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You could practically cut the tension in the air with a sharp knife.
It was the first time a kitchen meeting had ever occurred without Bruno and Boots present. But this was for a reason–for this particular meet-up, they simply couldn’t be.
Cathy stood in front of the large whiteboard, her arms crossed against her chest as she surveyed the group in front of her. Of course, there was Elmer Drimsdale, who was put in charge of handling “the gong” (a contraption designed by Bruno, for the purpose of creating a loud clanging noise), which was just a small wooden hammer and a pan that had been left in the kitchen.
There was Diane Grant, who was anxiously fiddling with the strings of her small Hollister jacket, and Chris Talbot, who was preoccupied with his sketchbook. Finally, there was Wilbur Hackenschleimer, who was taking advantage of the kitchen by concentrating on crafting the “PB & J Surpreme”, which was simply layers of crunchy peanut butter, jam and white bread stacked on top of one another in the style of a Big Mac.
. . . Obviously, everyone was focused on the issue at hand.
“We all know why we’re here,” Cathy began in the voice that she typically uses for the purpose of controlling an army of Scrimmage girls. Who needs Bruno to lead the group when you have Cathy Burton? She’s a natural. "It's about Bruno and Boots.”
Wilbur’s blissfully ignorant voice cut through the tension. “Is that why they aren’t here?” he muttered past his sandwich, which he was chewing as loud as he possibly could. It was almost as if he were trying to be annoying, with his lips smacking as he digested the mess that was his second lunch. Diane covered her ears and shut her eyes.
Elmer hit the pan with his hammer, causing the loud echo of the gong to infiltrate the air. He turned to Wilbur, a sarcastic expression etched across his face.
“Are you serious?” he inquired, circling his knuckles around the handle of the wooden hammer. “The alert for this meeting was a doodle of Bruno and Boots holding hands, sneakily placed in our backpacks. Why else would we be here?”
Chris cheekily smiled and turned to Elmer, holding up a page that read:
“You can thank me for that one.”
Wilbur took another fat bite out of his strangely large sandwich. “Okay, okay, yeah–I get it.”
“Shut up.” Cathy intervened, setting her hands by her side. Wilbur looked offended, but before he could swallow and fire a retort, the girl continued: “Anyway, as I was saying, we’re here for a reason–and an important one at that.” Cathy snatched a dry-erase Expo marker and peeled the cap off with a snap, before turning to face the whiteboard and drawing a large heart in the middle. “We’re here because Bruno and Boots are in love and they're too freaking stupid to realize.” she continued. “Of course, that is exactly what I expect from Bruno.”
“Harsh.” Wilbur muttered past his food.
Cathy continued to verbally assassinate Bruno. “If you punched his hollow head, you would hear an echo.”
Diane shifted uncomfortably, still holding her fingers up to her ears as a sign of extreme agitation. “Cathy, I–”
“Per usual,” Cathy rudely cut her off. “We will now engage in an idea-pitching speed round. Every trashy idea–” Elmer added to her speech by hitting the gong, which infected the air with a loud bang. “Will get the gong.”
Wilbur went first. He had finished his sandwich, but he was now working on chugging fruit juice straight out of the gallon-sized container.
“Food,” he began poetically. “Is a love-language. Even the simplest of aromas can entrance people into a head-over-heels state. I say we hide the most romantic of foods–lobster, steak, mashed potatoes, and decadent chocolates–into their room. They’ll be admitting their feelings for each other before you can say ‘aww’. . . it’s fool-proof!”
He was interrupted by the clang of the gong.
“No.” Cathy said, crossing her arms once again. “The food would rot.”
“Also,” Diane’s soft and timid voice cut through the discussion. “I think you’d eat it. . .”
When the girl looked up enough to gaze at Wilbur, she saw him chugging ‘Hawaiian Punch’.
“Sorry,” Wilbur replied, finishing the gallon with a loud belch. “What’d you say?”
Cathy sighed and resisted the urge to face-palm.
Chris went next. Wordlessly, the group watched in silence as he sketched out the elaborate and ridiculously intricate plan he had formulated on the whiteboard.
“So, you’re saying. . .” Elmer began, struggling to come up with words to summarize the image in front of him. “You want us to infiltrate the air-conditioning of dormitory three, implant a misty love potion in the vents, and show up just in time to serenade them in the background whilst they confess their undying love for one another?”
Chris held his sketchbook wide-open for everyone to see:
“Romantic atmosphere is key.”
“Where would we find a love potion?” Diane inquired, her face contorted into the confused look of someone who would’ve skipped this meeting if they’d had the choice. “I might need to get my hands on one of those.”
Cathy stared at her strangely.
“Altering someone’s brain chemistry through inhalation is scientifically impossible,” Elmer began, adjusting his glasses with his ring finger. “And, even if I somehow managed to defy that law and crack the code, how would we sneak chemicals into the vents without being spotted?”
Chris sighed and moved out of the way as Elmer slammed the hammer against the pan once again.
“I don’t know about you guys,” Wilbur began. “But I think that juice could work as a substitute. It sure was making me fall in love with it!” he exclaimed.
Cathy rolled her eyes and strutted up to the whiteboard.
She proceeded to enter a long tangent about the effectiveness of a witch’s curse.
