Fish Finelli (Book 2) Page 4

  “Another one bites the dust,” said Roger as he pulled another oyster out from between his toes. I swear his toes are like lobster’s pincer claws. He never dropped a single one. Even though T. J. and I had dropped some, the three of us had still managed to find so many that we had to leave the bucket in the shallows because it was so heavy.

  PLINK! PLINK! PLINK!

  “Check out this jump shot,” said Roger, splashing water all over us as he jumped up and threw another oyster in the bucket.

  PLINK!

  “Mahoney shoots a three-pointer from the line!” T. J. aimed high and threw.

  PLINK! went the oyster into the bucket.

  “Who knew Clam Ball could be so much fun?” asked Roger.

  Just as the bucket was almost full, we heard a growing hum. We turned to see three boats racing across the bay. The hum raised in pitch, getting louder as the one with the red stripe that was way in the lead skimmed the surface. It looked like a Whaler Super Sport, and I bet it had twenty or even thirty horsepower to go so fast. Ten horsepower was nothing compared to that, but kids our age pretty much weren’t allowed to drive boats with so much speed till we were older, unless there was an adult on board.

  My mouth dropped open as I watched the red boat’s hull rise into the air. The propeller was practically the only part of the boat that was still in the water.

  “Snap!” said Roger. “That boat is flying!”

  I nodded. “It’s called planing. We need to try to do that, too, if we want to win the Classic.”

  “How do you do it?” asked T. J.

  “It happens when the speed of the boat pushing the hull out of the water is equal to the force exerted by the water on the bottom of the hull,” I said.

  “In English, genius,” said Roger.

  “Just like how a plane flies,” I said. “On account of the force of the air pressure pushing against the wings. I’m pretty sure that’s how come it’s called planing.”

  “Who cares what it’s called?” said Roger. “It’s awesome!”

  We were so busy watching the red boat zooming over the waves that we didn’t notice the smaller white boat with the green stripe zipping toward us. There was a third boat with a blue stripe just behind it.

  “Get off our beach!”

  I didn’t have to see the name painted on the side to know it was the Viper. Or the gold sunglasses on the face of the boy at the wheel to know it was Bryce. His best friend, Trippy, snickered beside him. Clementine was behind them. She wore a red bathing suit and the same serious expression she had when she looked at me lying on the pile of weeds in her yard.

  “This isn’t your beach!” I shouted.

  “Yeah!” said Roger and T. J.

  “Beat it, clam diggers!” Bryce pulled out the throttle and swerved closer.

  Waves rocketed toward us. Salty water shot up and filled my nose, eyes, and mouth. Behind us the oyster bucket tipped over. Roger splashed over to pick it up. Trippy and the other boys in the blue boat laughed. I noticed they were all wearing Sandstone Club sweatbands.

  Bryce swerved again, making the water splash all over us. Clementine held on unhappily to the rail.

  “You don’t own this beach!” I said.

  “It’s club property,” said Bryce. “And since you don’t belong to the club, you don’t belong here.”

  “It is not,” I said. “It belongs to the town, like all the beaches do. We have every right to be here.”

  “Well, maybe we just don’t want you around, birdbrain,” said Bryce. “I think it’s time for you to go find your tree! Tweet! Tweet!”

  “Tweet! Tweet!” echoed the other boys.

  “These clam diggers think they’re going to beat me at the Classic,” said Bryce. “You should see their boat. It’s an old wreck that will probably break down in the middle of the race.”

  The boy at the wheel of the blue-striped boat laughed. “There should be a rule that only cool, new boats like ours can enter.”

  “Good idea, True,” said Trippy, giving the boy a thumbs-up. True, unlike Bryce and Trippy, must have been a summer boy, because I had never seen him before.

  “Yeah, that would keep losers and their cheap boats out of the way,” said Bryce.

  “You know, winning isn’t just about having the most expensive boat,” said Clementine. “It’s also about having the skill to maneuver it.”

  Was Clementine sticking up for me?

