by Antony John
Dedication
For Julie Sorin and Cali Hand—
my favorite fifth graders
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. Momma’s Wake-Up Juice Isn’t Working
2. Shmorpel Brains Aren’t Pretty
3. Thoughts of Pure Literary Genius
4. Shiny Books
5. Counting Corpses
6. The Pasta Cure
7. Vesuvius
8. Genius Never Sleeps
9. The Other Me
10. Prize-Winning Lemonade
11. Libraries Are for Letters
12. Kat, Lifestyle Coach
13. Dangerous Dives and Dumpster Demons
14. Christmas in October
15. Stuck in the Wrong Gear
16. Radioactive Momma
17. Doubling Down
18. Pretty Dresses
19. Spying is Dangerous
20. My Topsy-Turvy World
21. As Smart as Hortense
22. Intel at the Wyndcrest
23. Winning and Losing
24. Rum Rabbit
25. Unexpected Twists
26. The Halloween Tree
27. Miracles Happen
28. How to Lose Your Appetite
29. Don’t Have a Detective for a Daddy
30. All the Reasons Why
31. Snowflakes on Halloween
32. Halloween’s Not So Scary Anymore
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Momma’s Wake-Up Juice Isn’t Working
It’s Friday the thirteenth, and I don’t think Momma will be getting up soon.
She was working late at the restaurant last night because Frankie, the boss’s son, got sick. It’s why she’ll be in bed until ten minutes before the school bus comes to pick me up.
I don’t like it when Momma works late. I always lock our door, so it’s not like I’m scared. And the house is small and cozy—two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and bathroom. But there’s a space under our house, and when the wind blows hard, it makes this weird howling noise like a ticked-off dog. Last night, I called our neighbor Ms. Archambault so she could hear it over the phone. She’s like my grandmother, only she’s not family. Her house faces ours, so I can see her when she stands in her kitchen window and waves at me. Because Ms. Archambault owns our house, she promised to get her friend Ned, who’s a handyman, to stop the howling noise. That sounded like a good idea to me. We don’t need any ticked-off imaginary dogs living under us.
On the bright side, whenever Momma works late, I get to watch YouTube videos on her laptop. She thinks her laptop is password-protected, but my best friend, Kiana, told me to try typing in “pa$$word.” When I told Kiana that it worked, she gave this long, deep nod, like she knew all along. Kiana wants to be a detective, like her dad. I think she’s off to a good start.
Anyhow, today I let Momma sleep until precisely fifteen minutes before I need to leave the house. I eat my Cheerios, wash my bowl in the sink, and keep the water running so all the detergent bubbles disappear down the drain. I put my backpack by the door, wet my bobbed hair so it won’t stick up in the back, and make sure my armpits don’t smell. Momma says I have lax standards of personal hygiene. I don’t know what that means, but I think it has something to do with needing to sniff my armpits more often. Finally, I pour a cup of really strong coffee and take it to her.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
She rolls toward me. “Toilet’s over there,” she mumbles.
I let out a long sigh. This isn’t the first time Momma has used that joke.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
She catches the smell of coffee but doesn’t reach for the mug. “Oh, Lola, honey. How about you put yourself on the bus today? You can do that, right?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Sure, I can put myself on the school bus. The stop is only half a block away. But Momma has put me on the bus almost every day since I started kindergarten. Even when she was real sick a couple years ago, she hardly missed a day. Plus, she isn’t looking at her coffee anymore. She calls it her “wake-up juice,” but it’s like she has forgotten the mug is there.
“Just this once,” she murmurs, eyes closed. “I could really use a little extra sleep.”
“Okay, Momma. I’ll see you after your shift tonight, ’kay?”
“Same time, same place.”
I lean forward and kiss her. She smiles. But she doesn’t kiss me back. And she still won’t open her eyes.
