by Wendy Mass
“Where’s the tuna now?” one of the guests shouts.
“Feemus’ ship is no longer docked at Akbar’s,” the guard says. “Therefore, we were unable to recover the sandwiches.” The crowd begins to boo. Dad pulls me close.
The guard holds up his hand and the room quiets down. “We are sorry to interrupt your lunch. We will escort the criminal to the security office and take care of it from there.”
“I’m coming, too,” Pockets says.
“Wait!” the chief shouts.
Pockets stops. His father walks up to him and lays a medal around his neck. “For your courage on planet Canis, honesty, intelligence, and the capture of the Galactic. I’m proud of you, son.”
Pockets lifts the medal with one paw, then lets it fall back against his chest. “Thank you, Father,” he says. “Now I’ve got to go do my job.”
Using one sharp claw, he slices through the front of his suit. It drops to the floor at his feet. With a forward double somersault that I’m not sure is entirely necessary, he rolls off the stage and joins the guards leading Feemus down the aisle.
The crowd parts to let them through. When Feemus reaches me and Dad, he looks up, eye shiny. I think he’s about to start crying, and I don’t blame him. He’s gotten himself in a real pickle. But then he smiles and says, “Pockets is going to investigate me! Me! How exciting is that?”
Chapter Seven:
The New Guy
Dad and I get to the security office in time to hear Pockets say, “I know why you did it. I’m flattered and all, but this is a serious crime.”
“I didn’t do it,” Feemus insists, but he can’t seem to wipe the smile from his face, so his argument isn’t very convincing.
“You knew how much I wanted that tuna,” Pockets says, whipping out a recording device, “so you tried to take it all for me. In the end, it wasn’t the best idea. Let’s just admit that, bring back your odd little round spaceship, and return the tuna to the kitchen. I’m sure all those tuna-starved ISF cats will forgive you if you feed them.”
“I would if I could,” Feemus says. “But I didn’t take it. And I don’t know where my ship is.”
Pockets throws up his paws. “Then why are you smiling?”
“I’m sorry!” Feemus says. “It’s just that the great Pilarbing Fangorious is interrogating me. It’s exciting!”
“Trust me,” one of Akbar’s security guards says, “you won’t find jail all that exciting, and that’s where you’re headed.”
“Look, Feemus,” Pockets says, and I can tell he feels a little sorry for him. “This isn’t a game. I saw that video. We all saw it.”
“But that wasn’t me,” Feemus insists. “I was with you guys all the time. Well, I guess not all the time, since sometimes you ditched me, but most of the time!”
Dad and I exchange a guilty look. It probably wasn’t nice to ditch him, but he can be a little exhausting. “Are you denying that was you on the video?” Dad asks.
“Yes,” Feemus says firmly. The Akbar security guards shake their heads at that. They aren’t buying it.
“Could you have done it in your sleep?” I ask. “Have you ever sleepwalked before?”
“I don’t think so,” Feemus says. His smile wobbles. “The worst part of this? I could lose my position as president of the fan club! The other members will argue that I’m not fit to stand by your side.”
“That’s the worst part?” Pockets asks. “That someone else might be the president of my…” He can’t make himself say the words fan club.
Feemus nods, his thin shoulders sagging. “Someone else will become your right-hand man. The person you rely on most, the one who knows your fears, your dreams, who can figure out your needs before you even have them.” He wipes away a tear.
Pockets stares at Feemus and shakes his head. “You’ve really got to get another hobby.”
One of the guards comes in. “Feemus has a visitor.”
Thoster pushes his way through. “I came as soon as I could.”
“I guess you’re here on official president business,” Feemus says glumly.
Thoster nods. “It’s only a temporary position, don’t worry. Pockets needs someone by his side in this time of crisis.”
“No, I don’t,” Pockets says, shaking his head emphatically.
“No,” Feemus says sadly. “Thoster’s right. You definitely need a sidekick.”
“Ahem,” I say. “I’m pretty sure my dad and I are his sidekicks?”
Feemus and Thoster roll their eyes. Well, Feemus only rolls the one. Still, I don’t appreciate it. We make excellent sidekicks!
