Pirates of Underwhere Page 2

  If they live in our house, 100 percent.

  As I predicted, we got home late. And as I predicted, cousin Caitlyn, who babysits while our parents are off on digs, was upset.

  Sometimes I get tired of being right.

  “I’m gonna so totally kill you little blivets!” Caitlyn yelled as we stepped through the door. “In fact, after I kill you, I’m gonna, like, bring you back to life as zombies, so I can have the pleasure of killing you again! Where were you smigmotes, anyway? Having your brains drained?”

  Caitlyn usually has a lot to say.

  “We—,” I began.

  “It’s six o’clock,” she interrupted. “Six! And what time did I say to be home by?” She pointed her cell phone at us like a sword.

  “Um, five?” said Zeke.

  Then our cousin noticed our appearance for the first time. “And what’s with the monzo-scrunge look? Did you, like, crawl home through the sewers?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we—”

  “I made dinner for you little zimwats, and now it’s cold.” Caitlyn paced up and down the living room. “I’m not Suzie Q. Homemaker here. I’m not Betty Crocker. I’m your cousin. And your parents aren’t paying me enough to cook your dinner and warm it up for you! That’s, like, double duty!”

  “We’re really, really sorry,” I said.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut the mayonnaise,” said Caitlyn, crossing her arms. “You two are so grounded.”

  “Grounded!?” cried Zeke.

  “For the whole weekend. I’m going to miss a totally weehawken party, but it’ll be worth it to see your miserable faceplates going boo-hoo-hoo.”

  “But you can’t do that,” said Zeke. He never knows when to shut up.

  Caitlyn grinned, a bad sign. “Oh, really?” she said. “I’m in charge here, dinky doodle, and I think I’ve been way too easy on you. I’m giving Steffo the night off, and you’re on dish patrol.”

  “Sheesh,” said Zeke.

  “Now get in there and eat your cold meat loaf,” she said. “March!”

  I could have told him. It’s no good arguing with Caitlyn when she’s in that mood. Or any mood, really. We marched.

  After dinner, I studied my math book while Zeke cleaned the dishes (although the way he does them, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they ended up dirtier than when he started). Reviewing modes, means, and averages would be a big help if I got picked for the Mathletes team on Monday.

  (Not to be cocky, but I knew Mrs. Ricotta would pick me. I am her best math student, after all.)

  With homework double-checked, I switched the TV onto the news.

  “Whatcha watching?” came Zeke’s voice from behind. “Something boring?”

  “The news, Midget Boy,” I said. “Some of us like to know what’s going on.”

  “Hah!” He flopped down on the couch. “What’s going on is you’re kissing up to Caitlyn. And I—”

  “I’m not listening,” I said, turning up the volume.

  “…newest benefactor,” the blond reporter was saying. “Today he promised our town a new skating rink and amusement park. And why?”

  The camera showed a close-up of a moonfaced man wearing a huge cowboy hat. “It’s cuz ah purely lur-r-v-v-ve this town,” he drawled. “All of y’all are sweeter than a heap of pecan pie ice-cream sundaes with—”

  Zeke snatched the remote. “Bo-ring.” He clicked to the cartoon channel.

  “Give it over, dwarf!” I said.

  “Never, dweeb!”

  I reached for the remote control. He held me off with one hand and kept the remote behind him.

  “Wart!”

  “Dorkus maximus!”

  Caitlyn’s voice cut through the shouting. “Shut it, blivets! I’m trying to do my political science project, and all I hear is your ‘mamma gamma blamma.’ You just volunteered for deep cleaning the whole house—both of you.”

  “But he—,” I began.

  Our cousin loomed in the doorway, hands on hips. “You can start tomorrow by vacuuming and shampooing the carpet.”

  I glared at Zeke.

  He turned so Caitlyn couldn’t see and stuck his tongue out at me.

  Honestly.

  I blew out a sigh. It was going to be a long weekend.

  By Sunday night, my whole body reeked of ammonia and lemon, even my hair. Yuck. My fingers were red and raw, like grated hot dogs.

