by Steve Cotler
Georgie and I moved away from The Haunted Toad, walking our bikes, looking over our shoulders, never taking our eyes off the face in the window. The woman didn’t wave, didn’t smile, didn’t even move. When we couldn’t see the window any longer, I touched Georgie’s arm, and he jumped.
“This is turning out to be the strangest day of my entire life,” I said softly. We got on our bikes and pedaled slowly.
We had only ridden one block when Georgie surprised me by stopping and asking, “Let me see the penny.”
I took it out of my backpack and handed it to him. He looked at it carefully, turning it over a few times in the sunlight.
“This does not look like it’s over a hundred years old. It’s barely worn.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. But if we return this penny and the necklace, what if Prott says thanks and that’s all?”
Georgie did his disappearing coin trick. “Then we’ve got nothing. I found it. It was in my house. Finders keepers.”
“Come on, Georgie. We left a note. That’s kind of like a promise.”
“Then we’ll just return the necklace.”
“We might get a reward, remember?” I said.
“Maybe. But I bet we’ll get the same crummy reward for returning the necklace all by itself.”
“The penny’s only worth three bucks.”
“You said the value depended on its condition. Maybe you don’t know how to tell.” He put the coin in his pants pocket and started riding. “Follow me.”
We coasted down the hill toward the Inner Harbor. At first I couldn’t guess where he was going. But when we got down to Main Street, I knew. There was a coin and stamp store close to the pet store where he had gotten the mice. It was in between a bakery and a shoe repair.
We leaned our bikes against a squat statue of an old cobbler holding up a shoe and went into the coin shop. The door had a bell hooked to it that jingled loudly and kept jingling for a long time. The store’s glass cases were filled with stamps, coins, old paper money, and lots of old medals, some of them with fancy ribbons. There was no one in the store.
“Hello?” Georgie said.
We heard a toilet flush, and a moment later a very skinny man came out from the back.
“May I help you?”
“Yeah,” Georgie said. “We have this penny, and we’d like to know what it’s worth.”
“Do you want to sell it?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Georgie took the penny out of his pocket and put it on the counter. The man took a small brown envelope from a drawer.
“Whose name should I put on this?”
“We just want to know what you’d pay us for it,” Georgie said.
“I understand. I’m the bookkeeper. Mr. Whelan won’t be back until this evening. If you leave the coin for appraisal, he’ll look at it tonight, and you can come back tomorrow morning to pick it up or sell it.”
Georgie gave the man his name and got a receipt.
We didn’t talk on the way home, so I guess Georgie thought I was upset with him. I really wasn’t. Or maybe I was. I could sort of see his point. But I also … I don’t know. I wasn’t sure what was right.
A couple of blocks from our houses, where our streets diverged (good word … it means going in different directions), I called out, “See you after dinner.” We had planned that he would sleep over. Georgie waved, then disappeared around the corner.
I’d been thinking about Georgie and the penny and The Haunted Toad so much that I’d completely forgotten about Goon and the ticket stubs. But as I rode my bike up our driveway, there she was, sitting on our front porch. She was eating celery and dip and staring right at me. I thought about what she’d done at my party. Mrs. Crespo had said I could decide. Should I tattle on her or not?
Because everything I have written so far about my sister makes her seem rotten, you might think that she is completely rotten. That is not true. Goon has many excellent qualities. Here is my list:
She bathes frequently.
She doesn’t step on insects.
Because of her many years of ballet, she can balance on one foot until everyone watching her is bored.
I can’t think of any others right now, but if I do, I will come back and put them in, so if you are reading this, you know I couldn’t come up with any more.
“Want some bean dip?” Goon asked.
I was suspicious. Why was she acting nice? I leaned my bike against the porch and took the celery stalk she offered. I scooped up some of the dip, but didn’t eat. Maybe she had poisoned the stuff. But after she stuck her celery in and took a bite of dip, chewed, and swallowed, I bit off the end of mine.
She instantly laughed. “I spit in the dip, stupid runt!”
