The Big Stink Page 5

  Mom had gotten home. There was even more Bear Season stuff scattered around the house. Dad had stayed late at work, which meant I got to hear all the latest details from Mom.

  Luckily, I managed to escape from her with the magic words, “I’d better do my homework.”

  That’s about the only guaranteed way to escape a mom, except maybe for the ultimate sacrifice sentence: “I guess I’d better go clean my room.”

  I was actually so far ahead in my schoolwork that there wasn’t much for me to do. Since I didn’t sleep, I could read through my textbooks at night, and even do all the questions. I was building up so much extra credit, I’d probably still have some left when I got to high school.

  I checked my e-mail that evening after Dad came home. I figured, with him here for Mom to talk to, it was safe for me to go downstairs. I expected to find another message from BUM. But there wasn’t anything. I hoped nothing had happened to Mr. Murphy. There were all sorts of groups of bad guys out there, and most of them would love to destroy BUM.

  I checked my e-mail again right before I went to bed. Still nothing.

  “Looking for a love letter?” Dad asked.

  “No!”

  He chuckled and walked away. Sometimes parents just didn’t know when to stop joking.

  I went up to my room and got ready for bed. Right after I turned off my lamp, I heard a loud pop. The plug flew out of the socket like the wall had spat it to the floor. Sparks shot from the outlet.

  I’d survived one burning house. I didn’t want to push my luck and go through that again. I rolled out of bed and tried to remember all the stuff my parents had drilled into me about fire safety. Go out the nearest window? Keep away from the window? Put out the fire. Don’t put out the fire. It all jumbled up in my mind.

  I had to do something. Fire and zombies are a bad combination.

  10

  Drop Everything

  Before I could do anything about the fire, I realized the sparks weren’t falling onto the carpet. They floated in the air, like baby fireflies. As more sparks shot out, they pulled together into letters and formed words. LOCAL PARK.

  It was a message from Mr. Murphy. I knew that for sure, since several of the floating sparks exploded with small pops before their lights fizzled out. I watched the carpet to make sure it didn’t burst into flame, then waited until my parents were in bed. I slipped out my window, climbed across the garage roof, and headed for the small park down the street from our house.

  “What happened to e-mail?” I asked Mr. Murphy when I got there.

  “Oh, Nathan, what fun is that? Really, you can’t possibly pretend that you didn’t enjoy our latest message. Hovering sparks. Brilliant, right?”

  “Brilliant?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t see the danger. I gave it to him in simple words. “Sparks. Carpet. Wooden house. Boy who doesn’t heal. Do you see a problem there?”

  “There was absolutely no danger,” he said. “That was a special low-temperature spark.”

  I joined him on the bench. I was still annoyed, but I could see that he’d never agree with me about the danger. “Maybe you can keep all the exploding stuff outside on the lawn.”

  “The sparks didn’t really explode, did they?”

  “Like popcorn,” I said.

  “All of them?”

  “No. Just some.”

  “Well, the main thing is that you got the message. Let’s get to work. This evening, I thought we’d . . .” He stopped and sniffed, glanced at the ground behind the bench, then got up and walked to the next bench. “People should be more careful where they discard the remains of their meals or walk their dogs.”

  I followed him and sat down. He sniffed again, then stared at me and raised one eyebrow.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I said.

  “Have you abandoned bathing?” he asked.

  “I’m rotting. But just a tiny bit. You can’t even see anything.” I thrust my hand toward his face.

  He jerked away. Then he made a choking sound.

  “Hey, it’s not that bad.”

  He kept making the sound and shaking his head. Finally, I realized he was laughing. Mr. Murphy had sort of a sick sense of humor—especially when it came to stuff about me. He’d once told me that if my leg broke off, I shouldn’t come running to him for help.

  I figured the sooner we got it over with, the sooner we could get on with my lesson. “Whatever it is—just say it.”