  Zeke and I were finishing up the living room. We had hardly spoken all weekend—a big relief.

  While he dusted a bowl of glass fruit, I tidied up the books and magazines. And that’s when I found The Book of Booty, the collection of mystical predictions we had brought back from Underwhere.

  I flipped through it. The faint stink of rotten eggs rose from its pages.

  “No fair reading when I’m doing all the work,” said Zeke. He tossed a glass apple in the air.

  “Careful!” I said. I swear Zeke was absent the day they handed out brains.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I held up the book. “I was just wondering about Dr. Prufrock’s brush, what it can…hey, here it is.” I noticed the drawing of a fancy toilet brush with golden bristles.

  Zeke joined me. “What’s it say?”

  I read, “‘…And yea, though the Booty be fruity, the Lost Prince shall shake it.’”

  Zeke frowned. “What’s a fruity booty?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll skip ahead…ah, here we go: ‘The Brush of Wisdom shows the truth/though it be hidden, rough, or smooth.’”

  “Truth and smooth don’t rhyme,” said Zeke.

  “Yeah, but Zeke and freak do,” I said. “‘If you would know a thing completely/brush it thrice and brush it sweetly. Lies cannot withstand the push/not when it comes from Wisdom’s Brush.’”

  “And push and brush don’t rhyme either,” said Zeke, flipping the page. “Whoever wrote this is a worse rapper than Beefy D.”

  I put the book down. “Don’t you get it? This brush is powerful magic. With it, you can learn the true nature of anything.”

  “Huh,” said Zeke.

  “And you know where this magical brush is right now?”

  “In Meathead’s mouth,” said Zeke.

  “Somehow,” I said, “that doesn’t seem like a good thing.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Guy with the Golden Touch

  I don’t know why Zeke attracts bullies. Maybe it’s because he’s shorter than average. Or maybe it’s because of that look in his eyes.

  (Oh, wait—I know. It’s because he’s thoroughly and completely obnoxious.)

  Whatever the reason, they found him at recess.

  I was chatting with my friend Heather on the swings. Zeke and Hector were tossing a football nearby. Or to be more accurate, they were chasing it. My brother’s not exactly a football hero.

  Then trouble showed up.

  Trouble in the shape of Melvin Prang and his sidekick Darryl.

  “Hey, Darryl,” said Melvin, acting all puzzled. “I didn’t know they had a new football league at school.”

  “What league is that?” said Darryl.

  “The inky-dinky league!” Melvin shoved Zeke and snatched the football.

  Zeke’s face fell. “Come on, Melvin,” he said. “Give it back.”

  The bully tossed it to Darryl. “I don’t have it.”

  Zeke slouched over to the sidekick. “Darryl…”

  Darryl threw it back to Melvin. “I don’t have it.”

  These mental giants probably would’ve kept up their game all through recess, if not for the custodian.

  “Hey, Prang!” called Mr. Wheener. “And uh, you.” He pointed at Darryl. “Come here.”

  Darryl dropped the ball like it had burned his fingers.

  “We wasn’t doing nothing,” said Melvin. (Honestly. So few bullies speak proper English.)

  Zeke grinned.

  Melvin stabbed a thick finger at him. “Not one word, shrimp!”

  As they approached the jani
tor, Hector said, “Wow, Wheener to the rescue!”

  “It’s pronounced Veener,” I said.

  “Vhatever.” Hector snickered.

  “I’m sorry I ever made fun of him,” said Zeke. “Mr. Wheener’s actually punishing them.”

  The custodian talked to the bullies. We were too far away to overhear. But after they spoke for a minute, all three looked over at Zeke. Then Mr. Wheener smiled and patted Melvin’s shoulder.

  The janitor and bullies shook hands. Then they went their separate ways.

  “Doesn’t look like punishment to me,” Hector said.

  After recess, the school held a surprise assembly. Everyone gathered on the grass before a portable stage. Because our class arrived late, we ended up way over on the side, where a tall speaker system blocked my view.

  “…to thank our new friend,” the principal, Ms. Johnson, was saying. “From the goodness of his heart, he’s buying us a new computer lab full of top-notch equipment.”

