The Prizewinners of Piedmont Place

by Bill Doyle

  As the Talaskas went into the diner, Alison Mangan’s dad walked out. Cal said hello, and Mr. Mangan nodded. From outside the big window, Mr. Mangan watched the Talaskas and quickly pulled out his cell phone before heading down the street.

  Cal looked for James, but he was out with Ms. Donegan in the food truck. The Talaskas did run into the MacGuires, who yelled, “Why, hello!” as if real heroes had just entered the diner. And there was Mrs. Moylan sitting at the counter. She shook Mr. and Mrs. T.’s hands, smiling and wishing them luck with the contest. She didn’t seem worried about supporting them now.

  A few minutes later, the Talaskas took a seat in a booth, and a waitress came to take their order. Her name tag read MELINDA.

  “We’ll have five Talaskas, please,” Cal said, counting his change on the table. “No, wait. Better make that three Talaskas, please.”

  “Talaska? What’s that?” Melinda asked in a bored voice. “I don’t think we have that.”

  Mrs. T. smiled. “We’re friends of Ms. Donegan’s,” she said. “She named a sandwich after us. It’s out on the sign.”

  Melinda leaned back to look outside. “I don’t see that, sweetie,” she said. Cal half stood so he could see the sign. And it was true—someone had wiped the name of the Talaska sandwich off the board.

  Then he saw a man walking up to their table, clapping his hands together and sending clouds of chalk dust into the air. Cal could guess whom Mr. Mangan had been calling in such a hurry.

  Mr. Wylot.

  “Hello, Nelson,” Mr. Wylot said to Cal’s dad. He was a little out of breath, like he had hustled over to the restaurant. “I see you have time for lunch, but not work.”

  “It’s Saturday—” Mr. T. started to say.

  “Oh, Nelson, I’m just joking,” Mr. Wylot said. He put his chalky hands on the table. “In fact, I’m here with good news that couldn’t wait until Monday. I’m giving you a job in the new plant we’re building on the outskirts of the Mojave Desert.”

  Cal gasped, and Imo sputtered, “What?”

  People at other tables looked their way.

  “I was inspired to make the decision by something my beautiful daughter Leslie told me,” Mr. Wylot said, and winked at Cal. “The job is scheduled to start immediately. I have a ten-year contract right here.” He took a stack of papers out of his shoulder bag and smacked them down on the table. “Nelson Talaska, this contract will keep you in accounting for the rest of your life! Isn’t that amazing?”

  Mr. Wylot spoke loudly, as if he was showing off. A few other diners clapped lamely.

  “Dad, say something,” Cal said.

  Mr. T. wouldn’t look at him. Still, something changed in his face. “Mr. Wylot, this is too much,” he said quietly. “That’s something my family and I would have to think about and such.”

  Mr. Wylot smiled down on him. “There’s nothing to think about. The job starts in three days. Until then, don’t bother coming back to the factory here. Your work in Hawkins is over.”

  Cal couldn’t take it. He asked his mom and dad, “But what about our house? James? Our other friends? The town?”

  Bug barked. Imo guessed who he was talking about. “Yes,” she said. “What about Sarah?”

  “Who’s Sarah?” Mr. Wylot asked.

  “Our babysitter,” Mrs. T. said.

  “Hmm, I know Sarah,” Mr. Wylot said. “Here’s a fun fact. Did you know her college scholarship comes from the Wylot Foundation?”

  “Wait,” Cal said. “Do you mean she might get kicked out of school if we don’t leave?”

  “I never said that!” Mr. Wylot pretended to be shocked. “Only that I control who gets money to pay for college. But let’s talk about happier things, like your big move to the Mojave Desert.”

  This was all too much. Cal was dazed. “What about the contest?”

  “What contest?” Mr. Wylot asked innocently. “Oh! You mean the Wish Shoppe Great Grab Contest? I’d forgotten all about that. I guess you’ll miss out.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Cal asked, his face burning again, but this time because he was angry.

  “Cal…,” his mom warned.

  “No, let the boy ask,” Mr. Wylot said. And he patted Cal on the head. “Do you know what a boss is?”

  “I’m eleven, sir,” Cal said.

