by Sam Hay
“Hey!” Jackson called. “Where are you going?”
But the truck sled had already zoomed off.
3
“I just don’t get it,” Jackson said, bouncing his flipper ball off his bedroom wall a few hours later. He and Quigley were supposed to be doing their homework project—the Visitor’s Guide to Rookeryville—but Jackson couldn’t concentrate. “I mean, why didn’t Uncle Bryn tell us where he was going?”
Quigley looked up from his icePad. “Yeah, that was odd. He’s usually quite a chatty penguin.” Quigley glanced back at his screen. “Hey, do you think it’s okay for us to use this photo of the Toothfish stadium? I found it on the Ice-net.” He held up the screen for Jackson to see. “I know we’re supposed to take our own photos, but—”
“Uncle Bryn never ignores me,” Jackson interrupted, bouncing and catching the ball again.
“I know, right?” Quigley tapped his icePad screen some more. “Maybe this one is better,” he said, showing Jackson another photo. “It’s a bit blurry, so it looks like we could have taken it.”
“And remember that freaky ice cream they were eating?” Jackson said, throwing the ball again. “Yellow and green stripes. It sort of—”
“Glowed!” Quigley looked up. “Yeah, it looked a lot like the new pajamas I invented. Did I tell you about them? They glow in the dark, so if you need a snack during the night, you can find your way. Cool, huh?”
“And why did Uncle Bryn and his friends get into that freaky-looking ice cream truck sled?” Jackson said. “Did you see it? Blacked-out windows. Yellow stripes down the side! I’ve never seen that truck selling ice cream in Rookeryville before, have you?”
Quigley shook his head. “Hey, do you want to use this picture of the department store where your mom works?” He held the icePad up again. “Waddles’ has got to be a top place to include in a visitor’s guide to Rookeryville, right?”
Jackson stopped bouncing his ball. “Maybe it wasn’t an ice cream truck sled at all. Maybe it was an FBI vehicle. Maybe Uncle Bryn and his friends were just going off on a secret mission.” Jackson sighed. “But that still doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t talk to me. He was like a zombie. Did you see his eyes? All round and staring and—”
“Maybe they were on a stakeout?” Quigley suggested.
“At Brain Freezers?” Jackson paused. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. Uncle Bryn couldn’t speak to me because he was trying to blend in. But I still don’t—”
“Hey, hatchlings!” The bedroom door opened a crack and the head of Jackson’s sister, Finola, appeared around the side. “Mom says stop banging your ball against the wall or she’ll put you back on poop-scooping duty!” Finola sniggered.
Jackson tossed the flipper ball at her, but quick as lightning she pulled a large drumstick out of her crest and smacked the ball right back at him. Jackson ducked as it whizzed across the room and thwumped into the wall, making a hole.
“Uh-oh!” Quigley gulped. “Your mom will go Hammerhead when she sees that hole.”
“Nah,” Jackson said. “Dad’s knocking down that wall next week to build my new circus-skills training area.”
“Circus skills?” Quigley’s eyes widened.
“Yep. Trampoline. Trapeze. And a real tight- rope!” Jackson grinned. “Every secret agent needs good balancing skills, right?”
Finola snorted. “I always thought you clowns belonged in a circus! Mom says there are hot krill cakes in the kitchen if you want some. But maybe I’ll just tell her you’re too busy for cakes.” She slammed the door before Jackson could chuck the ball again.
“I wish I knew what secret mission Uncle Bryn is working on,” Jackson said as he and Quigley padded to the kitchen to get some food.
“Yeah, he should have let us help,” Quigley said. “After all, we were the ones who cracked the case of the missing fish and got Coldfinger arrested and—”
“Shush!” Jackson nudged him as his mom shuffled into the kitchen behind them.
“How is the homework project coming?” she asked, her eyes boring into them.
“Umm, well, to be honest, not too great,” Quigley began, his face turning frostberry red.
Jackson glared at him. Quigley had forgotten their new rule: Quigley was NOT allowed to talk to Jackson’s mom because he wasn’t able to fib to her. Jackson’s mom was a detective at Waddles’ Department Store, and she noticed everything! Jackson suspected she might be part cyborg. She definitely had honesty magnets in her eyes. No one could lie to Marina Rockflopper.