“True love can be guaranteed when the hands of a witch get involved,” she explained, sure of herself and her logic. “Anything can be.”
“That’s just as ridiculous as Chris’s plan!” Elmer exclaimed, slamming the hammer against the pan with a large crash.
“I guess it does have the same undertone to it. . .” she admitted, sheepishly shoving her hands in her pockets. “Diane, what about you?” asked Cathy, turning to her best friend. “You’ve been real quiet this whole time.”
“Well. . .” Diane started talking anxiously. “I just think. . . maybe we’re taking this too far?” she suggested. “We don’t know anything about how they’re truly feeling. Love has to form on its own terms–you can’t just force it into existence. Besides, it’s still possible that we're just excessively analyzing stuff; They might not even like each other. In fact. . .” she stopped, choosing her words carefully. “They may even like, well, I don’t know–other people?”
Wilbur, who was now ravenously going to town on a chocolate protein bar, raised his eyebrows in subtle agreement. Chris nodded, smiling gleefully.
“That’s a nice sentiment, but. . .” Cathy defended herself. “Those lunkheads will never truly consider the idea if we don’t help them realize it’s an option. We have to do what’s necessary.”
Diane awkwardly studied her shorts and nodded. “Alright. I guess Elmer hasn’t pitched an idea yet.”
“Of course!” Elmer exclaimed, running up to the whiteboard and shoving the gong into Cathy’s hands. “You all shall now marvel at my brilliance!”
The tension in the air was instantly lifted, thanks to Elmer’s overly-confident persistence. Chris’s smile did not falter, and Wilbur gulped down the last of his food. Cathy moved out of the way, the gong clenched in her fists as Elmer began to frantically write down his ideas.
“As humans, our thoughts are consistently hyperfixated on the concept of love. Human nature revolves around the idea of a mate. Unless you’re like me, and you have better things to do, but that’s irrelevant. Believe it or not, the human brain and its chemistry is a major subject of my scientific pursuit. I’m a psychologist. My world is the mind’s world.”
“I always thought you were brainy, Elmer.” Wilbur delivered the typical line, finally having finished off the last of his snacking.
“The brain plays a very important part in the regular function of the human body. It allows for the proper operation of other systems, combined with its own.” Elmer explained, drawing a diagram of the human brain on the whiteboard. “The basal ganglia prompts muscle movement, and so on. Every bit of the body is connected, down to the last strand of a human’s DNA. But what if we altered that make-up? Picture this: by accumulating enough worm DNA, I can significantly alter their morphology–”
The clang of the gong sounded.
“Elmer, for the last time, we are not turning them into worm-people!” Cathy exclaimed. “If you bring this up one more time, I’m going to turn them into guinea pigs for you.”
At the thought of it, Elmer went light-headed and began to lean back. Luckily, the faint was interrupted by Diane’s lightning-fast reaction time. She wrapped her palms around the base of his biceps, preventing the fall.
“Let me guess,” Cathy continued when Elmer had stabilized. “You were planning on making enough of this concoction for the York Turkeys as well, weren't you?”
“Well, I mean–” Elmer stuttered, fidgeting with his nails. “I figured while I was at it, I could–”
“Step away from the whiteboard.” Cathy demanded, disappointed. Elmer did as she asked.
“It’s obvious that we’re kind of hopeless without Bruno and Boots here. . .” Diane anxiously muttered.
“We don’t need them.” Cathy insisted.
“But Bruno is usually the one who edits one of our ideas until we have a genuine plan.” Wilbur added, leaning against the nearest counter. “I guess we’ll just have to think ‘The Bruno Way’.”
Diane giggled, a smile spreading across her face. “You sound like Boots.” she teased.
Wilbur sheepishly smiled back. “That is what he said back when we were trying to get Mr. Wizzle and that Peabody lady to fall in love.”
Chris gasped. It was almost as if a tangible lightbulb had appeared above Elmer’s head, and Cathy’s eyes widened.
“That’s it!” Elmer exclaimed, excitedly adjusting the hem of his shirt. “Wilbur, that was a stroke of genius!”
“What??” Wilbur inquired, glancing at his surroundings frantically. “What did I say??”
\
“This isn’t the first time we’ve had two people fall in love!” Elmer practically shouted. “It worked like a charm last time! Okay, maybe it didn’t go exactly the way we planned, but still, Peabody and Wizzle were so in love by the end of that scheme that they got married and ran away to raise a bunch of dogs. If we repeat what we did last time, this might work!”
“Just–slow down, not the exact same.” Cathy cut into the conversation. “They may not be academically intelligent, but they are clever.” she explained. “They might catch on if we repeat history.”
“Right.” Diane put her two cents in.
Wilbur looked as if he was trying to remember what the heck the others were talking about. He got it eventually. . . hopefully.
Chris began frantically sketching. The others leaned in closer to observe him.
“So. . .” Cathy began, trying to interpret the message Chris was trying to communicate to the others. “You want us to boil them in a pool of steaming-hot lava?”
Chris looked shocked and disturbed. Elmer shook his head in exasperation.
“No.” he said blankly. “That’s a thing of frying oil. Right, man?”
“What are you trying to say, Chris?” Diane soothed.
