Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 42

TRICK #27

THE PLAN PATTER

The tomato juice only helped a little. Grandma Jo wore nose plugs at breakfast, and Erma kept making gagging noises in the car.

“Bet you won’t be tangling with any more skunks, huh, pal?” Dad said into the rearview mirror.

“Definitely not,” I said, but I was too excited about the possibility of getting Mr. Faboo back to be sulky about a little body odor.

“That’s what he gets for avoiding certain things,” Erma said. We turned onto the long driveway that led up to the slightly leaning school building. We all tilted our heads without even realizing it, just like always.

“Avoiding what things? Is there a problem, pal?” Dad was glancing at me in the rearview mirror again, but this time I could see worry in his eyes.

“He’s avoideeg ballroob danceeg,” Erma said before I could respond. She was pinching her nose shut. “He’s afraid of Sissy Cork.”

“I am not,” I said. I kicked the back of Erma’s seat. She squeaked dramatically, because everything Erma did was dramatic. “I was trying to find my friend Reap.”

“Who is also avoiding ballroom dancing,” Erma said, then realized she wasn’t plugging her nose and made a gagging noise before pinching it shut again.

“Surely it can’t be that awful,” Dad said. “Have you given it a try at all?”

Was it possible that he had forgotten the wedding incident? “A litt—” I started to say, but Erma shouted over me.

“No! And Sissy Cork is really mad about it, and he better hope she doesn’t decide to arm wrestle him into a shoe box and ship him off to another country.”

“If that country doesn’t have ballroom dancing, I’d be okay with it,” I said under my breath.

“What, pal?” Dad asked.

“I just haven’t had time is all,” I said. “What with all these chapters to read for History and the research paper to write and whatnot.”

“ ‘Whatnot’ is code for detention,” Erma said. “And he’s probably going to get it again for stinking up the school. Smellyhead.”

“Be quiet, Erma,” I said, but part of me was worried that she was a little bit right.

“Whatever you say, Smellyhead. I wouldn’t want you to put your smelly head on me. Smellyhead.”

“Dad,” I pleaded.

“That’s enough, Erma.”

We rolled up the driveway, and I had the door opened and one leg out of the car before we had even fully stopped.

“Whoa, pal,” Dad said, reaching over the back seat like he was going to hold me inside. “What’s the rush?”

“Dance lessons,” I said as I scooted the rest of the way out of the car.

“That’s the spirit,” Dad said.

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Erma’s skeptical, scowling face.

Everyone pretty much would have agreed with Erma’s nickname for me, as they all stumbled backward when I walked through the hallways. They scrunched up their faces and waved their hands in front of their noses and made whew sounds. Even Mrs. Codex suggested I work on some independent study out in the hallway, which everyone knew was code for “Get that stench out of my classroom.”

I caught Babette Prattle as she walked by, tossing a plastic hall pass into the air and catching it. From what I could tell, Babette’s unique gift was gossip. She knew things about people before they even knew them about themselves. If you wanted news spread, you contacted the Babette Announcement System.

“Hey, Babs,” I said.

She stutter-stepped, a look of revulsion crossing her face. She missed her catch, and the pass dropped to the floor. “What?” she asked warily.

I waved, smiled, and acted like nothing was wrong.

“Why are you out here?”

“Special assignment,” I said. “On account of I’m so ahead of everyone else.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “Mrs. Codex made you leave because you reek like a wild animal.” She thought about it, her head tipping to one side. “A dead one.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Nah, I’m just working on putting together this meeting.”

She took a step toward me, narrowing her eyes. She looked intrigued. “What kind of meeting?”

“A meeting about Mr. Faboo,” I said, then slapped my hand over my mouth like I hadn’t meant to let it slip.

“What about Mr. Faboo?” she whispered.

I leaned forward over my desk. She leaned toward me, suddenly forgetting how foul I smelled. “Just between you and me.”

She made a cross over her chest with her fingers. “You and me,” she repeated.

“He can’t come back to teach us until he passes a test.”

She gasped, and I could just about see her brain trying to work out a way that she could make this between her and me and the rest of the entire free world. Just like I’d hoped.

“Is it bad?” she whispered.

I nodded. “He can’t pass it by himself. He needs help.”

“Help? What kind of help?”

“That’s what the meeting is for,” I said. “I have an idea. I want to meet on the roof at lunchtime. I just have to figure out who to invite.”

“I’m on it,” she said, not even bothering to let me finish.

Perfect.

The roof of Pennybaker School was home to a greenhouse and to Herb Gardener, a twelfth-grader whose unique gift was horticulture. Nobody ever saw Herb outside the greenhouse, and since there was no planting club, pretty much nobody but Herb ever had a reason to go into the greenhouse.

It was the perfect place to hold a meeting out from under the watchful eye of Mr. Smith. Not to mention, we didn’t want Principal Rooster to overhear our plan to help Mr. Faboo pass his test. Plus,