  “Whatever,” said Bryce. “The fact is, birdbrain, you and your dork friends don’t stand a chance against us in the race. You should quit now before we slay you. ”

  I hate being told I can’t do something. It makes me madder than anything. I was so mad right then that all I could think about was how much I wanted to wipe that smug smile off Bryce’s face. I reached into my pocket for something to throw and pulled out the first thing I touched.

  “Just you wait, Bryce. You’ll see. Now leave us alone!” I started yanking on the split in the clamshell.

  “Yeah!” said Roger and T. J., coming to stand beside me.

  “You can’t tell me what to do, Clam Digger!”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I gave the clamshell one more hard yank. CRACK! It split open enough for me to pull out the slimy clam inside. Roger and T. J. gagged beside me. It stank something awful.

  “Yeah, loooooser!”

  I pulled back my arm, aimed, and let go.

  SPLAT!

  The clam hit Bryce on the forehead right between the eyes. Smelly clam slime oozed down his face and into his mouth.

  “PTOOEY!” Bryce made a face and spit it out.

  “EW, dude!” said True.

  “You stink!” said Trippy.

  Clementine had a hand over her mouth, as if she were trying to cover up a smile and cover her nose at the same time.

  “Clam-dunk, Finelli!” said Roger.

  Bryce wiped the clam gunk off his face and glared at me, sputtering mad. “You’re going to be sorry, Clam Digger!”

  Then he wound up to hurl the clam.

  “Duck!” shouted Roger.

  None of us wasted another second. T. J. took off first. Roger and I grabbed the bucket of oysters and ran after him. We could hear splashing sounds behind us. It was either stuff Bryce and his friends were throwing our way, or maybe they were coming after us themselves. We had to get out of there, and fast.

  Roger and I got to our bikes a second after T. J. “How are we going to carry the bucket on a bike?” Roger panted, trying to catch his breath. “It’s really heavy.”

  “Unload it,” I gasped, reaching into the bucket. “T. J., here, put a bunch of oysters in your pockets and in your bike bags. Roger, put them in your backpack. I’ll carry the rest in the bucket.”

  “Hurry!” said Roger. “They could be here any second.”

  We had just gotten onto our bikes and I was trying to balance the bucket between my handlebars when there was a crashing sound behind us. We looked up in time to see Bryce and Trippy bursting through the weeds.

  “Go!” I pushed off and pedaled like crazy.

  Roger and T. J. took off, too. We didn’t slow down till the club and Sandy Lane were long past and we had reached the harbor. By then we were sweaty, sandy, and exhausted. It was just past five o’clock. Si was packing up the wagon and Mi was counting the money.

  “Dudes, what happened to you?” said Mi, looking us up and down. “Run-in with some tough clams?”

  “As a matter of fact, Bryce and Trippy,” said Roger, jumping off his bike.

  “Ouch!” said Mi.

  “I can’t wait till we beat them in the Classic,” I said, dropping my bike and grabbing the bucket. “Check out what we found.”

  “It’s your lucky day, guys,” said Roger, opening up his backpack.

  Mi and Si peered inside. I handed them the bucket and T. J. pulled more oysters out of his bags and pockets. Their eyes almost popped out of their heads.

  “Oysters?! Dudes, you rock! We haven’t had an
y oysters in weeks.”

  Si high-fived each of us.

  “I didn’t know you were planning to go up against Bryce Billings,” said Mi, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “He’s got that sick new whaler, and . . .” His voice trailed off. “Dude, the Clam Brothers are so going to help you on your mission.”

  Si nodded solemnly at his brother’s words.

  “You can bring the motor to the marina now. Eli is working late.”

  T. J., Roger, and I got back on our bikes.

  “I hope you beat Bryce Billings,” said Mi. “I don’t think you have a snowball’s chance in a campfire, but . . .” He paused and held up a slimy clam. “I solemnly swear on the clam that whatever the Clam Brothers can do to help, we’ll do.” He handed the clam to Si.

  “Ditto. I solemnly swear on the clam. . . .”

  IT’S A BIRD IT’S A PLANE. IT’S THE FIREBALL!

  Three days later, Roger, T. J., and I were on our way to pick up the Seagull.

  “I can’t wait to see how Eli bored out the cylinder and put in the bigger piston.” I smiled as I pulled the wagon along the dock. Most boats were already tied up for the night since it was after seven, so it was pretty quiet.

