The Secret of Ferrell Savage (9 page)

“So have you told him yet?” Mary's voice came from right next to my ear, but I refused to look at her.

“I never told you I was going to race. What makes you think I am?” I snapped.

“Well, you are, aren't you?”

I hate it when she thinks she knows everything.

“Yes,” I grumbled.

“Right. So when are you going to tell Littledood?”

“I could tell him right before science class if you'd just give me a chance,” I said.

“What's with the shiny shoes? Are you playing golf after school?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am. I won't be home.”

“Even Tiger Woods can't play in the snow. Wow,
you must be really good,” she noted. I could actually hear her roll her eyes.

I gritted my teeth and then started mumbling.

“You think that just because you're muttering under your breath I can't hear you,” she said. “But I hear you perfectly. Something about me flying a kite into a tornado over pirate- and shark-infested waters. Am I right?”

I slammed my locker shut and looked her in the face. “Did you know Hitler was a vegetarian?” I asked.

“What's your point?”

I didn't know either. I guess I was trying to scare her by showing her I could be a powerful dictator if I wanted, but, on second thought, the last thing a middle-school kid with cannibalistic tendencies needs is to be compared with a senseless murderer of millions.

“I don't know” was all I said. Lame.

She turned to go to her class, but then she turned back around to face me. “Your mother is so desperate, she hides butter to put on her toast.”

“Well, your mother is so skinny, she uses a Cheerio for a hula hoop!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have no idea! What are
you
talking about?” I shouted into the now empty hallway.

“I'm talking about how your mother eats her toast at the sink, so you won't know she's putting butter on it—real butter, from the milk of live cows. She keeps it hidden in your fridge, in an empty Arm & Hammer Baking Soda box.”

“You're making that up!”

“And one time she came into the restaurant, and my mom said your mom ordered a club sandwich. A real one,” she said.

The bell rang, but Mary and I were stuck in a stare down—like we used to do when we were in second grade.

“You look away first,” I said.

“No way,” she said. “I always win at staring contests. You know I'll stand here all day if I have to.”

“You're going to miss class. Don't you have some big new words to learn? Some more As to make?” Dang, those were supposed to be insults, but they sure weren't sounding like them. I had a lot to learn in the whole game of fighting.

“Okay, on the count of three, we'll both look away. Agreed?” she asked.

“Agreed,” I said. And, without losing eye contact, I walked just close enough to her so we could shake on it.

“Okay, get ready,” she said. “One. Two. Thr—” She stopped. “Ha! I won! You looked away. I won!”

“You cheated,” I exclaimed, refusing to look at her again and risk starting the whole thing over.

“That's not cheating. I deceived you. There's nothing wrong with deception, Ferrell Savage.”

Just then two guys I barely knew came down the hall. “Hey, you're the Golden Hill survivor dude,” one of them said.

“Cool shoes,” the other one said.

I thanked them and then looked at Mary, to show her that some people recognized cool when they saw it, but she was already halfway down the hall and walking through her classroom doorway.

I
click-clacked
to my own classroom, half-completed homework in hand, mumbling to myself about Mary, kites, lightning, tornadoes, cramps, and pirate- and shark-infested oceans.

I WAS LATE TO SCIENCE
class and still only had half my homework. I quickly prepared to tell Mrs. Beaker I couldn't find it. Which wouldn't really be a lie, after all, because when you forget to finish your homework, it is hard to find. But before I had a chance to explain, she smiled and winked at me. “You're fine, Ferrell,” she whispered, and indicated a seat toward the back.

There were some parts to this whole hero business I was going to miss.

Then, when I
click-clacked
to my seat, Jack Coolahan stood up, so he could see my feet better.

“Hey! Are those Big Bertha Spikes?” he asked. The whole class tilted in their seats to get a better look.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I didn't realize you were a golfer as well as a sled racer,” Mrs. Beaker said.

“I'm not either one, actually,” I answered.

Several kids nodded their approval of my shoes. I even heard Jack saying he was going to wear his golf shoes the next day.

I took the empty seat across from Littledood. “Hey,” I whispered when I sat down.

He kept his gaze straight ahead, as if he hadn't heard me, so I tapped my foot toward him. I dropped my pencil in the aisle. I even went, “Psst, Littledood.” Nothing. So I tore off a tiny piece of paper, wrote “Race is on” on it, and tossed it toward him. The little ball of paper hit him in the hand and bounced smack-dab in the middle of his desk. But he didn't budge.

As I watched, his eyes turned slowly down toward the top of his desk. He carefully opened the paper wad with the same hand that had been hit. Barely moving at all, he flattened the paper with two fingers, appeared to read it, and in one quick swoop, he tossed the paper into his mouth and proceeded to chew it up and swallow it.

He sure was dedicated to drama and secrecy.

After class, when everyone was shuffling around and getting their assignments together, I said to Littledood, “Hey, what did you do all that for?”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. And then he pulled me by my sleeve to a quiet spot and whispered, “It is in your and Mary's best interests not to tell anyone of our arrangement.”

“Leave Mary out of this,” I said. “You can't prove she's related to Bell.”

