Worse Than Weird

by Jody J. Little

  This is something Hank and Coral would be doing.

  I back away from the garbage when the unbelievable happens again.

  He happens again.

  Joey Marino.

  He’s suddenly standing next to the homeless man. He must be the person the dog’s barking at. Joey reaches his hand toward the dog’s nose, his palm down. The dog sniffs and stops barking. Joey crouches down and hands something to the man. It’s something in a wrapper, like a granola bar, and then he yanks off his backpack and pulls out . . . his phone. He holds it out next to the homeless man. They stare at the phone together. I can’t see their expressions.

  This is the second time I’ve seen Joey talking with homeless people.

  What is up with him?

  What is he sharing on his phone with them?

  What are they talking about?

  I shake my head because why does it matter?

  I make my way back to Greg’s Grilled Cheese. Shaggy and Scarface are nowhere in sight.

  I almost curse aloud.

  I’ve lost a possible lead to a clue.

  And it’s all Joey Marino’s fault.

  Chapter Twelve

  Willa’s House

  “Poppy, be nice.” I turn my palm down in front of Hank’s newest chicken the next morning.

  “I’m going to reach underneath you and grab . . . OUCH!” I jerk my hand back and shake it vigorously. “You just skewered me with your beak!” A bead of blood appears on the lower knuckle of my thumb.

  “Fine. Keep your egg. Good luck getting it to hatch.” And then under my breath, I say, “Stupid fowl.”

  I return to the kitchen to rinse my stab wound in the sink, when Coral saunters in completely topless.

  “Coral! Can you put a shirt on already?” I blurt.

  “Oh, MacKenna, I’m going outside to get one.” She waves her hand at me. “I forgot to bring my laundry in from the line last night.” She walks straight out to the backyard, skin glowing in the morning sun.

  My little flipper vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Willa: I can help hunt today. Meet at my house at 10:30.

  This is fantastic news. Yesterday was a complete bust, and now there are only seven days to find eight clues, and we’re no closer to solving the second riddle.

  I’m rummaging through the pantry to find one of Coral’s homemade granola bars when she comes back inside, pulling a T-shirt over her head.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Coral asks.

  “I’m meeting Willa at her house. Food cart research, remember?”

  “Oh, of course.” She kisses my cheek. “Well, don’t be too late, honey. Hank and Coho will need help with the fence this afternoon! Tomorrow’s the big reveal day.”

  I don’t ask what she means. I don’t want to know.

  I briskly walk the half mile or so to Willa’s house, my stomach growling. Maybe Willa’s mom will make me some waffles. One day, when I’m a computer programmer, I’ll own a home like Willa’s. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, remodeled kitchen, large-screen TV in the family room. There’ll be no hens in the garage, only cars, maybe two. There’ll be a sprinkler system to keep the lawn green, ceramic pots filled with flowers bought from the grocery store nursery, and absolutely no plants surrounded with smelly organic compost.

  I step onto the porch and ring the doorbell. Several moments later, Willa’s mom answers. Her face is blotchy, and her eyes are red and watery.

  “Oh, Mac. I think Willa should be home soon.” She wipes her eyes and doesn’t invite me inside like usual. “How about you wait on the porch.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Willa’s mom manages to half smile before closing the door. I sit on the porch swing. Weird. I thought Willa was home. Where is she? What’s wrong with her mom?

  A few moments later, a seafoam-green sedan pulls into the driveway. It’s Willa’s dad. Willa and her sister, Becca, hop out of the car. They both have their backpacks, which is sort of odd. Willa’s dad waves at them from his open window, then he backs out of the driveway and takes off.

  Becca bops onto the front porch and gives me a fist bump and a hip bump. “Hi, Mac.” She pushes the front door open and goes inside. “Mom!”

  “Hey.” Willa drops her backpack on the porch.

  “Hey, yourself.” I want to ask what’s going on, where she’s been, what’s wrong with her mom, but Brie arrives before the questions can pour from my lips.

  Willa smiles when she sees Brie. “How’d you do?”

