by Pete Hautman
“Yeah, Ernie’s a member of AAPT. He used to work in Area 51—you know, that horrible animal-experimentation program ACPOD shut down a couple months ago? Anyway, he says he misses the animals, so he’s taking a lot of them and keeping them at his farm—animals nobody else will adopt. You know that place just north of town? Happy Smile?
“I’ve seen the sign.” It was hard to miss: a giant, white-toothed, pink-lipped, disembodied grin with HAPPY SMILE ACRES arched across the top.
“Ernie’s dad was a dentist, but he’s gone now, so it’s just Ernie and a bunch of animals. Only he swears he doesn’t experiment on them. He just keeps them because he likes them. He says they make him more creative.” Myke looked at the pile of kittens in his arms. “I’m hoping he’ll take two. I’d keep them myself but my mom, she thinks it’s getting kind of crowded here.”
I couldn’t blame her. Last time I visited Myke he had a chinchilla, a monkey, three mice, a pigeon, a gecko, and a three-legged squirrel in his bedroom.
“I met Mr. Rausch’s dog yesterday,” I said.
“Which one?”
“A bulldog named Gertrude.”
“Oh yeah. She was a rescue. Nice dog.”
“Speaking of animals, I heard you checked out Charlotte’s Web from the library. I was wondering if I could borrow it.”
“You want to borrow my borrowed book?” He gently detached the kitten from his shirt and put it back in the basket. “How come all of a sudden everybody wants to read Charlotte’s Web?”
“What do you mean ‘everybody’?”
“Well, you and Dottie.”
“Dottie? Dottie Tisk?”
“Yeah, she volunteers at Clawz-n-Pawz too. She asked me to check it out for her.”
That made sense. If Mr. Tisk had taken the book from her before she finished reading it, Dottie might want it back.
“Dottie will have to wait,” I said. “I need it right now. It’s an emergency.”
“Too late. I already gave it to her.”
17
Dottie Tisk
Dottie Tisk had the library’s only copy of Charlotte’s Web. That was the worst possible situation. If her parents found it, they’d destroy it. If I went to their house and asked Dottie if I could borrow it, she might deny she had it. But I had to try. The Tisks lived just a few houses away, so I headed over there.
The Jesus statue was standing guard, of course. I avoided his eyes, but as I passed, I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything bad.”
No one answered the door. I should’ve known—they were probably at Glorious Heart, Mr. Tisk’s church, being it was Sunday and all. I peeked in through the front window. An ordinary living room—no Charlotte’s Web in sight. I looked back at the statue. It hadn’t turned its head or anything spooky, so I walked around the house and checked out some of the other windows.
Dottie’s bedroom was at the back of the house. Her window was behind some rosebushes. I eased between the thorny bushes and the house. Her window was open a crack. I pushed the window up far enough to poke my head through and looked around. The room was incredibly neat and boring—nothing hanging on the walls, no clothes strewn on the floor, no Charlotte’s Web or any other books. I hiked the front half of my body onto the sill and took a closer look. She had probably hidden the book from her parents. I inched farther in so just my legs were sticking out of the window.
Something furry and gray exploded from the floor and flew past me through the open window. I was so startled I fell into the room.
“Come back here!” I yelled.
Mr. Peebles was about to do no such thing. He was over the fence and gone in an instant.
“Not my fault,” I muttered. Even though it clearly was my fault, saying it wasn’t made me feel better. As long as I was in Dottie’s room—also not my fault—I decided to take a look around.
From what I could see, Dottie was the neatest, most boring fourteen-year-old girl on the planet. Her bed was so perfectly made it looked like something out of a virtual-reality set.
Where would a neat freak hide a book? I looked through all the drawers. I checked her closet with its precisely hung row of stodgy dresses. I looked under her bed. Not so much as a single dust bunny.
I heard voices, then the sound of the bedroom door opening. I scooted under the bed. I could see Dottie’s feet.
