Princess Veronica stomped away. When she did, a couple of sequins popped off her sneakers.
Before we knew it, it was Saturday morning.
Gloria, Pinky, and I were ready at seven a.m. Mom and Mr. Ortega came out of the lobby to lend us a hand.
Grandpa was sleeping in, but he’d drive the first “tram” around the “back lot” at nine a.m. I’d be the tour guide. Hey, I’ve been on the Jungle Cruise at Disney World a few times. I know how to spin a spiel.
“Well, this is it,” said Mr. Ortega as Gloria set up a camp stove to melt Hershey’s bars and make chocolate-dipped bananas. “Game day. You control your own destiny out here in the parking lot. Will you savor the thrill of victory or taste the agony of defeat?”
“Dad?” said Gloria.
“Yeah?”
“You really need a new phrase book. You use that ‘agony of defeat’ line all the time.”
“Because it’s a classic, Gloria. A classic!”
“Have fun today, hon,” said Mom as I tidied up my stack of Maps of the Stars’ Rooms (regular price $4.99, just $1.99 with every $10 tram ticket).
“Thanks,” I told her. “Gloria thinks these tours will open up what she called a ‘fresh revenue stream’ for us.”
Mom laughed. “We’re doing fine, hon. You were right. With the location fees from the movie company and the premium room rates for their cast and crew, we might just have our best month ever!”
And then she kissed me. Just on the forehead, so we were still cool.
The movie crew was all set to start shooting first thing Monday morning. Kurt, the director, and Josh David, the set designer, were fine with us giving weekend tram tours.
A crowd of early birds started gathering in the parking lot around eight-thirty—mostly parents with their kids.
Including one of our neighbors who came with her son.
That’s right.
Mrs. Frumpkes, who lives down the street, brought Mr. Frumpkes.
“My mother would like to see the monkey,” said Mr. Frumpkes, bitterly biting out the words.
His lips were twitching as he faked a smile. Apparently, his mom really loved Kevin the Monkey.
“He’s a hoot on the YouTube,” she said. “That one where he snaps his fingers and plays the piano? Reminds me of Frank Sinatra. A-ring-a-ding-ding!”
“Well, Mrs. Frumpkes, Kevin is very busy rehearsing, but I have, occasionally, seen him lounging around the pool this early in the morning. So maybe we’ll get lucky. But remember, no paw-tographs!”
Mr. Frumpkes handed me twenty dollars. I gave him back ten.
“Teacher discount,” I said with a wink.
“Don’t forget your T-shirts, sock monkeys, and frozen bananas, ladies and gentlemen!” hollered Gloria from her concession stand, where she was grabbing fistfuls of cash and stuffing them into a metal box. “The more you smell like bananas, the better the chance that Kevin the Monkey will come out to greet your group.”
Mrs. Frumpkes made her son buy her a chocolate-dipped banana on a stick.
“Load ’em up, P.T.!” Grandpa said, then tooted his wooden train whistle. “This train is about to leave the station!”
Kurt, the director, who was staying in a front room on the second floor, came out on the balcony with a mug of coffee to check out the scene down in the parking lot. He looked like he was smiling. He was also swaying back and forth, bopping along to Pinky’s version of the Monkees theme song.
It was showtime!
“Ladies and gentlemen, please notice there are two lines for the tram, one on the right and the other on the left. If you’d like to keep your family together, please stay in the same line. However, if there is someone in your family you’d like to get rid of, just put them in the opposite line and you’ll never see them again.”
Everybody laughed. Mrs. Frumpkes was eyeballing her son, maybe wondering what line to put him in.
As people climbed aboard, I kept up my patter. “By the way, if you lost a roll of fifty twenty-dollar bills wrapped in a red rubber band over by the concession stand, please let me know. I’ve got great news. We found your red rubber band.”
More laughter. Kurt, up on the balcony, actually guffawed, which is like a laugh, only bigger.
I climbed into the front car.
“Hiya, sir,” I said to a man in the first row. “Where are you from?”