“There you guys are!” a voice says from behind us. I turn around to find Kurf. “Been looking all over for you.”
“You found us!” I say, happy to see him.
“Feemus’ ship showed up!” he says, turning to Pockets. “My dad found it hidden under a blanket behind a broken transport bot.”
“Good!” Pockets declares, heading toward the door. “The tuna has been found and we can put this whole unfortunate affair behind us.” Then he glares at Feemus and says, “After a written apology.”
Feemus begins to follow Pockets out the door, but the security guards block him. “You’ll need to stay here until this is sorted out.”
With a longing glance at Pockets, Feemus allows himself to be led back in. “Don’t worry,” Thoster says. “I will keep Pockets company and make sure his needs are taken care of.”
Feemus sinks down onto the bench. I feel sorry for him, even though he brought this upon himself. Or did he?
Apparently the transport bots are only allowed to be in the hotel, so we’ll have to walk nearly the whole length of the rest stop to get to Graff’s Garage. As I do my best to keep up, I run the facts of the case through my head like Pockets taught me. Since Feemus ALWAYS wants Pockets to be happy, it’s logical that he would have stolen the tuna. But if he did, then why not give it to Pockets sooner? Why wait until the lunch? Did he steal it just to gain Pockets’ attention? If so, then why bother to deny that he stole it in the first place? Nothing adds up.
I would go over it with Pockets, but Thoster is busy asking him lots of questions, like any good fan club member would do if they got the chance to walk alongside their idol. How did you stand it, being so close to all those wild dogs? What did it feel like to capture the Galactic? Has the ISF found any good information on board? What’s your favorite pizza topping? Do you think B.U.R.P. will be a threat again anytime soon?
Pockets only gives one-word answers. Mostly he just grunts. He’s a cat on a mission, and right now that mission includes retrieving a tray of tuna fish sandwiches. No one can compete with that.
“Careful,” Kurf says, pointing to a puddle of water that I never would have noticed. “When your body squirts oil, you learn to avoid water,” he explains. “Oil and water don’t mix!”
I look past the puddle and see a trail of water leading down an alley between shops. I’m surprised, because Akbar’s is always very clean. Someone could slip on that. Thoster must be thinking the same thing, because he stops and stares down at it. “Pockets always has towels in one of his pockets,” I tell him. “I’ll go get one.”
“No need to slow him down,” Thoster says. He points to a closet nearby marked JANITORIAL SUPPLIES. “I’ll take care of it.” A few seconds later the spill has a plastic orange cone next to it, warning, CAUTION, WET FLOOR.
“Smart!” I say.
Pockets is so focused on the tuna that he keeps bumping into people. At one point he almost bumps into a guy carrying two huge buckets of ice—I think it’s that same blue guy I’ve seen twice now! He’s either a really big fan of ice or it’s his job to deliver it. Thoster quickly jumps between Pockets and the ice guy. Thoster makes sure to shield Pockets with his body until the guy heads off, an ice cube flying out from his buckets now and then. “Phew!” he says, mopping his brow. “That was a close one. Pockets might have gotten hurt. Or very wet!” He is clearly taking
his self-appointed duties as president very seriously. Feemus would be pleased. Jealous, but pleased.
When we finally get to Graff’s Garage to retrieve the tuna, it turns out Feemus’ ship is totally empty. “Did someone take the sandwiches to the ballroom already?” Dad asks.
Before Graff can answer, Pockets shakes his head. “There has never been any tuna on board this spaceship.”
Chapter Eight:
Roller Rink Revenge
“How is that possible?” one of the guards asks. “We all saw the footage. He was pushing those sandwiches right through this very door.”
“Maybe he dropped them off someplace and cleaned out his ship,” Thoster suggests.
Pockets shakes his head. “If there had been any tuna here in the last twenty-four hours, I would still smell it.” I can tell by the slow way he’s talking and the downward tilt of his ears that he’s only barely keeping it together.
Thoster tries again. “Could he have moved the sandwiches to your space taxi so you could eat them on your ride home?”
Pockets shakes his head again. “The security cameras in the hotel parking garage would have picked up his movements.”