“Mom!” she shouted. A moment later I saw Mrs. Tisk’s white shoes enter the room.
“Mr. Peebles is gone!” Dottie said.
“Tsk—you left your window open,” Mrs. Tisk said.
“I did not! It was only open a crack when I left.”
Mrs. Tisk crossed over to the window and closed it.
“Mr. Peebles must have got it open,” Dottie said.
“That cat is freakishly smart,” Mrs. Tisk said. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth. If he returns, we’re giving him back to your uncle.”
“Nooo!” Dottie wailed.
I heard a thwack and a gasp. I was pretty sure Dottie had just gotten slapped.
“Control yourself!” Mrs. Tisk snapped. “Do not contradict your elders. You will stay in this room until I decide it’s time for you to come out!” She marched out of the room and slammed the door.
Dottie let out a tiny sob and sat down on her bed. After a few more sobs she knelt down next to the bed. Her knees were inches from my face. Was she praying? No, she was pulling something out from between the mattress and the box spring. She stood up and plopped onto the bed. A moment later I heard the dry, slithery sound of paper pages being turned.
Charlotte! I was sure of it. She was reading Charlotte’s Web!
I would have to wait for Dottie to leave, then grab the book and escape through the window—but judging by the tone her mother had taken, that could be hours. I eased my cell out of my pocket and texted Billy.
Help! Stuck under Dottie’s bed and she is sitting on it. Need distraction.
I hit send. My phone made a whoosh sound—I’d forgotten to mute it. Had Dottie heard? I held my breath. Dottie was moving around. I watched for her feet to hit the floor, but instead it was her hair that landed on the carpet, framing her upside-down face like a curtain. Her colorless eyes regarded me with the cold, unblinking detachment of a boa constrictor.
“Hey,” I said friendlily.
“You are under my bed,” she said unfriendlily.
“True.” There was no point in denying it.
“You left my window open,” she said.
“It was already a little bit open,” I said. “I just opened it a little more.”
“Why do you keep stealing Mr. Peebles?” Her face was turning red. I thought for a second it was because she was mad, but then I decided it was because she was hanging upside down.
“Mr. Peebles has a mind of his own.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because of Charlotte’s Web,” I said.
She stared at me without replying.
“Your parents wrecked my e-book. They made a computer virus that messed up every digital copy of Charlotte’s Web on the planet. I need to borrow the book so I can fix it.”
Dottie’s head retracted. I wriggled out from under the bed. She was sitting against the headboard hugging the copy of Charlotte to her chest.
“You can’t have it. I’m not done.”
“You’re not even supposed to be reading it,” I said.
“And you’re not supposed to be breaking into people’s houses stealing their cats.”
“That was an accident! Anyway, if you call your parents, I’ll tell them you’re reading Charlotte.”
I had her there—I could tell by the way she scowled.
“My parents don’t even have a computer,” Dottie said. “They couldn’t do what you said even if they wanted to.”
“Maybe they got somebody else to do it for them.”
Dottie’s dead eyes flickered at that. She knew something she wasn’t telling me.
“We’re going to track
down whoever did it,” I said. “Billy Bates has a webhound on the digital trail, and I bet it leads right here.”
Dottie laughed. It sounded like rusty bedsprings. I guessed she hadn’t had much practice.
“You won’t be laughing when I have your parents arrested.” I said that mostly because I was mad, not because I thought I could actually do it.
Dottie’s face turned red. “You better not. You think losing your stupid e-book is bad, what if . . . whoever did it . . . what if . . . oh never mind.” She looked away. “It’s just one stupid book. What if you forgot everything you ever read? How would you like that?”
I said, “Huh?”
My cell chirped. It was Billy.
You still stuck?
I texted back.
No.
Billy replied a second later.
Get over here now.
I hesitated. Did he mean “as soon as is convenient” or “NOW now”? I texted back.
Getting book. Be there in a while.
