B.U.R.P. Strikes Back

by Wendy Mass

  “Just try to stay awake from this point on,” he says.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” I promise. “That sure woke me up! Do you think anyone on the International Space Station spotted us?”

  He shook his head. “Our speed is much too fast to be picked up by their technology.”

  Relieved that I didn’t just blow our cover, I focus carefully on the map the rest of the way. The flashing neon signs that reach high above Akbar’s welcome us as we make our final approach. The lights are so festive, like a nonstop party in the otherwise dark sky. Not for the first time, I wish Penny could see this. She’d love it.

  Dad steers the taxi around toward the far side of the huge floating building, a part of the rest stop I’ve never seen. Giant floating letters announce: HOTEL GUESTS ONLY! IF YOU DON’T HAVE A RESERVATION, KEEP ON DRIVING! THIS MEANS YOU! Each letter is bigger than our taxi!

  Dad drives right through the center of the o in Hotel and I realize we’re now inside a tunnel. It’s so dark that I can’t even tell where the sides are. “It’s as dark as a wormhole in here!” I say.

  “That won’t last long,” Dad assures me. He’s right. A few seconds later light explodes all around us and the taxi fills with loud rock music! Pockets screeches and hits the ceiling again. He covers his ears. The music abruptly cuts off and a deep yet pleasant voice says, “Greetings, honored guests! A transport bot will meet your car shortly to escort you and your luggage to your rooms. Have a lovely visit, and do let us know if we can do anything to make your stay more pleasant!”

  “You can have better taste in music,” Pockets mumbles.

  The taxi comes to a halt in front of a pair of huge glass doors. A woman with her hair braided in an elaborate design on the top of her head opens my door. “Welcome, young Morningstar. I am your bellwoman. I shall be showing you, your father, and Pilarbing Fangorious to your rooms. I am certain you will find them to your liking.”

  Trying to remember my manners, I reply, “Thank you, I’m sure it will be—” But when I look up, the words get caught in my throat. I’ve seen some strange things in my role as an ISF deputy—creatures of all shapes, sizes, and colors, with varying amounts of limbs, eyes, and even heads. But never before have I seen anything like the woman—I mean transport bot—holding my car door open.

  Chapter Three:

  Hotel in the Air

  The transport bot looks like a normal person from the waist up, but from the waist down she is a golf cart. Yes, a GOLF CART. Like a little electric cart that you’d drive around in, with space in the back for golf clubs, or in this case, our suitcases.

  The transport bot doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. Her arms extend superlong, and she cheerfully lifts our suitcases out of the trunk and places them in the cart. SO WEIRD. Pockets barely gives the bot a second look, but Dad raises one eyebrow as he shakes her hand.

  We follow her into the hotel lobby, where she instructs us to take seats in the cart. Dad and I exchange a look, but we climb in after Pockets. The lobby is very fancy, with black-and-white-tiled floors and artwork on every wall. Plush couches are full of aliens from all over, everyone dressed in their finest. Dad and I are definitely underdressed in our jeans and T-shirts!

  We drive toward the glass elevator and pull in beside a male transport bot with stacks of pillows and towels in his cart. The two bots nod pleasantly at each other. The elevator only stops once, to let on a tall man with bumpy blue skin carrying two huge buckets of ice. At first I think he’s going to bonk his head on the ceiling, but then the ceiling raises up a few inches, like our taxi does when it turns into a plane. He fits! Very cool. I enjoy looking out the glass walls at the bustling lobby as the elevator slowly rises.

  When the door opens at our floor I spot Feemus, pacing up and down the hall, checking his watch. Feemus is so small that at first the bot doesn’t even notice him and almost runs him down. Feemus scoots out of the way just in time.

  “Finally!” he shouts with joy. Then he hops right into the cart! His one eye beams happily at us.

  Pockets groans and slaps his head. “Guess I should have known you’d be here.” The tall blue guy gives Feemus a long look as the elevator door closes. Bet he’s never seen a little red alien with one eye so excited to see a giant cat!

