Ho-Ho-NOOO!

by Bill Myers

  “My church wants to hold a smaller, quieter version at their place.”

  TJ’s heart sank to her stomach. “So . . . you don’t need my help?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Forget the stomach. Now her heart was on the floor swimming in melted rainbow snow-cone juice.

  “But Hesper still does.”

  “Oh,” TJ said, as if that was supposed to make her feel better.

  “And she might be willing to pay more.”

  Suddenly TJ was feeling better. “Really?”

  “So if you’re interested, you can still go to the restaurant and pick up the caviar puffs.”

  “Cool,” TJ said.

  “But you better hurry. It’s almost time.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got just a few more minutes here at the store.”

  “Great. I’ll let Hesper know. And, JT?”

  She figured that was close enough. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. For Hesper, I mean. She needs all the help she can get.”

  You’re telling me, TJ thought. But she managed to answer, “Sure, no problem.”

  “I’ll see you later, then.”

  “Sure, no problem.” TJ winced. Sure, no problem? What kind of answer was that? But before she could worry herself into an ulcer, she was startled by

  as Number Too, still wearing his Viking costume, swung into the lobby on a rope and dropped down in front of all the waiting mothers and children.

  Everyone was stunned into silence. Well, they were stunned into silence until he drew his sword and began swinging it and shouting, “Stand back or I vill eat you all vor me supper!”

  That pretty much took care of the stunned silence. It’s hard being stunned silent when you’re busy screaming, “THE CRAZY VIKING BOY IS GOING TO KILL AND EAT US ALL!”

  “What are you doing?!” TJ shouted at Number Too.

  “I’m playing Viking!”

  “This lobby is not your playroom!” she shouted back.

  “It is now!”

  “Since when?”

  “Since we couldn’t decide what we wanted for Christmas, so Momma bought us everything!”

  “Your mother bought you everything in the store?”

  “No. She bought us the store.”

  TJ’s mouth dropped open. “Where is she? Where is your mother?!”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Why not?”

  “We told her you’d look after us!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Check, Please

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 24—supplemental

  Begin Transmission

  Subject learned the high cost of big business (plus how to dog-paddle in a Santa suit).

  End Transmission

  Actually, Number Too got it wrong. Lady Goo-Goo hadn’t bought the whole store. She’d just rented it . . . for the whole evening.

  “So we’d have something to do,” Number Too explained.

  “But it’s Christmas Eve,” TJ said. “Aren’t you going to spend it with your mother?”

  “Nah, she’s got too many parties to go to. But that’s okay—there’s plenty we can do here.”

  And they wasted little time.

  First there was Number One’s joy of finding the fire alarm and

  pulling it.

  Suddenly everybody was running back and forth and forth and back in major, big-time panic. Because more than just the alarm sounded. The overhead sprinklers also began

  as the world’s biggest indoor rainstorm began.

  “What iz happening?!” the assistant manager shouted as she sloshed into the lobby.

  TJ spotted Number One and ran to her. “What did you do that for?” she shouted over the rain and the alarm.

  “Mwere’s mwoo mwany mwerms!” Number One yelled through her mask.

  “There’s what?” TJ shouted.

  Number One pointed at the computer game display and yelled, “Mwoo mwany mwerms!”

  The weird thing was TJ actually started to understand her. “Too many germs?”

  Number One nodded and pointed to the computer game display again.

  “So you’re washing them?” TJ shouted. “You’re washing the keyboards?!”

  Number One nodded even bigger.

  TJ was about to yell something kind and sensitive like “Are you nuts?!” but she was interrupted by an even louder

  She spun around to see cute little Number Thuree (complete with her cute little snorkel and swim mask) standing by another wall. She had just opened the valve to one of several giant water pipes, causing a wave of water, slightly larger than the Atlantic Ocean, to flood across the floor. And Number Too, being the helpful big brother, came to her aid and started opening valves on the other pipes.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” TJ yelled as water quickly rose from her feet to her ankles, then to her knees. But as she watched Number Thuree push off into the water and begin snorkeling through the store, she already had her answer. If Number Thuree couldn’t play in her bathtub at home, she’d make a bathtub out of the store!

  Soon the water was up to TJ’s waist. And just so Number Thuree wouldn’t have all the fun, Number Too raced to the nearby sporting goods department and grabbed a canoe paddle. He spotted a sofa floating out of the furniture department, leaped onto it, and began shouting more cheery Viking phrases like “I HAF COME TO PILLAGE AND DESTROY YOUR COUNTRY!”

  “Number Too!” TJ yelled.

  But it did no good. He paddled toward customers, swinging his sword and shouting, “PILLAGE AND DESTROY! PILLAGE AND DESTROY!” as the customers swam for their lives, screaming, “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

  They might have been more relaxed if Number Thuree hadn’t kept swimming under the water behind them and grabbing their legs.

  “SHARKS!” they screamed. “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE AND THEN BE EATEN BY SHARKS!”

  “Don’t be ridiculouz!” the assistant manager shouted. “It’z juzt a little water. You’re perfectly zafe!”

  “OH YEAH?” a mother shouted as she pointed to a woman’s arm floating by. “TELL THAT TO HER!”