  I perked up. New computers? This would put me one step closer to my goal of being the world’s first female computer genius and all-around billionaire.

  “He’ll be telling your parents about his big plans at this week’s town meeting,” said Ms. Johnson, “but right now, please give him a warm welcome. Boys and girls, let’s hear it for Bobby Bob Moxenboxer!”

  Why do grown-ups always expect us to cheer for someone we don’t know?

  My classmates gave the kind of polite applause you’d expect. A man in a huge cowboy hat took the mike. He was short and wore an electric blue suit.

  “Mah dear friends,” said Mr. Moxenboxer. “Bobby Bob feels pleased as punch to be able to help you darlin’ little ankle biters.”

  Zeke leaned across Heather. “Hey, isn’t this the guy from the TV?”

  “I can’t tell,” I said, craning for a better look. “But he sounds the same.”

  “Bobby Bob’s as tickled as an armadillo in saw grass,” the cowboy said. “These danged computers will help create the workers of tomorrow today.”

  He said a few other things. Possibly boring things. My classmates gossiped, and I confess I started daydreaming about making the Mathletes team.

  But then Mr. Moxenboxer said something that grabbed everybody’s attention.

  “…So ol’ Bobby Bob has got a li’l ol’ giftie for you.”

  The blue-suited cowboy reached into a sack and flung a fistful of gold coins at us. Kids screamed and fought to catch the money.

  Someone even pulled my hair—the nerve! (I suspected Melvin.)

  Ms. Johnson stepped forward. “Um, I’m not sure this is appropriate—”

  Bobby Bob scooped up another handful of gold and flung it at the teachers sitting in folding chairs. They almost trampled each other going after the coins.

  The principal’s protest died out. I smoothed my hair.

  Then I got a good look at our visitor, and my mouth fell open. He was short, he was moonfaced…

  “Um, Zeke, who does Bobby Bob remind you of?”

  “I dunno, Santa Claus?” he said.

  “Look closer, genius,” I said. “How many grown-ups are shorter than you?”

  He looked. And then he gaped.

  “The UnderLord!” we said together.

  Grabbing the money bag in both hands, the phony Mr. Moxenboxer emptied it into the crowd of kids. He yelled, “Let’s hear it for Bobby Bob. Hip, hip…”

  The audience went wild. “Hoooo-rawww!”

  “Class dismissed!” shouted Mr. Moxenboxer.

  The mess that followed reminded me of the time Zeke lit a firecracker in an anthill. Kids and teachers swarmed the field, battling over stray coins.

  But Zeke and I stayed planted. Two thoughts ran through my mind: What was the UnderLord up to? And how could we stop him?

  The moment I’d been waiting for came just before lunch. Our teacher, Mrs. Ricotta, cleared her throat.

  “And now,” she said, “I’m sure you’re all eager to hear which members of this class will be joining the Mathletes.”

  “Math dweebs, you mean,” said Melvin Prang.

  “That’s enough, Melvin,” said Mrs. Ricotta. She looked around the room. “Our class will contribute three team members this year: Amir, Heather, and…” She looked right at me. “Stephanie.”

  My face went hot, and I might have squealed.

  “Congratulations to you all,” said Mrs. Ricotta.

  My classmates clapped. I didn’t even care that most of them didn’t mean it.

  Me, a Mathlete!

  Then Mrs. Ricotta brought me back down to earth with a thump. “We’ll be practicing after school all week,” she said, “in preparation for Friday’s meet.”

  Zeke shot me a look.

  Uh-oh.

  How could I be in Mathletes and help the Undies, both?

  Mrs. R dismissed us for lunch. I stepped outside to drink from the water fountain and think.

  Heather came up and hugged me. “I’m so glad we’re both Mathletes,” she said. “We rock!”

  “Yay, us,” I said limply.

  She ran off to tell her other friends.

  Zeke shuffled up, tight lipped. “So,” he said. “You’re gonna blow off this whole Mathletes thing, right?”

  I shrugged. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “But you can’t do it,” said Zeke. “We promised the Undies.”

