by Wendy Mass
Then it’s back to the tailors’ to try on our new suits. I thought wearing a suit would feel all itchy and tight, but mine fits great! I look like I stepped out of a clothing catalog! I admire it from all angles while Kurf nods approvingly. “You clean up good!” he says. “For a human.”
I grin.
“What about me?” Dad asks, holding his arms out wide.
“Two thumbs-up,” I tell him. “If you wear that home, Mom’ll think I left my real dad up here at Akbar’s!”
“Two pounds!” the tailor shrieks as he circles around Pockets. “How could you gain two pounds in one meal?”
“If I’d had tuna to eat, I wouldn’t have had to stuff myself with bread!” Pockets throws up his paws. As he does, his suit rips right down the seams.
Feemus looks ready to faint from embarrassment. “Take it off,” the tailor cries. “I’ll have to start all over!”
It takes so long to remake the suit that we miss the tour of the gardens. I think it’s safe to say that no one (except maybe Feemus) is too broken up about that. Kurf checks out the itinerary and says, “Yay! We get to go to the slog-eating contest! That’s been sold out for weeks!”
“What’s a slog, anyway?” I ask.
“Ohhh, you’re gonna love it! Just make sure you don’t sit in the front row!”
So, of course, where are our seats? That’s right: row one, front and center! We’re apparently considered “special guests,” since Pockets is the judge. The fact that there are rain ponchos on each seat is a bit worrisome. A long table has been set up in the front of the room, with six giant bowls across from six folding chairs. As the judge, Pockets will be standing behind the contestants to make sure they’re actually eating the food and not hiding it in their laps.
One by one, the contestants file in to thunderous applause and take their seats on the stage.
“Bloppy!” I shout as the last contestant enters. I’d recognize my big goopy friend anywhere! Who else looks like a melting orange snowman? I jump out of my chair. “Dad, it’s Bloppy!”
“I can see that,” Dad says, clapping louder.
“Bloppy is the favorite to win,” Kurf explains. “He may have a small mouth, but he chews faster than anyone. In fact, I’m not sure he even chews; he may just shovel it in!”
As Bloppy glides to the front of the room, goo oozes off him and then slurps back up onto his body, as usual. A strange condition of his species, but that’s what makes him so perfect for his job at Akbar’s roller rink: keeping the floors clean and smooth. “Archie! Sal!” he calls out when he sees us in the audience. “Thanks so much for coming!” We cheer some more and wave.
“Pockets!” Bloppy shouts as he gets to the stage. He reaches for a hug, but Pockets holds up his paw to stop him. Pockets is not a hugger. Plus, it probably wouldn’t look good for the judge of the contest to hug a contestant!
Once the contestants are all seated, waiters enter carrying huge white buckets. Pockets makes sure an even amount gets poured into each bowl. “Ick!” I whisper to Kurf. “The slog looks like chunks of rotten garbage!”
“That’s exactly what it is!” Kurf says, laughing.
A foul smell rises up from the bowls, and I have to cover my nose. I’m pretty sure my first slog-eating contest will also be my last. Pockets blows a whistle and the contestants begin shoveling the slog into their mouths. “Quick!” Kurf shouts. “Put on your poncho!”
The audience cheers as slog goes flying out of the bowls in all directions. Pockets is protecting himself by erecting a force field in front of himself. I yank the hood farther down over my face and peek out. Bloppy’s doing great, but the guy next to him in a green-striped suit has almost emptied his bowl! The card in front of his seat says his name is Thoster. He has a wide mouth that extends almost all the way across his even wider face. He reminds me of a capital T—a wide head and a skinny body. I’ll never get tired of seeing new kinds of aliens.
Right as I’m sure Bloppy’s about to lose, Thoster glances over at him. He then stops eating to pick his teeth with his pinkie nail! The crowd’s going nuts! Bloppy slurps up the last of the slog and Pockets blows the whistle. “Bloppy is the winner,” Pockets announces, looking bored and slightly annoyed. “I should be saving the universe right now,” he mutters loud enough for me to hear. “Instead I’m doing this?”
