The Hero Next Door

by The Hero Next Door (retail) (epub)

  —

  Wiki approached the potato table cautiously. “Mr. Hannamaker! Hi!”

  He’d been sulking on the stool behind his table, watching shoppers pass by. He perked up at Wiki’s presence, his smile nearly splitting his head in half! “Little Miss Ellison. So good to see you. How’s your uncle?”

  “Sleepy.”

  “Oh. I certainly understand that. What can I help you with today?”

  Wiki giggled and twitched.

  Mr. Hannamaker said, “Are you okay?”

  More giggling. “I’m fine.”

  She wasn’t. Dewey, making his way down her pant leg, was tickling her again.

  Through the earpiece, Leen said, “Distraction time, Wik.”

  Wiki gathered herself—no more laughs—and asked the question she’d been dreading to say. “How different is a red thumb potato from a French fingerling potato?”

  Mr. Hannamaker’s smile got even wider. “Vastly different! I’m so glad you asked! See…”

  While Wiki endured a potato lesson that would wedge into her memory forever, Leen guided Dewey beneath the table, his skittery little legs maneuvering between baskets. It was dusty on the ground, with farmers’ market grit clouding Dewey’s lenses. Fortunately, Leen’s rover upgrades included wipers. She activated them, and they cleared her view, just in time to save Dewey from a collision. Leen skidded him to a stop in front of an object that seemed out of place on the ground, among the gritty potatoes.

  Leen said, “I’m looking at a cashbox right now.”

  Wiki stiffened, while Mr. Hannamaker moved on to the versatility of russet potatoes.

  “Hang on,” Leen said. “I’m opening it.”

  Working Dewey’s forelegs, Leen undid the box’s clasp, lifted the lid. “Oh.”

  Oh, what? Wiki thought. Come on, Leen! Tell me something.

  Leen had Dewey check all sides of the box, and double-check the engraving on the underside of the rusted lid. It read: HANNAMAKER FAMILY FARMS, EST. 1964.

  “This is his cashbox,” Leen said. “It’s empty.”

  Wiki only felt small relief. What if Mr. Hannamaker had stashed the Pepperling box elsewhere? Unable to voice her concern without clueing in Mr. Hannamaker, she hoped Leen knew to keep looking.

  After Leen made sure the cashbox appeared undisturbed, she arched Dewey up on his hind legs, stretched his forelegs to slowly lower the lid. As she made the delicate move, something else reached over the lid and grabbed Dewey. It had eight legs and glowing red lenses, and didn’t seem friendly.

  It was another rover.

  * * *

  —

  “What the heck!”

  Leen’s panicked voice frightened Wiki. She turned from Mr. Hannamaker, though he was mid–potato lecture, and stared toward the CORNucopia. Leen waved her off and spoke through the earpiece again. “Keep going. I got this.”

  Got…what? Wiki thought.

  Leen refocused on the fight she was in. This rogue red-eyed rover—her own design—was attacking Dewey. Rude!

  Red Eyes gripped Dewey and tried to overpower him. Leen quickly twisted Dewey into a roll, flinging Red Eyes away. It gathered itself, attacked again, activating tiny pincers on its forelegs, attempting to snip the wires connecting Dewey’s AA battery power supply to his servos. If Dewey stopped working, Leen wouldn’t be able to help solve the mystery. Time to fight dirty.

  Raking one of Dewey’s forelegs along the ground, she flung dust directly over Red Eyes’s lenses. An old design with no wipers, the rover was blinded. It jerked about, pawed at its lenses with its forelegs, while Dewey circled, then leaped onto its back. Raising his second leg, Dewey activated another new upgrade, and the leg’s tip sparked with blue lightning. The rover used his new Taser to shock Red Eyes’s power supply, knocking the rover temporarily offline. It fell limp beneath Dewey’s weight.

  Leen let out a heavy breath that sounded like a hurricane in the earpiece. Wiki glanced toward the CORNucopia while Mr. Hannamaker was telling her, “There are many little-known facts about the Yukon Gold potato…”

  Leen commanded Dewey to bring his rebellious brother back to the CORNucopia for examination. Then she told Wiki, “Buy a potato and walk away. You need to find Miss Wavers. Now.”

