The Trouble with Weasels Page 3

  “We go to opposite ends of the field, then on the count of three we charge. Yes?” he asked. I agreed and we hopped off to our opposite end zones. My frog was behaving pretty well now, but I rubbed his nose a couple of times just to be safe.

  I turned and faced the prince, whose frog was pawing at the ground like a bull ready to charge. I was tense, but ready. Then someone counted to three and it was on. We charged.

  I remember thinking, as the prince and his angry-looking frog grew closer, that I could still turn back. I could just swallow my pride, and refuse to participate in this. Nine out of ten people with a brain will tell you that jousting with the king’s son is not a wise move.

  But I didn’t turn back.

  At the last moment, before our lances hit home, I saw the smile on Prince Roquefort’s face and knew something was wrong. It looked like the grin of a Mung Beast about to eat a Flack Rabbit.

  The prince’s lance struck my chest like a nuclear bomb. Pain exploded through my entire body as my frog and I were lifted into the air.

  It felt like I’d been shot, or at least like what I think it would feel like. As I hit the ground, with one large, very stunned frog landing on top of me, I blacked out.

  I was only out for a second or two. When I came around, I heard a giant sucking sound, and it took a second to realize it was me, straining to pull in a breath of air. Once again, my entire body lit up in pain. I rolled the frog off of me, untying us and sucking in as much air as I could. Lying inches in front of my face was the prince’s purple lance, where he had dropped it.

  Through the spots flashing in my eyes, I saw Kevin and Chester running toward me. Behind them, the crowd was stunned into silence.

  Chester and Kevin righted my frog, which quickly darted off across the field. I was struggling up to my hands and knees when my paw fell on the prince’s lance. My dazed brain took a second to register it, but this was no spongy Nerf lance. This thing was hard, solid plastic, with the emphasis on “hard.”

  Just then, Roquefort slowly hopped by on his frog. He looked down at me as he passed and smiled his stupid, sneaky, snarky smile.

  Have I mentioned before that when I get mad, I see red?

  · 11 ·

  LOSING IT, TROLL-STYLE

  Well, I saw red then, let me tell you. I felt a big juicy ball of anger making its way up from my toes. I felt my neck flush, followed by my face, and then I . . . well, I kind of lost it. There was an awful growling sound coming from deep in my throat that I had no control over.

  I took three running steps and dove at the prince. I drilled into him hard, catching him completely off guard, and we both crashed to the ground.

  Before we had even stopped rolling, I started flailing away at him. I felt like I’d been hit by a flaming chariot—and I was completely out of my mind. I don’t even know if what I was throwing would be considered punches or slaps, or some stupid-looking combination of the two. But whatever it was, I kept doing it for way too long.

  Slowly, my wits started to re-gather in my head and I became aware of the prince, letting out hurt little squawks and grunts and pleading with me to stop. I suddenly realized where—and who—I was. Was I nuts? I stopped my attack and sat back, looking down at the grass-stained prince covering his face. His whimpering was turning into tears. I was still mad, but it was like waking up from a bad dream.

  Blinking like someone coming out of a dark cave, I looked around at my fellow students. Everyone stood completely still, including the prince’s bodyguard ogres. Even that spazzy kid Aaron, who can never sit still. They all seemed to be in shock. Several mouths hung open, and I saw one elf from my history class pass out—though elves are prone to that kind of thing, of course.

  Suddenly the blood rushed to my face again, but this time it was pumped there by pure shame. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d gotten angry, but this time was different. I’d never lost control like this. The look of horror on my classmates’ faces, together with the sounds of the prince sobbing beneath me, were too much. I knew if I didn’t get out of there, I was going to burst out in tears as well.

  So I ran.

  As I tore across the field toward my house, I could feel that hot sting of tears in the back of my nose. Kevin and Chester were yelling after me. I turned and shouted at them to leave me alone. I had never been so disgusted with myself as I was in that moment. I felt like frog goop.

  · 12 ·

  UNDER THE BRIDGE

  When I got home, my ribs were throbbing, my head was pounding, and I was bleeding from a number of scrapes and cuts. The athletic field is infested with dragon grass, and that stuff can dice you up like a Cuisinart. I was living proof.

  My mom spotted me between the front door and the stairs. She stopped me in my tracks with a loud, concerned mom gasp.

  “ZARF! What happened?” She dropped the tiny duster ferret she was wiping the furniture with and came running. The ferret headed for the hills, leaving little puffs of dust in his wake.

  I started to tell her a made-up story, but suddenly she was there giving me a hug and I couldn’t do it. So I told her. Everything. About the prince, the shoving, the joust, and the fight. About my instant fury. It all just tumbled out of me in a flood while she took me to the bathroom and started cleaning up my scrapes. Then . . . she broke out the Troll Putty.

  Troll Putty is nasty. It smells like a sack full of rotten melons and low tide all rolled up into one. It’s apparently good for you, as all troll mothers use it, but when applied to a cut, it feels like you’re getting flash-fried in a fire bog. The best way to get through it is to scream and thrash around dramatically. Which I did.