  “Good,” Mr. Wylot said. “Then you know a boss is in charge. What would happen if the people who worked for him were suddenly beating him at contests? And everyone was watching, just as they are right now?” He gestured toward the other tables. “That wouldn’t make him the boss anymore, would it?”

  Cal got it. That was why Mr. Wylot was doing all this now at the diner. He wanted everyone in town to know he was running the show. And it was working. The faces of the few people who were still looking their way seemed to have changed. The hope Cal had seen in Mrs. Moylan’s face had faded.

  Mr. Wylot’s smile was gone, too. His eyes burned like lasers into the Talaskas. Bug growled. Then Mr. Wylot clapped and waved over the waitress.

  “Melinda, bring these folks a Wylot sandwich,” he said. “They need the best in the house. And that’s always a Wylot!”

  Cal felt like a volcano that was about to blow. He struggled not to explode as his dad drove them home to Piedmont Place.

  As the Flying Monkey pulled into the driveway, Cal saw the mailman trotting away down the sidewalk. The mailman spotted Cal and put his hands over his ears, singing “La la la” as if to block out anything Cal might say. Cal knew he was only half kidding. Cal had once persuaded him to do the chicken dance while delivering the mail.

  As the family went into the house, they found a slip on the front door that the mailman had left. It said the Talaskas had a package waiting for them at the post office. Mrs. T. shouted after the mailman, “Thanks, Henry!”

  In the kitchen, Butler and Bug had their spectacular reunion. If they were separated for more than three minutes, it was as if they’d been apart for weeks. Butler rolled on his back and wiggled, crying happily, and Bug did the same.

  Finally, Cal couldn’t keep it in anymore. “We CANNOT move to the Mojave Desert!” he blurted out. “How can that even be an option?”

  At the kitchen counter, Mrs. T. was opening the gallon of chocolate ice cream they had picked up on the way home. She took bowls out of the cupboard, but no one seemed interested in ice cream. The contract from Mr. Wylot sat in front of Mr. T. on the table, blocking the spot where Cal’s dad played his invisible keyboard.

  “You’re right, Cal, it’s not an option at this time,” Mr. T. said, flipping through the contract. “Mr. Wylot’s new factory will be a couple hundred yards from the actual desert line.”

  “Dad!” Cal shouted. How could Mr. T. joke about this? Imo was watching everything, but she wasn’t helping, either.

  “This could be an opportunity for us, Cal,” Mrs. T. said. “Life might be easier for everyone this way.”

  “But we’d still be under Mr. Wylot’s thumb, just really…hot.” Cal didn’t know what to say or where to start. What about their house? They’d have to leave it.

  Guessing what Cal was thinking, Mrs. T. said, “Yes, we’d have to leave this house and Hawkins.”

  Her face seemed to droop like she couldn’t believe what she’d just said. And the rest of the family was quiet for a minute, too.

  It was Imo who spoke first. “I’m with Cal on this one,” she said. “In my opinion, this stuff does matter. What the Wylots are doing is just way too…”

  “Unfair!” Cal cried.

  “Exactly,” Imo agreed. “It’s as unfair as when Lando Calrissian tricked Han Solo in Cloud City!”

  “Nothing’s been decided,” Mr. T. said. “I told Mr. Wylot we needed more time than he’s provided.”

  If only we had a real piano, Cal thought. His dad would be able to play, and that would let him think. He would see how bad this moving idea was. They needed the Great Grab more than ever.

  “Can’t we wait until after the c
ontest?” Cal asked.

  Mrs. T. turned away to put the ice cream in the freezer. “Cal, this is way more important than some contest.”

  “This isn’t just any contest,” Cal said.

  His dad held up his hands. “Okay, I can see how you kids feel,” he said. “I’ll wait to sign the contract as long as I can. Deal?”

  Cal knew it was probably just to get him to stop arguing, but he’d take it for now. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Later that afternoon, Cal was doing homework on his bed. Or trying to. He couldn’t keep his mind on algebra.

  Why were his parents giving up so easily? It was driving him crazy. He needed to do something. He rushed to the phone. He made three calls and sent three emails about what was going on, all to the same person—Grandma Gigi.

