by Matthew Ward
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © 2013 Matthew Ward
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN: 978-1-101-61517-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Wendie and
Henry & Miles,
who continue every day to secure my
records for Luckiest Husband on Earth and
World’s Luckiest Dad, respectively.
Table of Contents
1. THE MOST EXTRAORDINARILY ORDINARY BOY ON EARTH
2. THE DAWN OF DISASTER
3. THE SPECTER SPECTACLE
4. ARTHUR WHIPPLE’S BIRTHDAY WISH
5. THE WHIPPLE FAMILY BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA
6. THE RECORD ATTEMPT
7. UNWELCOME GUESTS
8. THE CLOWNS
9. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
10. THE PARTY’S OVER
11. THE AFTERMATH
12. THE UNSAFE SPORTS SHOWDOWN
13. FRIENDLY COMPETITION
14. ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS; OR, WHERE THE CLUES LED
15. A MATTER OF GRAVE IMPORTANCE
16. THE TROUBLES ARE OVER
17. THE TROUBLES ARE NOT OVER
SELECTIONS FROM THE WORLD RECORD ARCHIVES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE MOST EXTRAORDINARILY ORDINARY BOY ON EARTH
All the members of the Whipple family had managed to be born in the same month on the same day: March the first. All, of course, but one.
Arthur Whipple had been so eager to join his amazing family that he decided to make a surprise arrival into the world at eleven thirty-four P.M. on February the twenty-ninth, just twenty-six minutes ahead of schedule. But to Arthur’s astonishment, his family was not as delighted by the surprise as he had hoped. When the doctor placed Arthur in his mother’s arms, she smiled lovingly down at him—but he could sense a hint of sadness in her eyes. And when the nurse came and carried him out for his first bath, he turned back to catch a glimpse of his mother quietly crying as the door shut behind him.
Arthur’s father sent the marching band home early that night, after they had performed but one song. Charles Whipple was a good man, but he found it hard to conceal his disappointment in his new son’s poor sense of timing.
Seeing that something was troubling the baby’s father, the doctor sought to reassure him. “Congratulations, Mr. Whipple. You have a healthy baby boy. His heart rate is normal, and he is breathing very well. Furthermore, he has the proper number of fingers and toes, and—”
“Really?” Mr. Whipple interjected. “Well, that is good news! I was under the impression he only had ten of each, but…”
“Well yes,” replied the doctor. “Ten fingers and ten toes. That’s generally considered to be the proper number.”
“Oh. I see,” sighed Mr. Whipple. “No one must have told you.”
“You were expecting a different number of digits?”
“We were really hoping for at least fourteen of each…. Are you quite sure there were only ten?”
“Uh, yes. Quite sure.”
“And there is no way he might sprout a few extras in the near future?”
“Um. No,” replied the doctor, who was beginning to look noticeably uncomfortable with Mr. Whipple’s questions.
“Oh, well, there you have it,” said Mr. Whipple with more than a hint of despair. “This is just a disaster.”
The doctor made an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a grimace, then turned, whispered something to the nurse, and walked out of the room. One could hardly blame him for feeling uneasy. He was used to people being overjoyed when he gave them the news that their child was healthy and normal.
But, of course, the Whipple family was anything but normal, and Arthur’s being so had shocked his parents to their very cores. In truth, they would have been less surprised if Arthur had been born a duck-billed platypus. For the Whipples had long been regarded as extraordinary, due to one simple fact: the Whipple family had broken more world records than any family on earth.
After a few minutes, Arthur was brought back into the room and returned to his mother. Perhaps sensing he wasn’t measuring up to his family’s expectations, the baby looked as though he might be trying to think of something remarkable he could do to prove himself worthy of the Whipple name. Unfortunately, he had just been born, and apart from gurgling, there wasn’t a whole lot he was capable of. In the end, he apparently decided on attempting the world record for Longest Time without Blinking—but only made it forty-two seconds. Luckily, no one really noticed. He didn’t know it then, but this was the last time his shortcomings would go undetected. From that moment on, each of Arthur’s failures would be documented, analyzed, studied, and graphed.
Outside the hospital room, the crowd of well-wishers was buzzing with anticipation. In some parts of the crowd, there was a rumor circulating that the latest addition to the Whipple family had been born with polka-dotted skin and a full set of teeth. In other parts, it was whispered the baby had weighed 221⁄2 pounds and was covered with fur. Some people were even saying the infant had refused the doctor’s help and simply delivered itself.
A crack of the door sent a hush over the crowd.
Mr. Whipple stepped into the hallway. He stood smiling awkwardly for a moment and then addressed the onlookers.
“Thank you all so much for coming. I am happy to report that my wife has given birth to a son—and that he is healthy, happy and…” Mr. Whipple paused, grappling with the next word. “Normal.”
The crowd looked puzzled. Surely he was exaggerating. He couldn’t have meant normal normal. After all, this was a Whipple they were dealing with. Certainly the word “normal” had an entirely different meaning in that family.
