by Lisa Doan
The last major incident had involved the thermostat. All winter long, they had been freezing in their own home. They watched television under a big pile of blankets, jogged around the house to warm up, and hung around the stove when something was cooking. Mrs. Pennypacker finally called in a heating company. The nice gentleman from Hankin Heater Repair showed Mrs. Pennypacker how the thermostat had been tampered with, and how while it said sixty-eight, it was really set at fifty-eight. Mr. Pennypacker had come home that day to find himself in near-tropical conditions, his wife in shorts, and the new thermostat set to seventy-eight to make up for all the heat they hadn’t used for months.
“Charles,” Mrs. Pennypacker said softly, “if there’s something I should know about this vacation, tell me now.”
Mr. Pennypacker pointed out the window. “Look! There’s a Burger King, too! They really have it all in Miami.”
The van pulled into terminal J and they showed their passports to the security guards.
Mrs. Pennypacker continued to stare at her husband. Mr. Pennypacker desperately searched for interesting landmarks to point out through the window, though he had run out of fast-food restaurants and had just been reduced to exclaiming, “That car looks exactly like our car at home!”
Mrs. Pennypacker dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of Trident cinnamon gum. The Trident was chewed for only two things—getting ready to demolish a defendant in court or getting ready to demolish a defendant in her family. “Indeed,” she said, double-dosing herself with two pieces. “I suppose spotting a Honda Civic is rare. How many even exist? One? Two? Fifty million?”
“Folks,” Ignatius Wisner said over his shoulder, “we have arrived.”
Charlie looked around for the ship. There were cruise ships in the distance, moored at other docks. They were white and shining, ten stories high and a thousand feet long. At this dock, all he saw was a hundred-foot-long boat that had even more peeling paint than the van. Then he saw the logo on the bow.
Charlie leaned forward to get a look at his dad. “Wisney Cruises?” he asked. “You booked us on a Wisney cruise? What is that? That’s not Disney.”
“What’ya mean it’s not Disney?” Olive said, whipping her head toward Charlie. “It better be Disney.”
“It’s practically exactly like Disney,” Mr. Pennypacker said. “You won’t even know the difference.”
Chapter Two
“That is not a cruise ship,” Charlie said, pointing. “It’s just a big boat. Where’s the Olympic-sized pool? Where’s the AquaDuck? Is there even room in there for an elaborate food buffet? I was going to try shrimp.”
Captain Wisner said, “That fine lady you see in front of you is the Aladdin’s Dream. A more stalwart boat there never was. Don’t you worry that she ain’t as big as some others. She has heart, she does.”
There was a long silence in the van as the occupants stared at the boat.
“Anyhow, folks,” the captain continued, “what we got here is quality cruising. Sure, you could go on one of those behemoths over there, get a stomach flu, and wretch over your balcony for a week.”
“That is so true!” Mr. Pennypacker said. “Everybody gets sick on those things.”
“Then,” the captain continued, “after you’ve staggered out of your cabin ten pounds lighter than when you started, you could get in line with five hundred other people just to get an ice cream cone. Not on my watch, folks. You want a cone, you probably got a cone, assuming we brought them on board in the first place.”
“Who wants to wait in line for a cone?” Mr. Pennypacker asked. “I mean, who?”
“And as for the entertainment on those tin cans over there,” the captain continued, “you just don’t know what you’ll get. One guy told me he paid thousands for his trip and only got a mime.”
“A mime,” Mr. Pennypacker said. “Who even likes mimes?”
“I don’t like mimes, Mr. Pennypacker,” the captain said. “An entertainer, in my humble opinion, should have something to say if you’re gonna get your money’s worth. No, on my ship, you’re gonna have a personalized experience, cruising like you are royalty.”
“Cruising like royalty,” Mr. Pennypacker said. “That’s how we roll.”
Olive cried, “You better have Mickey and Minnie because if you don’t, I’m going home.”
“Now, Olive, don’t worry about a thing,” Mr. Pennypacker said. “You will be swamped with Disney-like characters. Every time you turn around one will be staring you in the face.”
“I can’t believe you did this,” Charlie said. “What am I supposed to do all day with no pool and no AquaDuck?”