2
Shmorpel Brains Aren’t Pretty
The worst thing about riding the school bus is Mallory Lewis. She’s the second person who gets picked up, just two blocks after me. The bus company wanted her to wait at my stop, but Mallory’s mom complained to the school that it wasn’t safe. Now the bus picks Mallory up right outside her house. If you ask me, the only thing that would make my bus stop unsafe would be if I had to share it with Mallory.
“Hi, Mallory,” I say as she clomps onto the bus.
She walks past me without a word. She’s wearing really big headphones under her hoodie, but I don’t think she would’ve answered even if she could hear me.
Mallory is three inches taller than any other kid in fifth grade. Which means she’s three inches taller than any other kid in the entire school. It also means she’s taller than half the teachers, and I think they’re a little scared of her. That shows how smart teachers are.
How bad is Mallory? Let’s just say she uses the kind of words that’d get you into big trouble at school. Whenever she does it, I cover Tiffany Gamble’s ears because Tiffany’s only five, which Momma says is an “impressionable age.” I sure don’t want Tiffany doing impressions of Mallory in front of her kindergarten teacher.
Tiffany gets on the bus after Mallory. She’s small but looks kind of fierce, like a character in a movie who you just know is going to grow up to be a warrior princess. Or president. Her dad always waits with her. When the bus arrives, he gives her a bone-crushing hug and blows air kisses as she climbs aboard. Once she’s in the seat beside me, he waves at me too and smiles big enough that I can see the gap between his two front teeth. I think Tiffany’s lucky to have a dad who smiles like that.
Tiffany is a member of the Lola Harmon Book Club. To be precise, the only member. She’s crazy about graphic novels, especially this series called Krunden and the Shmorpels, which her mom gets from the library. Every day, Tiffany hands me one of the books to read out loud. She has an incredible memory. If I read a book to her a few times, she almost memorizes it. Last week, she read one of them to her teacher, Ms. Kildare. Now Ms. Kildare thinks she’s making “exceptional progress” at reading, which is impressive for a kid who doesn’t seem to know the alphabet.
My friend Nick Merlo gets on the bus after Tiffany. He doesn’t like riding the bus because Mallory keeps teasing him about his freckles, so I distract him by pretending not to know some of the words in Tiffany’s book. That way, Nick can help out. It works real well, which is lucky because when Nick is annoyed, his face gets very hard and serious, like an igneous rock. “Igneous” is a word I learned in a science book. It means cooled lava, which is a pretty good description of Nick, if you ask me. Distract him with a book and he’s all fire, and his smile gets crazy wide like a smiley-face emoji. But when he’s annoyed. Well, like I say . . . IGNEOUS!
“Would you read to me today, Ms. Harmon?” Tiffany asks, rummaging around in her violet backpack. She has very good manners for a kindergartner.
“You know you can call me Lola, right?” I remind her. “I don’t know if I count as a Ms. wh
en I’m only in fifth grade.”
“Are you married?”
“No. I’m in fifth grade,” I say again, in case she missed it the first time.
She side-eyes Nick like she thinks I might not be telling the truth. Nick turns bright red. I don’t know why. It’s not like he’s married either.
“Well, then,” announces Tiffany. “If you’re not married, you’re a Ms. My mommy told me that.”
Nick shrugs. Maybe his mom told him the same thing. My momma’s never been married, so I guess she’s a Ms. too. Seems weird for both of us to be called Ms. Harmon.
As the bus picks up more kids, Tiffany pulls a book from her bag and slaps it into my outstretched hand. It’s the one we were reading yesterday—Krunden: Shmorpel Killer—so I open it up to where we left off. Tiffany leans into me, eyes glued to the page.
“‘Krunden aimed his laser cannon at the shmorpel and fired,’” I read aloud.
The picture shows the pirate Krunden blasting an alien. It also shows the alien’s head exploding, which gets me wondering if this book is really meant for kindergartners. I guess Nick’s thinking the same thing, because his mouth is scrunched up real tight.
“Um, Tiffany?” I say. “Are you sure this book is meant for kids your age?”
