by Jon Scieszka
I decide not to tell her that I wasn’t completely fooled. Or that I saw the principal letting Anthony sneak over to the high school.
“Yeah, but these kids saved the whole project—and me,” Anthony says, pointing at me and Thad. “The gang figured out I was an impostor when I kept stalling about setting the fire. They were just pulling out a knife. . . .”
I hide a shiver. I am really glad I never saw that knife.
But then Hatchetface Hutchinson narrows her eyes at Thad and me, and it’s like her gaze alone is as fearsome as any weapon.
“And what were the two of you doing here?” she asks.
I am so relieved that Thad steps forward. In his innocent, little-kid voice, he says, “We were on our way to the church hayride, and we heard someone calling for help. I guess we scared off the bad guys. And we put out the fire. And we found this paper lying around. Do you think it’s something important?”
He holds out the will, and Anthony and his mom peer at it. Even Hatchetface Hutchinson doesn’t look the least bit suspicious of Thad’s story. And—it’s not really even a lie.
I guess he’s going to do just fine in middle school next year.
Hatchetface Hutchinson starts gasping.
“Millie Van Sutter’s family has been looking for this document for years!” she said. “Now she will inherit this house, and she will stop the condemnation proceedings, and she will be able to fix it up. . . .”
“Um, would that be the same Millie Van Sutter who’s the principal of Morrow Middle School?” I ask.
“Of course,” Hatchetface Hutchinson says.
I flash a triumphant look at Thad, to make sure he gets it. This is good for both of us—we really are going to survive middle school. The principal is going to have our backs.
But Hatchetface Hutchinson is looking straight at me again.
“You’re in my third-period class, aren’t you?” she asks. “Currently struggling just to keep a seventy-eight-percent average?”
I decide to take a page out of Harvey’s book, and say what the ghost said to me way back at the beginning of this whole adventure.
“Much as it saddens me,” I admit, “that is indeed the truth of the matter.”
Hatchetface Hutchinson raises an eyebrow.
“Ah, but I am confident that your grades will improve,” she says.
“You’re going to give me better grades because I saved your son’s life?” I ask.
“No. You’re going to earn them, because now I know you can,” she says.
Okay, that could have gone a little better. But—it also could have gone worse.
A bunch of police and sheriff types swarm into the house. I can see more law enforcement officers arriving, and four heads being shoved into police cars out in the street. I look around for Harvey to see how he’s taking all these new developments. He’s got to be falling all over himself, ready to thank us for saving his house and scaring off the gang and making sure Principal Van Sutter inherits the house like she’s supposed to.
But Harvey is nowhere in sight.
I dig my elbow into Thad’s side.
“Where’d Harvey go?” I whisper. Nobody else hears me because the law enforcement types are busy talking to each other and Anthony and Hatchetface Hutchinson.
“Harvey’s right there,” Thad whispers back, pointing at blank space. “Can’t you see him? Jumping up and down and shouting, ‘Thank you! Thank you! Gratias vobis ago!’?”
No way Thad could be making that up. I think that last part might even be Latin, and he wouldn’t know anything about that.
I swallow hard.
“I can’t see him anymore,” I admit. “Do you think that means I—I—”
I can’t even say it. It’s not like I wanted to be whatever that sappy term was that Thad came up with—pure-hearted? Was that it? But still . . . where did I go wrong? What did I do that was so bad when I was trying so hard to be brave and protect Thad and help Harvey?
“Oh!” Thad says, like he’s surprised. “Harvey just explained what happened. He says no one can see him once they get older than he was when he died. So you must have just turned more than eleven and three-quarters.”
I think about this—yep, my birthday was nine months ago. It makes sense. I’m kind of sad, because I was thinking it might be fun to keep hanging out with Harvey after tonight. But I’m kind of proud, too. I’m the oldest kid here. (Anthony Gorgonzola definitely doesn’t count.) I outlived Harvey. Now that I know I’m going to survive middle school, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a great life ahead of me.
