Mr. Frumpkes’s ears turned purple. It looked like he was wearing eggplants for earmuffs.
“This is Ponce de León Middle School, Miss Ortega—not the United States of America. Sit down, both of you, before I remember where I put my pink detention pad!”
Gloria and I did as we were told. We were both too busy after school coming up with new business schemes to keep the Wonderland running in the black (that’s how Gloria says “making money”) to waste time sitting in detention hall.
Mr. Frumpkes clasped his hands behind his back and paced at the front of the room.
“Now then, where was I? Ah, yes. The Big Lie. History’s time-honored propaganda technique. People will always fall for a big lie over a small one. For instance, today in the cafeteria, a certain student told a huge whopper, claiming he had heroically thwarted a pair of jewel thieves by jumping onto a baggage carousel at the Tampa airport.”
He brandished a copy of the Tampa Bay Times.
“The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid, somewhat less dramatic.”
“So?” said Pinky. “The story gets better every time P.T. tells it!”
“Next time,” added Kate, “maybe Kevin the Monkey will be in it!”
“Oooh!” said the whole class. “Kevin! The Monkey!”
“And who, pray tell, is Kevin the Monkey?” asked Mr. Frumpkes. “One of your pimple-faced pop stars?”
“Kevin the Monkey is a supercool capuchin from the Sunshine State Primate Sanctuary,” said Kate. “He’s a total YouTube sensation!”
“And a savvy PR vehicle,” added Gloria. “Last year, Kevin the Monkey’s channel earned one point six million dollars for the animal rescue charity, thanks to rollover ads. Net-net, he and the primate sanctuary have put together a rock-solid monkey business plan!”
When Gloria said that, the class cracked up.
“Monkey business!”
The laughter grew louder when somebody (probably Kate Mackenzie Williams, because she’s a total gadget freak) used their phone to hack into the Smart Board’s Wi-Fi connection and run a hysterical Kevin the Monkey clip.
I figured it was a good thing Mr. Frumpkes couldn’t find his detention pad.
Otherwise, the whole class would be doing hard time after school.
When Gloria and I walked home to the Wonderland after school, a car nearly cut us off while pulling into the humongous parking lot of the Conch Reef Resort, our brand-new next-door neighbor.
There used to be three other small family-run motels south of us: the Flamingo, the Sand Castle, and the Treasure Aire.
Now there was a fourteen-story concrete monstrosity with a ginormous plasma-screen reader board out front reminding everybody that they could eat all the “World-Famous Grouper Fingers with Tartar Sauce” they wanted for $5.99 during the Conch Reef Restaurant’s early-bird dinner special.
We don’t have an early-bird dinner special at the Wonderland.
We don’t even have a restaurant.
“Catch you later, P.T.,” said Gloria as she clomped up the staircase to her room on the second floor.
“Later.”
“Hang on,” she called from the balcony. “Dad just texted. UPS delivered the candy necklaces, jawbreaker bracelets, and gummy bear earrings. I need to start packaging souvenirs for Saturday’s tours.”
“What’s our cost of goods?” I asked. Gloria and I sometimes watch a TV show called Shark Tank together on Friday nights, and those billionaires are always asking people about the cost of goods.
“Fifty cents,” said Gloria. “We’ll mark up each S-K-U five hundred percent, to three dollars, for a gross profit margin of eighty-three percent.”
“Cool,” I said. “Um, what’s an S-K-U?”
“We call ’em ‘skews,’ ” said Gloria. “It’s short for stock-keeping unit.”
Fact: it is awesome being in business with Gloria Ortega.
I went into the lobby (my mom and I live in rooms 101 and 102, behind the front desk), and right away a group of tourists wanted my autograph.
“You’re the boy!” said a lady.
“The kid who recovered all those stolen jewels!” said a man.
Both were wearing the souvenir “Jewel Thieves Slept Here” T-shirts Gloria had dreamed up. (For sale in the Wonderland lobby for $19.99. Available in infant and toddler sizes, too.)
“Can you autograph our shirts?” asked the lady.
