Boney said. “Besides, I’m rigging up a harness system controlled by a rope. We’ll wrap it around the branch and I’ll work the rope so you won’t get hurt.”
“Why can’t you wear the harness and I control the rope?” Itchy asked.
“Because I’m the bait,” Boney said. “I’m going to lure them in.” He made a motion with his hands as though luring a fish with a rod and reel.
Itchy stared at his friend in disgust. “Why doesn’t Squeak lure them in?”
“Because I’m the fastest runner. They’ll chase me, I’ll run back, then work the rope.”
Colonel R. blew his whistle. “Take your positions!”
Larry Harry’s team ran onto the field, swinging theirlacrosse sticks threateningly. The misfits bumped into each other, shoving and arguing over who was playing what position.
“I don’t like it,” Itchy complained, jogging next to Boney.
“You can’t chicken out this time,” Boney said. “Don’t you want to get those criminals back for what they’ve done to us? It’s a great plan! They’ll pee their pants and die when they see you streaking out of that tree.”
“…I don’t know…” Itchy said.
“Get a move on!” Colonel R. screamed, his whistle piercing the air. He pointed at Itchy and Larry, indicating the start of the game, then blew his whistle again as he dropped the ball.
Larry dove, scooping up the ball and driving it right at Itchy, hitting him square in the stomach. Itchy doubled over and collapsed. Boney rushed to his friend and helped him to his feet.
“Do you want to be a human target for the rest of your life?” he asked as they limped across the field to the nurse’s office.
Itchy slumped against Boney’s shoulder. “Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth in pain. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZOMBIE ELVIS
L ater that week, the boys convened at the clubhouse.
“I don’t have any white sheets,” Itchy reported to his friends, his disembodied head poking through the hole in Escape Hatch #1. “But I found an old tire and a camera.” He plunked a Polaroid Swing camera onto the clubhouse floor. “It has film in it and everything. I left the tire at the base of the tree. It’s too heavy to carry up the ladder.”
“Hey! I lent you that camera months ago,” Squeak said, snatching up the Polaroid and checking it for damage. “What are we supposed to do with an old tire?”
“We can hang it from a rope,” Itchy said, climbing into the clubhouse.
Boney and Squeak stared in bewilderment at Itchy’s popsicle-pink T-shirt.
“My mom dyed all the white sheets pink to suither most recent decor decision,” Itchy explained. “She dyed the towels and all our underwear by mistake, too. The whole house is just one big bubble-gum-pink nightmare.”
Squeak furrowed his brow with concern. “Why would we hang a tire from the clubhouse?”
“To swing on,” Itchy said. He held up a length of rope.
Boney rolled his eyes. “I asked you to do one simple thing,” he said. “We need you to dress in white for our revenge plan.” He turned to Squeak. “What about you, Squeak? Do you have any white sheets at your place?”
Squeak shook his head. “Dad and I use sleeping bags. It’s for the best, really, because I can’t imagine what the sheets would look like if Dad were responsible for washing them.”
“Well, we can’t have a pink ghost,” Boney said.
“What do you mean, ghost?” Itchy jumped in. “You said there weren’t any ghosts of any kind in this plan.”
“Not any real ones,” Boney replied. “Just fake ghosts.”
“You said I could be a zombie.”
“Right. You’re a zombie. But we still need a white sheet.”
“Why don’t you provide the white sheet, seeing as this whole zombie thing is your idea?” Itchy demanded.
Boney sighed. “You know my aunt only buys red-and-black plaid flannel sheets. She read somewhere that they repel bugs.”
“Well, that’s that, then,” Itchy said with a measure of relief. “Guess the
“Why can’t you wear the harness and I control the rope?” Itchy asked.
“Because I’m the bait,” Boney said. “I’m going to lure them in.” He made a motion with his hands as though luring a fish with a rod and reel.
Itchy stared at his friend in disgust. “Why doesn’t Squeak lure them in?”
“Because I’m the fastest runner. They’ll chase me, I’ll run back, then work the rope.”
Colonel R. blew his whistle. “Take your positions!”
Larry Harry’s team ran onto the field, swinging theirlacrosse sticks threateningly. The misfits bumped into each other, shoving and arguing over who was playing what position.
“I don’t like it,” Itchy complained, jogging next to Boney.
“You can’t chicken out this time,” Boney said. “Don’t you want to get those criminals back for what they’ve done to us? It’s a great plan! They’ll pee their pants and die when they see you streaking out of that tree.”
“…I don’t know…” Itchy said.
“Get a move on!” Colonel R. screamed, his whistle piercing the air. He pointed at Itchy and Larry, indicating the start of the game, then blew his whistle again as he dropped the ball.
Larry dove, scooping up the ball and driving it right at Itchy, hitting him square in the stomach. Itchy doubled over and collapsed. Boney rushed to his friend and helped him to his feet.
“Do you want to be a human target for the rest of your life?” he asked as they limped across the field to the nurse’s office.
Itchy slumped against Boney’s shoulder. “Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth in pain. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZOMBIE ELVIS
L ater that week, the boys convened at the clubhouse.
“I don’t have any white sheets,” Itchy reported to his friends, his disembodied head poking through the hole in Escape Hatch #1. “But I found an old tire and a camera.” He plunked a Polaroid Swing camera onto the clubhouse floor. “It has film in it and everything. I left the tire at the base of the tree. It’s too heavy to carry up the ladder.”
“Hey! I lent you that camera months ago,” Squeak said, snatching up the Polaroid and checking it for damage. “What are we supposed to do with an old tire?”
“We can hang it from a rope,” Itchy said, climbing into the clubhouse.
Boney and Squeak stared in bewilderment at Itchy’s popsicle-pink T-shirt.
“My mom dyed all the white sheets pink to suither most recent decor decision,” Itchy explained. “She dyed the towels and all our underwear by mistake, too. The whole house is just one big bubble-gum-pink nightmare.”
Squeak furrowed his brow with concern. “Why would we hang a tire from the clubhouse?”
“To swing on,” Itchy said. He held up a length of rope.
Boney rolled his eyes. “I asked you to do one simple thing,” he said. “We need you to dress in white for our revenge plan.” He turned to Squeak. “What about you, Squeak? Do you have any white sheets at your place?”
Squeak shook his head. “Dad and I use sleeping bags. It’s for the best, really, because I can’t imagine what the sheets would look like if Dad were responsible for washing them.”
“Well, we can’t have a pink ghost,” Boney said.
“What do you mean, ghost?” Itchy jumped in. “You said there weren’t any ghosts of any kind in this plan.”
“Not any real ones,” Boney replied. “Just fake ghosts.”
“You said I could be a zombie.”
“Right. You’re a zombie. But we still need a white sheet.”
“Why don’t you provide the white sheet, seeing as this whole zombie thing is your idea?” Itchy demanded.
Boney sighed. “You know my aunt only buys red-and-black plaid flannel sheets. She read somewhere that they repel bugs.”
“Well, that’s that, then,” Itchy said with a measure of relief. “Guess the
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