Another Whole Nother Story Page 5

  It would take twelve years for Mr. 5 to think of the perfect plan, which involved saving up broccoli from the prison cafeteria and using it to disguise himself as a bush so he could sneak out.

  When his absence was detected by the prison guards, they turned the dogs loose to sniff him out. However, because there hadn’t been an escape from the prison in many years, the dogs were very much out of practice and simply began sniffing one another.

  “I think I know where he’s hiding,” said one of the least intelligent of the guards.

  But Mr. Milton Cornelius Flowers had vanished, and no one knew where he was hiding because, as it turns out, he was very good at doing just that. He changed his name, altered his appearance with a fashionable goatee and a convincing toupee, then slipped into a state of extreme disappearedness.

  It was not long after that fate intervened when the criminal formerly known as Mr. 5 had a chance meeting with a brilliant scientist and former faculty member at Southwestern North Dakota State University by the name of Professor Acorn Boxley. As luck would have it (bad luck for Ethan Cheeseman), the professor just happened to be in need of an assistant to aid him in his work on a most important device based on the theories and early designs of another scientist and former student. A device the professor called the LVR-ZX and that Gateman called a perfect opportunity for revenge.

  Now, you might think it a terrible coincidence that these two should meet up at a group therapy session for people who bite their toenails. I couldn’t agree more. Yet there are those who will tell you that there is no such thing as coincidence and that everything happens for a reason. What these people don’t tell you is that it’s not always for a good reason. Sometimes things happen for a bad reason, and in this case, for a very bad one indeed.

  Professor Boxley looked around the thick forest, nervously biting his fingernails. Gateman Nametag, a.k.a. Mr. 5, drew in a deep breath and promptly emitted a loud, wet sneeze.

  “Please cover your mouth,” said Professor Boxley, placing his hand over his own mouth to keep out any airborne germs.

  “I can’t help it,” said Gateman, trying very hard to sneeze again but finding himself stuck halfway between sneezing and not sneezing. When someone sneezes, it is common practice for people to say “God bless you,” “Gesundheit,” or “For heaven’s sake, cover your mouth.” However, when a person is stuck in the awful in-between of having to sneeze but not being able to, people say nothing. They just stare at you with annoyance, as Professor Boxley was now staring at Gateman Nametag.

  “I seem to be allergic to whatever that terrible smell is,” said Gateman when the urge to sneeze had finally subsided.

  “What terrible smell?”

  “The air,” said Gateman. “It smells … different.”

  “That’s called oxygen,” said Professor Boxley. “Fresh air. No cars, no buses, no factories; just pure, clean oxygen.”

  “Well, I like my oxygen with a little smog mixed in.” Gateman sneezed again, this time remembering to cover his mouth. Instinctively, he wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his jacket and was immediately reminded that it was lined with brass buttons, making the experience a bit like driving his face over a series of speed bumps.

  “Ouch! Blasted buttons. And these shoes are absolutely killing my feet,” he said. “Why on earth do we have to dress like this anyway? We look ridiculous.”

  “I told you, it’s important that we blend in with the people of the time so as not arouse suspicion. Now quit being such a ninny.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Gateman. “So what do we do now?”

  “What do we do?” said Professor Boxley. “Why, we find the Cheesemans, of course. We find them and rescue them as planned.”

  “And how do we find them?”

  “By taking whatever means necessary.” Professor Boxley reached beneath his jacket and removed an old rolled-up magazine and unfurled it. The magazine was called Science Today and its cover featured a picture of a young, smiling Ethan Cheeseman taken during his college days at Southwestern North Dakota State University, where he was given the coveted Scientist of Tomorrow award for creating a fertilizer that made brussels sprouts grow to the size of cabbages and cherry tomatoes grow to the size of regular tomatoes. Professor Boxley gazed upon the photo with admiration.

  “It is my duty to the scientific community and to mankind in general to rescue one of the greatest minds of all time,” he said. “Not to mention the best student I ever had. And, as my trusted assistant, it is your job to do whatever I command. As men of destiny, we will succeed in executing the greatest rescue attempt of all time.”

