Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 18
“Okay, now. In a minute, someone will blow a horn. When you hear that horn, you just follow me, and I’ll keep you safe. The last thing you want is to be separated from your unit, you hear?” I nodded. “If someone tells you that you’ve been hit, you need to fall down and keep real still and wait for the battle to be over. But do not get hit. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I stood there, energy buzzing through me as I contemplated what my plan of action would be. I would storm the front line, sweep around the back, and—
The horn blasted, and everyone sprang into action, running every which way, shouting orders. Bud had assured us that the guns fired only blanks—no real bullets—but I didn’t expect blanks to be so loud. I jumped every time one went off, and I wasn’t even close to any of them.
Basically, I was the worst soldier ever. I stood in one place, whipping my head from side to side, trying to figure out what to do or where to go. “Mr. Faboo?” I cried, but my voice was lost in the noise. “Mr. Faboo?”
“Run!” I heard, and turned just in time to see Chip barreling toward me, holding his hat on his head with both hands, a terrified expression on his face. “Run, man! Forget Faboo! Save yourself!”
I sprinted past him, though I had no real idea where I was going. I thought I could see Bud ahead of me, but the men had all started to kind of look alike, and when the man turned, he wasn’t Bud at all. I veered left, only to find myself heading right toward another stranger in a blue jacket. I wheeled back the way I’d come and discovered that Chip was gone. I spun in place, breathing heavily, twitching, gripping the waistband of my pants. Everywhere was chaos, and even though I knew this was all fake, a part of me was genuinely scared. It must have been really frightening to actually be on a battlefield.
“Run!” I heard again, out of nowhere, and Chip whizzed past me, this time going the other way. “Move, move, move!”
Just as my muscles tensed to make a run for it, there was a huge blast right behind me. I turned to find three men wheeling a cannon in my direction.
I squealed just like Erma does when something gross touches her, and my feet began churning and my arms pumping without me even telling them to.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure who exactly won our simulated battle. I only know that I spent the second half of it hiding behind a tree on the edge of the field. A dog found its way to me, and I sat on the ground and scratched its ears while the chaos raged on in the distance. I guessed I wasn’t much of a soldier.
Don’t get me wrong—Chip wasn’t much better. It was just that he didn’t give up. He continued to race around the field, yelling and running, yelling and running. After a while, a horn sounded, and everyone stopped in place, red-faced and panting, their uniforms soaked through with sweat. They took off their hats and fanned themselves with them. A couple got out their cell phones and answered texts. Finally, a chance to get a good look at faces.
“Dinnertime!” Mrs. Mason called from over by the food tent, and everyone converged on it at once.
“I can’t find him,” I whispered to Chip as we stood in the chow line.
“Who?”
“Mr. Faboo. I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Oh. Yeah. Mr. Faboo. I forgot.”
“What y’all whisperin’ about over there?” Bud asked, leaning toward us as he walked to a picnic table with an aluminum plate heaped with beans and hot dogs.
“Do you know where Mr. Faboo is?” I asked.
“Mr. Fa-who?” Bud squinted like he was thinking really hard.
“Faboo. He’s …” I started to describe him, but realized it was impossible to describe someone if you’ve never really paid attention to what they looked like. “He wears a white wig sometimes?”
“A white wig? No, I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone like that, except maybe Old Tony over there.” He gestured toward a really old man with a mop of sweaty, snow-white hair flopping over one eye.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s more …” I used my hands to indicate the poofiness of Mr. Faboo’s favorite wig.
“He’s our teacher,” Chip said. “At Pennybaker School.”
“Oh, that feller,” Bud said. “Sorry, boys, he is no more.”
Chip gasped. “He’s dead?”
“Dead? Oh, heavens no. Who said anything about dead? He just doesn’t do Civil War reenactment anymore. Something about the braces giving him a rash or some such. He was a good Union fighter, too. Knew everything there was to know about history.”
“Do you have any idea where we might find him?” I asked.
“Nope, can’t say I do. Sorry, fellers.”
“Oh,” I said, but inside I was totally dashed. We’d come all this way and fought two hard battles for nothing.
Mr. Faboo was still missing.
TRICK #12
DEALING DETENTION
Chip was teaching another early-morning dance class, so I had Dad drive me to school extra early so I could polish the Heirmauser head and have it already shiny when Clover Prentice and her crossy-crossy arms got there.
I had just come out of the custodian’s closet with my supplies when Chip, Wesley, Flea, and Owen entered the school. Chip said something, and they all laughed. They got to the bottom of the stairs, quickly bowed to the Heirmauser head, and then got up and huddled in a loose circle. One by one, they began an elaborate handshake, twisting their fingers, bumping their knuckles, flashing peace signs, and slapping and gripping and knocking their shoulders together. It took about five solid minutes to complete. I stopped and watched, dumbfounded.
A few weeks earlier, Chip had