“Blast off!” shouted the ones still standing.
Martin’s rocket exploded just like Alex’s, jet packs and all.
The Badgers slowly got to their feet. Dazed, Head Badger Bob scratched his head. He stared at the charred smudges on the launchpad that had once been two splendid rockets.
“I’d say that’s enough for today,” said Martin’s dad in a firm voice. He patted Martin on the back before marching over to Head Badger Bob for a few words.
The troop cheered and broke into a game of tag. Alex did not join in. He sat down by the launchpad. Martin sat beside him. For a while they plucked at the grass and said nothing. At last Martin spoke.
“I guess extra-big fuel cells beat jet packs and flames any day.” He was beginning to think the whole thing a bit funny. There was more silence and then …
“Ka-boom!” shouted Alex, throwing up his arms like Stuart.
They turned to each other and burst out laughing.
“Say, Martin,” said Alex when he recovered. “Maybe you could paint a picture of our rockets. You know, before they blew up and everything.”
“Great idea,” said Martin, giving Alex a playful punch on the shoulder.
Martin could already see what he would paint. Two glorious rockets soaring side by side into an unknown galaxy. One would have flames. The other would have jet packs. And his picture would be so good, he just knew it would be chosen for the display case.
Martin sprang to his feet, then pulled Alex up with the strength of ten superheroes.
“Let’s join the troop!” Alex said, and he punched Martin back.
Together they crossed the field, stepping over exploded bits and pieces without having to say another word.
Zip Rideout would be jealous. Sure, he knew how to fix rockets. But Martin had figured out how to fix friendship.
And friendship beats rockets any day.
An Excerpt from The Lobster Chronicles
Floater Number Four
“I’ll dangle Lynnette by her ankles off the gunwale,” Graeme Swinimer swore to himself when he discovered a mummichog floating sideways in his plastic saltwater tub.
Its lifeless, speckled body bobbed above the sand dollars, periwinkles, brittle sea stars, urchins and a rock crab, all part of his marine life collection.
Lynnette was always feeding her food to his fish. What else could explain the soggy banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches, crusts cut off, hanging in the water?
A dead giveaway.
And this was the fourth floater since the start of the spring lobster season!
Graeme sighed. Ankle dangling would have to wait, because his little sister was at the playground with her buddies from the after-school program. He could hear their screams of glee way off in the distance, along with the putta-putta sound of Homarus II, his dad’s mint-green Cape Islander, motoring home for the day.
Graeme cast about his room for the fishnet. He checked underneath his aquarium magazine, Cold Marine Tanks. He skirted past his posters of sharks, whales and sea turtles and scanned the top of his sock-and-underwear dresser. He turned to the other side of his room, which featured a large plaque of sailors’ knots mounted next to his closet door.
Aha! There it was, hooked on the knob. He remembered that he had hung the net to dry after scooping out Floater Number Three just last week.
Graeme strode across his bedroom’s round braided rug to retrieve the net. Then he dipped it into the saltwater tub to recover the limp fish.
Down the hall he plodded — drip, drip, drip — into the yellow bathroom with the wicker clothes hamper that faintly whiffed of lobster and diesel. Graeme stopped in front of the toilet. Plop went the fish. Whoosh went the bowl. Then, as payback, he grabbed Lynnette’s hairbrush and plunged it deep into the smelly hamper.
Graeme returned to the scene of the crime and wrote up the incident in his scientific journal. He included the usual details: the date, the type of marine animal, the probable cause of death.
Entry completed, he closed his notes, then gazed into the saltwater tub to observe the remainder of the school of mummichogs frolicking between barnacle-covered rocks, apparently unaware of the recent decrease to their number.
“Graeme’s going to be a marine biologist,” his dad boasted regularly at the government wharf next to the Lucky Catch Cannery where he unloaded his lobsters.
A longtime widower, Mr. Swinimer was determined that Graeme follow his dream, despite the challenges of having to raise him and Lynnette alone.
“Can’t wait!” Graeme always added, riding the wave of his dad’s enthusiasm.
The other fishermen would reply by thumping his back good-naturedly with their sausage-fingered hands.
“It’ll be nice to finally have a local scientist who knows what’s what around here!” they would say.
Fishermen often argued with come-from-away biologists about the state of the lobster stock in Lower Narrow Spit. But they argued even more with the owner of the town’s only cannery about the price for their daily catch.
From the open window above his desk, Graeme heard that the putta-putta had slowed down to a dull throb. His dad was maneuvering around the shoals at the entrance to their harbor.
“The sea is as big as the all outdoors,” his dad liked to remind Graeme, “but you best mind the rocks in the bay.”
Graeme understood what that meant. Even though his dad supported his career choice, he also believed that Graeme should know everything about home port before safely venturing farther away.
Which was true.
Except that Graeme had run out of fresh discoveries. He even knew exactly how many steps it took to get from their white-shingled house to the government wharf where he collected his specimens to study.
For Graeme, the unexplored sea beckoned.