  Gateman thought for a moment, then turned to Professor Boxley. “Your wig is crooked,” he said.

  Meanwhile, Big was proving to be not only the best guide money could buy but an excellent traveling companion as well, able to regale the children with many stories of her adventures in the backcountry of this untamed land.

  “And this one is from a black bear,” she said, pushing her sleeve up to show off a long pink scar.

  “A bear attacked you?” Teddy gasped.

  “No,” said Big. “We attacked him. Digs and I. He was trying to steal our food, so we really had no choice.” Pinky looked at Digs, trotting alongside her, with a new sense of admiration. Digs tried his best to look nonchalant, as if fighting off animals twenty times his size were an everyday occurrence.

  Chip and Penny would certainly have been skeptical of such a story if it had been told by anyone else. But there was something about Big that made them trust her, something that assured them that everything she spoke was the truth, no matter how outrageous it may have sounded. Chip wished he could impress Big with his own stories just as she had impressed him. But how could he possibly tell her of his prowess as a baseball player when baseball didn’t yet exist? And how could he relay to her the story of the time he rescued his father and little brother from corporate villains by using his expert skill behind the wheel of an automobile? If he had any hope at all of impressing her, he would have to do it with deeds, not words.

  “So are you as good with that bow as you are with a knife?” asked Chip.

  “I guess so,” said Big with a shrug. “Good enough that we never go hungry.”

  “I’ve been taking archery lessons for three years now,” said Penny. “Off and on. That’s a beautiful bow, by the way.”

  Big stopped and lifted her bow over her head, slid it off her shoulder, and handed it to Penny. “Would you like to try it? My grandfather made it.”

  Penny took the bow as if it were a priceless Stradivarius. “It’s so perfect,” she said. “Is it okay, Dad?”

  “Sure, but be quick,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “It’s going to be dark in a few hours.”

  “You needn’t worry,” said Big. “We’re nearly there.” She pulled an arrow from the quiver and handed it to Penny, who placed it on the bowstring and then looked around for a suitable target. With all the trees having been cleared, there wasn’t much in the way of things to shoot at. She settled on a fence post and began to draw the bow back when Big said, “No. Too easy.” She removed her hat. “Here,” she said. “Before it hits the ground.”

  “You want me to shoot your hat?” asked Penny.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s been shot. See this hole here?” She put her hand into the hat and stuck a finger through a finger-sized opening. “That’s from a farmer who thought I was out to poach his cattle.”

  “Ready,” said Penny, drawing back the bow and pointing it toward the sky.

  With a flick of her wrist, Big flung the floppy brown hat high into the air. Penny followed it as it floated along on the breeze like an Uncommonly Fat Orangutan. She released the arrow and the bow propelled it straight and true, plucking the hat out of the air in mid-flight and carrying it onward toward a farmhouse in the distance, where it eventually stuck in the roof of an outhouse.

  Before Penny could celebrate her excellent shot, the door to the outhouse flew op
en and out ran a man who was swearing and buttoning up his pants. The angry, foul-mouthed man grabbed a rifle that had been leaning against the outhouse and swore some more.

  “Uh-oh,” said Big. “I think that’s the same farmer who took a shot at me. We’d better run. Come on!”

  Big sprinted down the road and Mr. Cheeseman and the children followed. A shot rang out in the distance, then another. When they could run no more, they stopped and tried to catch their breath, which was not easy because, in addition to having just run a half a mile, they were also giggling uncontrollably.

  “I can’t believe I shot an outhouse,” said Penny, doubled over in a painful fit of laughter.

  “I can’t believe you shot an occupied outhouse,” said Big, wiping a tear from her eye.

  “You probably scared the daylights out of him,” said Mr. Cheeseman.

  “Probably scared something else out of him, too,” said Chip.

  “At least he got a free hat,” said Teddy.

