Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 27
A knock on the front door interrupted us. I dropped Sissy’s hand and practically bolted out of the room, thinking I owed whoever was on the other side of the door a candy bar or a gold star or a pony.
Of course, it was Chip.
“I’ve got a new plan,” he said the minute I opened the door.
“Already?”
“Thomas,” Erma called.
“Sorry, I’ve got to take care of this,” I said over my shoulder, and prodded Chip out of my way and off the porch. “Your house,” I said.
The best thing about Chip’s house was that there was no Erma there. And, right now, no Sissy Cork, either. The second best thing about Chip’s house was that the basement had an old-timey pinball machine, and Chip didn’t mind if I played it for as long as I wanted.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked, grabbing a coin from Chip’s cup of quarters and plugging it into the machine. It instantly came to life with a bunch of dings and whistles.
“You know, you’re going to have to dance at some point,” he said, sidling up next to me. He bumped the machine with his hip, sending the little metal ball right into a jackpot hole.
“Not if I can help it,” I said. “So far I’ve been pretty good at avoiding it.”
“Not true,” Chip said. “So far you’ve gotten lucky. Pretty soon Sissy is going to start demanding it.”
“I’ll figure out my strategy then,” I said. I missed the ball, and it rolled into the gutter behind my flippers. “Darn it.”
“It’s not really all that bad. It’s kind of fun, actually.”
“Says you,” I said.
“Anyone can dance. You want me to show you?” He bumped the machine again, and the ball fell back into the jackpot hole. Chip was really good at being the kind of friend who helps people get a jackpot when they need one.
“No. I want you to tell me what your new lead for finding Mr. Faboo is,” I said.
“The Prairie High Pioneers!” he said, sticking his finger in the air.
I lost my last ball, and the machine shut down. I reached for another quarter. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“The Prairie High Pioneers.”
“A basketball team, of course,” he said. “It being basketball season and all.”
I tossed and caught the new quarter a few times. “So what does this basketball team have to do with your plans?”
“A little research turned up a very tasty little factoid about our absent educator.”
I squinted at him. “Are you talking about something to eat?” I tossed the quarter. It bounced off Chip’s palm and rolled under the machine.
“I’m talking about finding Mr. Faboo.” He dropped and crawled under the machine to retrieve the coin, but I simply dug a new one out of the cup. Chip crawled out. A spiderweb was stuck to his hair. “Turns out he has a bit of extra employment on the side.”
“He’s a coach?”
“Nope. He’s a mascot.”
I stopped, the flipper frozen in the up position. The ball whizzed by and thunked into the gutter again. “Huh?”
“He’s a pioneer,” he clarified. “Well, an imaginary pioneer. He dresses in costume and dances around on the court to entertain the crowd. Sometimes he dances with the cheerleaders or does little stunts. I’ve read that a mascot can even sometimes shoot T-shirts out of a gun. I’m having a hard time believing that a T-shirt would fit in a musket barrel, but—”
“I know what a mascot is, Chip,” I said. The machine beeped at me, letting me know that it was waiting, but I ignored it. Envisioning Mr. Faboo dancing around a basketball court and leading cheers was enough for my brain to handle at once.
“Well, he does enjoy dressing up,” I said, remembering the brown pants and suspenders that Mr. Faboo wore when we talked about the Oregon Trail. He’d mentioned that his dream was to someday own a covered wagon and live on salt meat. I didn’t know what salt meat was, but it sounded to me like if picky Erma lived in pioneer times, she would probably starve to death.
“Indeed he does. And he must enjoy dancing, too. Perhaps even turning a cartwheel or two.” Chip tapped his chin. “I wonder if he would like to borrow my cartwheel socks.”
I couldn’t imagine Mr. Faboo dancing, but I supposed anything was possible.
“So what’s your plan? Go to a Prairie High basketball game?”
“Yes.” Chip beamed.
“And then get to Mr. Faboo?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“How?”
“That’s the brilliant part of my plan,” he said. “We can’t expect to be allowed down onto the court as two fans, although I did consider faking an illness or perhaps telling the gatekeepers that we’re cousins of the point guard—but I decided there’s no reason to test karma with deceit. I know a lot of people don’t believe in karma. In fact, many people believe that—”
“Chip! Focus!” I said, placing my palms on his cheeks and forcing him to look at me. He dropped the quarter he’d been holding, and it rolled back under the pinball machine.
“Yes, of course. Focused,” he said, only I was kind of squishing his cheeks a little, so it sounded like, “Yesh, of courshe. Focushed.”
I let go of his cheeks, brushed off his shoulders, and very slowly, very softly asked, “How are we going to get to Mr. Faboo?”
“Breeches,” he said with confidence.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve already asked,