The Secret of Ferrell Savage (13 page)

A snowplow had already come by and cleared the way for cars after the squall.

“Yeah,” Mary said doubtfully. “It just looks steep without trees.”

We stood there in the quiet of the newly fallen
snow, looking down. I wasn't breathing, and I couldn't tell if Mary was or not. The silence was interrupted by the muffled sound of music down below. As the music grew louder, we heard laughing and screaming. A double-decker multicolored psychedelic bus rolled up the mountain and stopped right at the bottom of the slope.

“It's the Lakeside party bus,” Mary said.

“And they're more than an hour late,” Littledood growled as he came up from behind us. “I'll have to ask for a partial refund for that.”

“You're kidding! You paid for a party bus?” I asked.

“I told you we'd have an audience, didn't I? Inside that bus are one hundred and twenty of our schoolmates. Let's hope they all brought their cameras, so they can share the experience with those who didn't sign up in time.”

The doors to the bus opened, and out spilled tons of kids carrying balloons and making noises that sounded like they were blowing party horns. I swear I could smell cupcakes, even though I was about the equivalent of four blocks away.

“Man,” I said, “I hope someone thinks to save me a Coke.”

As Mary watched, her eyebrows scrunched together. “We're about to make fools of ourselves in front of the whole school,” she said.

“They're just a bunch of kids.” Right after I said that, the Channel 7 news van pulled up with a camera crew. “Okay, a bunch of kids and everyone else in Colorado. But that's all.”

Mary took a deep breath and held her chin up. “It'll be fun, right?” she asked me. But her question had the same doubtful tone as when she'd ask me, “Did you do your math homework?”

“It's going to be a blast, Mary,” I assured her. “What's the worst that could happen?”

She didn't have a chance to answer. Littledood slid his Titanium Blade Runner up next to the Pollypry. “Looks like a good enough starting spot to me,” he said, and sat down on his sled.

Slowly Mary situated herself at the front of the Pollypry, and I plopped down behind her.

“You all go whenever you're ready, and I'll start afterward,” Littledood said. He took off his glove and examined his fingernails. “It doesn't matter to me. I know I'll still have to wait for you at the bottom.”

Mary's back went stiff with anger. “Oh yeah? That's what you think, you arrogant, conceited,
egotistical—” And before she could get out her next insult, Littledood tossed his glove aside and pushed off. With a swift
sha-wiiiing
, he was on his way.

“Hey!” I yelled. “You said—”

I didn't even have my arms around Mary when she leaned down and pushed off with all her might, thrusting herself and the Pollypry forward while throwing me backward and into the snow.

I sat up just in time to see the terror on her face as she looked back and screamed, “Ferrell! Help me!”

I SCRAMBLED TO MY FEET
and bolted down the hill, but Mary and the Pollypry were flying ahead. She pulled her legs from their sitting position to a lying position, flattening herself facedown on the lounge.

It was an awesome maneuver! She held herself flat, and the Pollypry looked sleeker than ever, the broken feather flapping in the wind behind her. Littledood was in the lead, but not for long.

Mary gained on him!

Mary was ahead!

Mary was going to win!

“Ma-ry! Ma-ry! Ma-ry!” the crowd screamed for her.

“Go, Mary!” I yelled. I couldn't wait to see her face at the end. She's no loser, that's for sure. For once
I
was going to say to her, “I told you so.” Golden Hill would talk about it forever. Vittles versus Littledood—the classic tortoise and hare story.

Until . . . just past halfway down, Mary and the Pollypry were suddenly airborne. To this day, no one knows how it happened. Did she hit a mound of snow? Was it an ice patch? A sudden strong wind? When she landed, she was still hanging on, but the head of the Pollypry hit the ground first, and then the back flipped up, causing her to do a full-on cartwheel, sled and all!

I ran faster down the hill.

Mary rolled and spun, and at times I couldn't even tell which was her and which was the Pollypry. They were a blur of color—teal-blue hat and silver duct tape. At last they tumbled to a stop. Mary lay flat on her back in the snow, with the Pollypry on top of her and the bottoms of the skis pointing upward, like the legs of a dead dog on its back.

The cocky little dude won. He swerved to a stop and, still sitting on his sled, raised his hands over his head. But when no one ran to greet him, he jumped
up, waved his arms around, and shouted, “I won! I won!”

But the swarm of kids ran past him and up the hill to Mary.

I got there first and was scared to touch her or to say anything. Her hands still gripped the sides of the lounge frame, and her feet were locked up tight on the end. Her face was smushed into the webbing, and her eyes were closed. I was sure she was dead.

“Oh, Mary, what have I done to you?” I asked. I knelt down next her.

She opened one eye and looked at me. I leaned over the sled, so my face was close to hers.

“Were they making fun of me?” she asked.

“No. They were cheering for you.”

Her other eye opened.

“She's alive!” Jerry Dunderhead shouted, and the crowd cheered. “It's a miracle!”

I slid the Pollypry from Mary's determined grasp. She had a checkerboard imprint on her cheek when she peeled her face from the webbing. She sat up, and the crowd went wild. They hooted and hollered, and when I helped her to her feet, they chanted again, “Ma-ry! Ma-ry! Ma-ry!”

“We were sure you were a goner,” I said.

Mary turned to me. “Oh my gosh! Ferrell! I'm invincible!”