“Poor little guy,” Thoster says. “He made a bad choice, but he did it out of affection. I guess they’ll have to hold him here on Akbar’s until they can find the missing sandwiches.”
While the others are trying to figure out where the tuna is, I take the opportunity to peek inside. Feemus’ ship is basically the shape of a cupcake, and not much taller than me! Like our space taxi, though, I’ve seen Feemus’ ship hold a lot more inside than it would appear from the outside.
The dashboard doesn’t look anything like the one in Dad’s taxi. There are a lot more buttons and knobs and levers. Obviously his spaceship can do a lot more than our taxi can. I guess it would have to, the way Feemus manages to get places so quickly.
I feel a little strange looking around, like I’m invading his private space. I realize I don’t know much about him—how old he is, how he met Pockets, where he lives. On the back of his seat he taped a photo of him and Pockets holding a captured B.U.R.P. criminal between them. Feemus is smiling wide and Pockets is scowling. There’s another picture with Feemus on a boat with three other little red aliens who could only be his family. I kneel down to peer a little closer at it. I wonder if he sees his family often. I wonder if they’re as obsessed with Pockets as he is.
When I climb back out, Kurf points to my knees and says, “You got something on your nice suit.” I look down to see a smudge of what looks like orange paint on each knee.
“What is that?” Dad asks, coming closer.
“Let me help,” Thoster says, and he licks it off! I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. This is the guy who ate a huge bowl of garbage yesterday. But still, it’s kind of a strange thing to do.
“Let’s get back to Feemus,” Pockets says. “I didn’t want to have to resort to it, but I can use the Truth or Lie 2000 on him. Then we can finish this thing.”
The whole way back, Thoster divides his time between clearing a path for Pockets and peppering him with questions again. What was your hardest mission? What are your favorite gadgets? How does someone become an ISF officer? Finally, Pockets just slips on a pair of headphones and Thoster stops asking.
“Hey, the cone is gone,” I point out as we reach the spill.
Pockets stops and pulls off his headphones. “What did you say?” he asks.
“Nothing, really,” I reply. “Just that there’s some water on the floor. We had a cone there to warn people, but it’s gone.”
“There it is,” Dad says, pointing a few yards away, to the entrance of the Fresh As a Daisy flower shop. It must have gotten kicked there by mistake.
“Keep moving,” Thoster says, steering Pockets away while Dad goes to get the cone. But Pockets does not like to be steered. He looks down to see what I was talking about.
“Strange,” he murmurs. “It leads into a closet, not a restroom. Why would a closet be leaking water?” He starts walking toward it, but Thoster reaches it first and tries to turn the knob.
“It’s locked,” he says. “We should go back to Feemus anyway. Probably just a janitor’s bucket leaking.”
Thoster obviously doesn’t realize that Pockets can’t turn away from a mystery, even one as small as why a closet is leaking water.
“You’re just turning the knob the wrong way,” Pockets says. He slips in front of Thoster and pushes open the door. It’s cold in the closet, and dark. Pockets flicks on the light, and the first thing I see is that bumpy blue guy! He looks as surprised to see us as we are to see him. He lunges across the small space, like he’s trying to cover something up. Then I see it. A huge cart full of ice. No wonder the kitchen was out of ice—it was all in here! And on top of the ice? About a hundred tuna fish sandwiches! He must have needed the ice so the sandwiches wouldn’t go bad!
“Why’d you bring them here, boss?” asks Blue Guy.
No one says anything, not sure if they misheard the guy. “Sorry, what?” Pockets says. “Are you working with Feemus?”
“Huh?” Blue Guy says. It’s at this point that I notice Thoster is slowly backing out of the closet. Pockets notices, too. In a flash, he’s on top of him.
“What’s going on, Thoster?” he demands. “If that is even your name.”
I look from Blue Guy to Thoster and back again. Blue Guy looks confused. Thoster’s eyes are black with fury. Dad pulls me away. I’m very confused. Has Thoster been working with Feemus all this time? Or did he steal the sandwiches and frame Feemus so he could become president of the fan club? It certainly looks that way. But how did he get Feemus in that video?
