Revenge of the Snob Squad Page 3

  “Some old lady’s great-aunt from Cleveland,” he told her anyway, scratching his chest. “She wants to find out where the old bag buried all her money.”

  I wanted to ask, but the look Max shot me said, “Don’t.” A thought flashed through my head: Where is Cleveland? Then another one: I wish I lived here. The most unusual thing that ever happened at my house was the cable TV cutting out.

  Even though we were squeezed in the kitchen tight as a Twinkies twelve-pack, Scuzz-Gut wrenched open the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Max said to him, “Mind if we hang out in the old VW van?”

  “The Peacemobile?” He popped the top.

  “We won’t wreck anything.”

  “Better not. That microbus is a classic. I had a guy in looking at it yesterday. He might be interested.”

  “In what?” Max said sarcastically. “The rusted-out frame? The battery cavity? The cracked engine block?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. I was impressed with her knowledge of automobiles. I knew tires, steering wheel, tape player….

  Her brother wedged by us toward the living room door. “Just don’t contaminate it with cooties.” He shivered all over.

  I looked at Max. She made some hand gesture at her brother’s back I’d never seen before. I stored it in my repertoire for Vanessa.

  “Come on.” She led us out the door toward the microbus. “Oh, and Scuzz-Gut,” she hollered back through the torn screen. “Don’t get drunk. You have to drive Solano home later.”

  From the doorway, across the dim kitchen and through the torn back screen, his eyes met mine. I could tell he was thrilled. He guzzled half the can. Be still, my stomach.

  The Peacemobile seemed a strange place to set up a command post for war. But it was, in a word, awesome. My dad would say cool, hip, groovy. The exterior—the part that wasn’t rusted out—had once been plastered with hundreds, maybe thousands, of peace symbols. You know, the circle with the upside-down Y inside? All sizes, shapes, colors.

  “You got anything to eat?” Max said as she yanked open the squeaky side panel to the microbus and motioned us in.

  The magic word. I scrounged in my backpack. Yikes. My supplies were dwindling. We’d depleted a lot of the inventory at lunch. Feeling around, I noticed a lump in my front jeans pocket. Voila. I held up half a package of Bit-o-Honey.

  “Great.” Max grabbed it. “Sit.” She waved us to a saggy, flowered couch.

  As I sat, a spring ripped through the upholstery and bit my butt. I screamed and Prairie giggled. Lydia lowered herself cautiously, flicking a hunk of sponge to the floor.

  Max ripped off one segment of Bit-o-Honey and passed around the last three squares. “All right,” she said, flopping into a pistachio green beanbag chair across from us. “We have to attack tomorrow. Let ’em know we won’t put up with any more of this crap.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lydia interrupted. “I’m the captain of this squad. I should be in charge.”

  Max lounged back. She crossed one army boot over her knee. “Okay.” She bit into her Bit-o-Honey. “You’re in charge.”

  Lydia cleared her throat. She stood. Clasping her hands behind her back, she began to pace. About four steps. That was all the room she had. “We have to strike soon.” She pivoted in place. “The sooner the better.”

  “Tomorrow,” Max garbled.

  Lydia silenced her with a look. Dangerous move, I thought. Lydia continued, “They’re going to have to pay for these pants, number one.”

  I groaned. “Look, the only way to really get at these airheads is to give them a taste of their own medicine. Taunt them. Torment them. Humiliate them in public.” I said to Lydia, “Like Ashley does to you a hundred times a day.”

  “Excellent.” Lydia spun on me. “What’s your plan, Solano?”

  I balked. “I don’t have a plan. You’re in charge, remember?”

  Lydia turned to Max. Max shrugged.

  It was quiet in the van for a few minutes, so quiet you could hear metal rusting. Out of nowhere, a tiny voice piped up, “I-I-I have an idea.”

  All eyes locked on Prairie. She told us what it was. I think the Bit-o-Honey may have given her the inspiration, while it just gave the rest of us cavities.

  Besides being brilliant, Prairie’s plan was devious, demented, and dirty. We loved it.

  Before the meeting broke up, we made a pact. If one of us goes down, we all go down. We stacked hands on it. The next day I wished I hadn’t.

