by Lenore Look
This book belongs to
Francisco Nahoe,
Who has helped Alvin out of the woods
More than once.
—L.L.
To Atticus, who wanted another Alvin Ho book—
this one is for you!
—L.P.
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is a common accident for men camping in the woods to be killed by a falling tree.
—Henry David Thoreau, “The Allegash and East Branch,”
The Maine Woods, 1864
With many thanks to:
Ann Kelley, for being infinitely patient and long-suffering.
LeUyen Pham, for being utterly amazing.
Sophie Fisher, for telling me about Henry’s mouse bait.
Charity Chen, for being my quick-as-lightning researcher.
you will know some things about me if you have read a book called Alvin Ho: Allergic to Girls, School, and Other Scary Things. But you won’t know all about me, so that is why there is now this second book.
In case you missed it, my name is Alvin Ho. I was born scared and I am still scared. Things that scare me include:
Long words (especially “hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia,” which means fear of long words).
Punctuation. (Except for exclamation points! Exclamations are fantastic!!!)
The dark (which means I have nyctophobia).
The great outdoors. (What’s so great about it?) Lots of things can happen when you’re outdoors:
Hurricanes.
Tornadoes.
Mudslides.
Landslides.
The end of the world.
I am scared of many more things than that. But if I put all my scares on one list, it would mean years of therapy for me. And I already go to therapy once a month on account of it’s supposed to help me not be so scared. But my brother Calvin says when you’re born a certain way, that’s the way you’ll always be, so you might as well hug your inner scaredy-cat.
My brother Calvin, he gives good advice.
I am not so good with advice. I can never think of any, except maybe this: When in doubt, always ask, “What would Henry do?” Henry is Henry David Thoreau. He’s a dead author, which is really creepy But he is also our school hero, which is not so creepy, and he was a lot like me—he had stuff figured out, even when he was little. He was born in Concord, Massachusetts, just like me. And—gulp—he died in Concord too.
Of course, I could never say, “What would Henry do?” at school, where I never say anything. This is on account of school is mortifying. And when I am mortified, which means totally scared to death, I can’t scream, I can’t talk, I can’t even grunt. Nothing comes out of my mouth, no matter how hard I try.
Having a lot in common with Henry can be very useful. For example, we learned in music class today that Henry played the flute. And whenever he played, a mouse would come to listen, and Henry would feed it with the extra pieces of cheese that he kept in his pocket.
“My brother has a flute,” I told the gang on the bus after school. “He rented it for lessons … and we have cheese in the refrigerator.”
“Let’s go,” said Pinky.
So when the bus stopped at the end of my driveway, the gang followed me to my house. Usually, it is a tricky business getting them to play with me unless it is Pinky’s idea. Pinky is the biggest boy and the leader of the gang, and no one plays with me unless Pinky does.
Except for Flea. Flea plays with me no matter what. But the problem with Flea is that she’s a girl. And girls are annoying.
Fortunately, my mom was at work and my gunggung, who comes to watch us after school, was fast asleep on the sofa. So I left the gang in the kitchen and tiptoed past the sofa … to fetch Calvin’s flute from the top of the piano where he had put it for safekeeping. No problem.
The only problem was Anibelly She’s four, she’s my sister, and she was wide awake, following me everywhere and getting in my way as usual.
“That’s Calvin’s,” said Anibelly.
I stopped. I pretended I didn’t see Anibelly. But it is hard not to see her. She’s like a stoplight in the middle of my life and there’s just no avoiding her. I can’t go anywhere without going past her or taking her with me if I’m in a hurry.
“But Calvin’s practicing his karate moves at Stevie’s house,” I said. “And I need his flute for a little experiment.”
“What spearmint?” asked Anibelly.
“Well, you live in Concord, Massachusetts, don’t you?” I asked.
Anibelly nodded.
“You believe in Henry David Thoreau, don’t you?”
Anibelly nodded again.
“Well, then, if you keep quiet,” I said, “I’ll let you watch.”
So Anibelly kept quiet.
First I put Calvin’s flute together.
Then I went back into the kitchen where the gang was waiting and looked for some cheese.
Actually there was quite a lot of cheese, all chopped up and zipped inside a plastic bag. It was very yummy. And we were hungrier than a pack of starving mice. By the time we finished snacking, there were only a few crumbs left to put in my pocket. But I was sure that our teacher, Miss P, had said that Henry had pieces of cheese, not crumbs.
“I’d heard pieces too, not crumbs,” said Sam, who usually always pays better attention in class than I do. “A mouse isn’t going to come for crumbs.”
So we cobbled all our crumbs together to make a piece of cheese, which I put in my pocket. Then I picked up Calvin’s flute, put it to my lips and blew.
“Pshhhhhffffffffrrrrrrrrrrr.” It sounded like a sick worm blowing its nose. So I blew again, harder. “Pshhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
“Lemme try,” said Pinky, snatching the flute and the piece of cobbled cheese from my pocket. “Pssssssssuuurrrgggggh!” He sounded worse than I did!