Chris took a deep breath, and clenched his fist in his hand. “I am sayin’,” he began in the deepest, most-British voice the others had ever heard. “Trickin’ them into a date would be too suspicious, since it’s been done before. Plus, enlisting Cathy and Diane as waitresses would be too obvious, because they’d recognize them. And us, if we did the whole band schtick again.” Chris gestured to him, Wilbur and Elmer. “So, what if we had them do a few tasks at that Mexican restaurant they enjoy? Like washing the dishes, for example.” Diane nodded as Chris continued. “Once, when they were being punished for that whole prank-war thing, The Fish had them do dishes for the nice ladies at the dining hall. It wasn’t long before the two of them were engaging in a brutal play-fight, involving splashing each other with every drop of water that they had access to. By the end of it, they were laughing their heads off and smothering one another with hugs and tackles. If we can get them in that same position, they might realize how much they like each other.”
The others stared at Chris in shock. Sure, they’d heard him talk before, but it’s very rare that he speaks in whole paragraphs.
“How do you know all of that, Chris?” Diane inquired, her eyes wide.
Soon enough, Chris was writing in his sketchbook once again:
“I see things.”
“That’s . . . comforting,” Wilbur began. “But how would we get them to wash dishes at Manny’s Kitchen?”
“Typically, that’s the position you end up in when you can’t pay for your food.” Elmer offered. “Do they eat there often?”
“Oh, just about every time the wind blows.” Cathy answered sarcastically. “Bruno won’t shut up about how good their tacos are. The two of them go there, like, every Saturday. It’s just outside the Hall; They ride their tandem bike there and chow down.”
“Boots has mentioned that, actually.” Diane offered. “Apparently, Bruno insists on paying for the food every time they visit.” she scoffed. “He was ranting about his chivalry.”
“That’s perfect!” Elmer exclaimed.
“If we make it so Bruno forgets to bring his money tomorrow. . .” Wilbur began formulating the rest of the plan aloud. “He won’t be able to pay for anything!”
“Which will leave them with no other option. They’ll have to do the dishes.” Elmer finished.
Cathy put her hand up. “All in favor of Operation Make-Bruno-and-Boots-Wash-Dishes-and-then-Fall-in-Love?”
The others stared at her blankly.
“Bruno’s the one who does the names, usually.” she explained. Everyone accepted this excuse. They all put their hands in the middle–a layer of personalities combining to create a team. Wilbur’s hand was covered in food debris: peanut butter and jelly galore. Chris’s hand was bruised and softened from excessively holding a pencil, and Diane’s palm was sweaty with worry.
Cathy faced the crew with a celebratory expression. Diane knew she was determined–when Cathy put her mind to something, there was nothing you could do to stop her.
“Woo!” the girls exclaimed.
𖦹
Bruno was hungry beyond description.
It’s very typical of him to skip breakfast in favor of sleeping in–that was no shocker, for it was something he was known for doing at the Hall. Heck, last time he showed up for breakfast, the lunch lady could hardly identify him.
This was different. Today, he had missed lunch as well, for Boots needed help with pre-algebra and Elmer was nowhere to be seen.
Bruno rushed into the dining hall, totally prepared to avoid taking crap from anyone. He watched as Sydney Rampulsky tripped over his own shadow, causing a parade of English muffins and fruit cups to collide with the carpet. He redirected his gaze to Wilbur, who was very obviously having flashbacks about Wizzle’s liquid meal replacements.
Finally, he saw Boots, who was paying for a pack of fig newtons near the front. He ran to grab a plastiglass tray and quickly accompanied the other boy at the register.
Boots smiled when he saw him. “Hey, man.” he grinned as he handed the assistant a Canadian dollar. “What’s up?”
“The sky.” Bruno replied naturally. “Guess what?”
Boots sighed, mocking annoyance. “What?”
“Chicken butt.” Bruno smirked as Boots clenched his fists.
“Excuse me?” came a voice from the other side of the counter. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is a twenty. Are you sure you want to pay with this?”
Boots’s face flushed as he realized his mistake. He dug through his pocket until he found a five and awkwardly switched it out with the other dollar.
“Sorry about that,” Boots grinned sheepishly. “I wasn’t looking.”
Bruno snickered and playfully shoved Boots’s shoulder. “Whatever, man. I’m starving. Save me a seat!”
“I will!” Boots called back as they separated.
After Bruno had made a careful selection of salad, milk and chicken garnished with sauce, he made quick work of locating where his friends had chosen to sit. Boots welcomed him with a small smile as he pulled the chair aside and sat in it.
Bruno tore his chicken apart with his teeth and glared at Elmer, who was sitting across from him, educating Mark Davies about the importance of balanced nutrition.
“Hey, dude,” Bruno began, swallowing his chicken and flashing Elmer an accusatory glance. “Where were you during lunch?”
That question shouldn’t have been difficult to answer, but Elmer began anxiously pulling at his hair. “Uhm–” he stuttered. “I was. . . observing. Outside. You know how it is, with Spring approaching and all of that. I’m a botanist. My world is the plant world.”
“I always thought you were leafy, Elmer.” Bruno shot back.
As soon as Elmer was distracted, Bruno leaned closer to Boots and spoke in a hushed tone.
