Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 5
She was nice.
She had four brothers, so she wasn’t afraid to sock you one if you made her mad. Because …
She was not girly.
And, most important:
She definitely didn’t want to do this any more than I did.
The lines eventually got settled, Coach Abel yelling at us to find our spots or he would find them for us, and I was thrilled to be standing directly across from Patrice. Coach began counting off, and, one by one, couples found practicing space on the gym floor.
He was only a dozen or so people away when Chip wriggled into line next to me.
“Hey, Thomas. Took me forever to find my dance socks in my locker. Well, technically they’re square-dancing socks, but they’ll do in a pinch until I find my ballroom dancing socks at home tonight.”
“You have ballroom dancing socks?”
He nodded. “They’re a little worn, but Mom can darn them.”
“You have … Why? How did you wear out ballroom dancing socks? … You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. You need to move, or I won’t get to be with Patrice.”
Coach was getting closer. Chip pushed up his glasses somberly. “It’s supposed to be a random pairing. It can’t be random if you position yourself to get a particular person.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just move.”
“It very much matters, Thomas. You’re not supposed to work the system to your advantage.”
“Nobody cares,” I hissed. “Just … switch places with me.”
“I don’t think I should.”
I grabbed his shoulders and tried to maneuver him, but Chip could make himself extra heavy when he wanted to. “Go.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“No. Oh, that tickles, Thomas.” He giggled.
I tried to come up with a plan—maybe one of the girls down the line wouldn’t mind moving up—but Coach was too fast for me.
“Eighteen,” he said, touching the top of my head with the palm of his hand.
With his other hand, he pointed at Sissy Cork, who trudged forward, holding out her hand.
“Come on, you,” she said angrily. Sissy Cork’s unique talent was arm wrestling, and I had seen her make at least three boys cry. If anyone should’ve been paired up with Buster Tallwell, it was her. I was a little afraid of having her anywhere near my arms.
“I don’t have all day, you know,” she said. She walked in front of me through the gym until we found a spot. Sissy Cork and I had absolutely nothing in common.
I looked back at the line. Chip Mason was walking proudly to an empty spot with Patrice’s arm hooked through his. He caught my eye and brightened, giving me a wave.
I turned around and didn’t wave back.
Forget the cracker guy. Chip should have been Benedict Arnold.
TRICK #3
A TEACHER APPEARS
I wasn’t sure how somebody named Philadelphus Philadelphia would talk. Jacob Meyer was actually born in America, so while all my classmates were running around trying on their British and Scottish and German accents in preparation for Act After the Fact, I was pretty much just talking normally.
“Top o’ the day to ya, laddy,” Wesley said, coming up behind me as I walked to class. I knew Wesley’s Irish accent well; it was one of his favorites. He was wearing a billowy pair of pants stuffed into knee-high boots. He had on a fancy-looking coat and a round hat with a feather sticking out of it.
“Hey, where are your pantyhose?” I asked, pointing to his legs.
“I believe you mean leggings,” he said.
“Whatever. You’re wearing pants.”
He stopped, brought one arm across his chest, and tipped his chin up importantly. “That is because I am in character.” His tone was lofty, his Irish accent gone.
“We’re all in character. What gives?”
“I am a character within a character.”
“Huh?”
He went slack and gave me a frustrated grunt. “I’m Lewis Hallam. I, along with my brother William, created the very first acting troupe in America. We opened with The Merchant of Venice. That’s Shakespeare.” Again with the arm across the chest, only this time Wesley bowed low. “I am in costume.” He had now adopted an English accent. “Thus, I am playing a character who is playing a character.” He straightened and grinned. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Anything is cool if you don’t have to wear pantyhose.”
“Leggings,” Dawson Ethan said as he passed by.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Who do you think Mr. Faboo will be this year?” Owen asked, coming up on my other side. “Man, these things itch.”
“Tell me about it. Who are you?”
“Thomas Godfrey, inventor of the octant.”
“What’s an octant?” Wesley and I said at the same time.
Owen pulled out an odd-looking triangular contraption. “It measures for navigation.” He shrugged. “It’s cool if you like gadgets.”
Nobody liked gadgets more than Owen. He liked gadgets so much that he wore a metal spaghetti strainer on his head because he thought it gave him a better wireless signal.
“So who do you think Faboo will be?” Owen repeated.
“Benjamin Franklin?” I guessed.
“Not unknown.”
“George Washington?”
“You’re not even trying. Last year he was some guy who made a turtle submarine. Bushes somebody or other.”
“David Bushnell,” Flea said, joining us. “The year before that, he was Henry Knox, who was this really fat general who died from eating a chicken bone. Mr. Faboo carried a live chicken with him all day.”
“To pay homage,” Wesley said. He said “homage” like HO-MAWJ. “To the chicken, that is.”
“Whoever he is, you know it’ll be g—”
We rounded the corner into the classroom doorway and stopped, two other kids slamming into us from behind.
Mr. Faboo wasn’t there. On his favorite day of the year. Act After the Fact Month was like Christmas to Mr. Faboo, and all he could talk about for the past three weeks was how excited he was to see everyone’s costumes. He should have been standing in front of the classroom in an elaborate Revolutionary War getup. Instead, some bald guy with frizzy tufts of hair over his ears stood by the teacher’s desk. He was wearing a suit. A brown suit. With a brown shirt. And a brown tie. Pennybaker brown. No wig.