Then Nhia took a turn. Then Sam. Then Jules and Eli and Hobson. By the time Calvin’s flute was finally passed to Flea, it was drooling worse than our dog, Lucy, on a hot day, and the cobbled cheese that ended up in her pocket was hardly recognizable as cheese, except for the smell.
Worse, there was no mouse anywhere. It was not a good sign.
Even worse, a car was pulling into our driveway with Calvin inside.
“You’re busted now,” said Anibelly.
“Alvin Ho!” said Flea. “This is gross! I’m going home.”
Then Flea handed me the flute, picked up her backpack and marched off, just like that. If there is anything good about Flea it is this: She knows when to call it quits.
But the gang did not.
“The problem is that we need to be outside … in the woods,” said Nhia, who can figure things out like a detective. “Henry took his flute on his walks in the woods, where there are not only mice, but chipmunks … and squirrels … and bats. That’s how Henry did it.”
“Who’s coming to Walden Woods with me?” asked Pinky. No one moved. No one said a word. Then Pinky turned and headed for the door. “Last one there is a chicken butt!” he said. And before I knew it, the gang rushed out.
If I were not scared of the woods, or if I had had on my Firecracker Man gear, I would have run after them. Firecracker Man isn’t afraid of anything, but I am afraid of everything, especially the woods—they are full of trees. And Walden Woods, behind my house, is the creepiest of all—it is full of big stones too, carved with the words of Henry David Thoreau and other— gulp—dead people. If you read their words and stay long enough, you can even feel them sitting around, having a chat.
Lucky for me, the gang forgot the flute.
> But unlucky for me, Flea was right. Calvin’s flute was really gross. It was sticky and slimy and dripping with drool. And I was holding it when Calvin came in, dressed to kill.
There are many advantages to being Calvin:
You’re nine years old, almost ten.
You can haul firewood.
Your fingers fit in a bowling ball.
You can crash your bike without crying.
You can do karate.
You can kick my butt.
There is only one advantage to being me:
1.
I’m not sure what it is yet, but there must be something.…
Okay, I can clean a flute like nobody’s business.
And put it back in its case.
And put the case back where it belongs, for safekeeping.
“Okay, Calvin?” I asked.
“Okay,” said Calvin. But he was not okay. He was still mad at me. So I gave him one of my best carved sticks, which is supposed to be a walking stick but is especially useful for digging holes in the yard. Then Calvin, Anibelly and I ran outside.
Digging holes is fantastic! It makes you forget your troubles. And when Calvin gets started, there’s no telling what he will forget— usually, everything. He digs better than anybody. He’s a regular backhoe.
So by the time the delivery truck screeched up our driveway and dropped off a big box— thwuuuup!—we were buds again. We dropped our sticks and ran over.
“To: Mr. Alvin Ho,” said the label. Calvin karate-chopped the box and I tore it open with my bare hands. Inside—gasp— was “Houdini in a Box: Do-It-Yourself Escape Kit.”
“Wow,” said Calvin.
“What is it?” asked Anibelly.
“It’s …,” said Calvin. “It’s …”
Then Calvin said nothing.
I said nothing.
What do you say when the best thing that has ever happened to you just dropped in your driveway?
i ripped open the kit right there in the driveway. Inside, there were pencils, stickers, handcuffs, a handcuff key, a rope, a Houdini’s Greatest Escapes DVD and a gold card.
Calvin whistled. “Dude!” he said.
“I bet it’s from Uncle Dennis,” said Anibelly.
And sure enough, there was another card that said
It was not my birthday. But my uncle Dennis, who lives in Boston, didn’t know that. He’s a cool dude. He butters his toast on both sides. He can never remember our birthdays exactly, but he sends something whenever he thinks it’s our birthday, which could happen more than once a year, and it is always a marvelous surprise.
I could hardly believe my eyes. Harry Houdini was the best escape artist in the history of the world, as everyone knows. His real name was Erik Weisz. And now, with a little practice … I could be the next Houdini!
Thoughts swirled in my head.
Leaves swirled in the yard.
“C’mon,” said Calvin, “let’s watch the DVD.”
We rushed inside.
Houdini’s Greatest Escapes was amazing. First Houdini was blindfolded. Then he was tied. Then he was handcuffed. Then he was roped, hanging upside down! But he wriggled and squiggled and squirmed and—gasp—escaped! Then he was tied to a chair, handcuffed and roped … and he escaped again! It was spectacular!
“Let’s try it!” said Calvin.
So we did. We tried it on Anibelly first; she is very useful in that way.
First we did the blindfold.
Then we did the handcuffs. Then we used the rope.
Anibelly slipped out of everything faster than Harry Houdini! She was great!
Then Calvin tried it. He squirmed a little more than Anibelly, but he slipped out of everything quickly too.
Then it was my turn. And I slipped right out of the very big handcuffs too, on account of my hands are very small.
Calvin stopped. He rubbed his chin. “I don’t think we’re doing it right,” he said. “Great escapes are supposed to be hard. Otherwise, they’re not great escapes. They’re just regular escapes.”
“Oh.”
“Something’s missing from this kit,” said Calvin, inspecting the box. “Houdini had something we don’t….”