  “OR HER!” another screamed, pointing to a bobbing head.

  (Of course they were just department store dummies broken apart by a fake Viking with a fake sword. But there was no convincing the moms.)

  So . . . for those of you keeping score (and who happen to be movie buffs), we have

  1 Perfect Storm raining from the ceiling

  1 Jaws nibbling at the backs of people’s legs

  1 How to Train Your Dragon Viking

  More body parts than a creepy horror movie

  More screaming people than a bad zombie movie

  And a shouting assistant manager who still resembles King Kong

  “WHO IZ REZPONZIBLE?” she began yelling. “WHO IZ REZPONZIBLE?!”

  Since snorkeling sharks and rampaging Vikings are not good at answering questions, the assistant manager approached Number One, who was having the time of her life at the computer games. She had peeled off her mask and gloves and was playing one keyboard while the other keyboards around her were shorting out with more sparks than the Fourth of July.

  “Where iz your mother?” the manager demanded. Number One glanced up from the games and shook her head.

  “Zhe’z not here?!” the manager asked.

  Number One nodded.

  “THEN WHO IZ REZPONZIBLE?”

  Number One glanced at TJ and pointed.

  TJ turned to the assistant manager and smiled.

  The assistant manager turned to TJ and glared.

  Nearly two hours passed before they were able to silence the alarm, shut down the valves, and drain the water. By then TJ’s phone had rung 336 times. The first time had been the dreamy love song from High School Musical 17.

  “I know, I know—I’m late,” she told Chad as she wrung water from her giant Santa suit, “but we had an emergency.”

&n
bsp; “It’s okay,” Chad said. He had phoned from the church, where they were feeding a handful of people who had stopped by. “But Hesper’s been calling me like every 20 seconds. Can I just tell her to call you?”

  “Sure,” TJ said.

  Naturally, this made Chad’s life a lot easier, while making TJ’s life . . . Well, that would explain why her phone was currently ringing for the 337th time. (And in case you’re wondering about the ringtone . . . it was the Wicked Witch’s theme from The Wizard of Oz.)

  Once again TJ picked up and once again she was greeted by Hesper’s hysterics. “Where are you?! The caviar puffs are waiting to be picked up at the restaurant!”

  “I told you, I’ll be right there,” TJ said. “Just as soon as I find the children.”

  Actually, finding Number Too was easy. She just followed the trail of dummy arms, legs, and decapitated heads.

  Number One was also easy to find. Since the girl had lost her gloves and face mask, TJ just followed the smell of cleaning supplies to the janitorial closet and found Number One busy

  disinfectant in every direction.

  Number Thuree was a little harder to find. But after checking every place that could hold water, they finally wound up in the ladies’ restroom. The good news was Number Thuree was not in the toilet bowl. The not-quite-so-good news was she was sitting in the back tank. Granted, it was a little cramped, but some water to dive in was better than no water.

  Finally there was the matter of TJ getting paid.

  “PAID?!” the assistant manager roared as she motioned to the water damage around them. “You muzt be kidding.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault,” TJ argued.

  “If you are in charge az zey zay, zen it iz mozt definitely your fault.”

  “But they’re Lady Goo-Goo’s children.”

  “Zat iz between you and her.”

  TJ didn’t like this, not one bit. She’d worked too hard for that $250. “You’re going to keep some of my money until I talk to her?” she demanded.

  “I’m going to keep all your money until you talk to her. And I will be zending your parentz zee bill for the rezt.”

  If TJ’s jaw dropped any lower, it would have bruised her toes. A giant repair bill was not the Christmas gift she wanted to give Dad.

  She would have argued longer, but the Wicked Witch’s theme began its 338th ring. She had to get going. Losing all that hard-earned money did not make her happy, but if her math was right, she still had $525, which was better than nothing.

  She led the children outside—spraying the air all around Number One with disinfectant and tugging at Number Thuree (who kept gazing longingly at the larger mud puddles).

  “Where’s your chauffeur?” TJ asked Number Too.

  “We sent him home,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “I told you, we rented the store for the whole night.”

  TJ sighed. “All right, all right. Then I guess we’ll take a bus.”

  The children stared at her.

  “What?” TJ said.

  “A . . . bus?” Number Too asked.

  “Yeah, you know, a bus,” TJ said.

  All three continued staring at her.

  “You do know what a bus is, right?”

  More staring.

  She tried again. “A big, long thing with lots of people inside?”

  Number One’s eyes widened in fear. “Germs!”

  Number Too lowered his voice. “You’re not actually talking public transportation, are you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He shook his head. “We don’t mingle with the public.”

  “Right,” TJ answered, “unless it’s to attack them as Vikings or sharks.”

  The kids looked at her in silence.

  “All right, all right . . .” TJ threw up her hands. “A taxi. We’ll take a taxi.”

  More looks.

  “You do know what a taxi is?”

  “We’ve seen them on TV,” Number Too admitted.

  “Good. I’ll call a taxi. It’ll take us to the restaurant, we’ll drop off the food, and then I’ll run you home.” She glanced at Number One, who was still trembling. “And don’t worry.” She held up the disinfectant. “I’ll spray the seats.”