“It was Feemus’ idea!” Thoster insists. “He just wanted to please you. All I did was promise to keep his secret.”
Pockets loosens his grip a tiny bit. It just doesn’t sound right to me, though. Feemus never trusted Thoster to begin with. I think back to the little I know about Thoster. All this time I thought he was being nice—first to Bloppy at the contest, then to Pockets—but he was just trying to get on Pockets’ good side and earn his trust, just like Feemus said. And just before, in the hallway, he wasn’t trying to save Blue Guy from spilling ice on Pockets—he was trying to keep Pockets from spotting him and getting suspicious. Even putting out the cone wasn’t about keeping people from slipping; it was about making sure Pockets stayed clear of the water so he wouldn’t trace it back to the closet! Or maybe I’m wrong—after all, Thoster did clean the paint off my pants for me. Then, suddenly, I realize why he did it.
“Wait!” I shout to Pockets, who has started to help Thoster to his feet. “He’s lying. The orange paint! That wasn’t Feemus in that video at all!” I turn to Pockets. “Now I know why Feemus was walking all weird and looked orange instead of red.”
“That’s absurd,” Thoster says.
I race around the closet, looking for anything to help prove my story, like a jar of paint. Then I spot something orange sticking out from underneath the cart with the ice. As I dive down to the floor, Blue Guy grabs at my suit collar.
“Unhand him,” Pockets growls. His tail swishes around and unhinges, and a laser shoots out and nips Blue Guy’s ear. He howls and lets me go. I yank out the orange thing and find myself holding one very odd-looking Feemus-shaped robot.
“Who ARE you?” Pockets demands. “Nobody goes to all this trouble just to become the president of my fan club!” He pulls out his tablet and holds it up to Thoster’s face. Thoster grunts and tries to break free. A few seconds later the tablet dings and a photo comes up on the screen. Warning: B.U.R.P. officer. Wanted for theft on sixteen planets. Considered armed and dangerous. Current assignment: Spy. Mission: Find and befriend Pockets the cat in order to find out his secrets.
Dad, Kurf, and I gasp. We don’t have too much time to react, though, because things move fast! Thoster takes advantage of the fact that Pockets is only holding him with one paw. He reaches into his boot and pull
s out some kind of device the size of a television remote control. Before Pockets can grab it, Thoster pushes a button. Instantly, we—and everything around us that’s not nailed down—float about six feet off the ground!
“We’re flying!” Kurf shouts. He stretches out his arms and soars higher toward the ceiling.
I laugh. This is awesome! Even Pockets is floating. Hissing and spitting, but floating. A tuna sandwich floats right up to his nose. He gobbles it down in one bite. Dad holds on to a high shelf and points down at the floor. It takes a few seconds before I realize that Thoster is still standing upright.
“Gravity boots,” he says, grinning with that wide mouth of his. He gives us a wave and then darts right out of the storage room.
Pockets scowls. “He’s good, I’ll give him that. But he’s not getting off this rest stop.” He taps his ear communicator and contacts Akbar’s security team. “Lock down the docking bays until further notice. No one takes off.” To the rest of us he says, “The anti-gravity must only work in here. We’d know if the rest of Akbar’s was on the ceiling!”
We half glide, half swim out of the storage room and instantly fall to the ground. Pockets scrambles to his feet and throws a net over Blue Guy, who made the mistake of following us out. Pockets radios security again to come get the criminal and to bring nets to rescue the floating sandwiches.
Kurf and I stare up at the high ceiling of the rest stop, catching our breath. Kurf turns to me. “Does stuff like this happen to you a lot?”
I nod. “More than you’d think.”
“I’m so glad I met you!” Kurf says, holding up his hand. I give him an enthusiastic high five. This suit is pretty much ruined by now, so what’s a little oil?
I follow Pockets’ gaze as he looks down the hall in both directions. One way is crowded with aliens going about their business. If Thoster had run through the crowd, people would be stopped and looking around, or knocked over. The other way is the roller rink, which is closed now for the day. I’m about to point out my observations to Pockets, but he’s already on his feet.