101 Ways to Bug Your Friends and Enemies by Lee Wardlaw Page A

noose.
    â€œHa-ha” I said, struggling to break free. “Never heard that one before. Thought it up all by yourself, did you?”
    His fingers burrowed deeper. He gave me a hard shake. “What are you doing out of your swamp, punk? And why are you at Patrick Henry? Brown - nosing your future teachers?”
    â€œ Ow! I mean, no, I’m delivering a note. To my brother. My older, hulking brother. He’s on the football team. He tackles .”
    â€œYou’re a pathetic liar.” Marcos yanked the pack from my shoulder and began rummaging.
    I tried to snatch and sprint, but his three look-alikes muscled closer.
    â€œUgh, just clumps of wet snot rags. But what’s this?” Marcos flashed my ID card, then flicked it across the hall. He tossed my chem and trig books too. “We’re in the presence of a brainiac: a nerd who keeps his nose to the grindstone . Bet he even has his nose in a book while sitting on the john!”
    His goons guffawed.
    Ah, bathroom humor: The last refuge of kindergarteners.
    â€œSo that’s why he thumbed his nose at us the other day!” chimed in Goon #3, beeping my sore schnoz. “That’s why he had his nose in the air . He thinks he’s smarter than us!”
    â€œA judgment error,” I insisted. “My allergy meds make me delusional.”
    â€œMaybe we should rub your nose in it,” said Goon #4. Talk about flogging a dead joke . . .
    â€œWalk with us, punk,” Marcos said. “I have a cramp in my arm. Nothing a few rounds with my club won’t cure.”
    â€œI don’t have time to play golf,” I said with another futile struggle.
    Marcos smirked. “Who said anything about golf?”
    I gulped. Goons #2 and #3 pinned my arms to my sides, sandwiching me so tightly between them I felt like a slice of bologna. With Marcos in the lead and Goon #4 cutting off my escape route from behind, they hustled me to the double doors overlooking the quad. Below, students lunch-munched.
    â€œWhich way?” #2 asked.
    â€œThrough the industrial arts building, to the lower field,” Marcos said. “Take it nice and slow. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious. We’re just giving our new pal the freshman tour . . .”
    They lurched me down a flight of stairs and edged the noisy crowd. Flocks of seagulls wheeled overhead, dive-bombing for French fries, splitting eardrums with their frenzied squawks. Even if I braved a cry for help, no one would hear me above that racket.
    The fog lifted. I blinked in the bright sun. Probably the last time I’d see it—provided none of the birds left a farewell donation in my eye.
    Two high-pitched shrieks rivaled the decibels of the gulls. “You didn’t !”
    â€œI did !”
    â€œYou couldn’t !”
    â€œI could !”
    I’d recognize those shrieks—and gull-like brain cells—anywhere.
    The Amys!
    I grasped at a straw of hope.
    Would they help me? Had they forgiven me for ratting out their idol?
    I scanned the quad for July Smith’s Roman profile, her elegant French braid . . .
    No sign of her. Probably at a club meeting. I had to take that chance. I had to flag down the Amys. There was no one else—
    â€”and time was running out.
    With every ounce of my strength, I wrested one arm from Goon #2’s grasp, waved it like a rogue windshield wiper, and screamed: “Hey, Amy! Over here! Amy! Hellooo! ”
    The Amys turned. Cocked their heads like parakeets. Their beaks—uh, lips—curled and dimpled and opened to shriek:
    â€œIt is him!”
    â€œSo it is !”
    They flew across the quad, flung themselves between my captives, and smothered me in a clumped hug.
    â€œWe’re sorry about what happened last year!” said the Amys.
    â€œ Sorry !” the Amys repeated.
    â€œWe feel terrible !”
    â€œ Awful !”
    â€œIt wasn’t our fault. She made us do it!”
    â€œ