Chapter 6

While in the office of the principal, he said, “Ya know, we let you in because you weren’t big enough to cause trouble.”

“I know,” I said. “And I haven’t Caused any ... I’ve just defended my self.”

“But, you’re so tiny,” he said. “How did you do this.”

Nobody had been to the hospital ... yet. Professional help is at least 25 miles away. It’s a twisty curvy road so, Pentwater takes care of its own. Until the EMT’s and ambulance makes the trip.

He pointed at the bigger guy with two broken ... oops ... shattered arms and temporary casts from wrist to shoulders, the soaking wet girl with porcelain cuts covered with bandages and the bleeding football coach ... he was crying as the school nurse tried to fix his nose. I had done a good job on that nose.

They were all in the office and those who could, were pointing fingers at me.

The water from the broken drinking fountain was beginning to creep under the office door.

The custodial person trying to stem the flow kept saying, “Well ... that wasn’t it.” She was on her phone to the other custodian in the basement shutting off valves and asking if that was it. When the hot water was shut off, the screeches from the girls locker room were loud enough to be heard at the Artisan Learning Center next door.

The Police Chief, at the Artisan Learning Center for his weekly class in Basket weaving, set down his poor attempt at basketry and said, “I’m never going to figure this out.” He hitched up his belt and DROVE across the street to the school next door to find out who or what was causing the ruckus.

He immediately went to the source. “Tyche ... what have you done, now.”

“Defended my person and prevented a robbery,” she said. Her tone and enunciation was such that he KNEW she was guilty of something.

The principal said, “You know this kid?”

“Uh huh ... several times. If you’d stay in town during the summer you’d know.”

“Know what?”

“That little kerfuffle with the Russians...”

“I know about that,” he said. And it dawned, “You mean... ?”

“Uhhuh ... Tyche. And the Eight Cats in Ludington?”

“Everybody’s heard about that.” “Tyche?”

“Yup. Tyche.

“You know she has her pilots license?”

“No? Show him, Tyke.”

“Do I haveta?” I said.

“Tyche.”

“Yes, sir.” I searched around in my book-bag. “Found it.” I said that for my benefit.

When unfolded it was half the size of Mr. Edwards desk. The only signatures missing were The United States of Americas (defunct) FAA and French Canada ... called New France by the denizens of that half of the FED A ... and the FED A hadn’t signed either.

“You’re nine...” he started.

“Ten,” I said, “and a week.”

“Ten then,” he said.

I smiled at him.

“Ten and you have a license to fly?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Junior did it.” ‘Junior did it,’ forestalled any unnecessary competence talk. Nobody thinks the General Admiral of the Princessapality is incompetent ... not to her face.