Tiffany’s eyes shift around. “Uh . . . yeah?”
“M’kay. Just checking.”
I keep reading. The shmorpel’s head takes a long time to completely explode. Two pages, to be precise. There aren’t many words, but there are a whole lot of pictures. And all of them are kind of green.
Shmorpel brains aren’t pretty.
Tiffany pinches the corner of the page and turns. “Ms. Harmon?”
“Yes, Tiffany?”
“You know how my daddy and your mommy used to date?”
“They went out for dinner once,” I remind her. “I’m not sure that counts as dating.”
“Well, anyway, you could’ve been my sister. I wish you were . . . my sister.”
I lean into her. “But then we’d probably fight all the time,” I say. “Like Nick and his sister.”
Nick knows I’m kidding. He’s really close to his sister, Katherine.
“I don’t think so,” says Tiffany. “I think we’d get along great. And if I had to share my daddy with anyone, it’d be you.”
I’ve got to give it to Tiffany: She’s a really sweet kid. Even if she’s just sucking up to me.
“Where’s your daddy, Lola?” she asks.
Nick’s mouth gapes open. It’s not a good look.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Australia, I think.”
“Where’s Australia?”
“Other side of the world.”
Her face creases up like she just got a whiff of a toot. “Why does he live there?”
“Because that’s where he’s from. He came here on vacation a long time ago. Then he stuck around longer than he should’ve. So they told him to leave and not come back.”
Tiffany seems to be thinking hard. “Does that mean you’ve never seen him?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“Oh.” She stares at the dusty floor. “Do you miss him?”
“It’s hard to miss someone you’ve never met,” I say. But that’s not completely true. I missed my daddy when I turned ten this past spring and realized he hadn’t been around for any of my birthdays. It felt like a big deal, turning ten, and I really thought he might call, even though he hasn’t called in years. I just had this feeling he’d want me to know he still thinks about me.
I was wrong.
That was six months ago, but ever since, things keep reminding me of him. Like, I’ll catch an Australian TV show and wonder if my daddy has the same accent as the actors in the show and if his hometown looks like theirs. Or I’ll peek at Momma’s old pictures of him and wonder how he might look today. I even think about how different things might be at home if he were around. Like every time the house makes a weird noise, or Momma can’t give me a ride to Kiana’s house, or she says she’s tired even though she got more sleep than I did. Having an extra person in the house sure would be useful.
Tiffany wiggles the book to get my attention. The pages flutter like a butterfly’s wings.
“Forgotten how to read, Lola?” Mallory sneers.
The other kids get quiet because they’re scared of her. I wasn’t thinking about her at all. She’s sitting beside the emergency exit at the back of the bus with her sneakers propped up on the empty seat in front of her.
Nick’s gone all igneous now, on account of Mallory being mean to me. To distract him, I hold Tiffany’s book up and point to a word like I don’t recognize it. Nick furrows his brows and reads aloud: “Uh, ‘lump,’” he says, sounding puzzled. “The word’s ‘lump.’”
Hmm. I should’ve pointed to a more difficult word. Now Nick might actually think that I don’t know what “lump” means.
Mallory cracks up laughing. “Need help with any other big words, Lola? I could sound them out for you.” She claps her hands like she’s cheering for herself. “Hey, here’s a new one: I-L-L-I-T-E-R-A-T-E.”
I take a deep breath and remember what my neighbor Ms. Archambault said once, about how the only way to smother meanness is with kindness. True, she wasn’t talking to me at the time. She was scolding her friend Ned, who never backs down from a fight and has the scars to prove it. But Ms. Archambault is very old and wise, and I’ve read enough novels to know that smart kids listen to old, wise women. Unless the old women live in houses made out of candy and try to cook kids in ovens, in which case smart kids should run away. Obviously.
The bus pulls up at our school. It always jolts when the driver brakes, like a horse bucking the rider, so I taught Tiffany to shout “Whoa, Nelly!” But she’s busy glaring at Mallory, so I’m the only one who says it today.