“Sure,” I said, whipping out the marker I always carry in one of the flapped pockets of my cargo shorts. It was beyond awesome to be a celebrity in my own home.
But the real reason I love all this sudden fame?
My dad.
As you may have noticed, he’s not really in the picture. Actually, he’s not in any pictures I’ve ever seen. I don’t even know what the guy looks like.
“Where is he?” you ask. Well, I’d usually answer that kind of question by making up another quick story—one with such a dazzling, pie-in-face opening hook that you’d be too blown away to wonder if what I was saying was true. You know, something like “He’s not here because the CIA needs him up in Canada.”
“There’s trouble in Canada?” you’d say.
“Nope,” I’d tell you. “But only because my dad’s been stationed there for a dozen years on an international peacekeeping mission. If he came home? Watch out. There could be a sticky maple syrup war.”
The truth? I don’t really know where my dad is or what he’s doing. But I’m guessing that when he finds out his son is the most famous middle school student in Florida, that I’m a certified celebrity, he’ll fly down here to meet me just as fast as he can!
Even if it means the start of a messy maple syrup war.
The tourists left with their autographed T-shirts.
I went to the soda machine and bopped it in the sweet spot. Down plunked a cold can of orange soda.
My mom came out of the office just as my drink ka-thunked into the slot.
“P.T.?”
Fact: I was busted.
“I told you, hon—no more freebies from the vending machines.”
“But we don’t have to worry about money anymore. We paid off the bank loan. Business is booming. The ‘No’ is lit on the vacancy sign.”
“And we’re still barely making ends meet. Look, I appreciate all that you, Gloria, and your grandpa have done, but—”
Tiny bells jingled.
“But what?” Grandpa walked into the lobby.
Mom sighed. She does that a lot when she’s not nibbling pen tips or crunching numbers on her calculator.
“But what, Wanda?” Grandpa repeated.
“We have to be prudent, Dad,” said Mom.
“Prudent?” said Grandpa. “Baaaah.” He swatted at the air. “I never did like that word. Prudent. Reminds me of prunes. Dented prunes. And prunes make me go to the bathroom!”
Grandpa bopped the soda machine in the sweet spot. (He’s the one who taught me where it is.) Down dropped a free can of his favorite beverage: Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. Yep. It tastes like a gassy version of those celery sticks nobody eats when they order buffalo wings.
“P.T.,” said Grandpa when his burp was finally finished, “I’ve been thinking. How would you and Gloria like to be my new train robbers when I get the Wonderland Express up and running again? Your pal Pinky can be my new sheriff. He’s got the face for it. Handsome. Honest. Dimpled chin.”
“I don’t know,” I said jokingly. “I still have my deputy badge from back in the day. It might be against the rules for me to switch sides and join the bad guys.”
“Rules, schmules. I’ll give you both red-checkered kerchiefs you can use as masks—plus cowboy hats and silver cap guns you can twirl on your trigger fingers!”
“Deal!”
Mom rolled her eyes and mumbled to herself, “Why am I the only grown-up in this family?”
It’s what she mumbles whenever Grandpa has another nutty idea.
Me? I love his crazy schemes almost as much
as I love living in this crazy motel. Every room has free cable, tiny bottles of shampoo, and ice buckets with plastic liners. Plus, the pizza joint down the street will deliver right to your room.
It’s kid heaven!
The string of bells over the lobby door jingled again.
In walked our new neighbors: Mr. Conch and his daughter, Veronica. I recognized them both from the Conch High-Quality Resorts TV commercials, where he always says, “If it’s good enough for my princess, Veronica, trust me, folks—it’ll be good enough for you and yours.”
Veronica was wearing a school uniform with a plaid wool skirt because she goes to a ritzy private school instead of Ponce de León Middle, like me and Gloria. Her shoes were covered with sparkling red sequins. I’m guessing when she was little, all her Barbie dolls wore diamond tiaras and mink coats.
Mr. Conch was smiling like a shark set loose in a lobster tank.
And I had a feeling we might be the lobsters.
