day. The Rat ’n Roach Extermination Company came with three trucks full of rat-catching/-killing equipment. Since their classroom was under quarantine, the seventh graders had to sit in the school hall for the rest of the day – under the supervision of the school caretaker, a grumpy old woman who ran to old Schiz at the smallest provocation. All the time Pete was waiting for the dreaded call to the headmaster’s office.
“Ah, Smith! Come in,” Schiz said when Pete arrived at his office just before closing time.
Schiz signalled him to close the door.
Pete instinctively looked for another route of escape. The window behind the desk was open. (Two paces to the desk. Jump on it. Over the chair. No, the chair could trip him. Sidestep the chair. Left foot in the fern pot. Headfirst through the window.)
Schiz sat down at the desk, stiff as a drill sergeant, blocking the only escape route.
“So, young Master Smith,” he said, tapping the points of his bony fingers together. “How many times have we been in my office this year?”
Pete stared at a bare spot on the red carpet. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been late for at least three months, not since Mrs Burton had given him an alarm clock.
“Stand up straight and speak up so I can hear you!” Schiz commanded. “Can’t remember, boy? Well, let me remind you.” He screwed his reading glasses onto his nose and consulted a large black book that lay on his desk. “Late for school … late for school again … truancy … late once again, truancy, et cetera, et cetera. Hmm, it seems we did try to rehabilitate ourselves in the last three months or so, but now look, here we are again. Do you know why, Smith? It’s-because-you-are-a-miserable-LOSER!”
With this he brought his flat hand down on the desk with such force that his glasses fell off his nose.
“Tell me, Smith, because I’m curious: Did you have any particular reason why you wanted to put poor Miss Peach through all that pain and misery? Is it merely the natural expression of your mean little criminal mind or are you taking after that drunk of a father of yours?”
Schiz put his glasses back on. This time he made sure that they were on tightly, but since he didn’t need them to read anymore, he had to peer over their rims to see Pete.
The initial stab Pete felt at the word “loser” gave way to a much deeper emotion.
Anger.
It welled up from the pit of his stomach, a fire burning through his chest and into his throat. It made his green eyes even darker, and gave him the power to speak.
“It’s not fair, Sir,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t my rat.”
This didn’t have a very good effect on the headmaster. His face turned as white as his thin hair. “How dare you suggest that I’m not fair, you little pestilence of a pipsqueak?” His words marched over Pete in single file. “And remember, there’s still the matter of assaulting that boy, Mutton, er … Mouton.” He halted, preparing for the final assault. “When the school board meets again, I shall recommend that you be expelled from our midst. In the meantime your father will receive the bill for the extermination of the vermin …”
2
Butterfly Magic
“Pete! PEE-YEET!”
Pete stopped on the pavement in front of Paradise Mansions.
“AHOY, PETE SMITH!”
Pete looked up. It was Mrs Burton, a beacon in her red jersey. She was leaning out of her third-floor window, waving a dishcloth to attract his attention. The sun was behind the gargoyle on the roof, transforming it into a menacing black shadow that seemed to descend from above on the old lady. The building looked even more ancient than it was: tired, as if it would keel over and die if it weren’t for the two modern skyscrapers supporting it on either side. Pete waved back at her.
“I need your help!” Mrs Burton shouted.
Pete waved again, and ran in at the front door of Paradise Mansions and up the stairs. The lift had been stuck on the third floor for as long as he could remember, and it served as an art studio for Nathaniel the Artist, who lived next door to Mrs Burton. (He was actually a handyman, since he had never sold a painting and he had to eat. But, as Mrs Burton observed, selling a painting didn’t make you an artist, and he had such a sensitive and artistic soul.)
“What’s wrong?” Pete asked as he entered her small flat and threw his schoolbag on the floor.
“The Bubonic Plague, that’s what’s wrong!” fumed Mrs Burton, wiping her hands on her apron. “The Black Death!”
“Rats,” said her son Spike from behind his coffee mug at the kitchen table. “She found some rat droppings in the bathroom this morning. You’d think they’d be decent enough to use the can.”
“It’s no joke, Spike. Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?” Mrs Burton tugged at the collar of his police uniform. “You’re all wrinkled. Don’t you have an iron?”
“This is my tea break,” said Spike. “We’re allowed fifteen minutes teatime in the afternoon.”
Mrs Burton smiled at Pete. “I’m so proud of him.” She took a pair of cups from the shelf and poured some tea.
“It must be a plague,” said Pete. “There was a rat in my schoolbag this morning.”
“Listen, I want you to ask old Humperdinck to set traps and catch these horrid things. He’s supposed to be the caretaker of this building. It’s time he starts doing his job!”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
Spike sniggered. “They aren’t talking to each other.”
“Not talking to each other? He isn’t talking to me!”
“Broke my old lady’s heart, he has,” said Spike. It was an open secret that Mrs Burton was in love with Mr Humperdinck. “She ambushed him on the second landing this morning when he went up to his flat for tea. Lipstick, scent, feather boa and all. Didn’t even see her.”
“‘Idon’twanttobuyanythingthankyou,’ he said and slammed the door in my face. Bang! As if I were some salesperson or something.” Mrs Burton waved her teaspoon wildly and almost poked Pete in the eye. “I’m NEVER going to speak to him again!”
“Until next time,” said Spike. He winked at Pete. “I can’t see what she sees in him. But I guess he is handsome for a short, fat, bald …”
“Your fifteen minutes are up!” snapped Mrs Burton. “Get your big bottom out of my house, you lazy animal!” She grabbed the broom, shooed him out of the door, and closed it behind him.
Then she smiled. “Such a dear boy, but he drives me up the wall. If I didn’t give birth to him myself …”
“I’ll ask Mr Humperdinck about the traps, but I still think you should speak to him yourself,” said Pete.
And then he blurted out, “Mrs Burton, why is my dad always drunk?”
“Oh dear,” Mrs Burton said. She straightened her blue-grey hair and sat down at the table. “Do you know what happened to your father and mother?”
Pete scowled. “How would I? Dad never speaks to me. He’s been drunk for as long as I can remember.”
“Well, maybe you should ask him! I’m sure he’d tell you if you asked him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I only know what I read in the papers. I didn’t know your dad before you moved in here. He wasn’t always a drunk, you know. He was a famous lawyer. One of the best in town.”
“And my mom?”
“Oh, Jennie was a beauty, all right. A medical doctor. Your father must’ve loved her