When the Wind Smells Like Trouble

Harristown was the kind of town where the birds sang loud, the grass grew wild, and the kids' hair grew even wilder.

Jackie stomped down Crumble Street with her long black hair flying behind her, red streaks catching the afternoon sun. Her skull earrings swung with every step. Her shark-tooth necklace bounced against her striped shirt. She flashed her gap-toothed grin — the left one missing — at Ollie, who was sitting on the curb looking deeply suspicious of nothing in particular.

"Oi," she said. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," Ollie muttered, pulling his enormous puff of hair over his eyes like a curtain. It reached his shoulders. Maybe further.

Remi, Mike, Jacob, and Carson were sprawled nearby, all equally shaggy, all equally unbothered.

It was a perfect afternoon in Harristown.

Nobody noticed the bright pink salon van that had just parked quietly at the end of the street.

The Van at the End of the Street

Nobody moved for a second.

Then the pink van's side door slid open with a loud clunk, and out stepped four girls, each carrying something that made Jackie's stomach drop straight to her shoes.

Clippers. Actual clippers. The kind that buzzed and hummed and ate hair for breakfast.

"Oh no," Ollie whispered. His puff of hair seemed to shrink on its own.

"SCATTER!" Carson yelled.

All six of them bolted — Jackie, Ollie, Remi, Mike, Jacob, and Carson — sprinting in every direction like startled pigeons. Jackie cut through Mr. Benny's yard, vaulted over a low fence, and ducked behind a wheelie bin at the far end of Crumble Street.

She was panting. Her shark-tooth necklace swung sideways.

That's when she heard it.

A loud, crackling squawk from above.

Perched on the bin's handle, a large bright green parrot tilted its head at her. It blinked one round orange eye.

Then it screamed, at the top of its absolute lungs: "HAIRCUT! HAIRCUT! THEY'RE COMING! HAIRCUT!"

Jackie stared.

"You," she said, "are the worst.