The cover of the dictionary flew open and Steven read on the copyright page, “Whine, whine, whine. Is there a point or question to all of this idle chatter, or is this merely a demonstration to show me what a pip-squeak ([PIP-skweek] n. A contemptibly small or unimportant person, a twerp) you have grown up to be, because believe me, you can stop, that point was made long ago.”
“Man!” Steven thought. “There's still no love in Dictionary Land.”
The letters on the copyright page rearranged themselves to say, “If it's love you're looking for, might I suggest checking out the phone book under ‘Therapists’ or tuning in to Oprah. If it's truth you seek, you've come to the right place.”
“Okay, then,” Steven said, “what should I do? I know assoon as I ask for new business at the meeting today, Russell is going to introduce Richelle and then the battle for the presidency is going to begin. …”
The dictionary wrote, “Battle? Well, young Mr. Carter, if what you're referring to as a ‘battle’ is based on merit ([MER-it] n. Something that deserves or justifies a reward) or justice ([JUS-tis] n. The quality of being just, righteous, fair), then I think your calling this a ‘battle’ may be an example of extreme hyperbole ([high-PUR-buh-lee] n. Rhetoric, obvious and intentional exaggeration).”
The dictionary wasn't through. It wrote out, “I feel the best description of the contest of Steven Daemon Carter versus Richelle Cyrus-Herndon is a rather simple four-letter word: rout ([rout] n. A horrible defeat marked by disorderly flight). Let me demonstrate.”
Steven sighed; he had the feeling this demonstration wasn't going to make him feel a whole lot better.
The dictionary spelled out, “This is just like what will happen at today's meeting.”
The letters on the page bunched together in two groups, the vowels on one side and the consonants on the other. Over the vowels the word Steven appeared, and over the consonants the word Richelle was written. Above their names the words Is there any new business? showed up, and without warning the vowels and the consonants charged at each other and sparks flew, and sounds of metal slashing at stone and smoke and confusion began to rise from the page.
The dictionary closed itself and the fight kept going on.
The old book jerked and bumped and burped and jumped until it seemed like it was going to fly off the table. For a second everything was quiet, then without warning a long string of frightened-looking, bruised and battered e's squeezed from between the pages and, sounding just the way you'd think a long string of frightened, bruised and battered e's would sound, they jumped off the edge of the table and fell to the ground in a cloud of smoke.
They screamed, “E-e-e-e-e!” then hit the floor with a loud BOOM!
Next came a string of torn and tattered, bruised and battered i's, then o's, then u's, then a's.
“I-i-i-i-i!” BOOM!
“O-o-o-o-o!” BOOM!
“U-u-u-u-u!” BOOM!
“A-a-a-a-a!” BOOM!
The cover on the dictionary came open, and the consonants had a group of y's shaking and quaking on the edge of the page. The consonants were arguing amongst themselves whether or not they should make the y's jump. They were debating if the y's were really vowels or consonants.
Steven could feel his spirits sinking.
“But wait a minute,” he said, “you're just a dictionary, and as far as I can tell, you're a dictionary with a chip on its shoulder, and from reading Mom's book Things with Chips on Their Shoulders, I know that's a sign of not feeling good about yourself. So why would I listen to what you have to say?”
The cover of the dictionary came open and Steven slammed it shut without reading what was written there.
“I know it's going to be something smart-mouthed and negative, so I don't need to read it. If I'm going to beat Richelle Cyrus-Herndon for the presidency of the Flint Future Detectives Club, I'm going to have to go in with a positive outlook, I'm going to have to be strong!”
Steven straightened his shoulders and stood tall.
“Besides, if it really is going to be a rout, why are the y's still hanging on so tough? As long as the y's are fighting back, I've got a chance! If I'm going to stay as president of the club that I put together, then I have to be ready to fight and think and be quick on my feet! I'm going to have to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee!”
Steven began dancing around the room, ducking and bobbing his head.