“Who are you talking to?” Dottie asked.
“None of your business. Look, Dottie, I really need that book. I promise I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”
“No! I want to know what happens.”
“You can wait. This is important!”
Dottie shoved the book under her butt and crossed her arms. This was not going well.
I said, in my most reasonable voice, “Dottie, you—”
My cell chirped again. It was Billy.
NOW!!!
“Dottie!” Mrs. Tisk’s voice came from outside the room. “Who are you talking to?”
I was out the window in a flash. It was an impressive exit—except for the part where I landed in the rosebushes, then snagged my favorite jeans on the way over the fence and tore a huge hole in the knee. Scratched, irritated, and a bit shredded, I headed for Billy’s house.
18
The Drone
Alfred let me in.
“Master Billy is in the backyard,” he informed me. I followed him through the house and out a set of French doors to where Billy and Gilly were sitting on the patio watching a black disk hovering three feet above the lawn. Billy was holding a tablet in his lap. He moved his fingers over the surface of the tab, and the disk rose several feet higher.
“Nice drone,” I said.
Billy’s hand jerked; the disk tipped and did a nosedive into a flower bed.
“Sorry,” Billy said to his father.
“Don’t worry,” Gilly said. “The AG-3601 is quite durable, but the control interface is touchy.” He took the tab from Billy. The drone rose from the flower bed, swooped toward us, and settled on the patio.
Billy said, “Pretty cool, huh?”
“It looks like a flying manhole cover,” I said. “Is that what you texted me about?” I was a bit irritated. Not that the antigravity drone wasn’t cool, but I was focused on Charlotte, and I didn’t like having my mission interrupted. “Did you find the source of the book hacking, or have you been playing dronemaster?”
“Never mind the book,” Billy said. “We’ve got bigger problems.” He looked intently at his father. “Dad, do you remember Ginger?”
“Certainly,” Gilly said. “Hello, Ginger.” He looked at my torn jeans. “Is that the new fashion these days?”
“It’s what everybody’s wearing,” I said. “I’m glad you got your memory back.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory.” He looked at Billy. “I really don’t know why you keep going on about it.”
Billy said, “Do you remember when Ginger was here this morning, and you didn’t remember her at all?”
“Do you mean do I remember not remembering Ginger? How could I not remember Ginger?” He smiled at me. “Ginger is very memorable.”
“Tell us what you were doing this afternoon.”
“Why, I was at the office.”
“And why did you go to work on a Sunday afternoon?”
Gilly shrugged. “I can’t say I recall.”
“And what did you do while you were there?”
“Several things, I’m sure.”
“Did you see Mr. Rausch?”
“Possibly. Who is he again?”
Billy looked at me. I looked at Billy. We both looked at Gilly, who seemed blissfully unconcerned.
“I can be a bit absentminded when I’m working on a project,” he admitted. “Did I miss a dental appointment or something?”
• • •
“This is serious,” Billy said. “Rausch did something to Gilly’s brain.”
“He did something to your brain too, don’t forget.” We were in Billy’s room. Gilly was still on the patio working on the AG-3601 interface.
“At least I haven’t forgotten that I don’t remember you,” he said.
“That makes me feel so much better.”
Billy said, “It’s not all bad news. We know the process is reversible, because this morning Gilly didn’t remember you at all, and now he does—but he’s forgotten who Mr. Rausch is.”
“Why would Rausch wipe himself out of your dad’s memory?”
“Gilly said he wanted to shut down the REMEMBER program, remember? I bet Rausch made him forget that to save his job. It looks like he’s deliberately stealing people’s memories.”
“But why? Why would he bother to steal your memories of me? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I suppose we could ask him.”
“We have to ask him sneakily,” I said. “Myke told me Rausch has a farm north of town. Happy Smile Acres. Maybe we should pay him a visit.”
“A sneaky visit?”
“Very sneaky.”
