by Tom Watson
Dedication
Dedicated to MEJ
(23DLISCAYG)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 It’s Counting Day
Chapter 2 We Have to Move
Chapter 3 Keep It Down, Table 5
Chapter 4 The Basement Plan
Chapter 5 Simon Is . . . Simon
Chapter 6 The Marshmallow Group
Chapter 7 Monster Truck Mega-Palooza
Chapter 8 Two Donuts, Two Bites Each
Chapter 9 The Game Begins
Chapter 10 Blue Betsy
Chapter 11 Pizza and the Final Clue
Chapter 12 A Lump in My Throat
Chapter 13 The Lump Disappears
Fun and Games!
About the Author and Illustrator
Books by Tom Watson
Copyright
About the Publisher
IT WAS THURSDAY.
That’s my counting day.
I almost picked Wednesday to be counting day because it has nine letters—the most of any day.
But nine is an odd number. And I like even numbers way more than odd numbers. That’s because with odd numbers, there’s always something left over. And who wants that?
Saturday is tied with Thursday for the next most letters—eight. That’s an even number. I had to choose between those two days.
I didn’t want counting day to be on the weekend. So Thursday is counting day.
After I woke up, I brushed my teeth with twenty-six sideway strokes and eighteen up-and-down strokes.
For breakfast, I had Froot Loops—that’s my favorite cereal. I took the green and purple ones out of my bowl. They remind me of grapes.
I counted the orange, yellow, red, and blue Froot Loops left in my bowl. There were 129. I put one back in the box before eating.
When I met my best friends, Rosie and Simon, at the end of my driveway, they knew it was counting day. They totally get me. They didn’t think it was strange when I walked to school with my head down as I counted the sidewalk squares.
Of course, I know how many sidewalk squares there are on the way to school. There are 412. I’ve counted them, like, a million times. But it never hurts to be absolutely certain.
I can still talk with Rosie and Simon while I count. It’s like one part of my brain does the counting while a different part of my brain listens and talks. The counting part is in the back part of my head, on the right side near the top. The listening and talking parts are along both sides.
I was on sidewalk square number sixty-eight when Rosie asked, “Did you guys remember your book reports?”
“I did,” Simon said and patted his backpack. “I found a book about monster trucks at the library.”
“Uh-oh,” I said and stopped on sidewalk square number seventy-two.
I knew where my book report was—and it wasn’t in my backpack.
It was on the kitchen counter. I set it there when I put my cereal bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. I had to count all the bowls and spoons inside—because, you know, it was counting day. Then I saw Simon and Rosie out the kitchen window. They were waiting for me at the end of my driveway. I ran out to meet them—and left my book report on the counter.
I crouched down to unzip my backpack.
“Did you forget it?” Simon asked.
“I think I did,” I said. I searched for a few seconds. “I definitely did.”
“We’ll go back with you,” Rosie offered.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “But will you stay on this square? It’s number seventy-two and I can just start counting again from here when I get back.”
Rosie and Simon said they would.
I ran back home—and that’s when the trouble started.
I HUSTLED HOME and went into the kitchen. My book report was right where I left it on the counter. It was all about the story of Henry Sugar, by Roald Dahl. That is one of my all-time favorite stories. I like how the main character gets his brain to be super focused on things.
I put the report in my backpack, zipped it up, and headed to the foot of the stairs. I could hear Mom and Dad talking up there.
Well, they weren’t quite talking. It was more like yelling. That’s because Mom was blow-drying her hair. So they had to yell to hear each other.
“I had to come home to get my book report!” I called up the stairs. “I forgot it!”
They didn’t respond. The blow-dryer and their own yelling was too loud for them to hear me. So I decided just to hurry back to Rosie and Simon.
But when I got to the front door I didn’t go outside. That’s because I heard Dad yell my name in a sentence.
“We’re going to need to move all Molly’s things,” he yelled.
I took my hand off the doorknob.
“What?” I said and walked back to the staircase. “Move all my things?”
“We’ll have to move our stuff too,” Mom yelled back. The blow-dryer was still going full-blast.
I cupped my hand around my ear.
“It’s got to be done,” Dad yelled. “It will be here sooner than we know it.”
I scrunched up my face and asked myself, “What are they talking about?”
“I’ll have to leave my job,” Mom said loudly.
“We’ll get by,” Dad said back just as loudly. “But it’s all going to change. We’ll all be in a different place, that’s for sure.”
“Leave her job?” I whispered and backed away from the stairs toward the front door. I opened it slowly and quietly, even though I knew there was no way they could hear me. “Different place?”
I heard one last bit of their conversation.
“How do you think Molly’s going to react when we tell her?” Mom called over the blow-dryer.
“I don’t know,” Dad called back. Then a few seconds later, he said, “We have to move.”
Oh. No. I didn’t want to move. No way. No possible way.