“It’s the arms,” said Anibelly excitedly. “The shirt! The shirt with the funny arms!”
“That’s it!” said Calvin. “The straitjacket!” He dumped the packing peanuts out of the box. But there was no straitjacket.
“No problem,” said Calvin. “I’ll make one.”
Calvin is great. One of his talents is taking things apart to see how they work. His other talent is making things.
First he found an old shirt.
Then he found another old shirt.
He cut the sleeves from one and stitched them carefully to the sleeves of the other, until the shirt had extra-long sleeves.
It was fabulous!
First we tried it on Anibelly. We wrapped the long sleeves around her tummy and tied them in the back. Her arms are short—like two bicycle handles—on account of she’s only four and nothing has really grown in yet except her teeth. So it didn’t take long for her to wriggle free. It wasn’t like she was a real escape artist or anything.
Then we tried it on Calvin. His arms are longer. In fact, he wriggled quite a bit. He rocked wildly, tied to a chair, just like Houdini, until he knocked himself over and nearly cracked his head. It was super-duper! Then Calvin popped out of the straitjacket too.
Finally it was my turn. “Wrap me up! Wrap me up!” I cried.
“Not so fast,” said Calvin. “I need a little more practice.”
“But it’s my turn.”
“But I’m going to be the Great Calvini!” said Calvin.
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“Yes, I am!” said Calvin.
“No, you’re not!”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s my kit,” I said.
“But it’s my straitjacket,” said Calvin.
This was true. I didn’t know how to sew. Calvin had learned to sew in Scouts, just in case one of them conked their head on a rock while camping and was bleeding to death and needed stitching.
Calvin was just about to conk me on the head, when …
“Caaaalvin!” my mom called. “Time for karaaaate, huuuurry honey!”
Calvin is always practicing karate or going to lessons. He can punch a brick without crying. Someday he will walk on sizzling coals without screaming, he is very talented in that way. But I am not. Karate freaks me out. So I stay home with Anibelly And YehYeh usually comes to take us to the library and then out for ice cream while Calvin is out hurting himself.
“YehYeh will be here in a minute,” said my mom, poking her head into the living room. “Be sure to let him in.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” said Anibelly
Then Calvin was gone, just like that.
But his fantastic straitjacket was not. It was lying on the floor, doing nothing.
“gimme the works,” I told Anibelly. “I’m going to surprise YehYeh. He’s going to be very impressed.”
Anibelly put her right foot out, like in her favorite Hokey Pokey dance, and crossed her arms in front of her. “You mean scared?” she said.
“Yup,” I said. I could hardly wait. When YehYeh is particularly impressed, he always says, “Alvin, there’s a difference between impressing and scaring,” which is the same as saying there’s a difference between cleaning your room (impressive) and cleaning the whole house (scary). And when he is scared, YehYeh is just like me. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Make everything super-duper tight,” I told Anibelly
“Okay,” said Anibelly.
Anibelly can tell directions with a compass, she can sing the Hokey Pokey and dance it at the same time, and mostly she says what’s on her mind. She can also figure things out, I don’t know how—like how to tie a triple knot that won’t come loose.
Anibelly gave me the works. She wrapp
ed my sleeves around me like a couple of boa constrictors around a sausage. Then she knotted the rope around everything. Then she made everything super-duper tight.
“Something’s still missing …,” I said. But I couldn’t put my toe on it.
“I know,” said Anibelly. “Houdini was in a box, right?”
“That’s it!” I said. So Anibelly guided me carefully down the stairs to the basement where there was a box that said “Dishwasher This Side UP,” on one side, and on the other side, it said in Calvin’s handwriting “Danger: Time Machine.”
“Roll me in,” I told Anibelly.
So she did. She rolled me in.
This box couldn’t be nailed shut like Harry Houdini’s, but it could be taped. “Lalalalalalalalala,” sang Anibelly as she ran around the box with tape on a roller that just keeps spinning out, like super-duper strong spider’s silk. Inside the box, it was warm and dark.
The tiny breathing holes that Calvin and Anibelly had punched with a pencil looked like stars in the night.
“Anibelly,” I called out.
Anibelly stopped.
“It’s very warm in here,” I said. “And dark.”
“I know,” said Anibelly. “That’s why my blankie’s in there. It’s the perfect place for a nap. Try it.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry,” said Anibelly, “I’ve set the time machine so you can go back to see dinosaurs. You’ll love it!”
“But—”
“Lalalalalalalalala,” sang Anibelly “Lalalalalalalala …”
The box felt like an oven. Worse, it was smaller than an oven. It was the size of a dishwasher.
I didn’t feel so good. I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t move. Worse, I had a couple of itches I couldn’t reach.
Worst of all, I have claustrophobia. I forgot.
Oops.
Normally, I do not go in the time machine at all. In fact, I have never been inside. Calvin and Anibelly made it, it’s their thing, but it’s not my thing. I’m allergic. Small, squishy spaces make it hard for me to breathe and moong cha cha, which means foggy in the head, in Chinese. Plus, it was pitch-black-dark-as-night, except for the tiny breathing holes, which really were no help at all.
