Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 25

TRICK #17

THE ABANDONMENT ANGLE

Sissy Cork was at my house when I got home. She was standing in the living room with Erma, a familiar, horrible ballroom dancing song playing softly in the background while Erma counted aloud—“One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one …”

Erma was wearing one of her dance costumes—a pink thing with a big, foofy skirt. Worse than that, Sissy was wearing one of Erma’s dance costumes, too—a white thing with a bigger, foofier skirt. She scowled at me when I walked in the door.

“It’s about time,” she said. “I’ve been dancing with your sister for an hour. Where were you?”

“Detention,” I said, and both Erma and Sissy went, “Ooooooooh.” “Listen, Sissy,” I continued, “I can’t dance tonight.”

“Coach Abel said having a sore bum is no excuse to get out of dancing,” she said. “Now come on.” She held out her hands.

“I have homework,” I said.

“No, you don’t. I have all the same classes you do.”

“It’s extra credit. It’s going to take me forever. Sorry.”

“Thomas …” Erma warned, but I’d already turned and sprinted upstairs to my bedroom, where I dropped my backpack and grabbed my jacket. This time I wasn’t even inventing excuses. Chip and I had called an emergency meeting at Pettigrew Park.

Wesley, Flea, and Owen were all waiting for us when we arrived.

“What’s this about?” Owen said, tapping on his laptop, as if he could somehow search the answer to his question without us even speaking.

“Yeah. I’m missing didgeridoo lessons, so this better be important,” Flea said.

“And I was halfway through taking off my stage makeup,” Wesley said, pointing to his single penciled-in evil-villain eyebrow.

I climbed up the slide and stood at the top, raising my fists. “This, gentlemen, is about a revolution!”

Chip cheered; everyone else blinked up at me.

“A what?” Flea asked.

“A revolution,” Owen said. He adjusted the soup pot he was wearing on his head.

“What kind of revolution?” Flea asked. “Because I have to be home by dinner.”

“Oh! I’ll be a redcoat!” Wesley said. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and adopted a British accent. “Prepare to be fired upon!”

“Technically,” Chip said, “they were called lobsterbacks. And did you know that Paul Revere never shouted ‘The redcoats are coming’ as he rode alone through the streets? Not to mention, he was not alone. William Dawes and Samuel Prescott were with him, and they picked up many more riders along the way. And they much more likely said ‘The regulars are out’ or ‘The regulars are on the move.’ Only they didn’t yell it, because they were trying to keep their warning quiet. So you see—”

“Chip,” I said, interrupting him. “Do you mind?”

“Oh. Certainly. As you were saying.”

“As I was saying, we are revolting!”

Chip snickered.

“What?”

Chip waved me off and snickered some more.

“What?”

Chip laughed harder, his glasses sliding down his nose.

“What, Chip, what?” I snapped.

He took a breath and wiped tears from under his eyes. “It’s just that … you said we’re revolting. And the first thing I thought was, ‘Well, speak for yourself. I’ve showered today.’ ” He doubled over in laughter while we all stood there and stared at him. Owen snaked his fingers under the pot and scratched his head. “Don’t you get it?” Chip said between guffaws. “ ‘We’re revolting!’ It’s a double entendre.” We flicked glances at one another. Wesley shrugged. Flea made the “cuckoo” motion at his temple with his finger. Chip, red-faced and breathless, straightened. “You know, double entendre. Revolting, as in coming together in rebellion, or revolting as in disgusting. You said we’re revolting, and—”

“Are you done?”

He giggled, hiccupped, and sniffed. “Quite.” But the serious look on his face wavered, as if he could burst into giggles again at any moment.

A random little kid yanked on my pant leg and pointed at the slide. I slid down so he could go. No matter where you were in life, you could always count on some random little kid to make you have to move.

“If the interruptions are done …” I pointedly glared at Chip, who pressed his lips together, barely holding in another laughing fit. “We are going to rise up against Mr. Smith.”

“Rise up against him? How?” Owen asked.

“I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t want me rising up against things,” Flea added.

“Not things,” I said. “People. Or person. Ow.” The little kid had slid down the slide and smacked into me, feetfirst. I rubbed the back of my knee.

“I don’t know, Thomas,” Wesley said. “I mean, if I get in trouble, it could hurt my chances of getting the lead in the spring musical. And you know what the spring musical is, don’t you? Grease! And you know I’m a perfect Danny.” He flipped pretend hair back and gave a cocky laugh.

“More like Sandy,” Owen said. Wesley shoved him, and he fell backward into the little kids’ sandpit, laughing.

“You guys. You won’t get into trouble. You’ll be making a difference. You’ll be organizing a movement. Standing up for what you believe in. Isn’t that what your parents want you to do?”

“It’s just … the whole Heirmauser-head thing,” Wesley said.

“I was a hero,” I said.

“But first you got into a lot of trouble,” Flea said.

“Like, a lot,” Owen agreed.

“But don’t you want to get rid of Mr. Smith? He’s so … normal.”

“Yeah, of course,” Wesley said. “But guys like Mr. Smith don’t last long at Pennybaker. He’ll go away.”

“And Mr. Faboo will still be gone,” I said, “because we never bothered to figure out why.”

“Sorry, Thomas.” Flea grabbed Owen’s wrist to get a look at his watch. “My parents