Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 48
Correction: that was what a best friend like Chip Mason did. Best friends like me whined and got mad and stomped around and ignored and griped at their best friends. Which was not a friendly way to be a best friend at all. I was a rotten best friend.
But, man, I felt so much better knowing that Chip wasn’t best friends with those guys. Which must have meant I thought he was my best friend, too. I probably should have seen that coming. What was it Grandma Jo had said? You have to eat your breakfast before it gets cold, because you’ll miss it after Mom throws it away? Something like that, anyway. I had assumed she’d been talking about Mr. Faboo. But it turned out she was talking about Chip, too. Just like Grandpa Rudy didn’t know how awesome Bill was until he hopped away, I guessed I just didn’t realize how awesome Chip was until I thought he liked someone else more than he liked me.
“You’re my best friend, too, Chip.” I reached toward him. “And thanks for doing those things for me.” At first he flinched, like maybe he thought I was going to haul off and smack him one, but then he took my hand and let me pull him up. “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got to get Mr. Faboo to the testing center.”
TRICK #30
THE ROOSEVELT RUN
Chip was right: it wasn’t hard to tell which house was the History House. It was a big white house on the square, right beside the courthouse. One of the first buildings built in our town, it was at least one hundred fifty years old.
Chip explained that every month, the decoration of the History House took on a different theme. In the summer, it was the hippie movement, with lots of tie-dye and peace signs. In July, it was the American Revolution. This month, the theme was apparently the Renaissance, because there was a replica of the statue of David in the front yard, a Shakespearean hat on its head, complete with floppy feather. Telescopes adorned the front porch.
We marched up to the front door and stared at it.
“You should knock,” Chip said.
“No, you,” I said, suddenly nervous about being at a teacher’s house. This seemed like the kind of thing that just begged for a boring lecture or extra homework or something.
“It was your idea to come here,” he countered.
“You were the one who scared him out of taking the test in the first place,” I said.
“Technically, I just supplied him with some facts and basic information,” he said, poking one finger up in the air. I grabbed his hand and slapped his palm three times against the door. “Hey!”
Fumbling and bumping sounds came from inside the house, and then the door slowly opened.
“It should be noted that my knock was performed under duress,” Chip said before the door answerer could say anything. “I did not give knocking consent. Although, technically, I suppose it was more of a slap than an actual knock …”
I was too busy staring at the man standing in front of me to even pay attention to what Chip was saying. He looked like Mr. Faboo, only a lot more drab and tired. He had big, dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks looked sunken.
But, most important, he wasn’t wearing any kind of costume at all. Just a plain red bathrobe, with a pair of plaid pajama pants and a stained gray T-shirt underneath. He had a newspaper crossword puzzle folded and tucked under one arm.
“Thomas? Chip?” he mumbled, blinking in the sunlight. He wrapped the robe tighter around himself and tied it to ward off a gust of chilly wind. “What are you doing here?”
“We came to ask you the same thing,” I said. “You’re supposed to be at the testing center right now. You don’t even look ready at all.”
He looked down at himself, as if to verify what he was wearing. “Oh. Yeah. I’m not going to that.”
“Why not?” I asked. At the same time, Chip said sagely, “Your testing anxiety has gotten the better of you, hasn’t it?”
“Chip. Shut up about the anxiety,” I hissed.
“Not talking about it won’t make it go away, Thomas,” he said in the same sage voice.
“Stop it,” I said through my teeth, “or I will make you go away.”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Faboo said. He held up the paper. “I have this crossword to finish anyway.”
I snatched the paper away. “No you don’t. You have a test to pass so you can get back to your job at Pennybaker School.”
He took the paper back. “You guys don’t need me,” he said sadly.
“Yes, Mr. Faboo, we do,” I said. “You don’t understand. History is boring; all those dates and facts and stuff. But you make it exciting. You bring it to life with your costumes and your stories about baboons. History just isn’t the same without you.”
“We need you,” Chip added.
“That’s really nice of you to say, fellas. But you’ll move on just fine without me.”
I opened my mouth to argue with him, but instead of words, a long beep came out. And then another. And two more. Followed by a lot of whooping and hollering on the street behind us.
Chip and I turned just in time to see Teddy Roosevelt rounding the corner on an ATV, complete with spectacles and a bushy mustache. He was pounding on the horn. On the back was Lewis Hallam, colonial actor, waving a white kerchief at us. Behind them was a long line of historical figures furiously pedaling their bikes or hitching rides on banana bike seats. Betsy Ross rode with Daniel Boone. Robert Smalls commandeered a Schwinn piloted by Thomas Jefferson. Unnamed colonists jogged