Against All Odds
Authors: Natale Ghent
AGAINST
ALL ODDS
NATALE CHENT
For Darcy
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LYING
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IENDS
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MATEUR
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IRCRAFT
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OMPETITION
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OPPELGANGERS
TRONG
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A T
ERRIFYING
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ISCOVERY
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HIRTEEN
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NIMAL
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OMPANIONS
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INETEEN
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HASTLY
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WENTY
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ATTLE
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LONES
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WENTY
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ROUBLE
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WENTY
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HREE
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LIENS
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XPLAIN
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A M
YSTERIOUS
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TORM
I
n the night sky over Green Bottle Street, dark clouds gathered like demons. They swirled in strange patterns, blocking out the moon and the twinkling stars. The wind picked up, throwing litter across the yards and streets below. Flashes of yellow lightning pulsed within the clouds, illuminating the Odd Fellows as they slept innocently in their beds.
If they’d been awake, Boney, Itchy, and Squeak would have seen the ghostly silver craft appear from the storm clouds and glide with a low, otherworldly hum above their sleepy town. They would have seen the whirling coloured lights and the tractor beam searching menacingly over the rooftops.
But they were not awake. No. They’d brushed their teeth and kissed their parents good night and gone to sleep right away, like all good boys do …
… As if.
“What the heck was that?” Boney said into the mouth of the Tele-tube as a huge clap of thunder rattled the glass in his bedroom window.
The Tele-tube was Squeak’s invention, a clear plastic tube that ran from window to window between the boys’ bedrooms. Used for covert communication, the tube connected Boney’s house to Squeak’s and Squeak’s to Itchy’s, leaving Squeak in the middle to relay messages from Itchy to Boney and back again.
Boney scoured the turbulent sky, craning his neck to get a better look. “Where did all those crazy clouds come from?”
“Fascinating.” Squeak’s voice—gap-toothed, with a high whistle — floated into Boney’s room through the tube. “It appears to be some kind of atmospheric electrical anomaly.”
“I hope it doesn’t ruin your secret project plans,” Boney said.
Squeak cleared his throat. “Why would it?”
“Can’t you just tell me what it is?” Boney asked. “You’ve been working on it every night for weeks.”
“I told you, you’ll find out tomorrow.”
Boney slouched in his chair. “Well, I hope Henry’s okay with all this thunder.”
“Henry is not burdened with human phobias,” Squeak said. “He’s a rooster. Besides, it’s illogical to ignore the fact that we just reshingled the clubhouse with 245 margarine lids from your aunt’s supply. It’s completely leak-proof.”
Boney rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Spock. Are you going to talk like a Vulcan for the rest of our lives?”
Squeak sniffed. “Would you rather I emulated a Klingon?”
“What happened to Leonardo da Vinci?” Boney asked. “You used to love him before we started watching
Star Trek.”
“So … you’d rather I speak Italian?”
“Just forget I said anything. Man, it’s hot.” Boney wiped the sweat from his brow as he peered through his window again. “Those clouds are really weird. It’s like there’s a tornado coming or something. The sky was perfectly clear two seconds ago.” Boney suddenly jumped up from his chair. “Hey, did you see that?”
From across the gap that divided the two houses, Squeak could be seen pressing his face against his bedroom window, searching the sky through his authentic World War I aviator’s goggles. “I see nothing out of the ordinary …”
Boney pointed furiously at the ominous clouds. “There’s something out there!”
Squeak opened his mouth to reply but his voice was drowned out by a deep drum roll of thunder. He seemed frozen in place, his goggled eyes wide and searching, his small form illuminated with strobes of lightning. And then the thunder stopped as abruptly as it had started.
Boney sat down, holding the Tele-tube to his lips. “I’m sure I saw something out there. But whatever it was, it’s gone. And so are those weird clouds.” He stared at the sky. It was clear once again, the moon and stars appearing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“How very odd …” Squeak muttered.
“What does Itchy think?” Boney watched as Squeak spoke into the tube leading to Itchy’s room. He could see Squeak shaking his head.
“He’s being completely illogical, of course,” Squeak reported. “He thinks it’s the end of the world. And he’s still complaining about the humidity.”
Boney guffawed and was about to make a sarcastic comment when his aunt’s shrill voice pierced the dark.
“Boneeey! Get to bed!”
Boney groaned, but he knew better than to argue with his aunt, even if it was summer vacation. He’d lived with his aunt and uncle since he was a baby, after his mother and father disappeared in a mysterious
ballooning accident. His aunt was strict and didn’t put up with wilful behaviour.
“Gotta go,” Boney whispered into the tube. “See you tomorrow.”
“Three o’clock—
sharp,”
Squeak reminded him for the tenth time that day. “I have to help my dad rewire a house so I can’t make it until then.”
“What about Itchy?” Boney asked. “What’s he doing tomorrow?”
“He’s going grocery shopping with his mom.”
“All day?”
“He sleeps until noon, remember?”
“Oh yeah, right,” Boney mumbled. “My aunt doesn’t believe in such laziness. She wakes me up at eight every morning, no matter what. I hate getting up early. It’s so … boring.”
