I Owe You One (6 page)

“Good news,” Zach said, deciding for me.

“Good news is I found a used transmitter.” He paused. “Bad news is, the guy doesn't want to sell it.”

“Why won't he sell it?” I asked.

“Didn't really say.”

“Did you tell him we'll pay top dollar for it?” Zach said. My stomach dropped. Top dollar? We didn't have top dollar. We barely had any dollars.

“I don't think he's interested in the money.”

“Is there any way we can get it?” Zach asked, always practical.

“Well, I got good news and bad news.”

I folded my arms.

“Good news, he's willing to trade for it. Bad news, it's in Pensacola, Florida.”

I did some fast figuring in my head. It was about a six-day drive to Florida and back. I knew, because Dad and I drove to Disneyworld when I was nine. That would still give us time to have the transmitter installed before Rachel's World Championship race. Barely.

I smiled. “We'll take it.”

“Whoa there,” Zach said. “Trade it for what?” he asked Frank.

I'd forgotten about that part. What would a guy in Florida want from us?

Frank hesitated. That was a bad sign.

“He wants…um…winter.”

Winter? Did I hear him right? “What do you mean, he wants winter?”

Frank sighed. “He's originally from Edmonton. He said it's his granddaughter's sixth birthday next week and he wants to build a snowman with her. Maybe have a snowball fight. She's never even seen snow, let alone played in it.”

“Call him back and tell him it's hot here. You know, beach hot, sunburn hot, air-conditioning hot,” I said, my voice rising just a little. “Is he one of those jerks who think we live in igloos all year round?”

“If he's from Edmonton, he knows that's not true, right?” Zach asked Frank, one eyebrow raised.

“I kind of got the feeling he was just jerking me around,” Frank said, “but a deal is a deal. He said he would trade it for snow.”

My heart sank.

“Well, tell him we'll give him snow in December. Tons of snow,” Zach said.

“Yeah. I told him that. He said you can have the transmitter in December…if he still has it.”

I groaned.

“Snow in summer. What a joke,” Zach muttered.

Something twigged in the back of my mind.

“How big a snowman does he want to build?” I asked.

“What difference does that make?” Zach asked. “We don't have snow in July!”

“Sure we do,” I answered, trying not to sound smug. “It's about twenty-five minutes away…at the Harrington Arena.”

I could see the lightbulb go off in Zach's brain, and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. The Zamboni! When the ice was cleared, there was always a small pile of snow left behind that had to be shoveled up.

“I dunno how much he wants,” Frank said. “Enough for a snowman and a snowball fight before it all melts.”

“Then snow he'll get,” I said. “Call him back and tell him to get that transmitter ready. We'll take care of the snow.”

Frank chuckled and reached for the phone.

Chapter 9

“Hey, we're in luck. The door is open,” Zach said. The bus ride to the Harrington Arena had taken half an hour. I hadn't even considered that the arena might be locked up. We
were
lucky. According to a flyer on the door, there was a Junior B hockey camp going on.

“Yeah. At least we can get in,” I said.

“More importantly, they'll be using the Zamboni,” Zach said.

We walked around to where the Zamboni was parked, but no one was there. Down the hall was a maintenance room where you could get your skates sharpened. Inside, a man sat at an old wooden table drinking coffee and reading the paper. His hair was silver, and his blue overalls had the name
Bill
embroidered on the pocket.

“Dressing rooms are on the other side,” he said without even looking up.

“Uh, thanks,” I said. “But we're not here for the camp.”

He put down his coffee and paper.

Might as well get right down to it. I never was any good at small talk.

“We were wondering if we could have some… well…um…snow.” I let the words hang in the air.

“Snow.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Yeah, you know, from the Zamboni.”

“This some kind of joke?”

“No, sir. It's actually really important.”

“Important to have snow from a Zamboni.”

“It's hard to explain.”

He got up. “Sorry, it's against the rules.” He walked out before I could even think of something to say to convince him.

This was too much. First we found snow in summer, and then we couldn't have any.

Zach and I walked back out to the rink, stood at the boards and watched the Zamboni clear the ice. I couldn't believe we had come this close, only to fail.

“You guys here for the hockey camp?” one of the coaches called out to us as he skated over. “Or are you Chiefs fans?”

“No, not hockey camp. But we are big fans,” Zach said. “My dad and I come to a lot of the Chiefs' hockey games. Do you think you're going to take the Sutherland Cup this year?”

The coach folded his arms and tilted his head. “Hard to say. Lots of competition. If this hockey camp is any indication, though, then we've got the talent. No doubt about it.” He sighed. “But last year's heartbreaker in the finals got to us. Game seven and a tied score. Thirty-four seconds left in regulation play and a freak rebound off our guy's skate puts it in the net for them.”

I sucked in my breath. That was a lousy way to go out.

“They'll bounce back this year,” I said, trying to sound more optimistic than I felt. After all, I wasn't exactly having a good run of luck lately myself.

“You know, it's funny,” the coach said. “A team can be the strongest, the fastest, the most talented, but if they don't believe they can win, they won't. It's that simple. I've seen it happen over and over again. Thing is, that's two years in a row we've lost in game seven with some bad luck. The Chiefs think they're jinxed.”

