Against All Odds Page 5

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer drawled. “Please put your hands together for Sam Moss, the winner of this year’s Flying Fiends Amateur Aircraft Competition!”

  The crowd exploded.

  Itchy made a face. “Sam Moss? What kind of name is that? I bet he’s all weird and warty and covered in green fuzz.”

  “That’s probably why he hides behind that visor,” Boney grumbled. “To cover his fuzzy green face.”

  Just as Boney said this, the spy removed his helmet. The entire crowd gasped, but none louder than the Odds.

  “It’s a girl!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THINGS GET ODDER

  “I told you he was weird!” Itchy said.

  Boney and Squeak stared, thunderstruck, at the girl on the stage. She shook her shining brown mane of hair and flashed a brilliant smile.

  Edward Wormer pointed at the Odds. “Ha ha! How does it feel to be obliterated by a girl?”

  “Shut up, Wormer!” Itchy snapped. “She beat you, too.”

  “Boo hoo,” Simon Biddle taunted. “Maybe you can get your kittens to fly your plane next time.”

  The announcer’s voice boomed over the sound system. “Tell us, Sam, what’s your winning secret?”

  The girl took the microphone and flashed another perfect smile. “My own special brand of organic, sustainable rocket fuel!” She squealed and jumped up and down with excitement.

  The crowd cheered.

  “Thank you so much,” the girl gushed, her hazel eyes sparkling. “My name is Samantha Moss and it was a pleasure to beat you today.” She held her trophy in the air as the cameras popped.

  Boney and Squeak continued to gape at the stage.

  Itchy scratched at his hair. “She owes us a new plane. And she can afford it now, too, seeing as she won the one-thousand-dollar prize.” He turned to his friends for support, but they just kept staring at the girl. Itchy elbowed Boney. “Hey, did you hear what I said?”

  Boney fluttered out of his trance. “Oh yeah, right.”

  Itchy nudged Squeak. “What do you think, Squeak? Should we ask Miss Mossy Teeth to pay for the damages?”

  “Uhhh … damages … yeah …” Squeak’s voice trailed off.

  Itchy snapped his fingers in front of Squeak’s face. “Earth to Squeak, come in, Squeak.”

  Squeak stood in a daze. “Oh … what? Sorry …”

  “Come on,” Itchy said, putting his arm around his friend. “There’s no sense standing here feeling sorry for ourselves. Besides, I’m hungry.”

  Boney handed Itchy the bag of egg salad sandwiches. “Just finish them. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Itchy opened the bag and happily extracted a sandwich. “The day wasn’t a total loss,” he said, trying to console his friends. “At least the kittens got adopted.” He munched on the last of the sandwiches as Squeak and Boney took turns pulling the wagon home, lost in their own thoughts. Once again drivers slowed down to gawk at the boys and speed away.

  “What’s gotten into everybody?” Itchy asked.

  “Maybe they saw your picture in the paper,” Boney said.

  “It’s not my picture,” Itchy garbled through egg salad. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  Itchy gestured with a half-eaten sandwich. “Maybe they saw Squeak crash and burn at the flying competition …”

  Boney stopped in his tracks. “Now that’s just mean.”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Squeak intervened. “I wouldn’t blame anyone for gaping at us after that dismal performance today. Let’s just try not to kill each other, okay?”

  Itchy shrugged. “Sure, I don’t care.”

  Boney gave him a look and continued to pull the wagon.

  When they approached Green Bottle Street, the boys couldn’t help but notice a big moving van parked on the corner at 24 Walker Avenue.

  “Looks like someone’s moving in,” Boney said.

  Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles. “I didn’t even know that house was for sale.”

  Itchy craned his neck to get a better look. “It’s been empty for years. I wonder who bought it?”

  A red station wagon pulled up behind the truck and Samantha Moss jumped out, Flying Fiends trophy in hand. She waved cheerfully at the Odds.

  “Oh no …” Itchy groaned. “It’s her!”

  A tall skinny man in a lab coat stepped out from the driver’s seat, wearing a pair of goggles as thick as Squeak’s, his short white hair sticking out in every direction. He looked distractedly at the boys, pulled a box filled with pipettes and beakers from the back of the car, then scuttled into the house, and slammed the door.