  Gigi was famous for being slow to respond to messages. She liked to think about what to say. Cal thought of the time he’d sent her a silly joke about a giraffe on a train. He waited for her to email back. She did. But three weeks later and with only one word: ha.

  Today, luckily, she didn’t take as long to get back to him. He checked his email and found that she had written more than one word this time. There were two.

  Cal thought of the slip the mailman had left on their front door. He jumped to his feet and ran to his bike in the garage. Imo was there, staring into space and tugging one ear. She had started to clean her wrenches but stopped. She was as distracted as he was.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “If it’s to do something about all this, count me in. People like Mrs. Moylan and Alison Mangan need us to stand up to the Wylots!”

  “All right, you can come,” he said. “But hurry.”

  She hopped on her bike, and together they pedaled down Piedmont Place.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Imo asked.

  Cal answered using the two words from Gigi’s email:

  “Post office.”

  —

  An hour later, Mr. and Mrs. T. were waiting on the front steps as Cal and Imo pedaled into the driveway. Mrs. T. had the phone in her hand and was talking to one of the neighbors.

  “They’re back, Denise,” Mrs. T. said into the phone. “Thanks. I’ll call you later.”

  “Looks like we made the wrong call,” Mr. T. said. “The Wylots didn’t kidnap them after all.”

  Cal was alarmed. “Is that what you thought?”

  “We were kidding with each other,” Mrs. T. said with a shrug. “Kind of. Anyway—” She shook her head, getting back on track. “Where were you?”

  “At the post office,” Cal said.

  “Why?” Mrs. T. asked as Butler and Bug circled Imo and Cal, bouncing up and down. “Let’s go inside and you can explain.”

  A minute later, they were settled around the kitchen table. The contract from Mr. Wylot sat at one end and they huddled at the other, like it was an animal that might bite them.

  Mrs. T. put her hands on the table. “Look, guys,” she said. “I know you’re upset about the contest and everything.”

  “But you can’t go that far without telling us,” Mr. T. chimed in. Cal knew scolding them was hard for him. He hated being the adult. “You’re creating too much fuss.”

  Imo and Cal both nodded, and Cal said, “Grandma Gigi sent us things she’s been holding on to. Things to help.”

  Mrs. T.’s eyebrows went up. “Help do what? Your grandmother doesn’t keep anything.”

  “She did,” Cal said. “She has things for both of you.” He put a cardboard box on the table. “There was a note inside saying we should give them to you now.”

  Mr. T. opened the flaps of the box. He reached inside and took out a limp piece of fabric. He peered at it. “Is that…?” he asked.

  Mrs. T.’s hand covered her mouth. “Oh,” she said softly.

  It was a faded yellow sweatband.

  “There’s a school yearbook in the box, too, Mom,” Imo said. “We looked at it. You were the best athlete at our school…in the state…in almost every single sport.”

  “That’s why you’re always looking at the old school trophies,” Cal said.

  Mrs. T. nodded. “This was my lucky sweatband. No one could stop me when I wore this.” She took the band carefully out of Mr. T.’s hand, as if she couldn’t believe it was real. She gave the faded material a little stretch. “I guess I’ve gotten a little out of shape since then.”

  Mr. T. touched her arm. “I think you’re beautiful, no matter what.”

  “Thanks, honey.” Mrs. T. wiped a tear off her cheek and stared at the sweatband.

  “Gigi kept something for you, too, Dad,” Imo said. She picked up a plastic box with his name on it and held it out to him. Through the clear lid, they could see a fancy pen.

  “That’s…that’s the pen my uncle gave me for my high school graduation,” he said. “I wasn’t going to open the box until I signed my first big music contract.”

  “What else does Gigi’s note say?” Mrs. T. asked.

  “Nothing, really,” Cal said. “Just that no one messes with this family.”

  “No one has ‘messed’ with the family,” Mr. T. said. “I wouldn’t let that be—” He stopped. His eyes took on a new spark.

  “I’m wrong,” he said. “Mr. Wylot has taken our jobs. Made our friends’ lives difficult. That family has laughed at us and stolen our sandwich. This is where it ends.”

  He opened the plastic box and took out the pen. Cal thought he looked like a future king pulling a sword from a stone.

