by Matthew Ward
“It’s true, Charlie,” said Rex. “That was our thousandth record . . . for this season. I mean, surely you’ve heard the news by now.”
Mr. Whipple cocked his head to one side. “And what news would that be?”
“Well,” Rex replied, “as a result of our performance at the Unsafe Sports Showdown, the International World Record Federation has ruled to acknowledge all the unregistered records we’d quietly broken in the years before our new contract with the Ardmore Almanac. So as it turns out, we now officially hold more records than the legendary Nakamoto family—your old sparring partners! Of course, we do still trail your family by a fair margin, but I’d say going from amateur to world’s second best in a matter of weeks isn’t half bad. Really, I’m shocked you hadn’t heard before. It’s all in the new edition of the Ardmore Almanac, out today. You do read the Almanac, don’t you, Charlie?”
Arthur’s father arched his eyebrows and opened his mouth in such a way that no kind words could have come from it, but he was promptly cut off by a burst of static, as the image of a thin-mustached man in a towering chef’s hat appeared on a nearby viewscreen.
“Monsieur Goldween,” the chef declared, “deenair eez sairved.”
• • •
Arthur was famished. Since the time of Sammy the Spatula’s arrest, the Whipples had been auditioning various chefs to fill the position but had yet to find anyone with even half of Sammy’s talent. This week’s candidate, Chef Stefan Mulchmann, was famous for his extensive menu of gourmet casseroles. Arthur had initially been taken in by the dishes’ enticing-sounding names, but he grew increasingly amazed at the number of otherwise-delicious foods that suddenly became unpalatable once the word “casserole” was added to their titles. After a week of trying to make the best of pizza casserole, roast beef casserole, sweet-and-sour casserole, macaroni casserole, taco casserole, and all-you-can-eat buffet casserole, Arthur had been inspired to attempt the record for Longest Time to Survive without Food. (Unfortunately, when Beatrice had smuggled an uncasseroled sausage link from the kitchen that morning and offered to divide it amongst her siblings, Arthur had forgotten all about his ongoing fast until he had already broken it.)
Needless to say, he was very much looking forward to having a meal away from home.
And so, as he peered down at the pea-sized splotch in the middle of his plate, he couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed.
“But where’s all the food?” said Beatrice.
“Hush, Beatrice,” said Arthur’s mother. “Don’t be rude.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Whipple,” said Rex, grinning from across the Goldwins’ white, kidney-shaped dining table. “This is hardly your everyday spread. As you can see, Chef Bijou painstakingly pares down each cut of meat and every handpicked vegetable until all that remains is an absolutely ideal specimen. Tonight’s meal, I’m happy to report, will break his own record for Smallest Portioned Five-Star/Four-Course Dinner Ever Prepared, further cementing his title for Most Records in Petite Cuisine. Why, come to think of it, Charlie, this must remind you a bit of your own former chef. Sammy the Spatula’s work never had the same focus on premium quality that Bijou’s does, but it was fairly groundbreaking in its own right, wasn’t it? What a shame he got you to believe in him, only to try and murder you all again like that. I hear they nearly caught him boarding the first train he could sneak himself onto—”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Goldwin,” said Arthur’s father, “I’d rather not discuss our former chef at this time. Still a bit of a tender subject, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I completely understand, Charlie. I can’t imagine the heartbreak of having a member of one’s own trusted staff commit such a betrayal. Fortunately, we’ve never had to experience anything like that, since each of our staff has come fully recommended by the Ardmore Association. Just one of the many perks of membership, of course. You should really think of coming over—I know the Association would love to have you. . . .”
Arthur thought back to the last place he’d heard the Ardmore Association mentioned, in an article about the discovery of a deceased board member at a sandcastle competition. He wondered if Rex had read that article, too.
“I’m afraid I’d rather not discuss the Ardmore Association either, Mr. Goldwin,” said Arthur’s father.
“Well then,” Rex replied. “Since it seems I’m failing so miserably as your host, perhaps you might tell us what you would like to discuss.”