“He was acting off. Did you notice that he was acting off? I think he’s acting off.”
Boots answered him in an equally quiet voice. “Yeah. I see what you mean,” he replied. “But Elmer’s weird sometimes. Just let him be.”
Bruno’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever you say, man.”
𖦹
That next morning, Bruno’s sleep was rudely interrupted by the strumming of guitar and the banging of a crash symbol. Across from him, Boots was stretching, clearly wracked with morning sleepiness.
Bruno smacked his phone until the music stopped. “I have got to change that alarm.” he remarked.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Boots mumbled back, tears pricking the edges of his eyes as he released a large yawn.
Bruno sat up, stretching his back. “Good thing it’s a Saturday.”
“I know, right?” Boots replied, reaching over to adjust his smoothie machine. “Thank the Heavens above.”
For once, neither of them had to rush to basketball practice or a hockey game. The air smoothened with the peace of tranquility. Bruno took his time preparing waffles for the two of them, whilst Boots changed into his uniform.
Boots jumped when the toaster beeped at a startling volume, to which Bruno snickered and placed the waffles on paper plates.
“Really, dude?” he jibed. “You? Scared of an ‘ol toaster?”
“It caught me by surprise.” Boots claimed in his own defense.
“Oh yeah? Well, guess who?”
“. . . Who?”
“Chicken poo.”
Boots hid his face in his hands as Bruno gave him his breakfast.
Soon enough, Boots left the room to practice “the art of manipulating a paintbrush” with Chris, leaving Bruno alone with his thoughts.
. . . Bruno fell back onto his bed, exhaustedly groaning into his palms.
“I’m so done for.” he muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.
𖦹
East of Toronto, just off Highway 48, you will find a beautiful tree-lined campus right across the road from the famous Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. There, Diane was stretching on a yoga mat underneath the Spring Sun. Despite her feeble attempt at meditation, her face was etched into a stressful expression.
Her eyes were glued shut, which highlighted her subtle wrinkles. To add onto that, her head was beginning to ache. In fact, she didn’t realize Cathy was calling her name until she couldn’t bear it anymore and opened her eyes.
“Diane!” Cathy shouted, tying her hair up. “Could you not hear me?”
“Sorry, no.” Diane replied quietly. “I–uhm. I’m not doing my greatest right now.”
“I would try to see Miss Scrimmage about that.” Cathy answered.
Diane was quick to answer. “No! Well–I mean, I don’t think she’d be able to help with. . . y’know, what I’m dealing with.”
Cathy frowned. “Whatever you say, girl. I was gonna mention that Boots and Chris are referencing Scrimmage’s gardens for their painting, but–”
Before Cathy could finish her sentence, Diane rushed away.
Cathy began snickering. She called after her friend with a smile on her face. “Diane! Where are you going?”
Diane turned back for a second to look at Cathy. “Something that should’ve been done a lo-o-o-ong time ago!”
It was as if the scenery painted itself. The roses were dashed with shades of cherry-red and a blazing, romantic pink. Symbols of beauty danced around the sharp grass, and tall trees laced the outskirts of the garden like the gates of a palace.
Two stools were propped up, hidden by large canvases leaned against easels. There, Chris delicately leaned over to correct Boots’s brush stroke, and then demonstrated the same bit on his own canvas. Boots nodded in understanding, before properly correcting his mistake. This was done all without talking.
Their silence was interrupted by the voice of an exhausted girl, shouting at a volume that was ripping her throat apart.
“Boots!”
Boots swerved around on his stool, and Chris followed suit out of pure curiosity. They set their sights on Diane, who was tossing her curly hair behind her in an attempt to get it out of her face for once.
“Diane?” Boots called back, gently setting down his paintbrush. Diane came to a halt when she approached him, heaving and panting. “Why–I mean, what are you doing here?”
“We have to talk.” she claimed, strangely stable despite her typically anxious attitude.
Boots seemed taken aback. He raised his eyebrows and shifted slightly to look at Chris, who gave him a thumbs-up.
“I. . . sure. Why not.”
“Great.” Diane replied steadily. “C’mon.”
It wasn’t long before the two of them were far away from the campus. They could see Chris in the distance, but they were completely deserted otherwise.
It was too late to be having second thoughts, and yet Diane was overthinking this as much as possible. Her hands were growing sweatier by the second. She felt nauseous and unsure, and her heart was, quite literally, beating straight out of her chest.
She could do this. She swallowed and looked up to face a confused, yet welcome, Boots.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Or–maybe ask you? I don’t know–but, I–. . . I know I have to say it now because I don’t have much time left after this.”
“What do you mean by that?” Boots asked, his voice wavering as he hid his hands in the pockets of his dress pants.
“What I mean is. . . after today, I won’t get another chance to say it. I don’t care what you think about me after this, I–I just need to let it out. Well–I do care, but that’s besides the point.”
Diane shifted her weight to the side in an attempt to hide her face. She saw wetness prick the edge of her vision.
Boots’s eyes narrowed in concern, and he tried his best to sound soothing. “It’s okay. Just. . . say what’s on your mind. It won’t change anything about us.”
“Are you sure?” Diane inquired, her tone shaky with anxious tears.
Boots nodded.
