"Mixed Up" by Gordon Korman, Chapters 6–12

The guy looks around furtively. “You didn’t hear this from me,” he half whispers, “but you don’t need any of these fancy products. Just mix up a batch of the stinkiest stuff at your house—vinegar, Tabasco, garlic powder, cayenne pepper. Add water, boil it up on the stove, and when it cools, spray the liquid on your plants. Problem solved.”

“What the—” He says a lot more, but his voice gives out on him, and all I can hear is guttural throat-clearing that reminds me of a chain saw cutting into a piece of metal.

“Rabbit repellent,” he repeats in a calmer tone. “For your rabbit.”
“Jaws,” I admit sheepishly.

In answer, he takes my concoction off the stove and pours it down the sink.

When I was little, and my father first told me how he ruled the school, I always pictured him dressed like a king, with a crown and velvet robes, haranguing his loyal subjects on bleachers in a gym, with basketball hoops at each end.

But watching him go after Jaws makes me revise that picture. Now it’s almost military, making snares out of sticks and fishing line, and setting out Brussels sprouts and lettuce as rabbit bait.

As he’s deploying the snares all around the yard, she shows up with a pair of binoculars so they can hide in our tree house and wait for the enemy to show himself.

All he’s trying to do is to protect my plants from that marauding bunny, and here I am, rooting for the enemy.

Still, seeing him out there, defeating so many snares while still managing to snag the bait—you’ve got to admire the little guy’s sheer courage.

I’m standing opposite a kid who’s scowling just like Dad. We’re close—uncomfortably close—right in each other’s faces. I can sense the anger in the memory. This is a confrontation.

Kristi sidles up to me at the window. “Don’t tell Dad,” she whispers, “but I was cheering for the rabbit too.”

Willis and Jenna assume that I’m too clumsy to get a bag as far as the cans without breaking it. It never dawns on them that I’m a victim of sabotage. And how can I rat their darling son out?

The thing where I can’t conjure up my mother’s face has been getting worse.

I scrunch up my face and focus so intently that the name reverberates inside my head: Mom...Mom...Mom...

I scrunch up my face and focus so intently that the name reverberates inside my head: Mom...Mom...Mom...

The sparrow had hard feelings about being caught. It flapped in my face before flying off in a snit.

“Can’t we take the traps away?” my mother pleads. “They’re an eyesore. And they’re obviously not working.”

When the rabbit was ransacking my plants and, later, outsmarting Dad at every turn, he was somehow larger in my imagination, growing into the folk hero I was making him in my mind.

But now, he’s never seemed smaller, like a terrified sock puppet darting around the confined space.

Before I have a chance to wonder why I’m there or who died, a sadness comes over me that’s heavier, more devastating than anything I’ve ever experienced before.

He hits the ground running, executes a couple of wobbly circles to get his bearings, and takes off like a missile.

The first rule Sensei taught us is that you never use martial arts against anyone in the real world. It’s a discipline, a sport.

She nods gravely. “That happened this afternoon. It’s over now, but the whole building burned to the ground.”

As the news shows an aerial view of the action, I can see a panorama of roofs through the billowing gray smoke.

After dinner, I head upstairs to my computer and do a search for factory fire coupled with today’s date. It comes right up: the Amalgamated Printpack Company, which manufactured folding cartons for games and toys.

Why the cops? Why now?
My first impulse is to run.

I head to the garage just in time to see Declan staggering under the weight of two enormous Hefty bags.

I wedge myself into the alcove of a drinking fountain and wait until the rush subsides a little.

Then I’m out the door like a shot, fumbling the combination of my bike lock, hopping up on the seat, and pedaling for freedom.
As the building passes out of view behind me, I experience a rush of exhilaration I’m not used to.

Maybe this is how it feels to “rule the school” or at least break the rules. I have to admit it’s a new sensation and not necessarily a bad one. It mixes with determination as I turn onto the main road and head south.

About half an hour in, I can add an extra navigation system to the phone app: my nose. There’s an acrid smoky smell to the air, and it seems to be getting stronger.

I can picture her face as clearly as if she was standing right in front of me. Weirder still, for some reason I want her to be there. The yearning is so powerful it’s almost a physical ache.

Two of them wear T-shirts emblazoned with DELGADO MIDDLE SCHOOL.

Memories of Portia whirl around my head, offering fleeting glimpses.

Plus, now that Declan knows I’m vacuuming, he deliberately steps in mud so he can track it all over the house.

When I can’t get away—like when I have a test or something—she goes straight to Neighborhood Harvest and I get there when I can. I’ve had to implement a couple of life hacks in order to make all this work.

I try to make a similar play on a plastic bottle of pancake syrup, but it bounces off my fingers and skitters across the concrete floor. There are catcalls and a few boos, but nothing is allowed to interfere with the work we’re doing.

Bouncing around with the boxes, having your guts scrambled shouldn’t be fun. But it is, thanks to her.
Portia bounces too, throwing out her arms to maintain a precarious balance.

She rattles off a list of names, most of them the kids who’ve dubbed me Basket Case.

“Reef—” Portia begins tentatively.