“Forgive me,” Mr. Whipple grumbled, “if, after such a hearty meal, I don’t have the stomach for recounting one of the worst disasters in our family’s history, or for hearing a recruitment talk from an organization whose past members turn up as skeletons. And while we’re on the subject, perhaps you can shed some light on this shadowy board of directors running the show these days. We know they’ve added one new member at the very least. So tell me, Mr. Goldwin: who is the new treasurer? Friend of yours, is he?”
Mrs. Whipple dropped her fork, which clattered loudly against her empty plate.
Rex Goldwin did not miss a beat. “Wish I knew, Charlie. You’d think with the record-breaking deal we’ve made we’d be privy to that information, wouldn’t you? But alas, we’re just as much in the dark about the board of directors as anybody else. Of course, you’re more than welcome to your opinions, Charlie. Chef Bijou’s cuisine, as well as the Ardmore Association, are certainly not for everyone. I had hoped you were forward-thinking enough to embrace them—but I wonder if your resistance stems from another source altogether. It would seem by your behavior in the Lizard Lounge that you have not entirely overcome the past.” Rex’s eyes narrowed as he flashed a roguish grin. “Surely you’re not still sore about that business at Norbury, are you? I mean honestly, Charlie, that was ages ago—and you’ve more than proved yourself since then.”
Mr. Whipple said nothing. At the mention of the word “Norbury,” Arthur noticed his father’s face become sullen and pale, its features frozen into an unnatural expression.
“Look, Charlie,” Rex declared, “why don’t we let bygones be bygones and set the record straight once and for all? For my part, I hold no grudge—but if you’re still intent on carrying out this imagined little feud of yours, why don’t we at least have some fun with it? The World Record World Championships are coming up in a couple of months, you know. . . .”
Arthur’s heart fluttered with equal parts excitement and anxiety, just as it always did at the mention of the WRWC.
The World Record World Championships, of course, is a week-long tournament—organized every two years by the International World Record Federation—in which the world’s greatest world-record breakers travel across the globe to compete for universal fame and fortune. After seven days and more than a thousand record-setting events, awards are given in various categories to the entrants who have collected the most world records. The highest of these awards is the World Record World Championship Cup, presented at the end of the tournament to the Family to Hold the Most World Records on Earth. The Whipples had managed to bring home the cup at the past three championships, despite Arthur’s failure to even qualify for a single event. Still, Arthur had always dreamt that one day he might have some small part in his family’s success.
His father remained speechless as Rex continued his proposal. “What would you say to signing an official rivalry contract for this year’s tournament, eh, Charlie? Now, I know you’re not used to such heated competition, and what with the poorly timed return of this Lyon’s Curse and these unfortunate catastrophes it keeps causing, I can see why you might not want to take on anything else at the moment. But then again, what better way to show the world you’re still the undisputed Record-Breakingest Family on Earth?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Goldwin,” Arthur’s mother cut in. “But what exactly is a rivalry contract?”
“Why, it’s hardly anything at all, Mrs. Whipple,” Rex replied. “Just a way to
keep things interesting. Simply offers a few advantages to the winning party—and a few penalties to the loser.”
“And what sort of penalties would those be exactly?”
“Oh, just that if one of our families wins the Championship Cup, the other would excuse themselves from any future events in which the winner is participating—for a specified period of two years. So as to ease the competition and give the winner a better chance of keeping the cup longer.”
Mrs. Whipple shook her head and turned to her husband, who was rubbing his jaw in deep thought. “I don’t know, Charles,” she said. “The possible advantages scarcely seem worth the risk.”
Before her husband could answer, Rex interjected, “I completely understand, Mrs. Whipple. The penalties—however minor—would, of course, make it harder for the losing family to close the gap between the winning family after the championships. So, if you’re not one hundred percent confident yours will come out on top, it really doesn’t make sense for you to jeopardize your standing any further. I must say I’m flattered, though. Who ever would imagine the Whipples could have even the slightest doubt going up against a family of newcomers like ours? Unless, of course, Charlie is thinking about Norbury again. . . .”