“Well, we’re still in the planning stage,” Jackson said, stepping in front of Quigley so his mom couldn’t see him. “Oh, wow, those krill cakes look great.”
“Oh, yeah,” Quigley said. “Your dad makes THE best krill cakes on the planet.”
Jackson’s mom nodded. “He sure does. I just wish he’d make more cakes and fewer rooms. Lundy!” she shouted. “Come eat some of your cakes!” Then she dropped her voice and whispered to the boys, “He’s in the juicing room again. I wish he wouldn’t take the Egg in there with him. It nearly fell in the blender yesterday.”
“Hi! Look what I made!” Jackson’s dad appeared with the Egg—Jackson’s soon-to-be-sibling—balanced on his toes. In his flippers he carried a giant jug of foamy green juice. “Fungi and Seaberry Smoothie! Who wants some?”
“It looks great, Mr. Rockflopper,” Quigley said. “I’m in!”
“It’s even better with a krill cake dipped in it.” Jackson’s dad picked up some cups and began to pour. “Don’t you think so, Marina?”
But Jackson’s mom was standing rock-still, staring at the kitchen TV. “Why is Uncle Bryn on the television?” she said, grabbing the remote so she could turn up the sound.
“Police say the alarm at Blubbers Bank went off around six o’clock this evening,” the TV news anchor was saying, “when a gang of penguins broke in and stole everything in the bank’s vaults. One of the intruders was caught on the security cameras making his getaway. Police say if you recognize this penguin, you should not approach him, as he may be dangerous.”
“Oh, my giddy beak!” Jackson’s mom collapsed onto a chair. “They’re saying your uncle Bryn’s a bank robber!”
4
“Impossible!” Jackson exploded. “Uncle Bryn’s a hero, not a bank robber.”
Mom grabbed her icePhone. “There must be some mistake. I’ll call him. He’s going to be so mad at those TV penguins.”
“I’m sure I read somewhere that everyone has a doppel-penguin,” Jackson’s dad said, taking a large slurp of his smoothie and leaving a green mustache above his beak.
“Oh, yeah, a doppel-penguin—that’s a look-alike, right?” Quigley said. “I heard that we could all have a dozen penguins who look exactly like us. Imagine!”
Jackson’s head was suddenly full of a dozen Hoff Rockfaces. He shuddered.
“No reply.” Mom sighed. “Bryn always forgets to turn the sound up on his cell. Let’s go over there, Lundy. He’ll be so embarrassed about this.”
“Good plan,” Jackson said. “Me and Quigley will wait in the ice sled while you get ready.”
“What?” His mom frowned. “No, Jackson. You boys aren’t coming. Quigley’s got to go home soon. Until then, Finola will babysit.”
“No, she won’t!” Finola shuffled into the kitchen with her bag slung across her shoulder. “I’ve got band practice, remember?” Finola played drums in a heavy metal rock band called the Ice Maidens. “We’ve got a gig on Saturday. I’m not missing band practice to look after hatchlings.”
“Don’t call us that!” Jackson glared at her.
Quigley’s flipper shot up, like he was answering a question in school. “Um—Jackson can come stay at my house,” he said. “For a sleepover.”
Jackson’s mom’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re both grounded as part of your punishment. No sleepovers, remember?”
Jackson crossed his flippers. “Please, Mom?”
“It’s
not a bad idea,” Jackson’s dad said, picking up the ice sled keys. “We could drop them off on the way to Bryn’s apartment.”
Jackson’s mom puffed out her cheeks. Then she sighed. “Okay. I guess I don’t have a choice. I’ll text your mom, Quigley, to check that it’s okay; Jackson, go pack.”
“I can’t believe they showed Uncle Bryn’s face on TV,” Jackson said, throwing a few random things into his backpack. “He should make them broadcast an apology or something.”
“Don’t worry,” Quigley said. “The FBI will know who the real robbers are.”
Jackson froze. “Of course!” he said. “The FBI! You’re a genius, Quigley.”
“I am?”
Jackson reached under his mattress and pulled something out. “Gotcha!”
“Your uncle Bryn’s FBI radio!” Quigley smiled. “I’d forgotten we still had that.”