  “Hey, let’s go check the sign-up sheet for the race,” I said, dropping the wagon handle and running up the steps to the marina office. There were eight racers in each race class, and the classes were divided by age group: eleven and under, which was our class; twelve- to fourteen-year-olds; and fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds. I knew Bryce and Two O were racing for sure, as well as this fifth-grader named Max, who was a sailor but who wanted to try a motorboat race. Bryce’s friend, True, who we met when we were clamming, was in the race, too, last I checked, along with three other summer kids I didn’t know, but there was still no eighth racer.

  “Oooh, looks like we’ve got a number eight,” said Roger, elbowing me out of the way.

  “Hey,” I said. “Let me see. Who is it?”

  Roger moved his shoulder to block my view.

  “Z something,” said T. J., peering over Roger’s other shoulder.

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Zat is ze question,” said Roger.

  T. J. shrugged. “Z something I can’t pronounce is the name of the boat. There’s nothing listed under racer’s name.”

  “Guys!” called Mi, running up to us. “C’mon!”

  I forgot all about the eighth racer, as we hurried after him to the same shed where Eli had been working on the princess. This time he wasn’t wearing goggles, though.

  He finished tightening one of the spark plugs below the Seagull’s fuel tank. Then he wiped the grease off his hands with a rag. There were tools and engine parts all over the place.

  “It’s all set,” he said, giving the Seagull a final rub with his rag. “Runs nice and quiet, too. You had fixed it, and it would have run, but a little bit of rust was clogging up the fuel tank. The original four-bladed propeller is in good condition. It’s excellent in any kind of rough water. I tweaked the blade of the pitch, too, so that should up the horsepower one or two points.”

  “Funny how it still looks the same,” said Roger, scratching his head.

  “On the outside, but not on the inside,” I said. “Did you change the carburetor?”

  “No. Shaving the cylinder to allow a greater volume of air and fuel, plus the bigger piston, should boost your power. Oh, and I got you some high-octane fuel to put in your tank on race day, which should give you a little bit more speed.” He pointed to a red canister by his feet.

  “Racing fuel! Wow! Thanks, Eli.” I stared in awe from the fuel to the motor. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you. . . .”

  Eli shrugged. “Hey, seventy-two oysters at ten dollars a dozen is—”

  “Sixty bucks,” said Mi. “Not too shabby, dudes. Not too shabby at all. You can clam for the Clam Brothers anytime—you can be our new Oyster Division.”

  Si nodded.

  “Only if you cut us in for fifty percent,” said Roger.

  “Fifty percent? Are you kidding me, Huckleton?” said Mi.

  The two of them started to argue about what was fair.

  Eli turned to me. “I want to show you how I fixed the clamps so you can attach the Seagull tightly to your boat. It’s a whaler, right?”

  I nodded. “An eleven-footer from the seventies. We fixed it up with some help from the Captain, who gave it to me.”

  “The Captain who lives out by Whale Rock?”

  I nodded. Eli whistled. “You’re lucky, dude. The Captain knows everything about boats. He sailed a destroyer during the Second World War.”

  “And a minesweeper and a torpedo boat,” I said.

  “So, how was the whaler? Hull cracked?” asked Eli.

  “Yep. The Captain helped us seal the cracks, sand the decks a bunch of times, and put on like five coats of epoxy, primer, and paint. And we got a new wheel.”

  “Excellent.” Eli pointed to the clamps on the motor. “Once you secure the clamps to the transom, I think it’s a good idea to tie the motor to the boat with a lanyard, too. And make sure the Seagull’s tilted so that the propeller is at the right depth. The exhaust outlet should be no more than an inch or two below the surface of the water.”

  He tilted the motor to show me what he meant, and then helped me load it in the wagon. The Seagull is awkward to carry, but it’s not all that heavy. It weighs about thirty-eight pounds, just a few more pounds than Feenie.

  Eli stood there for a minute, thinking. “You know, getting up on plane may be hard with the weight of three of you in the boat, even with the boost in horsepower.”