“Edward!” Grandpa said to the smarmy man with an even smarmier mustache. “Long time no see. Missed you at the last Hospitality Association meeting.”
“Been busy, Walt.” He shot out his hand for Grandpa to shake it.
“Wanda, P.T.,” said Grandpa, “this is our new neighbor Mr. Edward Conch.”
Yep. Our new neighbor. Also known as the guy who ordered the bulldozers to demolish our old neighbors.
“We’re very proud to have opened the Conch Reef Resort condo-beach-resort-restaurant complex next door,” said Mr. Conch. “It joins our growing family of the most magnificent high-quality oceanfront resorts, condos, time-sharing properties, and fine-dining establishments up and down the Gulf Coast. At Conch High-Quality Resorts, you always get what you want because I always get what I want!”
Mr. Conch puffed up his chest.
I’m sure if he’d had tail feathers, he would’ve ruffled those out for us, too.
There was a cloud of cologne swirling around him. My eyes were watering a little. Mr. Conch should probably wear an allergy hazard warning.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Conch,” said Mom.
“I know, Wanda,” said Mr. Conch. “People love meeting me. I’d like to meet me, too, but forget about it, that’s not gonna happen. I probably should’ve dropped by sooner, seeing as how all of a sudden we’re next-door neighbors, but what can I say, folks? Been busy. We just opened and already business is booming, which is what happens at all Conch High-Quality Resorts. I’m worth what? Two, three billion dollars. Maybe more.”
“I thought we were going to get ice cream, Daddy,” whined Veronica.
“In a minute, honey. We need to talk to the Wilsons first.”
“Wilkies,” said Grandpa.
Mr. Conch shrugged. “Right. Whatever. How you doin’, son?”
He rubbed my hair like I was one of those hand dryers at the bowling alley.
I hate when people rub my hair. Especially when their hands smell like freshly mowed hay mixed with Chinese fortune cookie crumbs.
“I’ve heard about you, kid,” said Mr. Conch. “Seen you on TV, too. You’re Petey, am I right?”
“P.T.,” I said. “It’s short for Phineas Taylor.”
“We named him after P. T. Barnum,” said Grandpa.
“Because this kid’s a little huckster,” Mr. Conch said admiringly. “Jewel thief tour. Two-for-one T-shirt sale. Brilliant, kid. Very impressive. You remind me of me. You’re over here running all sorts of scams and cons, making a fast buck, because we both know there’s a sucker born every minute, am I right?”
Mom tried to get a word in edgewise. “P.T. and his friends aren’t—”
Mr. Conch snapped his fingers. His daughter rolled her eyes and handed Mom a blue tin of those Danish butter cookies nobody really likes.
“These cookies are for you, Ms. Wilkie,” she said like a robot programmed to be polite.
“Why, thank you, Veronica.”
“Are those butter ring cookies?” asked Grandpa. “I like those. You can stick ’em on your finger and nibble around the edges.”
“These are Danish, Walt,” said Mr. Conch. “That means they’re imported from Daneland. Very high-class. Like I told Veronica, only the best, most exquisite cookies in the world for our new, extremely successful neighbors.”
“Well, we have had a good little run lately,” said Mom modestly.
“Go figure, huh?” said Mr. Conch. “Your old-fashioned motel with all the gewgaws and very small pool—I’m sorry, it is, it’s tiny—your dinky motel is stealing business from my brand-new, luxurious, world-class resort, even though we’re right next door. How’s that happen? I’ll tell you how: your boy Petey here keeps cooking up clever moneymaking schemes, am I right?”
“I can’t take all the credit, sir,” I said modestly. “It’s a team effort.”
“Hey, enjoy it while you can. Remember Silly Bandz?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Neither does anybody else! That’s my point. A few years ago, they were a multibillion-dollar fad. Today? Nobody’s ever even heard of them.”
“What are you trying to say, Edward?” asked Grandpa.
“Simple. In a month, maybe two, your motel will be yesterday’s news. Everybody will move on to the next big thing.”
Mr. Conch snapped his fingers again.
His daughter sighed, gave us another eye roll, and handed Grandpa a business card, which he immediately turned over to Mom.