“If I'm going to keep what's mine, I'm going to have to do what I did to Dr. T., I'll have to go in with the eye of the tiger!”
Steven started ducking and bobbing and growling and looking mean while he danced around the room.
He threw his hands above his head and screamed, “Yes! Yes! I'm ready! Cyrus-Herndon is through! This is my club, this is my house, this is my world, baby, Richelle's just a squirrel trying to get a nut!”
Steven's dad had peeked in the room to see what the big ruckus was, saw his son ducking, bobbing, weaving, growling and looking mean, and thought to himself, “Some of the time I don't know about that boy.”
Now Steven said to Russ, “Is there any old business that needs to be taken care of?”
Russell looked at his paper and said, “No, Mr. President, all that business is what we secretaries call moldy-oldie and isn't worth talking about anymore.”
Steven was geeked! Steven was ready! He took a deep breath, swallowed hard, said to himself, “Eye of the tiger, eye of the tiger, eye of the tiger …,” then asked, “Okay, is there any new business that we need to take care of?”
Russell said, “Yes, Mr. President, I've thought up a new way for us to make a bunch of money to put in our savings account.”
This wasn't what Steven was expecting.
“Really?”
“Really. Remember when the big power blackout came last year?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Remember how all the phones stopped working and all the ovens and stoves and microwaves stopped cooking?”
“Yeah.”
“And remember how my mummy wanted to call for a pizza to be delivered, but there weren't any phones that worked?”
“I wasn't at your house, but I believe you.”
“And remember how hungry I was and—”
Steven said, “Mr. Secretary, what is your moneymaking plan? We don't have all day.”
“Well, I figured out a perfect way to solve that problem and get lots of cash!”
“What, Russell, what?”
“What's the stupidest bird you know about?”
“Mourning doves.” Steven almost asked what in the world that had to do with power failures and making money, but he knew once Russell started telling one of his schemes, the best thing to do was to go along for the ride.
“Okay, and a mourning dove looks a lot like a pigeon, right?”
“I guess so.”
“And pigeons get trained to deliver messages, they can fly for hundreds of miles, can't they?”
“Yes, Russell.”
“Okay, here's my plan, and it solves all the problems when the power goes out and you're hungry.”
Steven waited.
“All we got to do is train chickens to deliver messages! They're a little smarter than pigeons, and when there aren't any phones and you're starving, all you have to do is get a message delivered to you by a chicken. Then you read the message a-n-d …”
Russell dragged the word out waiting for Steven to answer.
Steven gave a confused look to Richelle, who was looking just as confused.
Finally Steven said, “You read the message and what, Russell?”
Russell said, “And you eat the chicken!”
Richelle Cyrus-Herndon couldn't bite her tongue anylonger. She felt that there were times you had to let some of the ridiculous stories people told just slide, but when something was extremely ridiculous, you had to set the person straight.
She said, “But how would someone know to send you a mess—”
Steven b
anged the table leg on his desk.
“You're out of order! No one called your name to speak. You're gonna have to be quiet. You're not even a Flint Future Detective yet!”
Richelle shook her head, tapped her foot and chewed her lip.
Steven needed the meeting to move on. He needed to get to the new business that would require all of his training and strength.
“Wow, Russell!” he said. “That's a great idea, we'll work on that one later. Now, is there any other new business?”
Russ cleared his throat. “Yes, Mr. President, we have two new people who wanna join the Flint Future Detectives Club.”
Russell reached in his front shirt pocket and opened his hand. There in the middle of his palm sat the world's shiveringest, shakingest, quiveringest, quakingest little dog, Rodney Rodent.
Steven couldn't believe his eyes. It looked like Rodney Rodent was even smaller than he'd been a couple of days before!
Russell said, “The first person is Rodney Rodent, and Ithink he'd be a good club member because he's great at not getting noticed, he doesn't eat anything but cheese-burg deluxes with heavy olives, and even Daddy says he's the best because he hasn't barked or done anything annoying yet. The only sound he makes are funny little whines.”