  My back stiffened. “You promised the Undies.”

  Hector arrived and noticed our expressions. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “She’s leaving us for the Math geeks,” said Zeke.

  My fists clenched. “I didn’t say that.”

  Zeke leaned toward me. “Why bother with that dumb team anyway? Math is totally worthless.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “I bet you I can prove how useful it is.”

  “You’re on,” said Zeke. “Let’s go, Hector. We’re too dumb to hang out with Little Miss Einstein.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Go.”

  But it wasn’t fine. As I watched them leave, my stomach felt all knotted up.

  This was a tough puzzle, like some kind of wicked-tricky Venn diagram. Helping the Undies was in one circle; being in Mathletes was in another. Hmm. Was there a place where the two circles intersected, where I could do both?

  “Hey, new Mathlete!” called Mrs. Ricotta from the doorway. “Working on a problem?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” I turned to her. “Mrs. R, do you think I could have a little time off next period?”

  “Of course, Stephanie. What for?”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling, “it’s a…special project.”

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  Backyard Zombie

  Logic problem: In the struggle for control of the world, there are a) good guys; b) bad guys; and c) quite a few guys who seem bad but might be good or seem good but might be bad, depending. Which ones can you trust?

  That was the question of the day. Zeke, Hector, and I were sitting in our living room trying to answer it.

  “I still say we should call Dr. Prufrock,” said Zeke. “He was our great-aunt’s friend.”

  “We think,” I said. “But I don’t know. There’s something fishy about him.”

  He leaned forward. “Would you rather call the spies?”

  “H.U.S.H.?” I said.

  “Don’t shush me,” said Zeke.

  “I meant the spies.”

  “Oh,” said Zeke.

  Hector stood. “Look, we should do this on our own. We’ve got the Throne, and now the Brush, thanks to Steph…”

  I shrugged modestly. “You’re welcome.”

  “So let’s just figure out how they work, figure out this Bobby Bob UnderLord’s game, and stop him at the town meeting.”

  “One problem,” said Zeke.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “How are we going to get to that meeting way across town?”

  “Ah,” said Hector. “Hadn’t thought of that.” We
all fell silent.

  And in the silence, I heard a voice in the next room: “Shut up. That is totally bazongoid. No way she’s, like, giving us another poli-sci project!”

  Caitlyn.

  I smiled. “I know who has wheels.”

  “Caitlyn?” said Zeke. “She’d never take us there.”

  “She will if she thinks it’ll get her a better grade in political science class.”

  Hector frowned. “But why would she believe that?”

  “Leave it to me,” I said.

  Somehow I managed to convince Caitlyn not only to take us to the town meeting the day after next, but also to let us go work on a school project over at Hector’s house right away. How? I’m the smarter twin.

  On the way over to Hector’s we kept a sharp lookout for spies, UnderLords, and stray doctors. The place seemed deserted. Way down the twilit street, a familiar-looking kid rode a bike. Across the lawn, Fitz was stalking a bird.

  Other than that, no one.

  “Let’s hit the backyard,” said Hector.

  We passed through the gate. I noticed that the Throne—this weird-looking Undie toilet our aunt Zenobia left us—was sitting by the plastic wading pool.

  “You moved it?” I asked.

  “Grandma said it didn’t go with the drapes,” said Hector.

  Zeke unwrapped the Brush from the T-shirt I’d covered it with. “Now how do we test this?”

  “The Book of Booty says if you rub something three times with the Brush, you learn its true nature,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Zeke, waving it at me. “Who wants a brushing?”

  “I swear, Zeke, if you touch my hair with that thing…!”

  Hector reached into his pocket and held up a coin. “How about this?”

  “Is that gold?” said Zeke. “Ice cream’s on you.” He stroked the Brush across the coin—once, twice, three times. Nothing happened.

  “So,” said Hector. “The true nature of a gold coin is a gold coin?”

  Something rustled in the bushes.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Probably just Fitz,” said Hector. He glanced down at the coin. “Hey, check it out.”

  The gold was fading to a dull gray. And the engraving was changing too—from a president’s profile to a pair of undies.