“I think I like you. . .? No, not think, I know. I know I like you–like, a lot, really. And this is so awkward and I’m messing everything up and I should just crawl into a corner and stop talking already because–”
“Hey.” Boots’s voice cut through her worried mumbling. Diane looked up at him, her eyes red with shame.
“What?” she replied, her tone harsher than intended.
“Look–I, um. . .” Boots ran his fingers through his hair nervously. “I’m new to the whole ‘love’ game, but I know one thing for certain.”
Diane stared up at him with hope.
“I hate to say it, but I. . . I just don’t see you that way, Diane. I’m flattered, but you’re just a friend of mine.”
Diane felt her face grow hot, so she turned away again, ashamed of herself and her feelings. “No–don’t worry, I get it.” she replied, her tone growing louder. “There’s someone else you like, anyway.”
Boots’s eyes grew wide. “What gave you that idea?”
Suddenly, Diane swerved back around to face him, a smirk growing on her shaky lips. “You’ll see.”
Boots playfully shoved her, smiling. “Hey! What do you know that I don’t?”
Diane shoved back, a newfound spark in her eyes. “I said ‘you’ll see’!”
Boots covered his face with his mouth as his smile grew and his cheeks turned pink. “You’re getting me all worked up for nothing!”
Diane chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’m glad you don’t see me differently because of this. Any other guy would’ve been disgusted, but you’re different, Boots. Thanks for being a good friend.”
“No problem.” Boots replied, shrugging happily.
“Hey,” Diane began. “Now that I think about it, isn’t it time for lunch?”
𖦹
The painting supplies had been cleaned up.
Wilbur had a steady supply of Goldfish in his pocket.
Elmer had prepared more than one gadget for this operation.
Obviously, it was go-time.
It didn’t take Cathy very long to recruit the group for an assembly in the kitchen. By the time everyone had prepared themselves, there were diagrams and paragraphs doodled on the large whiteboard. There was no need for the gong, but Elmer was holding it anyway. Wilber was making sure to pack a few extra protein bars, and Chris was making sure to sketch a depiction of Bruno and Boots, decked out in wedding clothes, lovingly embracing one another underneath a flowery arch.
Diane peered over Chris’s shoulder to gaze at the art. “Isn’t it too early for that?” she asked, newfound confidence swelling up in her chest.
Chris flipped the page:
“Never.”
She sighed and redirected her attention to Cathy, who was gesturing toward a blueprint of Bruno and Boots’s dorm from an architectural point of view.
“This,” she began, her voice steady. “Is a map of dormitory 3, room 306. Bruno keeps his wallet somewhere in this room. Elmer and Wilbur are going to grab it. . . and, well, take it. This plan doesn’t sound very stable when I say it out loud–”
Elmer hit the gong. “Might I add, from my experience as Bruno’s temporary roommate, he isn’t exactly inconspicuous. He keeps everything on the floor and tries to say that it’s organized. We’ll need extra time if we want to search for it.”
“Which is why Chris will be put in charge of keeping them away from the room until the coast is clear.” Cathy decided, quickly assigning roles on the board. Chris peeled his eyes off his sketchbook to smile at her and nod.
Cathy continued writing. “Me and Diane will be surveying Manny’s Kitchen whilst they eat. Y’know, to–observe our progress.”
Diane smiled. As her teeth clenched together, she put her hand in the middle.
slammed her hand on top of Diane’s. “Operation Make-Bruno-and-Boots-Wash-Dishes-and-then-Fall-in-Love is a go!”
The others stared at her as awkward tension filled the room.
“You should find a new name.” Diane offered kindly.
“Operation Find-a-New-Name-For-This-Operation is a work in progress,” Cathy admitted sheepishly. “Now, c’mon, Diane! We have to make it to Manny’s before they do!”
𖦹
When Boots opened the door to room 306, he was greeted by Bruno. . . ‘s backside. Bruno was at his desk, peering over the smoothie-basketball contraption with a screwdriver in his hand. He seemed frustrated, which wasn’t an expression he typically wore. In Boots’s professional opinion, it didn’t look very good on him, either. He preferred the excited and determined Bruno he knew all-too-well.
Boots tossed his jacket on his bed after closing the door behind him, and peered over Bruno’s shoulder to view his work. “What’re you working on now?” he asked, softly gripping the edge of Bruno’s chair.
“I needed something to distract myself with.” he claimed, strengthening his grip on the screwdriver’s handle. “I’ve been putting off repairing the base of this thing for weeks now.”
“Nice.” Boots said approvingly, reaching over to ruffle Bruno’s hair. “But aren’t you hungry?”
The simplicity of the action made Bruno turn around and smile. “Duh.”
Before Bruno could stand up, the two of them heard a knock on their door. “I’ll grab it.” Boots offered, strutting toward the front of the room.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by Chris, who wasn’t holding his sketchbook for once. Chris nodded and shoved past Boots, ignoring the complex expression on his face.
“Hello to you too, man.” Bruno greeted sarcastically as Chris prodded around the room.
Boots attempted to understand the issue at hand. “What’re you looking for?” he asked, scratching his neck.
Chris grew increasingly frustrated. He turned to Boots and began waving his hands around in specific motions, seemingly trying to form words through sign language.