Feemus jumps up and runs to the table. I figure he’s going to congratulate Bloppy, but instead he gets right up in Thoster’s face. “Throwing the contest?” Feemus shouts at him. “That’s… that’s… well, it’s not cool!”
“Feemus!” Dad says, jumping up. “Leave the man alone. You don’t know that he let Bloppy win!”
“That’s okay, sir,” Thoster says. “I did let him win. He deserved it. He has a very small mouth, and I have a very large one.”
Feemus shakes his head. “That may be. But you let Bloppy win because you know he’s Pockets’ friend and you want Pockets to like you.”
“Wait,” Dad says, “what’s going on with you two?”
Feemus glares at Thoster, who is wiping off his hand before holding it out to Dad. “I’m Thoster. I joined Pockets’ fan club a few weeks ago, and the little guy feels threatened by me.” He pats Feemus on the head. “But truly, there is no reason. There’s enough of Pockets to go around.”
At the sound of his name, Pockets jumps. Thoster turns to look adoringly up at him. Dad and I have to hide our laughs behind our hands. Feemus seems to have met his match! Guess he’s not the only member of the fan club after all!
Pockets lowers himself onto his four paws and scampers through the crowd until he’s at the door. Feemus shakes his head at Thoster one more time and runs after Pockets. I want to go talk to Bloppy, but he’s having his picture taken with his medal.
Unfortunately, Kurf has to go home before the rehearsal dinner, so we say our good-byes covered in slog. “Have fun in your fancy hotel room,” Kurf teases.
“I will!” I reply, although we’ve barely been in there long enough for me to remember what it looks like.
Dad and I stop at one of the restrooms on the way to the ballroom to clean up from the contest. Getting the smell out of my nose is something that soap and water isn’t going to fix!
It’s a little past six when Dad and I arrive at dinner. My lack of sleep is starting to catch up to me again. I yawn as I look around the enormous ballroom. Pockets and his father are in deep conversation in the corner. The last time I saw them together, they were acting like typical cats—rolling around on the floor and leaping around each other. Guess this isn’t exactly the right occasion for being silly. Assorted aliens clutching autograph books and cameras look on in adoration. These could only be the fan club members. I spot Thoster and wave. He tips his hat at me. A small chunk of slog hangs from his ear. I shudder as he pulls it off and pops it into his mouth.
The chief abruptly turns to face the room. “All right, everyone. Let’s get this show on the road.” He gives orders to the waitstaff, telling them which guests will be at which tables tomorrow and to make sure everyone has at least one tuna sandwich before offering seconds. He turns to the stage, where Feemus is fiddling with the microphone. “A short film of Pockets will play in the background while the guests are getting settled and eating their salads and soup. Then Feemus will make his opening remarks.”
At the sound of his name, Feemus drops the microphone and a loud squeak shoots from the speakers. “Sorry, sorry!” he says, quickly grabbing it. “It’s an honor to meet you in the flesh, sir, truly, just the biggest thrill.” He makes an awkward bowing motion.
The chief takes a deep breath and continues. “After the remarks, I shall come up to present my son with the award.” He turns to Pockets. “Then it will be your turn to give your speech. Do you want to practice now?”
Pockets’ ears press down against his head. “No!” he says. “I mean, wouldn’t it mean more to hear it for the first time at the ceremony?”
The chief nods and pats his son on
the head. “Good thinking.”
Dad and I exchange a look. Pockets just got off easy. I’d be surprised if he’s written even one sentence of that speech so far.
The chief seems satisfied that everything will go smoothly, so we sit down to eat. The main course is some kind of stew, and even though it’s bright green, it doesn’t look as bad as what they served for lunch. Dad digs right in. Unfortunately, the stink from the slog is still in my nose, so even if dinner were pizza or hot dogs, I don’t think I’d be able to eat. I don’t drink much, either. The kitchen ran out of ice, so all the drinks are warm and not refreshing at all.
Apparently I fell asleep at the table, because the next thing I know I’m in my bed and Dad is turning out the light.
Chapter Six:
What, No Tuna?!?!