I sort of coughed, then spit the half-chewed hunk out, hitting Goon in the neck and cheek with threads of celery covered in bean dip. She jumped up and pushed me off the first step. I’m not grossed out by spit—it’s not poison or anything like that—but puking it back at her seemed like the right thing to do.
“You just blew it!” I shouted. “I wasn’t going to tell Mom and Dad about how you hid my tickets. Mrs. Crespo left it up to me, and I wasn’t. But now—”
She came after me, but I ran. I am faster than she is by far. I was all the way to the sidewalk before she had gone eight steps.
“You can’t prove I did anything!” she yelled, stopping in the middle of the yard.
“I’ll give you one chance,” I taunted, bouncing from foot to foot. “You actually did me and Georgie a favor. Because of your cheating, you guaranteed that we would win, so I’ll forget the whole thing if you apologize.”
“I am going to totally kill you.”
“That does not sound like an apology.”
She charged, but just before she reached me, I faked her out by taking a step toward the driveway, then ducking around her and running up the front steps. That’s one of my best moves in touch football. I was inside the house and down the hall before she even reached the front door.
At times like this, I always prefer Mom to be the judge. She is very smart and really hard to trick. Dad is also very smart, but I think he is more of a softy. Sometimes he is just too willing to believe Goon, even when he should know she is lying. Granpa doesn’t like to get involved in kid arguments. “I get enough of that crap-eroo all summer long,” he always says.
My running and Goon’s chasing were not exactly quiet, so when I charged into Dad’s office, he knew trouble had arrived.
“Stop,” he commanded. “Stand right here.” He pointed at the side of his desk. Goon hurtled in a moment later, ready to clobber me.
“What’s going on?” Dad asked.
“I wasn’t going to say anything about what Junie did at my party,” I started, “but—”
(Notice that I do not call her Goon in front of my parents. You can probably guess why.)
Goon interrupted. “I’m not going to stand around and listen to him lie.” She turned to leave like she had done with Mrs. Crespo, but Dad called her name in a stern voice, and she froze.
It took an eternity for me to tell Dad about the ticket stubs because Goon kept interrupting with “Liar!” and “It’s his word against mine!” and “He has no proof!”
Dad just listened, and when he had heard enough, he put up his hand … and the room got quiet.
“Junie,” he said, “give me your shorts.”
I was surprised, but Goon was so stunned, her mouth hung open.
Finally she shook her head. “No.”
Dad started to stand, which would have meant huge trouble, so Goon gave in instantly. She unbuttoned her shorts, dropped them around her ankles, and stepped out. She looked really angry.
I know some families are modest—Dad calls it “uptight”—about underwear, but our family is pretty relaxed, at least about me and Goon. Mom demands certain “standards of decency.” For example, we are not allowed to come to the dinner table in underwear, an
d Granpa is not allowed to watch the Red Sox in his boxer shorts, which bothers him because he claims to have a lucky pair he won off Big Papi in a poker game—which I think is a total lie. Granpa says if you don’t know who Big Papi is and you like baseball, you should “hang your head, move to New York, and become a stinking Yankee fan.” IMO, he takes watching the Red Sox way too seriously.
Dad stuck out his hand, and Goon kicked her shorts over to him. He picked them up and peered into her back pockets for a long time. Finally he looked up at me.
“What color were your tickets, Ronald?”
“Red. Bright red.”
Dad nodded, then leaned back in his chair and spoke to Goon in a very friendly voice, which, because of what he said, sounded ominous. (I just learned that word. It means—ow-hooo-eeeee—something spooky bad is going to happen.)
“Based on the evidence, I know exactly what occurred. So I’m going to give you a chance to tell the truth. Listen up, Junie. Small penalty for the truth. Big penalty for a lie.”
“What evidence?” Goon asked. She did not sound so cocky.
“I’m the one asking the questions here,” Dad answered quickly.
