Peter was now approaching a hill. He watched the cat disappear over the crest, then stopped dead in his tracks as he heard a horn honk, a low whistle of cars passing, and the barely audible voices of what sounded like children at play in the distance. Excited, he started up the hill full speed only to freeze again. What if those noises weren’t what he suspected them to be? What if those noises were connected to things not as welcoming as the peppermint cat?
“Peter, you have got to be brave. Toughen up, pal,” he said to himself forcefully. “How will you ever know what is over that hill if you don’t look?”
Peter moved to the top of the hill, encouraging himself along the way. Papa would be proud. When he reached the top, he felt triumphant. The air was sweeter here.
What stood before him was spectacular: a town of extraordinary-looking houses painted in bright, vivid colors. It reminded him of the gumball machine in Papa’s Sweet Shop. The houses shone glossy in the sunlight. He supposed his mother would probably gasp at the sight. She would never dream of painting their house like any of these houses. Not Peter. He thought it was neat. They were all different shapes and sizes: rectangles, triangles, pentagons, hexagons, squares, and even a few circles. He could not see any peppermint cats or marshmallow birds. As a matter of fact, from where he was positioned, he could not see any living beings. He would have to venture into the town.
By now he was feeling pretty confident as he strutted forward. He passed tulips lining the side of an apple green triangle house. As he rounded the corner of the house, he was knocked backward a few steps by a yellow blur with a strong lemony scent. When Peter could focus his eyes, he fixed them on a radiant yellow…boy? Peter’s lower jaw dropped fast. He was stunned.
Rude and Otherwise
The yellow boy disapproved of Peter’s expression and said, “Don’t you know it is rude to stare at someone that way? Didn’t your parents teach you any manners? You humans are all the same.” The boy crossed his arms.
Peter was amazed. It talked! He did, however, manage to lift his jaw back up and soften his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I have never seen anything like you before.”
Agitated, the boy said, “I am not an ‘anything’; I am a Candonite boy of the lemon drop race, and proud of it. And don’t you dare even think of taking a bite out of me!”
Peter examined the Candonite closer. Yes, he saw it now: the pointed top and bottom of his body and round center were covered in sugary skin. A giant talking lemon drop with arms and legs!
“I wouldn’t do that,” Peter assured him.
“Now if you are done with your staring, you better come with me. My name is Joe, by the way.”
“Joe.” Peter let out a partial laugh before stopping himself.
“What? Is my name somehow funny to you?”
“No,” said Peter. “I…didn’t expect you to say Joe.”
“Oh,” Joe said slyly. “Did you expect me to say Lemony, Yellowy, or maybe Zesty?
“I am very sorry. Joe is a nice name. My name is Peter,” Peter said sincerely.
“Come with me,” Joe snapped, walking away.
Peter obediently followed. He figured at least he was with someone who knew his way around.
“Where we are going isn’t far from here, and I suspect you’re going to want to ask me a million questions until we get there. But you can save them for when we get there,” Joe demanded.
“Where is ‘there’?” asked Peter.
“I said save your questions for when we get there,” huffed Joe.
Peter did have lots of questions. What town was it? he wondered. But he would have to save that question for when he got to wherever they were going. There were mailboxes, all miniature versions of their respective houses. The trees here weren’t pointing any particular way. The streets were not dark gray asphalt like the ones back home. They were glittery like candy wrappers—long, giant, multicolored candy wrappers. There weren’t any white lines in the middle. How did they know what side of the street to drive on? They passed a perfectly round, plum purple house. Roped to a tree in its front yard was what Peter thought must have been a dog, because it barked as they walked by. It looked just like a Tootsie Roll with short stubby legs. So as not to bother Joe, he waved at the Tootsie dog and gave it a wide smile.
The sound of a car engine from behind them caused Peter’s head to snap in its direction. Peter saw immediately that the car had no tires. It glided a foot above the road. He noticed that it was gold and said “Police” on the side. It stopped across from them. The windows were so dark he couldn’t see inside. Peter gulped. He had heard from kids at school that you never want the police to stop for you. Joe had turned to look at the car but did not seem as concerned as Peter.
