The Terrible Two Go Wild Read online

  FOR SUSAN

  Prologue

  Summer is different. Summer is strange. Time slows and drifts. Bees hover, suspended over flowers, their bellies brushed gold. School is out. Days are long. The sun lingers in the sky, and when it sets, the sky glows for hours. It’s an in-between time. You are no longer in the grade you finished last spring; you are not yet in the grade you will start in the fall. There are no school days, no weekends. Monday is meaningless. One day slides gently into the next. It’s hard to keep track. Days indoors. Days outdoors. Days down in your best friend’s basement, searching for the seventh secret coin in the desert world of that one video game. Sprinkler days. Water balloon days. Days memorizing dance routines off the internet. The days trying all forty-three flavors of ice cream at the ice cream parlor, and the days figuring out the perfect combination of flavor and cone (sugar, cake, waffle; plain or chocolate dipped). Swimming days. Days looking up cheat codes for games you already beat. Days your best friend goes on vacation, and you watch TV shows you’ve already seen because you don’t want to do anything new till your best friend gets back. Days making secret potions with stuff from the pantry. Days your dad makes you go golfing. Days building a waterslide park for ants. Days at the movie theater, in air-conditioning, sucking soda through a licorice straw while things explode on-screen. In the fall, it will be dark and chilly, and you will look back and remember fifty different kinds of day, and it will be like you lived fifty different summers. This book is about a summer in the woods.

  Chapter

  1

  Ah, summer in Yawnee Valley! Welcome, welcome. Smell the wildflowers blooming in the woods! Smell the cows, who bend down with hungry lips to tear those wildflowers from their stems, chewing them, swallowing them, and regurgitating them, up and down, to and fro, from mouth to stomach to mouth again, for hours and hours, till their petals, pistils, and stamens have degraded into cud, which the cows finally digest. Sorry! That was disgusting. But hey, the flowers have nice names! Peaseblossom and thistle, broom and leek. Cowslips, hawthorn, eglantine. And, of course, hearts-ease, known too as Johnny-jump-up, or love-in-idleness, or the field violet.

  If you’ve read the first two books in this series, The Terrible Two and The Terrible Two Get Worse, you know the field violet is a special kind of flower. The field violet is the state flower. And if you know that, then you probably know it’s illegal to pick them. It’s not like you’d get sent to jail. Still, it’s frowned upon. You could get in trouble.

  Of course, trouble never stopped these two, and it probably never will.

  That’s a lot of violets!

  “One of us smells like a turkey,” said Miles. (He’s the one on the right.)

  “What?” said Niles. (He’s the other one, the one on the left.)

  “Like a turkey,” said Miles. “Like Thanksgiving dinner. One of us smells like Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Niles. “Yeah. That’s you.”

  “What?” said Miles. “How do you know it’s me?”

  Niles pointed to a couple of places on Miles’s outfit. “You’re wearing sage. And leeks. You rub that stuff on a turkey.”

  “You could have warned me!” said Miles.

  “I said just do violets.”

  It’s true. Niles had said that. But early that morning, when they were scrounging flowers in the forest for camouflage, Miles had thought it’d be cool to have some variety. A little white. A couple shades of purple. So he’d picked some leeks and some sage and even some wild garlic. Now that he was belly down in a violet patch, breathing hard and baking in the midday sun, Miles was having regrets.

  When Miles had regrets, he tended to act as if he had no regrets.

  “Well, I still think it looks good,” said Miles.

  “I even think it smells good,” said Niles. “I like turkey.”

  “Then what the heck are we arguing about?”

  “I didn’t think we were arguing.”

  “You said I smelled like a turkey!”

  “You said you smelled like a turkey,” said Niles. “I never said anything!”

  “How can you say that, when you’re saying something right now!”

  They continued to argue about whether they were arguing.

  Nearby, a branch broke.

  A boy cursed. Another boy laughed.

  Miles and Niles both shut their mouths.