“Oh, yeah,” Thad says, whispering to the air. Then he turns to me. “Harvey says he just heard one of the cops say this whole story is going to be on the front page of the newspaper tomorrow. With our pictures.” He clutches my arm. “Mom’s going to find out we didn’t go straight to that hayride.”
I don’t even flinch.
“You know, Thad,” I say. “Tonight we survived a ghost, a gang, and Anthony Gorgonzola and Hatchetface Hutchinson. Don’t you think we can handle Aunt Myrna?”
Thad relaxes. He grins at me.
“You’re right,” he says. “No sweat.”
Wonder if there’s a way to say that in Latin?
Pudding
by Jarrett J. Krosoczka
The Snake Mafia
by Gennifer Choldenko
In my dream, it was a tiny snake, green—the color of new leaves—no thicker around than a thumb and glowing iridescent like it was lit from within. Slithering so assuredly, it was almost as if it could walk on its coils. It slipped from chair to chair until it reached the door.
No one saw it but me.
It is hot and hot and hot in the blistering heat of the valley, where just walking across the pavement makes your feet burn like dough in frying fat, and the dust covers everything in a dull brown film.
I pour a quart bottle of water over my head, which makes me feel better for the three or four seconds it takes to empty, but by second five the sun sucks the water right off me like a giant drier in the big hot sky.
I’m headed for Homework Club to pick up my little brother, Niko, who is right this second standing on top of the play structure. Oh man, I hope he doesn’t jump again. I don’t feel like spending the rest of the day in the emergency room. Niko has broken his arm twice, fractured his tibia, sprained both ankles, and lost three teeth. Kind of amazing given the kid is only seven. I think the Red Cross has him on their danger-watch list. Ripley’s Believe It or Not! is probably interested too. He takes after my dad. My dad is an investigative journalist. He asks the questions people don’t want to answer. We see him on TV, when someone’s slamming the door in his face.
I’m cautious like my mom. She used to keep my dad and Niko in check. Now that’s my job. It’s not fun being the cautious one, that’s for sure.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays my dad teaches a journalism class at the university, so I pick up Niko. Only me, my dad, and our neighbor Harpreet are allowed to check him out. Harpreet lives next to us. He’s tall, wears a white turban, and has the kind of sweet brown face that makes you wish he was your uncle. He’s a graduate student and he drives a taxi, which he treats like a slightly irritating relative. When he’s driving, he keeps up a nonstop conversation with the car under his breath. In English when the taxi is behaving. In Hindi when it’s not.
But today Harpreet has a class so I’m picking up Niko.
Niko is very civilized until we’re out of sight of Homework Club, and then he pounces on me, pounding me with his fists, until I pin him to make him stop. Today he does this without his usual vigor since it’s one hundred and thirteen degrees in the shade. He pops open his water bottle and pours it over his head, puffing up his cheeks, jumping across the boiling-hot pavement.
We are both half Japanese, but Niko’s half is larger. People sometimes come up to him and start speaking in Japanese, which never happens to me.
Niko has the kind of sturdy body that looks like it belo
ngs on the ground, which makes his penchant for jumping even more surprising. I am longer and leaner, but my feet never leave the ground.
We’re almost home when we see the black Mercedes careening down the street, over the curb, crunching the gravel planter and nicking the saguaro in front of the Desert Sun. The car is out of place on our street, which is full of apartments for college students and people who teach part-time, like my dad. When it passes us, Niko goes motionless as if he’s receiving satellite signals. “River, that was Dad,” he says.
“It couldn’t be. He’s at work. Besides, we don’t know anyone with a Mercedes.”
He sucks his bottom lip, thinking about this.
I pull my cell out of my pocket and hit the Dad icon just as we turn the corner to our apartment—one of four in the complex. My cell rings through to Dad’s, but a beat later, I hear his jazz ringtone in the distance. Uh-oh. He must have forgotten his cell.
