Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 36
The parking lot, which was just a field that had been mowed kind of short, had a few cars in it. We parked our bikes by a row of dead corn plants and headed to the front gate, excited about what we might see inside, because festivals were exciting, even when we were there on a totally non-festival mission.
“Hello, fellas,” the man at the gate said. “Coming to enjoy the fair?”
Wesley stepped up. “Yes, sir. We’uns hopin’ to get a look-see at yer blacksmith thar.”
The man at the gate looked stunned. “I don’t … I don’t know what you just said. Brochure?” He held out a pamphlet. Wesley took it and tipped an imaginary hat.
“We were hoping to talk to your blacksmith,” I said. “He’s our teacher.”
The man brightened. “Well, sure! You come right on in and have a gab at him.” We started to walk, but stopped abruptly when the man’s outstretched hand bumped Colton’s chest. “That’ll be three dollars each.”
“We don’t have any money,” Buckley said.
“Oh; then I’m afraid I can’t let you kids in.”
“But we’ll only be a minute,” I said.
“Well, technically, that wouldn’t be possible, as we wouldn’t even be able to get to the blacksmith shop within one minute,” Chip said.
“Five minutes, tops,” I said, reminding myself to give Chip a death glare later.
The man shook his head mournfully. “Sorry. If it was up to me, I’d let everyone in for free, but it’s not my rule.”
“I promise we will just go straight there and straight back,” I said. “Please?”
Owen was tapping the screen on his smartphone. “Oh. You guys. We missed it. It’s right here on the website. Three dollars admission.”
“You mean we’re not even going in? I could have been home practicing my didgeridoo this whole time?” Flea asked.
I let out a sigh. “Okay. Everyone empty your pockets. We’ll just send in however many of us we can afford.”
Everyone reached into their pockets and produced a variety of treasures—Colton a slingshot; Buckley a handful of rocks; Flea a leftover cookie and an anonymous love note from Samara Lee that he was supposed to give to Dawson Ethan in band and forgot. Owen’s pockets were filled with flash drives—nine of them, to be exact. Wesley was carrying a Gatorade cap, two seashells, a folded piece of paper that had been through the wash and was now blank, a cell phone, a pencil stub, and his spitwad straw. My pockets were completely empty.
Not one of us had even a nickel, much less three dollars.
“Seriously, you guys?” I asked. “Nothing at all?”
“I had an overdue book fine,” Flea said sadly.
I turned back to the man at the gate. “Are you sure you can’t just let one of us in for five minutes?”
“Sorry, son.”
I sighed. “Can you at least send a message to the blacksmith? Can you tell him his students want him to come back?”
“Tell him that his substitute doesn’t even like history,” Colton suggested.
“And that he’s making us write papers,” Buckley added.
“And we don’t dress up at all anymore,” Wesley said sadly.
“Actually, that part I’m okay with,” I said. “Especially the pantyhose.”
“They’re leggings,” all of them said at the same time.
“Whatever. Tell him that we got detention for no good reason,” I said.
“Well, technically, we did damage school property. Very important school property, at that,” Chip said.
Correction: I owed Chip two death glares.
“Just tell him, okay?” I said.
The man at the gate nodded, looking like he wouldn’t remember a single word of what he was supposed to tell Mr. Faboo. “Okay, sure. I’ll see if I can catch him on his break,” he said.
We thanked him and headed back toward our bikes, Colton and Buckley punching each other in the arm and laughing, Owen showing Flea a music app that actually included a didgeridoo sound, and Wesley practicing his western walk, which looked a little bit like the way Grandma Jo walked that time she accidentally sat in Erma’s Jell-O.
“Well, we tried,” Chip said. We cut between two cars and skirted the log fence that separated the parking lot from the pasture. “We can probably think of another way to get to him. Perhaps we can find out where he grocery shops …” He shaded his eyes with one hand and gazed across the pasture toward the church at the other side. There were two kids playing in the churchyard, and another sitting on top of the fence and staring across at us. “I could probably find out where he takes his dry cleaning.”
Wait a minute. Fence. Pasture. Kids. Church. The only thing separating us from Mr. Faboo was a field.
“No,” I said. Chip walked on a few steps before realizing I’d stopped. I pointed across the pasture. “We can still get to him.”
Chip gazed across the pasture with me. “Send carrier pigeons?”
“What? No. Who would do that?”
“Seemed more practical than smoke signals. Although I suppose we could investigate the telegraph if we want to remain historically accurate.”
I put my arm around his shoulder, mostly to shut him up, and turned him so we were both looking over the pasture. “I was thinking of something a little more … sneaky.”
He thought it over. “Invisible ink?”
“No, Chip, jeez. Sneaking over. Sneaking.” I tiptoed in place to show him what I meant.
It seemed to take a moment for it to sink in, and then he took a deep breath. “You don’t mean breaking and entering?”
“Well, I mean, no, I don’t think anyone really breaks and enters into a field. But, yes, I’m thinking of just … sneaking over.”
“Bad idea, Thomas,” Chip said. “Really bad idea. That’s stealing.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Well, if that guy at the gate had let us in, I wouldn’t have to.”
Chip gave me a look I’d seen on Mom’s face before. “You still don’t have to. We can pursue the dry cleaner option. Nobody will think this is a good idea. Hey, guys—”
I didn’t