Steven said, “And what job should Rodney Rodent have in the club, Mr. Secretary?”
“Well, Mr. President, since he's so good at getting in places without anyone seeing him, I think he would be perfect as the Flint Future Detectives number one sneak. He can also be the official map reader and number one bug chaser.”
Steven said, “If anyone objects to Rodney Rodent becoming the number one sneak, official map reader and number one bug chaser, let them speak now or forever rest in peace.”
The room was quiet. But Richelle's eyes rolled so hard they did almost make a sound.
“Oh, man,” Steven thought, “here we go! Eye of the tiger, grrrrr! Eye of the tiger, grrrrr! Eye of the …,” then he said to Russ, “Is there any other new business?”
“Yes, Mr. President, one other person would like to become a member. …”
Richelle Cyrus-Herndon said, “Excuse me. I said I'd think about being a member, and after I've seen how this meeting is run, I'm not so sure I'd …”
Steven had a flash of honesty with himself; he knewthat the smartest person really should be in charge. He knew Richelle really was probably better qualified to be president. He knew she'd probably find better things to investigate than he had. He knew he should let her be the leader.
He knew all of that, but he still couldn't bring himself to show Richelle any respect.
He said, “Oh, yeah? Really, huh? You think I'm going to fight you over this? Well, I'm not! Go ahead! You can be president! It's not the great job you think it is!”
Russell said, “If anyone objects to Richelle Cyrus-Herndon becoming the new president of the Flint Future Detectives, let them speak now or forever rest in peace.”
No one spoke. No one said a peep. In fact, the only sound that could be heard came from the room where Great-great-grampa Carter's dictionary was kept, and that sound went something like this:
“Y-y-y-y-y!” BOOM!
And if Steven had bothered to look at what the dictionary had written to him, he would have seen:
“Capitulation ([kuh-pit-you-LAY-shun] n. The act of complete and total surrender. Giving up when confronted, with no realistic hope of winning. In other words, ‘You got played big-time, Bucko!’)”
When Steven finally did check the dictionary a couple of days later as part of his new job as the Flint Future Detectives chief looker-upper, he read, “The word is out that you are no longer president of the club. Alas, so this is how itends, not with a bang but with a whimper. What a wuss ([woos] n. A weakling, a wimp).
And even though Steven would be doggoned if he was going to look up whimper, he didn't know why, but all of a sudden he let out a long, moaning cry mixed with low, plaintive broken sounds.
The Evil Mural!
ALMOST A WEEK LATER Russell Braithewaite Woods was in the middle of another weird dream.
In this one Richelle Cyrus-Herndon said, “Oh, Russell, I can't be president of the Flint Future Detectives anymore. I need you to take over, because we all know who's really the smartest kid at Clark Elementary! And who is also the handsomest and the best eater of lots of food!”
Then in the dream Steven said, “Oh, yes, Russell, not only are you a large and powerful eater of all kinds of food, you are also the best friend Zoopy ever had. Please, please be president of the club and please, please take Zoopy back home with you. Does anyone object to Russell being president or will you all forever rest in peace?”
Zoopy said, “I second that emotion,” and made a sloppy, slurping sound, which is what you do if you've got a mouth that's always full of gallons of drool and slob.
That wasn't the weird part of the dream, that was the good part. The weird part began when Rodney Rodent said:
“I haven't worked in so, so long I think I've lost my mind,
I can't believe I came to Flint an Old Soul for to find.
I've moved their stove, I've moved their fridge, I carried them real far.
If I can get to the garage, I'll even move their car.”
After making those bad rhymes, Rodney Rodent picked up the bed, with Russell on it, and walked around the room carrying it over his head while saying:
“Russell is the greatest! Russell is the king!
Russell is a chomping, chewing, fast-eating machine!”
But like with so many great things, this dream came to an end way too soon.
Russell was instantly awake when he heard his mother scream.
