Toby Martin: Park Patrol

by

Barbara Grengs

Published by Write Words Inc. at Smashwords

copyright 2011 Barbara Grengs

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

WARNING: Making copies or distributing this file, either on disk, CD, or over the Internet is a Federal Offense under the U.S. Copyright Act, and a violation of several International Trade Agreements.

Chapter 1

A Sticky, Icky Situation

Thirty-five days and counting until I can stay up late, sleep in, walk the dogs around Lake Como, have picnics with Freddy, write whenever I want to...no homework, no Mrs. Trattles trashing my writing. I was in LaLa Land when suddenly...

Enh...enh...enh...enh... The irritating alarm blasted through my daydream and Mr. Ingersoll’s monotone lecture on the theme of Ray Bradbury’s short story All Summer in a Day, a really great short story that Ingersoll managed to wreck.

Spring quarter, just when things should be fun and exciting, Mrs. Trattles, my English teacher, had to get a student teacher, and he was not even cute. In fact, he bordered on downright dorky. Wearing a button-down white shirt, a sweater vest, and khaki pants, Mr. Ingersoll reminded me of a grown-up, Bobby Olson, the terrorist wannabe bomber boy who got expelled from school last December for making bomb threats. The difference being Bobby was a lot more fun. Mr. Ingersoll was as much fun as cramps.

Wanting to make his own space, Mr. Ingersoll had taken down Mrs. Trattles’s dorky posters and put up his own, mostly of old movies like Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Rocky. The bulletin board, which normally showcased our projects, was empty except for faded blue paper speckled with staples. It seemed that even the teachers were counting down the days.

Finally we can blow this joint, I said to my best friend Freddy, waking him up. Freddy was a former private school snooty-patooty until his dad lost his job, and he was forced to become a public school brat like my brother Gary and me. Freddy and I have lived next door to each other since we were little kids. Besides being best buds, he’s been very helpful solving crimes. So far we’ve solved The Case of the Missing Dogs, The Case of the Junior High Terrorist, and The Case of Anna’s Diary."

Wipe the drool off your chin so we can hit the road.

Wha...what’s happening, Toby?

A fire alarm, Drool Boy.

Just as we were about to leave the room, Mr. Lunneman, our not so beloved Merriam Park Junior High , yelled over the intercom, a.k.a. the Squawk Box:

"Please ignore the fire drill; this is just a test. For the next ten minutes we will be testing the alarm. At no time should you leave the building."

That’s really stupid. What if there was a real fire? If I was a pyro, that’s just when I’d start a fire, I said to Freddy who was gathering up his stuff to leave. Freddy, did you hear what the Squawk Box said? Take a load off and sit down. We still have to hear Icky Ingersoll’s lesson.

Miss Martin, would you care to share your charming wit with the entire class? Icky must have heard me.

I said that this is a sticky, icky situation because there might really be a fire and then what would we do? We’d sit here and be baked, simmered, broiled, boiled, sautéed, fried. I had run out of cooking terms.

We get the picture, Miss Martin.

By this time the class was giggling. Just then the alarm blasted once again. Mr. Ingersoll decided to take the low road and have us answer the questions at the end of the story that happened to be a lot more interesting than his lecture.

I had just finished the last question when I started to feel funny. My stomach kinda hurt, and I knew I should get to a bathroom fast. This felt different from the several false alarms I’d experienced the last few months. Last summer Mom gave me the book What it Means to Be a Girl by Ms. Mirabel McFee that explained the facts of life. Good thing too because I was just about to experience one of the biggies. I grabbed my backpack that contained the supplies Ms. McFee and Mom said every girl must carry at all times.

Mr. Ingersoll, may I please use the restroom? He looked like he might say no until I whispered my problem, but the fire alarm was still blaring so I had to yell. Just then it stopped as I belted out, My period. The entire class exploded in laughter as I lowered my head in embarrassment. He shooed me out of the room like a disgusting fly, and I rushed to the little girls’ room to take care of my situation.

While in the bathroom stall dealing with my little friend, I thought I smelled smoke. I figured it was some ninth grade girl trying to be cool, smoking a cigarette, but when I went out to wash my hands, I noticed the wastebasket was in flames. I tried splashing some water on the fire, but the wastebasket was too far away to reach. I even tried cupping my hands, but the water leaked through. I could empty my backpack and use that as a bucket, or I could run to the office for help.

Great, just great. My first day being a woman, the whole school knew the details, my school was on fire, and no one was leaving because the fire alarm wasn’t working properly.

As I ran past the boys’ bathroom, I smelled smoke. When I stuck my head into the lav, I saw that their wastebasket was flaming as well. What if all the pyros in the school decided to start the lav wastebaskets on fire all over the building? We had at least two bathrooms on each floor and there were three floors so that made at least six fires in the building. OMG! I ran to the main office and tried to get our principal’s secretary, Mrs. Sullivan’s attention, but she was busy on the phone. So I did what any kid would do in that situation, I yelled Fire at the top of my lungs.

What is it, young man, that’s so important you have to be rude and yell? Mrs. Sullivan asked, patting her out of date dyed blonde pageboy. I must admit I used to look more like a boy before I let my short, curly red hair grow out. Obviously, she hadn’t heard the news about the new womanly me or that pageboys were so last century.

There are fires in both the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms! And we have been told not to exit the building.

Enh...enh...enh... The alarm seemed to be mocking us.

Stay right where you are, young man. Mrs. Sullivan first rushed into the hallway where she sniffed the air and then she ran to the intercom phone: Hey everybody, we’ve got to leave. A young man has reported fires in both the first floor boys’ and girls’ lavs. You must exit the building and stay outside until we sound the safe bell or whatever it’s called. Just leave! Mrs. Sullivan clearly was not used to the intercom because she sounded like an idiot, and she left it on as she yelled for Principal Lunneman. The entire school heard, Henry, dear, the lavs are on fire! We gotta call 911 and get the hell outta here!

By the way, Mrs. Sullivan, I’m a girl, Toby Martin, remember me? I yelled as I rushed out of the office. She like totally ignored me.

Looks like I wasn’t the only one whose private information just became public. Mrs. Sullivan and Mr. Lunneman. Eww.

Headsup

Pyro: short for pyromaniac, a fire starter. Seems like we have an extracurricular club at school for firephiles. How’s that for a word?

Ray Bradbury: a really cool old writer dude, born in 1920, who looks at what might happen in the future. He wrote Fahrenheit 451 where the government burns all books. Now if the government would burn history books, I’d be totally