“Chattanooga.”
“I’m sorry?”
He said it louder. “Chattanooga!”
“Oh, I heard you the first time, sir. I’m just sorry.”
More laughs. Even from the Chattanooga guy.
“Now, Grandpa, if you’re ready to—”
I stopped in midsentence (something I seldom do, by the way).
From where the tram was parked in our front lot, I had a clear view of that giant glowing screen next door at the Conch Reef Resort. The billboard was blaring a brand-new image with scrolling headlines. It was a fanzine photo of Aidan Tyler looking super cheesy. Under him, strobing letters spelled out:
* * *
AIDAN TYLER SLEPT HERE LAST NIGHT.
THIS MORNING HE ORDERED WAFFLES.
HURRY!
HE MIGHT STILL BE EATING BREAKFAST!
* * *
Everybody on the tram saw the sign, too.
“Aidan’s still there?” squealed a girl.
Several others shrieked.
“We’ll take your second tour!” said Mrs. Frumpkes, climbing out of her seat. “I love that Aidan Tyler! Such a sweet young boy!”
Our entire crowd of early birds flew next door to take the Conch Reef Resort’s Aidan Tyler Waffle Tour.
“You guys guard the fort,” I told Gloria and Pinky. “I’ll head next door, find out what’s going on.”
“It’s called competition, P.T.,” said Gloria. “It is the backbone of the American free-enterprise system.”
“No way,” said Pinky. “Stealing customers? That’s totally un-American.”
“Competition brings out the best in products,” said Gloria.
“And the worst in people!” I added. “Hang here. I’ll be right back.”
I hurried down the sidewalk with what had been our crowd. Aidan Tyler’s illuminated face was still smirking smugly on the ginormous sign.
“Hey there, Petey.”
Mr. Conch was holding open the front door to his world-class restaurant, ushering in the mob.
“Here to take the booth tour? It was Veronica’s idea. She saw how popular all your gimmicks and stunts were next door, decided to outclass you. The kid’s a chip off the old block. A high-quality daughter. I’m very, very proud of her, as I’m sure your dad is very, very proud of you.”
I wasn’t sure if Mr. Conch knew the real story about my father or was just saying the standard stuff grown-ups always say. Either way, I didn’t rise to the bait.
“How much are you guys charging for your tour?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s free with every purchase of our best-in-the-world breakfast buffet, which includes Aidan Tyler’s favorites: eggs, breakfast meats, and griddle items, plus a small orange juice—all for just fourteen ninety-nine. Because at Conch High-Quality Resorts, you always get what you want because I always get what I want—like bulk discounts from the bacon and pancake batter boys!”
“Riiiight.”
“Maple syrup costs extra, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You would’ve played it the same way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good to know, because you’re a pro, Petey. A pro. En-joy. And when your mom sells out to me, don’t worry—there will always be a job for a huckster like you at Conch Enterprises! You remind me of me. And that’s a huge compliment, kid. Huge.”
“Mom’s not selling—”
Mr. Conch held up a hand. “We’ll see. She still has time to mull it over. Is she mulling?”
I had to nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good for her. You see? At the end of t
he day, I always get what I want.”
He gave me his shark smirk again.
“Excuse me, sir.”
I squeezed into the crowded dining room.
Veronica Conch was near an empty booth, giving her spiel to her first tour group. She was so giddy she was clicking her sparkly red tennis shoes together like Dorothy trying to go home in The Wizard of Oz.
“That’s where Aidan Tyler sat, like fifteen seconds ago,” she said. “And that’s where he spilled his orange juice, which is kind of against the law in Florida. And see that fork stabbing that half-chewed chunk of waffle? He left that waffle chunk there. The wadded-up napkin, too.”
“Is Aidan Tyler still here?” asked a tourist.
“No. He said he had to go ‘chillax.’ But you guys are super lucky. I’m a singer, just like Aidan. So I will now sing one of Mr. Tyler’s biggest hits.”
“Excuse me,” said a girl behind me when Veronica was (finally) finished. “Do you know anything about the movie tours next door?”
