The Boy with 17 Senses (4 page)

THE HIGH FREQUENCY OF ENVY

S
omeone else was watching Jaq's freasel work, and that someone was Jaq's next-door neighbor, Tormy Vilcot. From his second-floor room in the very house that used to belong to Jaq's grandfather, Tormy could see right down into the Rollops' field. And because he had no homework to do, he had plenty of time to stare out the window and dream about swimming pools.

Every day, Tormy Vilcot watched Jaq walk to school with his wipper-slinger. He watched Jaq walk home with his wipper-slinger. He watched Jaq laugh and run and play with his
wipper-slinger. And when he had nothing to do because Jaq was doing his homework, Tormy Vilcot watched that beautiful freasel sling wippers. It made him laugh out loud—until he realized something.

Jaq Rollop has a wipper-slinger, and I don't
.

Tormy Vilcot's ears started to ring. They buzzed and hummed like a tornado, or a fly he couldn't swat away. Tormy didn't like that droning buzz.

When Jaq came over with Tormy's homework, Tormy offered him ten damars for his wipper-slinger, but Jaq laughed in his face.

“Twenty damars?” Tormy offered.

“Klingdux isn't for sale,” Jaq said. “Why don't you go to Pests-B-Gone? They've got a bunch of them there.”

Tormy didn't want a freasel from Pests-B-Gone. He wanted Jaq's freasel, and he wanted Jaq to have no freasel. That was two wants buzzing in his ear, and he couldn't stand it.

“I'm doing you a favor, you dumb lump,” Tormy said. “With twenty damars you could buy another freasel yourself and have enough left over to get some new clothes.” He pointed to Jaq's shirt. “The Cruxlump Warriors aren't even a team anymore. They folded twelve years ago.”

“Sorry, but he's not for sale.”

Ringgggggggg, buzzzzzzzz
.

Sometimes the whine in Tormy's head would go away, but it would zing right back if he saw Jaq or the wipper-slinger, or if someone said the word
homework
, which tasted like seaweed and reminded him of Jaq and his wipper-slinger.

Tormy felt assaulted by this reverberating ring. It made him very irritable. No one would have noticed the difference, because he was always irritable, but now he was violently irritable. He punched walls, he kicked fence posts, and he screamed at his family.

His parents tried to bribe him with sweets. They tried to appease his envy with toys. They bought him a new pet of his own, a rare and expensive tippi bird. None of it worked.

“I WANT THAT WIPPER-SLINGER!” he screamed at dinner.

His grandfather, the wealthy Ripley Vilcot, placed a shiny gold package on the table.

“Is that what I think it is?” Tormy's mother said, her whole face beaming with fake-surprise happiness.

“Yes,” his grandfather replied. “And it cost me more than my new Arbian foal.”

“Oh, Tormy, you are such a lucky kid,” his mother said.
“It's glug!” She reverently pushed the small box closer to Tormy. “You can't buy this at the marketplace. You have to know someone. Your friends will be so jealous.”

His grandfather unwrapped a piece of his own glug and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and chewed, and then blew a huge bubble. When it popped, the noise made a burst of yellow stars appear in Tormy's vision. They looked like they were shooting out from his grandfather's face. Tormy's mother laughed and clapped her hands.

“Not every kid gets to chew fresh glug,” his grandfather said. “You can pop bubbles in your friends' faces. And think of all the things you can do with a nicely chewed wad of glug. That's valuable stuff, right there. You could save it, and someday you'll have enough for your own soundproof glug room! Or add it to your glug trophy display. Or—”

“I don't want glug!” Tormy screamed, snatching the pack and shoving it in his pocket, because he did want it. Glug was one of the most valuable things on Yipsmix—who wouldn't want it? “I want that wipper-slinger!”

His grandfather clenched his teeth and blew out through his nose. He seemed to come to a decision. “Then you shall have it,” he said. “No Vilcot goes without.”

6

SPEAKING WITH YOUR HANDS IS EASIER WHEN YOU WEAR THE RIGHT GLOVES

T
he next day, Ripley Vilcot put on his riding gloves—the everyday pair, not the fancy evening pair, or the casual pair, or the “Don't mess with me, I'm angry” pair—and climbed onto his prizewinning Arbian mount. He rode out of his stable and down his driveway. From there, it was a short hop down the road to the Rollops' farm. Arbians are fantastic hoppers.

This place would make a perfect annex to my farm
, he thought, looking at the Rollops' measly spread.
I could tear down that one-room shack they call a house and build a gazebo, draped with
winnowberry vines. I could replace that pathetic garden with a nice lawn, and bulldoze that ripweed field and put in Tormy's pool—maybe with a statue of me in the middle. It would be so much more pleasurable to look out on myself, rather than this dry and dusty eyesore
.

The Rollops' home
was
squalid, and it looked like the roof was ready to cave in. Weeds curled around the base of the house like greedy fingers. Faded shirts hung on the clothesline, waving as if they were saying,
Save us from this desolation!

How long do I have to wait for them to leave? Why won't they sell me this worthless blip of land?

