Author's notes: Here is my little contribution to the seventh Jixaversary celebrations. This is a short, stand-alone piece, which mostly features Mart and Trixie. The title, of course, is a quote from Mart in one of the books. A big, big thank you to Mary N., who not only edited, but told me rather a lot of times that she really liked this story. *hugs*

“Trix! Trix! Wake up!” Mart’s voice came to her, as if through a thick fog. “You’ve got to get up. The house is on fire!”

“Wha‘ that?” Trixie asked, sleepily. “What you just say?”

“Get up!” he repeated. “Everyone’s out except us.” A moment later, he was gone.

Somewhere nearby, a smoke alarm was beeping. The smell of smoke wafted into the room, and immediately, she was alert. I’ve got to get out,  she thought, shoving her feet into shoes. Which way should I go?  Grabbing the flashlight she kept near the bed, she went to the door and played the light around. There did not seem to be much smoke further down the hallway. She looked down and to the right.

“Mart!” she cried, swatting away the smoke. “You get back here right now!”

Leaning down, she ejected a very black piece of toast from the toaster, which was sitting next to her door. That Mart!  she thought, inwardly fuming. He’s gone too far this time.  A light went on down the hallway.

“Is everything all right?” asked her father’s voice, sounding at once concerned and annoyed.

“Fine, just fine,” she replied. “Mart’s just been having midnight snacks again and he’s burnt the toast.”

“Mart?”

“Here, Dad.”

“Take the toaster back to the kitchen and I’ll speak to you about this in the morning.”

With a glare at her brother, Trixie returned to her room. Sleep was far from her mind; instead, she was thinking of revenge.

“Good morning, everyone,” said Trixie as she entered the kitchen the next morning, a Saturday.

Her mother was just setting a plate piled with blueberry pancakes in the centre of the table. Trixie smiled at her father, Brian and Bobby, who were already seated there. Without seeming to, she noted with glee that Mart’s place was empty.

“Where’s your brother?” their mother asked as she sat at the table. “Isn’t he ready for breakfast?”

“He was still asleep when I came down,” said Brian, “but I got up extra early to put in some study for next week’s chemistry test.”

“In that case, it’ll just be too bad if there’s not enough pancakes left for him,” their mother replied, with a shake of her head.

The meal was well underway when Mart finally appeared. His face bore witness to his horror at being late, soon confirmed by the dismal groan he let out. He turned to look at the kitchen clock and did a double take. That’s not what my clock says.

“Is that the time?” he asked, bewildered. “I could’ve sworn it was earlier.”

Trixie fixed an angelic expression on her face as she took a delicious bite of pancake. Mart’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked from her to the two remaining lukewarm pancakes, a far cry from the four piping hot ones he would have devoured if only he had been on time. She’ll pay for this,  he vowed, giving his sister an evil glance when he hoped that no one was looking. This is far worse than being woken in the middle of the night!

Trixie kept a sharp eye on Mart over the weekend, but he managed to set events in motion to avenge his spoiled breakfast all the same. The fall, when it came, happened while Trixie was at school. Second period that day was her history class and she had a paper due. She had finished it the previous Friday evening, so that the weekend would be free, and had carefully placed it inside her notebook for that class. Secure in the knowledge that it was finished, she had not given it another thought.

She reached her classroom before the bell rang, intending to hand in the paper as she entered. She put her hand inside the front of the notebook and tried to slide the paper out, but nothing happened. Trixie sighed and shifted her grip on the various items she was holding. The book opened, revealing pages of Mart’s handwriting.

What has he done?  she thought, in a panic. She looked at the cover; it was definitely her book. Opening it up, she could see that he had carefully removed the pages, replacing them with ones of his own, apparently from an algebra class.

“Is something wrong, Trixie?” asked Mrs. Fielding, the history teacher. “Do you have your paper?”

“I thought I did,” Trixie replied, eyes downcast. “I seem to have one of my brother’s books instead of mine. The paper was in the front.”

“I’ll be taking marks off for lateness,” the teacher said, looking cross. “Unless, that is, you can get it to me by the end of the day.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fielding,” she answered, trying to hold back tears of frustration. I’ll get him for this,  she vowed. She took her seat, too upset to think of anything else.

Just before the class was due to start, Mart appeared at the door with her paper in hand. She crossed the room in a flash. Wordlessly, he handed it to her, but his eyes told how much he had enjoyed making her squirm. Just to make sure, Trixie checked it over and found it to be completely unharmed.

“Here’s the paper, Mrs. Fielding,” she said, placing it on the teacher’s desk.

Her face felt hot and she was sure that she was blushing fiercely, both with anger and embarrassment. How dare he do something like that?  she wondered, scowling down at her desk. This is way worse than being late for breakfast. I’m going to get him for this.

When Mart arrived at the lunch table, he knew that he was in big trouble. From the instant that he entered the room, it was patently obvious that Diana Lynch was furious with him. To begin with, she glanced at him as if he smelt nasty. As he neared, she looked right through him, exactly as if he wasn’t there. It was not until he tried to sit down that he felt the full impact.