  They buried their heads in the flowers so they blended in with the field, which was on a little hill that overlooked a circle of trees. Miles and Niles crawled forward and took up a post behind a big piece of granite. From there, they could spy on the grove.

  There was trash in the grove—crushed cans and magazines torn in half, a crumpled sweatshirt sinking into a mud puddle. An old knife stuck out from a stump. Crudely painted signs were nailed into tree trunks.

  The voices in the woods grew louder. Someone delivered the punch line to a bad joke. A rude song was sung badly. And then three boys burst into the clearing, cackling, shoving, and kicking.

  Papa Company.

  Two of the boys were hard to tell apart. They wore identical olive drab pants and identical olive drab T-shirts, with little identical olive side caps smashed onto their identical heads. (They were identical twins.)

  Miles and Niles kept their eyes on the third boy: the tallest boy, the biggest boy, the boy who was swinging a rusty cage with his left arm.

  This boy wore a bunch of heavy military medals pinned to his T-shirt. The decorations pulled his collar down from his neck and made the whole shirt sag. He looked ridiculous, but the rest of Papa Company (all two of them) didn’t think so. His medals demanded respect. They were symbols of power. (They had been purchased, five for three bucks, at a thrift store in downtown Yawnee Valley.)

  The leader of Papa Company hung the cage from a low branch at the edge of the clearing. It rattled and shook.

  The cage had something inside it.

  The thing inside it shrieked.

  Up at the rock, Miles craned his head forward and squinted. He wanted to see what was in the cage.

  A dark shape flitted around and banged against the metal. The members of Papa Company gathered around and laughed. One poked a stick through the bars. There was more shrieking, some chattering, and a few frantic clicks.

  Niles put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I think,” whispered Miles, “I think it’s a squirrel.”

  “Dumb squirrel,” said a boy, down in the grove.

  “Yep, it’s a squirrel,” said Miles.

  The leader of Papa Company got bored with the squirrel. He crossed the clearing, pulled the knife from the stump, then plunged it back into the stump.

  This was some kind of signal.

  The other two boys got quiet.

  The leader pointed to one of them.

  “Raise the flag, Dugout.”

  “Yes, sir, Major Barkin, sir,” said Dugout, whose real name was Daniel.

  “Good,” said Major Barkin, whose real name was Josh Barkin. (If you’ve read the first two books in this series, you probably already figured that out.)

  Dugout removed a folded flag from his backpack. Papa Company watched solemnly as he climbed a big oak tree, unfurled the flag, and draped it over a big bough.

  The flag showed the white skeleton of a rattlesnake on an all-black field.

  Up in his hiding place among the violets, Miles grinned at Niles and raised two fingers in the air.

  Niles grinned back and touched his fingertips to his friend’s.

  Now. If you’ve read the first two books in the series, you know what’s going to happen next. And if you haven’t, here’s the deal: Josh Barkin and his crew are about to get pranked. />
  Chapter

  2

  “Roll call!” said Josh.

  “DUGOUT!”

  “Sir!”

  “MUDFLAP!”

  “Sir!”

  (Mudflap’s real name was Tommy.)

  This was Papa Company.

  The members of Papa Company were cadets at Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, a “boot camp for troubled tweens” that operated in these same woods, just a few klicks away.

  (At Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, distance was measured in klicks. One klick equals .62 miles, which equals 1,091 yards, which equals about 7,900 imperial teaspoons laid end-to-end.)

  Josh had been sent to Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp last year as a punishment. After four weeks at camp, most kids “reformed.” They wrote letters begging to come home, promising to be good. But Josh Barkin wasn’t like most kids. (He was much worse.) After four weeks, he had asked his parents if he could stay at camp for the rest of the summer. This year he was back. As the only camper in its history to willingly return, Josh was made a JUNECOW, or junior counselor, and given a special hat.

  Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp was an awful place, noisy and violent. But it was Josh Barkin’s firmly held belief that even the most awful circumstances could be improved upon—that is, made noisier and more violent—and so he’d recruited two lackeys and given them cool military nicknames in exchange for their total and unquestioning loyalty. This is how Josh became the commander of Papa Company, a renegade cell within the camp. Papa was for the letter P—“Papa” is one of the twenty-six code words for the twenty-six letters in the International Radiotelephony Spelling Alphabet. (It starts with Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and goes through Papa all the way to Zero.) And the P also stood for Power, which is what Papa Company was all about. “Papa Company” had a nice military ring to it, plus Power Company sounded like an electric utility.

  Almost daily, Papa Company snuck off to the grove, where Josh offered the twins what he called “the real training.” Today, as usual, the training topic was “advanced weaponry.”

  Josh spit out some gum he’d been chewing, because its flavor was all gone.

  “Sir, do you want me to pick up that gum and pack it out for you, sir?” asked Mudflap.

  “Naw, leave it for the bugs and raccoons to chew on,” said Josh.

  “Oh, OK, right, makes sense, yes, sir,” said Mudflap.

  Josh looked at his gum in the dirt. He imagined a beetle rolling the gum all the way back to his home, probably up a big hill, and then stuffing it down through the little hole he used as a front door. His whole beetle family would gather around the wad, so excited, and they’d each break off a little bit with their pincers and chew it. And it wouldn’t have any flavor. Heh. Dumb beetles.

  Josh smiled.

  Then he got serious.

  “TEN-HUT, NIMBUSES!”

  Ten-hut means “attention.” Nobody really knows what nimbus means.

  The boys stood straight.

  “At EASE, nimbuses.”

  They both relaxed a little.

  “Now . . .” Josh rubbed his chin. “TEN-HUT AGAIN!”

  The boys snapped straight.

  Josh loved watching the two trembling cadets do whatever he said. When it came to shouting commands, Josh was a master. For proof, you just had to look at “The Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp Counselor Training Manual,” which Josh proudly called “the only book he’d ever finished,” and which wasn’t a book but was actually a three-ring binder. (He also hadn’t finished it.) The manual had a section called “YELLING!” that identified the characteristics of good command voice: PLOP. That was the acronym. (They were big on acronyms at camp.)

  The first P was for POWER (again) (of course). Josh had been born powerful. Power ran in his family: His father was a school principal, and so was his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and his great-great-grandfather, and his great-great-great-grandfather. His great-great-great-great-grandfather had been a fur trapper, but you better believe he had been a powerful fur trapper. One day, Josh would fulfill his destiny and would himself become a school principal. Or maybe something even more powerful, like a district administrator. According to his grandfather, Josh had the hands of a superintendent. “You remind me of me,” his grandfather told him. “You are strong. You have authority. You are powerful. Remarkable what skips a generation.” So yeah, Josh had the first P covered.

  The L was for LOUDNESS. And Josh was loud. He had “the Barkin Bark,” as his mom was fond of saying. She was also fond of saying, “Please quiet down, Josh, I’m trying to watch the news.”

  The O was for the O in LOUDNESS, because otherwise the acronym would be PLP, and that’s dumb.

  And the second P? The second P was for PROJECTION. It wasn’t enough to be powerful and loud. You had to be powerful and loud right into people’s faces.

  “ABOUT-FACE!” Josh powerfully, loudly projected.

  The boys both turned their backs on their leader.

  Yes, there was no doubt about it: Josh was a natural PLOPper. He imagined his father watching this drill and smiling proudly. Then he imagined his grandfather’s face superimposed on his father’s face, because he was mad at his father, and had been for over a year. That wasn’t quite right either, so he imagined himself watching himself, and he liked that image quite a bit.

  “Right FACE!”

  The cadets turned right.

  “Left FACE!”

  They turned left.

  “Right FACE right FACE right FACE left FACE ABOUT-FACE ABOUT-FACE.”