  “First in the two hundred ’fly, second in the two hundred individual medley, and we won the four hundred medley relay,” Brie recites. She smiles at us, but it looks fake. She doesn’t seem happy with her results.

  “That brings out the swim moves in me!” Willa backstrokes her arms and swivels her hips. Her blond curls flow side to side.

  “What about you? Did you get another clue yesterday?” Willa plops down on the swing next to me.

  “Hardly.” I proceed to tell them about going to the Division Street carts, about seeing Shaggy and Scarface and then losing them before I could see what they ordered at Greg’s Grilled Cheese.

  “Jack cheese, huh?” Brie says. “Maybe we should go there and get some sandwiches and see what happens.”

  “I thought about that, but we need to be certain, so we don’t waste money.”

  “True,” Brie says.

  “I also saw Joey again. He was talking to a homeless man, showing the man something on his phone.”

  “What’s with him and all the homeless friends?” Willa asks.

  “Maybe he volunteers at a shelter or soup kitchen or something,” Brie says. “It wouldn’t surprise me, especially now that we know he did all that stuff at school.”

  “Hey!” Willa jumps off the swing and claps her hands. “Forget about Joey. Are we solving this clue today?”

  “I only have until two,” Brie answers. “I had to beg my parents to let me out of the house this morning. They wanted me to stay home and rest and ice my shoulder.”

  “What’s wrong with your fin?” Willa asks. We watch Brie slowly roll her right shoulder forward and back.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a little sore,” she says. “It’ll be fine. I have a light workout this evening.”

  Willa snaps her fingers. “Hey, my dad eats at this burrito cart downtown. It’s probably not the cart we need, but we could head down there and do some clue hunting.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “Let’s do a treasure hunt dance before we go, some ballet, I think.” Willa gets off the swing, raises herself onto her toes, and reaches her hands over her head. “Be careful with your shoulder, Brie. Come on, Mac, on your tippy-toes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Alder Street Carts

  Willa convinces her mom to give us a ride downtown. She drops us off at the corner of Alder and 4th Avenue. We walk down the sidewalk, weaving between all the people waiting in line for their cart fare of the day. There are colorful trailers around the entire city block, smashed together so tightly, you can barely fit a pencil through the gaps.

  I smell spicy curry. Five steps later, I inhale the sugary molasses scent of barbecue. Five more steps and it’s sizzling bacon. I could eat at these carts every single day of my life if I had the money. No more kale and homemade granola for me.

  We pass a Japanese cart and I stop. Standing there, glancing at the menu, are Shaggy and Scarface.

  “That’s them!” I say quietly to Willa and Brie. “The two I told you about. They’re in this hunt.”

  “I hope that’s not a cart we need. I don’t like sushi,” Willa said.

  “I love it,” Brie admits, “but I don’t think that’s the right cart for our clue. Maybe for a future clue?”

  “Maybe.” I make a mental note of the cart name, Sho’s Sushi. I’ll be sure to add it to my notes.

  “Should we follow them?” Willa asks.

  I shake my head. “Don’t let them see us. They might recogni
ze me. We’re safer keeping a distance.”

  “Hey,” Willa says, “look at that couple by the slider place. They’re looking at a napkin. I bet it’s a clue.”

  “How many people do you think know about this hunt?” Brie asks.

  “More than I’d like there to be. Come on, let’s get closer,” I say. “Maybe they just got the clue at that slider cart.”

  We creep through the sidewalk crowd toward the napkin couple.

  “I could totally snatch it from them,” Willa whispers. “I could just skip up to them, stumble, and bump right into them.”

  “That’s cheating, Willa,” Brie says.

  I know Brie’s right, but it’s still tempting to see that napkin.

  We linger near the couple until the woman tucks the napkin into her purse.

  I sigh and gaze at the menu at the slider cart. Nothing stands out to me. There’s no mention of whiskey, or pads, or anything that seems like it would relate to the second clue. I’ve been working on this riddle for over forty-eight hours now. I really need to solve it today to stay on my timeline.