Goon fidgeted, sort of rocking from one foot to the other. I did a quick calculation in my head. If Goon told the truth and Dad gave her a “small penalty” like he said, I’d get only 24 points because there’d be no doubling for “big punishment.” With the current score 623–592, 24 points would only bump it up to 623–616, and I’d still be behind. This was my big chance. I needed her to lie, so I began chanting to myself, “Lie, lie, lie.”
I guess my lips must have been moving because Goon looked at me and said, “Shut up.”
“Time’s up,” Dad said. “What’s the story?”
Goon stood there like a statue. She looked angry or frightened or ready to cry … I couldn’t tell which. She had to answer Dad, but would it be the truth or a lie?
Before you read any further, guess what she did. The answer is in the next chapter. But don’t peek!
A Silhouette in the Dark
Did you make a guess? Well, I did, too. While Goon was squirming, here’s how I thought about it:
I was sure that Goon had put the stubs in her back pocket at the beginning of the party. I saw her do it.
I was certain that she would have thrown them away before she got home. (My sister is mean, but also very smart. She gets excellent grades in middle school and is especially good in science. Last year she built a model volcano that erupted out fake lava and smoke and really stunk up the science fair. Very cool.)
I could not guess what evidence Dad had found. Maybe there was none and he was trying to trick her into confessing.
I was sure that Goon was thinking the same thing, so it seemed likely that she would continue to lie.
But maybe Goon would tell the truth because she knew that Dad hates lying more than anything. If he caught her lying, she’d get some gargantuan (you should learn this word—it means humungous but is much classier) removal of privileges, like maybe not getting to go to Camp Leeward. That would be awful for Goon and also terrible for me. It’s bad enough having to miss camp in order to be with Georgie, but for Goon to stay home, too? Ugh! Or maybe Dad would let her go to camp, but make sure that instead of having fun with her friends she would have to sort the mail or do other camp chores for Lois. (Remember Lois? I mentioned her many chapters ago, so maybe you forgot that she’s Granpa’s ex-wife, and she owns the camps.)
After thinking about all this, I decided she would lie.
What did you decide?
*
Answer: Truth. Goon confessed.
Her punishment? Not much. Just two weeks of doing my dishwashing duty, a puny penalty. And Dad actually thanked her for not lying. I only got 24 points. I’m still behind in the Point Battle.
Later I asked Dad about the evidence, but he said, “Case closed.”
It’s a mystery. If you have a good idea of what Dad knew, please go to the evidence page on my website.
After dinner, Georgie came over with his father. Mr. Sinkoff had bought us a super-giant, super-gooey éclair for dessert. Yum. When he went into the den to talk with my dad, we ran into the kitchen and divided the éclair. Very messy!
I had just picked up my half when Goon walked in, heading for the refrigerator. She elbowed me “accidentally” as she passed, smooshing my nose into the éclair filling.
I would not even mention this except for the Point Battle. Gunking up my nose with Georgie watching would be worth 2 points for Goon. That’s why I waited while she grabbed some grapes from the fridge. When she turned around, I slowly wiped the goo off my nose, licked my finger, and said, “Oh my gosh! This is the most delicious treat I have ever had in my whole life. Too bad there’s only enough for two kids.”
She couldn’t do anything except stick out her tongue. What a baby! Insult canceled. No points for her.
Meanwhile, Dad and Mr. Sinkoff were setting up stuff in the den for their monthly poker game. I think there are eight men who play, but they do it at a different house each time, so they’re only at my house one and a half times each year.
(Okay. I know that it’s impossible to be at my house a half of a time. But twelve months divided by eight men does equal 1.5, so … Aha! I just called Glenn Philips. He said I am right, but there’s a better way to say it: They’re only at my house three times every two years. If you don’t understand, Glenn’s explanation is on my website. You can look at it there.)
By the time we finished our éclairs (I had to wash my face!), a couple of my dad’s friends had arrived, so we went upstairs to my room. I flipped the light switch, which turned on the lamp on my bedside table. Deeb was lying in the middle of the room. Georgie took two steps in, spun halfway around, and did a huge back-flop onto the bed. Deeb jumped up beside him. Georgie held his nose and pushed her off. I sat in my desk chair and called to her. She settled down next to me.