The reverberation of the engine changed again, and Graeme realized that his dad must be getting close to the wharf by now, preparing to throw the lines. When he heard that his dad had cut the engine, Graeme got a move on. He raced past the bathroom and down the stairs, but froze when he heard a knock at the front screen door. A bothersome voice he recognized called out from the covered porch.
“Graeme! You home?”
“Geez Louise,” Graeme muttered when he saw who it was.
“Hi, Norris,” Graeme said flatly, talking through the screen door, arms crossed. “I was just leaving to meet my dad.”
Norris was Graeme’s least-favorite classmate. Unlike the rest of the school, Norris loved dodgeball, and he hammered slow-moving players every chance he got. Norris was always telling everybody what he thought, even when no one asked. He had the annoying habit of jingling coins in his pocket whenever he started to argue, which was all the time. And Norris was the only boy Graeme knew who had the audacity to use the front door rather than the one off the kitchen mudroom.
Norris stared at Graeme with his close-set eyes and smiled with his mouthful of shiny braces. He held a large cardboard box stamped with Lucky Catch Cannery’s logo.
Norris’s dad was the Lucky Catch’s owner, so the logo was a smug reminder of their family’s uncommon wealth.
“Know what I’ve got?” asked Norris in his weasel voice.
Graeme could not help noticing that Norris had covered his huge forehead with his Big Fish ball cap, a souvenir from one of the biggest aquariums in the world. Norris’s family always spent their vacations far away from the campgrounds surrounding Lower Narrow Spit.
Graeme grudgingly pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, careful not to disturb Fetch, his family’s gray-muzzled beagle, who spent most of the time impersonating a rug.
Norris set down the box and opened the lid. He reached inside and lifted out a patchy-patterned kitten; one ear black, the other white. The kitten wiggled and struggled about with pitiful mews while Fetch observed the fuss by momentarily lift
ing his head.
“No wonder you’re scratched up,” observed Graeme, noting that Norris’s arms were covered in angry red marks. “You’re holding her all wrong. Here. Let me.”
He retrieved the kitten from Norris and showed him how to cradle her properly. The kitten immediately burrowed into Graeme’s chest and began to purr.
“Would you look at that!” Norris said. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “Think you could help me solve an even bigger problem?”
“Depends,” said Graeme. He was only half listening, because the kitten was now licking his neck with her pink sandpaper tongue.
“I’m in big trouble,” said Norris. “One of Ms. Penfield’s cacti is missing.”
Graeme looked up. Ms. Penfield was his favorite teacher, and for reasons known only to her, she had assigned Norris, of all students, to take care of her prized plant collection at school while she was off having a baby.
“Missing?” asked Graeme. “Which one?”
“The one with the orange flower on top,” said Norris. “I was on the swings after school today, and then I remembered I had to water the plants. So I came back in, only the cactus wasn’t there anymore.”
“Ms. Penfield told me that one took years to flower,” Graeme said. It was a fact that he had made a note of in his scientific journal.
“All I know is that she was planning on entering it at the lobster festival’s plant show,” Norris lamented. “And now it’s gone!”
“Well, there’s got to be a logical explanation,” said Graeme, rubbing the kitten against his cheek.
Graeme prided himself on applying scientific rules and deductions whenever possible.
“You know what I think,” said Norris. It was not a question. “I think someone has stolen that cactus. Someone who doesn’t like me.”
Norris dug into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Graeme to open.
“Here’s my list of suspects.”
Fluke
Graeme read the unrealistically short list written in Norris’s scrawl. He recognized all the names, even though some were spelled wrong. The kitten tried to bat the list away.
“Why isn’t Lynnette on your list?” Graeme asked.
“Lynnette doesn’t like me?” Norris replied.
“Not even a little,” said Graeme.
“What’s her problem?” asked Norris. He began to jingle the coins in his pocket.
“You keep pulling her hat down over her eyes whenever you walk by.”
“You do that, too!”
“I’m her brother.”
“Oh.” And then, “So, are you going to help me, or what?”
Jingle, jingle.
“No,” said Graeme, handing the list back to Norris with the certainty of the returning tide.
Spending time with Norris would be like pulling up empty lobster traps during the height of the season: a disappointing effort, and unrewarding besides.
“Fine,” said Norris with tight lips across his braces. “It’s no skin off my nose.”
He snatched the kitten from Graeme and stuffed her back in the box. At the same time, there were hollers and cheers down at the government wharf. Both boys stopped to look from the porch railing. An unusually large crowd had gathered by Homarus II.
“I wonder what’s rattling their socks?” asked Norris in a condescending tone.
“I better get going,” said Graeme.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got things to do, too,” said Norris, not to be outdone.
But by the time Norris picked up his box, Graeme had taken full advantage of the distraction and given Norris the slip.
Upon arriving at the government dock, Graeme listened to snippets of conversations as he wove between Goliath-sized fishermen in their black rubber overalls.
“Never seen the likes of it!”
“Must be at least fifty years old!”
“McDermit caught a corker like that in his day!”
Graeme worked his way to the end of the dock. Other brightly painted lobster boats were still motoring in, screeching seagulls in close pursuit, but Homarus II was already tied snugly to the wharf’s cleats with rope wound in tidy figure eights.
