The Secret of Ferrell Savage (5 page)

“Is he a friend of Mary's?” Mom asked.

“She said she met him at the sled race.” I took a swig of juice.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “And?”

“And what?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “They talked about aerodynamics.”

“Aha.” Mom winked at Dad. “I see what's going on here.” She chuckled and went back to the kitchen sink, where she always ate her toast.

“You think maybe the boy is jealous?” Dad asked me.

“Jealous of what? The Pollypry?”

A plate crashed into the sink.

“What?” Mom whirled around and looked at Dad. “Did he say ‘Polly Pry'?”

Dad's mouth dropped open.

I pulled out the feather from my backpack, and Mom put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. From behind her hand she squeaked out, “How did that thing make its way back into my house?”

“It's not dirty, Mom. If it had any diseases, I would have gotten one by now. Look how white it is—well, except for down here where it's all black—but pollypries must be very clean birds.”

Dad leaned over, put his hand on my arm, and spoke as if he were forcing himself to be calm. “Polly Pry is the name of a person, not a bird.”

“She had feathers?” I asked.

“What you're holding in your hand, actually, is a quill pen she used in the late 1800s.”

I stared at the feather, wondering what was so
scary about it. Then I looked at my dad, waiting for more of an explanation.

He pointed to the dirty end and said, “Ink. See? There used to be a metal nib.”

Mom, still holding her hand to her mouth, lowered herself into a chair at the end of the table.

“Why is it so evil, Mom? The bird, er, I mean, the pen, er, no, the person . . . Polly Pry saved your uncle's life, right?”

“Exactly. My great-great-uncle Alferd was a beast.”

Dad stood up, walked around the table, and put his hands on her shoulders. “It's okay, Katherine. It's history. Everyone's forgotten about it, and it has nothing to do with who you and Ferrell are now,” Dad reassured her.

But Mom brushed away his arms and stood up. “I need more coffee,” she said. But instead of pouring herself another cup, she got Buddy's leash, hooked it to his collar, and scooped him into her arms. “Come on, sweet boy.” She kissed the top of his head and walked out the door.

Dad and I kept our eyes on the door for a long time after it slammed shut, and as soon as I was sure she was not coming right back, I turned to Dad and
said, “So, how did Polly Pry save my great-great-great-uncle's life?”

Dad took a long sip of his coffee and then resituated himself in his chair. “Where do I begin . . . ,” he said, and took a slow, deep breath. I happen to know librarians live to answer questions like this.

“Polly Pry . . . She was a smart, sassy woman. She was known as a sob sister, which is what they used to call women journalists who wrote stories for the paper about events that were full of gossip, and her stories were sometimes”—Dad patted his heart—“touching.”

“Cut to the chase, Dad. I'm going to be late for school,” I urged.

“Well, your great-great-great-uncle Alferd was in prison serving a life sentence when Polly Pry got wind of the story. She was the only one who believed the man was innocent, and she wanted to see him freed. So she wrote articles about him for the
Denver Post
. Her words were so persuasive that soon a lot of folks became interested, including the governor at that time. . . . Oh, what was his name . . .?” Dad tapped his head.

“It doesn't matter, just keep going!”

“Let's see, it was 1901 . . . Thomas! That's who
it was. Governor Charles S. Thomas. Polly Pry must have been some good writer to convince the governor to let that man free after what he did. . . .”

I heard Mom at the front door, stomping off the snow from her boots, and Dad suddenly sat straight up in his chair. “I'll have to finish this story later, Ferrell.”

“Hurry, just tell me, what did my uncle do? Was he a thief? A serial killer? A vampire?”

“Worse. What he did was taboo.”

WORDS LIKE “TABOO” ARE CONFUSING
to me. It sounds like it would be something good. Cute, even. Like the name of a Chihuahua or a colorful lollipop. But it's not cute. It means doing something that is completely and socially unacceptable. In Mr. Comfy's homeroom I sat at my desk and tried to solve a puzzle. The puzzle was this: Animals are considered beasts. But Mom referred to our dog as sweet and lovely and said her great-great-uncle was a beast. Could the man have been more beastly than a beagle who slobbers out the car window, attacks the mailman, and licks himself directly underneath his tail? I had a feeling that
whatever taboo my great-great-great-uncle had committed, it was something much worse than a fart under the dinner table.

I was rudely snapped from my thoughts when Coby reached across the aisle and jabbed me in the shoulder. Bruce Littledood was being introduced to the class, and I hadn't even noticed. I tried to tune in to what was going on.

“And until now he's been homeschooled by his father, who is a history professor at the university . . . ,” Mr. Comfy was saying.

Standing in front of the class, the little dude looked completely harmless.

“So what made you decide to join us here at Garfield Middle School?” Mr. Comfy asked.

Bruce shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I had been helping my dad with a big historical research project, and when we finished, I felt like I needed a break.”

“Well,” Mr. Comfy said, laughing. “I do hope we can keep things interesting here for you, since, ahem, I'd never thought of going to a traditional school as being a break.”

“Oh, it is”—Bruce Littledood laced his fingers together, pushed the palms of his hands right toward
me, and popped every knuckle—
padadadadada-
dow
—“a break.”

