How to Scare the Pants Off Your Pets

by Henry Winkler

  “Your friend can come along,” Bennett said. “When it comes to stapling, the more the merrier, I always say.”

  “Thanks, Bennett, but he can’t come. He’s grounded.”

  Billy and Bennett went on a staple-gunning extravaganza and within an hour, the FREE KITTENS signs were posted all over the neighborhood — on their block, in the supermarket parking lot, at the park, even in the window of Fur ’N Feathers. By afternoon, there were at least ten people who had lined up to see the kittens. They waited in the living room, while Billy brought them into his bedroom one at a time. The Hoove sat on the window with a clipboard, taking notes. The first person to arrive was Amber Brownstone.

  “Oooohhh, they’re such cuties,” she squealed. “I want one.”

  “No way,” the Hoove said. “She might be okay, but I won’t have one of my kitties in the same house as her mutant brother.”

  He wrote down A. Brownstone and made a check in the NO box on his list.

  Mrs. Pearson from the house on the corner was the next to arrive. She immediately bent down and tickled the spotted kitty under the chin.

  “Oh, you look just like the cat I had when I was a little girl,” she cooed. “How I loved my little Speckles.” Billy noticed tears at the corners of her bright blue eyes. “I’d love for that little darling to come live with me. I’d name him Speckles Two.”

  Billy looked over at the Hoove.

  “I’m liking this,” he said. “Plus, she’s got a good location at the corner of the block. Perfect for visitation rights.”

  The gray cat went to Hugo, who ran the taco stand. He said it was his daughter Maria’s sixth birthday in a month, and the thing she wanted most was a cat.

  “Thunder will make an excellent birthday present,” the Hoove said, checking the YES box on his list. “And we know he’ll always be well fed if Hugo brings home leftovers from the fish tacos.”

  That left the white cat, Penelope. The Hoove rejected three people in a row. The Schwartz family was moving to San Diego in a month, and the Hoove thought that was too far away. Fred Park lived in a one-room apartment and the Hoove didn’t like the idea of Penelope being cooped up. The O’Donnell family was perfect, except they insisted on naming her Fiona after their Irish grandmother and that was a deal-breaker for the Hoove.

  The fourth person to apply for the white cat was none other than Daisy Cole herself, the owner of Fur ’N Feathers. The minute she saw the little white kitten, she let out a high-pitched shriek.

  “Oh, if she isn’t the sweetest thing in the world,” she squeaked. “I’ll take her and bring her to the shop.”

  Billy looked over at the Hoove, who shook his head no. “She’ll sell her,” he said, “and that’s definitely not okay with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Billy said to Daisy. “We don’t want to sell Penelope. We want to find her a good home.”

  “Penelope!” Daisy said. “What a perfect name for her. And I have no intention of selling her. She’ll stay with me at the store during the day, and go home with me and Robert at night.”

  “Who’s this Robert character?” the Hoove asked suspiciously.

  “Robert’s a parrot,” Billy said.

  “Why, yes, dear, I know that,” Daisy said. “And a very musical one at that.”

  Billy glanced at the Hoove, who was holding his pencil in midair, thinking.

  “She wouldn’t be lonely, that’s for sure,” he said. “And she might enjoy a retail environment.”

  When Daisy explained that Penelope could play on the Tower of Power cat gym she kept in the shop, the one with a tower, a rope, and a cave, that sealed the deal for the Hoove.

  “The Hoove’s Rule Number Sixty-One,” he said, nodding. “A proper exercise regime is essential for good health and good looks.”

  He checked the YES box, and Billy told Daisy that she could pick up Penelope as soon as she was ready to leave her mother. They had found homes for all three kittens.

  For the next four weeks, the Hoove barely left Billy’s room. He brought Stormy fresh water and bowls of milk. He changed the newspaper in her box. He made little toys for the kittens out of socks and shoelaces and feathers. Day by day, the kittens grew and prospered. They learned to see and to walk. They didn’t seem to mind one bit that the Hoove was a ghost. When he petted them, they’d rub up against his nonexistent finger and purr. Maybe it was the orangey scent they liked. Maybe it was the cool breeze that surrounded his hand. Or maybe they could feel a loving presence in their midst.

  On Monday of the fourth week, Billy was in his room doing homework after school while the Hoove was playing with the kittens, bouncing a Ping-Pong ball against the wall and watching them bounce up and down along with it. There was a knock on the door, followed by Breeze barging in. She was holding her nose.

  “Your mom asked me to give you this,” she said, handing Billy a white envelope. “It was on the kitchen counter.”

  “Why are you holding your nose?” Billy asked.

  “Because if I don’t, I’ll do this.” Letting go of her nose, she produced a sneeze so loud it almost shook the roof off.

  “Here,” Billy said, handing her an entire box of Kleenex. “Sounds like you could use these.”

  “By the way,” Breeze said, blowing her nose vigorously. “It says Hoover on the front of that envelope. Your mom says that’s your nickname from the baseball team.”

  “It is.”

  “Then how come no one ever calls you that?”

  “Oh … well … um … it used to be my nickname. Hoover the Mover. We’ve changed it.”