“But imagine if you didn’t have to worry about anything ever again,” said Mr. Conch.
Mom stared at the business card. I stared at the big blowhard’s smug smirk. He looked like he thought he’d just gotten away with a silent fart.
“The all-new Conch Reef Resort is huge,” he continued. “But to be honest, I want it to be huger. I want to expand.”
“Already?” said Mom. “You just opened.”
“I don’t wait for opportunity to knock, Wanda. I like to ring its doorbell. My architects tell me if I had another chunk of adjacent property, I could add a new wing. Put in a lazy river. Kids love a lazy river, what with the inner tubes and the drifting. Maybe we could even add on a high-class spa with those cucumber-and-mud facials. So I thought to myself, ‘Hey, Ed, you know what would be brilliant?’ ‘No, Ed, what?’ ‘A nice empty lot! Maybe where that Wonderland Motel used to be.’ ”
“You want to buy our property?” asked Mom. “You want to tear down the Wonderland?”
“No. All I want to do, Wanda, is take away all your cares and worries. Your brow? It’s so furrowed you could plant potatoes up there. But you sell out to me? You waltz away with so much cash you could retire and send your son to any state college you want.”
“Sell out?” said Grandpa, his voice cracking.
“Do it for my customers, Walt,” said Mr. Conch.
“I don’t know….”
“Hey, at Conch High-Quality Resorts, the customers always get what they want. You know why? Because I always get what I want.”
The next morning, as always, Mom and I met Gloria and her dad in the lobby.
It’s what the four of us do at the start of every day, before Gloria and I walk to the school bus stop together. We’d already set up the free breakfast buffet—mostly doughnuts, bagels, and a couple of bananas. Oh, and orange juice. This is Florida. I think serving OJ every morning is a state law.
“Would you like a powdered doughnut, Manuel?” Mom asked Mr. Ortega, batting her eyelashes so much they looked like a pair of spiders clapping. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, either. She never does when Mr. Ortega is in the room. She’d even stopped surfing the Web, where she’d been checking out retirement villas near Tucson, Arizona, ever since Grandpa had handed her Mr. Conch’s business card.
Arizona, unlike Florida, has a “dry heat.”
“No thanks, Wanda,” said Mr. Ortega. “A banana and a cup of OJ are all I really need to get my motor running.”
“Me too,” said Mom, putting down the bage
l she had already smeared with strawberry-flavored cream cheese.
Fact: when she’s near Mr. Ortega, Mom acts like this girl Ava at school who’s always gawking at a poster of that teen heartthrob Aidan Tyler she keeps taped up inside her locker.
Double fact: I don’t mind. Mr. Ortega is a pretty neat guy. And his smile is glisteny.
Gloria and I took off and headed up the sidewalk on our way to the bus stop.
“I did some research,” she said. “Conch Enterprises is on a buying binge.” Gloria watches nothing but financial news networks on the TV in her room, even though she has 257 channels to choose from.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“They’re looking for rapid expansion opportunities to make their books look better to investors. We call it putting lipstick on a pig. But then again, bulldozing the Wonderland to add square footage to the Conch Reef Resort would be a seamless integration aligning with their core competencies.”
As usual, I had no idea what Gloria was talking about. (I sometimes wonder if even she does.)
So I changed the subject.
“Well, we won’t have to sell out to Mr. Conch if we keep coming up with spectacular moneymakers like our Jewel Thief Tour. He’d heard about it, Gloria. I think we scare him a little.”
“Possible,” said Gloria. “Your brain, my business savvy. We make a formidable team.”
“Totally. I’ll pass out the flyers today during lunch. Drum up a huge crowd. Show Mr. Conch that we don’t need him or his bulldozers. Is the merchandise department ready to rock?”
“Just about. Dad and I boxed up all the candy jewelry last night.”
“Boxes? I thought we were doing plastic bags.”
“Wrong brand image, P.T. Bags say ‘candy.’ Cotton-lined blue boxes say jewelry. They also say five dollars instead of three. Boom! Our profit margins just went through the roof!”
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