“I have something I'd like to share with the class,” Littledood continued. Mr. Comfy watched as Littledood stepped out of the room and returned with a big trophy in his arms. It was the Big Sled Race on Golden Hill trophy. He used both hands to raise it over his head, and then he smiled like he was about to get his photo taken.

The class muttered a few comments, like, “I was wondering who won” and “Oh, nice” and “Huh, that was, like, over a week ago.”

And then someone said, “Did you see Savage? Man, that was one freakin' scary fall!”

“Yeah, Savage, you're a ninja Gumby!”

“It was epic!”

“He was like that Bugs Bunny cartoon when Bugs gets rolled up into a giant snowball, and all you see are his feet and the tops of his ears.”

“No way!” I said. “You couldn't see my ears.”

The class went into an uproar, and a few kids left their seats to pat me on the back. Littledood lowered his trophy and glared at me.

Mr. Comfy called us to order. When everyone was quiet and back in their seats, he said, “Bruce,
you said you have something to announce?”

“Yes. I'm offering a rematch, next Saturday, to anyone who prefers a more challenging, death-defying sled race. It will be held on Specter Slope. If you think you can survive, you're invited to participate.” He cradled his trophy in his arms and looked right at me. “There's a sign-up sheet outside the cafeteria.”

He stuck his tongue into his cheek, as if he were cleaning peanut butter out of his gums, and took the empty seat right in the front of the class.

Another sled race. No, thanks. The thought of it made me want to put my head down on my desk and take a nap.

In the cafeteria at lunch, I sat at our usual table. Coby plopped down next to me, and Eilio and the other guys slid their trays onto the round table.

“So, that's the kid who tried to beat you up in the office yesterday?” Coby asked.

I nodded.

“Gotta watch out for those shrimpy guys. Sometimes they're the meanest and the strongest,” Eilio added.

“Yeah.” Grody Brody Flushenstein stuffed his mouth with a peanut butter sandwich. “You're gonna be sorry you ever made him mad.”

“But I didn't do anything to him. He has no reason to be mad,” I protested. I pulled the thermos from my lunch box, opened it, and looked inside. Beans and rice again. I put the lid back on and reached into the front pocket of my jeans to fish out a bag of Skittles and two boxes of extra-sour Cry Babies.

“He's in the hallway right now trying to solicit kids to race on Specter Slope,” Eilio said.

“How many signed up so far?” grody Brody asked.

“Zero,” Eilio said.

I half listened as I sorted through a handful of Skittles. Orange ones were my favorites. Sometimes I matched them with a yellow for an extra-tart flavor.

“Who would want to race down Specter Slope? It's not even a sledding hill,” Coby said.

“Besides, it's time to move on. The big race is over. He won, and he carries that trophy around like it's his girlfriend,” Eilio said.

I looked up. “Since when do guys carry their girlfriends around?”

Eilio punched me in the arm. “Very funny! You know what I meant.”

“I think he's got it in for you, Savage,” grody Brody said.

“I know that. But why?” I asked.

“It doesn't matter,” grody Brody answered.

“Brody's right. He wants to take you down, and you're going to have to stand up to him,” Coby said.

“Oooh, whatcha gonna do to scare him, Ferrie?” Eilio asked in a high-pitched voice.

“I don't want to scare him. I don't have time.” While the guys were talking nonsense, I licked my lips and rubbed a green Skittle across them, painting my lips green with the candy coating. I smiled big at my friends, and they cracked up.

There was a tap on my shoulder. Mary looked down at me, ready to say something, but when she saw my green lips, she just shook her head and said, “Why do I bother?”

I licked my mouth furiously and wiped it with the back of my hand. “Wait!” I said as she walked away. I slid out of my seat and went after her. “You should bother because . . . you just should. Bother with what?”

She turned to face me. “You missed the corners,” she said.

I rubbed the corners of my mouth until they were sore.

“Clean now?” I asked.

She ignored the question. “Bruce Littledood says he has a proposition for you,” she said.

“A proposition?”

“It's like a deal.”

“I know what a proposition is.” I rubbed the corners of my mouth again, just to be sure the green was gone.

“I told him we'd meet him at the fountain in the park after school. He wants me there too, because he says he knows you and I have been keeping a secret.”

Was I supposed to know what the secret was? Asking would only make me look dumb. So I said “All righty” and popped a Skittle into my mouth.

MARY'S BOOT HEELS DRAGGED ON
the dry side walk as we walked to the park. There were patches of snow in the shady places under the trees and along the northern edges of the houses, but Colorado was doing its faux sunny springtime-in-the-winter thing. I took off my hoodie and shoved it into my backpack.

It's funny how when you say certain words, you see them in your head, too. It was going to take some effort to remember that the kid's name is Littledood and not Little Dude, especially since I'd already gotten into the habit of seeing him as a little dude.

“You know, your name would be completely different
if you spelled it
M-E-R-R-Y
instead of
M-A-R-Y
,” I said.

“Merry Vittles? Are you kidding me? That could be the title of a cookbook,” she said. She walked faster, and her heels sounded like they might dig trenches through the concrete.

I laughed, but she just trudged on.

“You're one to make fun, Ferrell,” she said.