I squeezed the door shut—and ran back to Rosie and Simon. They waved at me from sidewalk square seventy-two. I’d have to move away from my two best friends in the whole world.
They must have seen the look on my face as I got closer. When I got to them, Rosie asked, “What’s the matter, Molly?”
“Yeah,” Simon said. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I answered. “I can’t talk about it right now. I’ll tell you at Table 5.”
I was glad it was counting day. It gave me something to concentrate on.
I stepped off square seventy-two.
I said in my brain, “Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five . . . ”
It helped—but not a lot.
OH NO! NO WAY! WHAT WILL MOLLY DO NOW?
AFTER MR. WILLOW took attendance, he explained that healthy eating would be our science subject that day. He drew a plate with four sections on the whiteboard. He gave us twenty minutes to fill in the sections with different categories of food.
“I want you to think about what you eat during a typical week,” Mr. Willow said, “and fill in the plate with those foods. Then we’ll look at a healthy eating plate and you can see how your diet compares to it.”
It was kind of a fun assignment. We got to use our colored pencils and could draw all the food too. It was also a good project because we were allowed to talk quietly at our tables as we worked.
As we started to draw our plates, Rosie asked, “So what’s happening, Molly? Something was really bothering you on the way to school.”
“Yeah,” Simon said. “We could tell.”
I didn’t want to look at my two best friends as I told them my bad news.
“Something happened when I ran back to get my book
report,” I said and hunkered down even closer to my paper. I had sectioned off one part of my food plate for protein. I wanted to draw a fish and a chicken.
Simon asked, “What happened?”
“Well, it’s not like something happened happened,” I said. I outlined my fish with a black colored pencil. “It was more like I heard something.”
“What did you hear?” Rosie asked and grabbed an orange pencil to draw carrots.
“Mom and Dad were upstairs. They were talking really loudly because Mom was blow-drying her hair,” I said. I colored my tasty fish blue and gave it some bubbles. “And I heard what they said.”
“And?” Simon asked.
I got ready to look up at Simon and Rosie for the first time since we started our food plates. I made sure my eyes weren’t too watery.
“They said,” I answered and took a deep breath of air before looking up, “that we’re going to move.”
“What?!” Rosie yell-whispered.
“You can’t!” Simon yelled. There was no whisper attached to his yell.
“Keep it down, Table 5,” Mr. Willow called from the front of the classroom.
“Are you sure?” Rosie asked. I could tell that she really hoped I was wrong.
“Totally,” I said and nodded. “They talked about moving all my stuff. And all their stuff too.”
Simon said, “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“It’s not,” I told him—even though I wished that was true. “Here’s a direct quote from my dad: ‘We have to move.’”
“This is bad,” Rosie said.
I knew she was right.
“We have to do something to stop it,” Simon said.
I knew he was right too.
I just had no idea what we could do.
ROSIE, SIMON, AND I kept our heads down while we worked on our food plates.
“Why do they want to move?” Rosie asked as she colored some green broccoli bunches.
“I think maybe Dad got a new job,” I answered. I started to draw my chicken. “I heard Mom say she would quit her job.”
“So what are we going to do?” asked Simon. I couldn’t see what he was drawing. But he squeezed a yellow colored pencil in his hand and scribbled really hard. The tip of his tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. My chicken didn’t look very good. It looked like a dog with a beak. I erased it and drew an egg instead. Then I started on my fruit section—bananas and oranges.
Rosie didn’t have any ideas. And neither did I.
But Simon did.
“We’ll just trap them,” Simon said without looking up.
Rosie and I stopped drawing and turned to look at him. He must have felt our gaze because he explained some more as he worked.
“We’ll take their favorite foods and set little bits of it on each step headed down to your basement,” Simon explained. “What are your mom’s and dad’s favorite foods?”
“Mom likes chocolate,” I answered. “And Dad likes french fries.”
“Great,” Simon said, still scribbling away. “We’ll get some french fries and chocolates and put them on your basement steps. We’ll hide and watch your parents follow their favorite foods all the way downstairs.”
“When they get to the basement, we sneak in and slam the door shut.” Simon paused. “Then we’ll lock it three or four times.”
“You want me to capture my own parents?” I asked.
“It’s not bad capturing,” Simon said, finally looking up at Rosie and me. “It’s good capturing.”
“Umm, how is it good?” Rosie asked. She couldn’t believe what Simon had suggested. Neither could I.
“We’ll give them food and stuff,” Simon explained. “Not like bread and water. Good food. Like spaghetti and meatballs and grilled cheese and Fruit Roll-Ups. And we’ll toss down comic books and other fun stuff. Like a jump rope. Or some monster truck toys!”
“Simon, how long, umm, are we going to keep Molly’s parents trapped in their own basement?” Rosie asked.
“Just until high school graduation,” Simon answered. “By then, Molly will be going to Harvard or Stanford or wherever and her parents can move anywhere they want! Bingo-bango-bongo! Problem solved!”