“Ah,” Mr. Pennypacker said. “I’ve got you covered, Charlie. Your friend Gunter is coming along.”
“Gunter?” Charlie asked. “Gunter Hwang?” A feeling of dread crept up his back like a slimy and slow-moving slug.
“Mr. Hwang was the one who tipped me off to this fantastic cruise line in the first place,” Mr. Pennypacker said, avoiding Charlie’s eye. “Good guy, Mr. Hwang.”
“Gunter Hwang is my sworn enemy,” Charlie said.
“Among all the other things you didn’t tell me,” Mrs. Pennypacker said, “like the difference between Disney and Disney-like, you certainly didn’t mention that our neighbors were joining us.”
“Now, I know you’re a little cool on Gunter’s mom,” Mr. Pennypacker said, “on account of her trying to copy your Pfeffernüsse cookie recipe for the school bake sale that time, but she’s not even coming. It was only Gunter’s dad that had planned to come.”
“Had planned to come?” Mrs. Pennypacker asked. “What do you mean by had planned?”
“Well, that would be, for one thing,” Mr. Pennypacker stuttered, “mostly because Gunter’s dad can’t make it. Unexpected, last minute, unforeseen, surprise business trip—the worst kind, in my opinion. They should probably be against the law. Anyhoo, I said, being the gracious neighbor that I am, that Gunter could come with us. Those two went off to Key West for a few days, and then he’s putting Gunter on a plane here, while he gets on a plane to Houston for that danged unforeseen trip. Houston! Can you imagine? How hot is Houston in the summer? Who even goes to Houston?”
“Wait,” Mrs. Pennypacker said, chewing gum like a jackhammer. “Now we’re babysitting?”
“Is Gunter really a baby?” Mr. Pennypacker asked. “He’s the same age as Charlie.”
“Hold on a minute,” Charlie said. “You know Gunter Hwang is not my friend anymore, and you could care less about being a gracious neighbor. You complained when we had Missy Campbell spend the night while her mom was in the hospital having a baby. You said she was eating us out of house and home after she asked for a second bowl of cereal. So why, all of a sudden, would you bring Gunter on our vacation?”
“Yes, Charles,” Mrs. Pennypacker said. “Why is Gunter coming with us? And think carefully before you answer. I want the absolute truth as if you were in a court of law.”
Mr. Pennypacker closed his eyes, seeming to consider exactly how absolute or not absolute a truth he might safely shoot for in court. As usual, he couldn’t hold up against his wife’s lawyerly stare for long. He slumped and whispered, “Gunter’s dad is paying me thirty dollars a day.”
And there it was. Mr. Pennypacker had sold out their family vacation for a Disney-like cruise and thirty dollars a day.
Mrs. Pennypacker let out a long, slow breath. It was the kind of breath she took when she realized that Mr. Pennypacker had replaced all their dinner plates with slightly smaller plates to give the family the illusion that they were eating more than they really were. It was the kind of breath she took when her husband fainted after discovering how much Olive’s Hello Kitty backpack had cost, due to an ill-advised bidding war on eBay.
“I suppose,” she said quietly, “we had better make the best of it.”
“That’s the spirit!” Mr. Pennypacker said.
Charlie stared at his dad. Gunter Hwang was going on his vacation. Gunte
r would see exactly what kind of vacation it was. Had he read the note on the mailbox? Charlie could already envision the first day of school. Gunter would lean over his desk and say, “A Disney-like cruise, was it?”
“So not only,” Charlie said, “is our trip wrecked, but Dad decided to bring Gunter Hwang along for thirty dollars a day, which means the whole school will find out about it. It’s another Pennypacker vacation fiasco.”
“Well, I hardly think it’s a fiasco…,” Mr. Pennypacker trailed off as if he could not pinpoint the exact word that would better describe the situation.
“Folks,” Captain Wisner said, “family drama is nothing if not fascinating. On the other hand, it tends to be fascinating only to the family involved. I’ve got one more airport run to make, so let’s get you on board.”
“I say when we go!” Olive shouted.