  The cadets spun around. “Good. That’s real good,” said Josh. “HAND SALUTE!”

  They saluted.

  “STOP saluting!”

  They didn’t stop saluting.

  “STOP SALUTING!”

  They still didn’t stop.

  “STOP it, YOU DUMB NIMBUSES!”

  The cadets were a little nervous, but they kept their hands to their foreheads.

  Josh began to turn a bit purple.

  An awkward mike passed.

  (At Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, time was measured in mikes. A mike is a minute.)

  Finally, a cadet spoke up.

  “Um? Sir?”

  “What is it, Dugout?”

  “Sir, that’s, well, sir, that’s not the command to stop saluting, sir.”

  “I KNOW THAT IT’S NOT, NIMBUS.”

  “Sir, of course, sir.”

  “DUGOUT, GO STAND AND FACE THAT TREE.”

  “Which tree, sir?”

  “That one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “CLOSER, DUGOUT, LIKE YOU’RE GOING TO KISS THE TREE.”

  Dugout pressed his nose against the bark.

  “HEH!” said their leader. (He actually said “HEH!”) “Looks like you’re in love with that tree, Dugout.”

  Mudflap snickered.

  “He better watch out for splinters in his lips,” said Mudflap.

  “That’s a great joke, Mudflap!” said Josh.

  (It was not a great joke.)

  “Hey, Dugout!” Josh said. “That’s your new name! Splinters!”

  “But I like Dugout,” said Splinters, who was hard to understand because he said it directly into a tree.

  “Sorry, Splinters.”

  It was important to cover up any sign of weakness, like forgetting the proper command to stop saluting, and to quash any seeds of insubordination, like some other kid remembering the proper command to stop saluting. Otherwise you could have a mutiny on your hands.

  “Forget about that dumb saluting command. That’s an order. At ease, nimbuses.”

  Mudflap stopped saluting. Splinters left his tree.

  “Not you, Splinters. You stay over by that tree.”

  Splinters went back to his tree.

  Josh picked up a twisted stick from the ground. “Today’s weapon: the throwing stick.”

  An impressed murmur passed through Papa Company.


  “You can do a lot with sticks. Sticks are great weapons. You can poke people with them. You can thump people with them. You can use one as a sword—”

  Mudflap lit up at this. He liked swords.

  “—but that’s for dorks.”

  Mudflap pretended he had never lit up and didn’t like swords.

  “But the best thing to do with a stick is to throw it. You can disable an enemy by throwing a stick right at his head.”

  “Nice,” said Splinters.

  “Super nice,” said Mudflap.

  “But the most important thing when it comes to throwing sticks is accuracy. I’m a really accurate thrower. It’s. All. In. The Arm.”

  Josh pointed to his arm. Mudflap nodded.

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” said Josh. “Splinters, turn around.”

  Splinters faced Josh.

  “Sir, are you going to hit me in the head with that stick?” he asked.

  “No, don’t be a nimbus,” said Josh. “What I’m going to do is not hit you in the head.”

  “Oh,” said Splinters. “Phew. That’s a lot better.”

  “Accuracy,” said Josh.

  Mudflap nodded some more.

  “Splinters, pick up that rock and balance it on your head. I’m going to hit it off with this stick.”

  “Sir, why don’t you just throw the stick at the rock there, on the ground, and hit it?” Splinters asked.

  “Drama, Splinters. It’s like that guy who shot an arrow through an apple on some nimbus’s head,” said Josh. “Do you think anyone would remember that guy’s name if he’d just shot an apple on a table?”

  “Wait, who?”

  “You know who I mean,” said Josh. “Now put that rock on your head.”

  Splinters did as he was told.

  “Now hold really still.” Josh aimed his stick. “Actually, come a little closer.”

  Splinters took two nervous steps toward Josh.

  “Closer.”

  Splinters took two more.

  “Now,” said Josh, “watch my arm. Splinters, don’t flinch.”