  Squeak blinked. “Who the heck was that?”

  “Who cares?” Itchy said. “Let’s get out of here before old Mossy Teeth tries to talk to us.” He grabbed the wagon by the handle and began to run, the wagon clattering down the sidewalk, drawing the neighbours to their windows with the commotion. In his rush, Itchy nearly flattened Mrs. Pulmoni’s cat, sending it screeching into the street, which cued Mrs. Sheider’s schnauzers to start savagely barking. Then Snuff joined the fray, chasing the cat across the road and up Mr. Peterson’s tree just as he was gliding into his driveway on his bike. Ringing his bell like a fire alarm, Mr. Peterson swerved to avoid the cat, crashed his cruiser over the curb, and landed in a cursing heap at the side of the road.

  “Hey, wait up!” Boney called, ignoring Mr. Peterson’s misfortune.

  “Of all the neighbourhoods, she had to pick ours,” Itchy complained.

  Squeak trotted behind him, stealing a glimpse as Mr. Peterson righted himself and limped his bike toward his garage. “Maybe she’s just visiting.”

  “Not with our luck,” Itchy muttered.

  “Well, at least she’s not moving onto our street, right?” Boney said.

  Itchy waved the empty sandwich bag. “She’s right on the corner. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

  “Do you think she’ll go to our school this fall?” Squeak asked.

  “Don’t say school!” Itchy freaked. “It’s still summer vacation. I don’t want to think about school!” He picked up the pace, smashing the wagon up Boney’s drive and over the lawn to the giant oak tree that supported the Odds’ clubhouse. Dropping the handle, he shimmied like a monkey, carrying the empty kitten basket up the rope ladder and into the clubhouse.

  Boney and Squeak stared at each other at the base of the tree.

  “What an odd day,” Squeak said.

  “Very,” Boney agreed.

  Itchy’s red mop popped out of Escape Hatch #1. “Hey! Are you guys coming up or what?”

  Boney and Squeak climbed the ladder. Itchy was already at the table, stacking peanut butter and honey crackers in a neat pile. Henry was scratching at some cornmeal that Itchy had scattered on the floor. Itchy rubbed his hands greedily together. He grabbed a cracker stack and was just about to deposit it in his mouth when a girl’s voice called out from below.

  “Hello!”

  The Odds froze, staring at each other in terror.

  Itchy gagged. “It’s her!”

  “Hello!” the voice called again. And then there was the distinct sound of someone clambering up the ladder. “Hide!” Itchy hissed.

  “Where exactly?” Boney asked. But then he zipped to his easy chair, throwing one leg over the arm, all casual-like.

  Itchy gobbled his stack of crackers, pushing them furtively into his mouth, crumbs flying everywhere. Squeak stood, feet glued to the floor. They waited, holding their breath until a girl’s head appeared through the escape hatch. It was Samantha Moss.

  “Hi!” she said, giving another cheerful wave. She pointed at Henry. “Oh— a rooster! He’s a leghorn, right?”

  Boney and Squeak exchanged surprised looks.

  “Actually, yes,” Squeak answered.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Itchy barked, cracker crumbs spraying from his mouth. He turned to Samantha. “You c
an’t come in here. This is a boys-only club. No girls allowed! Get it? Even our mascot’s a boy.” He gestured wildly at Henry.

  Squeak cleared his throat. “We believed he was a hen when I first introduced him …”

  “Who cares?” Itchy snarled. “He’s a boy now. Anyone with two eyes in their head can see that!”

  “Oh … I’m sorry,” Samantha apologized. “I didn’t realize. I was interested in adopting a kitten, but I see that I’m … interrupting something. I’ll just … leave then.”

  “Good!” Itchy shouted, as Samantha lowered her head and began climbing back down the ladder. He wiped his hands together, swallowing the last of his crackers with a big gulp.

  Squeak stared at his friend in bewilderment. “Uh … that was kind of rude … don’t you think?”

  “Rude?” Itchy bobbled his red mop. “Have you gone soft in the head? If we start letting girls into our club, there’s no telling what will happen.”