  “Dad,” Imo said, “the ink might not work after all these years.”

  Mr. T. smiled. “One way to find out. No more doubts.”

  “Rabbo!” Butler and Bug both barked from beneath the table. They must have been there the whole time.

  Mr. T. pulled Mr. Wylot’s contract closer. He uncapped the pen and held it to the paper. He looked at them with his glasses slanted on his face. “No one messes with my family.”

  As his pen scratched across the contract, writing NO DEAL, Mrs. T. slid the sweatband onto her head. BAM! It was as if she grew a foot taller. She picked up Mr. Wylot’s contract and tore it into small bits.

  Mrs. T. looked at each of them and then said in a strong, clear voice, “We have to win this contest.”

  The rules of the Great Grab were clear.

  Mr. Vance called to make sure the Talaskas knew to be at the brand-new Wish Shoppe in seven days, at exactly nine AM. They and the Wylots would be the first visitors allowed in the Wish Shoppe. Until then, both families were to keep clear of the store, even the parking lot.

  “We don’t want anyone getting an unfair advantage,” Mr. Vance said. For some reason, the Vice President of Fun sounded less perky than usual. “You must also agree to the legal document I just emailed you. Don’t be scared of words like death by shopping cart, hopelessly marooned, or mysterious vomiting. The document is for everyone’s good and super fun!”

  Before Mr. Vance hung up, he reminded them there would be a final elimination round on the day of the contest. Only one family would be allowed to keep everything they could grab in the store.

  “How will they make the decision?” Imo wondered out loud after Mr. Vance’s call. Cal was sitting with her and their mom in the living room. Mr. T. was out back with Butler and Bug.

  “Good question,” Mrs. T. said. She had put the headband away for now and was perched in front of her computer. “These contests always have some kind of wild twist.”

  “Then we better get set for anything they can throw at us,” Cal said. “The good thing about you and Dad not having work is that we can train for the contest.”

  “That’s the only good thing,” Mrs. T. said. She glanced at the stack of bills next to her keyboard.

  “We just have to make it for another week, until the Great Grab,” Cal assured her.

  Mrs. T. didn’t seem convinced. But maybe she saw the worry on Cal’s face, because she said, “You could be right.”

  To change the subject, Mrs. T. tapp
ed her computer screen. “I did a quick search on the Wish Shoppe,” she said. “Check out this news story.”

  Cal and Imo leaned in to read it.

  Michigan Teen Lost in Wish Shoppe for Three Days

  By Park Ridgefield for the Hawkins Herald

  Alex Dante, thirteen, of Grand Rapids has been found after going missing on April 22. Alex had last been seen near the entrance of the Wish Shoppe Circles of Dreams in East Lansing, Michigan.

  “I dropped Alex off at the bridge that leads across that River of Low Prices,” his mother told this reporter. “By the time I parked the car, he was gone.”

  Alex vanished without a trace. For three days, his parents and friends searched the area around the store. All with no luck. No one guessed that Alex was actually inside the store the whole time.

  “I got lost in the Clothing Circle,” Alex said after being rescued by an equally lost eighty-five-year-old woman looking for garbanzo beans. “I wandered into the Appliance Circle. I made a tent out of a big cardboard box and drank water from a floor-sample refrigerator. My biggest wish was to get out of Wish!”

  How could a straight-A junior high school student get lost in a store for three days? Simple. All fifty Wish Shoppes are jammed with five acres of every kind of product on the planet. Shoppers complain that there is no rhyme or reason to the stores. Aisles branch out from different departments—or Circles of Dreams—and lead nowhere or spiral into dead ends.

  The founder of the stores, King Wonder, has often said, “Wishes can lead you anywhere! So our Wish Shoppes have Circles of Dreams and aisles that lead to other Circles and aisles and so on and so on and on and on and on. What’s so confusing about that?”

  Cal had read enough. “Okay, that can’t be true!” he said. “The writer’s totally making that up! We would have heard about that kid getting lost.”

  “Maybe King Wonder is covering it up,” Imo said. She leaned closer to the computer. “The rest of the article says Alex and the eighty-five-year-old got lost again. They had to be re-rescued by a toddler who stumbled into the Appliance Circle.”