Life In The Gumball Machine – Vinnie And Gordy’s Return

by Maureen Bartone

  “Sammie! Wait! Where are you going?” Daisy shouted at him to come back, but he was already heading back to the shed. The rest of them stopped and waited.

  Sammie walked into the shed and disappeared.

  Joe frowned and looked at Daisy. “What’s he doing now?”

  50

  Goodbye

  SAMMIE STOOD in the doorway of the old shed and spoke to the young man.

  “Where are you taking that gumball machine?”

  With his hands on the machine, the man turned and saw a blond little boy speaking to him. He shrugged. “I think they’re going to toss it. You’d better get out of here, kid.”

  Toss it? No!

  Sammie then said, “Hey, mister. Do you have any kids?”

  The man was surprised and turned back to look at Sammie. “I do. I have a six-year-old son.”

  “You should keep that gumball machine−for your little boy. He’ll like it.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s too big.”

  Sammie smiled as he shook his head. “You should keep it. It’s special.”

  For a quick second, the sparkle in Sammie’s blue eyes lit up the dark shed.

  The man wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he backed away from Sammie, just to be safe.

  “What do you mean, ‘special’?”

  Sammie’s eyes twinkled again as he whispered, “It’s magic.”

  The man tilted his head and took a closer look at Sammie. There was something unusual about those eyes.

  Was it a twinkle? Or a flash, or a spark?

  He wasn’t sure, but it sure was captivating.

  He shook his head. “Magic? No way.”

  Sammie smiled and folded his arms and whispered, “Yep. M-a-g-i-c.”

  They both looked at the gumball machine. “Take it−for your son.”

  Sammie’s eyes twinkled again.

  The man nodded and smiled. He liked this kid. “Okay. I will. Thanks!”

  He patted Sammie on the shoulder and felt a sensation−like a buzzing. He snapped his hand back and shook it.

  Weird.

  Sammie smiled and nodded. “You’re welcome. You’ll be glad you kept it.”

  He turned to leave, but stopped and waved.

  “Bye!”

  The man stood in the shed and waved as he called out to him.

  “Bye!”

  He turned to the gumball machine and smiled. His son was going to love this. He put his hands around the clear globe and felt it rumble under his hands. It was quick−lasting only a second−and then it stopped.

  He shook his head.

  Very strange.

  SAMMIE RAN BACK to the group. Breathless, he said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Daisy put her around him as they started walking. “What did you do back there, Sammie?”

  “I just saved the gumball machine. Vinnie and Gordy are going for a nice ride.”

  “Excellent thinking,” she said.

  The rest of the kids gave him a high-five.

  Sammie was relieved. Somehow, he just knew Gordy and Vinnie were in good hands.

  “Come on,” Joe said. “Let’s go home. Mom and Dad must be wondering where we’ve been.”

  Sammie dragged the wagon, while the rest of them walked their bikes down the street, headed toward the lowering sun. Their shadows stretched long and narrow behind them as they laughed and talked about their exciting day. They would be home just in time to wash up for dinner.

  Thanks for reading Life In The Gumball Machine – Vinnie and Gordy’s Return. I hope you enjoyed it! I appreciate your feedback. While it’s fresh on your mind, I hope you’ll write a review and let me know what you think!

  ~ Maureen Bartone ~

  Turn the page to check out a sample from my latest book:

  Tilly’s Top-Secret Trapdoor

  TILLY’S TOP-SECRET TRAPDOOR

  1

  My Family

  I

  ’m hiding. Mom is mad at me because I was supposed to take out the trash, but I didn’t do it. Yuck. Trash is disgusting. It’s stinky and the bag is always so heavy. Oh—and I was supposed to clean my room and do my homework, too. I didn’t feel like doing that stuff either.

  I heard her down the hall, calling my name. “Tilly!”

  Yep—she’s mad alright.

  Shoot! I didn’t close my bedroom door.

  I heard her feet stomping real fast toward my room. I jumped off my bed, fell to my knees and rolled underneath just as she came barging in.