  Chapter 6

  When I got home, Mom met me at the door. “Who was that?” she asked, watching Scuzz-Gut spew gravel as he ripped away from the curb. Miraculously he’d managed not to total the car on the ride home. Max came along, thank God. She still scared me, but her brother reminded me of this serial killer my dad once told me about. Jeffrey Dahmer. He chopped up his victims and stored their body parts in the fridge. For a year after that, I shivered every time I opened the fridge, and not from the cold. Something in the way Scuzz-Gut eyed me and drooled sent chills down my spine.

  “Max and Scuzz—” I stopped. “Just a ride. Where’s Dad?”

  Mom closed the door behind me, still staring down the block where the smoking Camaro squealed around the corner. “He had a job interview this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who with?”

  “He didn’t say. He did say you called and told him you had a meeting after school.”

  I tossed my backpack on the couch and flopped down next to it. “That’s right. You’ll be glad to know I’ve joined a club.”

  Mom perched on the La-Z-Boy next to me. She folded her hands in her lap. “Really? What kind of club?”

  “Oh, a girls club. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What’s the name of this club?”

  “The, uh—” I yawned. “SnobgarbleSquadgarble.” She still looked dubious. “We do good deeds, make pledges, that kind of stuff. A girls club.”

  “Do you sell cookies?” Mom smiled.

  I snapped my fingers. “Now there’s an idea.”

  Her face sobered again. “Jenny—”

  “And,” I went on, “you’ll be glad to know that my problem is under control. My class is involved in a fitness program until the end of the year. There’re rigorous workouts every day. No doubt I’ll drop twenty, twenty-five pounds without even trying.” I grinned. “So, you can forget about the shrink.”

  She winced at the word. Not hard enough. “I already made an appointment,” she said.

  I freaked. “Cancel it.”

  She stood. “I couldn’t get you in until the twenty-first, though. Can you believe how booked up these people are? I can’t imagine there are that many kids with”—she blinked away—“problems.”

  “Major problems, Mom. Major. You don’t want to burden them with my piddly stuff. What’s a few extra pounds when people are slitting their wrists, smoking dope, driving without a license—”

  Just then Vanessa came tearing out of her room. “Mom, can you take me down to Milton’s Music? My last reed just split.”

  Mom sighed. “Sure,” she said.

  Wait a minute, I wanted to scream. Remember me? This vital discussion we’re having about my life? “Really, Mom. You can cancel the appointment.” I pushed to my feet.

  “I don’t think so.” She grabbed her purse.

  Right there I suffered a severe emotional trauma. I lost my appetite. Vanessa got the aftershock. On her way past me I said, “Gee, those jeans are getting a little tight across the butt.”

  She screeched to a stop.

  Mom snapped, “Jennifer!”

  “Oops.” I covered my mouth. “Not nice. I forgot.”

  Vanessa twisted around. “Are they?” She met my eyes.

  What could I say? With my thumb and index finger, I zipped my lip.

  “Jenny!” Mom yelled again. To Vanessa she said, “They look fine.”

  Vanessa sprinted back to her room. “I’m going to change.”

  Mom turned to me. If looks could fry,
I’d be deep fat.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of the house the next morning. Dad didn’t get the job, whatever it was, so he and Mom had a huge argument in the basement. They’d been going at it down there a lot lately, like we couldn’t hear. Dinner was total silence. Breakfast, too. My two favorite times of the day, ruined. Add to that watching Vanessa cut every Cheerio in half before she chewed it fifty times—hello? Who needs a shrink?

  The promise of gym class got me through the morning, because today we implemented the Prairie Plan. Yee-haw.

  “All right, Solano, give it to me,” Max said, extending her hand. We were huddled behind the bleachers, psyching ourselves up. Some might say acting like retards.

  “Hold it.” Lydia crushed herself between us. “This is my revenge. I get to do it.”

  Max sagged visibly. She really wanted the honor. With a heavy heart, she dropped her arm.

  “Be sure to get it on real thick,” Max grumbled. She trailed Lydia to the running track while Prairie and I formed the daring duo at the rear.

  “I know. I’m not a total idiot,” Lydia said over her shoulder.

  “Just half a one,” I muttered. Prairie giggled. Max smirked.

