Teeny Weenies: The Eighth Octopus

by David Lubar

  He did the same thing for the next point.

  “Hey, it’s better to go softer and get the serve in,” I said. Everyone knew that. Ellie smiled at me and nodded, but none of them said anything.

  The boys lost the first game, naturally. Maria was up next. She also hit her first serve into the net. But she eased up with the second one, and got it in. Aaron smacked it hard. It went right into the net.

  “Open up the face of your racket,” I said. I mostly said it to myself, but that would help keep the ball from hitting the net.

  Nuveen returned the next serve, hitting it hard to Maria’s backhand. She lobbed it right over Aaron, who was at the net. He backed up, jumped, and smashed it—right into the net. He walked over to pick up the ball, and slammed his racket into the net.

  “Stupid net!” he yelled. “It’s too high!”

  It’s actually too low, I thought. But I kept my mouth shut.

  After Aaron hit his next return right over the fence, he slammed his racket on the court—not hard enough to break it, but hard enough for me to wince again.

  “You’re hurting it,” I said. I was surprised by my own words. I did sort of think of the court as an old friend. But I knew it really didn’t have feelings.

  At least, I’d always thought that was true—until now.

  As Aaron walked back toward the net, the center line that divided the service boxes rose up behind him, like a rolling wave swelling across the ocean. My jaw dropped as I watched it roll forward.

  “Whoa!” Aaron screamed as the line rammed into him from behind.

  The line pushed him hard. He stumbled forward, toward the net. But the net was stretching away from him, pulling against the two end posts as it got dragged back by another part of the center line that had hooked the bottom. It reminded me of a slingshot. The center of the net had stretched all the way back to the end of the service box. The end poles leaned back, tilting the net at an angle, as if waiting for a stone. Or a boy.

  The center line rose higher, flipping Aaron into the pocket of the net.

  Aaron screamed louder as he landed upside down in a sprawl. He looked like the biggest victim to ever get caught in a spider’s web.

  There was an amazing SPROING! as the line released the net. Aaron shot through the air, tumbling and screaming. He cleared the fence easily, and sailed past the creek before he fell into a pasture. Luckily for him, he landed on a manure pile. That broke his fall.

  I looked at the three remaining kids.

  “Want to play?” Ellie asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  As I walked onto the court, I patted the net, which had returned to its normal position.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  As for whether it spoke back, that’s my little secret.

  FOODIE DREAMS

  It all started with the carrots. Dalton’s mom had given his dad a new recipe book, Dreamy Foods for the Whole Family, and the next day Dalton’s dad made Creamy Dreamy Carrot Soup.

  Dalton stared at the orange liquid in his bowl.

  “Try it,” his dad said.

  Dalton shrugged and gave the soup a try. He was relieved that it wasn’t bad.

  “Tastes pretty good,” he said.

  That night, he dreamed he walked out of his house and found a giant bright-orange carrot in his driveway. When he stepped up to the carrot, it made a sound. But not the sort of sound anyone would expect a carrot to make if a carrot could make sounds. It went VROOOOMMMMM, VROOOMMMMM!

  A door opened in the carrot. Dalton slipped inside and sat on a comfortable seat that smelled like leather. The carrot, which was looking more and more like a fast car, both inside and out, zoomed down the driveway and raced through town, screeching around corners at high speeds.

  It was a good dream.

  The next afternoon, Dalton’s parents told him they were getting a new car. They took him with them to the dealer. The car was sleek and fast looking. And it was orange, with leather seats.

  That’s a weird coincidence, Dalton thought.

  His dad didn’t use the cookbook again for several days. But then, he made Sweet as a Dream Peach Cobbler.

  It was sweet and tasty.

  Dalton dreamed again.

  Once again, the dream started with him walking outside. Instead of a carrot, he saw a peach. The peach started to bounce. It grew larger. It flew toward Dalton. He punched it when it got close to his face. He flinched, expecting to be sprayed with peach juice, but the peach bounced off his fist like a beach ball, flying through the air with an off-center spin. When it hit the ground, it turned red and white and blue. The ground turned into sand. Seagulls screeched and circled. It was a great dream. Dalton loved the beach. He chased the ball into the water and played with it as the waves crashed all around him.

  The next morning, when Dalton woke, his parents told him they’d decided to take a trip to the beach.

  That night, Dalton looked through the whole cookbook. The car and the beach trip were nice, but he really wanted a dog. He turned page after page, looking at the recipes. Finally, he found exactly what he needed: Shepherd’s Pie to Feast Your Eye. Dalton had never heard of that dish before, but when he read the list of ingredients, he saw it was made with ground beef and mashed potatoes. It sounded tasty. Best of all, Dalton’s favorite dog was a German shepherd.

  “This has to work,” he whispered. He left the book open to that recipe. And he mentioned hamburgers and french fries every time he talked with his dad.

  After three days, his dad finally said, “I think I can make something even better than burgers and fries.”

  “Really?” Dalton asked, acting his best to seem surprised.

