Free Brass Monkeys by Terry Caszatt Page B

Mingley operates, how she looks around for an ugly, depressing school and how she and her two stinkers—Strobe and Fundebore—move in and drive out the good teachers. And of course, I assumed you read it all! But your generation—you don’t read either! Little button brains!”
    “Listen, I read a ton of stuff,” I began. A stinky sock landed on my shoulder and I snatched it off fast. “But I still don’t have the slight—”
    “Told you to watch out for the music and incense so it didn’t change you into a fur brain. Maybe too late now.” He tossed some boxer shorts back that would have hit me right in the face, but luckily I batted them away. “And of course you really botched up the deal with Harriet Grove. Smartest kid in the school, and I knew she’d be the one, to help you so I let her know you were coming.”
    “You
wrote the note to Harriet,” I blurted out.
    “Of course I did! I told you in the last letter she’d be your contact. You were supposed to bring her tonight.” He shook his head. “Totally fouled that up.”
    “Okay, look,” I said, “I see what happened. I never got your dumb let—”
    But he was rattling loudly in some pots and pans—evidently his cooking equipment—and not listening at all.
    “Couldn’t figure out where you were living,” he grumbled on. “And of course after I escaped, all I could find to travel around on was this stupid bike.”
    “Escaped?” I said. I was sure he meant from a mental ward, or maybe jail.
    “Yes, escaped!” he snapped. You know, from
there.”
    “Right,” I said, trying to humor him.
“There.”
    “Then I finally spotted you by the laundromat,” he continued, “tried to follow you to your house but fell down and nearly killed myself. On top of that, I had to keep chasing off this local character called Funny Frank who wanted to be my friend.” He lifted out a frying pan, examined the grease in the bottom, then tossed it down. “And while I’m doing all this running around,” he went on, “I’m worried sick about how Mingley would be driving all of you into the Monkeymind zone.”
    “Uh, well,” I began, “it’s funny you should mention that because today—”
    A clatter of dishes drowned me out. He was waving off my response anyway with a know-it-all look. “I figured so. It takes her about this long to darken them, ruin their imaginations, and put them into that awful helpless funk. And once she starts using the word ‘Monkeymind,’ then it’s just about zero hour—”
    He froze suddenly and peered off, his eyes wide and crazy looking. “Bells,” he whispered. “They’re circling back.” He began scrabbling wildly in the suitcase. He flung aside some old newspapers. “Yes, here’s my little baby right here. All nice and safe.”

12

brass monkeys
    He brought up a book. In the beam of light I could see the cover was red, but I couldn’t see a title or an author’s name.
    Webster’s gray eyes sharpened. “McGinty’s book,” he whispered. “Good old
Brass Monkeys
.” He handed it to me and, like a brainless squash, I took it.
    “It’s all yours now,” he went on. “You’re the one. You can save Harriet Grove and every kid in the country, or you can let them sink. It’s all up to you.”
    I stared at him. “You mean I can still help Harriet? With this book?”
    He looked at me like I needed a brain transplant. “Of course you can still help her! You nougat head! That’s what we’ve been talking about for days. Do you want to help her and the others, or not?”
    “Oh man, do I ever,” I blurted out. “More than anything.” I felt my eyes filling. “See, I did something really rotten at school.” I was stopped by the sound of voices.
    “They’re getting close,” hissed Webster. “Got to move fast now. That means I do a review and you listen.” He yanked me up by my coat collar. “You listening?”
    I managed to bob my head. “I’m listening.”
    He lowered his voice and began