“And obviously it worked, right? You got your date?”
“I sure did.”
“Does Dad know all this?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “This was way before Dad.”
“So basically you’re saying that even if I blow chunks all over the Nessie Quest boat and all over Dax and Hammy Bean, in the end things will work out.”
“Something like that,” Mom says.
I shake my head. “Is this the best you’ve got?” I ask. “I think you’re slipping. I would die a hundred deaths if I blew chunks in front of Dax Cady.”
She laughs. “You’ll find your tidbits,” she says. “When you’re ready. You always do.”
“Thanks, Mom. You always make me feel better.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she says, putting her glasses back on her nose.
I head back to my room and lie flat on the lavender comforter on my canopy bed, thinking about everything Mom said. I pull the walkie-talkie off my belt and push the button.
“Denver to Captain Green Bean. Come in, Captain Green Bean. Do you read me? Over.”
I wait until Hammy Bean’s voice comes over the speaker.
“This is Captain Green Bean. Over.”
I clear my throat and read right from the page. “The crow flies at night because a secret vessel looms large across the black diamonds. Over.”
First a beep and then cheers on the other end of the radio.
“Thaaat’s a roger, Denver. Over,” Hammy Bean says.
I can feel my grin spreading. “Rendezvous at the arch over the black diamonds, six acorns to the wind. Over,” I say.
That’s when I hear Dax’s voice on the speaker. “Wait. Which one is that? Over.”
“Read your codes,” I tell him. “Oh, and one more thing. The only one pooping on a blue Subaru is Wolfgang the Guitarman. Big-time. Denver over and out.”
I end up spending that entire afternoon memorizing every stupid code on Hammy Bean’s stupid list.
I mean, every single one.
By heart.
Until I can rattle each one off without even looking.
So after dinner while Mom and Dad go for a handholding stroll along the water, I decide to see if I can log another interview in my iPhone to impress Hammy Bean with my force-to-be-reckoned-with skills. With another interview and my knowing all the codes, he’s going to think I’m the best reporter/secret agent he will ever have in the history of the world.
“Excuse me, Ms. Begbie,” I call after knocking on the door marked 166 that night after dinner. “I’m wondering if I can interview you about your monster experiences.”
The door swings open. “Cheers,” she calls to me in a voice that is everything cheery.
A glorious cloud of vanilla and sugar and sweetness fills my nose.
“I was wondering if you…if you…huh, what smells so good in here?” I stretch my neck to see behind her and into the kitchen.
“Aye.” She waves me inside the orange flat. “I’m makin’ my sticky toffee pudding.”
I swallow a gag. “Oh…yeah, no thanks on that. Even though it smells delicious. I have banned all Scottish puddings of any kind.”
“Isna that a pity,” she says with a grin, heading into the kitchen.
I follow her.
“I’m actually here to ask if I can interview you for the Nessie Juggernaut about the Loch Ness Monster.” I show her the iPhone. “Hammy Bean hired me as a reporter for the Jug and I’m doing interviews, on the record, to upload for future podcasts. I’m getting Hammy Bean on the future train of technology because newsletters are so old-fashioned.”
“So I’ve heard,” she says, pulling a pan out of the oven with two orange oven mitts. “I must say, though, it’s an awful shame I have to eat this sticky toffee pudding alone.”
“I told you, Ms. Begbie. No bloody meat puddings for me,” I tell her. “Only the chocolate kind.”
She snorts. “I promise ye, there is no meat, bloody or otherwise, in my sticky toffee puddin’, lass.”
I eye her suspiciously. “Are you sure? Because I promise you if I eat anything like that it won’t end well.”
“It’s just a sweet sponge wi’ a caramel topping.”
“Sponge?” I say. “In Denver we don’t eat the sponges, Ms. Begbie. We do the dishes with them.”
She laughs at that one. “Lass, a sponge is what we call a cake. It’s a sweet cake with a caramel toppin’ and, o’ course, ice cream if you like.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well…I like cake. I definitely like cake.”
“Ice cream too?” she asks, giving me a wink. “I just happen to have the meatless kind.”
“Oh, I love meatless ice cream,” I tell her.
“Do ye like vanilla?”
“Yes, vanilla is definitely on the list of the kinds I like.”
“Take a seat, lass.” She points to the round kitchen table. “I’ll dish ye up some.”
“Thank you, Ms. Begbie,” I say, sliding a chair out from the table. “I didn’t expect to get cake when I came here to interview you about a lake monster. Of all the orange possibilities I found today, this is by far the orangey-est.”
I watch her while she hums and dishes up two bowls of spongy cake.
“Can I ask you something about Hammy Bean before we start the interview? Off the record?”
“O’ course,” she says, peeling open the cover of a carton of ice cream.
“Do you know what happened to his parents?”
She breathes in real long and then blows it out again before she answers me. “Has he told ye somethin’ about them?” she asks, setting the two bowls down on the table and sliding out the chair across from mine.