  “I saw an interesting recipe for ground beef and mashed potatoes, all in a pie crust. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” Dalton said.

  And it was good.

  His dream that night started with him walking out his front door. His heart leaped when he saw a dog waiting there. It wasn’t a German shepherd, but that was fine. It was a beautiful dog with a black and white coat.

  “Hi,” Dalton said.

  He held his hand out for the dog to sniff. The dog ran off. Dalton chased it around the house, through the backyard, and into the field behind the house.

  The dog ran up to a man. Dalton skidded to a stop as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The man was standing in front of a flock of sheep. He was holding a long stick in one hand, and binoculars in the other.

  Dalton noticed the binoculars were pointed at him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man spoke four words that crushed Dalton’s dream—from the inside. “I’m a shepherd spy.”

  “Shepherd spy…” Dalton said. “Shepherd’s pie…”

  “Right,” the man said.

  “Can I pet your dog?” Dalton asked.

  “No. Sorry. He’s working,” the man said as the dog chased after a stray sheep.

  “Who are you spying on?” Dalton asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer already.

  “On you,” the man said.

  Dalton didn’t like the idea of being watched. “Who are you doing it for?”

  “Anyone who might be interested,” the man said. “Your parents. Your teachers. Santa. Your friends, if you do something they might not like.”

  “For how long?” Dalton asked.

  “Forever,” the man said.

  Dalton awoke to the sound of his own scream. He rolled out of bed, ran to the window, and looked at the field behind his house.

  No dog.

  No sheep.

  Dalton sighed, feeling relieved. And then a flash caught his eye, at the farthest edge of the field, like sunlight glinting off binoculars.

  “Great,” Dalton muttered. He pulled his curtains closed. But from that day on, he could never escape the feeling that someone was keeping an eye on him.

  BAIT 4 SALE

  Danny sat in the shade and watched the fisherman walk down the pat
h to the edge of the lake. When the man got close enough, Danny patted the small cooler on the ground next to him and said, “Need to buy any bait, mister?”

  “No, thanks,” the man said. He held up a Styrofoam container the size of a coffee cup. “I brought enough.”

  “Well, I’ll be here if you need more,” Danny said. He sat by a tree and watched as the man put down his tackle box and removed a wriggling night crawler from the container.

  The man flipped the bail on his spinning reel and cast his bait out, then turned toward Danny and asked, “How are they biting around here?”

  “Pretty good,” Danny said. He yawned and stretched, raising both hands high above his head, then settled back against the tree. “There are some really big fish in the lake. Honest. Last week, I saw a guy land one that must have been at least—”

  Danny was interrupted by a splash. He glanced at the lake. So did the fisherman. “Wow!” the man said, pointing toward the water. “Did you see that?”

  “Yup.” Danny gazed at a spot about fifty feet from the shore. Ripples broke the calm surface. It looked like something huge had leaped out of the water. “Might be a largemouth,” Danny told the man. “The bass get pretty big out here.”

  The man quickly reeled in his line. He brought it in so fast that the worm got pulled off. Danny watched, noticing how excited the man was as he grabbed another worm from his container and put it on the hook. The man cast too hard as he aimed for the center of the dying ripples. His hook reached the water near the spot, but his worm flew off in a different direction, dropping into the lake with a plop.

  The man muttered something and reeled in again. Danny watched. Twice more, the man cast too hard and lost his worm. Finally, he managed to reach the spot.

  “Lot of little bait stealers out there,” Danny said. He knew the lake was filled with bluegills and other sunfish that could snatch a large worm right off a hook.

  The man quickly lost four more worms as the sunfish stripped his bait. “Maybe I’ll try another spot,” he grumbled as he glared at his empty hook.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet that big fish is gone,” Danny said. He yawned and stretched again.

  The man looked over toward him. Before he could speak, there was another splash, bigger than the first. The man stared at the water for a second, then dug his fingers into his bait container. His actions grew more frantic as he pawed through the soil in the cup. Finally, he turned the cup over, dumping the contents on the ground. He knelt and sifted through the dark mound. “Hey, I’m all out. I’ll buy some of your worms,” he said to Danny. “How much?”

  “Five bucks,” Danny said.

  The man shook his head. “That’s kind of expensive.”

  “That’s up to you.” While Danny waited for the man to make up his mind, he enjoyed a leisurely yawn and stretch.

  There was another huge splash from the lake. Without saying anything more, the man took out his wallet and gave Danny the money. “Thanks,” Danny said, handing the man a package of bait from the cooler.

  The man fished for another hour, and went through three containers of worms. He never caught the big fish. Finally, he gave up. Danny watched him walk off.

  A moment later, Danny’s friend Tommy walked up to him, cutting through the bushes on the side of the lake. “How’s business?” Tommy asked.

  “Great,” Danny said, holding up a fistful of money. “That guy bought three containers.” He looked down the path. “Hey, here comes another customer.”

  “Okay, but let’s switch,” Tommy said, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand. “My arm’s getting tired.”

