Eat Your Poison, Dear Page 3

  “Follow me,” said Milo, leading the way to the second floor.

  If the living room was a museum, Milo’s bedroom was a laboratory. Even before entering, Sebastian and David had an idea of what lay beyond the door adorned with the simple hand-lettered sign, “Resident Genius.” The smell of mice permeated the entire upstairs. Where there weren’t cages filled with the chattering, nibbling, wheel-running creatures, there were computer printouts and microscopes, petri dishes and globes (geographical, topographical and astrological), open books, closed books and notebooks. Nowhere on the walls were there posters of rock stars or movie stars; the only stars to be found in Milo’s room belonged in constellations.

  “Fun place,” David whispered. “Remind me to see if it’s booked for Christmas vacation.”

  Milo collapsed on his bed. “Homework can wait,” he said. “You have my curiosity, Barth. What is this other matter you wish to discuss? My editorial, perhaps, and its ramifications?”

  “Maybe,” said Sebastian. “I don’t know whether your editorial has anything to do with it, but I think you’re being poisoned, Milo.”

  “Be serious,” said Milo Groot.

  “That’s what I said.” David was amazed to find himself agreeing with Milo about anything.

  “Well, the most likely candidate is Harley,” Milo went on. “And I would question his capability not only to conceive but to carry out such a crime.”

  “Look, Milo, Harley’s been picking on you ever since first grade. He called you ‘Four Eyes’ then, and tripped you every time you walked past him, remember?”

  Milo cringed. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  “Sorry,” said Sebastian. “The point is—”

  “The point is that Harley is a cretin. I know that. We all know that. We know too that Harley humiliated me in front of the entire school last spring at the awards assembly. But we also know that he didn’t do anything any other student wouldn’t have done if he’d had the opportunity. I am not exactly Mister Popularity at Pembroke Middle, Barth. If you want to compile a list of suspects for your poisoning caper, here’s last year’s yearbook. Open it to any page and point your finger.”

  Sebastian caught the book Milo tossed to him, and went on determinedly, “When you came to school today, how did you feel? You told me in shop class that the flu was gone. And you didn’t look sick.”

  “I felt fine,” said Milo. “So I have a strange virus. What of it?”

  “When the nurse saw you, did she just take your word for what was wrong with you?”

  “That, and the evidence I left on the cafeteria floor.”

  “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

  “My family doesn’t use them. Well, we use them occasionally, but only for emergencies. You might say we’re lapsed Christian Scientists.” Milo stopped talking and fell back onto his pillow. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I think my fever’s up again,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m tired. Can we talk about homework tomorrow, Barth?”

  “Sure,” said Sebastian, standing. David rose with him.

  “Barth?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really do think someone’s been poisoning me.”

  “I told you I did.”

  “In that case…”

  “Yes?”

  “In that case, may I join your investigation?”

  Sebastian and David looked at each other in surprise.

  “Please,” Milo went on, his voice growing soft. “I can help. Look around you. I have spent a great deal of time investigating the mysteries of the universe in this little room of mine. I’m good at finding things out, Barth. Besides …” It seemed that sleep was about to overtake him. “Besides, if your theory is correct, I have a right to know who it is … who it is who hates me so much.”

  David knew what Sebastian’s next words would be, even as he dreaded hearing them spoken.

  “Consider yourself in, Milo.”

  Milo’s eyes opened. “Really?”

  “Really. Get some rest, okay? We’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Milo, shutting his eyes again. A few seconds later, he began to snore.

  10

  “‘FEARLESS,’” said Sebastian, reading the nameplate on the big stainless steel machine. ‘That’s a funny name for a dishwasher.”

  Miss Swille laughed. “It is, isn’t it?” she said. “They haven’t made this kind for years. Why, she’s even older than I am.”

  “We call her ‘Fanny,’” said Barbara “Bea” Goode, one of the two assistant cooks.

  This made Miss Swille laugh even harder. “Oh, Bea,” she said, “you’re not supposed to tell.”

