Disclaimer: No Phil on the Disney Channel thus far this December. First year without the Christmas Break episode. Maybe the HUB network will start carrying Phil as it's now broadcasting the former Disney series Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. Maybe, but I still don't own PotF.
Sometimes a Problem Is The Best Solution
Frown.
Mom's worried about me. Third time this morning her face has soured over my refusal.
Milk.
My palm over the rim keeps my glass vacant. Mom's frown persists, as it has these last three weeks.
Worried.
She hasn't voiced her concerns, not yet, but I can imagine. Some new strange diet? Nah, I'm as thin as a rail. Maybe she ... maybe ... Vice-Principal Hackett's fault. He's the reason I can't face milk.
It started a few weeks after Phil kissed me. Third period. It hadn't been the same since Phil and his family ... moved. That was what everyone remembered and bought into from my morning report. Almost. After a couple of weeks had passed and no request for Phil and Pim's school records, Hackett started getting suspicious all over again. He started searching for the Diffys on the internet, asking me, and when he wasn't satisfied with answers, he asked others. Via, Owen and Danny knew less than I did, but that didn't stop Neil Hackett. Small talk in the teachers' lounge included the Diffys, not so much like before, with discussions about how strange, bright, or nice they were - Phil, anyway, but Hackett inquiring (snooping, really) if anyone had heard from the Diffys. No one had, of course. You know the saying, "No news is good news"? Not true! Without any news from the Diffys, teachers and staff started remembering bits and pieces; the worst was Messerschmitt recalling Phil's fictional middle school: Mount Kitty Mug. Hackett went after the Diffys like never before.
He actually brought it to class, his great accomplishment, to rub it in my face.
"Miss Teslow! Have you seen this? Isn't it great? You can thank me."
He didn't even bother to empty the milk carton, probably waited at the market for the dairy manager to stock the cold shelves.
"Have you seen this boy?" read the caption above a picture of my absent boyfriend. His upcoming yearbook photo, lifted by Hackett for his - I don't know what to call it: scheme, ploy, project, or simply the latest production of his busy-bodying involving my friends, the Diffys.
No longer able to spy on the future family, Neil Hackett now hunted them, but as more and more time elapsed without a tip as to the Diffys' whereabouts, he became frustrated, then bored, nearly forgetting his prey, but I couldn't. I missed Phil more each day, not less. It was more than I could take to see his face each and every time I opened the fridge. Mom? How she could be so oblivious to Phil's mug on each and every carton from the Pickford Dairy is beyond me. I can't, wont, even buy milk when she adds it to our shopping list. Orange juice? Fine, but I just avoid the dairy section. No cream cheese in my celery is a small sacrifice.
This has been a problem. Not the cream cheese. The milk cartons. They're not going away. I keep wanting to run to the Diffys', be greeted by his parents, insulted in various degrees by his sister, and then find Phil, perhaps upstairs at his drums, or picking up after Curtis. When I've had a problem, Phil's been there to help make things right. Not anymore and asking myself, "What would Phil do?" hasn't helped. Pim? It scares me to try and think like Pim. No, like Hackett, I've got to use what I've got left, which is - what?
Milk.
And Kookies.
Brain food for this teenager.
I decided, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Notebook open, I'm brainstorming my campaign, and, of all people, I owe it all to Vice-Principal Hackett. Take a gander at my notes so far. I'm going to add a weekly "Where's Phil?" piece to my morning report. Take Hackett's milk carton idea national, maybe worldwide. Then, when I become a famous reporter, I'm going to publicize the story of my missing neighbors, involve authorities, put their mysterious disappearance on the internet, then - whoops. Doorbell.
"Hello. Can I help you?" Funny looking guy. Not funny "ha-ha" or funny "strange," but funny - "familiar," like I've seen him a dozen times in the movies. Trenchcoat, fedora - he's like something out of the late, late show.
"Miss Teslow, may I come in? It's about the Diffys."
It's been so long since I've heard any news about Phil and his family, and, without any significant fear, I open the front door fully and invite this familiar stranger inside.
"Who is it, Keely?" Mom's demanding screech reaches our ears.
"It's, um, a friend of the Diffys." I can hear the clinking of dishes in the sink, followed by my mother's trotting feet, also eager to hear news of the Diffys, even if she never did warm up to Mr. Diffy. Understandable. Lloyd Diffy is a nice man, but not - what's the word? Approachable? Compassionate? Living in the real world? Normal? Phil's dad takes some getting use to. I wish they had all stay so Mom could have gotten to know them, especially Phil. Maybe now ...?
Entering with her practiced realtor smile and outstretched hand, Mom greets our visitor with a slight to me, "Muffin Top, aren't you going to ask him to sit down?" I think she's still mad at me about the milk. Strange, without stepping forward, he reaches out his hand, forcing my mother to walk all the way to him to complete the traditional gesture. She almost makes it before his other hand retrieves something from his coat pocket. There's a blue whirring flash. Wizrd! Mom freezes. Catatonic, just like Myron was at the dance. Zapping Myron is one thing, but my mother? That's stepping over the line, Bub!