Mallory lumbers along the aisle and almost clips Tiffany with her bag. Tiffany slides her book into her backpack and slings the bag over her shoulder.
“You gotta stand up to her, Lola,” she whispers fiercely. “Daddy says you can’t let bullies win.”
She’s right. Maybe I’d have the courage to say so too if I had a daddy to back me up.
3
Thoughts of Pure Literary Genius
Shoreline Elementary School is pretty new, with lots of big windows and open spaces, like we’re inviting the South Carolina sunshine to come join us. I think I’ll miss it when I go on to middle school next year. I think my best friend, Kiana, will too.
Our teacher’s name is Maria Del Rio. Kiana says it sounds like a movie star name. I could totally see Ms. Del Rio as a movie star. She has this amazing dark hair that piles over her shoulders like waves crashing against the beach. Her teeth are very white and shiny. When she smiles, it feels like warm sunshine on your cheeks. And she smiles a lot.
This is Ms. Del Rio’s first year at Shoreline Elementary. That means two things: First, she’s trying extra hard to inspire us. Second, she’s trying extra extra hard to inspire Mallory.
Kiana says new teachers always want to “save the lost causes.” Personally, I don’t think Mallory is lost at all. I think she’s directly descended from Voldemort, but I keep this to myself because I want Ms. Del Rio to keep smiling the way she is right now.
We say the Pledge of Allegiance. I place my hand over my heart and recite the words. Kiana does too, only she changes the last line to “one nation under dog, very physical, with rib-eye steak and corn chips for all.” I’m pretty sure that’s not patriotic, but it always cracks me up anyhow.
Once we’re sitting again, Ms. Del Rio takes attendance. When she’s done, she claps her hands five times: slow-slow-fast-fast-fast. “All right, everyone,” she says. “Time for a new writing assignment.”
My classmates groan, but I think most of us secretly like these projects. In August, she made us write about having a conversation with a historical figure. I chose Michelle Obama so I could ask her about why some people will hate you no matter
how nice you are. Like, say . . . Mallory Lewis! Last month, September, Ms. Del Rio made us imagine what our Patronus—our animal protector—would be. I chose one of the alligators they keep at Barefoot Landing for the tourists. I think I understand the gators. I love being in the water and sunbathing too, but I sometimes wish I could leave North Myrtle Beach and see some other places for a change. When I read my project aloud, Mallory made this weird grunting sound. But Ms. Del Rio said my writing showed “promise,” and Kiana gave me two thumbs-up, so then I felt better.
“Today,” announces Ms. Del Rio, “I’d like you to write about yourself. Basically, what makes you you?”
We all wait for her to continue. These monthly writing projects are supposed to be big assignments. Ms. Del Rio said they’re “designed to promote research” and “stretch our imaginations.” How will writing about myself do that?
“And before you ask, this is not the main project,” she adds. “It’s just an introduction. You’ve only got an hour to write, so you’d best get started.”
Across the room, hands shoot up. Ms. Del Rio waves the questions away. “What makes you you?” she repeats. “That’s all I’m asking.”
I open the blue composition book that I save for special assignments. Kiana gave it to me for my birthday in April. It has this thick cover. Inside, Kiana wrote the words “Thoughts of Pure Literary Genius” in glossy gold lettering.
Unfortunately, my literary genius seems to be hiding.
To my left, Nick has circled the word “glue” on his page. It’s a good description of him. A few years ago, his sister, Katherine, was hard work, but he was always kind to her. And when she argued with their parents, he tried to keep the peace. He was the glue that held them together. Now they all get along great.
I peer to my right. Kiana’s writing too: My mother is an artist and my father is a detective. Dad says I look like Mom. Mom says I take after Dad. I think they’re both right.
I stare at my own blank page. I want the words to come, but I don’t know what to say. How can I be “glue” when there are only two of us at home? How can I say I’m more like Momma when I’ve never met my father?