  I nodded. From a purely mathematical point of view, it made the most sense for only one of us to race because the least amount of weight would most easily allow the bow to tip up and the hull to rise. I imagined myself alone at the wheel, cruising around the buoys at the Classic, the crowd roaring.

  Then I looked over at Rog and Teej, laughing with Mi and Si. I realized that even though I wanted to beat Bryce more than anything, I wouldn’t be racing at all if it weren’t for them. It was the three of us or none of us. We’d figure out a way to get the Fireball to plane. Eli hadn’t said it was impossible.

  “Thanks for everything, Eli.”

  He smiled without looking up, already hard at work on another motor. I watched him remove a brand-new three-bladed propeller.

  “What’s wrong with the prop?” I couldn’t help asking.

  Eli shrugged. “People think a bigger prop is better because it makes a boat go faster, but if it makes the engine rev too fast, it will actually blow out the motor.”

  “Wow! I never knew that.”

  “Hey, Finelli, time to make like a drum and beat it,” said Roger.

  “You mean make like a tree and leave,” said Mi.

  “What about make like a bee and buzz?” asked T. J.

  Si shook his head and laughed at the three of them.

  “How about make like an atom and split?” I said, pulling the wagon over to where they were waiting for me.

  “Very funny, Einstein.”

  “You know, Einstein is the scientist who split the atom by coming up with the formula E = mc2.”

  “No!” said Roger, grabbing me and pulling me toward him. “He’s turning into a mad scientist again. Only noogies will save him.”

  He, T. J., Mi, and Si all began rubbing their knuckles over my head.

  “Guys, stop!” I said. Noogies tickle when they’re not done too hard, or maybe I just have a very ticklish head.

  “Good luck in the race, Fish!” said Eli.

  We headed back along the dock as the sun sank behind the trees. Cicadas were chirping, and the sky was purple-blue like an oyster shell.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Mi, as T. J., Roger, and I turned toward Main Street.

  “We’ll bring a stopwatch to time you,” added Si.

  “Oh-nine-hundred hours,” said Mi. “Be there or be square.”

&nb
sp; “Huh?” said T. J.

  “Oh-nine-hundred hours means nine o’clock in the morning,” I said. “It’s military time.”

  “Don’t be late!” Roger said.

  “Punctuality is the Clam Brothers’ middle name,” Mi said before he and Si disappeared around the bend.

  Mi wasn’t kidding. He and Si were right on time the next morning when they met us at the Captain’s dock. It’s always been one of my favorite places because you can see all the boats going by.

  I took a moment to look proudly at the Fireball. It had taken the three of us and the Captain a while, but the seats had been sanded and stained to shiny brown wood. The interior was shiny blue. We had even painted the name fireball on the starboard side with metallic red and yellow paint. The letters dripped some, so you kind of had to squint to read the words, but it still looked cool.

  “Ready.” I yanked on the reef knot I put in the lanyard to secure the motor the way Eli had instructed. Earlier that morning, the Captain had helped me hook up the fuel and steering cables to the gearbox beside the new wheel. I double-checked the clamps one more time to make sure they were tight.

  “Ready,” said Roger, holding up three PFDs and the Bug Patrol Emergency Backpack/Detective Kit. It’s this bright orange backpack where we keep our bug-catching supplies and our detective stuff, like a flashlight, empty plastic containers for evidence or insects, dusting powder, a notebook, and rubber gloves. Now it also held a first-aid kit.

  “Ready,” said T. J., holding up a big brown paper bag. Veggie chips poked out of the top.

  “T. J., no food,” I said. “We have to have as little weight as possible to get up on plane.”

  “Even healthy stuff like veggie chips?” He sighed, but he put down the bag.

  “Let’s do this!” said Si, holding a stopwatch.

  Mi picked up the bag of chips and tore them open. “Hmm. These actually taste pretty good, Mahoney. . . . Now, to Whale Rock and back.”

  I hopped in first to start the motor. I pulled on the rope to turn the flywheel clockwise, shut the throttle down to avoid racing, and opened the choke. The Seagull roared to life.

  I grinned as Roger and T. J. hopped into the Fireball and I took my place at the wheel. Roger sat just ahead of me and T. J. was just behind. I pulled out the throttle.