by Judy Peterson

Created on: September 19, 2009   Last Updated: September 22, 2009

The Storytellers' Club

When Chad Coldwell said he would do anything to be a member of the Storytellers' Club, he had never met Max Ferguson. Spending an hour on a Saturday helping some kid do his math didn't seem like any big deal. His ITP policy-Ignore, Threaten, then Punch-always worked with his annoying little brother. If he had to, he'd use it with this Max Ferguson guy! He tapped his foot softly on the lightly scuffed hardwood library floor and checked the time on his cell phone. One o'clock. Two more hours and he'd be sharing his awesome ghost story with the club. He was sure to be accepted. It was a real spine chiller.

"Been waiting long?"

Chad spun around to face the owner of the loud, deep voice and found himself looking up about a foot into a round, freckled face. He hoped he wouldn't get to the P in his ITP formula. "Ferguson?" he asked.

The large boy nodded. "You must be Hotwell."

"That's Coldwell," said Chad. "C-o-l-d-w-e-l-l."

"I know," said Max. He placed his lumberjack-sized hands on Chad's upper arms, squeezed tightly and shook the smaller boy playfully. "Just kidding. You get it? Coldwell-Hotwell? Either way, all's well that ends well." He grinned and fluttered his thick eyebrows before relaxing his bruising grip. "Get it? Ends Well?"

Chad moved out of range of the massive boy and rubbed his slender arms. "Yeah, I get it." He checked the time. Two minutes past one. Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought.

"Let's find a table," said Chad.

"Why? Did you lose one?"

Chad stumbled from the forceful slap to his back as he led the way to a quiet spot near the picture windows overlooking the parking lot.

"You don't have much of a sense of humor, do you?" Max asked, settling his large frame into a padded metal-framed chair across from Chad.

Chad pulled the remedial math book from his backpack and positioned it between them on the table. "I have as much of a sense of humor as the next guy," he said.

Max tipped his head toward the teen-aged boy at the next table. "I don't know, Coldwell. He doesn't look like he has much of a sense of humor either."

Chad paged through the textbook and tried to ignore the wisecrack, but Max reached across the table and tapped his arm. "Get it? The next guy."

Chad glanced up over the top of his prescription sunglasses. "Since I don't have a sense of humor, I guess I don't!" Mentally, Chad rubbed out the I in his ITP plan. And it was only one-fifteen. "Let's get down to business, okay?"

"Great idea!" said Max.

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