  “I will take it from here,” Feemus tells the bot, tossing out the suitcases like they weigh nothing at all. The transport bot hands Feemus a large brown envelope before nodding at us and gliding back to the elevator.

  Feemus keeps up a running one-sided conversation as he leads us down a long carpeted hallway that smells like fruit, for some reason. Pockets hurries ahead toward the room.

  “Wait,” Feemus calls after him. “Don’t you want this?” He pulls a typewritten sheet of paper out of the envelope, but Pockets keeps walking. Dad leans over and takes it. “Sorry about Pockets. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Oh no,” Feemus says, “Pockets can act any way he likes. He’s earned it!”

  I’m sure my mom would scold Pockets for his lack of manners, but it doesn’t look like Feemus ever will.

  “That is your itinerary,” Feemus explains to Dad. He hands me my own copy, which makes me feel grown-up. We catch up to Pockets at the end of the hall.

  “Please look it over and let me know if you have any questions.” He glances at Pockets. “As always, your comfort is my highest priority.”

  I scan the page of text. Wow, Feemus wasn’t kidding—we have somewhere to be every second, starting in ten minutes!

  10:00 a.m. Pockets and the Morningstars will meet with the tailor, who will be taking their measurements.

  11:30 a.m. Pockets will present a golden wrench to Kurf (Graff’s son), honoring him as the newest mechanic at Graff’s Garage.

  12:30 p.m. Lunch with important leaders from other planets.

  2:00 p.m. Back to the tailor to try on the clothes.

  3:00 p.m. A two-hour guided tour of the Akbar Gardens, voted one of the top ten best gardens across ten galaxies.

  5:00 p.m. Pockets will judge the slog-eating contest.

  6:00 p.m. Dress rehearsal for Sunday’s luncheon, followed by a private dinner with Pockets, his fan club, the Morningstars, Pockets’ father, and Akbar.

  “Akbar himself?” I ask, looking up from the page.

  Feemus nods, jumping from foot to foot. “A big honor, yes, indeed!” He finally stops in front of a door and I can’t help thinking that the transport bot could have gotten us here a lot quicker. The metal plate on the door tells us we’re in the Presidential Suite. Sounds fancy already!

  “You will all be sharing these rooms,” he tells us. “But Pockets gets the biggest bedroom.” He holds the card key up to the metal plate and the door swings open. Well, the fruit smell is no longer a mystery. Every surface is covered with gift baskets and bowls of exotic fruits from all over the universe! The room itself is huge, reminding me a little of the head of B.U.R.P.’s private rooms on the Galactic, but without the criminal mastermind sleeping in one of the beds. I run inside and duck my head into the three bedrooms that branch off from the main living room. Yup, beds are all clear!

  “You will find a coupon book on the desk with discounts for various shops and restaurants, even Barney’s!” Feemus beams.

  Pockets’ ears twitch at the name of his favorite restaurant.

  “But you won’t even need to go there,” Feemus says excitedly, “because I made sure the main course for lunch tomorrow is Barney’s tuna sandwiches!”

  Even though this news must make Pockets very happy, he doesn’t show it. I notice he has a hard time thanking Feemus for anything. Dad elbows Pockets, who finally mutters, “Thank you.” Feemus beams at the small gesture of appreciation.

  “If you are ready,” Feemus says from the hall, “I will now escort you to the tailor for your fittings.”

  Dad and I are too busy shoveling what looks like a combination of blueberry and watermelon into our mouths to answer.

  “And I can’
t WAIT to hear your speech!” Feemus gushes. “I bet it’s CHOCK-FULL of wisdom and guidance. Perhaps you will share it with me as we walk?”

  In response, Pockets growls, “We’ll meet you there.” Then he springs toward the door and slams it shut.

  Dad and I shake our heads. Poor Feemus. He doesn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Four:

  Archie Makes a Friend

  Pockets has locked himself in the huge bathroom to try to write his speech. Dad and I keep telling him through the door that we have to go to the tailor now. Dad’s usually calm voice has taken on an edge of frustration. “Pockets, if we’re late for the very first thing on our agenda, the whole schedule will get out of whack. Just write what’s in your heart.”