The entire restaurant gasped.
Because the girl asking the question was none other than Academy Award–winning actress Cassie McGinty. And this time, she was dressed like a glamorous movie star.
“I want to make sure I’m on the next tram ride!” she said, smiling at me.
“We’ll be leaving in five minutes, Miss McGinty,” I told her.
“Awesome! Then I’ve got to run. I want to be first in line!”
She bolted for the exit.
So did everybody else, except, of course, Mr. Conch and his daughter. They were both scowling at me.
I shrugged and grinned.
“Competition,” I told them. “I hear it’s the backbone of the American free-enterprise system.”
Cassie McGinty signed autographs and posed for photographs for like half an hour.
That meant Gloria sold a ton of frozen bananas. She even broke out our leftover candy jewelry, which, instead of being souvenirs commemorating the Sneemer brothers’ stay at the Wonderland, was “repackaged and repurposed” as “Edible Hollywood Glamour Gear.”
It totally helped that while signing and posing, Cassie wore a jawbreaker bracelet and a pair of gummy bear earrings.
When everybody in the crowd was happy, Cassie’s cell phone rang.
“Excuse me, guys,” she said. “I need to take this.”
I looked up to the second-floor balcony.
Kurt, the director, was up there on his phone.
“Really?” said Cassie. “Total rewrites? Yes, sir. Well, I wanted to take the tram tour but…Yes, sir. You’re right, sir. Work comes first.”
Cassie hung up. Kurt hung up.
Then he shot me a wink.
Yes, I think the two of them were in cahoots.
“I’m sorry, everybody,” Cassie told the crowd. “But that was my director.”
“Ooooh!” The crowd was impressed. “Her director!”
“Apparently, the screenwriter has made some major rewrites for the scenes we’re shooting first thing Monday morning. That means I have to go to work memorizing my new script. I can’t take the tram ride.”
“You’re a real pro, Miss McGinty,” said Mrs. Frumpkes. “We need more gals like you. You go do your homework—just like my son’s students should do, even though they don’t, because Francis is what the kids these days call a wimp.”
“Mother?” whispered Mr. Frumpkes.
Cassie kept smiling at her adoring fans. “It was great meeting all of you! Have fun on the tour. Maybe you’ll meet Kevin!”
She waved. The crowd cheered. And Cassie scampered off to her room to study her script or maybe watch a good movie on HBO. It’s free at the Wonderland.
I reloaded the train cars.
Grandpa tooted his whistle and drove us around a block of rooms as we headed toward the pool, which is behind our main building.
“Where is Kevin the Monkey?” squawked Mrs. Frumpkes, her mouth full of melting mashed banana. “That Cassie McGinty is sweet, but I really came here to see Kevin.”
“He might be around back,” I said. “So make sure your eyes are like a banana. Keep ’em peeled! Now, as we approach the pool, you will notice the groovy 1960s cabana, complete with spinning mirror ball. This is where we’ll shoot the first big scene on Monday!”
“Ooooh!” Up went the cell phones as everybody snapped a picture of the tent and shiny silver ball.
“There’s Kevin!” shrieked Mrs. Frumpkes, frantically waving what was left of her chocolate-dipped banana toward our Muffler Man statue. Grandpa had come through. By painting on a mask, giving the giant a striped shirt, and strapping an inflatable Garfield pool toy in his hands, Grandpa had turned our Muffler Man into a cat burglar.
While J.J. looked on, Kevin scampered up one of the big guy’s legs like it was a tree in the rain forest. He climbed out on the arms and jumped into the wobbly pool float.
Every single camera started clicking away. Kids were laughing.
They went absolutely nuts when Kevin used the inflatable cat as a big orange trampoline. I started cracking everybody up with corny monkey jokes I’d memorized from a website.
“Don’t worry about Kevin, ladies and gentlemen. When he needs to get down, I’m sure he’ll just slide down the banana-ster. Of course, like most monkeys, Kevin doesn’t like to play cards in the jungle. Too many cheetahs out there.”