“Well, no, you're not. We can all see you. But you're pretty amazing to have survived that roll down the hill! You're a true survivor, Mary!” She wasn't exactly a winner, but I was able to say, “You're not a loser. I told you so.”

Mary smiled at me. Then she turned to her fans and raised her hands over her head in victory.

MARY AND HER MOM JOINED
us for dinner, and Mary and I told them almost everything that had happened that day, sparing them some of the scary details. When they went home, it was late. I sat on the couch, dozing between Mom and Dad. As my eyes closed and my head fell over onto my mom's shoulder, I rehashed the events of the day: I had almost frozen and starved to death; I'd eaten cheese without turning into a monster; Mary had said, “My downhill debacle was exhilarating!”; Littledood had had his moment of glory; our secret was safe and soon to be forgotten. It had been the best day ever.

Now my belly was full after a great dinner. I was wishing I had the energy to go to the kitchen and refill another plate with leftover Save-the-Cluck eggless quiche, topped with Spare-the-Oink fake ham, along with baked sweet potatoes smothered in Soy You Think It's Butter, when Mom leaned toward the TV, taking her shoulder with her and leaving my head to fall behind her onto the seat of the couch.

“Look, there she is!” Mom cried out.

Dad pulled me up by my sleeve. “Wake up, Ferrell. Mary's on TV.”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, just in time to see the teal-blue-and-silver cartwheel spin down against a white backdrop on the TV screen. Knowing she was alive and safe in her home made that spill down the mountainside a beautiful sight. Amazing.

“Wow! Such a thrill to watch! Folks, that was Mary Vittles, a brave little soul from Garfield Middle School.” The camera switched to the Channel 7 newscaster, the eternally tan Steven Stowick. Mary and I sometimes stayed up to watch the news, just so we could try to catch Steven Stowick's eyebrows move. They say he hasn't moved anything on his face, except his lips and eyeballs, since 1998.

“Unfortunately,” Steven Stowick continued, “we
weren't able to get past the crowd to Mary Vittles for a comment. But look who insisted on joining us tonight: her competitor, Bruce Littledood.”

The camera panned out, and there, sitting next to Steven Stowick at the news desk, was the little dude.

“Oh, bless that boy's heart. He sure wanted to be on TV, didn't he?” Mom asked.

Littledood smiled big with his red chapped lips. He wore a bow tie and his hair was slicked back smooth.

Steven Stowick looked into the camera and said, “What do you say we watch that footage again in slo-mo. Roll it, Sam.” Television viewers all over Colorado watched Mary slowly twirl like a lounge-sled ballerina while we heard Steven Stowick say, “So, tell me, Bruce, what did you think when you saw your opponent”—he let out a single-syllable chuckle—“quite literally flipping out?”

“Clearly, it takes a genius to build a sled like my Titanium Blade Runner, plus a great deal of time and effort.” Littledood's words came out stiff and sounded rehearsed. No doubt he'd been practicing this spiel for weeks. “But the construction of such a vehicle is only half the battle. To be able to maneuver and control such a sled, you—”

“Watch this! There she goes, landing on her back, with her beach chair on top of her. Oof! And she's not even hurt! Brava!” Steven Stowick clapped his hands when the clip ended. “Brava!” he said again as the camera brought us viewers back into the studio with him and Littledood.

“Now, tell us the truth, Bruce, were you terrified for Mary's well-being?” Steven Stowick asked.

Littledood straightened his tie and stared into the camera. “The key to my win again today was to stay focused on the task at hand. And I'm sure you noticed I said that I won
again
, because, of course, it was with my Titanium Blade Runner, which I built with my own two hands, that I won”—Littledood paused for a moment—“the Big Sled Race on Golden Hill.”

Finally, Steven Stowick got Littledood's point. “Well, I'll be darned. I didn't realize you'd won on Golden Hill. I'd love to talk to you more about that, but we're just about out of time. How about if we watch the footage of Mary Vittles one more time, and you can tell us what it feels like to compete against such a resilient, brave young heroine. Sam, are you ready to roll that clip again?”

My dad slid to the edge of the couch. “Yeah, I want to see it again,” he said.

But Littledood stood up and slammed his trophy onto the desk. Steven Stowick, who was really only capable of three subtle expressions—kind of happy, slightly sad, and almost concerned—now looked up at Littledood with his eyes popping in confusion.

“Don't show the clip,” Littledood demanded. “I won the race. I am the winner!” He walked around the desk, stood in front of the camera, sneered, and said, “Ferrell Savage and Mary Vittles, congratulations. You've managed to do it again.” His face was so close, I could see the hairs in his nostrils. My mother gasped and threw out her arm to protect me, like she does when she's driving and comes to a sudden stop.

“Well, this time you two are not going to get away with it,” he said, snarling. He stepped back, and I hoped he was finished, but he wasn't. “I have something to tell the world about Savage and Vittles.”

“Cut to a commercial!” I yelled at the TV.

“Savage confessed that he turns into a werewolf and that he may go on a rampage and eat the entire population of Golden Hill.”

“Hey! How'd he know that?” I shouted.

Mom pulled her arm away from me and put her hand to her mouth.

“Whoa, that's not good,” Dad mumbled.

“And that's not all . . . ,” Littledood continued.

“Enough! Get him off the screen!” I yelled. “Someone please shut him up before he says anything about Mary!”

“Oh, dear, we are out of time—” Steven Stowick interrupted.