The driver’s-side window of the car slowly came down and revealed a skinny red Candonite with a dark brown handlebar mustache.
“Hello, Joe, I see you have yourself a human there. You boys better jump in the car. I’ll get you to your destination quicker.” The police officer spoke like Mr. Angus, a friend of Peter’s father who was from Scotland. The Candonite officer unlocked the back doors.
Peter began to truly worry now. He had never been in a police car before and had no idea where they were going. As Peter and Joe approached the car, it lowered closer to the ground. Peter reached for the door handle; his hand was a little shaky. That’s when he discovered there was no door handle. The door slowly opened from the bottom up. Inside, it looked like a normal back seat of any old car, but he did not see any seat belts.
“Are you getting in anytime soon?” Joe nudged him.
Peter climbed in and slid over so Joe could get in behind. When the door was completely shut, he heard a commanding female computer voice say, “Seatbelt fastening,” followed by a clicking noise close to his right ear. He soon felt the strap of a seatbelt come across his chest and lap. Peter thought it was really awesome.
The police officer’s voice made him look up. “I am Officer O’Bryan. Tell me your name, lad.”
“It’s Peter Fischer.” Peter fidgeted in his seat. The officer wrote Peter’s name down on a sheet of paper.
“Off we go then to the mayor’s.” Officer O’Bryan gestured forward.
The mayor, Peter thought to himself. The big guy, the one who runs the town. Why do I need to go see him? What if he throws humans in jail? What if I can’t ever go home? His mind was filled with “what ifs.” He changed his attention to outside the car. The squad car drove past another car, but Peter did not have a clear view inside. Then he saw a Candonite getting into his car. He was most definitely of the candy corn race. It brightened Peter’s mood. The police car slowed down, and to the right was a long, rectangular, fuchsia house with a white sign out front that read “Mayor Baker.” Officer O’Bryan pulled into the driveway, and the car lowered to park. The computer voice activated again: “Seatbelt unfastening,” and the belt slid off Peter’s chest and lap and vanished somewhere in the seat. All the doors of the car lifted up to let them out.
“All right, boys, time to see the mayor,” Officer O’Bryan said as he got out of the car and waited for the boys to get out. By now, Peter’s hands were sweaty and his pits were sticky. Peter could now see that Officer O’Bryan was quite tall. He knew in a fraction of a second what he was: a red licorice vine. They all walked up to the house together, and Officer O’Bryan stuck out his skinny red arm and rang the doorbell. Peter was surprised the door seemed pretty average. The same computerized woman’s voice echoed throughout the house, “Attention: three guests at the door, three guests at the door.” Peter wanted to push the doorbell again. He didn’t dare.
Seconds later, they heard a gentle female voice from within the house saying, “Coming, dears.”
Peter’s tense shoulders took a more natural position. In the doorway, a pleasant-looking Candonite faced them. She smelled wonderful, like fresh-baked cake. Her smile was gigantic, and her hair was vanilla frosting. She was obviously a cupcake woman, a b
eautiful, friendly, sweet cupcake woman.
“Hello, Officer O’Bryan, Joe, and who do we have here?” she asked sweetly, looking directly at Peter.
“Peter,” he answered.
“Nice to meet you, Peter. I am Mrs. Baker.” Her eyes seemed to twinkle. “Come on in,” she said, turning around to allow her guests to follow her into the living room.
There were pictures hanging in the hallway of all different Candonites. One was a photo of Officer O’Bryan and Mrs. Baker. In the middle was a cupcake man with chocolate frosting hair. Peter thought that must be Mr. Baker, the mayor. A photo next to it was a picture of Mrs. Baker in her younger days, looking rather lovely with an elegant sash strung across her chest reading “Ms. Congeniality.” He was not sure what “congeniality” meant, but it must have been something good because she looked proud.
On a red velvet couch in the living room, reading a newspaper, sat the same cupcake man Peter had seen in the hallway photo.