  “Well, now, why not? If Sebastian is going to work in the kitchen, he’d better know what we mean when we talk about ‘feeding Fanny.’ Otherwise, we might get into hot water. So to speak.”

  Tears began to roll down Dorothy Swille’s plump cheeks. “Bea Goode, you are such a card!”

  “And that reminds me,” Bea said to Sebastian. “As long as we’re to be working together, it’s no more ‘Mrs. Goode’ and ‘Miss Swille.’ I’m Bea and this here’s Dottie.” Nodding to the third member of the kitchen staff who, until this time had been silent, she added, “And Mrs. Dribowitz is Lill—”

  “Mrs. Dribowitz,” said Lillian Dribowitz, simultaneously picking up a cleaver and the rest of the sentence. She swung the cleaver down, neatly dissecting a head of lettuce. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at Sebastian, “but I can’t get used to students calling me by my Christian name. I just don’t think it’s proper. You’re a nice boy, Sebastian, I know that. I’m sure you wouldn’t abuse the privilege the way Eddie Davidson does, but—”

  “Harley has problems,” said Bea, holding an apron out to Sebastian. “Perhaps if you went easier with the boy, Lillian, he would have an easier time with you.”

  “I don’t have no degree in social work, Bea,” Lillian said. “And I’m not here to make friends with juvenile delinquents. I’m here to cook, not that anybody cares. We’re out of mayonnaise.”

  “You know where it’s kept,” said Dottie Swille. The humor was gone from her voice; she was all business now. “Bea, will you get Sebastian started on the soup? Sixth grade will be here any minute.”

  Sebastian followed Bea to the stove, where a big vat of soup was boiling. “Apple chowder?” he cracked, hoping to make her laugh.

  “What? Oh. No, it’s minestrone. The apples are in the burgers.” Sebastian had the feeling this was a conversation that would ordinarily have struck Bea Goode as funny. She was known for her sense of humor (“How could anybody called ‘Bea Goode’ not have a sense of humor?” she’d said). But she wasn’t laughing now.

  “Don’t pay them any mind,” she whispered to Sebastian, as she lifted the vat off the stove and onto a cart. “There’s something going on between those two this year. It’s Lillian, mostly. Maybe it’s change of life. Oh, Sebastian, I shouldn’t have said that. I mean … I don’t know what I mean. She’s plain nasty some days, and I don’t get it.”

  Wheeling the cart to the food counter, Bea accepted Sebastian’s offer of help in transferring the vat to its proper place. “Here come the hordes,” she said.

  “Bea,” Dorothy Swille called out. “How is it? Does it need anything?” The cafeteria manager appeared suddenly, waving a plastic container in one hand, a large spoon in the other. “Let me taste it,” she said. “Mm, it could use a little more.” She held the container over the vat, tapping it lightly until its contents began to spill out into the soup.

  “What’s that?” Sebastian asked.

  Miss Swille winked. “My secret herbs and spices,” she said. “It’s what makes my cooking special. My daddy used to say, ‘Dottie, there’s nobody cooks the way you do.’” She held the container against her heart and said, “He loved my cooking, my daddy did. Now I’ve got nobody to feed but me and nine cats.”

  “And four hundred hungry boys
and girls,” said Bea.

  Suddenly, someone called out, “Hey, Sebastian, are you working here now?” He recognized the voice as belonging to the sixth-grade wiseguy, Chris Buzzino.

  “Soup?” Sebastian asked.

  “I guess so,” said Chris, taking a bowl. He looked at it and made a face. “Hey, it’s got things floating in it. What kind of soup is this, anyway?”

  “Cream of cootie,” said Sebastian. “Next.”

  11

  “HARLEY NEVER showed up,” Sebastian told David later.

  The two were holed up in the boys’ room between classes. David had flipped open his pocket notebook to tell Sebastian what he had learned that morning. But Sebastian had spoken first.

  “I know,” David said. “He’s absent.”

  “Sick?”

  David shrugged. “Playing hooky probably. I heard Mrs. Kershaw say that Harley’s been trying so hard to turn over a new leaf this year, he probably ‘plumb wore out.’”

