Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 26
Owen stood and brushed off the back of his pants. “Yeah, Thomas. I really have too many clubs right now, anyway. Robotics club, gaming club, coding club, Future Hackers of America …”
“No, you’re not getting it. This isn’t a club.”
But Owen was sauntering away, continuing to list all his extracurricular activities as he went. “Architecture and engineering club, cupcake club …”
“Can you believe those guys?” I said to Wesley and Chip.
“Tell you what, pardner,” Wesley said in a cowboy drawl. “If’n you need someone to rustle you up some beans for yer club meetins, I’m yer feller.”
“There won’t be any club meetings, because it’s not a … Oh, forget it.”
Wesley wandered off, singing a song about drive-ins.
I groaned and stomped to the merry-go-round. I plopped down—grimacing as my bruised rear end panged—and dug my toes into the dirt to keep it from spinning. Chip sat next to me.
“So I suppose this makes me vice president of this revolution club,” he said. He saluted me. “I’m ready for the job, sir. I should go home and change into my leadership socks.”
“Chip, it’s not a club. It’s a mission to find Mr. Faboo and get him back to Pennybaker School. He has to be out there somewhere. And there must be something keeping him away from school. Maybe we can help him out.”
Chip’s brow furrowed, and then he stuck his finger up in an “aha” pose. “So it’s not a club!”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“And it’s not a revolution, really, either.”
I shrugged. “Revolution just sounded cool. Like there might be guts involved or something. Besides, it doesn’t matter what it is if nobody is willing to help me.”
“I’m willing to help you.”
“Us. I meant nobody is willing to help us.” Not really true—mostly because the Chip half of us was totally unhelpful.
Chip stood and paced back and forth in front of me, scratching his chin. “Maybe they don’t want to help because you called it a revolution when it is not strictly a revolution. It’s more of a …”
“Mystery,” I finished for him.
He stopped abruptly, his whole body tense with excitement. “Exactly!” He grabbed the merry-go-round and gave it a mighty shove. Which, with Chip’s size, meant it inched slowly in a half circle. I used my toes to bring me back to facing him. “And you know what we’re good at?”
“What?”
He sat next to me and slung an arm around my shoulder. “Solving mysteries.”
“You know what, Chip? You’re right,” I said. “Who needs those other guys anyway? We’ve got this.”
TRICK #18
THE PRAIRIEBALL PASS
So I didn’t have a revolution to lead, but I had a mystery to solve, and a partner to help me solve it. If you could call Chip a partner and his help actual help. Both were iffy, especially if an interesting bug or flower or hat or shoe or just about anything at all happened to grab his attention.
But Chip was better than nobody. The important thing was finding Mr. Faboo and getting our school back to normal.
Or whatever passed for normal at our school. Which was not at all normal.
So getting our school back to not at all normal, but in a better not-at-all-normal way than the not-at-all-normal way it had been recently.
Chip promised to find out what the History-Lovers Society was doing, and I went home to sit on a pillow and work on another magic trick that might get me out of ballroom dancing so I could focus on solving the mystery.
Sissy Cork was the last person I wanted to see still at my house, now at my kitchen table, squaring up for an arm wrestling match with Grandma Jo. A mound of candy sat on the table between them. Dad stood next to them, a baseball cap on backward and a whistle dangling from his mouth. He was bent at the waist to get eye-to-elbow with Sissy and Grandma Jo.
The minute my eyes landed on Sissy, I tried to back out of the room, but it was too late. Erma had spotted me.
“It’s about time,” she said. “Sissy’s been waiting here ever since you left.”
“And she’s robbed me blind,” Grandma Jo added, rolling up her sleeve. “I’m completely out of butterscotch.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” I said, trying again to get away.
Erma sidestepped so she was blocking the door. “You are going to dance whether you like it or not. Come on, Sissy.”
Sissy started to get up, but Grandma Jo grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. “Oh, no you don’t, sister. You’ve got to give me a chance to win back the caramels at least.”
Dad blew the whistle and grabbed his own wrist with his other hand. “Foul!” he called out one side of his mouth. “Illegal clutch of the wrist.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Sissy said, pushing the mound of candy across the table. “You can have it all back.”
“Not the one you ate,” Grandma Jo grumped. “Cheater.”
“Grandma!” Erma said. “Let’s go.” She grabbed Sissy’s hand with one of hers and my hand with the other. “You’re not getting away this time.” She pulled us both out of the room.
Dad’s whistle sounded. “Forfeit!”
“Nobody likes a quitter!” Grandma Jo called to our backs.
“Okay, so the first step to good dancing is posture,” Erma said. Sissy stood stiff as a board. A very angry board, glaring at me. Erma placed her hand on my back and shoved. I stumbled forward.
“Hey!”
“Straighten up!” she said, clapping her hands with every syllable. I straightened. “And put your shoulders back.” I did so. “Chin!” she barked. I lifted my chin.
“I can see up your nose now,” Sissy said.
I slumped. My stomach started up. “Erma, do we have to—”
“Posture!” Erma said, shoving my back again.
“Ouch! I have a bruise.”
“Stop whining. There is