“Oh, indeed I can. Marital documents and birth announcements are easily available at the courthouse. I can produce all kinds of proof on who Mary is.” Littledood sneered. “Now, listen, I have agreed to honor your and Mary's secrets; I expect you to honor mine and not tell anyone I've given you an ultimatum. My win will be more magnificent to the crowd if they believe you feel the pain of your defeat.”

“What if I win? You'll tell everyone?”

He laughed. “You won't win. But, to answer your question, no, I wouldn't tell.”

“Let me make sure I have this clear: If I lose, the secret is safe, and if I win, the secret is safe,” I said.

“Simple as that. All you have to do is come down from the top of the mountain with your Pollypry and
show everyone you've made a gallant effort. I will then bask in the glory of my win. I couldn't have offered you a better deal. Well, a better deal as far as blackmail goes.” He chuckled.

“Who's going to be there to see us come down?”

“Every kid in town will be there. Don't you worry. Just leave that up to me.”

“But Specter Slope isn't even a sledding hill. Why can't we race down Lakeside Ski Hill? It's right next to Specter and just as long. Plus, they have special days just for sledders, no skiers.”

“That's too easy,” Littledood said.

“I don't understand. You won the trophy. The trophy! What else is there?” I asked.

“I'm braver than you, I'm smarter than you, and I built a better sled. I want all of Golden Hill to recognize me for the awesome that I am—so, we've got to do this big.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that glory and recognition are overrated. But before I could get the words out, he said, “You will meet me at Specter Slope on Saturday at ten o'clock, or I tell everyone that your great-great-great-uncle ate Mary's—”

“Okay.” There was no talking him down. “I'll be there.”

WHEN I GOT HOME FROM
school, the Pollypry was leaning against the wall in the mudroom at the back door.

“I found it on the front porch,” Mom said. She sat at the kitchen table writing up a grocery list. “There was a note that said ‘Good luck,' and then in small letters at the bottom it said ‘Eat this note after you read it.' Well, I didn't eat the note, but if you'd like to, it's on the counter.” Then she smiled at me and said, “You're up to something, aren't you?”

“Yes,” I said. It was nice having a mom who
didn't pry into my business. Being honest with her came much easier that way.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“I can't,” I said.

She nodded. “Okay,” she said, and went back to her list.

I went into the mudroom and examined the lounge-sled. It looked pretty good, actually. The aluminum frame had a dent in it, but that wouldn't interfere with my comfort or with its speed down the slope. One ski had come loose and needed to be reattached, and the webbing in the entire middle was frayed and torn up. It would have to be replaced with something . . . but what?

“Can I get you anything from the grocery?” Mom called out from the kitchen.

Duct tape! That would fix it! I could reweave the middle of the frame with duct tape, doubled up on both sides so I wouldn't get stuck to it.

“I'll need lots and lots of duct tape. And superglue, too,” I said.

“What about Mary? Do you think she needs anything?”

I could tell Mom was suspicious. This was as close as she would come to getting into my business.
I hid my emotions behind a face as blank as I could muster up, and with as smooth a voice as I could force, I said, “Mary's not coming.”

“Oh,” she said. She came to the mudroom door and waited a second for me to explain. But when I didn't, she said, “I guess she went home after school?”

“How am I supposed to know? I'm not in the business of taking care of her. That's your job.” I tried not to sound irritated.

“Well, actually, last year Ms. Vittles, Mary, and I had a discussion about that. We all agreed Mary is responsible and reliable enough to stay home alone.”

“Then why does—or did—Mary come over every day?” I asked.

Mom shrugged. “Because she wants to, I guess. She's very fond of you.”

Ha. She's fond of torturing me, that's all. Good riddance.

• • •

On Saturday morning I told Mom I was going to hang out with the guys and maybe do some sledding. I grabbed four fruit pies and a family-size bag of Skittles and put them in a plastic bag for a snack on the hill. The way I figured it, I would catch the nine thirty ski bus to the top of Lakeside Ski Hill; that would take
about twenty minutes. Then it would take another ten minutes to hike across the ridge to Specter Slope. I'd meet Littledood, and then we'd head down, have his little hoopla celebration, and I could be home in time for lunch. Deep-fried potato skins smothered in veggie chili and soy cheese, with a strawberry-banana-cashew smoothie loaded with a few extra spoonfuls of brown sugar. I already couldn't wait to get home.

When I reached the bus stop, the bus was already there. The door was open, and I looked up at the driver, who sat in his seat, chugging a big can of Energeeze Me drink. He burped and then smiled down at me. “Well, come on,” he said. He didn't look old enough to drive.

I squeezed past the door and up the steps with my sled and tripped over a snowboard that lay on the floor next to the driver.

“Can't you find a better place for that?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know of a better place. But do you know how hard it is to drive with your feet on a snowboard?” He laughed hysterically and held out his hand for my money. I gave it to him, and he checked out the Pollypry. “Haw, dude,” he said. “I know who you are now.” He bowed his head toward me and said, “It's an honor to give you a lift, Survivor Boy.” And he
laughed hysterically again. No more Energeeze Me for this guy, please.