Tj and the Rockets

by Hazel Hutchins

  TJ and the Rockets

  Hazel Hutchins

  Copyright © 2004 Hazel Hutchins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be

  invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Hutchins, H. J. (Hazel J.)

  TJ and the rockets / Hazel Hutchins.

  “Orca young readers”.

  ISBN 1-55143-300-1

  I. Title.

  PS8565.U826T33 2004 jC813’.54 C2004-901634-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004103567

  Summary: Can TJ overcome his fear of failure and build a rocket for the

  upcoming science fair?

  Free teachers’ guide available.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its

  publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of

  Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP),

  the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design by Lynn O’Rourke

  Cover & interior illustrations by Kyrsten Brooker

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  1030 North Park Street

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8T 1C6

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  07 06 05 04 • 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper,

  100% old growth forest free, processed chlorine free

  using vegetable, low VOC inks.

  To Wil—

  who kept life exciting for everyone

  with inventions and rocket launches

  while he was growing up.

  —H.H.

  Chapter 1

  My name is TJ Barnes and sometimes I should quit while I’m ahead.

  Early Thursday morning, Gran turned up at our door with a long, skinny box. Inside were cardboard rolls, balsa wood and knotted string.

  “It’s a kit I picked up for you at a garage sale, TJ,” she said. “Smell this.”

  She placed a small gray tube in my hand. The smell was sharp and smoky all at once.

  “Gunpowder,” said Gran.

  I couldn’t believe what Gran was saying.

  “You want me to build a bomb?” I asked.

  Gran shook her head “no” and looked totally pleased at the same time.

  “Model rockets—the kind that really fly,” said Gran. “That’s a used rocket engine. The smell really does remind me of gunpowder.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know anything about model rockets.

  “Do you remember telling me that the worst thing about school this year was going to be the science fair?” asked Gran. “I thought this might help.”

  The science fair—just the mention of it was enough to ruin my day. I didn’t mind doing projects in class, but the idea of a science fair, when everyone in the whole school was going to walk by and say, “Look what a dumb thing TJ’s come up with,” made me feel sick to my stomach. It especially made me feel sick when the person who taught science to the other class was Mr. Wilson.

  Mr. Wilson is Mr. Super Science himself. He’s built an entire laboratory in the back of his classroom. He has all kinds of special equipment—beakers, batteries, microscopes, chemicals and books about everything under the sun. If you believe the rumors, he practically does the projects for the kids—not that anyone ever admits it. Would you admit it if you had the most amazing project ever?

  And there’s another problem. Ever since I was little, things go wrong, wrong, wrong for me whenever Mr. Wilson is around.

  In grade one, on the first really cold day, it was Mr. Wilson who found me with my tongue stuck to the bike rack.

  In grade two it was Mr. Wilson who figured out that I was walking funny because I’d Crazy-Glued my fingers to my kneecap.

  In grade three it was Mr. Wilson who was standing by the garbage pail in the hall the time I had to be sick and missed the bucket.

  I could go on, but I think you get the picture. I guess I must have looked sick again because Gran tried to reassure me, even if she didn’t know what I was feeling sick about.

  “You can do it all yourself, TJ,” she said. “I only have to be there when you launch. There are instructions and safety rules right in the box.”

  Suddenly there was a thumping noise overhead. We looked up. Neither of us had X-ray vision, but we could guess what was going on.

  “Say hi to the wild teenagers for me,” Gran said with a grin. “I’ve got to run.”

  The next moment Gran was out the door and I was on my way upstairs.

  The teenagers were my kittens, Alaska and T-Rex. I’d taken care of Gran’s four cats last year and now I had two of my own. They were nine months old and full of the kind of energy that sometimes got them into trouble; that’s why Gran called them the wild teenagers.

  As I reached the top of the stairs the thumping noise stopped and something small and metal came flying—smack— out the bathroom door.

  I looked into the bathroom. T-Rex was sitting innocently in the tub. He’s gray with little white paddy paws and great big kitten eyes. Those big eyes were looking up and they were very bright and shiny. Hunting eyes.

  Clink.

  A hairpin fell into the tub. Instantly, T-Rex attacked it. When T-Rex cuffs something around the bathtub, he puts his whole body into it. Thump, thump, thump, thump—plop. This time he sent it shooting out of the tub and into the toilet. Yuck! I didn’t want to have to fish hairpins out of the toilet!

  But T-Rex was sitting innocently, looking up again. I looked up too. There was Alaska, all black and orange and white, sitting on top of the medicine cabinet. She had squeezed in between the shampoo and the hair gel. She was pushing hairpins into the bathtub below.

  Clink.

  This one landed on the floor instead of in the tub. T-Rex ignored it.

  “Be careful,” I told Alaska.

  There wasn’t much room for her between the hair gel and shampoo. She had to keep reaching further and further behind the containers to find the pins. The hair gel gave a little wobble.