Everyone in the van froze. Charlie stole a glance at his sister. The wrath of a six-year-old was as dangerous and unpredictable as a rabid raccoon. It could not be underestimated. The only way out was a calm demeanor and no sudden movements.
Olive counted to five on her fingers and said, “Now we go.”
Ignatius Wisner hustled them over to the boat. A rickety metal gangplank at the stern spanned the pier and the deck on a twenty-degree angle. The captain sent them over it one by one, as if it could not hold up more than a person at a time.
A small and seedy man dragged their bags on board. His name was Cankelton, and he wore a patched-up suit jacket that was two sizes too big. He had a furtive expression, like he expected to be arrested at any moment. Olive refused to let him touch Hello Kitty, lecturing him about the important items that were tightly packed into the kitty’s insides. Cankelton avoided her eye while she inventoried down to the last Shopkin.
The deck of the boat looked as if it had been varnished long ago. There were shiny brown strips where the varnish still clung desperately to the wood, and dull gray strips where it had given up and thrown itself overboard. Deck chairs were lined in a row, their faded blue-and-white-striped seats sagging.
A few families stood in a circle, staring down at the deck. The crowd parted, and Charlie saw that somebody’s dad had just gone through the canvas of one of the deck chairs. His wife was gamely trying to pull him out of it.
Like a submarine going full-speed ahead, Olive pushed through the crowd and attached herself to the side of a young boy.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Jenkins and I’m seven and I like miniature racing cars.”
Olive clutched his hand and said, “We’ll get married and you can be Jimmy Pennypacker. And stop liking cars. Shopkins are better.”
Upon discovering that his name was about to change, his beloved cars were deep-sixed, and he very suddenly had a fiancée, Jimmy’s lip trembled. “I don’t want to get married.”
“I’m in charge forever and I say we are!”
Olive stomped on Jimmy’s foot to make sure he understood that she was in charge forever. He limped back to his mom, engaged and crying.
Mrs. Pennypacker dragged Olive away from her quest to tie Jimmy Jenkins into the knots of holy matrimony. Cankelton showed them to a tight, circular metal staircase that led down to a passageway. The corridor was so narrow that they had to go single file. Flimsy wood doors were named after Disney-like characters such as Don Ducky, Pinnie the Wooh, and Elsie and Annie. The walls were covered in drawings that vaguely resembled Disney characters. Sleeping Beauty looked more dead than asleep while Maleficent leaned over her. Based on Maleficent’s tongue sticking out, Charlie made an educated guess that it was a picture of Miley Cyrus cut out of a People magazine.
“Here you go,” Cankelton said, his eyes shifting everywhere like he had no control over what they did. He handed Mr. Pennypacker and Charlie their sets of keys. “Adjoining cabins. You and your wife are in the Dalmatian Dog suite, and there’s a roll-out bed for your daughter, just like you asked.”
Charlie wondered if his dad saw the irony of being booked into the Dalmatian Dog suite. The door was painted to look like a dog house, which Mr. Pennypacker was totally in.
“Your son will be next door in Snowed White,” Cankelton said. “The other young man will be just across the passageway in Peter Pen and the Lost Boys.”
“Exactly where Gunter Hwang belongs,” Charlie said. “Lost.”
Charlie wasn’t thrilled about getting put in Snowed White. He would have preferred some kind of hero, but at least he was getting his own room. Somebody was going to have to watch Olive every minute of the day to make sure she didn’t accidently go over the rails. He had worried that she might get pawned off on him.
“I like the Dalmatians,” Olive said. “One hundred and one, exactly. Not five like Mrs. Doodles the poodle had last year, but a hundred and one exactly. Everybody can have a puppy! No, wait. I need them all. People can go get their own puppies.”
Charlie turned the key in the lock, eager to see his own private cabin.
The first thing that struck him was the larger-than-life lady covering one wall. The painting, titled “Snowed White,” depicted a pale person in a white dress sitting on a pile of snow, all outlined in black ink. She was surrounded by her Disney-like dwarves—Distraught, Worried, Agitated, Troubled, Disturbed, Perplexed, Anxious, and Unnerved. They clutched at the bottom of Snowed White’s gown like they might pull her down into a demon underworld. Charlie would have to make sure not to look at them too closely when he went to bed or he might become anxious and unnerved himself.