  Ten minutes later they were in a cab pulling up to the fancy French restaurant, Costz-way Tu’much.

  “That’ll be $25,” the cab driver said.

  TJ was stunned. “You drove less than a mile.”

  “Welcome to Malibu, toots.”

  She dug into her pocket, pulled out the money, and handed it to the cab driver. Now she was down to $500.

  “What, no tip?” the driver asked.

  Make that $490.

  “Will you wait here until I get the food?” TJ asked him.

  “For another $20.”

  (That’s $470 for you math geniuses.)

  TJ and the kids climbed out of the cab and entered the back of the restaurant, where they were greeted by Chef Hugo Ego.

  “It is about time,” he growled. “My assistants have had the caviar puffs prepared for over an hour.”

  “Sorry,” TJ said as she dragged Number Thuree past a giant and very inviting cauldron of French onion soup.

  “I will not allow my masterpieces to be served if they are not at the peak of freshness.”

  “I understand,” TJ said as they rounded the corner and she saw the entire wall stacked with small plastic boxes. “Are those them?”

  “But of course.”

  “How many are there?”

  “There are 1,350 works of art,” he replied.

  “I can’t get them all into the taxi!” TJ exclaimed.

  “I am an artist, not a delivery service.”

  TJ’s mind raced, searching for a solution. “Wait!

  I’ve got it. Let’s bring all the people over here.”

  “People?” Chef Ego frowned. “I thought they were the homeless.”

  “Right,” TJ said. “People, homeless. They’re the same thing.”

  Chef Ego’s frown deepened a moment before he broke into laughter. “I see. You are making a joke. Yes, very funny. Very funny indeed.” Before TJ could argue with him (or give him a good punch in the gut for being a jerk), he changed subjects. “Now, as far as transportation, you will note each delicacy is packed in its own container. This not only adds to the overall dining experience but protects their delicate shape during transport.”

  TJ’s mind resumed racing. Transportation. She had to find a way to transport them. Finally, with no other solution in sight, she reached for her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Number Too asked.

  “I’m calling for more taxis. It’s going to cost a bundle, but we need more taxis.”

  Chef Ego cleared his throat. “Speaking of cost . . . there will be an extra charge for the boxes.”

  TJ looked up from her phone in alarm. “Didn’t Hesper Breakahart pay for them?”

  “She paid for the caviar puffs, not the boxes—which I might point out were specially designed for this occasion by a friend in Beverly Hills.”

  TJ swallowed hard. She knew she had to ask the question she didn’t want to ask but had to ask because it was the question to be asked.

  TRANSLATION: Uh-oh.

  “How much will they cost?”

  “Because it is for a good cause, and since it is Christmas, I shall give you a discount.”

  “Really?” TJ’s face brightened.

  “I shall charge you a mere $345 for the entire lot.”

  TJ’s face clouded. If you math geniuses are still there, that left her with a grand total of . . . $125.

  And the night was still young.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  fling-fling-fling

  SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

  TIME TRAVEL LOG:

  Malibu, California, December 24—supplemental of supplemental

  Begin Transmission

  Have encountered slight glitch with force field. Una
ble to assist subject at this time. With luck, she will survive without our brilliant assistance. Then again, we all know about her luck (and our brilliance).

  End Transmission

  TJ’s fleet of taxis (all four of them) raced through the streets. It was eight o’clock. She’d already missed Christmas Eve dinner with her family. Now she had to unload the food and rush home before she missed everything. “We’ll be able to focus on more important things, like spending time with one another.” Wasn’t that what Dad had said? If she didn’t hurry, she couldn’t even do that!

  The taxis screeched to a stop in front of the tables that had been set up. TJ threw open her door, and just in time. Hesper Breakahart was being lowered on a cable from the helicopter—flapping her angel wings and waving her magic wand. (Apparently no one had bothered explaining the difference between angels and fairy godmothers.)

  In any case, everything was there—the news cameras, the orchestra, and the snow machine, which was attached to a fire hydrant and pumping out its wet, snowy flakes all over the crowd.

  Things couldn’t be more perfect.

  Except for the crowd. They hated it. Actually, they didn’t hate the cameras, orchestra, or snow . . . they just hated Hesper. And the more she talked, the more they hated.

  “You poor wretches!” she shouted from the air. “I have come to deliver you from your pathetic existence!” She waved her wand toward TJ and the taxis.

  “Behold, because of my great, giving nature, I have provided you my manna from heaven.”

  (Apparently no one bothered explaining humility to her, either.)

  To make her point, the orchestra broke into a rousing rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus . . . as the crowd broke into a grumbling rendition of “Who does this chick think she is?”

  But TJ barely noticed. She was racing around, unloading the taxis and setting out the caviar puffs. It would have been nice to have help, but Number One was too busy staring out the taxi window in terror, Number Too was too busy playing level 5,034 on his PlayStation, and Number Thuree? She’d found a nearby gutter where the melting snow was running off and she was splashing happily.

  All this as Hesper continued her airborne greeting. “And so, thanks to my incredible generosity, I hereby OOOFF! I hereby UGH!”