Against All Odds (3 page)

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 the 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.

B
oney 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 top 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.”

“Yes, thank you,” Squeak mumbled. He turned and shoved the registration number at Boney, who helped pin it to the back of Squeak’s shirt. When Boney was finished, Squeak took the handle of the wagon from Itchy and wheeled the
StarSweeper
along the cliff, scouting for the next-best position, muttering bitterly under his breath the entire time. He glowered at the spy. “This would have been easier if someone hadn’t stolen my spot.”

When at last they settled on a location, the three boys positioned the wagon, Squeak fussing over the precise placement of his rig.

“Should we remove the tarp from the plane?” Boney asked.

Squeak looked at the spy’s well-hidden entry. “No.”

Boney licked his finger and held it in the air. “There’s a bit of a headwind. That could slow us down.”

“The
StarSweeper
will cut right through it.” Squeak continued to fiddle with the plane as more and more contestants arrived.

“Oh no,” Itchy suddenly said, pointing to the bottom of the hill. “Who invited those guys?”

It was Simon Biddle and Edward Wormer, the Odds’ schoolmates and lifelong scientific adversaries … and Larry Harry and Jones and Jones!

“H
ey, doofus!” Larry Harry called out as he parked his entry beside Squeak’s. “You may as well go home because you know I’m going to win.”

Itchy leapt in front of Larry, shoving his skinny white fist into the bully’s face. “Oh yeah? Says who?”

Larry shrank away in terror, hiding behind his hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!”

“You’d better be kidding,” Itchy snarled, waving his fist at Jones and Jones, who cowered behind Larry. “Now move your wagon! We don’t want you anywhere near us.”

“Okay, okay.” Larry ducked his head and ordered Jones and Jones to move his wagon to the other side of the field.

But just as Larry Harry wheeled his rig away, Edward Wormer pulled up beside Squeak, parking his wagon next to the
StarSweeper.
Simon Biddle parked
on the other side and began immediately adjusting the tarp covering his craft so that no part of his secret entry would be prematurely exposed.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Wormer greeted the Odds, his metal braces flashing in the sun. “Ooo, nice shirts,” he mocked. “What are you? The kitten club?”

Itchy sheltered the basket of kittens with his hands.

Squeak scowled. “These shirts are for a good cause. And by the way, I’d rather you didn’t set up next to me.”

“What difference does it make?” Wormer quipped. “I’m going to win, regardless of where I park my wagon.”

Boney clenched his jaw. “I could suggest another place to park your wagon.”

Biddle snickered into his hand.

“That goes for you, too, Biddle,” Itchy jumped in.

Wormer nodded toward the spy, who seemed to be watching and taking notes from his position at the other end of the cliff, his identity hidden behind the mirrored visor of his black helmet. “Who’s the ninja?” he sneered at Squeak. “A friend of yours?”

Boney crossed his arms. “We thought it was your mother, worm breath.”

Squeak turned to Boney with a confused look. “Why would we think it’s his mother? That’s a totally illogical response.”

“Ha, nice try.” Wormer glared at Boney.

Boney grimaced back. “You’re going to eat our dust, Wormer.” He turned to Squeak and whispered from the corner of his mouth. “Do you think we have anything to worry about?”

Squeak pushed on the bridge of his goggles. “Of course not.” But he looked over his shoulder at the spy all the same. “What could he possibly be writing?”

“I’m thirsty,” Itchy said, pulling the water bottle out of his knapsack.

“Don’t drink the kittens’ water!” Boney barked.

Itchy bristled. “I told you I wouldn’t do that. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“I can answer that.” Wormer produced a newspaper from his bag and tossed it at Itchy’s feet. “Read it and weep, paleface.”

There, on the front page, blazed a huge headline: MYSTERY CLOWN BOY TERRORIZES TOWN! Beneath the headline was a blurry photo showing little more than a streak of pasty skin and red hair.

Itchy placed the kittens on the ground and snatched the paper up. “What’s this got to do with me?”

Biddle scoffed. “Recognize the face?”

Itchy studied the photo.

“Oh, come on,” Wormer goaded. “You know it’s you.”

Itchy looked at him like he was crazy. “Me? Are you kidding? This could be anyone, it’s so fuzzy! It could be a sasquatch, for all I know.”

“A red-headed sasquatch,” Biddle said.

Boney took the paper from Itchy. He and Squeak pored over the photo and skimmed the article, then looked at Itchy with concern.

“What?” Itchy said. “You don’t actually think it’s me, do you?”

Boney paused. “It says you’ve been peering into people’s windows.”