  Pockets only whimpers in response. Dad leans against the door. “Look, I know you don’t like being the center of attention. You just want to do your job. And you may not feel like you were particularly brave on the dog planet, but no other cat has even gone there. So here we are in this beautiful hotel, with lots of people who came to celebrate you, and you need to try to make the best of it. Or, as my father used to say when faced with something he didn’t want to do: If you can’t get out of it, get into it!”

  “Grandpa said that?” I ask.

  Dad nods. “Pretty wise, your grandfather.”

  The door to the bathroom slowly opens. Pockets squares his shoulders. “You’re right. Let’s do this!” He shoves his notebook deep into a front pocket, grabs a pawful of fruit, and marches out the door. Dad and I hurry after him.

  In an effort to keep up his new positive attitude, Pockets greets everyone we pass, holds open doors for the young and old, and picks up two pieces of trash. It is inspiring to watch.

  I try not to fall too far behind as we make our way through the hotel lobby, but my attention keeps getting pulled away by places like Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow. All kinds of aliens—some with hair down to their toes—sit in rows facing full-length mirrors and chatting with three-armed robot barbers who snip and spray and blow-dry, all at the same time!

  Once we leave the hotel lobby, Dad pulls out the itinerary and studies the map attached to it. He and Pockets both know their way around Akbar’s, but neither of them has visited the tailor before.

  “Looks like the tailor is all the way on the other end of the rest stop,” Dad says, frowning. “It’s a few doors down from the roller rink.”

  “We can visit Bloppy!” I exclaim.

  “Feemus will self-destruct if we make any detours now,” Dad says. “We’ll see Bloppy later.”

  Dad tries to hold on to Pockets by the scruff of his neck when we pass Barney’s, but it’s no good. He breaks free easily and runs in. Dad and I reach the counter in time to hear Pockets shout, “What do you mean there’s no tuna?”

  “All our tuna is being made into sandwiches for the big luncheon tomorrow,” the clerk tells him. “Some famous ISF officer is being honored. It’s a pretty big deal, I guess.”

  “That’s me!” Pockets cries. “I’m the famous ISF officer! And I don’t want to wait until lunch tomorrow for my tuna!”

  “You’re the officer?” the clerk says. “I don’t think so.” He stretches his neck so he can see around Pockets. “Next on line?” It’s the blue bumpy guy, asking to buy ice. The clerk shakes his head. “Out of ice. Next!” Boy, people are striking out left and right at Barney’s today.

  It takes both Dad and me using all our strength to yank Pockets away from the counter and drag him out. He keeps shouting, “I want to speak to Barney! Get me Barney!”

  So much for his new positive attitude.

  Feemus throws up his hands when we finally arrive at the tailor’s, a half hour behind schedule. “You’re here, you’re finally here!”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Pockets says, barreling his way into the shop.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Dad tells Feemus. “Pockets had a few meltdowns. He’s having trouble with his speech, and then he found out Barney’s is out of tuna, and, well, you know how he is.”

  Feemus nods knowingly. “I certainly do know how he is,” he says. “It is terribly hard to be as perfect as Pockets all the time. How very lucky you are to always bask in his presence.”

  “Sure,” Dad says. “Lucky. That’s us!”

  An alien who looks like a cross between a snake and, well, a snake with shoes approaches us. “Come, gentlemen,” he says in a slithery voice. “We have been expecting you.”

  We follow him to the middle of the store and find Pockets standing on a round platform while another snake-alien wraps his tail around Pockets’ belly. The snake then whips his tail away and examines it. There’s a tape measure printed on his tail! When he’s done, he uses the tip of his tail to punch the measurements into a computer.

  Dad and I each climb up onto our own raised platforms, and between the two snakes, they curl their tails around our legs, arms, necks, hips, and waists. It tickles and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Excuse me for asking,” Dad says hesitantly, “but how do you sew the clothes? I mean, without hands?”

  The two snake-aliens laugh. “Very carefully!” one of them replies, sticking a sewing needle between his teeth.