  “I know you’re down there Tilly. And, just so you know, you’re grounded. And I’m telling Dad when he gets home that you disobeyed me. I told you to take out that trash.”

  I lay under my bed with my arms crossed over my stomach and pretended to be a mummy. I didn’t move or talk.

  But Mom wasn’t done with me. “And look at this room! It looks like a tornado came through.”

  More silence.

  “Do you hear me, Tilly? I mean it. I’m sick and tired of your naughty behavior.”

  She stood near the door—I could see her feet. They were pointing at me. I held my breath and didn’t move.

  After a few more seconds she said, “That’s it!” I watched her feet turn and leave my room.

  Uh-oh. She sounds p-r-e-t-t-y mad.

  I was grounded for sure. Oh well. Who cares? I’m always in my room anyway.

  I don’t mean to make Mom mad. It just comes out that way. I know she tries hard. Like today, when I came home from school, she said, “How did it go today, Tilly?”

  She asks me this same question every day, and every day I say the same thing.

  “Bad.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that today I tripped up the stairs and everyone laughed at me. There was no point in living through that again.

  “No new friends yet? Did you smile like I told you?”

  “Ugh!” I rolled my eyes and walked toward the kitchen. I heard her follow me, but I pretended she wasn’t there. I dropped my backpack on the table as she walked over to the sink and started washing stuff.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Y-e-s,” I said. “I smiled just like this.”

  She turned to look at me and I hooked the right side of my upper lip high enough to show a couple of my teeth.

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled as she walked over to me. Grabbing my shoulders, she walked me to the mirror hanging in the hall. I don’t usually look into mirrors because I hate seeing all the freckles on my cheeks. Kids tease me about them.

  “Do you think you’re going to make friends with a smile like that?”

  I looked in the mirror. She was right. It was a terrible smile. I watched it turn into a frown and then I groaned.

  “It’s no use Mom. I don’t know how to do it. I can’t make friends. And I never will.”

  I looked down at my shoes. She touched my chin and tipped my head back up.

  “Don’t worry sweetie. It’ll happen. I promise.”

  She kissed me on my forehead, but it didn’t help. I turned away from her, grabbed my backpack, and walked out of the kitchen, saying nothing. I felt her eyes on me. She was only trying to help. She always tries, but it’s annoying—having that same conversation every day.

  I hate that she feels sorry for me. I’m not sure what my problem is. I think it’s mostly that I feel mad all the time, but I don’t know why. Luckily, that feeling goes away when I’m up in my room. I like to sit at my desk and draw. I draw pictures of kids, and then make up stories about them. But my favorite place to be is right here, under my bed. I know that sounds kind of weird, but, I love it down here. I do a lot of daydreaming. I imagine having lots of friends and laughing with them as I walk down the hall. That’s probably why I stay under here so much. It’s where I have the most friends.

  But Mom gets upset when I’m down here. Like now, because I’m not doing my chores. She says stuff like, “you won’t make any friends under your bed, Tilly.” And, “
you need to go outside and play. The fresh air is good for you, Tilly.” I really don’t want to play outside all by myself, especially when I like it down here so much more. Now, she’s really mad, and she’s going to tell Dad. Oh well. I guess I’ll be in trouble again tonight.

  I’m glad she finally left my room, but I wished she would’ve closed my door. It was dark and quiet and I closed my eyes. I went back to my favorite dream—the one where I have lots of friends, and I’m the most popular girl in the fifth grade. I pretend that a circle of people is always around me and I have to smile and tell everyone to wait their turn while I talk to each person, because I want to make sure everyone feels special.

  I see that happening in my mind, but what I really see are the metal squares of wire that hold my mattress off the floor. Dad calls it a box spring. While I’m daydreaming, sometimes I reach up and touch it. The wires are cold and feel rough and there are sharp knots tying all the corners together. Right above all those wires, is my mattress. My bed is pretty high, so there’s some room to wiggle around down here. I can’t sit up, though.