The cabin was small, no bigger than the Pennypackers’ upstairs bathroom. There was a twin bed against the bulkhead with built-in drawers underneath. A narrow closet that might hold five hangers was at the foot of the bed and held one book—A Bloody History of Caribbean Pirates. A bifold door led to a tiny room with a toilet and sink. Charlie stood in the middle of what little floor space there was. It was not a luxury stateroom, but he could live with it. Especially since he had his own porthole. He would be able to watch the sea from his cabin.
Charlie’s spirits began to rise. So what if it wasn’t a real Disney cruise? He hadn’t cared about seeing Mickey Mouse anyway. He would miss the pool on deck and the AquaDuck, but Wisney Cruises might have some kind of buffet with shrimp, and at least he was going somewhere. He was out of the backyard and going out to sea. He would disembark at foreign ports. He was roaming around the world, and that had to be amazing.
“ONE Dalmatian!” Olive shrieked from the cabin next door. “Where are the rest of them?”
Charlie glanced at the flimsy wall that separated them. He knew from experience that a long negotiation as complicated as a United Nations conference was about to begin regarding the missing Dalmatians. Having witnessed too many of these ill-fated summits, he left his cabin and headed up the stairs.
The deck was deserted. All the other passengers were down below, unpacking. Charlie looked out to sea and imagined what it would be like when they headed out there. The moment they left the dock, they would be attached to nothing and be nowhere. On land, a person was always somewhere. If they were asked, they could look around them and say they were standing in front of the library, or they were in the Maine woods, otherwise known as the Pennypackers’ backyard. But out on the ocean there would be no landmarks. The boat would be an infinitesimal speck bobbing around in a watery universe. It was probably how astronauts felt when they were somewhere between the earth and the moon.
Charlie turned back to the pier. In the distance, the captain’s black van rumbled toward the boat. It had been driving normally but it began to pick up speed. Charlie supposed Captain Wisner was eager to get back out to sea. The old salt probably didn’t feel at home anywhere else.
The van kept going faster and faster, as if the captain had his foot floored on the gas. His driving was beginning to look unhinged.
The van swerved and then straightened out. Charlie squinted and saw two men in dark suits, both carrying briefcases, running behind the van. They didn’t seem dresse
d for a cruise. And if they were going, why didn’t Captain Wisner slow down and pick them up?
The van barreled down the dock. The tied-on bumper came loose on one end and bounced along behind. The men shouted something. Charlie couldn’t make it out, but it didn’t sound friendly.
Charlie gripped the rail. Something was going on. Something bad.
He turned and saw Mr. Pennypacker climbing the stairs to the deck. Whatever was happening, Charlie did not want his dad to know about it. Mr. Pennypacker took every opportunity to ask for discounts and refunds and tended to escalate the negotiations until there was no turning back. He could just imagine his dad demanding a discount for irregular driving and then making his family get off the boat as a last-ditch bargaining ploy. It would be like the time they were supposed to take the Amtrak train to Boston for his great aunt Myrtle’s birthday. Mr. Pennypacker had insisted that Olive should ride free, the conductor insisted that she shouldn’t. The Pennypackers had stepped off the train to indicate their steely resolve on the matter. Then they watched the train and their suitcases leave for Boston. The conductor had waved at them as he sailed by.
“Hey, Dad,” Charlie said, running across the deck and standing in front of him, blocking his view. “Did you get a television in your cabin?”
Charlie hoped the answer was yes, and then he could suggest that there was a special episode of Extreme Couponing coming on. Mr. Pennypacker’s primary hobby was maintaining his big folder of coupons, figuring how to double and triple the coupons, and occasionally getting into a flame war on Twitter with his nemesis, @guerrillatacticscouponing.
At the mention of television, a pained look settled over Mr. Pennypacker’s features. “No,” he said quietly. “Though that reminds me that I’m paying for cable at the house as we speak and nobody is even watching it! I wonder if your mom would agree to give it up? Maybe I should just turn it off and see what she says.”