The Zamboni had finished and was heading out the exit. Zach and I couldn't help groaning when we saw Bill shovel perfectly good, frozen, cold snow into a grate in the arena floor.

“We better get going, Wes,” Zach said. “The bus to Six Roads leaves in about eight minutes.”

“You guys are from Six Roads?”

“Yeah,” I said as we turned to go.

The coach stopped me. “Isn't that where that guy found the lucky arrowhead?”

“Sure. Why?”

The coach rubbed his chin with this hand. “I know this sounds crazy, but that might be just what the team needs.”

“An old arrowhead?”

“Yeah, like a lucky charm.”

“I don't think it really is lucky.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All that matters is that the team thinks it's lucky. I could talk Bill into burying it at center ice like they did with that loonie at the Winter Olympics.”

“Good luck talking Bill into anything,” Zach muttered under his breath.

“Tell you what, Coach,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “If you can get Bill to let us have some snow from the Zamboni, we'll get you that lucky arrowhead.”

“Snow from the Zamboni?”

I sighed. “It's a long story. Do we have a deal?”

The coach smiled and held out his hand. “Deal. Sutherland Cup, here we come!”

Chapter 10

All the confidence I had felt back at the Harrington Arena a few hours before fizzled away as I stood on Mr. Elliot's porch.

“Well, are you going to knock?” Zach asked.

“Why don't
you
knock?” I said. “This whole life-debt thing was your idea.”

Zach looked at the door and gulped. “And have him bark at me? No way.”

I wanted to leave and forget the whole thing, but then I remembered how frail and sick Mrs. Minton was. I took a deep breath and knocked. We could hear footsteps coming to the door, and with each step my heart beat faster. I breathed again when Mrs. Elliot opened the door.

“Yes?” she said. She was a small, cheerful woman—the exact opposite of her husband. Mr. Elliot stayed on the farm like a hermit, but Mrs. Elliot was a member of every club in Six Roads—the sewing guild, the women's auxiliary for the church, the cheese sculptors. You name it, she was part of it.

“Uh, could we speak to Mr. Elliot, please?” I was secretly hoping she would say he wasn't home.

“Oh, Jack's out back doing some cleanup for me,” she said, her smile growing wider.

“We wouldn't want to disturb him,” I said hastily, the pit of dread growing in my stomach. “We'll come back some other time.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I'm sure Jack would love a bit of company from you boys.”

“Not likely,” Zach whispered to me as we rounded the house.

But we were stuck now. Mrs. Elliot even said she was going to bring us some lemonade, as Jack would surely welcome a break. I was relieved that we wouldn't be left alone with him.

We could hear pounding as we neared the spot where Mr. Elliot was working. We stopped a few paces away, unsure what to do.

He must have heard us, because he swung around, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Well?”

My brain froze.

“We wanted to ask you a favor,” I heard Zach say.

Mr. Elliot's eyes narrowed. “What kind of favor?”

“Would you let us have your arrowhead?” I blurted out. Like I said, I'm no good at small talk.

“Why?”

“To unjinx them,” I stammered. “The team, I mean. The Chiefs.” For some strange reason, my mouth was working, but my brain wasn't. Even
I
didn't understand what I was saying.

Mr. Elliot stared at me as if I had lost my mind.

Zach cleared his throat.

“Seeing as you don't believe in luck and the Chiefs do, and they need some, we wondered if you wouldn't mind donating your arrowhead to them,” Zach said. Thank goodness his mouth and brain were connected.

“Yeah,” I said weakly, wondering why I hadn't just let Zach do all the talking in the first place.

“Hmpfh.” Mr. Elliot turned his back to us and kept piling rocks into a wheelbarrow.

Was that a “yes” hmpfh or a “no” hmpfh? We didn't know whether we should stay or go. We probably would have snuck away, but right then Mrs. Elliot came around the corner with a tray of lemonade and brownies. I can't resist brownies.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“Jack, the boys are still waiting,” she said.

Mr. Elliot turned around, his face unhappy. “I was just thinking about what they said.”

Mrs. Elliot looked at him, her smile never fading.

“Why are you so interested in helping the Harrington Chiefs?” he asked us.

“It's not the Chiefs we want to help, it's Mrs. Minton,” Zach said. Now I remembered why I didn't let him do all the talking. He was going to say too much, and the whole afghan episode would be tonight's dinner conversation all around town.

“Agnes Minton? She doesn't play hockey anymore.”

“No, I mean we want to help her by fixing the tv tower.”

“But the Harrington Chiefs' games aren't broadcast on tv, dear,” Mrs. Elliot said gently.

“No ma'am, but by getting the arrowhead we'll get snow, which we're going to trade for a new transmitter to fix the tower to pay off Wes's life debt,” Zach said.

I elbowed Zach.

Mrs. Elliot looked a little flustered. “Well, that sounds nice. Doesn't it, Jack?”

I almost felt a little sorry for Mr. Elliot. Mrs. Elliot was looking at him so sweetly. He must have been feeling kind of trapped.

Then his eyes glinted and a slow smile spread across his face. “Sure, I'll donate the arrowhead.”