  Wiki rummaged in her pocket for a dollar bill. “Mr. Hannamaker, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to do something for my sister. Could I have a couple of those fingerlings?” She passed the money to him, and he loaded up a small paper bag with more potatoes than she’d paid for.

  “Take a few other potatoes so you can see the differences we talked about for yourself.”

  Wiki felt awful. How could they have thought this sweet man was a thief?

  “Thank you,” Wiki said gratefully, and moved into the crowd, past Mrs. Honeydew’s table, and the busy Yeasterly mini bakery, scanning faces. “Why am I looking for Miss Wavers?”

  Leen filled her in on the rover fight, just as Dewey returned with the deactivated rover. “Red Eyes was a rover we sold her.”

  Still on the move, Wiki concentrated on the ground beneath the Pepperling table. In the dirt were tiny footprints you might mistake for bird prints, maybe field mice. But, really, they were rover prints. That’s how the thief had gotten the cashbox.

  But Miss Wavers?

  “It doesn’t seem right, Leen. Miss Wavers stealing?”

  “I know. It’s just, it’s her rover.”

  At the end of the pavilion, perched on a bench in the sunshine, was their new suspect. Miss Wavers saw Wiki coming and greeted her with a sad smile.

  “Hi!” Wiki said, understanding Miss Wavers had to be seeing the concern on her face. But nothing prepared Wiki for what the woman said next.

  “What’s your name, little girl? Are you lost?”

  * * *

  —

  Leen had been in the midst of dismantling Red Eyes when she heard Miss Wavers—who’d known the Ellisons their whole lives—ask for Wiki’s name. And Leen felt very afraid. For Miss Wavers.

  Wiki felt every bit of the same fear her sister felt. Miss Wavers stared like she’d never seen her before. “Miss Wavers, I’m Wik—I mean, Vicki Ellison. You taught my uncle Percy when he was in third grade.”

  Wiki might as well have been talking to one of the City Folk who only really saw her when she said their corn was “organic.”

  There were a number of possibilities for what ailed Miss Wavers. Many conditions affected people’s memories to the point where the most familiar things became confused or lost. Alzheimer’s, and Parkinson’s, and transient ischemic attack, and…

  No! No, Wiki. You will not glitch. Not now.

  She forced herself to focus, in case Miss Wavers needed her help.

  “I don’t think she did it,” Wiki said, unconcerned people would think she was talking to herself. Miss Wavers didn’t mind.

  “Me neither,” Leen said, though for different reasons than Wiki’s. “I just took her rover apart. It’s full of crumbs. Bread crumbs.”

  * * *

  —

  In fairy tales, bread crumbs led you home. At the Logan County Farmers’ Market, they led you to thieves.

  “You know where to meet me,” Wiki said. “And bring the market managers.”

  “I’m putting out the BRB sign now.” Leen locked their cashbox, tucked it into her backpack, then hung a Be Right Back placard on the CORNucopia table.

  Wiki said, “Miss Wavers, will you wait right here for me?”

  “Sure will, sweetie.”

  Wading back into the market crowd, Wiki made a beeline for Mr. and Mrs. Yeasterly’s Baked Goods. Their table was crowded as usual, the supply of sticky buns and macarons and savory galettes dwindling. Whenever they ran low, one of the Yeasterlys would disappear into their van, positioned right behind the table, like
most vendors’. Only now that she had a reason to be suspicious, Wiki could see what was really happening.

  Standing in the middle of the market foot traffic, squinting so as not to miss a detail, Wiki focused extra hard on everything.

  Leen emerged from the crowd, backpack straps cinched tight, with the farmers’ market managers behind her. “What you got?”

  “All the answers. Let’s do this.”

  Leen and Wiki approached the Yeasterlys with the managers in tow. Mrs. Yeasterly, with her pixie-cut streaked hair, black-framed glasses, and perky demeanor, didn’t miss a beat. “Hey there! Jim, it’s the Ellison girls and the farmers’ market organizers. Come out and say hi!”

  The van’s door opened, and Mr. Yeasterly leaped out, shutting it quickly behind him. Not quick enough to stop Wiki from seeing inside and confirming her theory.