  I was still on the floor, remembering how to breathe as the pain slowly calmed down, when I asked my mom what the deal was with my anger.

  “That’s just your troll blood, Zarfy.”

  I gave her a look. “Zarf, mom. Not Zarfy. No more Zarfy.”

  I’d heard about troll blood, of course. A lot of bad behavior had been chalked up to troll blood over the years. It was kind of the go-to answer anytime a troll flew off the handle.

  “Yeah, I know, but what does that mean, exactly? I hate it. I don’t want it.” I was sitting up, blowing on my knee, which seemed to cool the stinging down a bit.

  Just then, my gramps waddled into the bathroom doorway. He crossed his arms and leaned against the frame. You could hear the wood groaning against his weight.

  “Now, did I hear tha’ right? Were you sayin’ you hate your own blood? Tha’s jus’ ridiculous.”

  I looked away. I didn’t really feel like meeting his eyes. “Yeah well, then consider me ridiculous,” I mumbled. “I went all Incredible Hulk at school today and everybody looked at me like I belonged in a cage.”

  I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t laugh, but he did stand there for a while with a goofy sideways grin on his face. “Are you abou’ done patchin’ the boy up in here, Beatrice?” he asked.

  “Sure am.” My mom scratched behind my ear and kissed the top of my head before she stood up from the edge of the tub. “He’s all yours.”

  “Good. Zarf and I’re gonna go catch us some dinner.”

  A few minutes later, the two of us were waist deep in the creek beside our house. Another perk of our home under the bridge was living right next to one of the best fishing holes in the kingdom.

  Right there, not ten yards from our front door, we could catch all kinds of fish. Purple Salmon, Blue Gnarleys, big fat Lumpy Snappers . . . Just about any fish you could think of.

  What we did was more like “fish-slapping” than fishing. Like what bears do, if you ever watch the Nature Channel. We quietly wait, standing completely still in the water, hoping a fish will think we’re a mossy rock or a furry tree. Then, when
one swims up to nibble on our legs, we haul off and slap the stuffing out of it. With any luck, it sends one seriously stunned fish flying up onto the grass.

  It’s a fun way to spend an afternoon—though probably not for the fish.

  We’d been quietly staring into the water for about ten minutes when my gramps spoke up.

  “See now, yer troll ancestors were fierce warriors.”

  I looked at him for maybe a split second, and just missed a Blue Gnarley as it darted between my legs.

  “Ya ever heard of the Great Troll Uprisin’?” Gramps took his time when he talked, but he usually didn’t speak up unless it was something worth hearing. “Or how abou’ the Battle of Grundy Ledge? You know how those fights were won?”

  Just then, Gramps lit up and took a huge swing at the water, sending a geyser of water and one thoroughly confused Orange Smoothgill flying up into our yard. “How were they won?” I asked, without taking my eyes off of the water.

  “Troll blood. Those battles were won ’cause of tha’ very same blood you have pumpin’ through your veins. It’s your birthright.”

  “Yeah, well, what if I don’t want it?” I asked as I swatted lazily at a leaf that looked a little like a carp.

  “Too bad. Yer stuck with it. And unfortunately, yer just abou’ the age where it starts ta rear its ugly head. You just have to learn to control it. Channel it and use it for good.” He was slowly wading around, looking for a better fishing spot. When I didn’t respond, he went on. “Our ancestors used to work themselves into a frenzy before battles. They’d get so fired up, they could chew through rock and swing trees like baseball bats.”

  He attacked again and another fish landed on the bank with a plop. “So, some of tha’ craziness and fury kinda stuck with us over the years. It’s been passed down through the generations.”

  “Yeah,” I said, just watching him fish at this point. “That much I figured out. I feel like I’m a ticking time bomb.”

  “But here’s the thing, Zarf. You’re a Belford. And us Belfords . . . ” He smacked a fish so hard its tail almost fell off. “Us Belfords do e’rything we can ta use our anger ta help others.”

  Now I was wondering if my gramps had gotten into the Fumpberry brandy a little early today. “That makes no sense.”

  “It will,” he said, pausing to look over at me. “It’s sorta the Belford Way, if ya wanna call it tha’.” He turned back to the fish.

  “The Belford Way,” I said aloud.

  “Ya have ta look for those moments, and work at it, but you’ll see. Yer a Belford, and Belfords lend a hand. My grandda’ did it an’ his grandda’ before him. We have a power, and we have a responsibility ta use tha’ power for good.”

  That got my gramps laughing—huge stomach-shaking bellows that shook the bridge above us. “Not exactly. But I know fer a fact yer a Belford.”

  We fished in silence for a bit while I let that settle in. “Did you get angry a lot when you were younger?”

  “Oh, sure I did. Still do! The other day on the square, I tripped o’er a wobble gnome. I got so steamed I chased him for two blocks ’til the little guy fell down. Then I just kind of felt sorry for him, so I helped him up and bought him a cup o’ coffee.

  “See, Zarf. You’re an evolved, civilized troll with a bloodthirsty hothead troll way down deep inside you. You jus’ ’ave to control tha’ wild troll anger as much as you can.”