I didn’t know what to say. Neither did Rosie.
But, unfortunately, Mr. Willow did.
He was standing right behind Simon.
And that meant trouble at Table 5.
WE HADN’T SEEN Mr. Willow coming.
“What problem did you solve?” he asked, crossing his arms against his chest as he stared down at Simon.
“Umm,” Simon said, pausing for time. He leaned his head straight back and looked up at Mr. Willow.
“What problem did you solve?” our teacher repeated.
“Mr. Willow, can I ask you something?” Simon said, still leaning back. Rosie and I could tell he was going to try to change the subject. He knew that Mr. Willow wouldn’t appreciate us talking about anything other than our food plates.
Mr. Willow didn’t look like he wanted to hear what Simon was about to ask. But he said, “Okay, Simon. What is it?”
Then Simon said something I wouldn’t have guessed in a million-billion years.
He asked, “Did you know that you have magnificent nostrils?”
“What?” Mr. Willow asked. He didn’t ask What? because he hadn’t heard Simon. He asked What? because he couldn’t believe what had just come out of Simon’s mouth.
“Your nostrils,” Simon said. “They’re magnificent.”
Mr. Willow put his right hand on his forehead and shook his head. He wasn’t mad. He was more, like, amused. Mr. Willow was often amused by Simon. “You really think so, Simon?”
“For real,” Simon said and sat back upright. “Your nostrils are nice and circular. Pretty symmetrical. Not too hairy. Excellent specimens, I’d say.”
I stared down at my food plate as hard as I could. My eyes watered. Not from crying over the move, but from trying really hard not to laugh out loud. Rosie felt the same way. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Simon, sometimes I wonder if your brain and your mouth are connected,” Mr. Willow said and smiled.
“I know, right?” Simon said and scrunched up his shoulders. He had successfully changed the subject.
Mr. Willow came around to the front of Table 5 and said, “Let’s see how you three are doing with your food plates.”
He looked at Rosie’s first. And it was, as usual, awesome.
Mr. Willow looked at mine next.
“This looks good, Molly,” he said, handing my food plate back after examining it for a few seconds. “But your fruit section is a little empty. Let’s add one more. How about some grapes?”
“I don’t eat grapes.”
“You don’t?” Mr. Willow asked. “Are you allergic?”
“No,” I answered and explained some more. “Grapes come in bunches. And I can’t count how many are in a bunch. And I like to eat things in even numbers. So, obviously, I don’t eat grapes.”
“Right, umm, okay. That makes perfectly good sense,” Mr. Willow said. “How about an apple then?”
“No,” I answered again—and explained again. “I only eat fruit that is the same color on the inside and outside. An apple is red or green on the outside, but white on the inside. So no apples for me.”
Mr. Willow asked, “How about two cherries?”
“Okay!” I said and reached for the red colored pencil.
Then Mr. Willow picked up Simon’s food plate.
“Simon!” he exclaimed.
“What is this?!”
YOU’VE ALREADY READ 2,472 WORDS! MAGNIFICENT EFFORT!
MR. WILLOW STARED at Simon’s paper.
“It’s my plate,” Simon answered simply. “With all my foods.”
“I know what it is, Simon. I’m just trying to make sense of it,” Mr. Willow said and pointed at the paper. “For instance, what are the white things in this sect
ion?”
“That’s the marshmallow group,” Simon answered. “There are big ones and little ones.”
“And marshmallows are a big part of your diet?”
“Not a huge part,” Simon said. “I only eat them maybe once or twice a day.”
“Okay, umm,” Mr. Willow said and pointed at a different section of Simon’s food plate. “And what about these? Is this the fruit section?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“They’re not quite fruit,” Simon said. “But they’re fruit-ish.”
“Aren’t these cherries and grapes and lemons?”
“No.”
“What are they?”
“They’re Skittles,” Simon said. “That’s the Skittles group.”
I think Mr. Willow decided he was done talking with Simon. He turned away from our table and headed back to the front of class. On his way, Mr. Willow called, “Okay, everybody. Time’s up!”
Simon turned to Rosie and me. He had a disappointed look on his face. He pointed at another section of his plate and said, “Mr. Willow didn’t even ask me about this group.”
“What is it?” Rosie asked.
“It’s the Twinkies group.”
Rosie slapped her right hand across her mouth to keep from laughing. Simon’s crazy food plate had made me forget all about having to move—but not for long.
“Time to get started,” Mr. Willow said loudly. He was at the whiteboard with a bunch of colored markers. “Let’s compare your personal eating habits with a plate that reflects a healthy diet. So we’re looking at what you eat at home with your family versus a well-balanced diet.”
At home with your family.
Mr. Willow’s words got stuck in my head.
At home with your family.
“I don’t want to move,” I whispered to Rosie and Simon.