Mrs. Frumpkes cracked up.
Mr. Frumpkes did not. He looked miserable.
Our first backstage tour was definitely a much bigger hit than Veronica Conch’s waffle booth bit. We did six more tours and were sold out of frozen bananas and candy jewelry by noon.
Then the day got even better.
Cassie McGinty asked Gloria and me if we wanted to eat lunch with her!
Cassie, Gloria, and I met up in the poolside cabana.
That way, Cassie could hide behind one of the tent flaps, where nobody could see her. She was back in her non-movie-star clothes—khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt.
“So, do you like crabs and stuff?” I asked. “There’s a pretty cool seafood shack across the street.”
“I really can’t go to restaurants,” Cassie said with a sigh. “Not even McDonald’s or Burger King.”
“The price of fame?” asked Gloria.
“Exactly. What I’d really love is an old-fashioned bologna sandwich on white bread with lots of yellow mustard and maybe some pickle relish.”
My jaw nearly dropped.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s so, I don’t know, normal! A bologna sandwich and rippled potato chips. The generic grocery store kind. Those are always greasier than the name-brand chips.”
Gloria and I both grinned.
“Well,” I said, “have we got just the guy for you.”
And that’s how we all ended up in Grandpa’s workshop, whipping up a platter of sandwiches, filling a bowl with Publix dip-style potato chips, and passing around a tube of Double Stuf Oreos.
Grandpa dug an icy can of Tahitian Treat fruit punch out of the cooler where he keeps his Cel-Ray and “other exotic and exquisite drinks.” He offered it to Cassie.
“It’s no Cel-Ray,” said Grandpa with a shrug, “but it’s still delicious. Very fruity. Very punchy.”
“Remember when I was little, we had that statue of Punchy, the Hawaiian Punch kid, near the pool?” I said.
Grandpa grinned. “And I’d say, ‘How about a nice Hawaiian Punch?’ You’d say, ‘Sure!’ and I’d act like I walloped you in the stomach.”
“Then I’d spin around and do a cannonball into the pool!”
“Best cannonball dive I ever saw,” said Grandpa. “P.T. would splash out half the pool.”
“A couple of weeks ago,” added Gloria, “we organized an official cannonball contest here at the Wonderland.”
“So are you guys like business partners?” asked Cassie.
“I guess,” said Gloria. “Mostly we’re just friends.”
Cassie sighed the way Mom does when Mr. Ortega’s in the room. “That must be nice.”
“Nice?” I said. “It’s awesome. And, by the way, I won that particular cannonball competition.”
“He earned extra points for wearing the wildest bathing suit,” said Gloria.
“Because I play to win!”
“If your movie needs a splashy cannonball diver,” added Gloria, “P.T. is your guy.”
“Great,” said Cassie with a smile. “I’m going to remember that.”
After our lunch break, Gloria and I went back to work.
Well, actually, first she went back to Publix to buy more bananas and Hershey’s bars.
Pinky Nelligan was strolling around again, strumming his guitar, crooning his Monkees song.
Meanwhile, Kurt, the director, came down from his second-story perch.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Kurt Stroh.”
“I’m P. T. Wilkie, sir. That’s short for Phineas Taylor.”
“Just like P. T. Barnum, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
We shook hands.
“Sorry I wasn’t more supportive when you kids pitched this motel over in Tampa,” he said. “But you kind of took me by surprise. Plus, Aidan Tyler had been giving me all kinds of grief….”
He swatted his hand at the air like he really didn’t want to talk, or think, about Aidan Tyler, at least not on his day off. So I changed the subject.
“I admire all your work, sir,” I said.
Gloria had insisted I learn everything I could about every single member of the cast and crew, especially the stars and the director.
“I particularly loved how you made that movie musical Put On Your Shoes so hip, even though it was about barefoot street urchins in Victorian England.”
“We had a lot of fun with that one,” said Kurt, proudly rolling back on his heels. “And please, call me Kurt.”
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