  “That smell—you could call it a ‘dead giveaway.’ ” He snorted for another minute. Then his face got serious. “I suppose we’ll need to deal with this. We can’t have you revealing your location to anyone with an unstuffed nose.”

  “I’m sure there’s an answer,” I said. I couldn’t tell him Abigail was working on it. He had no idea my friends knew my secret, or knew I was working for BUM.

  “I’ll inform the lab,” he said. “They’ll get right on it. I’ll tell Dr. Cushing, too. She’s quite brilliant, in her own way. And I’ll make sure we don’t send you on any assignments where you could be sniffed out. Except by guard dogs, of course. They aren’t interested in dead meat.”

  I thought about Spanky. “My neighbor’s dog was all over me. He kept licking my hand.”

  “That’s because he thought of you as food. Our pets would gleefully consume us if we let them. Guard dogs are trained not to eat anything that doesn’t come from their handler. Otherwise, someone could slip them a sleeping pill.”

  That made sense. A guard dog couldn’t guard anything if it was asleep. On the other hand, I didn’t like the idea that everybody’s pets would think of me as a snack.

  “So, what am I learning tonight?” I asked.

  He handed me a crumpled paper bag. “Throw this out, please.”

  “Sure.” I walked over to the trash can near the road and tossed the bag. Then I went back to Mr. Murphy.

  He took another paper bag out of his pocket. Then he reached into a different pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. I saw the one on top. Ben Franklin—it was a hundred.

  “How much is that?” I asked.

  “A lot.” Mr. Murphy put the money in the bag, then handed it to me. “Place that in the trash can. Make sure nobody sees you.”

  “In the trash?”

  He nodded. “A member of MI5, the British secret service, will be picking it up later.”

  “Really? Cool.” I couldn’t believe I was involved in an international plot. I went back to the trash can. I could feel the weight of the money in the bag. Man, I’d love to have just three or four of those bills. I could get an awesome game system with that. But I wasn’t going to steal any money. And I wasn’t going to let the wrong person get it. I checked all around before putting the bag in the trash. There was nobody in sight.

  When I got back to Mr. Murphy, he said, “Go get both bags.”

  “What?”

  “Get both bags.”

  I was starting to feel like a yo-yo. I got the bags and brought them back. Mr. Murphy patted the bench and said, “Have a seat.”

  Then he reached under the bench and pulled out a small camcorder. “Take a look. Here you are tossing some trash in the can.”

  I watched the video. It didn’t show anything unusual. It was just a shot of me throwing out the first bag.

  “Now, here you are, tossing a bag full of money.”

  I watched the second scene.

  “See any difference?” Mr. Murphy asked.

  “Maybe. I guess I looked sorta like I was kinda making sure nobody was around.” Everything about me was weird in the second video. It was like I was doing something unnatural or illegal.

  “Open the bags,” Mr. Murphy said.

  I did. They each had a wad of cash. He took the money and put it back in his pocket. “Nathan, when you thought you were tossing a bag of trash, you looked normal. When you knew you were tossing a bag of money, you didn’t look natural. Spies are often called on to pick up or leave packages in places like trash cans. I think th
is is something you’ll be good at, since you are capable of being dead calm.” He chuckled after the last words, then added, “You just have to remember what you learned here.”

  “I will.” I realized I had to pretend that whatever I was tossing was nothing but trash, even if I knew it was something valuable. I could do that.

  He handed me a third bag. “Toss this one.”

  “Is it money or trash?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. You often won’t know what you’re dropping. Or why.”

  I took the bag and tossed it into the can. I tried my best to act like it was just trash.

  When I got back, Mr. Murphy said, “Well done. That was an easier lesson than some of them.”

  “At least I wasn’t in danger of being ripped apart by guard dogs.”

  He smiled. “Who knows? The night is far from over.”

  But there weren’t any dogs to worry about. We actually spent another hour talking about spycraft, and about some of the things I read in the book he’d given me. He might have been weird in a lot of ways, but he was actually a pretty good teacher.