  I’m ten, so I’m pretty big. Mostly, I just lie on my back and think and daydream. It’s a little dark, but some light comes through under the dust ruffle. That’s what Mom calls the cloth that hangs around my mattress and reaches down to the floor. Dust ruffle—what a silly name.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been down here, but I figured it was time to come out. Mom was still pretty mad. I heard her stomping around downstairs and yelling something up to me. I rolled out and, for a second, I stayed on the floor on my back, with my knees bent. Then I sat up and looked around. I guess my room was pretty messy. I didn’t even make my bed this morning before school—and that’s a rule. So, I yanked my quilt up to my pillows and stood back. It looked a little better. I turned to all the clothes scattered around the floor and kicked them into the corner, sort of like I was playing soccer. Then I turned and closed my door. I need my privacy just like anybody else.

  Better!

  My room is a basic girl’s bedroom. I have a full-sized bed, which Mom says most kids aren’t lucky enough to have. It’s soft and roomy. The headboard is pretty cool because it’s an old fashioned kind. Mom said it was Grandma and Grandpa’s. It has swirly gold wood going around the top and a yellow, soft and silky cushion on the big part. The same stuff is at the end of the bed. I love it because it’s not like other kids’ beds. My comforter is green with white swirls all around it. It’s big and fluffy and keeps me warm when it gets super cold. I also have a green and white lamp that sits on a small table next to my bed, and I have a dresser and a desk where I’m supposed to do my homework. I suppose I’d better start on that, too, before I get grounded for life.

  I’m not sure why I don’t listen to my mom or do what I’m told. Maybe it’s because she’s constantly nagging me and I get tired of listening to it. She says stuff like, “how many times do I have to ground you, Tilly? If you’d just do what you’re told when you’re told, you wouldn’t have to spend so much time being grounded. Do you like spending your afternoons up in your bedroom on a beautiful sunny day?”

  She says this same stuff to me just about every day. It’s so annoying. I suppose she’d stop if I’d do the things she asks. But geez! Everything she wants me to do is so horrible. As soon as I walk in the door, I have to take out the trash, do my homework, pick up my clothes, and then, after dinner, I have to help with the dishes. I hate doing all of that stuff! I’d much rather go to my room, do a little bit of drawing at my desk, and then hide under my bed. Whenever she does force me to go outside, all I do is sit on the swing on the back porch, which is so boring.

  I’ve only been hiding under my bed for a couple of days, and already Mom’s found out about it. So now my super-cool, super-secret place isn’t so cool or secret anymore. I suppose it won’t be long before she grounds me from going down there, too. I’ll be the first kid in the whole, wide world grounded for hiding under my bed. Oh well, nothing fun lasts forever, right? But until that happens, I’m going to hide under there for as long as I can.

  I’m not sure when I started getting so lazy and making trouble for my mom, but it seems like the older I get, the more my parents hassle me and tell me what to do. I never used to have to do homework. I never used to do dishes or take out the disgusting trash. What happened to change all that? And at first, I didn’t even notice the change. Well, now I’ve noticed.

  I was staring at my math book, but not really in the mood to actually pick up my pencil to work on a problem, when I heard loud footsteps coming toward my door. I just knew it was my big brother, Mason. He called my name just as he opened the door and barged in.

  I turned to him and glared. “Hey! Ever think about knocking?”

  I shook my head as I looked around for my backpack under that pile of clothes I just pushed together.

  “What do you want?”

  Mason folded his arms like my dad does. He thinks he’s so grown up. “Mom says you need to get downstairs and take out the trash—now.”

  I looked at him and gave him my best stink-eye, and then—I smelled it. It was that disgusting slime he puts in his red hair to keep his curls straight and flat. He looks so lame. It’s totally plastered to his head. He puts on so much it actually looks like it’s going to drip down onto his freckly face.

  What a loser. Disgusting.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Get out of my room, Mason.”

  He flipped his shoulder up and down and turned to leave. “Good luck with Mom then. You’re on her short list, ya know.”