  “‘Put a tag in early, then pull up a pad,’” I recite. “I can’t decode that line.” I turn around and kick a nearby garbage can.

  “Relax, Mac,” Brie says. “Let’s keep checking out these carts. There’s a lot of them.”

  We pass a pasta cart, scan the menu, and quickly rule it out. Next is a juice cart. That isn’t right either. I completely lose track of Shaggy and Scarface and the napkin team, which probably means that there’s no clue at any of these carts. I check my watch. The clock is ticking. Our chances at solving this clue are dwindling.

  The last cart on the block is a place called Oasis. It has a clear plastic awning with a hanging lantern. Willa, Brie, and I step closer and check out the menu. Instead of a board listing their menu, this place has colored photos for every dish served. The smell lures me, the garlic, the onions and tomatoes.

  “Look.” Brie points to a very small wooden deck attached to the side of the cart. “They don’t have a table, but they have pillows to sit on.”

  And sure enough, about four people are sitting on cushions right on the tiny patio.

  “Maybe those are the pads from the clue,” Willa says.

  I feel my eye sockets bulge. “Willa! Yes!” And then in a softer voice, I say, “‘Pull up a pad.’ This could be it. Let’s look at those pictures again.”

  We move back under the awning to study the food pictures. Willa reads aloud and points at each one. “Moroccan couscous, Casablanca cheesesteak sandwich.” She pauses. “Oh, that sounds amazing.”

  Brie takes over reading the menu. “Seafood paella, kefta tagine, Moroccan lamb sandwich—”

  “Stop. Look.” I reach toward the photo of the kefta tagine and put my finger right on the title. “I think this is it!”

  “What?” Willa says. “How do you know?”

  “It’s the word tagine. It’s in our clue.” I reach into my shoulder bag and pull out the cup sleeve from my hunt folder. “Put a tag in early. Do you see it?”

  I must be talking loudly because a few heads nearby turn, and Brie hushes me with a finger to her lips. I point again to the word and mouth, “Tag, in, and the e in early.”

  Willa and Brie stare at the word and then at me, grins growing on their faces.

  “You are a riddle superstar, Mac! Those clue tricksters don’t fool you,” Willa says. “Let’s go order.”

  “Wait. Let me borrow your phone,” I say.

  Willa powers it up and hands it over to me, and I do a quick search of Morocco and whiskey. “Listen to this.” I’m smiling as I read aloud from the article I’ve found. “‘Mint tea is everywhere in Morocco. It’s commonly referred to as Moroccan whiskey.’”

  “Genius!” Willa pumps her fist. We all high-five once and then step in line to order.

  “I’ll have a Kefta Tagine,” I say, likely pronouncing it wrong. I note the cost: eight dollars.

  “And a mint tea,” Brie pipes in.

  That’s two more dollars. Three dollars and thirty-three cents for each of us.

  “And a Casablanca cheesesteak sandwich!” Willa shouts.

  “What? That’s an extra nine dollars.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s on me. I can’t resist.” She does a quick pirouette.

  I pull out my notes and write down the food costs, subtracting it from my savings. The woman in the Oasis trailer looks annoyed when I lay out all my coins on the counter, but she sweeps them into her palm along with Willa’s and Brie’s bills. After a few minutes of waiting, the woman hands us a cup of steaming tea, a paper tray with Willa’s cheesesteak sandwich, and finally a pie tin filled with stew-like deliciousness of meatballs, tomatoes, olives, eggs, and cheeses. The cushions on the little wooden patio are open now, so we all pull up a pad and sit down, setting the food between us.

  I gently pull out the napkin from under the tin of kefta tagine. It has writing on it:

  Does your head ache, or is it your feet?

  The sunshine tropics will be felt in your seat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Where Cold Drinks Are Needed

  Thirty minutes ago, I was kicking garbage cans and seriously considering swiping clues out of others’ hands. But now, we have three clues, and I feel like screaming Victory!

  “I know this!” I jump off the pad. “I’ve already solved this clue.”

