Philip Gets Even (9781597050807) Read online

  Philip Gets Even

  Philip Felton and Emery Wyatt, fourth grade classmates, enter a neighborhood art contest. With the help of an artistic elderly neighbor, Mr. Conway, they create a painting titled “Everyday Things,” a portrayal of common, everyday objects painted in various positions on the canvas.

  On the day of the judging the boys find their painting, along with a few others, in a back room of the gallery. They accidentally destroy the art project of the toughest boy in their school, sixth-grader Johnny Visco. When the mistake is discovered, the contest is cancelled. Philip and Emery are in disgrace and Johnny Visco is angry.

  From here the story details the revenge Johnny Visco takes by getting the two boys who destroyed his art project into tons of trouble in school.

  When Johnny Visco’s attacks show no sign of stopping, Philip, Emery and Mr. Conway concoct a plan that finally puts Johnny Visco in his place and prevents him from tormenting the boys any more.

  Wings

  Philip Gets Even

  by

  John Paulits

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Young Adult Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Robbin Major

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Robbin Major

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Vin Tartamella

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  http://www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2007 by John Paulits

  ISBN 978-1-59088-080-6

  Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

  Published In the United States Of America

  March 2007

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  For Uncle Ed

  One

  It all began when the Agora Gallery of Fine Art opened at the mall. Philip Felton and Emery Wyatt were fourth grade classmates at the Donovan Elementary School, which had just gotten a new art teacher that year. Somehow their class got scheduled for art three periods a week, more than any other class. Ever since September, the two best friends had been painting, cutting, pasting, drawing, coloring and making collages more than they ever had in their lives. For the most part, it was fun. Not as much fun as having three gym periods a week, but better than sitting, bored, in the classroom.

  When, on one Saturday morning in late March, Philip’s father had to go to the mall to get some office supplies, Philip and Emery went with him. Each boy had saved a few quarters and planned to spend them on the video games at the arcade on the second floor of the mall.

  “Want to go see that new art gallery?” Emery asked as the two boys left the arcade, poorer but satisfied they’d spent their money well.

  That stopped Philip in his tracks. “What for?” he asked, frowning. “Don’t we get enough of that at school?”

  Emery shrugged. “We might get homework that says we have to see some art or something dumb like that. You know Ms. Trinetti likes to give homework like that. Especially to us ’cause we have her so much.”

  Philip nodded. He couldn’t argue that.

  Ms. Trinetti was the new, young, chubby, enthusiastic art teacher, who had long blonde hair and wore sandals to school every day no matter the weather. She’d told her students how much she’d liked art when she was their age. How she’d won prizes in high school with her paintings. How she’d studied art in college for four years. How she’d studied art in graduate school for another two years. Both Philip and Emery were unsettled hearing how much school lay ahead even after fourth grade was over.

  “If she does, then we can say we were already in an art gallery. We won’t have to do anything.”

  Philip nodded. Emery’s idea made some sense. “You know where it is?”

  “Down the end,” and Emery pointed.

  The Agora Gallery of Fine Art was the size of two stores. Philip remembered that a sneaker store had once been in the end spot. What the other store had been, he couldn’t recall.

  The walls of the gallery were bright white and covered with paintings. The room smelled new. When they entered, a pretty, young, Asian woman smiled at them. The woman had long black hair pulled into a ponytail and was seated behind a white plastic counter on their right. “Come to take a look around, boys? If you have any questions, my name is Tracy.”

  Emery and Philip nodded and smiled in return.

  “Be sure to take one of our contest flyers when you leave,” and she tapped a pile of red papers.

  Philip and Emery walked up to the first painting on the wall opposite Tracy.

  The painting was a square, two feet on a side, enclosed in a shiny, black plastic frame. Emery and Philip stared.

  “What’s it look like to you?” Philip said thoughtfully.

  Emery studied it. “It looks like feet,” he said.

  Footprints of different sizes and colors pointed in all directions. Any space that wasn’t covered by a footprint was filled with either small bluebirds or small red devils. And any space that wasn’t covered with footprints, birds, or devils was painted green.

  “Yeah, to me, too,” said Philip. “Why would anybody paint feet?”

  Emery turned to Philip and smiled. “Maybe somebody ‘toed’ the artist to.”

  Philip gave a snort of laughter and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Tracy had heard them and was coming their way, holding a piece of yellow paper in her hand.

  “Everything all right, boys?” She smiled.

  Both Philip and Emery nodded, pressing their lips together tightly, trying not to laugh.

  “Here, you can read about this painting and this artist.” She handed Philip the yellow paper and went back to her seat.

  Philip and Emery turned their backs to her and faced the painting.

  “What’s it called?” Emery asked.

  There was a number one on the head of a small tack stuck into the wall next to the painting, so Philip matched that number one with the number one on the sheet Tracy had given him.