  He walked down the hall and then down the stairs calling out to Mom. “She’s not coming down Mom!”

  “Ugh!”

  He rubs me the wrong way for so many reasons, but mostly because he so rude. He never knocks when I’m in the bathroom—he just barges right in. Even when I’m on the toilet, and even though Mom tells him over and over that I’m a girl and I need my privacy. Oh—and he also teases me at school in front of his dorky friends and trips me whenever he gets the chance, just so they can all laugh at me. He trips me at home too, when Mom and Dad aren’t looking. And he always rubs it in when he gets straight A’s in school. He holds his report card in my face and swings it back and forth.

  “Pretty good, huh Tilly? Where’s your report card? Huh? Huh, Tilly? Huh?”

  My parents are always so proud of him. And then—when they look at my report card, this is usually what I hear: “Tilly, imagine what your grades would be if you’d studied even half as much as your big brother.”

  Then Mason usually folds his arms, tilts his greasy red head and gives me this evil grin.

  He’s all talk and tough at home, but even though he’s two years older than me, he’s a bit of a wimp. He’s about a foot taller than me, and he’s super-skinny. He has friends at school, but not many—two or three, I think. They come over sometimes and play video games. I hear them through his bedroom door laughing and yelling. He thinks he’s so cool.

  Like I said before, he’s always worried about his hair and I hate the way he wears it. He makes this weird side-part and combs everything over for about an hour, and then he smears in that disgusting gooey stuff. It’s supposed to hold it all down—but it doesn’t—so he just keeps putting in more. He says it makes him look older. I told him girls didn’t like hair that looks like slime. Then he punched my arm.

  I’m sorry to say that we do look a lot alike. He’s pale and has red hair and freckles, just like me. I’m not saying red hair and freckles are bad things. I’m saying, I’m sorry I look like Mason. We both look like my dad and we seem to have a lot of stuff in common, like: Mason doesn’t have a lot of friends, and I don’t have a lot of friends. Well—I don’t have any friends. None. Zippo. Actually, I guess I could count Milo as my friend, but he never talks. We just walk to class together. I don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t talk to me. He’s shyer than I am, which is pretty hard to believe. So, I’m not really sure he counts as a friend because fri
ends talk to each other—at least I think they do.

  Sometimes, I think I don’t have friends because of my red hair and freckles. Mom says that’s silly. But the kids at school make fun of me—a lot. They call me mean things like, ‘carrot-top’, and tell me I have a disease on my face when I know they’re talking about my freckles. I do my best to ignore everyone. Most of the time people don’t even notice me, and I don’t mind that at all.

  Our neighbor, Mrs. Calabash—she’s from England—she says my red hair and freckles are kisses from the sun. I kind of like that, but it doesn’t help the teasing I get at school.

  Kids can be pretty mean. I sometimes wonder if my red hair and freckles scare them from being my friend. I could be wrong, but I really, really don’t have any friends. It’s also possible that I don’t have any friends because I have a bad attitude—at least that’s what my mom said. She said if I have the same grumpy frown on my face at school as I do at home, I’ll never make any friends. I tried smiling at school a few times, but no one really looked at me, so I decided that was a waste of time, and I just stopped smiling.

  Anyway, school is rotten; the kids at school are rotten; and my big brother, Mason, is rotten. He’s what I would call a mean, dorky, nerd, and I’m worried I might be a mean, dorky, nerd, too.

  I heard him walking toward my room again, so I ran to the door to shut it before he got in.

  Too late.

  I pushed and he pushed, but he was stronger and pushed me and the door until he was back in my room. I ran to my bed, dropped and rolled under it.

  “Tilly! You’re such a loser! Mom says it’s time for dinner. Wash up and get downstairs—now!”

  I heard his footsteps and watched his feet walk to my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut and scrunched my face, hoping he’d go away. His breathing told me he was right outside the dust ruffle.

  Lifting the cloth, he tilted his head and peeked in at me.

  “Now.”