  “Look out,” I told her.

  But even I couldn’t see what was coming next.

  “Alaskaaa!”

  When my best friend, Seymour, arrived ten minutes later, I was holding a towel-wrapped kitten under each arm.

  “Did you know a single pair of cats can cover an entire bathroom with hair gel?” I asked. “First they push it off a high shelf so that it explodes and then they dance in it.”

  “Another amazing cat fact,” said Seymour.

  We’d done a report on cats last year. We were always looking for new facts.

  “Does the dance include dressing up like Egyptian mummy-cats?” asked Seymour.

  “They looked like a couple of punk rockers a few minutes ago,” I said. “I had to get them washed before they started licking themselves. Here, take this.”

  I handed T-Rex to Seymour for drying. I dried Alaska. We set them on the floor. Alaska shook one back leg and then the other as if she were doing some sort of disco dance. T-Rex walked around like a high-stepping wet rat. Seymour and I couldn’t help it. We laughed so hard our sides hurt. The kittens looked disgusted and went into the living room.

/>   I grabbed my schoolbooks from the table. Seymour pointed to the box that Gran had left.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Gran seems to think it’s my science project,” I said.

  “Looks like a mess to me,” said Seymour as we headed out the door. “Did I tell you? I’m not going to do a regular project.”

  “Everyone has to do a science fair project,” I said.

  “I’m not,” said Seymour. “I’m doing something better.”

  And that was all I could get out of him because we were late and had to run for it.

  Chapter 2

  It’s like I always say—our teacher, Ms. Kovalski is a witch. She knows things.

  SCIENCE FAIR!

  It was written on the blackboard when we got to school that morning. Not one word about it until now, but as soon as Seymour and I thought about it just the tiniest amount, there she was way ahead of us.

  “This is it—the year you get to do the best projects ever and display them in the gym. Has anyone decided what to do?” she asked.

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Gabe called from the back of the room.” I’ve decided to be sick that day!”

  Everyone turned to look at him. Gabe is never sick. If he were sick, his parents would make him stay home from hockey practice or soccer practice or baseball practice. Gabe hates school, but he loves sports. He doesn’t play sick. Ever.

  The next moment everyone else started calling out too.

  “I’m going to be sick the whole week!” said Jen.

  “I’m going to be sick the whole month!” said Roddy.

  “I’m going to be sick for the rest of the year!” said Mia.

  I hadn’t realized that everyone in class felt the way I did. Even Amanda Baker, the smartest kid in the room, was nodding her head.

  We all knew what was going to happen. One part of the gym would be full of the amazing projects done by Mr. Wilson’s class. The other part of the gym would have the very ordinary, very pathetic-looking attempts done by the kids who didn’t have Mr. Wilson for a teacher. We’d all seen it. I guess we’d all secretly assumed, back when we were little, that we’d be the ones in Mr. Wilson’s class with the wonderful projects. We weren’t. We had Ms. K.

  But we liked Ms. K.! We liked her a lot! We had her last year, and everyone asked to be in her class again when she moved up to the next grade. If we could just make the science fair go away, everything would be fine.

  Ms. K. took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

  “I’m sure you’ll all come up with excellent projects,” she said. “Let’s get out our books.”

  She was acting brave, but everyone could tell that even she was worried. Being a witch and knowing things is different from being a scientist and helping someone build a solar-powered radio.

  “I told you,” I said to Seymour after class. “We all have to be in the science fair. Even being sick for the rest of the year doesn’t count.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to be in the science fair,” said Seymour. “I just said I wasn’t doing a regular project.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’ve got to go to the library first,” said Seymour. “I’ll tell you at the store later.”

  The store is my mom and dad’s hardware store. It’s not a big place, but they’ve always wanted to run their own business and they’re really proud of it.

  Thursdays after school and Saturday afternoons I take care of the pet supplies; that’s my department. After that I help wherever else I’m needed. I’m not old enough for it to be “officially” a job, but it’s pretty much the same except I only do it because I want to. That day a big order had come in, and Mr. G., who started working at the store about two months ago, helped me carry out the boxes.

  I like Mr. G. He jokes with everybody while he works. He joked with a carpenter about buying a board stretcher (a board stretcher almost sounds like it might be a real tool—until you think about it). He even got a smile out of a lady with frizzy gray hair and a frizzy gray knitting bag while he sold her a bar of soap.

  “Where’s your excitable friend today?” asked Mr. G. as he brought out the last of the boxes.

  “Living dangerously at the library,” I said.

  Mr. G. laughed and headed home for the day.

  Talking about Seymour made me think about the science fair again. So did seeing Amanda’s mom when she came in to buy diet food for their cat. After that I ducked into a side aisle to avoid Mr. Wilson, who walked by with six boxes of batteries that were on sale. Someone in his class was probably going to build a giant electromagnet that could lift small locomotives. How could I not think about the science fair?