  “All done,” the other says with a final flick of his tail. “Come back at two.”

  Feemus ushers us out of the tailor’s. “No time to waste,” he says. “We only have five minutes to get to Graff’s Garage.”

  I glance longingly at the roller rink, ablaze with lights and music. I know my visit to Bloppy will have to wait. At least I’ll get to see Graff and meet his son. I didn’t even know he had a son!

  Feemus tries to talk to Pockets as we walk but eventually gives up when Pockets doesn’t look up from his notebook. Hopefully he’ll feel better when he finishes writing that speech.

  “Sal Morningstar, you old dog!” Graff says, greeting us at the entrance to the garage. “Thank you all for coming today.” He pumps my dad’s hand, then mine, and saves a hug for Pockets. We all come away wiping grease off various body parts. It’s funny how when I first met Graff all I could think about was that he looked like a giant ant. Now he just looks like Graff.

  “I know what a special occasion it is when your son joins forces with you,” Dad says, winking at me. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  Graff grins and ruffles my hair. Good thing my dark hair hides the grease that just squirted out of Graff’s hand!

  “Hello, Feemus,” Graff says with a nod. “Always nice to see you.”

  “You know Feemus?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Graff says. “Everyone knows the head of Pockets’ fan club. Where Pockets goes, Feemus is never far behind.” Pockets hisses in response to that comment. Graff puts one arm around Pockets’ shoulders and the other around mine. “Come on, boys, let me introduce you to my son, Kurf.”

  Graff leads us over to a silver car/spaceship with legs sticking out from underneath. Graff bends down, grabs the ankles, and gently pulls. Out slides a boy who looks identical to Graff, only a few decades younger. “Hi, Pops!” the boy says. “Is this him?” He gestures to me.

  “Me?” I ask, surprised.

  Graff nods. “I figured you and Kurf are around the same age. You’d probably like a buddy to hang out with while you’re here.”

  I glance over to Dad and Pockets. Dad gives me a nod.

  “Sure!” I reply. Kurf waves to me, which is definitely better than a handshake if he’s anything like his dad! Judging by the puddle of oil he’s standing in, he’d get me messy pretty quickly. I wave back.

  Feemus clears his throat. “I don’t mean to break up the start of a lovely friendship, but we’ve got to move this ceremony along.”

  “Here ya go,” Pockets says, tossing a gold-colored wrench at Kurf. Tools to them are apparently like trophies to Earth kids. Kurf catches it inches away from his head.

  “Congratulations,” Pockets adds.

  “Thanks!” Kurf says, holding it up for everyone to see. Graff cheers l
oudest.

  Feemus groans. “There was supposed to be a whole thing here. Speeches, standing ovations, ribbon cutting.”

  “That’s okay,” Kurf says. “Hey, can Archie hang out for a while? I can show him around.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Feemus says, whipping out the itinerary. “Our schedule is totally full. We have lunch next with some very important world leaders.”

  “What if Kurf comes along with us?” Dad suggests. He turns to Graff. “Would that be okay? Pockets and I will keep an eye on him.”

  Pockets shakes his head.

  “I will keep an eye on him,” Dad corrects himself.

  “Sure,” Graff says. “Would you like to, son?”

  Kurf has already pulled off his mechanic’s overalls and tossed on a baseball cap. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter Five:

  Slog-Eating Contest

  What I take away from the lunch is that important leaders are really serious and only want to talk about politics and security and grown-up stuff. Pockets is still annoyed at the lack of tuna and is being very vocal about it to anyone who will listen. The leaders keep asking his opinions on important matters, and Pockets looks like he wants to crawl under the table.

  Kurf and I really DO crawl under the table, until Dad makes us come out. Then we spend the rest of the time daring each other to try the really weird foods the waiters keep serving. I swear, some of it is still moving! I’m not a picky eater (only room for one of those in the family, and Penny’s already gotten dibs on that) but eating tiny black slugs or some kind of furry meat with feathers still on it just doesn’t do it for me. Kurf wins our contest hands down. He even eats a napkin! I, on the other hand, leave lunch hungry.