Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 16

TRICK #10

THE WEB OF TEXTBOOK

“Good news,” Chip said the next day, sidling up to me as we walked to Four Square class. “As of last evening, I am a card-carrying member of the Boone County History-Lovers Society. I have my sights set on a leadership role. I have some cutting-edge ideas about properly honoring the founding of Boone County. And, even better news, there is an upcoming event.”

“What kind of event?” I asked.

“A Civil War reenactment,” Chip said. I stopped.

“A what?”

Chip nodded ferociously. “With rifled muskets and swords and cannons and horses. If Mr. Faboo is the historian I believe him to be, he will be at that reenactment.”

“Really?”

“Yep; there’s a battle today, and my mom says she’ll take us.”

I knew I should have been a little skeptical of Chip’s ideas, because the only place they ever seemed to really get us was into trouble. And embarrassment. I had learned that much when the Heirmauser head went missing.

But the problem was that Chip’s ideas always sounded really awesome. I mean, what guy doesn’t want to run around a field with a sword, yelling and fighting without actually getting hurt?

“Okay,” I said, despite my own reservations. “Let’s reenact the Civil War.”

I’d spent an entire week faking nosebleeds and stomachaches and sore knees. But Coach Abel was getting doubtful about my ailments, so it was time to get creative. I came out of the locker room with my pockets weighed down by ten smoke cartridges, but if I kept my T-shirt untucked and pulled down low, they were mostly hidden.

Of course, we weren’t supposed to have our T-shirts untucked and pulled down low, so it was the first thing Coach Abel noticed when he saw me.

“Mr. Fallgrout, would you mind dressing according to the rules?” he asked when I joined my squad for calisthenics.

I pretended to be confused. “But I’m wearing the standard-issue shorts and shirt, Coach.”

“Yes,” he said. “But you’re not wearing them correctly.”

“I’m kind of hot,” I said. “I was thinking since we weren’t playing a contact sport—”

“Tuck!” he barked, so I tucked.

I had barely sat down in my squad line when Chip Mason leaned back. “What’s in your pockets?” he asked.

My hands immediately flew to my sides. “Nothing.”

“Granted, I’m not wearing my telepathic socks, because they’re not part of the approved physical-education dress code—which, as you’ve just been made aware, is extremely important to our coach—but I can clearly see that there’s something in your pockets. Not in my mind, of course, like a regular telepath would see it, but with my actual eyes. Nearsightedness notwithstanding.” He pushed up his glasses.

“I thought I told you to stop using the word ‘notwithstanding,’ ” I said.

Coach trilled on his whistle and told us to get started on sit-ups. We all fell back. I kept my arms at my sides, pressed against my pockets so the smoke cartridges wouldn’t fall out.

“That’s not how you do it,” Wesley whispered. Like Wesley would know. He was always too busy singing a song from some musical about prisoners to actually do any of the calisthenics.

“My neck hurts,” I whispered back. “I need to rest it.”

Chip sat up. “Technically, if it’s your neck that’s aggrieving you, you should lace your hands behind your head to give it support.” He modeled a perfect sit-up for me—one time down, one time up. “Did I say ‘aggrieving’? I would suppose ‘aggravating’ would be a better word. Although ‘aggravating’ assumes a state of mind, and your neck doesn’t possess a mind. Though it does have the very esteemed duty of holding one up. Which is quite ironic, when you think about it.” He laughed.

“I don’t think about it,” I said. “Nobody but you thinks about it.”

He went back to his sit-ups.

“Hey, what’s in your pockets?” Wesley asked, his voice just a little too loud. I shushed him, catching the coach’s attention. He looked up, and we all double-timed our sit-ups until he yelled out, “Push-ups, gentlemen,” and looked down again.

“If you must know,” I whispered, flipping over, “it’s a magic trick.”

“Cool,” Wesley said. “Can I see it?”

“You will, okay? Be patient.”

We finished our calisthenics, ran warm-up laps, and waited for the girls to arrive. The chatter got loud as everyone paired off with their dance partners and found a spot on the gym floor with room to move. I stayed rooted to my spot, hoping that maybe Sissy Cork was absent. Or had quit school altogether. Maybe moved out of state. Or to the moon. And took her ballroom dance with her.

No such luck. “You ready?” She had come up behind me. I jumped and whirled around. Her arms were crossed, and she looked about as excited about dancing as I did. “You ready to dance or what?”

“What,” I answered, but she had already taken my hand and begun pulling me to a vacant spot on the floor. I pressed my arms to my sides, hoping the cartridges wouldn’t rattle when I walked. Once again, my stomach heaved.

“What’s your deal?” she asked. “Why are you walking all stiff like that?”

“No reason,” I said. “I think I pulled something in my back.”

“Oh. I’ve done that before at a strong-man competition. You know what they say about sore muscles—the best way to make them feel better is to move them.”

“She’s right,” Chip said, as he and Patrice whirled by. Chip was