  “Sounds like something Mrs. Kershaw would say. But what does she mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe his volunteering for cafeteria duty. That isn’t exactly something you’d figure Harley to go in for, you know?” Sebastian nodded. “Speaking of cafeteria duty, how’d it go today?”

  “Not bad. I didn’t learn a whole lot.” Sebastian took out a comb and began to run it through his hair. “Miss Swille and Mrs. Goode are really pretty nice, but Mrs. Dribowitz has a mean streak in her. And Bea, that’s Mrs. Goode, she thinks there’s something going on between her and Miss Swille.”

  “Oh, boy,” said David. “Intrigue in the school cafeteria.”

  “Kitchen capers,” Sebastian said, and both boys laughed. “What did you find out?”

  “I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, exactly. I asked a few questions, and learned that a, Miss Swille orders the food through a central office; b, she places an order once a week; c, some of the food comes from the government; d, she plans all the menus; e, all the cooking is done on the premises; and, f, I certainly am curious, aren’t I. When I reached f, I decided I’d asked enough questions.” David closed his notebook.

  “Tomorrow,” said Sebastian, “find out everybody who has access to the food—who’s in and out of the cafeteria at all times of the day.”

  “You’re in a better position to find that out than I am. Besides—” David’s sentence was cut off by the boisterous arrival of Brad and Jason, a.k.a. Biker and Breeze.

  “Geez, Biker,” said Jason, ignoring Sebastian’s and David’s presence, “I thought you were gonna get killed, for sure.”

  “Did you see the look on Hogan’s face? He thought it was a real tattoo.” Sebastian noticed the red and blue snake winding its way up Brad’s forearm. “‘Young man,’” Brad went on, imitating the principal, “‘do your parents know about this?’”

  The two boys cracked up, as Brad removed a pack of cigarettes from inside his notebook. He struck a match, and tossed the pack to Jason. “I dropped these in Greenburg’s class the other day,” he said. “I forgot to tell you.”

  “Did he see them?” Jason asked.

  “I was so cool. I just said, ‘Whoops.’ Greenburg looked at me, but he didn’t say anything.”

  “‘Whoops’!” Jason cried.

  They laughed even harder at this, mostly for the benefit of their unacknowledged audience, Sebastian was sure. He noticed that though they exhaled extravagantly, neither inhaled at all. As he nodded to David that it was perhaps time for them to leave, the door swung open and through it came Adam. The moment he saw Jason and Brad, he stiffened.

  “Hi, Sebastian,” he said. “Hi, David.”

  “Hi, Adam,” both boys said.

  Adam started to cough. “Kinda smoky in here, isn’t it? Smells like a couple of stink bombs went off.”

  Sebastian saw Jason and Brad exchange looks. “Come on, bro,” Brad whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “let’s blow this pop stand.” He crushed his cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe, and turned to leave. Jason immediately did likewise.

  Adam rushed over to Brad and grabbed his arm. “Hey, hey,” Brad said. “Back off, Adam. Be cool, my man.”

  “Stop it!” Adam shouted. “Stop talking like that.”

  “Talking like what? What’s he getting at, Breeze?”

  “You’ve got to learn to be cool, Adam,” Jason said. “That’s why we don’t hang out with you anymore. You’re not cool. Right, Biker?”

  “Right, Breeze. Come on, let’s go.”

  The door swung open and shut, and two-thirds of the Devil Riders were gone. The smell of their cigarette smoke lingered. When Adam turned back into the room, Sebastian started to speak. But Adam cut him off.

  “Don’t say anything,” he said. His lower lip was bleeding. He must have bitten it, Sebastian thought. “Just leave me alone.”

  “If you want to come over after school…” Sebastian said.

  “Leave me alone!” Adam shouted.

  David tugged on his friend’s sleeve. “I think he’s trying to tell us something,” he said.

  “Right,” said Sebastian, picking up his books. “Right.”

  12

  THIS TIME, Milo’s mother came to the door.