  I was all alone for breakfast again the next morning. It was Wednesday, so I guess Mom was excited about all the Bear Season stuff that was supposed to arrive. That was fine. I was old enough to take care of myself—especially since I didn’t actually need to eat. And it made me feel grown up knowing my parents trusted me.

  I crossed the street as soon as I left my house, so Spanky wouldn’t be tempted to munch on my fingers or toes. He looked at me from the edge of his lawn. I’d have to remember to pick up a dog treat for him. I had a feeling he wouldn’t care if it smelled like my hands.

  “I talked to Uncle Zardo last night,” Abigail said when I got to school.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Good. He’s still on Bezimo Island. Anyhow, I told him about your problem, and he’s sure he can help.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. He’s getting right to work on Stink-Be-Gone.”

  “No!” I got in Abigail’s face. “No more formulas. Especially not from your uncle. The last one killed me. This one would probably make my nose fall off.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Abigail said. “He does tend to get unexpected results whenever he goes into a lab. But I think it was sweet that he wanted to help.”

  The bell rang before I could tell her that sweet was the last word I’d use to describe her uncle. We headed inside.

  On the way to class, Mookie said, “I think I found another cure last night. I was reading Zombie Surfer. It’s an awesome comic. Anyhow, in issue thirty-seven, they cure this zombie with a brain transplant.”

  “No! Forget it.”

  “But it makes sense. We can put your brain in another body. Wait—maybe we need to put another brain in your body. I can’t remember which way it was.” He turned to Abigail. “Does Nathan need a new brain or a new body?”

  “Both,” she said. “Or neither. You, on the other hand, need a new brain and new intestines.”

  “And you need to keep looking,” I told Mookie. “I’m planning to keep my body and my brain.”

  By then, we’d reached our classroom. If I thought Bear Season was bad, I was about to get hit by a second wave of unbearable cuteness. Right after we took our seats, there was an announcement calling us down the hall for an assembly.

  “I hope it’s a magic show,” Mookie said. “I love magic shows.”

  “Why would it be a magic show?” I asked. I figured it was probably something about being careful crossing the street. Or maybe there’d be some guys dressed up as presidents, reading speeches and telling us to follow our dreams.

  We moved through the mobbed hallways to the cafetorium. Belgosi had a real auditorium, but Borloff just had a stage at the end of the cafeteria. No chairs, either. They’d been stacked, and the tables had all been folded up. We had to sit on the floor.

  “This is going to be tight,” Mookie said.

  He wasn’t kidding. By the time we’d all been wedged together on the floor, I wasn’t sure where I ended and he began. I was afraid if he farted, I’d be forced to burp.

  Right after we all got seated, a woman who had way too big a smile got on the stage and leaned toward the microphone.

  “Well, isn’t it a pleasure to see so many lovely faces,” she said.

  “That’s Mrs. Matheson,” Abigail whispered. “I had her for kindergarten. She’s pretty nice.”

  “Yeah, I remember her now.” I’d had Mrs. Morlock, but I remembered how Mrs. Matheson was always singing to her class and playing a zither.

  “We brought you here to tell you something very exciting.” Her smile grew even wider. “As you know, each year my kindergarten class puts together a parade. This year, we have a special theme—our forest friends. The parents have worked very hard to make the costumes.”

  She turned toward the side of the stage and clapped her hands. Little forest creatures—okay, actually little kids dressed like forest creatures—wobbled out from the side and formed a crooked line across the stage. It was obvious that some parents were a lot better at costumes than others. There were all kinds of critters. Squirrels, rabbits, deer, and, of course, bears. I could just hear how Mom would squeal if she saw this.

  “Because we have so many special guests in our school, we’ve decided to let another grade take part in the parade,” she said. The smile reached what I felt was an impossible width.

  “Not us,” Mookie said. “Please, not us.”