“And stealing food,” Squeak added. “Someone’s blueberry pie was taken right off their windowsill …”

“I would never do that!” Itchy insisted.

Boney held up the paper and read aloud: “Multiple sightings throughout the town … voracious appetite … stolen food …”

Itchy tore the paper from Boney’s hands. “It’s not me! I swear! Look at the picture. Does that look anything like me?”

Boney and Squeak stared blankly back at him.

Itchy clawed at his hair. “I’m telling you, it’s not me!”

Biddle snorted. “Oh sure. There are hundreds of pasty, red-headed clown boys running around town, stealing food, and looking through people’s windows.”

Wormer’s braces flashed. “Admit it. You just can’t control yourself.” He made an eating motion with his mouth.

Squeak and Boney had to restrain Itchy as he lunged at Wormer, his skinny white legs kicking wildly in the air. “It’s not me!” he shouted, throwing the newspaper at Biddle’s feet.

“Fine, already,” Biddle said. “It’s some other pasty, red-headed kid. What do I care?”

“You’d better care!” Itchy threatened, kicking dust at Biddle like an angry chicken.

Squeak loosened his grip on Itchy’s arm. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“Here,” Boney said, digging into his pocket and slapping some quarters into Itchy’s hand. “Go get some lemonade—and bring some back for me and Squeak.”

Itchy took the quarters, grimaced at Biddle and Wormer, then punted the newspaper as he made his way over to the refreshment booth. Moments later, he was back, empty-handed and wearing Boney’s Superman shirt. The kittens jumped from their basket and hid in the grass, hissing and growling when they saw him. Boney frowned.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “And where’s your kitten shirt? I suppose it’s okay for us to walk around looking stupid but not you?”

Itchy looked at him stoically.

“What happened to the lemonade?” Boney demanded. “I told you to bring some back for me and Squeak. What is wrong with you?”

Itchy just stared at him, then turned and silently walked away. The kittens hissed and growled as he left.

“Geez,” Boney cursed, shaking his head.

Squeak pointed to the newspaper, a concerned look on his face. “Do you think it really is Itchy …?”

Boney snatched the paper from the ground and slammed it into a trash can. “I don’t know. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

A minute later, Itchy returned, carrying three cups of lemonade. He was wearing the pink shirt again.

Boney took a cup of lemonade. “That’s more like it.”

“I came as fast as I could,” Itchy said. “There’s a big line for drinks.” He took the opportunity to scowl at Biddle and Wormer as he handed a cup to Squeak.

Biddle and Wormer scowled back. Squeak just downed the drink in a single shot and began fussing with the tarp on his plane again. While he did this, more onlookers and contestants arrived, until there was a line of more than twenty entries fringing the edge of the cliff. Some of the people gawked at Itchy, pointing and whispering behind their hands the way the others had done earlier.

“Maybe if you took that green bandana off, you wouldn’t attract so much attention,” Boney said.

Itchy sulked. “But it keeps the sweat from dripping into my eyes.”

Boney gave him a look.

“Fine.” Itchy tore the bandana from his forehead and crammed it in his back pocket. “Satisfied?” Boney shrugged.

At nine o’clock sharp, the loudspeaker crackled and a tall man in a straw fedora began to speak, his voice engulfed in a blare of feedback. Wormer and Biddle shouted in pain, covering their ears with their hands until the feedback subsided.

“Weenies,” Itchy jeered, unwrapping a chocolate bar and taking a huge bite. “As if I’d go around stealing pies …”

Boney eyed him with suspicion. “Where’d you get that chocolate bar?”

“I bought it at the concession stand. Why?” Boney stared at his friend.

“What? Do you think I stole it?”

Boney raised his hands in truce. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Where are the kittens?”

Itchy spun around, searching the grass. The kittens were playing with some children across the field. He grabbed the basket and ran to retrieve them, but returned with the basket empty. “The family wants to keep them.”

“All three?”

Itchy nodded. He was about to launch into an explanation but was interrupted by another blare from the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen … we are thrilled to welcome you to the twenty-third annual Flying Fiends Amateur Aircraft Competition. Before we begin, let me regale you with a bit of history …”

The announcer droned on as the sun rose higher in the sky. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, children ran around, onlookers picnicked, and contestants shifted anxiously in their sneakers. All except for the spy. He stood with pen and notebook at the ready, scribbling intently. Squeak bristled.

“Maybe he’s writing his will. He’s going to need it after today.”

“Or a grocery list,” Boney said, trying to lighten the mood.

Itchy brightened. “I could use some groceries.”

Boney shook his head. “You’re not making a good case for yourself.”

“I can’t help it if I get hungry all the time,” Itchy said, clutching his stomach.

