this.
I have to think. How can I fix this? How can I make this better? I get to my feet and survey the situation. Okay. Okay. Some of the models don’t look too bad. Some ofthe wings have just snapped off. The aircraft-carrier table is split in two, but it’s a pretty clean break. I don’t know. Maybe I can do some repair work.
I heave the weights back into their little pyramids and bolt downstairs.
“What the hell was that?” Grandpa calls from his bedroom.
“Nothing, Grandpa. I just dropped . . . something. It’s fine.”
I dash outside and over to the garage, yank the garage door open, and find the old rusty toolbox. I root around and grab some heavy-duty wood screws, a screwdriver, a little vial of SuperDuper glue, and some electrical tape.
Back up in Pete’s room with my makeshift repair kit, I stand there in the middle of the wreckage and there’s no friggin’ way I’m going to be able to make it look like nothing happened here. I need a plan B.
And plan B is to make it look like it wasn’t my fault. Something fell on the table. Like Pete’s framed Harry Houdini picture. It could have happened. It’s not right over the table, but who knows how these things go. The weight of the picture frame wrenched the nail out of the wall and then the rest was physics. He should have let Dad help hang the picture. But Pete was stubborn and he wanted to do it himself. I remember that. And now look what happened.
The thing is, if Pete were a normal brother and would just scream at me and let me give him some money tosmooth things over, then I’d never even think about covering it up. Okay, I’d think about it, but I probably wouldn’t follow through. But Pete will kill me and I’m not kidding. It will be a crime of passion. Pete loves those models more than anything. If he had to choose between Melissa and his models, there wouldn’t even be a discussion. It’s really just survival at this point. He’ll probably thrash the poor Harry Houdini picture, but better Houdini than me.
I move to the wall and carefully lift the heavy picture frame off its hook, shuffle to the right, and then drop it into the mess. I pull the nail from the wall, throw it on the floor, and tell myself that it looks believable. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I have a few weeks to try and convince myself before Pete comes home.
COOP HAS CALLED SEAN and me to an emergency strategy meeting. We’re already three weeks into July and we are no closer to seeing a naked girl — and Mandy Reagan in particular. What with swim practice and the Kelly situation, and the fact that our last attempt backfired in such a big way, we haven’t exactly rededicated ourselves to the cause. Coop says that if we don’t start planning something right now, this could be the first summer we fail to achieve our goal, which, to hear him tell it, would upset the balance of the entire universe. I don’t know about that, but what I do know is that if we don’t somehow get that picture of Mandy, our own little universe will be more than just upset. It will be completely capsized.
“What we need is a Clamato Classic to get our creative juices flowing,” Coop says as the three of us make our way into his backyard.
And sure enough, Coop’s got his rickety old Ping-Pongtable all set up and ready to go. The Clamato Classic is a round-robin table tennis tournament that we came up with a few years ago. The objective is not so much to come in first but to avoid coming in third. Because third place means you have to drink the most unholy of beverages: a super-sized Adventure Town souvenir cup filled to the brim with equal parts Clamato and chocolate milk. It makes me queasy just thinking about it.
“Whoo-hoo!” Sean hollers, running to the table and grabbing a paddle. “Who wants to get their butt wiped first?” He leaps around, swatting an invisible ball.
“You can
wipe
mine.” Coop laughs. “But only after I
whip
yours.” He picks up the other paddle
I have to think. How can I fix this? How can I make this better? I get to my feet and survey the situation. Okay. Okay. Some of the models don’t look too bad. Some ofthe wings have just snapped off. The aircraft-carrier table is split in two, but it’s a pretty clean break. I don’t know. Maybe I can do some repair work.
I heave the weights back into their little pyramids and bolt downstairs.
“What the hell was that?” Grandpa calls from his bedroom.
“Nothing, Grandpa. I just dropped . . . something. It’s fine.”
I dash outside and over to the garage, yank the garage door open, and find the old rusty toolbox. I root around and grab some heavy-duty wood screws, a screwdriver, a little vial of SuperDuper glue, and some electrical tape.
Back up in Pete’s room with my makeshift repair kit, I stand there in the middle of the wreckage and there’s no friggin’ way I’m going to be able to make it look like nothing happened here. I need a plan B.
And plan B is to make it look like it wasn’t my fault. Something fell on the table. Like Pete’s framed Harry Houdini picture. It could have happened. It’s not right over the table, but who knows how these things go. The weight of the picture frame wrenched the nail out of the wall and then the rest was physics. He should have let Dad help hang the picture. But Pete was stubborn and he wanted to do it himself. I remember that. And now look what happened.
The thing is, if Pete were a normal brother and would just scream at me and let me give him some money tosmooth things over, then I’d never even think about covering it up. Okay, I’d think about it, but I probably wouldn’t follow through. But Pete will kill me and I’m not kidding. It will be a crime of passion. Pete loves those models more than anything. If he had to choose between Melissa and his models, there wouldn’t even be a discussion. It’s really just survival at this point. He’ll probably thrash the poor Harry Houdini picture, but better Houdini than me.
I move to the wall and carefully lift the heavy picture frame off its hook, shuffle to the right, and then drop it into the mess. I pull the nail from the wall, throw it on the floor, and tell myself that it looks believable. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I have a few weeks to try and convince myself before Pete comes home.
COOP HAS CALLED SEAN and me to an emergency strategy meeting. We’re already three weeks into July and we are no closer to seeing a naked girl — and Mandy Reagan in particular. What with swim practice and the Kelly situation, and the fact that our last attempt backfired in such a big way, we haven’t exactly rededicated ourselves to the cause. Coop says that if we don’t start planning something right now, this could be the first summer we fail to achieve our goal, which, to hear him tell it, would upset the balance of the entire universe. I don’t know about that, but what I do know is that if we don’t somehow get that picture of Mandy, our own little universe will be more than just upset. It will be completely capsized.
“What we need is a Clamato Classic to get our creative juices flowing,” Coop says as the three of us make our way into his backyard.
And sure enough, Coop’s got his rickety old Ping-Pongtable all set up and ready to go. The Clamato Classic is a round-robin table tennis tournament that we came up with a few years ago. The objective is not so much to come in first but to avoid coming in third. Because third place means you have to drink the most unholy of beverages: a super-sized Adventure Town souvenir cup filled to the brim with equal parts Clamato and chocolate milk. It makes me queasy just thinking about it.
“Whoo-hoo!” Sean hollers, running to the table and grabbing a paddle. “Who wants to get their butt wiped first?” He leaps around, swatting an invisible ball.
“You can
wipe
mine.” Coop laughs. “But only after I
whip
yours.” He picks up the other paddle
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