Striker Jones_Elementary Economics for Elementary Detectives

by Maggie M. Larche

  “Don’t quit your day job, Ralph,” thought Striker with a chuckle.

  Ms. Peters marched the boys back into the museum where they had to spend the remainder of the day sitting on a bench in the front hallway.

  At the end of the day, the class headed back to the buses. As they walked back across the lawn, Striker noticed something lying in the daisy field. There was one single daisy crown left behind from where Julia and Rosie had been working. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and tried to work up the courage to give it to a certain someone on the way home.

  Chapter 10: The Surprise Story

  “Dad!” called Striker on the first Saturday morning of summer vacation. “Are you busy?”

  “Not particularly,” his dad called back from his study. “Why?”

  “I need something to do,” yelled Striker.

  “Why don’t you call one of your friends?” called his dad.

  “But I still wouldn’t know what to do with them,” shouted Striker.

  “You could play outside.”

  “It’s too hot.”

  “Then you could play inside,” Mr. Jones shouted.

  “I don’t suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Jones walking into the hall, “that we could try doing something without having to scream back and forth about it?”

  “Sorry,” yelled Striker.

  “Sorry,” yelled his dad.

  His mom sighed.

  Striker wandered into the kitchen, and hopped onto a barstool. He draped himself across the counter.

  His mom laughed as she wiped the countertop around him. “What is it?”

  “I’m bored, Mom. What should I do?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Jones, “didn’t I hear you say earlier that you got some early birthday money from your grandparents?”

  “Yeah,” said Striker.

  “Why don’t you go do something fun with it?”

  “But I can’t think of anything!”

  “Honestly, Striker,” said Mrs. Jones, “I have never known you to be so unimaginative.”

  “Well,” said Striker’s dad, who had just walked in the door, “I can think of plenty of things to keep you busy.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “The car needs to be washed; the gutters are dirty; your bathroom is a mess.”

  “Ok, ok,” said Striker hurriedly, sitting up. “Maybe I can think of something to do.”

  “I thought I could help you see the light,” said Mr. Jones.

  “Hey,” said Striker, “you know what could be cool?”

  “What’s that?” asked him mom.

  “The arcade’s got a new game in called Dance Pants. It’s one of those games where you have to make the right movements along with the music. And Bill is really, really good at it, but I think I could take him if I practiced.” Striker was getting excited. “Plus, I could use my early birthday money to pay for it!”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” said Mr. Jones.

  “Yeah! I’ll do that!” Striker jumped up. “I’m going to call Bill and ask if he wants to go, too. Can you take us, Dad?”

  Mr. Jones checked his watch. “I can take you, but not yet. I’ve got a meeting in an hour on that side of town. Gas is getting pretty expensive, so I’d like to combine the trips. Just tell Bill we’ll pick him up then, and I’ll come back and get you guys up from the arcade after the meeting.”

  “Ok, Dad. Thanks!” Striker went to call Bill.

  “This game is so totally awesome!” shouted Striker as he and Bill struggled to hit all the right moves at the right time.

  “I know!” said Bill, crisscrossing his legs back and forth.

  “How did you do that?” shouted Striker. He tried crossing his legs the same way Bill had, but only succeeded in tripping and falling off the side of the dance mat.

  “Whoa,” he yelled as he hit the floor. He jumped up again immediately, rubbing his backside as he did so.

  “Good luck catching up now,” laughed Bill.

  “Watch it, or I’ll ‘accidentally’ trip in your direction!” said Striker, jumping back into the game.

  Bill’s feet were flashing back and forth so quickly that he was attracting a crowd of other kids. They gathered around the game and quickly took up the chant, “Go Bill! Go Bill! Go Bill!” Striker got a few cheers as well, but Bill was obviously the star of this game. Every now and then, even Striker would catch himself being distracted by Bill’s fancy footwork. Then he’d have to shake his head clear and try and catch up again, more behind than ever. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, and concentrated on not tripping in front of the crowd. All told, he was having a great time.

  After another half hour of Dance Pants, Striker was completely worn out. He and Bill had finished the game to a wild outburst of applause from the crowd, and then promptly collapsed on the floor in the corner of the arcade.

  “Man,” said Bill, still out of breath. “That was awesome.”

  “No kidding,” said Striker. “I can’t believe how good you are.”

  “Aw, it’s nothing,” Bill said. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs out, first his right, then his left. “Geez, I am going to be so sore tomorrow!”

  “Yeah, me too,” muttered Striker tiredly from the floor.

  “I’m sure you will,” said a voice from behind Striker’s head. He tipped his head backward on the floor so that he could see the person standing just behind him. When he saw who it was, he quickly jumped up from the floor.

  “Oh, hi, Sheila,” he said, suddenly sounding much more energized. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Sure,” said Sheila. “Amy and I have been watching almost since you guys started.”

  “Oh really?” asked Striker. Inside his thoughts were dwelling unpleasantly on his fall off the mat. “Did she see?” he wondered.

  “Nice fall,” said another voice behind Striker. He turned to see Amy.

  “I guess they saw,” he thought with a groan.

  Bill laughed. “Yeah, that was pretty spectacular, Striker.”

  Sheila turned to Striker. “Are you going to play any more today?”

  Striker thought of his aching feet and legs. He was worn out. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not that I’m tired or anything,” he added quickly. “I just need to get home.” He thought a moment. “You know, though, I do have lots of quarters left. Does anyone want to come back with me tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, man,” said Bill. “My dad’s already told me I’ll be doing yard work all day. I don’t think I can get out of it.”

  “Bummer,” said Striker. “What about you two?” he asked, turning to Sheila and Amy.