“Hey, Dad!” Graeme called.
His dad, alone on the stern, looked up at Graeme. His crewman, Dexter, was not on board. The air hummed with fish bait.
“Where’s Dexter?” Graeme asked, but as soon as his words were out, he gasped.
Hunkered down on the floorboards at his dad’s feet was an absolutely gargantuan lobster. It was practically the size of Fetch, and its antennae, which looked like bicycle spokes, were swinging zigzags in the sea breeze.
“You caught that?!” Graeme asked above the rising din.
“You bet!” said his dad, a proud grin on his face. “Dexter had to go to the dentist today, but I took a run to check the lines anyway. This one got its claw caught trying to grab an easy dinner from one of the traps. Come aboard and have a closer look.”
Graeme scrambled down the wharf’s ladder and hopped onto the boat. He made his way to the stern.
“Geez Louise!” exclaimed Graeme, getting down on one knee for closer inspection, but being careful not to get too close. “Look at the size of those claws!”
Out of the water, the giant lobster could barely move under its massive weight, but its armored claws, too big for elastic bands, were bound by electrical tape, just to be safe.
The behemoth stared at Graeme with its black-bead eyes, an incredible specimen indeed!
“It’d make a great trophy for your shed,” said Graeme.
In addition to occasionally capturing creatures other than lobsters in his traps — tunicates, sea cucumbers and, once, a very small flounder, which he gave to Graeme for his saltwater tub — Graeme’s dad also filled a shed in the backyard with curious treasures he had dragged up over the years: old, round-bottomed bottles and fragments of china; anchors from pirate ships and a pewter galley spoon with chew marks; an old lead sounding and cannon balls from battles long ago. There was even a fine-toothed comb made out of bone, which Graeme’s dad told him old-time sailors used to comb out lice.
A mounted giant lobster would be a nice addition to his collection.
“Fancy catching this in our very own bay,” his dad mused.
“It’s got to be a fluke,” said Graeme, quickly dismissing the idea that there could be anything left of interest in the water so close to his home.
He stood to look beyond the harbor’s raggedy entrance to the open choppy sea. Someday, he would be diving out there, exploring the ocean’s uncharted floor where he was certain the mysterious giant lobster had wandered in from.
Graeme’s dad silently followed his gaze.
“Say, Swinimer! What’s that you’ve got?” a nasal voice called down from the wharf.
Graeme and his dad looked up. It was pasty Edward Fowler, Norris’s dad and the cannery’s owner. He was wearing a double-breasted suit bought from Dads and Lads, the fanciest men’s clothing store in town. His anchor-patterned silk tie had been flipped over his shoulder by the sea breeze. He had narrow-set eyes, just like Norris.
“That’s a lobster, Ed,” joked one of the fishermen on the wharf. “I guess you’re only used to seeing the canned ones on your Sunday picnics.”
Graeme understood the jab. Unlike the owner of a cannery, fishermen could never afford to take time off during lobster season.
The other men laughed at the ribbing, but Edward Fowler persisted.
“That’d make a fine trophy for the cannery,” he observed, his eyes firmly fixed on the monster lobster.
“The cannery!” another fisherman scoffed. “Are you kidding?! Once reporters get wind of this story, I bet there’ll be hundreds of offers from all over for this lobster!”
The crowd
rumbled in agreement. Edward Fowler shoved his fists in his pockets and jingled the coins inside.
“That lobster should stay in Lower Narrow Spit,” he argued, eyes still on the prize. “And I’m prepared to pay to keep it here.”
Graeme’s dad turned to the cannery owner, the front of his overalls shimmering with loose fish scales from cutting up the day’s bait.
“Tell you what,” he announced to the throng of gawkers as he laid his callused hand on Graeme’s shoulder. “I think I’ll put today’s catch up for auction at the lobster festival.” He turned to Graeme. “And if I get the highest bid of the evening, I’ll spend the prize money by taking my young marine biologist here on a little trip. Maybe to Big Fish Aquarium?”
“Big Fish Aquarium!” Graeme repeated in delight.
Graeme knew that each year, whoever donated the item that attracted the highest bid at the auction would win prize money totaling more than enough for a trip to Big Fish. Then, to add to his excitement, he realized that the town’s annual lobster festival was just over a week away!
Norris’s dad turned on his heels and stormed back to the cannery. But Graeme’s dad still had to tally the day’s catch, so Graeme headed home on his own after hosing down the boat. He bounded up the front stairs, two at a time. Once he got to the covered porch to give Fetch a pat, Graeme stopped short.
Would the giant lobster really attract the top bid so that his dad could claim the prize money? Last year, the builder of a homemade dory received the award after a stunning bidding war took place over his masterpiece.
Graeme stood at the railing and surveyed the town below, where the festival would soon take place. It was quiet now. The only person he could see was Ferguson, another classmate, walking at a mortician’s pace along the main street that wove past Graeme’s house, with a bat-shaped kite draped over his shoulder.
Graeme was about to call out to Ferguson, but then he spotted someone else on Main Street. It was Norris, working his way back up to Graeme’s front porch.
Martin Bridge: Ready for Takeoff! Page 4