The announcer finally drawled to a close. He ended his speech with a request for donations as he removed his hat and wiped his brow with the red kerchief he would later use to signal the start of the race. “You all
know the rules,” he bellowed. “Be creative! First craft to circle the orange halfway pole and return across the finish line takes the prize. May the best man win! Gentlemen … please … take your marks.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity as the entrants uncovered and manoeuvred their planes to the proper spots on the cliff edge, each desperately trying to catch a last-minute glimpse of the other entries. Wormer’s plane looked like some kind of modified World War II Mustang. Biddle’s was a strange sphere made from concentric wooden rings that revolved around each other, and had to be launched from a giant golf tee. Larry Harry’s craft was a balsa wood biplane. The other entries included a miniature microlight plane; a model Twin Otter plane; a helicopter; some kind of crazy, wingless rocket ship that looked like it was made from old margarine tubs; a Fokker F28; a Brewster Buffalo; and an assortment of scratch-built prop planes.

Itchy pointed scornfully at Biddle’s wooden sphere. “What is that?”

Biddle’s nose twitched. “Only the most revolutionary craft known to man, pie boy.”

“Ha!” Itchy laughed, turning to gauge Squeak’s reaction.

But Squeak was too busy staring through his telescope, hoping to get a closer look at the spy’s entry. “It
looks like some kind of stainless steel body,” he said. “Single tail thruster with dual jet engines. There’s no way his plane will be faster than the
StarSweeper.
It looks far too heavy to outclass us.”

Boney pulled on his chin. “Forget about it for now, Squeak. The race is going to start any second.”

Squeak closed his telescope and stuffed it back into his bag. He held the black metal control box with both hands, a thin bead of sweat forming on his upper lip.

“Contestants,” the announcer called. “Start your engines!”

Dust filled the air as the planes jumped to life, some backfiring, some whining, some sputtering slowly then spinning to a high-pitched buzz. Larry Harry’s balsa wood plane exploded instantly in a cloud of black smoke, its propeller flying off and landing in the gravel behind the announcer. Itchy and Boney laughed and pointed until Larry Harry and Jones and Jones stomped off in a rage, dragging the remains of their entry away on their wagon.

Squeak tested the rudder and flaps on the
Star-Sweeper,
spooling up the engines in preparation for takeoff. Wormer revved his engine in challenge. Biddle increased the velocity of his wooden sphere, the concentric circles whirling faster and faster around each other until the entire craft was just a blur. Squeak inched the
throttle forward, until the
StarSweeper
‘s jets began to scream. The three boys glowered at each other, fingers poised for battle.

The announcer raised his red kerchief against the yellow glare of the sun. He held it there for what seemed like an eternity, and then dropped his arm like a guillotine.

“Go!”

Squeak released the brakes. The
StarSweeper
streaked off in a shower of gravel, Wormer’s Mustang buzzing just inches behind. The margarine-tub rocket arced in the air and sizzled over the edge of the cliff, crashing and melting like processed cheese on the rocks below. Biddle’s sphere rolled off its tee, whipped around in the dirt, then zipped over the edge and shattered, landing in a heap of kindling next to the melted rocket at the bottom of the cliff. The Fokker F28 and Brewster Buffalo droned behind the Mustang, hot on the
StarSweep-er
‘s tail. Squeak pressed the little yellow button and the
StarSweeper
blasted forward, leaving the other planes behind like insects in the clouds.

Itchy and Boney cheered, their fists pumping “Go, Squeak, go!”

“Ha ha!” Itchy gloated. “The prize money is ours!” Squeak looked over his shoulder with glee and noticed that the spy’s plane hadn’t even left the ground.
The spy nodded his helmet in Squeak’s direction as he held his control box to one side and pushed the ignition button. There was a flash of blue light and a strange, low whir, like the sound of a powerful turbine spinning into action. The ground began to tremble and all heads turned to see blue flames shooting from the back of the spy’s plane. The spy pressed another button and the jet ripped off the cliff with an earth-shattering boom, the shock wave knocking several bystanders to the ground with its force. The crowd gasped in unison. The spy worked the controls, sending the jet straight into the sky in a big loop before zipping past Squeak’s plane, only to slow down and cruise easily behind the
StarSweeper.
The crowd roared.

Squeak gritted his teeth as he pressed the red button on his control box. The
StarSweeper
surged forward, its wings vibrating against the force of the air current. He turned to look at the spy, who was looking back at him, the sun glinting off his visor. The spy raised his finger and wagged it at Squeak before pressing another switch. The afterburners blazed, and his plane roared to within inches of the
StarSweeper.