“I know,” Squeak said. “But at least getting up won’t be such a shock for you when school starts again—which is only five weeks away, by the way.”
Boney scrunched up his face. “Please, don’t remind me.”
“Anyway, don’t forget to feed Henry before you come over,” Squeak said. “He becomes irrational if he isn’t fed before noon.”
“How can you tell when a rooster’s behaving irrationally?” Boney wondered.
Squeak stared at him through his bedroom window. “Are you making a joke?”
Boney shook his head. “Never mind. I always feed him first thing in the morning, so don’t worry.”
Squeak saluted. “Roger that.”
Boney saluted back. “Over and out.”
HAPTER
T
WO
THE SECRET MACHINE
I
n the morning, everything was as normal as it ever was on Green Bottle Street. Mr. Johnson was already up mowing his tiny, perfectly manicured lawn. Mrs. Pulmoni’s cat was streaking across the street with Itchy’s terrier, Snuff, in hot pursuit. The paper boy was riding down the middle of the sidewalk, carelessly throwing newspapers into flower beds and onto front lawns.
Boney yawned and wiped the beads of sweat from his lip as he climbed the rope ladder to the clubhouse. It was only eight-thirty in the morning but already the heat was unbearable. He stuck his head through Escape Hatch #1, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Pulling himself up, he dug into his pocket and produced a handful of cornmeal, scattering it on the clubhouse floor. “Come and get it, Henry … breakfast.”
The rooster appeared, sauntering like an arrogant cowboy toward the cornmeal, his bright red comb flopped to one side. He was a teenager now, his white feathers painted with a splash of black on his tail. If he had been disturbed by the strange storm the night before, he didn’t show it. He winked a yellow eye at Boney, waiting for his morning scratch. Boney rubbed him on the neck below his beak, the rooster squinting with pleasure.
“It’s hard to believe we thought you were a hen.” Boney chuckled, remembering when Squeak had brought the chick to the clubhouse all those months ago. “I’m glad you’re a rooster—this is a boys-only club. Although I’m sure Aunt Mildred would have loved some fresh eggs.”
Henry ruffled his feathers at the very idea, then cocked his head, listening to Boney’s voice as though he understood every word. He waggled his comb and set to work picking and scratching at the cornmeal.
Boney looked fondly around the clubhouse. It was the perfect sanctuary for three Odd Fellows. There were shelves of food for Itchy, who was tall and pale with crazy red hair and a bottomless appetite. There was a bookcase stacked with reference material for Squeak, with his goggles and gap-toothed smile and his unparalleled intellect that made it impossible for him to fit in the way normal
kids did. And there was the big red easy chair in one corner for Boney. He’d purchased it with his Invention Convention prize money the year before and had sat in it every day since, thinking up hare-brained schemes.
Boney reclined in his chair, one foot slung over the arm. It was going to be a long day without Squeak and Itchy to help him kill time. Reaching over, he pulled a book from the reference library and began to read. But he’d already read the book five times before so he replaced it and grabbed a deck of cards instead. Sitting at the table, he played endless games of solitaire, snapping the cards loudly as he went. When he was tired of that, he bounced a ball against the clubhouse wall until it ricocheted off the leg of his easy chair and flew down the hole of Escape Hatch #3. Then he napped in his chair until his aunt called him in for lunch, where he ate three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drank two glasses of milk. Returning to the clubhouse, Boney played even more games of solitaire, then languished in his chair until the hands on his watch reached three o’clock. “Finally!” he said, jumping to his feet. He gave Henry a quick scratch and streaked down the fire pole in Escape Hatch #2. Pushing through the bushes, he burst into Squeak’s backyard.
Squeak was already waiting. “You’re three minutes late.”
Boney looked around. “Where’s Itchy?”
Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles. “Late, as always. If he doesn’t show up soon, we’re going to start without him.”
“Who are you starting without?” Itchy appeared around the corner of the garage, munching on a tripledecker tuna salad sandwich, his hair a tangled red tumbleweed rolling around on his head. He was wearing his usual baggy jeans, a lime-green bandana twisted and tied around his pale forehead, and the Superman T-shirt Boney had lent him the year before.
“Hey, that’s my shirt,” Boney said.
Itchy looked down as if seeing the shirt for the first time. “Is it?”
“You know it is! I lent it to you ages ago.”
Itchy smirked. “Obviously I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have worn it.”
“Come on. Everything you own is purple after your mom’s latest dyeing binge.”
“It’s green, actually. Everything’s lime green now.” Itchy pointed to the bandana on his forehead.
Squeak peered skeptically through his goggles at the bandana. “Yeah … I’m not so sure that’s a good colour for you … It makes you appear … pastier than usual …”
“It absorbs the sweat from my forehead.”
Squeak winced. “Uhhh … yeah …”
“Green, purple, whatever,” Boney said. “That’s still my Superman shirt. You’d better not get any tuna juice on it.”
“Fine. I’ll just take it off right here.” Itchy raised the hem of the shirt.