  “Can’t,” said Amy. “We’re going out of town to visit my grandma.”

  “I’m sorry, Striker, but I can’t either,” said Sheila. “My sister’s got a dance recital that I have to go to.”

  “Oh, ok,” said Striker, trying not to show his disappointment.

  “Maybe we can come with you next weekend for your birthday,” said Bill.

  “That’d be cool,” said Striker. “Anyways, my legs probably won’t be working by tomorrow anyhow. Speaking of which…” He fished a coin out of his pocket. “I don’t suppose anybody would be willing to carry me to the car for a quarter, huh?”

  “I thought you weren’t tired,” teased Amy.

  “I’m not,” said Striker quickly. “Just a joke, Amy, just a joke.” And with that, he started walking toward the door to the parking lot, doing his best not to limp.

  The next day, Striker resolved to go to the arcade by himself. He knew it wouldn’t be quite as much fun without his friends there, but he still really wanted to practice. He wandered into his dad’s study to ask for a ride.

  “Hey, Dad,” he began, “are you headed into town any time soon?”

  “Well, not right away,” said Mr. Jones, “But I do have a committee meeting at church later this afternoon. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just hoping you might take me to the arcade.” Striker turned to l
eave.

  “Sure. I can take you right now, as a matter of fact,” said his dad.

  “Really?” asked Striker, stopping in the doorway. “Don’t you want to combine trips to save on gas?”

  “Oh, that’s ok. I don’t want you to have to wait just to save a little money.” He stood up from his desk. “Are you ready to go?”

  An hour and a half later, Striker sat waiting outside the arcade for his dad to pick him up. His time playing Dance Pants hadn’t been nearly as fun as before. Without Bill there, Striker couldn’t reach some of the higher levels, so he had spent most of his time on lower levels that were a little boring. Then, to make matters worse, a kid about three years younger than him had started to play the game as well and was much better than Striker. After being repeatedly outshone, Striker decided he’d had enough of the arcade and called his dad to pick him up.

  Now he sat on the curb waiting, idly twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. It was very hot outside. Striker could even see waves of heat rising off the pavement of the gas station next door. As he looked at the heat waves, another sight caught his eye—the sign showing the prices of gasoline. From the looks of it, the price of gas had risen over the past day.

  “Hmm,” thought Striker. “Gas has gone up. But Dad didn’t mind making a special trip for me this morning, in spite of the prices. Weird.”

  Just then, his dad pulled into the parking lot. As Striker walked to the car, he wondered about his dad’s actions.

  “Hey, Dad,” he said, getting into the car.

  “Hi, Striker,” said Mr. Jones. “How was the arcade?”

  “Oh, it was ok,” said Striker. On the ride home, he tried to keep up a conversation with his dad, but he kept being distracted by his own thoughts.

  “Yesterday,” Striker thought, “Dad made me wait to go to the arcade so that he could combine trips. That saved money on gasoline… So far,” he thought to himself, “everything makes sense.”

  He scratched his head. “But today, with gas even more expensive than before, Dad didn’t make me wait till he was on his way to town. The costs had gone up, but he didn’t seem to care. Why?”

  The car had pulled up in front of their house. As Striker got out, he gave his dad a suspicious look. Had his dad been trying to get rid of him this morning?

  Striker walked up the front sidewalk and onto the front porch. He paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob to give his father one more curious look. His dad only smiled.

  Striker pushed open the door slowly while he wondered, “But why would Dad want to get me out of the house?”

  “SURPRISE!” The roar of sound swept over Striker as he looked confusedly into his living room. As he focused on the room, he froze in the doorway in shock. Suddenly, in a rush, all the clues fell into place. Of course! He was having a surprise party!

  Slowly, Striker’s look of disbelief changed into a grin that spread from ear to ear. His living room was absolutely packed with people. First, he saw his mom standing and smiling by a large chocolate cake. Then, he saw Jim, wearing contacts, of course, and his best friend Zack. Rosie and Julia were sitting together by the fireplace, each wearing a flower crown. His music teacher was there with her new husband Mr. Larson, and he noticed his homeroom teacher Ms. Peters sipping a Dr. Pepper by the snack table. Even Ralph and his friend Jason were slouching in a corner, throwing the occasional dirty look at the other guests.

  But best of all, Striker saw his three best friends, Bill, Sheila, and Amy, standing in front of the entire crowd. Amy and Sheila were wearing party hats, while Bill was happily blowing a noisemaker.

  His dad clapped him on the back from behind. “We really got you, didn’t we?”

  Striker nodded, still too surprised to speak.

  His mother came forward holding the birthday cake, and Striker saw that she was smiling as brightly as the lit birthday candles. Mr. Jones flipped off the lights for dramatic effect, and the whole room broke into a chorus of “Happy Birthday.”

  At the end of the song, Striker paused to make his birthday wish, but looking at his friends and family around him, he found he didn’t have much else to wish for.

  So instead, he just smiled and blew out the candles.

  After every last candle had been extinguished, his dad called out, “Now, let’s cut that cake! We’ve got two celebrations on our hands!”

  “What do you mean, two celebrations?” asked Striker.

  “Well, of course, first, there’s your birthday,” said Mr. Jones. “And second,” he paused with a twinkle in his eye, “something very extraordinary happened today!”

  “Really?” asked Striker curiously. “What?”

  Mr. Jones smiled and put an arm around his son. “Let’s just put it this way—,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not everyday we manage to pull a fast one on Striker Jones.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Maggie M. Larche is a Florida native currently enjoying Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she resides with her husband and son. After receiving a master's in social sciences from the University of Chicago, she committed herself to bringing economic basics to today's youth. Striker Jones was born from her personal fondness for a good mystery.

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