“Yes, he, uh…well, he actually first told me they were Scottish royalty,” I tell her. “And I believed him too. I mean, why wouldn’t I? And then he said they were with Doctors Without Borders, and then I heard him tell these tourists that they were missionaries. So I said to Dax, Can you believe that? And Dax says, Well, you didn’t really believe they were royalty, did you? And I did.” I take a big scoop of cake and caramel and ice cream and shovel it into my mouth. “It made me feel like a big, dumb dope too, and I’m not even the one who lied,” I go on with my mouth full. “Not that I’m calling the kid a liar, but I find it hard to believe that his parents could be all those things at once. I mean, then I guess I am calling him a liar…but again, this is off the record.”
She waits for me to swallow my bite.
“How is it?” She nods toward the bowl.
“This,” I say with my mouth already full of the second bite, “is the best sticky toffee pudding I’ve ever had in my lifetime.”
She laughs again. “Ye said you’ve never had it before.” She takes a small scoop from the very tip of her spoon and chews it slowly.
“Still,” I say, taking another giant bite.
“Hammy Bean’s parents are not royalty,” she says. “Nor are they missionaries or doctors. The sad truth is they didna take care o’ him the way he deserved to be taken care of,” she tells me.
“What does that mean exactly?”
She sighs. “Mamo Honey’s daughter, Elspeth, has been a drug user for many years. And Honey has done everythin’ to try to help her. Elspeth got married to a man who also uses drugs, Hammy Bean’s father, Archibald. When they had Hammy Bean, they just couldna care for him properly because…well, they just had very bad judgment. Usin’ drugs every day does horrible things to ye.”
“Where are they now?” I ask her.
“We believe in London,” she says. “At least that’s what Mamo Honey learned a few years back. Hammy Bean doesna like to believe that his parents would choose drugs over him, so he fantasizes about all the amazin’ things they could be busy doing in the world other than th
e truth. He likes to believe they’re in London just waitin’ for him. Sometimes believin’ in a little fantasy helps you handle what’s real.”
“That’s horrible,” I say.
She nods.
“Do they know he’s blind?”
“Hammy Bean wasna officially diagnosed until he was six months old, and by then they were gone. Mamo Honey hasna heard from them in ten years. Hammy Bean is a very special lad. He’s had a hard life in his ten years.”
“And they never came back?”
“Nae,” she says.
“That’s horrible,” I say. “That’s awful. That’s like the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Aye,” she agrees.
I take another scoop and think of my mom and dad and wonder how it would feel if they left me, and it doesn’t feel good at all.
“How did he learn all the stuff he knows how to do?”
“I told ye before that I homeschool him,” she says. “Between me and Honey and Hammy Bean’s tenacity, we’ve worked it out. We also have life-skills specialists who come a few times a month. Hammy Bean is such a smart boy, with an amazin’ will to live life and experience every part of it. He’s surpassed his age in intelligence, charm, interest in the world…everythin’. Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He feels a bit invisible.”
“I can’t imagine that,” I say. “He seems bigger than life to me on most days.”
“He is often met with silence when he interacts wi’ people, so he’s learned to keep to himself unless he is approached. Like in the Nessie Quest booth or on the tour boat. That’s where he shines the brightest.”
“What do you mean he’s met with silence?”
“I dinnat think it’s oot o’ meanness, but more of a…misunderstandin’. People are unsure how to interact with him or what to say, so they just don’t say anythin’, which makes him feel very lonely even though he’s not alone. Do ye understand what I mean by that?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “If Britney B is out sick and I don’t have anyone to sit with at lunch, I feel super lonely even though the cafeteria is filled to the brim.”
“Exactly,” she says.
“I suppose that’s why he never wants to go out on interviews with me.”
“Verra possible,” she agrees. “Oftentimes when he’s oot an’ aboot and with others, people interact wi’ the person he’s with instead of him, even askin’ the other person aboot Hammy Bean when he’s standin’ right there. And that hurts him very deeply.”
“I always say words can be very powerful,” I tell her. “But I suppose that applies to the ones you don’t say too.”
“You’re a canny lass.”
“There’s this new girl at my school, Remy Prudant, who always eats lunch alone and never has made any friends, not all year. I bet she feels that way too. I can’t imagine sitting at lunch without Britney B every single day. That would be quite a mare indeed.”
She smiles again and nods. “Hammy Bean has taken some hard hits in life, but he never stays down for long,” she says. “He always gets back up again. That’s what makes him so amazin’. He’s brave. The bravest lad I know.”
I nod. “He’s got the tidbits,” I say. “That’s for sure.”
She gives me a Cheez Whiz. “Tidbits?”
“Tidbits aplenty.”
“Hmmm.”
“Thank you for the talk and the sticky toffee pudding, Ms. Begbie,” I tell her. “You know what you should do? You should call it Euna Begbie’s Famous Sticky Toffee Pudding.”
“Famous?” She laughs. “I dinna ken aboot that.”
“I do,” I say. “Just like at Mr. Farquhar’s place. You could hang signs in the window. Like Ada Ru from Denver says it’s like she died and went to heaven or Dax Cady from New York City says it’s right on with a side of groovy.”
She laughs again.
“I’m glad I got to know you, Ms. Begbie,” I say. “You’ve turned out to be one of the best orange possibilities I’ve found in Scotland. And not just because of your sponge and meatless ice cream either.”