  “You must be Barth and Lepinsky,” she said, briskly ushering them into the house. “I’m Cecily Groot. Milo has told me so much about you. I’m certainly pleased that he’s found friends other than that Hansen boy. Don’t misunderstand me, Brian comes from a good family, but I do wonder about his influence on Milo sometimes.” David started to giggle, thinking of Brian Hansen as someone a mother would worry about. “Are you known as anything but Barth and Lepinsky, by the way? Please call me Cecily.”

  “I’m Sebastian.”

  “And I’m David.”

  “Sebastian. David. Oh! Sebastian.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is your mother Katie Hallem?”

  Sebastian nodded.

  “I’ve heard her talk about her son, Sebastian. But I didn’t make the connection because Milo calls you Barth. And of course your mother’s last name is different from yours. How liberated of her. I adore her little restaurant. She sells my elderberry jam there. Do you know my elderberry jam? You don’t? I make it from my own tree, right here in the yard. Well, you go up and see Milo, I know how he’s looking forward to your visit. He’s desperate about missing school. School is his entire raison d’être. When you come down, I’ll serve you some biscuits and jam. Would you like that?”

  “Well…” David said.

  “That would be very nice,” said Sebastian. “How is Milo, anyway?”

  “Much improved, thank you. I expect he’ll be able to go back tomorrow.”

  “I thought he was going to be out a whole week. His flu—”

  “Flu? He doesn’t have the flu. He ate something, that’s all. Besides, there’s no such thing as flu. It’s an illusion. Now, you two run along, and I’ll brew some tea.”

  “Translation,” David whispered, climbing the stairs. “Raison d’être: reason for being.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian. “Now translate his mother.”

  13

  AS PREDICTED, Milo Groot returned to school the following day. Harley was back too, wearing a worried expression and the same clothing he’d last been seen in. Both appeared first thing that morning in the principal’s office.

  “Milo,” David later reported to Sebastian between classes, “came in demanding that Mr. Hogan consider his editorial and do something about the quote rampaging marauders in leather jackets unquote.”

  “What did Mr. Hogan say to that?”

  “He told Milo that he’d received no reports of rampaging, and that there was nothing inherently evil about leather jackets.”

  “Did he then tell Milo to put that in his pipe and smoke it?”

  “No, but he thanked Milo for sharing his thoughts on the matter, and told him his opinions were welcome anytime. Milo left in a huff.”

  “‘In
a huff?” said Sebastian. “Where’d you come up with that?”

  “Mrs. Kershaw. I’m only telling you what I heard Mrs. Kershaw and Mr. Hogan talking about later. I wasn’t there for the main event.”

  “What about Harley? Did they mention him?”

  “Yep. Harley was called in to explain his absence.”

  “His mother didn’t send a note?”

  “He doesn’t have a mother.”

  “I thought he did.”

  “Everybody thinks that, because that’s what Harley says. But this morning, he wasn’t talking. Mr. Hogan said he’s going to call the family’s social worker.

  “Oh, oh, here comes your friend Milo. Does he have to be in on our investigation, Sebastian? I don’t think I can stand the smell of mice much longer. I think one of them died in there yesterday.”

  “Barth. Lepinsky.” Milo extended a clipboard in their direction. “How about signing my petition?” he said. “I’m demanding that Mr. Hogan do something about the Devil Riders.”

  “Sorry,” said Sebastian. “I signed Corrie’s football petition this morning. I believe in harrassing the principal on only one issue at a time. Besides, I’m late for lunch duty. Which reminds me, David, did you find out who has access to the cafeteria?”

  “How much do you want for one day?” David said. “I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow.” A bell rang loudly. “Now I’m late. See you, Sebastian.”

  “See you.”

  “But, Barth,” said Milo Groot.

  “See you, Milo.”

  Sebastian started toward the hall leading to the cafeteria. At the corner, Harley, Jason and Brad stood gaping at an open magazine and jabbing each other as each page was turned. Sebastian couldn’t help wondering again what made Jason and Brad want to be Harley’s friends, to wear fake tattoos and smoke cigarettes, to huddle in hallways and act all excited over pictures of motorcycles.