It’s Niko who notices our apartment door is wide open. He gets in before I do.
“River.” His voice is small, pushed down like it’s coming from the toe of his shoe.
The coffee table is flipped on its back. The file cabinet from my dad’s office is pulled into the living room. The photos on the walls are knocked every which way.
The room Niko and I share has not been touched. My dad’s bedroom looks fine, too. It’s his office that was torn apart, his desk chair shoved over, his bookshelves pulled from the wall. Computer gone. Printer upside down. Books and papers overflowing into the living room. Even the pencil sharpener is pulled apart—pencil shavings scattered across the floor.
I’m trying to take this all in and think clearly what to do. I know my dad would say, if everyone is safe, then whatever the problem is we can work it out.
I’m safe. Niko is safe. But what about Dad?
In the kitchen there is a smaller mess. One chair tipped over, a McDonald’s bag on the table, and a half-finished Coke. My dad doesn’t eat fast food so it isn’t his. The Coke is still cold—the ice isn’t even melted yet. Whoever did this must have just left.
I’m about to call Dad at work when I see Niko behind me. He’s busy putting a pig in a blanket in the microwave, which he does every day after school.
“River.” Niko’s voice is torqued.
My heart starts hammering. What if the kidnappers are still here? No, I would have seen them. When I turn to Niko, he’s focused on the pig in a blanket box. He shoves it in my face.
A note is scrawled on the top in my dad’s writing, only wobblier, like he was writing with the wrong hand.
Harpreet is taking you to school tomorrow. Don’t call the police. Dad.
“Don’t call the police? We have to call the police,” I say.
The microwave dings. Niko pulls out a pig in a blanket and takes a bite. After the nuclear holocaust, pigs in a blanket will still be here, and Niko will still be eating them.
“Nu-uh. Call Dad,” Niko mumbles, his mouth full.
I try to call him, but it’s an automated phone loop—a never-ending Möbius strip. There’s no way to get a live person. The best I can do is leave a message.
We slog into the mess in his office searching for his laptop. Doesn’t look like it’s here, but that doesn’t mean he has it. Maybe they have it. Whoever they are.
I checked out a laptop from school, so I get on it and email Dad.
Emergency! Our apartment was trashed. Come home.
“Harpreet?” Niko suggests between bites.
“He’s got class. He won’t answer until he gets out, which is at six, I think.” I wish Harpreet wasn’t quite so conscientious. I wish he’d check his texts in class just this once. “Are you sure Dad was in that car?”
Niko nods. I text Harpreet anyway.
Call us!! Emrgncy!
Then I pick up Dad’s phone and begin nosing around his call history. Harpreet, pizza man, vacuum repair, the university, Aunt Julie, Snakeworld, Critterland, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
My dad doesn’t like to talk about what he’s working on, but it doesn’t take honor roll to figure out it has something to do with animals.
“Why would he tell us not to go to the police?” I mutter.
“Maybe he’s in trouble with the police,” Niko offers.
“Dad?” I snort. Dad likes danger but not the lawbreaking kind. He’s a fanatic about following the rules. He considers putting the recycling in the wrong container a felony offense.
Maybe Dad really wants us to go to the police, but the people who nabbed him forced him to write that note. I’d think that was a stronger possibility if he hadn’t written on Niko’s pigs in a blanket box. A real kidnapper wouldn’t write a note on biscuit-wrapped hot dogs. Besides, only Dad would know Niko would find it there.
If we go to the police it will make the kidnappers mad. I don’t even know if they’re kidnappers though. Dad isn’t a kid. Besides, they didn’t ask for money, not that we have much, but still. Maybe we’re not supposed to go to the police because the police here are corrupt. Are the police here corrupt? I have no idea.
I check a news site my dad works for. His last byline was six weeks ago for a story about endangered species. I don’t think Australian monkey-faced bats are going to be ransacking our house, eating Big Macs, and writing notes on hot dogs. I’m betting it’s not what he’s already written, it’s what he’s about to reveal.
