Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 40
“I know.”
“What happened?”
Where did I even begin? Did I tell Dad about Mr. Faboo going missing? Did I start with the detention or talk about the bull encounter or mention the failed cupie? Maybe I should start all the way back at the day I turned that penny silver and Mom made me come here in the first place. Maybe if I started talking about everything that had gone wrong with me since coming to Pennybaker School, he would understand and stop making me go.
Of course, then I wouldn’t get to have lunch with Chip or talk about movies with Wesley or cheat off Owen’s fancy watch. I wouldn’t even know Mr. Faboo was missing, which would mean that I wouldn’t even know Mr. Faboo at all, and that was a really sad thought.
“I was feeding it and it got mad,” was all I said.
“Feeding a skunk? Why would you do that?”
“Its eyes were cute, and I didn’t want to dance with Chip and Erma.”
Dad gave me an exasperated look. “All this to get out of one silly dance?”
“It’s not silly,” I said.
“Just dance with the poor girl,” Dad said. “It won’t kill you.”
“It might.” I crossed my arms and pouted.
“You know what will kill me?” Dad said. “This smell, if we don’t get moving. Do me a favor and kind of hang out the window a little bit. Take the smell with you.”
Even my own father was turning on me.
We drove for a while, and then Dad steered the car toward town.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the grocery store.”
Panic welled up inside me. It was bad enough to smell like a skunk in front of the kids at Pennybaker, but they were used to odd things happening. It was quite another thing to stink in front of the whole world.
“I can’t,” I said. “What if I run into someone from Boone Public?”
“They’re still in school,” Dad answered.
“What if they’re out sick?”
“Then they won’t be at the store.”
“What if they have to go to the store to get medicine?”
Dad turned the wheel. “Thomas, I can’t take you home smelling like that. Your mother will have a fit. We need tomato juice to wash the skunk off you. You can stay in the car while I run inside, but we’re going to the store, and that’s that.”
Dad was a pretty laid-back kind of guy. But when he said “and that’s that,” he really meant it.
Times Dad Said “and That’s That” and Really Meant It
To Mom: we are not taking a Christmas photo in matching Rudolph sweaters, and that’s that!
To Erma: yes, you are going to clean that chewed gum off the back of your headboard, and that’s that!
To me: plastic cups do not flush, and that’s that!
To Grandma Jo: I will not distract my wife so you can parasail on Lake Jacomo, and that’s that! (Grandma Jo did not agree that that was that. And her parasail was awesome.)
Dad parked right in front of the store and went inside. But it wasn’t long before I couldn’t stand the smell of myself. I got out of the car and sat on the hood, watching people come and go and counting how many of them fanned the air in front of their noses, and how many pinched their noses shut when they walked by (fifteen and nine, to be exact).
Only one man seemed not to notice the smell at all. He was holding a grocery sack in each hand; had long, kind of poofy white hair; and was wearing pants that ended at his knees, a long coat, and pantyhose.
Leggings. Whatever.
I froze. White, poofy hair, a long coat, and leggings? I looked again.
“Mr. Faboo?”
The man turned, smiled, and held out the bags he was holding. “Thomas Fallgrout!”
Before my brain could wrap itself around the severe uncoolness of what I was about to do, I slid off the car, lunged across the asphalt, and wrapped myself around his waist.
I hugged a teacher.
In public.
As soon as my brain caught up, I let go. Mr. Faboo was standing there, still holding the bags, looking surprised. And kind of nauseated. His nose wrinkled.
“Everything all right?” he asked. “You smell a little, um …”
“No,” I said. “Mr. Smith wears brown all the time and makes us be quiet and read from the textbook, and he wants us to write a research paper and he doesn’t even let us dress up ever and he gave me and Chip detention for no reason.”
Okay, so maybe that last part was stretching the truth the teeniest bit. And maybe I couldn’t believe I was saying that not wearing pantyhose was “wrong.” But the rest of it was all true, and I meant every word of it. I was probably just excited that I had finally found Mr. Faboo.
I finally found him! All by myself! Sure, it was by total accident, and, sure, I was a little bit sad Chip wasn’t there to celebrate the moment with me, but still.
For a few seconds, Mr. Faboo just stood there, the bags swaying slightly, his mouth hanging open while he tried to make sense of everything I’d just blurted out.
“I see,” he finally said.
“You see?”
There was an awkward pause, and then he bumped my shoulder with one bag. “Well, buck up, little fella. I’m sure it will all get better with time. It was good to see you. Tell the guys I said hi. See you later.”
He turned to leave, and now I was the one standing there with my mouth hanging open. He got at least ten steps away before I finally found words.
“That’s it?” I asked. He stopped. “That’s it?” I repeated louder. “I have been shot at, bruised my tailbone, been humiliated in front of an entire crowd of high schoolers, and I’m still cleaning manure out of my ear, all to find you and get you back, and all