“Good morning, young Morningstar,” a voice sings in my ear. “Time to wake up. You have a big day ahead of you.”
“Mom?” I ask groggily. “Penny?”
A voice like a tinkling bell laughs. “No, dear, I am your alarm clock.”
“Huh?” I open my eyes. A glowing yellow ball is floating about a foot above my bed. I rub my eyes. It’s still there!
“I see that you are awake,” the voice says.
It’s coming from the ball!
“I shall turn myself off now,” the ball says. “Have a lovely day.” The ball gracefully glides back to the night table, settles down with a nearly soundless plop, and stops glowing. As I reach for it, my door opens and Dad walks in, holding his own yellow ball. We both start laughing. “This is definitely a better way to wake up than Penny pulling open my eyelids!” he says.
“At least I’m not the only one she does that to,” I joke.
“I’m glad someone’s having fun,” a gloomy voice says.
“Pockets?” I sit up. He’s lying curled up at the bottom of the huge bed. I didn’t even feel him there. “Did you sleep here all night? You have your own bedroom, you know.”
“I just want to get back to work,” he complains. “I don’t even know what the team has found on the Galactic recently. They may have uncovered some data that will unravel B.U.R.P. for good. And what am I doing? Judging slog contests and eating too much bread.”
“Remember your new motto about getting into it?”
Pockets just grunts and buries his head.
“Everyone up?” Feemus’ voice echoes through the large suite.
“If I say no, will you leave?” Pockets calls from under his paw.
Feemus races into the room. “I have your clothes.” He holds up three long suit bags and hands one to each of us. Pockets grabs his and goes into the bathroom to put it on, muttering the whole time.
Room service has delivered a delicious breakfast of normal human pancakes, which is a good thing, because I’m so hungry. I wish I’d waited to put my suit on, though. Hopefully no one will notice the line of syrup down my sleeve!
Dad and I walk into the ballroom later feeling pretty good about ourselves. We’re well fed, all dressed up in our spiffy new suits, and ready to have fun. Pockets, on the other hand, is none of those things. He didn’t eat a bite of breakfast, so his suit is now too loose and his head keeps slipping down into the neck hole. Also, he left a trail of crumpled notebook pages between our hotel room and here.
The only one more anxious than Pockets right now is Feemus. He’s dashing around chairs and under tables, making sure everything is exactly how he wants it. He’s adjusting lights, fluffing flower arrangements, and tapping the microphone over and over. The room is filling up with all sorts of well-dressed aliens, many wearing ISF badges, from all over the universe. The largest group by far, though, is the ISF cats from Friskopolus.
“Hey!” I shout, pointing across at a cat animatedly telling a story to a bunch of other cats. “Isn’t that Hector? From planet Tri-Dark?”
“I never met him,” Dad says. “Remember? I was working to fix the taxi for the whole mission. You go say hi. I’m going to see if I can help Pockets finish that speech.”
I run toward the crowd of ISF cats. “Hector!” I shout. “It’s me, Archie. I’m wearing a suit!”
“Archie!” he cries, thrusting out his paw for me to shake it. “I was just talking about you!”
“You were?”
He nods. “I was telling these fellas about how you and Pockets saved Princess Viola. Also that little red dude who’s running around here like his behind is on fire.”
I laugh. “Feemus is definitely a little more nervous than usual today. So, how’s the princess?”
“Great,” he says. “She just beat three princes and a knight in a jousting tournament, then beat all of them at a belching contest.”
“Sounds like her!”
“Yup.”
I want to ask if she remembers me, but I know she doesn’t. That was part of what we had to give up in order to save her.
A screech echoes through the speakers and everyone cringes. “Sorry,” Feemus says. “If you’ll all take your seats, we can get started. I know you’re as anxious as I am to hear from the guest of honor! Please enjoy this film as your salads are being served.”
“Great seeing you, Archie,” Hector says as he heads off to a table in the front. “Let’s catch up later.”
As I turn to find my own table, some yelling and banging from the kitchen catch my attention. I watch as three of the security guards hired by Akbar’s for the event slip into the kitchen. “Come on, Archie,” Dad says, pulling me away. “I’m sure we don’t want to miss a second of this!”