“Niko, do you know what Dad’s been working on?”
Niko keeps chewing. “Snakes,” he says.
“Snakes? Dad hates snakes.”
Niko shrugs.
Niko has a point, though. Dad has been talking a lot about snakes. I don’t much like snakes either. In fact, I had a really creepy dream about a snake just last night.
I look again at the call history on Dad’s phone. He left two texts today. Gd luck. You’ll ace Wrld His, he texted me this morning. And, Meet me at Marie Callender’s Orange and Rte 80, he texted to a phone number I don’t recognize. That text was sent three hours ago, but it doesn’t say when they’d meet. Whoever he was texting must have already known that.
“Niko,” I tell him. “We gotta find Dad.”
Niko has a death grip on his pigs in a blanket. He’s not about to go anywhere. “What about Harpreet?”
“We’ll be back by the time he gets home. We’re only going to Marie Callender’s.”
Niko checks how many are left. I snatch the box out of his hands, put it in a plastic bag with handles, and give it back to him.
“How will I warm them up?” he asks.
“In this heat, you can cook them on the pavement,” I tell him.
He appears to consider this as I chuck my cell on the counter in favor of Dad’s—which is nicer—grab money from the emergency envelope in the junk drawer, and water bottles from the freezer.
I head for the utility room to get our bikes, dragging Niko with me.
Outside the air is hot as a furnace, but I don’t care. I jump on my bike and pedal as hard as I can down Fifty-first and up the hill to Orange with Niko not far behind. When we get to the restaurant, we ditch our bikes in the gravel and head for the front door. I’m just thinking I should have brought the bike locks when out of the corner of my eye I see our car.
“Niko!” I point toward the old red Subaru parked under a jacaranda.
“Daddy’s here.” Niko’s voice squeaks with hope.
We head straight for the restaurant. He has to be inside. When I pull open the Marie Callendar’s door, I’m hit by a wall of air that cools my sweaty face. We run through the restaurant, searching the booths, the back tables, the counter, the men’s room. Niko even checks the kitchen, but no Dad.
We walk slower now, not sure where else to look. “Can I help you?” a hostess with drawn-on eyebrows and a smell like scented candles wants to know.
“Did you see a tall man with dark hair and a beard?” I ask her.
“I don’t think so,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt, “but it’s been
pretty busy today.”
“His car is here,” Niko insists, crossing his short arms.
She nods. “He’ll probably be right back then. Do you want a table?”
“No,” we tell her, and head back out to the car, then walk all the way around it, inspecting it like a birthday gift. It isn’t locked—“nothing in here to steal,” Dad always says.
Inside the car is an inferno, all the compressed heat of the afternoon jammed into one space. The back has our beach towels and bathing suits from last night, when Dad took us to the university pool, an old copy of Captain Underpants, and an empty can of tennis balls.
The car is so old you operate the windows with a crank. We roll all four of them down. But as hot as it is, I can’t persuade Niko to leave the car.
“Lemonade, Niko,” I whisper to his cherry-red face.
He sinks down lower.
I finally get him out by promising a table with a view of the car.
Back in the restaurant, we order lemonade and boysenberry pie for Niko. My stomach is too upset to keep anything down, but Niko can always eat. While we’re waiting for the waitress to bring our drinks, I fiddle with Dad’s phone, pressing the call-back button on his last text. The call goes through.
“Mostly Reptiles,” a lady answers.
The hairs on my arms suddenly spark with electricity. Niko was right. This is about snakes.
“Hello?” she asks.
“What kind of ah um business is this?”
“We supply lizards, snakes, and turtles to pet stores,” she says.
“Oh,” I say as Niko jumps me.
“Niko what the—”
“River! Our car!” he hollers.
Outside a tow truck is parked behind our car. A big muscular linebacker of a man in a baseball hat is sitting in the Subaru’s driver’s seat, changing the gearshift. He pops out and walks around to the back, loading the car on to the tow truck.