  “It’s called, Journey Through Life. Emery, you know how much this thing costs!”

  “Ten dollars?”

  Philip gave him a look. “Pfft. Try three thousand five hundred dollars.”

  “Three thousand five hundred dollars! For colored feet?”

  The boys looked at the painting with a new appreciation.

  Emery took the paper from Philip and studied it. Then he turned and walked over to Tracy.

  “Did anybody buy that feet painting?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Tracy said raising her eyebrows. “Interested?”

  Emery shook his head hard and walked back to the painting.

  Suddenly, Philip grabbed the paper back from Emery.

  “Look at this!” he said. At the top of the page were the words: ARTIST: Olivia Trinetti.

  “Ms. Trinetti?”

  “Must be. Yeah, it says here she’s a teacher and everything.”

  “Wow,” said Emery. “Ms. Trinetti paints feet when she’s not in school.”

  That sounded so silly both boys started laughing again.

  “Shhh,” said Philip. “That lady’ll hear us.”

  They controlled themselves and moved to the next painting.

  “Did she paint this one, too?” Emery asked.

  “Yeah. She painted ‘one,’ ‘two,’ ‘three,’ and ‘four.’”

  The boys studied painting number ‘two.’ This time instead of feet, bananas covered the canvas. Bananas of every possible color. Except yellow. The background of the painting was yellow.

  “What’s this called?” Emery asked. “The Bananas of Life?”

  They snorted with laughter again.

  “It’s called The Possibilities of Life,” said Philip.

  “I find it quite a-peel-ing,” said Emery. Philip and Emery looked at each other and started laughing again. When they realized the noise they made, they squeezed their lips tightly together and moved on.

  The third painting was on the other side of a wall that shielded them from Tracy’s view, and they were glad for the protection.

  “Feet and bananas,” said Emery with a shake of his head. They looked at painting number ‘three’ and started laughing again.

  This painting was of nothing but eyes. Big eyes, small eyes. Eyes of every color against a background of red.

  By now the boys couldn’t stop laughing. Having to laugh without making any noise only made them laugh harder. Through teary eyes Philip looked at the paper for the title of the painting.

  In a sputtering whisper he said, “The Vision of Life.” “‘Eye’ guess that’s a good name,” said Emery, pulling down the skin under his left eye. In between breaths of laughter, he added, “Too bad she couldn’t put everything into one painting. The eyes could watch the feet squish the bananas.”

  “Stop it,” laughed Philip. His sides were st
arting to hurt.

  The boys peeked at the fourth painting and had to turn away.

  When they thought they could handle it, they turned back to the painting. They burst into giggles again and struggled hard to stay quiet.

  The fourth painting was covered with dancing pickles. Green pickles with tiny legs and eyes, but no arms. And each pickle wore a hat of a different shape and color, and each hat had a colorful feather in it. The background of this painting was orange.

  Gasping for breath, the boys looked at the paper to find the title of the painting.

  “The Joy of Life,” said Philip, hardly able to speak.

  “Yeah,” Emery sputtered. “If you like gherkins.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Philip, who knew he couldn’t stand laughing silently much longer without either hurting himself or screaming out loud.

  The boys turned their backs on the paintings and breathed in and out.

  After a minute Philip said, “Are you okay?”

  Emery took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  Philip opened and closed his mouth a few times because it was hurting back near his ears from laughing so much.

  They calmly walked out from behind the wall toward Tracy’s desk.

  “Enjoy the paintings, boys?” Tracy smiled.

  Both boys nodded, not trusting themselves to speak.

  “Don’t forget this paper,” and Tracy handed them one of the red papers.

  Emery grabbed it and followed Philip back into the mall.

  Two

  From the back seat, as they drove home, the boys told Philip’s dad about their trip to the art gallery.

  Philip’s father listened and then asked, “How do you know your art teacher painted those paintings?”

  “It says so on this paper the lady gave us,” said Philip. “Her name is right up top.”

  “What else does it say about her?”

  Philip read. “Ms. Trinetti’s work ex-em-pli-fies...” Philip smiled when his father did not correct him. “...the Neo-Classic approach to Post-Modernism. Her...” Philip paused and spelled out the next word. “f-a-c-i-l-e.”

  “Facile,” his father pronounced. “It means sort of easy and relaxed.”

  “The dancing pickles looked relaxed, all right,” said Emery, and he and Philip leaned into each other, laughing.

  Philip continued. “Her facile use of comedy and tragedy underlines perfectly the d-i-c-h-o-t-o-m-y.”

  “Dichotomy,” said Philip’s father. “It means a split.”

  “Yeah, a banana split,” said Emery, and the boys dissolved into laughter again.