  We watched Lydia tuck the ammunition into the stretch band of her pants and pull her blouse out to cover it. Real deceptive. It looked like she’d grown a spinal tap. On me the bulge would’ve dissolved into all my layers of blubber. Maybe I should’ve claimed the honor.

  We asked Dingy Dietz if we could run first. You know, to get the agony out of the way. We needed to be done with our race for the Prairie Plan to begin.

  Max lined up for the first leg.

  Mr. Dietz set his stopwatch. “Get ready, set, go!” He blew his whistle to start the first heat.

  From the sidelines, we whooped a war cry.

  We ran a perfect race. Perfectly awful. Max was okay on her leg. But about halfway around the track I slowed to a walk. Why work up a sweat? I figured.

  Max seemed miffed. “You could at least try,” she said as I jumped backward over the finish line, twirling the baton in the air before handing it off to Prairie. “At least Prayer tries.” She motioned to the track, where Prairie Cactus dragged up a dust storm with her bum foot.

  Prayer, I repeated to myself. That fits. As in, You know she doesn’t have one, Max. Nevertheless, next time I’d trot, at least. For some reason, I wanted Max’s approval. Craved it. Maybe because my life depended on it.

  Max cheered Prairie on. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Behind me, Lydia said, “I can’t wait to see their faces. This is going to be so sweet.” She beamed. I beamed back. For once, she was right.

  Finally the moment we’d been waiting for. Prairie dragged over the finish line. “Good job.” Max clapped Prairie on the back as Lydia bounded away on the last leg.

  “Really good.” I added my praise.

  Prairie’s eyes sparkled. “Th-thanks,” she wheezed.

  Lydia trudged around the track. It took her an ice age. “Go! Run! Atta girl, L.B.” Max clapped and cheered. Prairie and I picked up the beat. Out of the bleachers a faint yet distinctive sound drifted down: “Quack. Quack.”

  Max stopped cheering. Deep in her throat, she growled. Prairie and I exchanged terrified glances and stepped back a couple of feet.

  At the far end of the track, Lydia shifted the baton to her right hand. That was my cue. “Oh, my stomach,” I moaned real loud. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Face contorted, I stumbled over toward Fayola on the first riser of the bleachers, and wretched. She screamed. Everyone turned to look.

  I burped. “Ah, much better. Must have been those burritos from lunch.” I bounced a fist off my stomach. Disgusting, I know.

  Fayola torched me with her eyes. The class resumed whatever they’d been doing—sleeping, molting, laughing at Lydia.

  “We’d better get lined up for our race,” Ashley said. She stepped daintily down the bleachers. Her mule team followed. As she passed me she said, “Sick.”

  I wanted to trip her so bad, but it wasn’t part of Prairie’s plan.

  The second heat of runners was rousting them-selves from their nap when Lydia finally flat-footed over the finish line. She crouched, catching her breath, or pretending to, as Ashley waddled up and stuck out a hand. “Baton, please.”

  Here’s what was supposed to happen. The Prairie Plan. Lydia would plop the baton in Ashley’s hand as she sprinted over the finish line. Ashley would run her leg then hand off to Fayola—or try to. “It’s all sticky!” Ashley would wail. “It’s… it’s covered with glue.”

  “Not glue,” Lydia would say at my side.

  “Honey,” we’d jump in. “A little bit o’ honey.” We’d emphasize the play on words. Then we’d all lapse into hyena hysterics.

  Unfortunately the Prairie Plan bombed. About halfway around the track the lid on the honey bear bottle worked itself loose. Probably as a result of Lydia’s hammering flat feet on the gravel. Honey dribbled down the rear of her pants. Then the bottle slipped loose and rolled down Lydia’s left leg, lodging in the elastic cuff at her ankle.

  By the time Lydia limped across the finish line, her left foot had collected about a yard of sand, and her red Keds were oozing amber. All down her orange pants it was wet and sticky. Everyone was pointing and laughing, like she’d done the unthinkable.

  Lydia’s eyes welled with tears.

  “It’s okay, Lyd,” I tried to console her on the way to the girls’ rest room. “Could’ve happened to any of us.” Thank God I didn’t get the honor.