  “TJ, have you seen the radio alarm clock we had, the one with the giant snooze button?”

  Mom was standing at the end of the aisle. She was holding her mouth funny, the way she does when something is bugging her, but she wants to pretend it isn’t. What was going on?

  “Nope,” I said. “But I can look for it.”

  Mom nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t remember it going through the till.”

  I walked around the store to look for the alarm clock. Sometimes customers pick something up and leave it somewhere else. I was in the household section when Seymour showed up. Books stuck out the top of his backpack, and he had a strange look in his eye. Mr. G. thought I was joking about the library being a dangerous place, but in Seymour’s case it’s true.

  “It’s an even better idea than I thought!” he announced.

  He picked up a flyswatter and began smacking the shelf.

  “A schoolteacher invented this a hundred years ago. The little holes let the air pass through. No one’s ever invented anything better for swatting flies.”

  Mom and Dad like Seymour, but they don’t like it when he starts being loud in the store. I took away the flyswatter. Seymour picked up a couple of can-openers and began waving them around.

  “The first tin cans had to be opened with a chisel and a hammer,” said Seymour. “A chisel and hammer! Someone had to invent the can-opener!”

  I took the can-openers away and steered him into the next aisle.

  “The lightbulb!” announced Seymour. “Invented by Thomas Edison, who had a whole system of inventing.”

  He moved a few steps down the aisle.

  “Flashlights!” said Seymour. “Did you know that the first flashlights were invented as electric flowerpots?”

  I didn’t know it, and I didn’t believe it either. I figured it was time to head home. I hurried to the back room to grab my jacket. When I came out, Seymour was in the middle of the aisle, waving a pair of gumboots.

  “Rubber!” he called across the store. “Usable rubber was invented by accident—by accident!”

  The toy section was the fastest way to reach the front door.

  “Monopoly!” This time Seymour’s excitement reached new heights. “Charles Darrow invented it when he was out of work. He became a multimillionaire!”

  We’d reached the checkout counter. Happily Mr. Wilson was gone, but a man with a beard was buying nails in a small paper bag.

  “Paper bags used to be flat like envelopes,” Seymour told him. “A store owner invented bottoms and folding sides. A lady invented a machine to make zillions of them at a time.”

  The customer looked sideways at Seymour, paid quickly and left the store. The ping of the till set Seymour off again.

  “The first cash register was invented by a bar owner who wanted to stop his staff from stealing money. He got the idea from a machine that counted how many times a propeller went around!”

  I crowded Seymour out the door.

  “TJ?” Mom called.

  I stuck my head back inside.

  “Did you find that alarm clock?”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe Mr. G. sold it,” I said. “Or maybe Dad’s turning it into some kind of marketing gimmick. Don’t Be Alarmed— It’s Time
to Visit Barnes’ Hardware Store.”

  I like it when Mom laughs. Parents who run hardware stores can get way too serious and worried about things.

  “Zip up your coat!” she called as I went out the door.

  Of course I didn’t zip it up, but it set Seymour off again.

  “A hundred years ago you wouldn’t have been able to zip up your coat because zippers weren’t invented,” he said.

  “A hundred years ago I didn’t have a coat to zip up,” I told him. “I didn’t have fingers to zip with. I didn’t have hands to attach fingers to. Now stop with the inventions because I’ve got it figured out—you’re going to invent something for the science fair.”

  “It’s even bigger than that,” said Seymour. “Think how neat it will be to have a friend who is a famous inventor. Years and years from now you’ll be able to say, ‘This invention changed the world, and all because of my friend Seymour’!”

  I hate it when Seymour gets that kind of look on his face, mysterious and hopeful all at once. Suddenly, however, his expression changed to a frown.

  “But it’s got to be a secret,” said Seymour. “I don’t want Mr. Wilson’s class stealing my idea of inventing things and using his fancy equipment.”

  I nodded. That part I understood. Seymour grinned again.

  “So it’s a great idea, right?” he asked. “Seymour, the Inventor!”

  “I’ll ask the kittens what they think,” I said.

  “Ask T-Rex first,” said Seymour. “Tell him I’m the one who’s inventing something. And remember to feed him at the same time.”

  When I got home, however, T-Rex wasn’t hungry. Neither was Alaska. I was really, really worried that they were sick. I grew even more worried when they disappeared. Cats who are really sick sometimes go off alone to die. I didn’t want the kittens to die!

  Suddenly I heard strange noises in the laundry room. I raced in, thinking I might need to do something heroic to save them.

  Nope. The cat-food bag on the top shelf now had a big hole chewed in the corner, and they were feeding themselves by the gravity-flow method.

  The wild teenagers had turned into a pair of juvenile delinquents.

  Chapter 3