19
WheelBots
Going on a secret reconnaissance mission required a new look, especially since my jeans were shredded, so I went home for a quick change.
Mom was gone. Dad was in his reading chair with Dr. Moreau and, to my utter astonishment, Mr. Peebles.
This was remarkable not because Mr. Peebles had found his way to our house—after all, he knew he could get tuna fish—but because my father did not like cats. He and Barney barely tolerated each other, and here he was with Mr. Peebles nestled in his arms, the two of them happily reading a book.
Then things got even weirder.
“I didn’t know Barney liked to read,” he said.
I took a moment to blink and let my mouth fall open.
“Dad . . . that’s not Barney.”
He looked at the cat. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! Barney is a Siamese! That’s Mr. Peebles!”
“We have two cats?”
“Dad!”
“Ginger, you can’t expect me to keep track of every stray animal that walks through the house.”
“Dad, this is serious. I think your memory has been hacked.”
“Hacked?”
“Hacked right out of your head! By the memory guy, Mr. Rausch. You’re not the only one forgetting things. Billy and Gilly both completely forgot who I am.”
“Ginger, that’s ridiculous.” He set his book aside. Mr. Peebles jumped down and trotted off. “Why would Mr. Rausch want anyone to forget you?”
“I don’t know! Why would he want to steal your memory of Barney? I mean, who knows what else you guys have forgotten? And you said a lot of the engineers at ACPOD are forgetting things too!”
“That is true.” He frowned. “I wonder if it could be an unintended side effect of Rausch’s REMEMBER technique.”
“What is his technique? I mean, what exactly does he do?”
My father scrunched his brow and slowly shook his head.
“I can’t seem to remember,” he said. “What happened to your jeans?”
“I don’t remember,” I said. “Can I borrow your WheelBot?”
• • •
I changed into black leggings, a matching T-shirt, and a pair of black sneakers. It made me feel very mysterious and ninja, perfect for a super-sneaky recon mission, even if it was
the middle of the day. I rolled Dad’s self-propelled, gyroscopically-controlled unicycle out of the garage and sped down the street at top speed—about the same as an easy jog, but far less tiring. ACPOD has been making WheelBots for years, but they haven’t caught on. Probably because they make you look ridiculous—like you’re balancing yourself on a beach ball. I don’t use Dad’s WheelBot very often, but Happy Smile Acres was five miles away. Besides, I looked like a ninja, and a ninja would look cool even riding on a donkey. I did wish Dad’s WheelBot wasn’t painted pink and green, but what can you do?
Billy was waiting for me outside his house on his own WheelBot. He was wearing orange shorts and a yellow shirt—not exactly inconspicuous. But his WheelBot was ninja black.
“You want to trade?” I asked. “For fashion consistency?”
“Better not. My bot’s kind of touchy. I made some modifications.”
I didn’t argue. When Billy says he “made some modifications,” it could mean anything from “laser-cannon headlamps” to “ejection seat.”
The police get touchy about unicycles on the highway, so we took the county road out of town. After half a mile we turned up a dirt road. Fields of twelve-foot-tall drying cornstalks formed golden walls on either side of us.
Billy said, “Watch this.”
He leaned forward and twisted his handgrip. His WheelBot produced a high-pitched whine and took off, leaving me coughing and spitting in a cloud of dust. Seconds later, when the dust had cleared, I saw Billy a quarter mile ahead of me, looking back and waving.
“Show off,” I muttered grittily. I accelerated to my maximum speed of twelve miles per hour.
“It’ll do forty miles per hour,” he said when I caught up with him.
“Good for you,” I said, both irritated and impressed. Billy had never met a machine he couldn’t make faster, smarter, or more dangerous.
“Sorry about the dust.”
“Just don’t do it again.” We continued up the road at a more reasonable pace, riding side by side. “By the way, since you haven’t bothered to ask, Dottie has the book.”
“Oh! Did you get it?”
“No. But I’m pretty sure she knows who hacked the e-book.”