One man spoke up. “So what records has the little one broken in his first hour? Birth weight? Shoe size? Arm length?”
“Actually,” replied Mr. Whipple, his smile straining a bit, “Arthur has not broken any records at this time. We are sure, however, that with the proper guidance, he will soon join his siblings in the pages of Grazelby’s Guide to World Records and Fantastic Feats.”
“But what about your streak of Coincidental Birth Dates? This marks the sixth member of your family born on the first of March. Surely, that is a world record?”
Mr. Whipple’s smile grew even more strained. “Unfortunately, Arthur was born several minutes before midnight, giving him an actual birth date of February the twenty-ninth. But we are perfectly satisfied with continuing to share our record of five coincidental birth dates with the Nakamoto family in Osaka.”
The crowd looked stunned. They had come to rely on the Whipple family’s unbeaten track record in the realm of world-record breaking. Nothing was certain anymo
re.
Stepping forward through the crowd, a grizzle-faced reporter peered out from under a dark-brimmed hat.
“Mr. Whipple,” said the man, “do you think this setback might be explained by—how shall we say—other-than-natural means?”
Mr. Whipple arched his brow, his smile vanishing altogether. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir.”
“My apologies, Mr. Whipple. What I mean to say is: Mightn’t your son’s unremarkable quality be the result of a certain family curse? A curse that has gone so far as to claim the life of—”
“Who is this man?” cried Mr. Whipple. “Who let him in here? Wilhelm!”
A burly, handlebar-mustachioed man rushed forward, clapped the reporter about the shoulders, and proceeded to drag him down the hall as the crowd looked on with wide eyes.
When the two men had disappeared from view, Mr. Whipple straightened his shirt and cleared his throat.
“Terribly sorry about that,” he addressed the onlookers. “We can’t have just anyone attending the births of our children, you understand. But please, let me assure you—the so-called Lyon’s Curse has nothing whatsoever to do with my son’s momentary recordlessness. Any family tragedies resulting from such a curse are all in the distant past.” Mr. Whipple wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “And besides, this is hardly a tragedy: I have every confidence Arthur’s unfavorable status won’t last more than a matter of days—certainly no more than a month or two.”
The crowd said nothing.
Amidst some awkward shuffling of feet and a few nervous glances, Mr. Whipple thanked everyone again for coming.
It was not until Mr. Whipple’s valet and butler, Wilhelm, returned with a forklift—and presented the men with the World’s Largest Box of Cigars—that the memory of the strange interruption faded.
After distributing the seven-foot, three-hundred-pound cigars into giant cigar holders, Wilhelm—whose title of World’s Strongest German had made him uniquely suited to the task—promptly donned a flamethrower and proceeded to light them.
The men sat about smoking their colossal Cubans through large funnel-shaped tips while the women formed gossip clusters and flitted from one to the next. Just before dawn, when all had had their fill of gossip and smoke, the guests offered their closing compliments and bid the Whipple family farewell.
Mr. Whipple gazed out of the maternity ward window onto the procession of cars leaving the hospital, each with a giant half-smoked cigar strapped to its roof or secured to its tail, as the sun rose in the distance, drenching the whole scene in a warm amber glow. He looked back toward the hospital room where his wife lay holding their recordless newborn son, and thought about the past. He couldn’t help but wonder if his family’s incredible legacy had come to an end.
When the octuplets arrived—on schedule—the world could finally relax. The Whipples had returned.
Seven years after Arthur was born, Eliza Whipple was in labor again. The doctors had told her she was to have plain old quintuplets—but Abigail, Beatrice, and George had been hiding behind their siblings in order to surprise the family. It was true, of course, that Arthur had tried to surprise the family at his own birth—by arriving early—with unfavorable results. The octuplets, however, proved to be masters of surprise. They waited until the last minutes of March the first—and then made their move.
The world had expected a repeat of Arthur’s recordless birth, but when the quintuplets showed up just before midnight and brought three extra Whipples with them, everyone was astounded with joy. At the moment they were born, the Whipple octuplets broke two world records: Highest Number of Healthy Babies in a Single Birth, and Highest Number of Coincidental Birth Dates.
The Nakamoto family soon telephoned to concede defeat.
THE DAWN OF DISASTER
On the morning the curse came back, Arthur was jolted awake by the Whipple family breakfast bell. He found himself lying on his bed—on top of the bedding—still wearing his clothes from the day before. He was filled with the sinking feeling this was not the morning he had planned for himself—but he could not remember why. Then Arthur noticed the sound of accordion music coming from the next room, and it all came rushing back to him.
The music was being performed by Arthur’s older brother Simon, who was now six days into his attempt at the Longest Continuous Time Playing an Accordion.
