.

  His aunt smiled brightly. Boney saw an opportunity to approach her about the flying competition. He patted his stomach with exaggerated satisfaction.

  “I’m sure glad to have eaten such a nutritious meal tonight. It will help me get through the day tomorrow.”

  The smile left his aunt’s face. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

  “Oh,” Boney answered as casually as possible, “Squeak’s entering his model airplane in a race over at Starky Hill.”

  His aunt pursed her lips.

  “He’s been working on it for weeks,” Boney continued. “And we get to help him transport the plane to the competition. We have to leave really early, so I won’t be at the table for breakfast.” He gave his most endearing smile, hoping his aunt would overlook the part about missing breakfast.

  She harrumphed, whisked the tea towel from her arm, folded it neatly, and hung it on the handle of the oven. “I’ll make sandwiches then. And I suppose Squeak and Itchy will be needing lunch, too. It’s not like their parents will be so organized. Though I’d need a dump truck full of sandwiches to satisfy that red-headed friend of yours.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boney agreed, to avoid further scrutiny. He quickly made his exit and trotted upstairs.

  In his bedroom, Boney yawned. He was thinking of going over to Squeak’s house but the very idea made him feel exhausted. “Must have eaten too much casserole,” he murmured, lying down on his bed. He was just closing his eyes when he heard a rustling sound from beneath the towel that hid the Tele-tube. Squeak’s small voice floated into the room.

  “Boney … are you there? Over.”

  Groaning from bed, Boney flopped into the chair in front of his window. He removed the towel and held the end of the tube to his lips.

  “Boney here.”

  He waited for Squeak to speak, but there was silence on the other end of the line. Boney’s head bobbed sleepily. He gave another big yawn. “Are you there, Squeak?”

  “I’m here,” Squeak answered.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  More silence. Boney’s eyes drooped as he waited. “I can’t stop thinking about our experience today,” Squeak finally said.

  “What experience?”

  “At Starky Hill. I think something happened.”

  “Of course something happened. We tested the Star-Sweeper 5000 and she passed with flying colours.”

  Squeak cleared his throat. “Yes, she did … but I’m talking about something else … something strange.”

  “Okay … what, exactly?”

  There was another pause. “Missing time.”

  Boney looked at his alarm clock. “Missing time? What do you mean?”

  “When I asked Itchy what time it was, he said it was ten to five. But when I looked at my watch before the test flight, it was ten after five. Somehow, we lost twenty minutes.”

  Boney pulled on his chin. “Maybe Itchy made a mistake.”

  “No. I checked my watch as well.”

  “So … what do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know. Itchy said he felt strange …”

  Boney snorted. “Yeah, well, Itchy is strange, in case you hadn’t noticed. My aunt said he was staring through our kitchen window like a vampire.”

  “What? That must have been unnerving.”

  “To say the least. And then my aunt said that he kept coming over begging for cookies but he wouldn’t eat her casserole.”

  “When?” Squeak asked.

  “Today.”

  “But he was with us all day …” “I know. It doesn’t make any sense.” “There’s definitely something weird going on.” “Yeah,” Boney agreed. “But do you want to know what’s really weird? My aunt’s casserole was actually good.”

  “Really?”

  Boney rubbed his stomach. “I ate two plates. But I’m so tired now. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Me too,” Squeak said. “I don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”

  Boney yawned loudly. “Do you really think all of this strangeness has to do with missing time?”

  Squeak stalled. “Well … I have some theories …”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  Squeak sniffed into the tube. “I can’t say right now. I need more evidence before I draw a conclusion.”

  “Just give me a hint. Maybe I can help you figure it out.” Boney waited for Squeak to answer but grew impatient. “Just tell me.”

  Silence.

  Boney rolled his eyes. “What does Itchy think?”

  “He’s not answering the tube.”

  “Well, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me your theories.”

  “I don’t want to make a big deal of things until I have some hard evidence,” Squeak said. “I prefer the concrete, the graspable, the provable.”

  “Is that a Spock quote?”

  “Star Trek, season one, episode twenty-one. ‘The Return of t
he Archons.’”

  “Ah yes, of course.” Boney chuckled. He stretched sleepily. “Well … if you’re not going to let me in on your ideas, I’m going to bed. I’m so tired, I feel like I ran a marathon.”