Arthur’s father choked on a fleck of truffled veal from their microscopic dinner but promptly cleared his throat. “There is no doubt, Mr. Goldwin,” he said, ignoring the stern look on his wife’s face. “We accept.”
“Very well then,” Rex said as he stood from his chair. “I’ll have our lawyer draft the official papers, and we can get this under way.” He pushed a button in a wall panel behind him and spoke into the speaker grille beside it. “Mr. Boyle, would you bring us the Ardmore paperwork?”
A moment later, a high-foreheaded man with dark, puffily coiffed hair and huge black-rimmed glasses stepped into the room. His tiny, insect-like eyes peered lazily from behind the massive lenses as if gazing up from twin petri dishes. They blinked every few seconds, confirming they were still live specimens.
“Ah yes,” said Rex. “Malcolm Boyle, meet the Whipples, our new rivals. Mr. Boyle here is chief legal representative for the Ardmore Association.”
The corners of Mr. Boyle’s mouth twitched upward to form the subtlest, wryest of smiles on an otherwise expressionless face. He stepped forward without a word and hefted a massive briefcase onto the table, then popped the clasps open with his thumbs to reveal a second, smaller briefcase, which he promptly popped open to reveal a third. From out of this briefcase he removed a stack of papers and set them before Arthur’s father, while the Whipples looked on in disbelief. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Whipple,” the lawyer said finally in a low, languid voice that was both unhurried and oddly precise. “If you would just sign and date this official Intention of Rivalry form—in triplicate—your rivalry may commence.” He removed a gold pen from his jacket and circled a few key points on the contract as he skimmed over them out loud. “Penalties in effect for two years following the championships’ end. . . . All disputes to be resolved by dueling . . . yada yada yada. . . . Standard boilerplate.”
“Goodness,” said Mr. Whipple as he reached the end of the form, “all our names have already been typed in here. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you drafted this long before we arrived here tonight. Why, you must be the Fastest Typist on the Planet, Mr. Boyle.”
“My personal record-breaking skills—though impressive—are immaterial in these proceedings, Mr. Whipple,” said Mr. Boyle. The corners of his mouth twitched upward once more. Then he held out the pen. “Simply sign and date in triplicate.”
Mr. Whipple took the pen from the lawyer. He gave a momentary glance to his wife, who widened her eyes and shook her head in silent protest. Then, catching a glimpse of the crooked smirk on Rex’s face, Arthur’s father lowered the pen and signed the form.
“There we are, Mr. Whipple,” said Rex, smiling as he extended his arm across the table. “It’s settled.”
Mr. Whipple stood to grasp his rival’s hand. “May the best family win,” he said.
“And we will,” Rupert snickered just loud enough for Arthur to hear.
The air hung heavy with tension.
“Now,” Rex declared, “let us kick off our official rivalry the old-fashioned way—with a cutthroat game of hide-and-seek!”
Unjust Desserts
Uncle Mervyn, the Whipples’ longtime personal record certifier (and godfather to the Whipple children), stood calibrating his stopwatch on the terrace behind the Goldwin house, where he had been summoned to officiate. Mrs. Waite, the Whipples’ plump, silver-haired housekeeper, stood beside him holding two-year-old Ivy, the youngest Whipple child, to whom she served as unofficial nanny. Ivy held her matching teddy bear, Mr. Growls, who was currently dressed like a ninja.
The members of the two teams spread themselves out across the area, warming up for the critical match to come, as Mr. Boyle approached Uncle Mervyn from across the terrace.
“Always fascinated me,” the lawyer said casually, “this Oath of Impartiality you certifiers swear to uphold.”
“Required by the IWRF, of course,” said Uncle Mervyn, still fussing with his watch, “but it’s an oath I’d gladly take nonetheless.”
“Seems a bit absurd, though, doesn’t it,” Mr. Boyle said dryly, “not to show preference for the people closest to you? The ones who pay your salary? The ones who trust you with their deepest secrets? I know I couldn’t do it.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Lucky for me, we lawyers are required to take no such oath.”