  Wiki said, “Should I tell, or do you want to do it?”

  Leen straightened her AR headset. “I’m handling something right now. It’s all you, sis.”

  “Cool.” Wiki spoke loud and clear. “Mr. and Mrs. Yeasterly stole Wendy Pepperling’s cashbox, and likely a bunch of other stuff, too.”

  Mrs. Yeasterly said, “Just wait one darn minute.”

  “Nope,” said Wiki. “Not waiting. Because you’re probably instructing your stolen rovers to move the goods right now. Leen, am I wrong?”

  “You are not. Got him.”

  Just then, Dewey leaped from behind a bread box display, carrying a deactivated bot. Wiki said, “The Yeasterlys took Miss Wavers’s rover.”

  Mr. Yeasterly played dumb. “I don’t know what that is. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life.”

  The farmers’ market managers watched skeptically as Dewey skittered across the table, carrying his hijacked brother. One of the managers said, “Neither have we.”

  Wiki pointed at the six fat loaves on a rack in the open air. Display loaves. Rye, and wheat, and pumpernickel. All oversized and exposed and crusty so no one would touch them and suspect what they really were. “Those are the same loaves that have been on that rack for two months.”

  “Of course!” said Mrs. Yeasterly. “They’re preserved with polyurethane. It’s a common practice. We could use them for two more months.”

  A manager said, “That is true, Victoria. Most bakers will preserve loaves for display.”

  Wiki agreed. “Yes. But how many of those bakers hollow their loaves and put hinges on them? Even I didn’t notice at first. But I looked closer once I figured out the Yeasterlys had stolen Miss Wavers’s rovers and were using them to steal from other vendors.”

  “That’s absurd!” said Mr. Yeasterly. But more like a bad actor in a school play, not like someone who was actually insulted.

  Wiki asked the managers, “Have a lot of people been checking the lost and found for stuff lately?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, they have.”

  “Check the bread,” said Wiki.

  The churning crowd became a lingering one, everyone interested in the disturbance by the baked goods. Among the interested, Wendy Pepperling and Mr. Hannamaker.

  Mrs. Yeasterly rounded the table, informed Wiki and the managers, “You will not touch my bread.”

  Wiki said, “Wasn’t talking to them.”

  Leen directed Dewey to a particularly fat loaf. He ripped the hinges from the back, tossed the crusty top to the ground. The cashbox was hidden inside.

  “That,” Leen told Wendy, “is yours, I believe.”

  Wendy rushed forward to claim her stolen money, while Leen maneuvered Dewey to the other display loaves, exposing more stolen goods: jewelry, phones, credit cards and such.

  The managers said, “Mr. and Mrs. Yeasterly, we need a word.”

  But they were gone!

  Their van revved to life, the door locks clacked, and they attempted a speedy escape, nearly running over folks.

  “They’re getting away!” yelled Mr. Hannamaker.

  “No, they aren’t,” Leen said, twitching her eye about quickly behind her AR lens.

  The van jerked, made a horrid clanking sound, then coasted to a stop not far from where it’d started. When it was still, several rovers skittered from beneath the vehicle, dragging wires and parts behind them.

  Knowing they were beaten, the Yeasterlys left the vehicle with their hands up, and were surrounded by their fellow vendors until the police came.

  Leen’s rovers returned, skittering up her legs and into her backpack. Many people watched, impressed by this marvelous display, but only one spoke up. He was City Folk, the one with the beard and man bun. He said, “Are those…homemade?”

  “Guess the secret’s out,” Wiki said.

  Leen rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but they aren’t organic, so you probably won’t be interested. Now, excuse us. We gotta get back to our table.”

  * * *

  —

  “Bye, Miss W!” said Wiki.

  Leen said, “Bye, Miss Wavers.”

  Wiki and Leen had used Miss Wavers’s cell phone to call her son, Dave. Now he led her by the hand, guiding her to where his car was parked. Or he tried. She pulled away and came back to the CORNucopia, as if she’d left something.

  “Mom,” Dave Wavers said, touching her shoulder gently. “We should go.”

  She remained staring at the twins, unmoving.