  Mr. Cheeseman smiled. It was good to see his children laugh after all they’d been through. Even Pinky seemed to be laughing, or, at the very least, smiling, as she and Digs chased each other, playfully running between the children’s legs.

  “I’m sure glad we ran into you, Big,” said Penny.

  “Yes,” Chip agreed. “That sure was lucky.”

  Big shook her head. “I don’t believe in luck,” she said. “Your friend was right when he said everything happens for a reason.”

  Mr. Cheeseman grew suddenly alarmed. He tried to recall just where they were when Aristotle uttered those very same words. “Big?” he said. “When exactly did you start following us?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Big.

  “When?” Mr. Cheeseman persisted.

  “Ever since you left your strange shiny house. The one you covered with sticks and leaves.” Big walked ahead. Penny and Chip turned to their father, who wore a look of panic. Chip broke into a jog and moved into Big’s path, stopping her in her tracks. “Big, please. You have to promise not to say anything to anyone about our … strange house. If anyone were to find out, we might never be able to go home again.”

  “To the future?” said Big.

  Chip laughed. “That’s quite funny.”

  Big did not laugh. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Something has brought us together. Something great. I will do nothing to harm you. And I shall protect the secret of the house that will take you home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “May we one day meet again.” She extended her hand, and Chip took it reluctantly. It was then that he and the others realized Big was saying good-bye. In all the excitement of running from the angry farmer, they’d failed to notice that the dirt road beneath their feet was now a cobblestone street and they were standing on the edge of the quiet little village known as Shattuckton. “This is as far as I go.”

  “You’re not coming into town with us?” asked Penny.

  “I don’t much care for towns, I’m afraid. I get along much better with trees than with most people.”

  “You get along with us,” said Teddy.

  “Yes,” Big agreed. “I do get along with you.”

  It didn’t seem fair. Just moments before they’d said good-bye to Jibby and his wonderful crew of misfits. Now they would have to bid so long to Big as well. Chip was especially disappointed. At fourteen, he’d certainly had his share of crushes on girls, but his connection to Big felt different.

  Their eyes met. Chip felt his palms moisten.

  “I apologize for hitting you in the neck with a rock,” said Big with a slight smile. “I meant to hit you in the arm.”

  “It’s okay,” said Chip, instinctively bringing his hand to the side of his neck. “Didn’t hurt. Besides, I threw it at you first.” Chip removed the rock from his pocket and tossed it from one hand to the other.

  “Yes, you did,” Big teased.

  Chip smiled and pulled his baseball cap from his head, handing it to Big. “Here. You’ve gotta have a hat. It’s got holes in it but they’re supposed to be there. For ventilation.”

  “Thank you,” said Big, inspecting the cap with admiration. “It’s a beautiful hat.”

  “It might be too big, but it’s adjustable.” Chip showed Big how the size of the hat could be changed using the plastic band in the back.

  “And the letter P?” said Big.

  “It stands for Pals,” said Chip.

  Big twisted the hat onto her head. “What do you think?” she asked.

  Chip reached out and straightened the bill slightly. “It’s never looked better.”

  With great effort, Big pulled her gaze from Chip and spoke to Mr. Cheeseman. “The blacksmith is a good man. Not nearly as mean as he looks. His name is Lumley. He’ll help you if he can.”

  “Thanks, Big,” said Mr. Cheeseman.

  “I wish you good luck and a safe journey.”

  “Hey, Big,” said Teddy as she turned to go. “Roy wants to know how to say ‘good-bye’ in Mohawk.”

  “O-nen,” said Big. “O-nen to all of you.”

  Big walked backward for just a few steps before turning and running silently down the road, away from the town and toward the trees, her braided ponytails surfing behind her on the breeze. Digs hesitated a moment and Pinky took the opportunity to give the side of his face an affectionate lick. Then he turned and ran to catch up to his traveling companion.

  “O-nen,” said Rat-Face Roy.

  “O-nen,” said Penny.

  Chip said nothing. He just stood and watched, rolling the gray, cherry tomato–sized rock between his fingers.

