“FART-IN-BRA!” KYLE SHOUTS the minute I perch my butt at the edge of the bench in the lunchroom. Why didn’t Joon save me a seat? He’s all the way at the other end of the table, next to Dylan Bustamante. I try to catch his eye, but he’s too fascinated by his sandwich.
“You missed it!” Kyle goes on. “One of the cops showed us his gun. He said he was actually at a school shooting. It was awesome.”
The other guys just grunt, busy slurping their milk and cramming pizza in their mouths. Joon still doesn’t look up. I try to act cool, like I don’t mind being called Fart-in-bra and talking about school shootings.
“We’re all supposed to run away from the building if we can,” Dylan says. “Or if not, then the second thing we’re supposed to do is hide. Or if not, and it’s life or death, then we’re supposed to gang up and attack the shooter. Last-ditch effort. Maybe take him down.”
“Ha!” says Keefner. “Can you imagine Fart-in-bra ganging up on an armed suspect?” Keefner screws his face up like a baby crying, and mimics me beating up a bad guy, like I’m shaking tiny maracas. Everyone laughs.
Even Joon.
It takes forever for the seventh-period bell to ring. I go to the bus, thinking about how Joon’s going to flip when I tell him about the mystery artist. About John Lockdown, and the Sketchpad of Mystery.
But as I head down the bus aisle, I can’t believe it! Dylan Bustamante is in my seat!
I don’t want to be jealous but, come on, the guy raps his pencil on the edge of his desk in Language Arts, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, over and over, and it drives everyone crazy. Also, he laughs at everything Kyle Keefner says. He wears muscle shirts for gym because he’s deluded and thinks that he has good biceps. And he reeks of Cleaver body spray.
Joon’s laughing at something Dylan said. I catch his eye. He gives me a thumbs-up and the quickest flash of a guilty look. “Catch you later, Stan . . . It’s cool, right?”
Cool? That Dylan Blubber-Head Bust-a-Face Bustamante is sitting in my seat?
The kid behind me knees me, and I stumble on. “Sure, no big,” I call back to him. “Hey—I have something interesting to tell you tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
I stare at him, unbelieving. “Saturday? Hanging out? Trivia Quest?” I thought that was our thing now.
“Oh yeah,” Joon says, frowning, and scratching at his gel-spiked hair. “Great!”
I keep walking to the back of the bus.
Something’s up. The way Joon just said “great”?
It wasn’t so great.
When Cal and I get home, Mom’s out by the garage, in her work clothes, and she’s talking to the neighbor girl, Liberty. Who I haven’t seen in almost a week. She’s got a baseball cap on, and a T-shirt that says, If you see someone crying, ask them if it’s because of their haircut.
Mom’s got Dad’s toolbox out, and the tall ladder is leaning against the garage. A big cardboard box is open on the grass. “Calvin, Stanley, come look!” she calls. “I ordered motion-sensor lights! Maybe they’ll keep the coyotes out of the yard at night!”
As we walk over, Liberty says, “Hope it works. The noises at night around here freak me out. Those weird, creepy yips.”
“Yeah, they do that to surround their prey,” says Cal. “They disorient it before closing in and tearing it to shreds. We’re talking rabbits, opossum, sometimes cats and small dogs.” He’s using his bossy, know-it-all voice. Liberty pretends to listen politely. Then, when Cal’s not looking, she turns to me and crosses her eyes.
I try not to smile.
She steadies one side of the ladder, and I hold the other.
“This isn’t going to work,” Cal says as Mom climbs. “The only thing they’ll respect is a rifle.”
Liberty frowns. “Respect?”
Mom looks down sternly from the top step and points Dad’s electric drill in the general direction of Cal’s forehead. “If you’re not going to help with our non-violent solution, Calvin, go inside and start your homework. Stanley, hold this ladder steady!”
“Coyotes don’t attack people, do they?” Liberty asks.
“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Mom says firmly.
“Then why are you installing motion sensors?” I say.
Mom just sighs and starts up the drill.