We take our seats across from Pockets’ dad. A seat is empty for Akbar, but so far there’s no sign of him. I’m not sure anyone even knows what he looks like! The lights dim and a screen lowers behind the podium. Pockets as a kitten chasing an electric mouse up a wall fills the screen. Everyone cheers and laughs. He is SOOOOOO cute!!! Penny would LOSE HER MIND. I lean over to Dad. “We’ve GOT to get a copy of this!”
“Already got that covered,” he replies, holding his phone up to the screen.
Pockets reddens and slides his head down through the neck hole of his suit. The waiters begin wheeling around carts with salads on them, but everyone is enjoying the film too much to eat. We watch Pockets grow from a kitten to a cat, and even get to see him solving his first crime. His father chuckles and says, “My wife filmed that from behind a bush!”
More and more clips of him solving crimes play on the screen. Agents begin to murmur among themselves. Who was taking all these videos? Then a clip flies by of Pockets in a space taxi. OUR space taxi!! Dad and I look at each other, agape. Then we turn to look at the only one who could have filmed all this. Feemus! He gets AROUND!
Feemus beams as he watches the video, his antennae swishing happily. When the video ends, the audience stands to applaud. Feemus is practically shaking with excitement as he returns to the microphone. “So as you can all see, our beloved Pilarbing Fangorious—now known as Pockets—has been achieving great things for many years. Now, I know you didn’t come to hear me talk, so—”
“That’s right! We came for Barney’s tuna sandwiches!” a member of a rowdy group of ISF cats shouts out.
Everybody laughs. Feemus wobbles a little bit at the outburst but quickly recovers. “I’m sure you don’t want those as badly as Pockets does! I’ve seen him eat a whole tray at once!”
The audience laughs.
“I will now call the chief ISF officer from Friskopolus to the stage, where he will present his son with this most rare and special award.” Pockets’ father stands up, straightens his tie, and heads toward Pockets. At the same time, four of Akbar’s security guards storm the stage. At first I assume they’re part of the show. But they pass right by the chief and approach Feemus, who is still holding out the mic to Pockets’ dad.
The guards surround Feemus, who looks stunned. “You will have to come with us,” one of them says. “Right now.”
“Is this a joke?” Feemus asks. He cranes his neck around to see into the
crowd. “Pockets, did you put them up to this? I’m actually quite touched, but I know everyone’s probably hungry, so…”
Pockets pokes his head back out of his suit and jumps up when he sees all the action on the stage. “What’s going on?”
“Unhand Feemus at once!” the chief demands.
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the guards says, “but he is under arrest for theft. We have it on film.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Feemus insists. “You have the wrong guy.”
Pockets’ whole fan club calls out, “He would never ruin Pockets’ big day! He’s innocent!”
“I don’t think so,” the guard says. Then he points a remote control at the screen and a video begins to play.
Security camera footage first shows an empty corridor. Then a large cart appears, like the kind the waiters are pushing with salads. Only this one is full of tuna fish sandwiches! A gasp rises from the crowd as Feemus appears in the frame, pushing the cart straight out of the kitchen!
The video is blurry and it keeps flickering, making Feemus look like he’s walking stiffly and a little awkwardly. The color isn’t great, either. Feemus looks more orange than red at times. The video cuts out for a second, then flickers back on to reveal Feemus wheeling the cart toward the front door of his ship. Right before he enters, he turns, spots the video camera, and—amazingly—smiles! The video freezes up, right there on his guilty face.
The lights in the ballroom blaze on as the crowd jumps to their feet. The ISF cats rush the stage, shouting, “You stole the tuna?”
Pockets does a front handspring over the ISF cats’ heads and lands on the stage. His face is more expressive than it’s been since we got here—ears pointed straight up, eyes wide and focused. I can tell a part of him is furious about the tuna, but that part is overpowered by his happiness at being back in the crime-solving business. “Feemus!” he demands. “Can you explain yourself?”
Feemus only stares at the image of himself on the screen in stunned silence. He shakes his head.