  “You did do a lot of running today,” Squeak said. “But what’s my excuse?”

  Boney shrugged. “Maybe it’s the heat.” “Yes … possibly …”

  “Anyway, I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I’ll see you in the morning for the competition tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, Squeak.” “Good night, Boney.”

  Boney tossed the towel over the end of the Teletube. Rising wearily from his chair, he changed into his pyjamas and climbed heavily into bed. Pulling the sheet over his shoulders, he gave another long yawn. “I feel so strange,” he murmured before falling into a very deep sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE FLYING FIENDS AMATEUR AIRCRAFT COMPETITION

  Boney woke at seven in the morning feeling rested after nearly twelve hours of sleep. Determined to be early for Squeak’s big day, he rushed to get ready. Racing down the stairs and into the kitchen, he slowed long enough to peck his aunt on the cheek and grab the large paper bag full of sandwiches she’d made for the competition. Then he flew out the door and shimmied up the clubhouse ladder to feed Henry. Tossing a handful of cornmeal on the floor for the rooster, Boney shot down the fire pole and ran through the bushes into Squeak’s backyard. But despite his efforts to arrive early, Squeak beat him again. He was already waiting expectantly in front of his garage, wearing his favourite Star Trek T-shirt—the one with the image of Spock’s face airbrushed in front of the starship Enterprise. As usual, Itchy was nowhere to be seen.

  Boney skidded up to the garage. “Are you ready to win the big prize?”

  Squeak saluted. “Affirmative.”

  “What is the big prize again?”

  “A thousand dollars cash, a year’s membership to the Flying Fiends Amateur Aircraft Club, and paid entry to the NASA Revolutionary Vehicles and Concepts Competition.”

  Boney nodded. “Not bad. Did you figure out what happened yesterday during the test flight?”

  “No,” Squeak said. “But I think it’s connected to the electrical storm we experienced the other night.”

  “I wish you’d tell me your theory.”

  Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles but said nothing. Boney held up the bag of sandwiches.

  “My aunt made lunch for us.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “And I have some money for drinks.” Boney pulled a handful of change from his pants pocket.

  “Good thinking,” Itchy said, shuffling up to his friends. He was eating a muffin and carrying a basket with three black-and-grey-striped kittens rolled together like socks. He was wearing the green bandana again, but this time, instead of the Superman T-shirt, he wore a baggy pink shirt with a picture of several forlorn-looking kittens on the front and a giant powder-blue phone number sprayed across the back. Between the pink shirt and the green bandana, his tangled red hair looked as though it were on fire.

  “Where’d you get the kittens?” Boney asked. “And what’s with the shirt?”

  Itchy slouched. “My mom … she joined some club for rescuing stray cats.”

  Squeak peered into the basket. “Fascinating.”

  “Yeah … I guess. It’s better than knitting terrible stuff, or dyeing everything in the house weird colours all the time. But now we’ve got kittens running all over the place.” Itchy sneezed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his pink shirt. “She wanted me to wear this for advertising at the competition. I’ve got shirts for you guys, too.” He pulled two more pink T-shirts from his knapsack and handed them out.

  Boney forced a smile. “Gee … thanks …” He looked to Squeak for help.

  Squeak didn’t respond but simply took the T-shirt and pulled it over his Star Trek shirt. Boney resigned himself with a shrug and did the same. He turned to look at Squeak. Squeak blinked back at him. The kitten shirts were so long they looked like pink minidresses.

  “Perfect,” Boney muttered.

  “What’s in the paper bag?” Itchy asked, gesturing with the basket of kittens.

  Boney hid the bag behind his back. “Nothing.”

  “Smells like egg salad sandwiches.” Itchy reached for the bag.

  Boney dodged him, holding the bag at arm’s length. “They’re for later.”

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  “I just saw you eat a muffin,” Boney said.

  “That was breakfast.”

  “So?”

  “I’m still hungry.”

  Boney scoffed, handing the bag of sandwiches to his friend. “You can have ONE.”

  Itchy placed the basket of kittens on the ground and ripped open the bag. “There must be a dozen in here.” He pulled a sandwich out and took a big bite. “Mmm … delicious egg salad … but I still prefer peanut butter and jelly …”

  Boney folded his arms. “I’ll keep that in mind for future reference. Try not to eat the kittens while you’re at it.”