  “There are eight grades in the building to choose from,” Abigail said. “So the chance of it being us is only twelve and a half percent. I think it would be fun. Look how cute they are.”

  Mrs. Matheson waited until the talking stopped, then said, “Our special friends for our forest animals will be the eighth grade.”

  A groan rose up from behind us. I looked back. You would have thought all the kids had suddenly been forced to bite into a lemon. Or a tiny forest creature. Ridley was actually snarling. I hoped the animal parade didn’t turn into a hunting trip.

  “This is going to end badly,” Abigail said.

  “At least we aren’t involved,” I said.

  But I got involved in something else during recess.

  11

  Unwanted Attention

  Recess started out fine. We’d gotten used to hanging out by the back of the school, watching the other kids. But about ten minutes after Abigail, Mookie, and I sat down, Ferdinand got whacked in the head with a kickball while he was walking near the field. The bwoink! sound of an overinflated red rubber ball smacking against a skull echoed across the playground.

  Ferdinand staggered a couple steps. Kids all over the field watched him. Including Ridley.

  “Oh, no,” Abigail said. “He’s like a shark that smells blood in the water.”

  I watched Ferdinand wander too close to Ridley. Before we could yell a warning, Ridley grabbed Ferdinand’s foot, lifted him up in the air, and started shaking him.

  “I have to stop this,” I said. “The bell isn’t going to save him this time.”

  Abigail grabbed my arm. “Wait. Let the other eighth-graders handle it.”

  I scanned the playground. Kids were watching. But just like last time, nobody moved toward Ridley. Not even the kids who’d stopped the game of catch-the-fourth-grader the other day. “They’re afraid of him. It’s up to me.”

  I trotted across the playground. I heard Mookie and Abigail hurrying to catch up with me.

  Am I crazy?

  Maybe I was. But somebody had to do something. And Abigail was right—I’d faced deadly enemy spies and monsters. I should be able to handle Ridley. When I got close—but not so close that he could reach me—I shouted. “Hey! Put him down!”

  Ridley, who looked as happy as a baby with a rattle, turned toward me. His smile grew dangerous. “Sure, Peach Boy.”

  He lifted his arm higher. Ferdinand, who was letting out squeals the human ear could barely hear, rose so hi
gh, his head was even with mine. “Down you go.” Ridley opened his fingers one at a time until Ferdinand dropped from his grip.

  He hit the ground with a thud and lay there like he’d just been rammed by a car. But he was breathing, so I figured he might be okay.

  “You’re dead,” Ridley said.

  I’d heard the same words from his brother more than once. Neither of them had a clue how true that was.

  Ridley took a step toward me.

  Next to me, Mookie jammed two fingers down his throat. I waited. Nothing happened.

  He shoved fingers from both hands down his throat. He looked like a magician struggling to pull a rabbit from an unlikely place.

  Still nothing.

  Ridley glanced toward Mookie for a moment, then looked back at me.

  Mookie pulled his hands from his mouth. “Guess I should’ve had more breakfast.”

  “Violence never solved anything,” Abigail said.

  Ridley lunged for me.

  “Get help,” I whispered to Abigail. I turned and ran. I’m not superfast. But I was pretty sure I could outrun a guy Ridley’s size. All I had to do was keep out of his reach until he got tired. Of course, if he caught me, he’d tire himself out throwing punches.

  So I needed to make absolutely sure he wouldn’t catch me. I ran straight for the monkey bars. When I reached them, I grabbed a bar and used it to swing left in a sharp turn. I heard Ridley skitter and slide as he tried to keep up.

  Good. He wasn’t able to change direction quickly. I figured a guy that size would move like a supertanker.

  I shot toward the swings and used one of the legs to make another turn, to the right this time. I didn’t risk looking over my shoulder. I could tell from the sound of his feet slapping on the ground that he hadn’t gotten any closer. He wouldn’t be able to catch me, as long as I didn’t stop. Now all I needed to do was keep running until help came. I decided not to use any more of the playground equipment.