They’d found it a few weeks before, when Uncle Bryn had accidentally dropped it in one of the ponds at the aquarium. Jackson had meant to return the radio to him. But somehow he’d never gotten around to it.
“Wish they wouldn’t keep changing the frequency.” Jackson twiddled the knobs on the front. “Oh, here, I think I found it. Listen, they’re transmitting…”
“What?” Jackson gasped. “No way!”
“The FBI must be confused, too,” Quigley said. “I mean, that bank robber on the security camera footage did look a lot like your uncle Bryn.”
“We’ve got to go tell them,” Jackson said. “They can’t say that about Uncle Bryn. He’s their best agent.” Jackson shoved the radio into his backpack. “As soon as we get dropped off at your house, we’ll sneak down to the FBI headquarters and set things straight.”
Quigley nodded. “But do you think the FBI will listen? The boss isn’t the friendliest penguin on the planet.”
“We’ll make them listen!” Jackson said. “Uncle Bryn is NOT a bank robber. It’s impossible!”
5
They sat in silence as Jackson’s parents drove the boys the two blocks to Quigley’s house.
Jackson’s dad tried to cheer everyone up. “You know, Bryn is going to laugh his beak off when he hears about this. Imagine having a bank robber as your double! It’s like that book we read at school, Marina,” he said to Jackson’s mom. “The Prince and the Pauper Penguin! Remember? When the prince penguin swapped places with the poor penguin because they looked alike.”
Mom nodded, but she still looked worried. “Please thank your mom again for me, Quigley,” she said, pulling up outside his house. “I’ll call in the morning. Night, honey.” She smiled at Jackson. “And be good!”
“Tell Uncle Bryn I say hi,” Jackson called as the sled drove off. Then he turned to Quigley. “Right! Let’s do this! We’ve got to get down there and tell the FBI they’ve got it all wrong.”
“Sure,” Quigley said. “But first we’ll have to give my mom the slip. Come on, she’ll be in the shed.”
Jackson followed his buddy up the overgrown drive, glancing around in case anything unexpected happened. Last week, he’d gone over to see Quigley, and the door had been answered by the vacuum cleaner—or, the Helpful House-bot, as Quigley called it. Jackson hadn’t found it at all helpful. Not when it had started giving him a thorough cleaning using its extra-strong dirt-sucker! Jackson still had two bald patches as a result.
When they reached the shed, there was a loud BANG! The glass in the windows rattled, the door crashed open, and a thick white cloud floated out toward them.
“What the— Hey!” Jackson squeaked as it swallowed them up. “I can’t see!”
“Don’t worry,” Quigley called out. “It’s just Mom’s new chemistry project, clouds in a can! It’ll clear soon.”
Jackson batted his way free, shaking his feathers dry. “Why would you want to put clouds in a can?”
Quigley shrugged. “To help gardeners water their plants? I dunno, really. It’s Mom’s project.”
“Oh, hi, boys.” Quigley’s mom emerged from the shed wearing safety goggles and a lab coat. “Sorry about the mist.” She wafted the last of the cloud away with her flipper. “It’s supposed to be a rain cloud. But I can’t quite get the formulation right. Nice to see you, Jackson.”
“Hi, Mrs. Puffle-Popper. Mom says thanks for having me.”
“Oh, it’s a pleasure. Just give me five minutes to finish up and I’ll come make you some snacks.”
Jackson nudged Quigley. Escape plan? he mouthed.
“Oh—yeah, um…” Quigley hopped from one foot to the other. He was terrible at telling fibs. “About those snacks, Mom,” he said. “I’m not sure we have any left. See, me and Dad sort of scarfed down everything in the snack cupboard last night when we were watching the flipper ball game.”
“You did?” Quigley’s mom sighed. “Well, Arnold does like to snack. He gets all his best ideas when he snacks.”
Jackson tried not to smile. Quigley’s dad, like the rest of Quigley’s family, had at least twenty new invention ideas every day. Some of them were even slightly sensible. “Um, maybe we could go to the store and fetch some snacks,” Jackson suggested. On a one to ten Mom Scale of Believable Ideas, it was about a two, Jackson thought, but as he watched Mrs. Puffle-Popper nodding happily at the plan, he remembered that not all moms used the same scale as his did.