The man closed his newspaper and rose from the couch, saying cheerfully, “Hello there, fellows.” He paused to hear their greetings before he continued, “Who do we have here?” studying Peter.
Joe promptly piped up, “I found him, Mayor Baker. His name is Peter.”
Peter looked over at Joe, who was beaming with pride.
“I see. There will be a parade as usual. It has been a while since we have had a parade in Maple Town, hasn’t it?”
Maple Town. That sounds pleasant, Peter thought.
“I will let the Parade Council know immediately,” Officer O’Bryan announced and quickly went on his way, taking Mrs. Baker’s hand in his and kissing the top of it as he left the room. Peter had seen his uncle do this to his mother and grandmother millions of times before.
“A parade for me?” inquired Peter.
“Of course. We do that for all our human friends,” said Mayor Baker.
Joe boasted, “You aren’t the first human here, and you won’t be the last. Mostly we get children, and a few adults. They all have come the same way, you know, by Bellyache.”
“By Bellyache?”
Joe explained, “Yes. You probably got here by gorging yourself with tons of goodies and making yourself sick to your stomach, and next thing you knew, you were here, and…”
“That’s enough, Joe,” Mayor Baker interrupted firmly. Joe crossed his arms and pouted. “How old are you, Peter?”
“Ten.”
“Why, you’re only a year younger than Joe,” Mayor Baker pointed out. “Let me tell you something. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You will be in town for about twenty-four hours and then you should be on your way home. You will stay here with Mrs. Baker and me. We have a nice room that would be perfect for you.”
Peter did not know what to say. So much was going through his head. The only thing he could think to say was, “Thank you.”
Mayor Baker looked at the clock on the wall and said, “Let me show you to your room so you can rest a little bit and get washed up for dinner.” He turned to Joe and said admiringly, “Nice work, Joe. We will see you tomorrow.”
Joe shot a quick look at Peter before he left, the kind of look older kids usually give younger kids that says, “I am going to give you trouble just because you are younger and I can.”
Mrs. Baker announced cheerfully that she would start dinner and disappeared down the end of the hall. Mayor Baker led Peter up the stairs to his room. It was a spacious room with a big bed and a comfy-looking chair. A wooden dresser and a wicker wastebasket were across from the bed and chair. There was also a side table next to the bed that had a funky-looking lamp on it. A few decorations hung on the wall: marshmallow bird paintings and pretty stained-glass pieces. He also had a bathroom, one all to himself. It wasn’t exactly his style, but it was suitable for Peter.
“We will call on you when it is time for dinner. I understand you may not be very hungry after all you have eaten to get here.” Peter was a little embarrassed by this remark. “So, don’t worry about hurting the Mrs.’ feelings if you don’t eat much.” On his way out, he showed Peter how the lights worked. There was a small circle on the wall next to the door, and he simply touched it to switch the funky lamp on and off. Mayor Baker closed the door behind him.
As soon as the door shut, Peter tried out the light circle. On and off, on and off, and on and off again. He wondered what Candonites ate and if he would like dinner. He sat on the comfy chair and studied the room and replayed the day’s events in his head. Would anyone believe him when he told about this adventure? By now, Papa must have gone back to the sweet shop to look for him, but he obviously wouldn’t find Peter there. Would Peter believe someone else if they told him they had met Candonites and petted a peppermint cat? He really wasn’t sure. He sat there for several minutes, his head full of thoughts about his situation. He got up and noticed a book on the bedside table. The book looked weathered and read “Guests” in cursive across the cover. He opened it. Page after page was filled with names, some much more legible than others. There must have been hundreds. He turned to the page that had the last signed name on it. He wanted to put his name in the book, too, as proof he was there. He saw a pen next to the lamp and signed his name in cursive: Peter Fischer.
“Dinner is ready; please attend,” came the computerized woman’s voice.
Peter put the book and pen down, quickly washed his hands, and went to the dining room. It took him a little while to find it since Mayor Baker had forgotten to tell him where it was. The sweet scent of the Bakers was masked by the smell of a home-cooked meal. He was pretty sure he smelled mashed potatoes. As Peter entered the dining room, he saw a round table with eight chairs. The mayor was already seated.