  “Girls, I’m sorry. She has spells and gets confused,” said Dave. “That’s the only way those conniving bakers could’ve nabbed her rovers. I suspect she never even knew they were gone.”

  Wiki had suspected the same thing, and said, “You don’t have to apologize for her.”

  “Not ever,” Leen added.

  Some small bit of recognition sparked in the elderly teacher’s eyes. “You’ll be…” She struggled for the words. “You’ll be…”

  “We’ll be ‘ear’ next week,” said Wiki, who ignored her sister’s wide grin.

  Leen said, “We look forward to serving you again.”

  Miss Wavers and her son got on their way, as did most of the folks under the pavilion. It was after noon, and the market was winding down.

  Wendy’s brother and dad returned, and she told them what had happened. Pa Pepperling hugged her and said he’d totally trust her to watch the table again.

  Mr. Hannamaker had lured Man Bun to his table and convinced him he’d stumbled upon the best organic potatoes in the state, which started a City Folk rush. Mr. Hannamaker sold out of his entire stock. Good for him.

  Leen and Wiki Ellison sold enough corn to earn their allowances, and get parts for more rovers. Everyone ended up having a good day, except the Yeasterlys, who were going to jail.

  Uncle Percy, yawning and stretching like a cat, appeared in time to shut down the CORNucopia. And with his usual question. “What’d I miss?”

  The girls, stacking up baskets, being extra careful with the one housing the rovers, didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing much.”

  Rescue

  Suma Subramaniam

  I hide under my blanket. My stomach is in knots. The last red-orange rays of the sun stream through the window of my bedroom. My heart beats a wild rhythm to the noise downstairs. The loud voices and the screams make my skin crawl. The ears of my yellow lab mix, Duke, twitch as he sits on my bed. His head turns toward the closed door. Appa’s anger transforms the brightest of evenings into a dark hollow.

  Dhadaar!

  That’s not a good sound. I imagine Appa throwing the box of murukku from the kitchen countertop onto the floor, the crispy snack fragments scattering.

  “Don’t you talk to me like that!” Appa yells.

  I press my hands into Duke’s fur, shaky with fear, and listen to Amma’s cries.

  The first time I heard Appa yell was four years ago, when I was six. He splashed a hot cup of coffee o
nto my mother’s hands. It was also the first time I saw her weep like a baby. Appa made me promise I would never tell anyone what happened at home.

  I was afraid, so I didn’t tell anyone what my father did. The burns stayed on Amma’s hands for nearly six months.

  Appa didn’t stop with that. Once, he made my mother touch a hot iron. Another time, my father dropped a box of cereal on her head. I cried out and ran to Amma, but he pushed me away.

  “Be quiet!” he yelled.

  I couldn’t be quiet. I was sobbing loudly. He threatened to drop a big box of oatmeal on me.

  Amma resisted. Appa didn’t stop.

  I wanted to cry even louder, but I shrank. What if he hurt me, too?

  “Why is he so mean to you?” I whispered in Amma’s ear.

  “Your dad is not an evil man, kanna.” Her voice went back to normal. “He’s struggling, but I cannot excuse his bad behavior.”

  Her words sat in my heart like a heavy bag of potatoes.

  Sometimes Appa is nice to me. He returns from work with a face hanging low, and he is sorry about what he does. Other times, he buys me new dresses, books, candies, and ice cream. I don’t know why he switches back and forth so much.

  Appa grabs my arms with his big hands. “If you are quiet, Sangeetha, I’ll buy anything you want.”

  Today, I don’t want to be quiet. Not when he’s beating Amma down again.

  I hear something topple from the kitchen counter, then the sound of glass breaking. Appa is shouting, and I hear Amma pleading, “No. Stop it!”

  I get off the bed and run to the door. It’s locked. Amma locks it sometimes to protect me.

  I bang the door. “Amma! Please let me out. Please!”

  No one hears me. Duke jumps and scratches the door.

  “Down, Duke!” I turn my back on the dog.

  He stares at me, confused.

  “Good boy,” I tell him.

  My whole body shakes. I go back to my bed and hide under the blanket again with Duke by my side.

  It’s summer vacation and I have a lot of time to play, but I can’t relax when Appa is shouting. Talking to my dog is the only way I can stay calm.