  “What?” Brie says.

  “You guys, this is the smoothie cart. You know, the man who pedals around town, and then he stops, and you can get on his bike and blend your own smoothie?”

  Brie gasps. “Pedal with your feet. Feel it in your seat.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Willa grabs the napkin from me and reads it carefully. “How do you feel sunshine tropics in your seat? That sounds uncomfortable.”

  “I think Sunshine Tropics is the name of the smoothie we order.” I throw my arms in the air. “Willa, we should be doing your hunt dance! I can’t believe this. It’s almost too easy. And guess what?” I don’t wait for their responses. “I saw this guy when we passed Pioneer Courthouse Square on our way here. He was set up right on the bricks. That’s like five blocks away.”

  I stoop down and grab the tagine pie tin to throw it away. I’m ready to roll. There’s another clue within our grasp, and finding it will put us right back on track. I give myself a moment to imagine what I might create at coding camp, maybe a food cart app. One that helps you locate just the right cart in the city, depending on your hunger and location.

  But then Brie shrieks. “You guys! It’s almost one. I have to be home by two.” She pulls out her phone. “My mom is going to freak. I thought we’d be back on the east side by now.”

  “I’ll call my mom,” Willa says, handing me back the napkin with the clue. “She’ll come get us.”

  “Wait,” I say. “The square is so close. We could have another clue in about thirty minutes. I really saw this smoothie cart.”

  But my friends don’t seem to be listening or sharing any of the excitement that this clue has brought me. Can’t they see my skin is practically splitting open?

  Brie fidgets. She rubs her shoulder. She checks her phone for messages.

  Willa texts her mom. I know she’ll come. She always does.

  My team is abandoning me.

  Like yesterday.

  I’ll have to move forward on my own.

  Like yesterday.

  Willa and Brie catch their ride, and I walk alone to Pioneer Courthouse Square, a big city block lined with red brick. Kids, musicians, and homeless people stroll around the square, and I think of Joey Marino, wondering if he’s here, looking for clues like me. I search the bricks, combing the groups of people, but I don’t see Joey anywhere.

  The bigger problem is that I don’t see the smoothie guy either.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself, trying to sound soothing like Brie. Everything’s okay. That’s what Willa would say.

  I make m
y way around the square, past the Starbucks, the benches, the MAX train stops. I look across the streets, and head back to the corner where I was certain the smoothie guy was set up earlier.

  Where did he go? Did I just imagine seeing him?

  I spy an old city worker sweeping sidewalk trash. His wrinkly hands hold the push broom tightly, and his back has a permanent hump, probably from all the years of leaning over.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I approach him. “I’m looking for a little food cart. It’s a guy with a bicycle and very small trailer. He sells smoothies?”

  The old man looks at me, and then peers up the block to where I stood just a few seconds ago. “He’s already gone.” The man’s voice crackles.

  “What do you mean he’s already gone?”

  “Well,” the old man says, leaning on his broom. “He’s here one moment, gone the next. Can’t count on those moving carts to stay in one place for too long.”

  “Where would he have gone?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t begin to tell you.” The old man pauses. “I suppose he goes wherever the cold drinks are needed.” Then he stoops over and continues his sidewalk sweeping.

  Wherever the cold drinks are needed.

  That doesn’t exactly narrow things down.

  I make a mental list of such places: parks, swimming pools, baseball and soccer fields, tracks . . .

  I happen to know from Coral that there are over two hundred parks in the city of Portland, nestled in neighborhoods in every section of town. Some stretch for endless, grassy, cool-drink-needing miles.

  I plop down on a bench and let out a deep exhale.

  This search is more challenging than any robotics project or computer code I’ve ever tried writing. Just when I think I’m getting close and putting all the steps in the right order, the program stops and a message pops up: LOGIC ERROR.

  This will take more troubleshooting than I’ve ever done before.

  Girls Are Supercoders.

  Right now, that poster’s a lie, at least when it comes to me.

  I need better powers, and I’m not sure how to get them.

  Chapter Fifteen