She puts her hand on my arm and gives it a squeeze and, with a big orange SpaghettiO grin, goes, “You are one of my best orange possibilities too.”
We are drowning in green.
A curtain of green lush leaves and grasses and trees and moss all around us.
We rendezvoused at the arch over the black diamonds at six acorns to the wind on the dot for Hammy Bean’s top-secret odyssey. I actually got there early because I was bursting to show off my new code knowledge. And not to be the one to point it out or anything, but Dax didn’t show his face until six oh five acorns.
I’m just saying.
“Where are we going?” I demand, pushing branches out of my face.
It turns out that this top-secret odyssey is so top-secret that Hammy Bean couldn’t even add it to the code list and, once we rendezvoused up at the bridge, he made us both cross our hearts again that we wouldn’t tell another single, solitary soul.
We’ve walked so far through thick trees and bushes along the loch that we’re all the way to the other side of the Fort Augustus beach. Lucky for us, today the clouds are in the sky where they’re supposed to be, there’s no rain in sight and the sun is so warm that I have my sweatshirt tied around my waist.
“We’re almost there,” Hammy Bean calls back to us.
Mac-Talla is leading on the leash with Hammy Bean following her, me following him and Dax following me.
He’s so far ahead of me now, all I can see are bits of his captain’s hat bobbing up and down between the leaves.
“How much farther?” I call up to him.
That’s when Hammy Bean stops.
“Shh,” he hisses. “Haud yer wheesht.”
We stop too.
“Close your eyes and listen,” he tells us.
I close my eyes and listen, hearing all the sounds around me that I hadn’t even noticed before.
A full orchestra of noises.
Traffic swooshes from the roadway above.
The wind blows the leaves, making a sssss sound.
Trees sway and the bark cracks.
Birds sing their morning ditty.
Water laps and licks over rocks at the shore.
“I hear water lapping,” I tell him.
“Exactly,” he calls.
Mac-Talla barks three times and then they start to run.
“Hurry!” Hammy Bean shouts.
“Pick up the pace, Denver,” Dax calls from behind me. “We’re going to lose them.”
I start to run now too and so does Dax. I can hear Ole Roy smacking against his back with each stride.
I push at more branches and leaves and trip over unearthed tree roots stretching over the path until, finally, the green curtain parts and we reach a small smooth-stone beach at the edge of the loch.
Stretched out beyond the rocky shore is a weathered rickety wooden dock with missing slats and peeling paint that bobs in the water with a bitty dinghy tied up next to it. The dinghy is supposed to be red, but the years and weather have peeled it to mostly drab gray wood with just a hint of red still hanging strong. The top is lined with small round windows. The only new thing on it is the fresh-painted letters on the back.
THE SS ALBATROSS
“Mamo Honey lets me do a lot o’ things because o’ Mac-Talla,” Hammy Bean tells us. “But this is different. I dinna even ken what she’d do if she knew this secret.”
“This?” I ask him.
He does a hand flourish in the direction of the boat. “It’s my boat,” he says with a big dimpled grin.
I point at it. “Did you say boat?”
“That’s right.” He lifts his chin high.
“Hmm…,�
�� I say, examining it from the shore. “Calling it a boat might be a bit of a stretch.”
“It’s a wee boat, aye,” he says.
“You’ve got the wee part right,” I tell him.
“Not in my mind. When I think about it, I see a verra high-tech yacht fit only for serious an’ highly respected Nessie hunters.”
“Sure, I can see it,” Dax says with a big, toothy smile in my direction.
Fathead.
Hammy Bean takes Mac-Talla off her leash and she jumps into the boat and brings him back a dirty used-to-be-yellow tennis ball. She pushes her nose at his hand until he grabs it from her mouth.
“Go get it, girl!” Hammy Bean hollers, throwing the ball into the water.
Mac-Talla scrambles toward the end of the dock and belly-flops in after it, swimming out to retrieve it and bringing it back to the dock. Then she lays her sloppy, matted red curls down in a sunny spot, with the ball tucked safely under her chin, and closes her eyes.
“Is this thing really yours?” I ask.
“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” he says.
“So you found it and basically called it?”
“It was abandoned,” he says. “No one wanted it. No one wanted to care for it an’ show it excitin’ life experiences. Not until I came along. Now I care for it the way it deserves to be cared for.”
“Who painted the name on it?” Dax asks.
“Cornelius Blaise Barrington, Nessie hunter extraordinaire,” Hammy Bean says. “If ye want to get technical aboot it, Cornelius found it first, but it’s still mine. I’m the captain. He said so an’ we christened it that way. He even hit a bottle of cider on the side durin’ the official christenin’ ceremony.”
“Right on,” Dax says.
“So what’s an albatross…exactly?” I want to know. “It’s some kind of bird, right?”
“Not just some bird, ye ken. It’s a mighty bird,” Hammy Bean tells us. “One that spends most o’ its days flyin’ the skies of the world above us, circlin’, watchin’…and wishin’.”
I look at Dax and he looks at me.
“Wishing for what?” I ask.
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