On the first day, Arthur had found the music coming from his brother’s room enchanting and beautiful—that is, until he had tried to go to sleep. Arthur then found the music rather loud and entirely sleep prohibitive. But the boy soon saw it as just another opportunity to finally break his first world record. He got out of bed and decided to attempt the Longest Time without Sleeping. He knew if he could just stay awake one day longer than his brother’s projected seven-day accordion-playing streak, he would set a new record for sleep deprivation—and just maybe earn the respect of his family in the process. Nothing could stop him now….
And yet, there he was on the present morning, waking up to the realization he had fallen asleep after only five days.
Arthur looked up at the slowly clicking time-lapse camera, which had been set up in the corner of his room to verify his state of wakefulness—and gave a frown. The boy was not unfamiliar with failure, but he could not help but feel a bit disheartened. He’d really thought he’d had this one.
Still, the Whipple family breakfast bell was ringing—and it took excuses from no one, disheartened or otherwise—so Arthur stood up and walked to the mirror. He straightened his shirt and did his best to flatten the clump of light brown hair that was sticking straight out on the side of his head. Nothing seemed to work, so he cut his losses and went to the wardrobe. The finely carved cabinet—one in a matching set of thirteen made for the Whipple children by champion woodworker Alan Splinterson—had once been part of the World’s Thickest Tree Limb, before it was severed from its trunk by the Most Powerful Lightning Storm in Recorded History. These days, it simply held Arthur’s clothes. Opening the wardrobe, he promptly found his robe, put it on over his matted clothing, then walked to the bedroom door.
Now, if Arthur had known the chain of catastrophic events that would be set into motion that day, he might have turned himself right around and opted instead to attempt the record for Longest Time Staying in Bed. But since he did not have the luxury of a working crystal ball or a subscription to Tomorrow’s News Today, he simply turned the doorknob and stepped through the threshold.
Once inside the corridor, Arthur joined the procession of Whipple children as they made their way toward the sweet smells wafting up from the kitchen. They had all lined up in age-descending order, just as they always did at meal time. Leading the way was Henry Whipple, who, at seventeen, was the eldest.
Henry, being the most athletic of his siblings, was never quite comfortable unless he was competing at something. Because his parents had recently banned hurdles, bicycles, and horses from the upstairs passageways, he was presently in a contest with his brother Simon to see who could hold his breath the longest. Simon, a thirteen-year-old musician/mechanical engineer, was at a slight disadvantage, as he was, of course, still playing his beloved accordion as he walked. Graciously, Henry had agreed to give him a five-second delayed start to compensate for this, but Simon had already begun devising plans for a “breath-holding machine” in his head.
Next came twelve-year-old Cordelia. She was the overachiever in a family of overachievers. Not to be outdone in music by her brother Simon, Cordelia had already mastered both the violin and the harpsichord. She also dabbled in brain surgery and model-rocket science. But her true passion was for architecture. On her back, she carried a T square like a barbarian battle-ax; in her hand, she carried a perfect 1⁄1000th scale model of the Taj Mahal, constructed entirely out of toothpicks.
And then came Arthur. He was eleven. Already trying to make up for his most recent failure, Arthur was now hopping on one foot in another attempt to break a world record.
&n
bsp; At the end of the breakfast procession were the octuplets: Penelope, Edward, Charlotte, Lenora, Franklin, Abigail, Beatrice, and George—all age four.
Penelope wanted to be an entomologist when she grew up. She carried a small cage in which she had just the day before captured the Largest Common Housefly Ever Recorded.
Edward was an explorer. That summer, he had become the Youngest Person to Summit Kanchenjunga, the third-highest mountain in the world. He had indeed considered climbing the Very Highest, but after a bit of soul-searching and a stern chat from his mother, he’d decided he should wait until he was at least five before he attempted Everest.
Charlotte was the Most Accomplished Four-Year-Old Painter on Earth. One month earlier, she’d had her first exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The reviews were impressive: “Exquisite!”; “A tour de force!”; “The finest collection of teddy bear paintings since Victor Flambeau’s Stuffed Bear series!” Her hands were usually stained with paint, and today was no exception.
Lenora was destined for the opera house. Under the tutelage of the esteemed Madame Bellissaria, she had recently hit the Highest Note Ever Sung in Live Performance. She carried out her usual vocal exercises as she walked.
Franklin belonged at sea. He wore an eighteenth-century naval lieutenant’s bicorne hat, with one of its points jutting out over his face and the other shielding the back of his neck. It had been a fitting birthday present from his parents one year earlier, when Franklin had disappeared off the Whipple family frigate during a sailing excursion and was feared dead. Amazingly, he had turned up three days later in one of the ship’s dinghies and recalled to his family how he had set off alone to venture a closer look at some sea caves on the coast of a nearby island.
Abigail had a way with animals. She had recently returned from a semester abroad in Saskatchewan, where she had lived with a pack of wolves through a nursery school exchange program. She was now riding on the back of one of the Whipple family dogs, a giant Great Dane called Hamlet, who held the record for Tallest Dog in the World.