  “To what? Rufus the Doofus?”

  “The door’s that way,” Billy said. “Don’t forget to use it.”

  Breeze sneezed her way out, making a giant dent in the Kleenex box before she even reached her room. Billy brought the envelope over to the Hoove and stood next to him while he opened it. The page inside was blank at first, then suddenly, there was a flash of fireworks and the room filled with smoke. When the smoke cleared, Billy watched in amazement as giant French fries, the size of baseball bats, floated out of a transparent bag that seemed to glow blue, green, and lavender.

  Billy poked the Hoove in the ribs.

  “French fries,” he whispered. “That’s a positive sign.”

  “You never know with these guys,” the Hoove answered.

  He waited nervously as the French fries floated out of the bag and formed themselves into letters midair. It seemed to take forever, but then, French fries have never been known to move quickly. Finally, the message was complete. It said:

  RESPONSIBILITY:

  EXCELLENT PROGRESS. KEEP IT UP.

  P.S. YOU ARE UNGROUNDED.

  Billy jumped up and down and clapped his hands as the French fried letters disappeared into the cosmos.

  “You did it, Hoove! Without even trying. You became responsible.”

  “Just from taking care of the kittens?” asked the Hoove. He was as amazed as Billy.

  “Sure. No one in the world, living or dead, could have looked after Stormy and those three little guys better than you. You never left their side. But now you can!”

  “I can go out into the world and strut my stuff,” the Hoove said, automatically smoothing back his hair and flexing his biceps. “Look out, Earthlings. Here I come.”

  Without another word, he zoomed out through the window. Throwing himself into hyperglide, he whizzed around the neighborhood, dipping and diving through the air with his newfound freedom. He somersaulted across Moorepark Avenue, slalomed around telephone poles, and cruised over treetops. In less than thirty seconds, he was back at Billy’s house, and came whooshing in the window like a rocket.

  “That was fast,” Billy said. “Don’t you want to stay outside for a while and do anything you want?”

  “You mean like tickling Brownstone behind the ear so he bats himself in the head like he’s got an itch he can’t scratch?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “A
lready did that. It was fun, but not as much fun as this.”

  “As what, Hoove?”

  “Staying right here, taking care of Stormy and the mittens, doing just what I’ve been doing. Truth is, there’s nothing better.”

  And settling down on the floor next to the cardboard box, Hoover Porterhouse III reached out for Stormy and her kittens, rubbing their heads, scratching their ears, and happily listening to them purr.

  It was music to his nonexistent ears.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Billy and Hoover’s next crazy adventure!

  Using all of his ghostly strength, Hoover hooked his invisible arm through Billy’s, flipped himself into hyperspeed, and yanked Billy across the art room into the hall.

  Billy looked around. All he saw were four kids from his class, supervised by Mr. Wallwetter, practicing for the bow and arrow demonstration. Rod Brownstone took aim and let go of the arrow just as Billy arrived. It wobbled through the air and landed on the floor, about four feet short of the target.

  “That was all your fault,” he barked at Kayla Weeks. “You bumped my arm.”

  “See, isn’t that amazing,” the Hoove said to Billy.

  “I don’t see anything amazing,” Billy answered. “Just Brownstone being a bully, as usual.”

  The Hoove turned to Billy and looked closely into his face.

  “You don’t see her, do you?”

  “Kayla? Sure I see her. It’s hard to miss that whole mess of red hair.”

  “No, I mean her. Standing next to Kayla. With the beautiful brown eyes and shining long black hair.”

  “You must be seeing things, Hoove. There’s no one there but the teacher and four kids from my class. And no one has long black hair. Unless you count the hair on Mr. Wallwetter’s arms, which I’d rather not.”

  “Concentrate, Billy,” the Hoove said. “Feel her presence. Listen for the sound of her voice. And let me know when you see her.”

  Billy closed his eyes and concentrated. He didn’t expect to see anything — he was just doing as he was told to get the Hoove off his back. But then, after a few seconds, he thought he heard something. It was a faraway rattle, like pebbles rolling in the sea, following by a faint drumbeat and the sound of a girl’s voice, chanting a strange melody. He opened his eyes, and saw her — a Native American girl, about his size, with long black hair and skin so transparent that she seemed to glow.

  The minute she saw Billy gazing at her, an expression of fear darted across her face. As quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared into thin air, leaving nothing in her place but Brownstone’s yapping voice.

  Who was she? Where did she come from? And where had she gone?

  HENRY WINKLER is admired by audiences of all ages for his roles as the Fonz on the long-running series Happy Days and in such films as Holes and The Waterboy. He is also an award-winning producer and director of family and children’s programming, and the author (with Lin Oliver) of the critically acclaimed Hank Zipzer series. He lives in Los Angeles, California.

  LIN OLIVER is a television producer and writer, who co-authored (with Henry Winkler) the New York Times bestselling series, Hank Zipzer: The World’s Greatest Underachiever, and Who Shrunk Daniel Funk? Lin resides in Los Angeles, California.

  Copyright © 2013 by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.

  SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First printing, January 2013

  Cover art by Sam Nielson

  Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll

  eISBN 978-0-545-51013-4

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