Bruno’s voice cut through the silence. “We don’t understand ASL, dude.”
Sighing, Chris formed his hands into a peace sign and placed them on his forehead. (Translation: Stupid.)
Boots shrugged in Bruno’s direction as Chris continued to maneuver his hands around. Rolling his eyes, Chris perked his lips and formed an “O” shape with both of his hands, before bringing his fingernails toward each other and making a clicking sound. (Translation: Kiss!!!)
Finally, Bruno gave up. “Listen, man. We can’t understand you. And, frankly, I’m starving and I don’t have time for this. If there’s something you need to show us, hurry up.”
Chris smirked and led the two of them out of the door and down the hallway. What Bruno did not know, though–is that he had left his wallet atop an old pile of clothing.
𖦹
Once again, Diane was running underneath the warm Sun. This time, though, Cathy was beside her, and her friend was huffing and puffing just as much as she was.
“Miss Scrimmage!” Diane called, hoping her voice would reach the older lady. Miss Scrimmage, as it turns out, was sitting beside the torture machine Cathy had submitted for a grade once, humming an old tune that Diane identified as “Don’t Worry Baby” by The Beach Boys. Dust was collecting on the edges of her long, eclectic dress, and her eyes were shut, representing a state of tranquility.
Cathy called the name in a voice that seemed to scratch the sides of her throat. “Miss Scrimmage!”
The lady opened one eye, and then opened the other and smiled when she saw two of her students. “Why, hello there, girls!” she greeted excitedly, her blonde-turned-gray hair shining underneath the warmth of the Sun.
“Yes, hello,” Cathy greeted as the two of them halted in front of Miss Scrimmage and caught their breath. “We really need you to drive us somewhere, right outside of the school’s borders.” she insisted. “It’s important.”
Miss Scrimmage stood up in the best way she could without straining her hips, before dusting her skirt off and gazing at the two of them with an unreadable expression. “Are you sure? It is Saturday, y’know. You should be resting.”
Diane put her trump card to use. “It’s in the name of love.”
Miss Scrimmage seemed unsure, but she smiled at the girls nevertheless. Her earrings dangled as she said “Whatever you say.”
Miss Scrimmage’s car reflected her personality–despite being worn down, her 1960s Cadillac stood strong. Flowery stickers lined the windows, and the doors were decorated with an array of wooden beads.
Cathy and Diane hopped into the backseat whilst Miss Scrimmage surveyed the items in the trunk. These items included a stack of diamond-art kits, a tapestry depicting a psychedelic pattern, and a shotgun.
Diane faced Miss Scrimmage with unsure eyes. “Don’t you have those things in your office?”
Miss Scrimmage gazed at Diane, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You can never be too sure.”
Diane awkwardly turned back toward Cathy as the door to the trunk was shut. Soon enough, the drivers’ door opened and Miss Scrimmage hopped inside, making the old car rumble in protest. She gripped the edge of the wheel and adjusted the position of the bobble-head on the dashboard. Then, she jammed the keys into the ignition switch, which made the wind-chimes hanging from her rearview mirror collide. At the sound of the melodic jingle, Diane turned anxious eyes on Cathy.
“I’m starting to think one of the golf-carts from the Hall would’ve been better. . .” she admitted.
Before Cathy could reply, Miss Scrimmage’s enthusiastic tone filled the area. “C’mon, girls! It’s so quiet. Don’t you wanna listen to the radio?”
Cathy tried to match her tone. “Sure! What’s on–?”
Cathy was interrupted by the loud tune of The Beatles’s “I Want to Hold Your Hand”.
“This album is so sweet!” Miss Scrimmage yelled over the noise. “Don’t you girls think so?”
Neither of them could muster a reply.
𖦹
Wilbur faced Elmer, a confused expression on his face. “Dude, was all the spy gear really necessary?”
Elmer, whose face was hidden by a stuffy, black ski-mask, tightened his grip on his grappling hook and pointed at Wilbur’s pockets. “Were the empty calories and unhealthy fats necessary?”
Wilbur shrugged. “Point proven.”
As the two of them approached room 306, Elmer pressed one ear against the wall and listened for movement. He heard nothing.
“The coast is clear,” he mumbled underneath his breath. “Initiate ‘Protocol One’.”
Wilbur opened the door for him.
Elmer was probably smirking, but Wilbur couldn’t see his expression past the ski-mask. “Thank you.” he jeered, stepping into the room. Wilbur followed him and shut the door behind the two of them. Almost instantly, his eyes widened with delight.
“No way–they have a basketball smoothie machine?!” He exclaimed. “That is so awes–”
He was interrupted by Elmer's sharp “shh!”, which caught him off guard and shut him up.
“We’re only here for one thing.” Elmer whispered, his voice muted by the mask. “If you stay focused for one–”
The second Elmer turned around, he saw Wilbur searching through their mini-fridge. He crossed his arms with a sigh, to which Wilbur shut the door with an aggravated expression on his face.
After a reasonable amount of searching, Elmer found the wallet underneath a pair of heart-print boxers, which he tossed across the room in disgust.
“Yuck.” he exclaimed, gripping the wallet in his hand. “I’m so glad I don’t live with Bruno anymore.”