  “Like what?” Boney asked.

  Itchy flapped his hands around. “I don’t know. Bad things!”

  “You could have been nicer about it,” Squeak said.

  “Nicer?!” Itchy’s jaw dropped. “She kicked our butts in the flying competition just moments ago, in case you don’t remember.”

  Squeak stared back at him.

  “She spied on us! She tried to steal your invention!” Squeak raised an eyebrow. “We can’t say that for certain.”

  Itchy turned to Boney in disbelief. “Are you hearing this? Help me out here.”

  “She was interested in adopting a kitten,” Boney said. “You should have thought about that before kicking her out.”

  Itchy tore at his bramble-bush hair. “Am I the only one who isn’t crazy around here? Let me spell it out for you: she’s a G-I-R-L — GIRL!”

  Boney and Squeak didn’t answer.

  “Fine!” Itchy growled, grabbing the box of crackers and the jars of peanut butter and honey. “Suit yourselves! But don’t come crying to me when things go all weird!”

  He marched to Escape Hatch #2 and attempted to grab the fire pole, fumbling the cracker box and dropping the jar of peanut butter down the hole. He snarled with frustration and eventually threw the crackers down the hole, then scowled and slid down the pole, hitting the ground with a yelp, the box of crackers exploding in a shower of crumbs.

  Boney and Squeak peered down the escape hatch as Itchy grappled with the food and hobbled off. In a second he was back, climbing the rope ladder like an angry red-headed ape. “I forgot the kitten basket.”

  Squeak handed the basket to Itchy.

  Itchy snatched the basket, wrapped his skinny legs around the fire pole, sniffed with disdain, and slid out of sight.

  “What’s he so angry about?” Squeak said. “I’m the one who got my invention destroyed.”

  Boney shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s upset about the newspaper article.” He took the opportunity to remove the pink kitten T-shirt and place it on a hook by the reference library. “Do you want to hang out after supper?”

  Squeak removed his pink shirt as well and placed it on the hook. “I don’t know if I can. My dad has some kind of surprise for me.”

  “Oh, okay. What do you think it is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Boney picked up the deck of cards from the table. “Want to play a few hands?”

  “Sure.”

  The boys sat in the clubhouse, playing cards for the rest of the afternoon, Squeak keeping score with his pencil and notebook. He peered at Boney with his best poker face. “Got any kings?”

  Boney groaned, tossing his kings at Squeak. “You win. Again.” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m getting kind of hungry. What time is it?”

  “It’s almost supper.” Squeak pushed a button on his watch. The face lit up and small black-on-white analogue numbers flipped in succession, counting down to zero. “Your aunt should be calling you in three … two … one …”

  “Boneeey!” his aunt hollered from the kitchen window. “Supper!”

  Boney saluted. “Gotta go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FROZEN MEATBALLS

  Boney poked his head into his aunt’s kitchen, afraid of what he might smell there. But his heart lifted when he saw the yellow cookbook open on the counter and whiffed the delicious aroma of refried beans on the stove. “Smells great!” he called out, kicking off his sneakers. “What’s for supper?”

  “It’s a surprise,” his aunt said.

  Boney gulped. “Oh.” Whenever his aunt cooked up a surprise it was almost always a miserable disaster. He shuffled over to the stove and attempted to open the oven, but his aunt brushed his hand away.

  “Go wash your face and hands and run a comb through your hair, young man, you look like you lost a fight with a thousand dust bunnies.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Boney disappeared obediently into the washroom to tidy up. When he reappeared, he presented himself to his aunt for inspection. She examined his neck and behind his ears, then his fingernails, and even looked between his fingers before deeming him fit for dinner. Boney walked to the table and was just about to yank out a chair when his aunt yipped.

  “Don’t scrape the legs across the floor!”

  Boney gently glided the chair from the table and sat politely down. His uncle was already seated, reading the newspaper. He flapped it importantly, folding it several times before smacking it down with disgust on the seat of the chair beside him. There, on the front page, was the blurry picture of Itchy. Somehow, his uncle had missed it altogether, no doubt in his hurry to read the business section. Boney moved his hand toward the paper and attempted to sneak away the page.