A second later he heard her say, “The fridge? The stove? How could they steal the stove and fridge without anyone hearing them?”
Russ was pretty sure he was awake, but what he saw when he looked around his room made him think maybe his weird dream was still going on.
First because his bed had moved from one side of the room to the other, and second because where his bed used to be now sat a refrigerator and stove!
Russell blinked a couple of times and shook his head to try to make the kitchen appliances go away, but each time he opened his eyes, they were still right there, right where they weren't supposed to be.
“Wow!” Russell looked at Rodney Rodent and said to the dog, “I bet I won't need a crystal ball to tell that some big trouble's right around the corner.”
Russell's mummy walked into his room. “Russell, did you hear anything last night? Someone stole the …”
His mummy froze with her mouth wide open.
“Boy!” Russell thought. “Maybe I should ask Mummy to join the Flint Future Detectives—she noticed the stove and refrigerator were in my room, and no one gave her any kind of clues!”
She didn't say another word, just turned around and walked out of the room like nothing unusual had happened.
Five seconds later she was back with Daddy. She pointed at the fridge. “Impossible, huh? I'm mad, am I, huh? HUH?”
Daddy looked at the stove and fridge, then at his son, then at his wife, then back at their appliances.
Mummy said, “That Carter boy is involved in this. I don't know how, but I feel it in my bones that that Steven Carter boy has something to do with this.”
Daddy said, “Russ-ell, muh boy, ya didn't hear no one toting the icebox into ya room last night? Ya slept right t'rough it? And I s'pose it'd be a grand waste of time ta ask why ya drag ya bed from one par-factly good side of the room to the otha, huh?”
Russell had seen Steven stroke his chin whenever he wanted someone to think he was doing some real strong thinking, so he decided to do the same.
“Hmmm,” he said, “I did dream that Rodney Rodent picked up the bed and was marching me around the room. I didn't see him touch the stove and fridge, but he might've. The way he was carrying my bed around the room, I kinda think he's a lot stronger than he looks.”
Mummy said, “Was that Carter boy over here last night?”
“No, Mummy, Steven's real brave, but he's afraid of you guys.”
“Imagine that! That little monster afraid of us!”
Daddy said, “I'll hafta go rent a dolly to move these t'ings back. What a city, what a country!”
Mummy shook her head and left the room.
“All right, muh boy, our mornin's all set for us. Get dressed and let's get goin'.”
After Russell had washed his face and brushed and flossed his teeth (yup, he actually flosses!) and combed his hair, he dropped Rodney Rodent into the front pocket of his shirt and went into the kitchen.
Since he was a soon-to-be-great future detective, he noticed something was missing, and not just the stove and refrigerator either. Every other morning there was the delicious smell of breakfast being cooked when he came into the kitchen. Today there was nothing.
“Oh, man!” Russell thought. “This would be a great time for a messenger chicken!”
His father was sitting sadly at the kitchen table.
“Daddy, what are we gonna do about breakfast?”
“We can't do no cookin' till the fridge and stove are outta ya room, muh boy. It's too-too late for breakfast anyway, and ya mutha is craving cheeseburg deluxes with heavy olives from Halo Burger, ya up ta riding shotgun?”
As soon as Daddy said “cheeseburg deluxes with heavy olives,” Rodney Rodent began twitching around in Russell's shirt pocket. The strange little dog wouldn't eat any of the dog food the Woods family bought him, but he sure had developed a real taste for olive burgers.
Russell said, “No thanks, Daddy, I don't want to go there unless you can borrow our old van from the Carters and I can borrow Zoopy from Steven.”
“Why is it ya won't go ta Halo Burger without that wretched animal? Ya t'ink I haven't taken note of that?”
“It's not Halo Burger that I don't want to go to, it's that terrible parking lot that you leave the car in when you go inside.”
“Ah! Why I hafta marry a Flint gal? Muh own dear mutha tole me I shoulda never leave Jamaica! Children there would never talk sich nonsense.”
Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission Page 3