“I’m so glad I don’t live with Boots anymore.” Wilbur concluded. “I’m surprised I was able to forgive him for eating my banana pudding–and, get this: he didn’t even bother to clean up the trash. He just left it on my bed, like some kind of animal!”
“See? They were made for each other,” Elmer agreed, undoing the button on Bruno’s leather wallet. “Now, what’s in here–”
Elmer was caught off guard by what he saw. Suddenly, a small but genuine small appeared on his face. Well, not that anyone could see, at least, for he was still wearing that stuffy ski-mask.
Wilbur peered over Elmer’s shoulder. “What’s in there–? Aw!”
There, among the assorted dollars and cards, was a picture of Bruno and Boots during their first day at the hall. It was a selfie; young Bruno was holding the phone above the two of them. Boots’s hair was much shorter, and Bruno was wearing an old band tee and black skinny jeans. Otherwise, they looked considerably similar to how they do now.
“Cutesy.” Wilbur commented.
“But we’re only here for one thing,” Elmer reminded. “Let’s get out of here.”
𖦹
Despite their hesitance, Chris managed to lead Bruno and Boots far away from their room and out toward the schoolyard. Chris hurriedly had them gather near a vine, which was a magnificent green color due to the powerful Sun. Chris bent over and held out his hand, which stimulated Boots’s curiosity.
“What?” he insisted.
Chris shifted his body to reveal a boreal toad nestled amongst the undergrowth. Boots flashed Chris a pleasant smile, but Bruno seemed to be beyond annoyed.
“We came out here. . .” Bruno tried to understand the situation. “. . . for a frog?”
“It’s a toad.” Boots corrected.
“I could care less.”
“Actually, you would say ‘I couldn’t care less’.”
“If you correct me one more time, you’re going to be paying for lunch.” Bruno threatened, mocking annoyance.
“Gladly.” Boots retorted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his debit card. Chris watched in horror.
“No–!!” Chris blurted, before gasping and shoving his hands over his mouth. For the first time ever, he had just dug his own grave with his words. Boots and Bruno stared at him, taken aback. Chris couldn’t even defend himself, because he didn’t have his sketchbook with him.
And then, as if the Gods were answering his prayers, they were interrupted by the slamming of a window above them.
“Boys,” Mr. Sturgeon began, peering down at them through his steel-rimmed glasses. “I’m usually not a stickler about noise, but me and Ms. Davis are trying to have a private conversation about school-regulated electives. Please, if you are going to snoop around on my turf, try to do it quietly.”
“Yes, sir!” Bruno called back, cupping his face to project his voice further. After receiving a tentative glance from The Fish, they heard the slamming of a window once again.
Bruno turned to Boots, a sly smile on his face. “I’m not letting you pay for lunch.”
Boots chuckled and put his debit card pack in his pocket. “It’s alright. There’s nothing but dirt on that card anyway. I had to pay ‘ol Wexford-Smythe III back for the damages done to his communications center.”
Chris breathed a sigh of relief.
𖦹
The dirt and grime was kicked into the air as the two of them cycled, trying to keep the tandem bike steady. The road was littered with rocks and debris, but walking wasn’t an option. Luckily, they had grown used to this process. The path leading from the Hall to Manny’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly clear and sunny, but it was definitely worth the long ride.
This time around, they arrived later than usual due to Chris’s neediness. While the toad was cool, it wasn’t worth wasting fifteen minutes for. Boots wondered if he had the skills to paint it.
After a quick conversation with the nice lady at the front, Bruno and Boots were assigned a table and given menus. The T.V. above them was broadcasting the football game from the previous weekend, and there was a hint of whipped cream left unbothered on the table.
“Hey,” Boots began humorously. “Look. This is the table Peabody and Wizzle sat at.”
After redirecting his attention, Bruno saw the whipped cream and chuckled. “Hah! Looks like they missed a spot.”
Their casual conversation continued without malice or worry. For once, there was nothing to worry about. Chatting was so easy between the two of them–neither party felt pressured or uncomfortable. They did not need to worry about awkward pauses, for every pause felt natural.
These were the things that Cathy and Diane were able to pick up on by sitting a few tables over.
Miss Scrimmage had dropped them off after claiming that the restaurant smelled like “gluttony without reason”, so they were alone at the booth. Luckily, the separators were conveniently placed, so there wasn’t much anxiety about the possibility of being seen. Still, in typical Diane fashion, there was general anxiety. She fidgeted with the lid of a ketchup bottle while talking to Cathy.
“I mean–this is fun and all–but what if something went wrong along the way and we weren’t around to see it?” she wondered, popping the lid on and off. “It’s possible that I could’ve hyped Boots up for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Cathy soothed, tossing her hair behind her. “There’s always Plan B.”
Diane looked confused. “Plan B?” she inquired. “I never heard about Plan B.”
“Oh, crap–did we not mention that to you?” Cathy replied, her eyes narrowed. “Chris must’ve mentioned it while you were talking to Boots. If anything goes wrong, we have the comfort of knowing that Elmer, Wilbur and Chris are riding here in the band’s trailer. Wilbur’s driving, and everyone’s instruments are piled up in the back. As a last resort, we figured that those two butt-monkeys might get the hint if we had the other three play their song.”