Mrs. Waite stepped forward. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Mr. Boyle,” she said, linking her free arm in Uncle Mervyn’s. “I’ve not been around record breaking long, but in my short time with the Whipples, Mervyn has already proved himself the World’s Most Honest, Most Reliable, Most Trustworthy Soul on the Planet.” She placed her cheek against his grizzled beard and added quietly, “Not to mention the Sweetest.”
Uncle Mervyn’s cheeks turned rosy as he straightened a clump of thinning gray hair on top of his head. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Waite,” he stammered. “You—you are quite remarkable yourself.”
“So, Mr. Boyle,” the woman concluded with a mischievous grin, “please refrain from your pointed comments—unless you’d like to find yourself facing the business end of an angry housekeeper’s feather duster.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Waite,” said Mr. Boyle, his tiny eyes blinking behind his massive glasses. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Dis-re-speck!” chirped Ivy.
Arthur smiled at Mrs. Waite’s noble defiance and at the sound of his little sister’s voice. Then, following his family’s lead, he moved away from the terrace and began stretching his muscles against a nearby tree—which he promptly discovered was like no other tree he had ever encountered.
The first thing he noticed was how strangely clean and squishy its bark felt. He then stepped back to find its branches were identical on either side of its trunk, so that from where he stood, the tree appeared to be perfectly symmetrical. He studied the other trees around him and realized they all shared the same odd quality. Clearly, something had changed since his prior visit to the Crosley estate.
It then struck him his fingers were coated in a clear gel that looked and smelled like tree sap, but with none of its stickiness.
Two trees over, Arthur’s little brother George held up a goo-covered hand and asked, “What’s wrong with this tree, Dad?”
Mr. Whipple, busy studying his own upturned palm, appeared just as baffled.
Rex Goldwin, however, was quick to answer. “Don’t tell me your old dad’s never let you climb a Sim-o-Tree before! Really, Charlie, you’ve got to get with the times. Actual trees are a thing of the past—the future’s all about Sim-o-Trees. This place was absolutely teeming with actual trees when we bought it, but with a little bit of vision on our part, we transformed this overg
rown, grimy little grove into the Largest Synthetic Woodland on the Planet.”
“And with Sim-o-Trees,” his wife added, “you never have to worry about leaves falling off and dirtying up the ground—or getting that disgusting tree sap all over your hands and clothes.”
Her six-year-old son, Randolf, began rubbing the seat of his trousers onto the tree behind him, then turned it to face the Whipples. “See?” he said.
“Hmm,” said Mr. Whipple, rubbing his fingers together in the unidentified ooze. “But what’s this then?” he asked.
“Pine-scented disinfectant hand soap,” Rita replied. “Only comes in the top-of-the-line models. The more you climb, the cleaner you get. I’d like to see you try that in a normal tree!”
“And to cap it off,” said Roland, “our fabricated forest here has just been recognized by the Intercontinental Hide-and-Seek Commission as an Optimum Field of Play, the highest distinction in the sport. . . .”
“But don’t be too intimidated,” added Roxy. “We’ll try and go easy on you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Cordelia replied.
“Yeah,” said George. “Do your worst.”
After winning the coin toss, the Goldwins chose to hide first—as is the usual preference in premier division hide-and-seek. They took their places at the hiding line as the Whipples circled around the giant Sim-o-Tree that served as home base.
Uncle Mervyn raised his megaphone. “On my mark,” he announced, “seekers may commence countdown. And . . .”
Arthur felt his throat go dry as a woozy feeling rushed over him. He doubled over and gave a violent gagging cough. He would have felt rather embarrassed, had half his family members not done the very same a moment later.
“Goodness, Whipples!” said Rex, turning back to face his opponents. “What on earth is the matter? Word of advice: you might not want to burst out in spontaneous coughing once the hide-and-seek match actually begins. Sort of makes it difficult to conceal your position, don’t you think?”