No one said anything for a while. Finally Georgie gave out a big sigh and said, “Cheesie, when we go to The Toad tomorrow …” And then he stopped and pulled a pillow over his head.
“You afraid?”
“Of what? A little old lady? Heck no!”
He threw the pillow at me, but I batted it down. There was another long silence while I booted up my computer and Georgie tossed the tennis ball that I keep next to my bed up toward the ceiling.
(Sometimes when I’m reading in bed, I squeeze that tennis ball over and over. I have developed a very strong grip for someone my size. You should try it.)
The movement of the ball got Deeb’s attention. She lifted her head and followed it with her eyes, but her body never moved.
“Georgie, we should give the penny back,” I said.
“What if there’s, like, a curse on it?”
“A curse (toss)? Get serious (toss).”
“That would explain the invisible writing.”
“There was no invisible writing (toss).”
“Sort of was. Eureka, remember?”
“Cheesie, listen (toss). The note we left didn’t say what was in the envelope (toss). It just said there was something (toss). The necklace is enough. Ol’ Prott will be thrilled.” Georgie put the ball down and pulled the coin store receipt out of his pocket and read aloud, “ ‘Lincoln Head cent—1909-S.’ I really want to keep it. It’s the coolest thing I ever found in my whole life.” He dropped the receipt on the bed.
Goon must have been lurking and spying in the hallway because she suddenly zipped into my room and snatched up the receipt. “What’s this?”
“None of your beeswax!” I said, grabbing for it. The receipt ripped, leaving me with just a scrap showing the coin store’s name and address. “Give it back!” I shouted, but she ran across the hall into her room and locked the door.
(Granpa taught me to say “none of your beeswax.” He says it’s what kids used to say when he was a boy.)
I banged on her door. “Gimme that piece of paper! If Dad
comes up here … If I tell him … You’re gonna be in big trouble again.”
The door opened suddenly. “I hid it.” She grinned. “Tell me everything, or else you’ll never find it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “It’s a penny. That’s all.” Georgie stood right behind me nodding his head.
“Don’t fib me, runt. I read what’s on that paper. It’s really old. Where’d you get it? You stole that coin, didn’t you?”
“Shut up. Georgie found it in his basement. It’s no big deal. It’s only worth three bucks. I’ll prove it.” I spun around and went back into my room, plopped down in my desk chair, and pulled up the website that showed how much old Lincoln cents were worth. I started to point. I started to speak.
But I was speechless.
Remember about a million pages back how I said I had made a mistake by looking up the 1909 coin instead of the 1909-S? It was right at this moment that I saw my error.
“What?” Goon demanded.
I’m sure Georgie didn’t know why I wasn’t answering, but he jumped in anyway, pointing at the monitor. “See. 1909. Three bucks. Give me my receipt.”
Goon looked at the screen, made a face, and pulled the torn receipt out of her pocket. (Some hiding place!) She crumpled it into a wad, threw it at my head, and left, slamming the door behind her.
Georgie retrieved the wadded receipt, took the other half out of my hand, pieced them together, and put them on the desk. He sat back on my bed and began tossing the tennis ball again. “Your sister is a jerk.” Then he noticed my weird expression. “What?”
“The penny is worth more than three bucks.”
Still tossing the tennis ball, Georgie asked, “What do you mean?”
“I forgot the San Francisco thing when I looked before. The mint mark. The S. Omigosh, Georgie. You’re not going to believe this. It’s worth ninety-five dollars!”
“What?!” Georgie flubbed his catch and knocked over my bedside lamp. The room went dark except for the eerie light from my computer screen.
One second later there was a knock on the door.
I yelled, “Go away, Goon!” Then the knock repeated, and so did I. “Go away!” We sat in the dark for a few seconds, then the door slowly opened. Silhouetted in the doorway stood a man I did not recognize. (I am not making this up!) It was like in the movies where the crazy guy with the chain saw comes in to murder the dim-witted teenagers who stay in the old farmhouse way longer than any intelligent people would have.