  Advice For the Lovelorn

  I believe it was the Beatles who said, “The love you take is equal to the love you make, which is equal to the square of the hypotenuse.”

  Musicians have always had a better understanding of love than the rest of us. Over the years they have told us that love: is like a rock, is like oxygen, is a battlefield, is here to stay, is all you need, will find a way, will keep us together, will tear us apart, stinks.

  Regardless of which is true, most of us will never forget our first love, and I certainly haven’t forgotten mine. The object of my affections was Betty from the long-running Archie comic strip. Though my heart would swoon each time I laid eyes on her, the relationship was doomed to failure because of our many differences—me being a mere ten years old, she being a cartoon character made up of hundreds of tiny colored dots.

  Still, when it comes to affairs of the heart, my advice to you is that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Because even though love is a battlefield and may occasionally stink, sometimes it’s like a rock—a rock that hits you in the side of the neck and leaves a mark that lasts forever.

  Chapter 6

  When no one answered the door of the small weathered shack, Jibby knocked again, this time harder, so as to be heard over the rush of the river but not so hard as to knock the loose, lazy door from its rusted hinges. Strewn about the shaggy grounds of the rickety shack were a multitude of items in a similar state of disrepair. There was a shovel with no handle, a handle with no shovel, a plow with a bent-up blade, a tin washtub with a hole rusted through its bottom, and a wagon wheel with half its spokes missing. There were also many smaller objects, broken or poorly patched, lined up on a long wobbly table.

  Between two trees a rope had been strung, and hanging from that rope was a black wool jacket with one sleeve missing, along with a set of white frilly ladies’ long underwear featuring a bright red patch on the seat. Tied to a larger tree and bobbing in the current of the river were three rowboats of questionable buoyancy. There was one blue, one gray, and one red.

  “Looks like no one’s home,” said Sammy.

  “We could just steal one of them boats,” said Dizzy.

  Jibby’s face turned instantly dark and serious. “You’re about this close to having your speaking privileges revoked.” He held his thumb and his index finger so close tog
ether Dizzy could scarcely see daylight between them. “Our stealing days are over. Anything we need, we buy or make ourselves.”

  “What about borrowing?” asked Jake. “Nothing wrong with borrowing things as long as you give them back.”

  “Or winning them,” said Aristotle. “Nothing wrong with winning things either. I once knew a man who won two chickens in a hog-calling contest. Or was it two hogs in a chicken-calling contest?”

  “You can’t call chickens,” said Sammy. “Well, you can but they won’t come. They’re always too busy.”

  Before Jibby could revoke the speaking privileges of his entire crew, the door to the shack swung open with a sour, rusty groan and out stepped a small woman, her stringy brown hair partially covering her soot-streaked face. Her jaw was as loose and as lazy as her front door, and her mouth hung constantly open, giving her the look of a simpleton. “Yes?” said the woman. “What can I do for you?” Her slack-jawed expression revealed two gold teeth, two silver teeth, and one copper.

  “We’re looking for Crazy Nellie,” said Jibby, as if there were even the slightest chance that the woman standing before them could be anyone but.

  “Indeed you found her,” said Nellie. She cackled loudly and her heavily metaled mouth looked like the tip jar at a coffeehouse. “I’ve got everything you might need right here in one location.” Nellie pushed her way past Jibby and into the overgrown yard. “Everything you see is for sale—and all of it made or fixed by myself. Need an ax?”

  Crazy Nellie grabbed an ax that had been leaning against a fallen tree. “Sharpened it myself. It’s like a razor.” She apparently felt a demonstration was in order and quickly raised the ax with both hands, which caused the rusty iron head to fly off the handle and soar through the air behind her. Aristotle ducked just in time as the blade passed over his head, stopping only when it sliced deep into the wall of Nellie’s ramshackle house with a decisive crack.

  “See? Told you so,” said Nellie. “Like a razor.” She offered the ax handle to Dizzy. “Can I interest you in a club? Never been used.”