  “We’d better get going,” Squeak said, studying his watch. “I want to be sure to get the best position on the cliff for the race.”

  The boys wheeled the cloaked StarSweeper from Squeak’s garage, careful not to bang the wings against the door frame as they manoeuvred the craft outside. The wheels of the wagon squeaked like a small flock of dim-witted birds, the edge of the tarp brushing the tops of the tires. The Odds hauled the plane down the walk and out to the street, making their way toward Starky Hill. Squeak pulled the wagon while Boney steadied the plane from the back by the rudder. Itchy followed, carrying the kittens and eating egg salad sandwiches until Boney shouted at him to save some for later. While they were walking, several cars slowed down on the street to gawk at the three friends. One driver even yelled something unintelligible out his car window.

  “Did you understand what he said?” Itchy asked.

  “It sounded like ‘I’m calling the police,’” Boney said.

  Squeak paused. “Who was he talking to?”

  Boney shrugged. “Who knows?”

  By the time the boys reached the bottom of Starky Hill, the sun was winking behind the border of trees to one side of the cliff.

  Boney wiped the sweat from his brow. “It’s going to be another hot day.” He looked up the hill toward the cliff. The hill seemed even higher in the morning light.

  “Maybe we should have a rest before we drag the plane up this mountain,” Itchy said, opening the bag of sandwiches.

  Boney scowled. “How many sandwiches have you had?”

  “I need the energy to keep me going.”

  Boney wrenched the bag from Itchy’s hands. “I told you to save some for later.”

  “Fine. You don’t have to be such a jerk about it,” Itchy pouted, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Do you have to eat everything in sight?” Boney said. “My aunt told me about the cookies.”

  Itchy made a face. “What cookies? I wouldn’t touch anything your aunt baked.”

  “Take that back.”

  “Make me.”

  Squeak stepped between them. “Gentlemen, please. I can’t hear myself think with all this bickering.”

  “Sorry,” Boney apologized. He turned with irritation toward Itchy. “I hope you brought some water for those kittens.”

  Itchy produced a water bottle and a small dish from his knapsack. “Is this good enough for you?”

  “Yeah, sure. As long as you don’t drink it all yourself.” Boney reached for the handle of the wagon.

  Squeak intercepted him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll pull the StarSweeper.”

  Itchy gave Boney a self-satisfied look. Boney sneered back but kept his comments to himself.

  Squeak huffed and puffed, pulling the wagon up the hill. He had to stop several times to catch his breath, refusing Boney and Itchy’s offers of assistance. At the t
op of the hill, the boys could see a group of people setting up tables and colourful banners and signs. To one side of the tables, a makeshift wooden stage had been built. Clusters of eager spectators were already gathered on blankets with picnic baskets, waiting for the contest to begin. They turned to look at the Odds, particularly Itchy. Some pointed and whispered as the boys walked by.

  “Do you know these people?” Boney asked Squeak.

  “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Then why are they all staring at us?”

  “Perhaps they’re just curious about the contestants.” Squeak stopped to dab the sweat from his face.

  “They seem to be interested in Itchy.” Boney nodded to a blanket full of children who were staring openly.

  “Maybe it’s his hair,” Squeak said.

  Boney smirked. “Can you blame them? They probably think he’s a clown who escaped from the circus. Anyway, it looks like we’re the first contestants here.”

  “Not quite,” Squeak said. “Someone’s beat us to it.” He gestured toward a dark figure near the edge of the cliff. It was the spy from the day before!

  “What’s he doing here?” Boney growled.

  “Maybe he never left,” Itchy said.

  Squeak glared through his goggles. “He took the spot I wanted.” He handed the wagon over to Itchy and marched up to the registration table, casting furtive glances at the mysterious contestant.

  A balding man with a face like a half-baked apple pie sat behind the registration table, mopping the sweat from his brow. He smiled pleasantly as he took Squeak’s name, then scratched it off the list and gave him a registration number. “Nice shirt,” he said.

  “Star Trek‘s my favourite show,” Squeak answered.

  The man gave him a quizzical look. “I didn’t know there were kittens on Star Trek.”

  “Huh?” Squeak looked down, his face turning red when he saw the pink kitten T-shirt. He’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Uh, yes, thank you. It’s a charity dedicated to saving homeless cats.”

  The man nodded. “It’s nice to see young people involved in good causes.”