Pond Scum by Alan Silberberg CHAPTER ONE The mosquitoes were toasting another victory. As proof of their job well done, a Volvo station wagon was speeding up the bumpy dirt road, filled with screaming kids swollen with bites the size of quarters. The for sale sign still hung safely in front of the homely house at the end of No-way Way. Three sneaky newts had to jump quickly to avoid the stomping shoes of Belinda Shrank, the real estate agent, who, for the fifth time this year, couldn't close the deal on this "three bedroom, one and a half bathroom, five acre, waterfront dream." Belinda pulled a jumbo-sized can of BugOut from her purse and sprayed a toxic cloud that followed her from the broken doorstep of the property to her minivan, cursing the bugs as she sprinted to safety. She squeezed her wide body into the driver's seat, accompanied by an unseen milk snake, who quickly made itself at home around Belinda's ankle. Her scream was muffled by the tightly shut windows, which were splattered by an arsenal of bird poop. Had it not been for the fat raccoon clawing at the windshield like a masked mime, she might've driven away without smashing into the birch tree. Just her luck. Oliver was pulling the wings off another fly. His favorite part was the almost-silent snap of the transparent wing breaking off from the fat thorax. He could do this all day, and now that it was summer, it seemed that he was. He loved torturing the bugs that he stalked then sucked up with his mother's DustBuster. Only eleven, he already had a mean streak worthy of a seventeen-year-old, and his stocky, short build and wild tangle of brown weedlike hair only enhanced his bulldog demeanor. With the exception of the bug carcasses scattered by the windowsill, Oliver's bedroom betrayed none of the anger and hurt that the boy carried with him like a second skin. It was a typical kid's room: dirty clothes lay scattered on the floor, and a Game Boy was abandoned on his messy desk. Intricate model airplanes kept company with worn stuffed animals. He wasn't a bad kid -- just a lonely boy who felt compelled to snatch the flies that kept him company. Oliver's fascination with insects began as a hobby he'd started with his dad when he was eight. They would spend hours identifying and classifying the colorful beetles and scary-looking millipedes they'd stumbled across on their nightly google searches. Together they'd made a scrapbook of material gathered on their sojourns into the bug-infested woods and jungles of cyberspace. But that was before the divorce, and now insects didn't interest him in quite the same way. "You are seriously disturbed." It was Oliver's fourteen-year-old sister, Rachel, watching from the safety of the doorway, with her best friend, Cherise. She was always with her friend, which was just one of the reasons Oliver hated his sister so much. "Buzz off," said Oliver as he tossed the flightless fly out the apartment window. Then he reached into the glass fish tank and trapped another slow-moving one in his hand. He sneered as he stared into the bug's compound eyes. "Flying is so overrated," he said as he pinched its flimsy wings. He smiled thinly, then pulled with the delight of a child opening a birthday party favor. The sound was delicious. CHAPTER TWO The Six Family Alliance was gathered in the clearing by the Pond's western shore. Getting these natural enemies in the same place at the same time was nothing short of a miracle. The rivalries between them were old and bitter, and it was only a matter of time until something set someone off: a carelessly timed cough, a joke that landed flat, refreshments not up to one party's particular liking, then -- wham! -- meeting adjourned. "Welcome, Insects, Mammals, Reptiles, Amphibians, Birds, and Fish." This greeting came from Fat Mama, the large black widow spider who hung in her web surrounded by her arachnid kin. A roaring whir of approval rose up from the Insect Elders, who had only recently voted the spider into power after an unfortunate run-in with a bicycle tire put an end to the stinkbug's reign. Though technically not insects, the spiders were considered part of the Insect clan, giving the smallest members of the Alliance a larger voting block. "Once again, I remind everyone that Alliance rules dictate that this is strictly a 'snack-free' meeting." Of the Six Family leaders, Fat Mama was the most straightforward speaker, which explained why she had won the right to be the head of the entire Alliance, a position she held with authority. "Rules, shmules, it's a frog-eat-bug world," croaked Frankie "The Tongue" Gambini, the slobbering bullfrog kingpin of the Amphibians. He gave the nearest ladybug the evil eye, then shot out his sticky tongue. Thankfully for the ladybug, Frankie's eyesight wasn't what it used to be, and he ended up with an acorn in his stomach. "Please, can we just get this thing done? I got some unfinished business with a garbage can." The request came from the head of the Mammals, a pudgy raccoon aptly named Pudge. "You tell 'em, Pudge," added Hinky, the one-eyed skunk by his side, who lifted his tail just enough to make the others flinch. "Come on, gimme a reason to blast ya. I will, you know." "Fffffft!" The gassy sound didn't come from the skunk, but from Frankie. "What? It wasn't me," protested the fat frog as the others coughed and gagged with disgust. The meeting was off to a smelly start. Out of nowhere, a rock landed on the leader of the Reptile Family, an opinionated box turtle whose chronic dry skin had earned him the nickname "Flakes." Annoyed, the turtle glanced skyward before muttering, "I hate crows." Twenty feet above, a flock of crows cackled as their chevron formation circled the assembly on the ground. "That's getting their attention, huh, General?" piped up Antoine, the scrawniest member of the elite Black Angels squadron. Eduardo Ignacio Santo Domingo, the largest, sleekest crow, and distinguished head of the Bird family, smacked Antoine in the head. "You idiot! This is supposed to be a peaceful mission." "Oopsies." Antoine