I should have gotten rid of TTSPJHCQ once and for all when I had the chance.
Shredded it.
Flushed it.
Microwaved it for thirty minutes.
Given it to Dalí as a chew toy.
Even the last option—as impractical as it might have been, considering Dalí has few teeth—would’ve been better than what I did. Which is nothing at all. Because now the fate of TTSPJHCQ isn’t up to me. It’s in the least responsible and most mortifying hands possible.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
It felt weird to lie about the contents of my back pocket. And the longer I stayed in Hope’s room, the more I stressed about her somehow finding out that I had lied, even though the only way that would’ve happened is if the paper inexplicably came to life, leaped out of my pocket, jumped up and down on the mattress, and yelled, “LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE.”
Why did I lie? Manda and Sara’s school-dance drama had worn me out. I didn’t have the energy to share and compare notes on TTSPJHCQ anymore, not the way I had when I’d set out on my bike this morning. I figured it would be best to tackle this business another day when I was feeling more up to the task.
The point is I hadn’t planned on staying at Hope’s too long after Manda and Sara’s exit. Ten minutes later, I was waving good-bye and getting back on my bike to pedal home.
“Later!” she said.
“See ya!” I said.
And that’s when I heard the barking (and coughing) that should have served as a warning that I was about to get caught in the middle of another battle. But I wasn’t paying close enough attention to why Dalí was barking (and coughing) or—more accurately—at what.
It all happened so quickly.
Dog.
Skunk.
DOG!!! SKUNK!!!
A bark (cough) and a lift of a black-and-white tail was all it took for this innocent bystander to become a casualty of war.
“AAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!”
Hope screamed almost louder than I did.
Unlike Dalí, I was in motion, so it wasn’t a direct hit. But it was still bad, like accidentally walking through a wall of perfume spritzed in the air by those aggressively annoying makeup ladies at the mall with the free samples. It was like that. Except it wasn’t perfume imported from Paris; it was POISON EXPORTED FROM A SKUNK’S BUTT.
(NOTE: Remember when I made that random observation about my signature smell? Well, har dee har har on me.)
My mouth must’ve been open (“SeeyaaaaaAAAACK!”) because at first, I tasted the smell more than I actually smelled it. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like something that CAME OUT OF A SKUNK’S BUTT. The smell quickly attacked my nostrils and assaulted my eyes, and a millisecond later I lost control of my bike and wiped out at the bottom of Hope’s driveway.
I was blind for what came next. Dalí barking and coughing and Hope yelling “HELLLLLLP!” and Heath yelling “DUUUUUDE!” and a third voice that sounded familiar yelling “I’VE GOT THIS!” but I was too poisoned to think about it much more than that. Someone—I didn’t know who—put a plastic jug into my hands, and I poured its entire contents over my face without hesitation. Thankfully, it was water. But it could have been a gallon of milk or gasoline for all I cared. I paid special attention to my eyes and mouth, as if already knowing my nose was probably a lost cause. That smell was stuck. I’d be smelling it for a long, loooooooong time.
After a few minutes, the stinging subsided, and I hesitantly blinked open my eyes.
I saw Hope. I saw Heath, still wearing his helmet.
And I saw Aleck from Woodshop, also wearing a helmet, holding the empty jug of water at his side. YES. THE SAME ALECK FROM WOODSHOP WHOSE NAME I’D WRITTEN DOWN AS THE ANSWER TO DUMB TRICK QUESTION #5 ON THE TOP SECRET PINEVILLE JUNIOR HIGH CRUSHABILITY QUIZ HIDDEN IN MY BACK POCKET.
Go ahead. Take a moment to absorb that information.