  “We j-just didn’t think it through,” Prairie said.

  “Now these pants are ruined, too!” Lydia cried. “And so are my new shoes.” She wailed. Prairie patted her on the back. We all exchanged sympathetic grimaces.

  “This is Krupps’s fault,” Max said. “Now she’s really going to get it.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure how Lydia’s icky sticky situation could be blamed on Ashley Krupps. But any excuse to get back at her was okay by me.

  Chapter 7

  As we settled into the Peace-mobile, it occurred to me that we all had it in for Ashley Krupps. I’d gone to school with her since first grade. We’d never been what you’d call friends. One fat girl alone is bad enough; two fat girls together would be asking for double trouble. We’d always avoided each other. Until last year. Until… the incident.

  “Why does Ashley p-pick on you so b-bad?” Prairie asked Lydia. “I th-thought you were friends.”

  Lydia clenched her teeth. “At the beginning of the year we were,” she said.

  I remembered that. They used to eat lunch together, hang out by the bleachers at recess, and cheer while the eighth-grade football team ran laps. Like either of them had a chance.

  “At least I thought we were friends,” Lydia went on. “Until she found Fayola.” Her eyes went dead. “Ashley invited me to a birthday party for Fayola. A surprise party. She said a bunch of seventh and eighth graders were coming. I was really excited because it was the first part—I mean, because it was a boy-girl party. My mom bought me a new dress and everything. It was really beautiful. Then I show up at the time and place on the invitation, and when the door opens I yell, ‘Surprise!’ Guess what? There was no party. The address Ashley gave me was Kevin Rooney’s house. He was home with a couple of guys watching videos. I guess Ashley told them she was sending over a surprise.” Lydia’s lips quivered. “I was it.”

  “Oh, man,” Max said.

  “How m-mean,” Prairie said.

  “Could I have the address?” I said.

  Lydia looked at me. “I don’t have it. I burned the invitation. Which is what I’d like to do to Ashley Krupps if I could.”

  Max said, “Let’s firebomb her house.”

  Was she kidding? Of course she was kidding. I think.

  Lydia’s eyes lit up. “Okay. When?”

  “Now, wait a minute,” I said. “I hate her, too, but I don’t want to kill her.” Which wasn’t totally true.

>   “I do,” Max muttered.

  We all turned to her. “What’d she do to you?” Lydia asked.

  Max removed the baseball cap from her head and ran a hand through her flattened hair. “She got me suspended.”

  When Max didn’t elaborate, Prairie said, “H-how?”

  Max exhaled. “She’s the one who told the cops I was smoking at the firehouse. She swore she saw me there right before the fire started.”

  Lydia inhaled audibly. “Were you?”

  Max growled at her. “Of course not. I don’t smoke.” She added in a smaller voice, “At least I don’t anymore. Ashley’s the one who set it. I saw her there with a bunch of her groupies after school that day, smoking. And she knows I saw her.”

  “Why didn’t you turn her in?” Lydia said.

  “Yeah, right.” Max snorted. “Like any one’d believe me over her. You know how that works.”

  We sure did.

  “At least you g-got out of school for a m-month.” Prairie smiled.

  “True.” Max smirked. “It wasn’t all bad.”

  “She’s such a j-jerk,” Prairie said.

  “What’s she done to you, Prairie?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Her eyes fell. “Well… when I first moved here, w-we were in youth group at church together. The first day, after I g-got introduced, Ashley poked me and s-said, ‘Ooh, p-prickly.’ ”

  “She started that?” I couldn’t believe it. Yes, I could. It was Ashley all over. And a cruel taunt like that would spread like a prairie wildfire, which it did.

  “What about you, Jenny? You seem to hate her the most,” Lydia said.

  “Me?” I gulped. How could they know how much I hated Ashley Krupps? How I thought about getting back at her every day of my life? How I wanted to hurt her, bad. Without warning, tears filled my eyes.

  Lydia wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “It must be really horrible.”

  I nodded.

  There was a long, agonizing moment when I couldn’t speak, when I could hardly breathe. Finally Max said, “She can’t talk about it, okay? What’s important is, we’ve got to figure out a way to get back at Krupps. I say firebomb.”