  I yawned. It had been a long day. “Yeah, I’m not doing real well with that. Any suggestions?”

  “Oh . . . The usual. Close your eyes. Count to ten. Walk away for a few minutes. Pet your ears. Rub your belly fur. Even just a few deep breaths can keep you from knocking somebody’s block off.”

  “It’s true,” someone said from behind me. I turned to find my dad standing on the bank with a couple of towels in his large paw. “It works if you want it to. You just have to keep practicing.” He ducked as my gramps knocked another fish his way. “You boys about ready for dinner?”

  I waded out of the water and took a towel from him. He put his arm around my shoulders as my grandfather gathered up the fish, and we all headed inside to eat.

  · 13 ·

  FIRST, THE BAD NEWS

  The next morning, I was in my room trying to cram way too many textbooks and moon pies into my backpack when someone started pounding like crazy on our front door. I sprinted down the stairs and threw open the door to find Kevin, looking frazzled and pale like he’d seen a ghost. He was panting and sweating from running all the way from his house.

  “Di . . . Did you hear?” He came into the front hall and collapsed to the floor. He flopped onto his back with his arms spread. “Did you see the paper?” he sputtered, between wheezes. “It’s bad.”

  I was concerned about whatever his news was, but more worried about his current state. “Kevin, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you want a glass of water or something?”

  “No, let me just . . . ” He rolled over onto his stomach. “It’s cool here on the tile. Just let me . . . Let me catch my breath.” He flattened his cheek against the floor and closed his eyes.

  “It’s the king! Snuffweasels. He’s missing! A bunch of his men.”

  At this point, my mom came into the entryway. “What was that about the king?”

  Kevin took a few more deep breaths and sat up. He blew his nose loudly in a handkerchief and tried to tell the news more calmly. (I know. What kid carries a handkerchief, right? Kevin, that’s who.)

  “Okay . . . The king. While we were in school yesterday. He and some of his men went out to hunt down the Snuffweasels. Because of the attack. They were gone all day and all night. They’re not back.”

  My mother tried to find a silver lining. “But that’s okay, right? They’re probably just still out hunting.”

  “No!” Kevin was slowly getting to his feet. “No, they aren’t answering their phones. The calls go straight to voicemail! It . . . it doesn’t look good. Not good at all. This is just . . . Oh, it’s so . . .” Then he just tapered off into quiet worried mumbling.

  My mom may have summed it up best, in the way only a mother can. “Oh, dear,” she said to herself as she headed back to the kitchen.

  Kevin fussed and moaned the whole way to school. Not that this was unusual, but it was especially bad that day. Chester was waiting for us outside of the school, at the edge of the Enchanted Field. “You guys heard?”

  As soon as we came through the front door, heads started turning in my direction. Lots of heads. A small group of Cheer-Maidens stopped gossiping long enough to turn around and stare as I walked by. It was like I suddenly had three heads.

  “What’s everybody’s problem?” I asked Chester and Kevin in a quiet voice. “Is it just ’cause of the fight yesterday?”

  Just then Susan Elvenley, a tall skinny elf (with maybe the biggest braces on her teeth I’d ever seen), stepped right up in my face.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourshelf?” she asked, both saying it AND spraying it. “Beating up on the prinsh while hish father is mishing?” I just stood there, wondering if she was waiting for a response. “You’re sho heartlesh.” She flipped her bright pink hair in my face as she spun and walked away.

  Kevin offered me a fresh handkerchief from his backpack. As I was wiping bits of Susan’s breakfast from my face, I looked around at all the staring faces.

  “Is that what this is all about?” I asked Kevin and Chester in a whisper. “It’s because I hit the prince while his dad was gone? But I had no idea he was missing!”

  Kevin had broken into one of his cold sweats. “I don’t think that matters now. They think the king might be, ya know . . . dead. People are freaking out. And you kind of knocked the daylights out of his son.”

  “I think Kevin’s right,” said Chester, for on
ce not trying to come up with something funny to say. “As much as I can’t believe it, I think they feel bad for the little moron.”

  · 14 ·

  ODD TROLL OUT

  I entered the classroom for first period, and immediately noticed that the prince’s seat was empty, as were the seats on both sides of his desk, reserved for his guard ogres—Buddy and the other one. As I sat down, the quarterback—one of our larger giants, with the unfortunate name of Swillz—turned around and glared at me. I pretended I didn’t see him until he spoke.

  I knew he was trying to get under my skin, but I felt a quick flash of pride. The Furry Fury wasn’t bad as far as nicknames were concerned. Kind of cool, actually—like some kind of superhero. And certainly better than Stink Dragon.

  But my feeling of pride was short-lived, as more students filed in—each one looking at me more and more like I was some kind of alien specimen under glass. Then Sierra came in (yes, the cute one) and looked over at me with sad, disappointed eyes. That made me feel like taking a nice long jump out of the Detention Tower window.

  We were only about ten minutes into our “Knights and the Ladies Who Loved Them” lecture when we heard that familiar pop and blast of static from the PA system. There was some amplified shuffling of papers before the principal spoke.