  “Sure,” Danny said. “You sell the bait for a while. I’ll go behind the bushes, wait for your signal, and throw the rocks in the water.” Danny whistled happily as he hurried to the hiding place. He really enjoyed the bait business.

  THE LIFE OF PIE

  My mom makes the best cherry pie.

  Whenever I get a slice, she laughs and says, “Sophia, you’d eat a whole pie if I let you.”

  I always want to laugh back and say, “I’d eat two pies!” But it’s not nice to talk when your mouth is full, and that’s how I like my mouth to be when I’m dealing with pie.

  I’m especially happy when Mom puts sour cherries in her pie. They used to be harder to find than the sweet ones, but they make an amazing pie. I say used to because we moved to a new house last winter. And I guess new isn’t the right word, since the house is really old. It was a farmhouse, long ago. They grew corn and soybeans in the fields. We know that because the farmers kept a record of their crops. But they also planted fruit trees near the house. There are apples, pears, and some peaches. All of those are great, but the tree that excited me the most was the sour-cherry tree. There’s just one, but it has a ton of fruit on it.

  I guess now it has half a ton left, because the cherries finally got ripe enough to pick. I gathered two whole buckets of them this morning. And then, my sister, Inez, and I pitted them. She loves pie as much as I do. Mom baked a pie this afternoon, using six cups of the cherries. She froze the rest, so we can have more pies all year round.

  I couldn’t wait until dinner. Mom likes to bake, but Dad likes to cook. He also likes to say, “Cooking is an art. Baking is a science.” Tonight, he made lasagna. I love his lasagna, and I usually enjoy every bite. But this time I rushed through it because I was really just waiting for dessert.

  Finally, Mom brought out the pie. She gave me a big slice. Inez got one, too. But Mom cut only two slices.

  “Where’s yours?” I asked. I know this is terrible, but I was secretly hoping Mom and Dad had decided they didn’t feel like cherry pie, which meant Inez and I would get it all. Not that we’d eat it all in one day, but leftover pie is just as wonderful as fresh pie.

  “We have to run to the store before it closes,” Mom said. “We’re almost out of milk.”

  So the folks headed out, and I headed for my slice of pie.

  As I lifted my fork, the pie said, “Don’t hurt me!”

  I jerked back in my seat and dropped my fork. My amazement was quickly replaced by suspicion. I looked at Inez. Maybe she’d been secretly learning ventriloquism.

  But Inez was staring back at me, looking so startled I knew she wasn’t acting. If she opened her mouth any wider, her nose would fall into it.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Did you?”

  “Yeah.” I picked up my fork and moved it toward the flaky crust.

  “Stop!” the pie screamed. “Or I’ll bite you back!”

  “Let’s get out of here!” Ileaped off my seat, grabbed Inez’s hand, and ran to the porch.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “Let’s just wait until Mom and Dad get back,” I said.

  “Good idea.” She hopped up on the old bench that was next to the door.

  I joined her.

  “Get off me! I can’t breathe!”

  I leaped up. So did Inez. We stared at the bench. The color of the wood and the pattern of the grain were familiar. Our old house had cabinets made of cherry wood.

  “I think it’s cherry,” I said.

  “I think we should wait in the driveway,” Inez said.

  That seemed like a good idea. There was a hoop on the garage. We shot baskets while we waited, even though neither of us felt like playing.

  When the folks got back, Mom asked, “How was the pie?”

  “Amazing…” I said. I wasn’t sure what to tell them. I didn’t think they’d believe us if we told them the pie had talked to us. But, in a moment, they’d hear it themselves.

  When we reached the kitchen, Dad said, “I wish you girls would remember to rinse your plates after you eat.”

  “But…” I stared at the table. Our plates were still there. But they were empty.

  “Tasty,” someone whispered.

  I followed the sound. And then, I had to force myself not to scream. There was a ghost in the corner. I knew it was
a ghost, because I could see all the way through him.

  Inez let out a small gasp and grabbed my arm, so I knew she saw it, too.

  I almost screamed a second time when I spotted the blood covering the ghost’s chin. Then, I realized it wasn’t blood. It was juice from the cherries. The ghost had gobbled down both pieces of pie after scaring us out of the kitchen.

  “You tricked us!” I shouted.

  The ghost shrugged.

  Mom and Dad stared at me. I guess they couldn’t see the ghost.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  And then, I had to watch my parents enjoy their slices of pie.

  “This is great,” Dad said. “But I can’t wait for the peaches to be ready. I think that’s my favorite.”

  I think it’s mine now, too. I just hope the ghost doesn’t feel the same way.

  THE LANGUAGE OF MUSIC

  Anna missed her piano. For two weeks, her parents had been dragging her all around Europe, constantly telling her that this vacation was a wonderful experience and the trip of a lifetime. Worse, her brother, Orville, seemed to think he was some sort of language expert. Wherever they went, Orville kept getting them lost by misunderstanding directions and signs. He’d gotten them lost in Spain, France, and Portugal, so far. Now, he was in the process of getting them lost in Italy. To top it off, every chance he had, he made fun of her for not knowing any foreign languages.