“Have a seat, Peter, anywhere you like.”
He sat two seats down from the mayor in case Mrs. Baker wanted to sit between them. He also did not want to be too far in case someone wanted to pass him something. As soon as Peter was seated, the phone rang. It made him jump a little.
Mayor Baker rose, calling to the kitchen, “I’ll get it.”
Peter watched him go to the corner of the room where there was a brass stand with a black cordless phone on it. Peter wasn’t impressed. He expected something more like a circle on the table that you could just touch to receive a phone call.
He heard Mayor Baker’s end of the conversation. “Hello. How are you, Angela? You heard correctly. Judge Greg’s house will do just fine. Be sure to inform the council. Good work, and good night.”
Peter was admiring the table when the mayor returned to his chair. He saw that he was indeed correct; there were mashed potatoes in a lopsided, multicolored ceramic bowl on the table. A gravy boat sat next to it, and salt and pepper shakers shaped similarly to the bowl. The table wasn’t set, and there was nothing to drink on the table. Mrs. Baker emerged from the kitchen with a push cart with two shelves. The lower shelf had glasses containing water, plates, and silverware, which were all lopsided like their mates on the table. The upper shelf carried yet another matching covered dish and crisp white cloth napkins. Peter was a little nervous. What could be under there? He watched as she had the table set in no time.
Mrs. Baker turned to Peter and said, “I will let you serve yourself since I don’t know how much you would like.” Peter hadn’t really thought about it; he wasn’t full anymore but he wasn’t starving, either. He would have a small serving of the potatoes. He wasn’t sure about whatever was under that lid. Mrs. Baker handed him the serving spoon to scoop up his potatoes. She then put her dainty fingers around the handle of the lid to reveal the hidden dish. Peter held his breath. A ham, a lovely ham.
“It looks great, dear.” Mayor Baker winked at his wife.
“Yes, it sure does.” Peter was relieved.
Peter scooped himself a nice portion of potatoes and took a small piece of ham. He poured gravy over both. Then he realized there were no vegetables on his plate—nothing green, anyway. He wasn’t a big fan of most vegetables, though he really enjo
yed corn. At Nana’s, he would always have to clean his plate. At home, he was usually good at hiding the vegetables under his last bit of food when he was done. Here, there weren’t vegetables to eat or hide. He was beginning to really like staying with the Bakers.
“I have also made your favorite dessert,” Mrs. Baker told her husband. Her husband grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. Peter thought he better save a tiny bit of room so he could at least taste the mayor’s favorite dessert.
“Peter, I figured after dinner we would drive around for a little tour of our town. Then we could come back and watch one of my favorite game shows. The Mrs. and I love game shows. All those violent TV programs are not for us. After that, you can turn in to your room for the night. Tomorrow is an exciting day for you,” Mayor Baker informed him.
Peter replied eagerly, “Sounds great.”
Over dinner, which was quite good, Mayor Baker and the Mrs. asked Peter questions about where he was from and what his family was like. He also learned that the Bakers did not have any children and were trying to adopt a baby. Mrs. Baker showed him a picture of the little tyke. Peter saw that it was a tiny chocolate chip cookie baby lying on a pink blanket. It was a baby girl they wanted to name Robin after Mayor Baker’s beloved grandmother. Peter told them the baby was cute and he thought it was great that they were adopting. He mused for an instant and realized it did not even seem weird that he was commenting on a cookie baby!
“Time for dessert,” Mrs. Baker announced as she got up and started putting the dishes back on the push cart. Peter and Mayor Baker helped out by passing her the things on the table. When she returned with the dessert, Peter saw that it was a pie. He would have a thin slice. He did not want to be rude, after all.
“You may not like this, dear,” Mrs. Baker warned as she cut into the pie. As she sliced it open, Peter smelled something downright stinky.
“What is it?” Peter asked politely.
BELLYACHE Page 3