“You’re not welcome at this table,” she said, in soft but deadly tones. “I don’t think you’ll ever be welcome here again.”

“But, why?” he asked, racking his brain for what he might have done wrong.

“I think you know,” Di said, turning away from him. “If you don’t, then I definitely wouldn’t want you here again because you don’t even understand that it’s wrong and that makes it worse.”

“I completely agree, Di,” said Honey, nodding. “Not knowing that that was wrong is so much worse than kind of inadvertently doing it and being sorry afterwards, not that that would be okay, because it wouldn’t, but at least it would be almost forgivable, after enough time and if he apologised and was really sorry.”

“Exactly,” said Di, to Mart’s bewilderment. “So, if you don’t even know that it’s wrong, then you’d better just walk away now, before we make you leave.”

“What  are you girls talking about?” he demanded. “If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me what it is.”

“Why don’t you see if they’ll let you sit over there?” suggested Di, waving her hand in the direction of a table of cheerleaders.

Cheerleaders?  he thought. Why would I want to sit with them? What have I ever done that would make her think that?   A memory surfaced of a conversation he had once had with Dan, comparing Di with a couple of the cheerleaders. Afterwards, he had entertained a suspicion that Trixie had overheard them, but there had been no evidence until now. A look at his sister’s smirking face told it all.

“What did she say?” he asked. “Whatever it was, I think I’ve been misquoted.”

Di stood, leaning close to hiss, “She said that you and Dan were talking about their breasts.”

What do I say?  he wondered, desperately. I can’t say that we were comparing their figures to hers; I’d be in way more trouble than I am now. I definitely can’t say that I like hers better.

“Well, Dan said that he thought - erm, one of the cheerleaders had a nice figure,” he said. Don’t name names,  he silently decided. It’ll only make things worse.  “I told him I thought she was a bit too flat.”

“So, you’re denying that you were talking about me?” Her eyes were narrowed and he knew then that Trixie had told even more than he suspected.

“No,” he said, hoping that he did not look as terrified as he felt. “I’m pretty sure that your name was mentioned. We were with the Bob-Whites, I think, so if I needed an example of a pretty girl with a better figure than any of the cheerleaders, you were right there. Besides,” he added, going for broke, “I don’t know any other girls who are both prettier than all the cheerleaders and have a better figure.”

“You think I’m prettier than the cheerleaders?” she asked, her face softening. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said, breathing a silent sigh of relief. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down again. “I guess I’ll let you sit at our table, then.”

With great relief, he sank into his seat. I’ll get you for this, Trixie,  he thought, while avoiding her eyes. This is so much worse than hiding your history paper!

By the time they arrived home that afternoon, both Trixie and Mart were ready for all-out war. Each had laid a number of plans and only needed the opportunity to carry them out. Within half an hour, Mart had retaliated. Trixie’s first inkling came ten minutes later when Jim arrived. She was in the laundry, leaving her dirty clothes to be washed.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, waving a crumpled sheet of paper in her face. From the look on his face, he was furious.

“It’s a little hard to see when you hold it that close,” she said. At the same time, she thought, I hope he isn’t looking at this stuff I’m holding. I don’t really want him seeing my used underwear.

“I thought you might recognise it, seeing as you must have only just written it. It definitely wasn’t on my bed this morning.”

“I haven’t been anywhere near your bed - I mean, anywhere near the Manor House today. I’ve been here ever since I got home from school and I don’t know what this is.”

Snatching the page from him, she read aloud, “‘You can have this back and I don’t want to talk about it.’ But this isn’t my handwriting. And what’s the ‘this’ it refers to?”

Jim dangled something shiny in front of her face: her bracelet.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded. “That should be in my jewelry box upstairs.”

Snatching it from him, she fastened it to her wrist. I think I’ll do a load of laundry,  she decided. From the pile of clothes, she chose some black and navy blue shirts, jeans and underclothes, tossing them carelessly into the machine. Next, she added her red shirt, which always ran, no matter what Moms did to it.

“What are you doing?” asked Jim, filled with frustrated rage. “You can’t give things like that back to me, then take them back again.”

“I’m just helping Moms,” she replied, throwing in several of Mart’s white T-shirts and a pair of his white socks. “And I didn’t give that back to you. If you look closely at that note, you’ll see that someone, who shall remain unnamed, has forged it.”

“Forged it?” he repeated. “What’s going on, Trixie?”

“Let’s just say that Mart is getting rather out of hand,” she said, adding the laundry detergent and setting the machine going. “He thought it was funny to play practical jokes on me, pretending the house was on fire and taking my history paper, so it wouldn’t be there when I wanted to hand it in… and now, giving you this note with my bracelet. He started it all. I was only getting back at him.”

“So that’s what’s been going on,” said her mother, from somewhere just out of view. “Mart, come here, please.” A moment later, both her mother and brother were in the room with them. “I want this to stop, right now,” she continued. “No more jokes.”

“Okay, Moms,” said Mart, casting a glance at his sister which clearly told her he thought he had come out on top. “I won’t play any more jokes.”

“And neither will I, from now on,” said Trixie, secure in the knowledge that the last laugh would be hers.

The End

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