Vilcot knocked on the door with his gloved hand, wondering if he should have worn the “Don't mess with me” pair instead.

Jaq's mother answered.

They stared at each other.

Vilcot thought that Mrs. Rollop really should take better care of herself; she was a mess. Her eyes were droopy, and her hair was graying and frizzy. It looked like she hadn't had her nails done . . . well, ever.

“Mrs. Rollop,” he said at last.

“Mr. Vilcot,” she replied.

“It is your great fortune,” he said, smiling, “that my
grandson has become enamored of your farm's freasel. I am prepared to offer you a price well in excess of what they are charging at Pests-B-Gone. I think twenty damars is more than fair, and you should accept it. Obviously”—he looked around her and into the room—“you need it.”

He opened his wallet and began counting out the bills.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Vilcot, but Klingdux belongs to my son, and he's not for sale.”

Ripley Vilcot had had a feeling she wouldn't accept his first offer. She was so obvious in her greed. He decided to feign surprise at her rejection.

“Really? Are you sure? It's a very generous offer.”

Mrs. Rollop shrugged. She was doing some acting of her own, Vilcot could tell. The old “It's out of my hands” bit. He blinked at her, wondering how best to proceed against this greedy woman.

“Very well,” he said after a few dozen blinks. “Twenty-five damars. But I assure you, I will not go one damar higher.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Why don't you buy one at Pests-B-Gone yourself?”

Vilcot was stunned into silence. It was an angry silence. A silence that poked him in the ribs and told him he was losing. Whirls of black and gray appeared at the edges of his
vision, haloing Mrs. Rollop so that it looked as if her head was framed in menace. Vilcot had seen this picture before; it happened whenever he thought someone was trying to take advantage of him. If there was one thing Ripley Vilcot would not stand for, it was someone who thought she could play him for a fool.

And she's playing me
, he thought.
Of course she's playing me. Oh, how I hate the Rollops! I hate them. I hate the type of people they are. They relish being troublemakers, they do. It's the only satisfaction they get out of life, spoiling better people's lives. Just because they're incapable of achieving any sort of success themselves
.

The swirls of black were now streaked with red, and they shook as if they were laughing at him. Vilcot imagined Mrs. Rollop telling the other workers at the factory,
Look how much the old fool paid for my wipper-slinger!

It took him a moment to unclench his teeth and say, “I see. I will give you one last chance to accept my generous offer. I don't think you want to refuse it.”

“I'm sorry.”

You will be
.

Vilcot turned to go.
Nobody laughs at me
.
I will not let her get away with it
. And then he struck his mount much harder than necessary and hopped home.

A plan formed in his mind as he left the Rollops' struggling farm.
They'd be a little more eager to sell if their crops failed
, he thought.
Oh, yes . . . if I divert the river, their farm will get no water. It will cost me a fortune, but sometimes a lesson has to be taught. Nobody will say no to me again
.

7

WORRY PRICKLES THE BACK OF YOUR ELBOW

A
fter dinner, Jaq listened as his mother recounted her confrontation with Ripley Vilcot.

“There's something not right with that man,” she said. “You talk to him, but he stands there twitching and fidgeting like a schoolboy about to have a tantrum.”

“Was he wearing his ‘Don't mess with me' gloves?” Grandpa asked.

“I don't think so. They were just normal gloves.”

“How insulting! He doesn't even think we are worthy of
his best gloves. Thought we'd be a pushover for his wheeling and dealing.”

“Did he try to buy the farm again?” Jaq asked.

His mother and grandfather didn't answer. They looked at each other, like they were hoping for the other one to talk. Jaq's gaze went back and forth between them.

“He doesn't want the farm,” his mother said at last.

“What
does
he want?” Jaq asked. Klingdux was curled up next to him on the floor, and Jaq stroked his soft fur. Then he noticed Grandpa looking at Klingdux.

“No,” Jaq said softly. “No, he can't.”

“He offered twenty-five damars for him,” Mrs. Rollop said. “Think of what we could do with that money, Jaq. Better irrigation for the fields, fix the roof, repair the drafty floorboards.”

“You don't hear me complaining,” Grandpa said. Then he pointed to his blanket, because he felt a draft and didn't want to get up.

Jaq fetched the blanket and then rushed back to Klingdux. “He's the only friend I've ever had, Mom.”

“I know,” his mother said. “We won't sell him to that man.”

Jaq was relieved, but later, as he lay in his corner of the room, he heard that sentence a different way, and in this
new way,
We won't sell him to that man
didn't mean that they wouldn't sell him to someone else.

On Yipsmix, emotions are heard and seen in addition to being felt. That night, Tormy Vilcot sat at home, his ears ringing with envy. His grandfather paced in his office, anger swirling red and black in his vision. And Jaq lay in bed, his elbows prickling with worry.

Jaq wasn't sure he could trust his mother. He knew she didn't like Klingdux. She never had. He began to imagine her snatching up Klingdux while he slept and then selling him to Vilcot. Anger popped to the surface of his vision, like underwater bubbles, and burst open. The thought that she could be so treacherous was very real to Jaq, and very frightening.