  “Widgets are down 3.2 per cent,” his uncle blustered, causing Boney to retract his hand in alarm. “How’s a man supposed to make a living anymore?”

  “Please, Robert,” his aunt scolded. “You’re going to give yourself indigestion. Now close your eyes, you two …”

  Boney and his uncle peeked at each other in fear. At least when they knew what was coming they could prepare themselves for the shock. His uncle closed his eyes. Boney used the opportunity to sneak the newspaper page with Itchy’s photo and push it into his pocket before his aunt turned around from the stove. He shut his eyes while his uncle sputtered incoherently through his moustache.

  There was a flurry of pots clattering and the sound of the oven door opening and closing as plates were prepared. Boney could hear his aunt’s high heels clacking sharply back and forth across the linoleum, and then the kitchen fell suddenly quiet.

  “Okay, open them!”

  Boney and his uncle fluttered their eyes open. His aunt stood before them, wearing a sombrero and holding two plates of steaming burritos, the red pompoms on her hat bobbling merrily back and forth. “Olé!” she shouted.

  “Wow …” Boney said. He looked at his uncle, who stared at his wife, unsure how to respond.

  Still grinning, she placed the dishes on the table. Boney raised his fork and jabbed at the burrito, as though expecting it to jump off his plate.

  “Is this melted cheese?” he asked.

  His aunt patted the top of his head. “Only the best for my boys. Now dig in while it’s still hot.”

  Boney and his uncle did what they were told, smiling with unexpected delight when they tasted the delicious beans. They dug in with gusto, knives and forks flashing until their plates were scraped clean. When they were finished, they sat back in their chairs, rubbing their bulging stomachs, their eyes glazed with satisfaction.

  His uncle stifled a loud burp. “Mildred, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Boney’s aunt smiled as she clapped the yellow cookbook shut and placed it back in its position on the shelf next to the stove. Boney leaned toward his uncle and whispered, “We’ll have to get her another cookbook for her next birthday.”

  Boney’s uncle winked. “I’ve got it all arranged.” He tapped on his belly.

  Boney winked back. He asked to be excused, the
n brought his dishes to the sink before going upstairs to his bedroom. Once there, he took the newspaper page from his pocket, ripped it into confetti, and deposited it in the trash. Then he removed the towel that covered the Tele-tube and placed the tube to his lips. “Are you there, Squeak? Over.”

  There was a rustle on the other end of the tube. “Squeak here.”

  Boney opened his mouth to speak, but a giant burp erupted instead.

  “Ahhh!” Squeak hollered. “Why do you do that to me? We need to find another mode of communication.”

  “Sorry,” Boney apologized. “I guess I ate too much.”

  “Another dinner disaster?”

  Boney patted his stomach. “Actually, dinner was delicious. We had burritos with real melted cheese.” He burped again, but this time turned his head politely away from the mouth of the Tele-tube.

  “Lucky,” Squeak said. “I’m thinking of giving my dad cooking lessons for his birthday, but I don’t want to insult him.”

  “Yeah, that could be touchy. What was the surprise he had for you?”

  “Bread. He made bread today as a surprise to celebrate the flying competition. At least, it was supposed to be bread. It turned out more like a giant white brick. He broke the breadknife trying to cut it. Then he resorted to the circular saw.”

  Boney shuddered. “Oh boy.”

  “Yeah. But then crumbs got stuck in the saw blade and the motor sparked and burned out. I told him it was somehow appropriate, given my plane’s performance at the competition.”

  “Your plane was awesome,” Boney consoled him. “Hey, I think we have some leftovers in the fridge if you want.”

  “No … it’s okay,” Squeak said. “I made a box of macaroni and cheese. It’s not so bad if you add frozen meatballs.”

  “Speaking of meatballs, have you heard from Itchy?”

  Squeak sighed. “His bedroom curtains are shut. I keep trying to reach him on the tube but he won’t pick up. I guess he’s still mad.”

  “About what? Samantha Moss? Or his picture in the paper?”

  “We can’t prove it’s him.”