  Finally, Philip read on. “...dichotomy between the yin and the yang of life’s struggle.” Philip looked up. “What does that mean?”

  “Mmmm, read a little more,” his father suggested.

  “She elevates and ex-pli-cates...?”

  “That means explains.”

  “She elevates and explicates the crash and fall of the or-gan-ic and the inorganic in the flows and eddies of existence. Dad, what is this talking about?”

  Philip’s father laughed. “I can explain the words, but I don’t have the slightest idea what it’s talking about. Sounds like pickles and feet and bananas are being asked to do an awful lot. And you say she was asking three thousand five hundred dollars for each painting?”

  “Yep. Says so right here,” said Philip, stretching the paper toward his father.

  “I’ll look at it later.” He smiled and gave a short cough. “Well, I wouldn’t let on, if I were you, that you saw her work and didn’t think too highly of it.”

  In a very serious voice Emery said, “I didn’t like her feet or her eyes so much, but I thought quite highly of her pickles and bananas.” And off the boys went into spasms of laughter.

  “What’s the red paper you two goofballs picked up?” said Philip’s father.

  Philip looked around the back seat. “Where is it, Emery? Oh, I see it. On the floor, there. Give me.”

  Philip took the paper from Emery and read it. “It’s about a contest. An art contest the gallery is running in neighborhood schools. Hey, Ms. Trinetti is one of the judges.”

  “You guys going to enter? You made fun of pickles and feet. Do better and show Ms. Trinetti what art should be.”

  Philip and Emery turned to each other.

  “You two did well in the poster contest that Walk-Mor Shoes held.”

  Walk-Mor Shoes was a store in the same mall. Philip had won the contest and Emery had placed second.

  “Yeah,” said Philip. “Why not? Want to, Emery?”

  “What’s it say to do?”

  “It says to contribute one work of art—a painting, a collage, an installation. What’s an installation, Dad?”

  Philip’s father’s shoulders went up and down. “I guess it’s something that isn’t either a painting or a collage. Art can be practically anything. You should go talk to Mr. Conway, that old fellow the next street over.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Philip. “He does paintings. He’s nice. Remember, we bumped into him in the arts and crafts store when we had to buy that stuff for Ms. Trinetti’s class? Did you ever see any of his paintings, Dad?”

  Philip’s father shook his head. “Nope, never did. I doubt it’s pickles and bananas, though. Why don’t you go visit him?”

  “What do you think, Emery?”

  “Is there a prize?”

  Philip looked back at the paper. “Yeah. ‘An opportunity to display the work in the gallery with an eye to a sale,’ it says.”

  “A sale!” Emery cried. “For three thousand five hundred dollars?”

  “Don’t be greedy,” said Philip’s father. “Ask for two thousand first.”

  “Ten dollars is okay with me,” said Philip. “Let’s enter, Emery. Dad, will you drop us off at Mr. Conway’s street?”

  “Can do.”

  Five minutes later, Philip and Emery were knocking on Mr. Conway’s front door.

  Three

  The boys didn’t know just how old Mr. Conway was, but to them he looked about a hundred. He was short, not really much taller than Philip or Emery. He still had hair—a little bit of it—white hair cut very short in the places it still grew—plus some sticking out of his ears. Even though he was short, he wasn’t little. He had thick, muscular arms that looked like they could be very strong.

  Philip pushed the doorbell button, and the boys could hear the bell sound inside the house.

  “It’s awful loud,” said Emery.

  When Mr. Conway opened the front door he was adjusting his glasses behind his ears.

  “Well,” he said, smiling. “Mr. Philip and Mr. Emery, I believe. What can I do for the two of you? Come in. Come in.”

  Mr. Conway had had a family once, a wife and three children. But his wife had died, and the children had grown up and moved away. The house looked neat, although in the living room there was a pile of what looked like new things Mr. Conway had bought.

  “Have a seat,” said Mr. Conway, pointing at the sofa. “I was just looking at the birthday presents my children sent me. One of those DVD movie players that I’ll never figure out how to use. A new camera with a thousand gadgets and a million-page book of instructions that I’ll never understand. Half the instructions are in Japanese and that half makes more sense than the other half. And a gift certificate my daughter sent. Guess which is my favorite.”

  “Gift certificate?” said Philip.

  “Right you are.” Mr. Conway plopped into a soft chair.

  Emery poked Philip, so Philip said, “We’re going to enter an art contest, Mr. Conway, and we thought maybe you could give us some idea what to do.”

  “Wait. Wait. There it goes again,” said Mr. Conway, reaching for his right ear. “Let me get my hearing aid fixed up right, dang thing. Sounds like a teakettle half the time.” He did something to the back of the hearing aid. “There, I think.” He put the hearing aid back into his ear. “Hello. Hello. Okay.” He settled back in his chair. “Now, what were you saying?”