“Great idea,” Quigley’s mom said, rummaging in her lab coat pocket. “Here, take my wallet. And, Jackson, you can borrow my ice cycle. Don’t rush. I’ll just carry on in here for a while. See you soon.” And she shuffled back into her shed.
“I always forget how chill your mom is,” Jackson said as they headed to the garage to fetch the ice cycles.
“She just likes spending time in her shed,” Quigley said. “When she’s in there, time stands still for her. Sometimes I go down for breakfast and she’s still out in the shed from the night before.”
“Is it this one?” Jackson asked, picking up an orange ice cycle inside the garage. “Yep, I can just about reach the pedals.” As he steered it toward the door, he heard a crackling in his backpack. “Listen, it’s the radio again.” He pulled it out and turned up the volume.
“Adele Avenue?” Jackson frowned. “Isn’t that a few blocks from here? If we hurry, we could get there before the FBI—”
“—and catch the robbers!” Quigley grinned.
“And prove Uncle Bryn’s innocent!”
Jackson pedaled down the drive with Quigley close behind. Don’t worry, Uncle Bryn, he thought. No way will I let you take the blame for someone else’s bad behavior! You can depend on me …
“I know a shortcut,” Quigley shouted as they zoomed down the now-dark street, his ice cycle light showing the way. “Follow me!”
Jackson hoped it was true. Not all of Quigley’s shortcuts worked out for the best. Like the time when he’d shown Jackson a new path he’d discovered up Frostbite Ridge, the giant iceberg that loomed over Rookeryville. Halfway along, Quigley had nearly fallen into the biggest ice hole they’d ever seen. Luckily, Jackson had been able to grab his tail and pull him back from the brink. He’d only lost a few feathers, but it had been a close one. I do not want to have to haul my buddy’s butt out of a hole again tonight, Jackson thought as they turned right, then took a hard left down a bumpy track between two houses.
“Duck!” Quigley called as they entered a tunnel of low-hanging tree branches. Seconds later they crashed through some sharp bushes and onto Adele Avenue.
“Over there!” Jackson said, spotting a flashing alarm on the front of a store halfway down the street. As they whizzed toward it, they had to swerve to avoid a truck sled thundering past.
“Hey—that’s the ice cream truck sled from earlier,” Jackson said.
They watched it skid to a halt outside the jewelry store just as the front doors crashed open.
Jackson felt his feathers stand on end. No, it can’t be …
Quigley leaned forward. “It’s hard to say for sure, what with the caps they’re all w
earing, but that looks an awful lot like your uncle Bryn and his friends from Brain Freezers.”
Jackson had abandoned his ice cycle and was dashing across the road toward the penguins. “UNCLE BRYN! UNCLE BRYN!” He dived between his uncle and the ice cream truck sled. “Stop! What are you doing?”
“Stand aside!” Uncle Bryn said in a robot- like voice.
“But it’s me. Jackson.” He reached out to grab his uncle’s flipper to stop him from leaving.
But Uncle Bryn barged past him, knocking Jackson over with the large lumpy bag he was carrying on his back. He clambered into the rear of the truck sled with his friends. A heartbeat later, they were gone.
6
“FREEZE!” a piercing voice shouted. “Put your flippers in the air and move away from the store!” A dozen flashlights lit up Jackson’s face, making him blink from their brightness. He had been too stunned by Uncle Bryn’s behavior to notice the black sleds pulling up and the group of serious-looking penguins in dark glasses jumping out of them. Now, he was surrounded.
“I said, MOVE AWAY FROM THE STORE!” the voice shouted again. Then “Oh, wait—I think it’s just a kid.” A tall penguin wearing an FBI badge stepped forward, holding a pair of flipper-cuffs and a giant flashlight. She pointed it down into Jackson’s face. “Oh, no, not you again! What on earth are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re in your uncle’s gang. Has he got you working as a lookout or something? Answer me!”
But Jackson couldn’t speak. He just sat there on the sidewalk, his beak open and his feathers standing on end, still too shocked to say a word. Uncle Bryn is a criminal! How can that be? It is … impossible!
“Hi, Senior Agent Frost-Flipper,” Quigley squeaked, appearing at Jackson’s side. “We were just out late-night shopping when we saw the alarm go off at the jeweler’s, so we thought we’d check it out and—”