was always making mistakes, both big and small, and if he weren't General Santo Domingo's nephew, he'd be flying with the garbage crew instead of the famous Black Angels. The General and his crow cadets swooped fast and low over the meeting, forcing everyone to quickly duck (except the ducks, who just jumped back into the pond with a loud splash). Much to the impatience of the other birds who'd elected him, The General and his crew finally landed. Finches flinched. Swallows gulped. But as usual, no one said a word, because if you valued your feathers, you didn't mess with The General. Born in the nearby woods, he was a distant descendant of the Tamaulipas breed of crows from Mexico. Some said that was why The General was so full of himself: because his blood flowed from such a distinguished lineage. "So? I hear we had another close call today." The crow eyed the spider closely as he took his position around the large flat rock that served as the Alliance bargaining table. "I hope you intend to strengthen your position this time." Fat Mama was used to The General's surly attitude. She knew that he hated the humans only slightly more than he hated her. "Now that The General has kindly graced us with his presence," the spider said, turning away from his steady gaze, "let us get down to business." "Antoine! Scram!" The General shouted to his nephew. "Go get lost in the woods." The small crow nodded, then walked off into the twisted knot of trees and rocks that surrounded the Pond. Getting lost was something he was actually good at. As always, the Alliance meeting was "Elders Only," meaning, no kids allowed. The grown-ups had determined long ago that kids only got in the way, with their silly ideas and sillier questions, which is why Pond decisions were made by adults. "It kills me that the stupid Elders won't even let us listen." The whisper came from an unseen voice within the tall cotton grass by the edge of the water. Slowly, a pair of round, compound eyes poked through the stalks, staring intently in the direction of the meeting. Even though he knew better, Willy, a fast, young dragonfly with a wild blue streak down his back, ached to fly over and give them all a piece of his mind. Willy continued his quiet tirade. "I'm telling ya, listening to an adult is like listening to --" "Zzzzzzz." The dragonfly's speech was cut short by the ferocious snore of a plump spotted salamander, fast asleep in the soft marshy moss. "Mooch! Wake up! This is important!" The salamander squinted and yawned. His dark skin was moist, giving the dozen or so yellow spots along his body a soft glow. Opening his mouth, his first statement, as always, was the same: "I'm hungry." Willy had to laugh. If there was one constant around the Pond, it was Mooch's appetite . "It is with sincere gratitude that I address you all." Fat Mama paused to allow the beaver to translate her words for those hard-of-breathing members of the Alliance. The beaver stuck his head underwater and repeated everything to the anxious Fish below, who were uncomfortable -- not because of what was being discussed -- simply hoped that the beaver wasn't hungry. Otherwise, the longer the speech went on above, the fewer would last below. "Once again, our combined efforts have worked marvelously to keep the humans away." The spider was referring to the recent group attack by bug, bird, reptile, and mammal to chase off the potential buyers of the little house. The Pond erupted in a chorus of enthusiastic chirps, buzzes, croaks, and caws. Thanks to the goal of keeping human hands away from the purity of the Pond, all species were acting as one-natural rivalries put aside for the good of them all. "What is it with these Elders?" asked Willy, annoyed at what he'd just heard. He'd been listening to this sort of anti-human talk since he was practically a larva, and frankly, he was sick of it. He was bursting to speak with the Alliance -- thing he tried to do with any Pond Elder who crossed his path -- being just a kid, they always made it clear his opinions were not welcome. "Come on," Willy would explain, "you're blowing it big time. Humans might be a good thing!" The Elders' response was always the same. They listened. They nodded. And then, once the dragonfly finished his impassioned plea, they said, "Shut up, Willy." Which is why Willy felt that his greatest threat in life wasn't ending up as someone's breakfast or squashed against the windshield of an unseen car; it was dealing with the Elders' small-minded ideas. "Maybe that house isn't supposed to stay empty. Did they ever think of that? I don't think so. Just cuz they're adults -- think they know everything. Well, I'll tell ya, Mooch -- they don't!" As usual, the salamander wasn't really listening. He was too busy trying to snack on a small worm without Willy noticing. They had an agreement: Mooch promised not to eat any buzzing, flying, or crawling things when his dragonfly friend was around. But he was famished. And besides, it was just one worm. "What do you say, buddy? Let's sneak in and give them a piece of our minds. I haven't gotten booted out of an Alliance meeting for a whole month!" Willy turned just in time to catch Mooch slurping down the last bit of his snack like a long strand of spaghetti. Slllllrp! "Mooch! You promised," exploded Willy. "How will I ever know you won't eat me? Huh? Don't I look good? Wouldn't I be yummy?" Mooch secretly had to admit that, yes, dragonflies do taste good; but he knew better than to say anything. Instead, he simply shrugged and told Willy that he was perfectly able to control his hunger, and more important, friends just aren't appetizing. Willy was angry. Angry with Mooch. Angry with being shut out of another stupid Alliance meeting. "You do what you have to. I'm gonna blow off some steam and fly a few laps around the Pond or something," he said before soaring off, leaving Mooch to finish his treat alone. "Oh, man. I did it again" was all a guilty Mooch could say before foraging in the dirt for a second, third, and fourth slimy course.