Diane’s expression morphed into one of confusion. “Really? You think that’d work on them?”
“Nah,” Cathy answered, frowning. “But Chris insisted. They seemed really eager, and I’d hate to ruin that for them. Plus, they were confident that it would work–”
“Hey, look!” Diane cut her off and insistently pointed at the table a couple of booths ahead of them. “They’re ordering their food!”
Cathy turned to look, and, sure enough, a tall woman in a uniform was accepting their orders. Cathy peered over the separator to get a better look, not fully recognizing that this shift in position made her totally visible to the other two.
She didn’t realize until it was too late.
Sure enough, Bruno’s eyes widened at the sight of her. They made eye contact, and then Bruno leaned over to whisper something in Boots’s ear.
“Fudge on a popsicle stick!” Diane muttered, adapting to Miss Scrimmage’s habit of replacing cuss words with the names of unhealthy foods. “Cathy, we’re done for!”
Just as she said it, Bruno began to stand up.
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Cathy exclaimed, yanking the bottle of ketchup out of Diane’s palms.
“Cathy, what are you–”
Before she could finish her sentence, Cathy wrapped her hands around the bottle and pressed as hard as she could. Suddenly, a fountain of red sauce flew out of it in the form of a projectile, launching itself across the room and hitting Bruno square in the face. Red paste stained the area in tiny globs as Cathy sprayed it.
On the other side of the room, Bruno’s face grew agitated as he licked a bit of ketchup that had landed on his nose. He angrily slid out of the booth as Boots tried (and failed) to be a peacemaker.
“Bruno, don’t! You don’t want to get banned from Manny’s, do you?!” he pleaded, but to no avail.
At the same time, Diane was trying to talk sense into her friend. “C’mon, Cathy! Nothing can be worth this! We’re totally off track–!”
Diane’s voice gave out. Her eyes grew worried as she watched Bruno pick up a full bottle of mustard, twirl it around in his hands, and. . .
. . . pause? Suddenly, he redirected his attention to the front of the restaurant. It wasn’t long before Diane realized why. Sound waves filled the air as the tune of Haddaway’s “What Is Love?” echoed throughout the kitchen. With a quick glance, Diane saw Chris, Wilbur and Elmer doing the best they could to replace the animosity in the environment with the soothing sound of music.
Bruno turned to Cathy, his expression angry and confused. Well, at least Diane thought it was. Most of his face was covered in ketchup.
“Why are they here?!” he cried in an attempt to be heard over the noise.
Before Cathy could answer, multiple chefs and security guards arrived at the scene. A plump man in a white apron accusingly pointed at Cathy.
“There!” he exclaimed, his voice rich with acc. “She’s turned my restaurant into a crime scene!”
. . . Bruno innocently set down his bottle of mustard.
As the guards bombarded the other witnesses with questions, Cathy turned to Diane and muttered “Good thing the police have the intellect to know that I am the victim here! Obviously, Bruno’s the one at fault.”
Diane had no response for that. She knew her friend was wrong, of course, but there was no sense in pointing that out.
By now, Chris, Elmer and Wilbur had stopped playing, for they’d decided to lie around and watch the scene play out instead. Bruno frantically waved his arms around, trying to retell the story as clearly as he could with a face full of ketchup. Manny listened to him with attentive ears. After Bruno had finished stammering, Boots closed the story off with “Please don’t kick us out. It wasn’t our fault, sir.”
Manny considered this for a second, and then turned to the boys with a smile. “I know what happened,” he assured them. “I saw it play out.” he paused to think for a second. “I don’t think this young girl, Cathy, needs to be banned, necessarily. . . just taught a little lesson. How do you think she’d like to do dishes?”
Bruno’s eyes glimmered. For once, he wasn’t the one in trouble.
𖦹
Bruno was more than glad to be sitting in his wooden chair after what had just occurred.
They ended up staying at Manny’s Kitchen for well over an hour, seeing as they needed to act as witnesses (and, just maybe, mock Cathy for a bit while she scrubbed plates). But now, the moment had ended and Bruno was finally clean–which meant no more smelling of tomato, and no more awkward stares from the people around him. Heck, George had even stopped him in the hallway to proclaim “Leaving a trail of ketchup stains the hall. Five demerits.”
Before Bruno had the chance to overthink, he felt the soothing texture of a warm towel against his head.
He didn’t even have to look up to know who was drying his hair. “And you’re sure you got all of the ketchup out?” Boots insisted, rubbing the towel against his crown in circular motions.
“I’m sure.” Bruno replied, his voice lined with exhaustion. “I triple-checked in the mirror.”
“Good.” Boots tossed the towel onto the bed, before loosely wrapping his arms around Bruno’s neck and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We should be really glad that tomorrow is a Sunday.” he remarked.
Bruno looked up at the other with a soft smile–a new look for him, that, in Boots’s professional opinion, looked very nice on him. Bruno asked, “How did the guys know to play that song?”
Boots shrugged as much as he could at that moment. “Lucky guess, I suppose. They probably don’t even know that it worked.”
Despite being flustered and, quite frankly, tired out of his mind, Bruno replied with “Mhm. Guess what?”
“What?”
“Chicken butt.”