The Odds Get Even by Natale Ghent Page B

waited until Boney climbed into bed. He watched as Boney turned off his bedside lamp and stood in the doorway for several minutes until he was satisfied his nephew would stay put. “Now, no more nonsense. We’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
    When his uncle finally left, Boney exhaled.
    “That was close.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
FOUR THOUSAND SEQUINS
    T he next morning, Boney was jolted awake by the sound of his aunt’s shrill cries out in the yard. He checked his alarm clock. He’d slept in! Throwing the covers to one side of the bed, Boney raced from his room, stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen. When he opened the door, he saw his aunt and uncle standing before the violated trellis, his uncle’s expression more confused than the mangled roses, his aunt’s pulled like saltwater taffy into the very picture of tragedy.
    “Why, why, why?” she moaned, her eyes searching the heavens, her hands wringing.
    His uncle held up Boney’s sneakers in his hands. There was no way Boney could talk his way out of this one.
    “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
    His aunt stood, dabbing her eyes with her red gingham tea towel in the most mournful way.
    “Oh my, my, my,” was all his uncle could say.
    “I’ll fix it,” Boney promised. “Your roses will be fine. You’ll see.” He reached down to lift the trellis but the wood snapped in his hands, splintering on top of the mangled roses.
    His aunt burst into tears all over again. She staggered to the house, her face buried in her apron.
    “Oh my,” his uncle said again. He looked at Boney with a mixture of grief and befuddlement. “Oh my, my, my.”
    SQUEAK WAS WAITING on the stairs when Boney shuffled up the walk for school. He didn’t even bother ducking when the paperboy tossed the morning paper his way.
    “I heard the whole thing,” Squeak confessed.
    “I’m so stupid,” Boney said, slumping down on the stairs next to his friend.
    “It was an accident. You didn’t know the trellis was structurally compromised. You were just trying to help a friend.”
    Boney sighed glumly. “I don’t think my aunt will ever speak to me again.”
    “I’ll help you fix the trellis,” Squeak offered. “Mydad has lots of tools, and leather gloves—they should protect our hands from the thorns.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Everything will be okay,” Squeak consoled him. “You got the Elvis costume back, just like you said you would, and there’s still the Invention Convention.”
    Squeak placed his skinny arm around Boney’s shoulders. The two friends sat thoughtfully for a moment. Then Squeak turned his goggled face to Boney.
    “Can you imagine Itchy working as a clown in the circus?”
    Boney thought about this for a minute, then slowly nodded his head. “Yes…I think I can.”
    The two boys burst into laughter.
    “He wouldn’t even need a wig,” Squeak said.
    “Or a nose,” Boney added. “Or the big clown shoes!”
    Squeak stood up. “Come on. We’ll be late for school. And you know Itchy’s late enough as it is.”
    The boys shuffled along the sidewalk, dodging to one side as Mr. Peterson zipped by on his bike, bell jingling merrily as he passed. They clumped up the stairs to Itchy’s house, but before they could knock, the door swung violently open to reveal a terrified Itchy and an angry Elvis standing on the threshold. Itchy’s red hairlooked as though he’d been up all night, running it through a blender.
    “Uhhh…what’s up?” Boney asked.
    Itchy’s father assumed one of his famous poses, hip stuck out, arm stretched in the air, one finger poised. “Notice anything…peculiar? Anything…out of the ordinary?” He tossed his greasy hair and struck another pose.
    Boney squinted at the white outfit, the same white outfit that had been covered in fake blood only hours ago. There was something peculiar about it. It was sparkling clean, that was for sure. Sparkling white, not a trace of the blood from the night before, not a single, itty bitty