“Gentlemen, please,” Squeak interrupted. “Can we get on with it?”
“Sure,” Itchy said, popping the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “If that’s okay with Officer Boneham, T-shirt Detective.” He shot a wry look in Boney’s direction.
Boney sighed.
Itchy turned to Squeak. “So … what’s this ‘big secret’ you’ve been working on?”
Squeak stood next to a large, canvas-draped object, unable to hide his excitement. “This, my Odd friends, is the result of endless nights of painstaking research. It’s the most incredible achievement of my life to date.”
“More incredible than the Apparator?” Boney asked.
Squeak nodded. “Yes. Though the Apparator is a revolutionary ghost-detecting device.”
“And it won the grand prize in our school’s Invention Convention last year,” Boney added.
“And it helped us get even with Larry Harry and Jones and Jones at the Haunted Mill,” Itchy said. “So long, Fart King!”
The Odds burst out laughing.
Squeak adjusted his goggles. “I can assure you with all confidence, gentlemen, that the invention I’m about to unveil is much, much more incredible.”
“So what is it already?” Itchy reached for a corner of the canvas cloth.
Squeak pushed his friend’s hand away. “Please … allow me.” He motioned for Boney and Itchy to step back. “Gentlemen … I would like to present my masterpiece.” He grabbed the edge of the cloth and whipped it ceremoniously to the ground.
Itchy and Boney gasped.
“An airplane?!”
The sunlight glinted off the plane, which was streamlined and smooth and made entirely of some kind of silver-grey metal. The craft was as long as Squeak was tall—about four feet in total—and had a blue comet painted on the tail. Squeak gestured reverently toward the plane. “This, gentlemen, is no ordinary craft. This is the
StarSweeper 5000.”
Itchy scratched his tangled mop of hair. “A carpet-sweeping what?”
“StarSweeper5000,”
Squeak corrected him. “This beautiful machine is going to win the thousand-dollar prize at the Flying Fiends Amateur Aircraft Competition.”
Itchy turned to Boney. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
Boney shrugged.
“It’s the best amateur flying contest in the entire area,” Squeak said. “People come from all over to see it. The calibre of the entries is really high. And the best part is they encourage you to be a bit crazy. That’s why I used a magnetic positron eliminator in the
StarSweeper’s
design.”
Itchy stared blankly back at him. Squeak produced a small, worn newspaper article from his shirt pocket and flipped it open with a quick motion of his hand.
“Read it for yourselves, gentlemen, in the
Tickleview Times.”
Itchy snatched the piece of paper from Squeak. Boney huddled next to his friend as they read the particulars of the contest, Itchy’s lips moving silently over the words.
“It says the contest is tomorrow,” he said aloud. “And that they encourage ‘creative problem solving.’”
“Affirmative,” Squeak answered. “The sky’s the limit.”
Itchy handed the article back to Squeak. He pulled a chocolate bar from his pants pocket and ripped open the wrapper as he walked in a slow circle, examining the plane. “You’re not seriously thinking of flying this thing, are you?”
Squeak blinked behind his goggles. “Of course. Why else would I have spent all this time building it?”
“Well … it’s kind of … small … isn’t it?”
“I’m not flying
in
the plane. It’s radio controlled.” Squeak produced a square black metal box from his military messenger bag. The box had a silver toggle, a bunch of coloured switches and buttons, an antenna, some dials, a throttle, and a small lever. He flipped the toggle switch, causing the antenna to extend to full length.
“Cool,” Boney said, examining the controls.
Itchy grunted through a mouthful of chocolate. “We came all the way over here for this? People have been flying radio-controlled planes for years.”
“You live next door,” Boney said.
“Yeah, but I made a special trip over thinking we were going to see something really cool.”
Squeak rested one hand lovingly on the plane. “This
is
really cool. It’s a totally innovative design. It has a titanium-alloy body with a variable-sweep forward horizontal stabilizer and dual-engine propulsion thrusters.”
“Oh, well then,” Itchy scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Boney ran a finger along the body of the plane. “It’s really beautiful, Squeak. You did an amazing job.”
“Seems kind of flimsy to me.” Itchy tapped the tail and tested the rudder.
Squeak brushed Itchy’s hand from the plane. “It’s not flimsy. Titanium is remarkably resilient — when used properly.”
Itchy curled his lip, unconvinced.
“I have full confidence in the design,” Squeak asserted. “I studied the schematics of hundreds of airplane models. I’m going to win that thousand-dollar prize if it kills me.” His voice cracked.
“It just might,” Itchy muttered, stuffing the last of his chocolate bar into his mouth.
Squeak ignored him and handed Boney a thick, meticulously detailed instruction manual for the plane.
Boney flipped through the pages. “Wow. You wrote this all by hand?”
Squeak nodded. “Winning this prize will give us a chance to enter NASA’s Revolutionary Vehicles and Concepts Competition. I was hoping you could help me with the test run.”
“Oh no,” Itchy protested. “You can’t launch that thing here. There’s no room. You’ll hit a tree or crash through a window in someone’s house or something.”
“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.