“How are those feeling?” she asked the kindergartner.
The kindergartner’s dad took out his wallet. “We’ll take them.”
A yes from Alden’s mom too.
Only the little girl was left without new shoes. She was too traumatized by the clown to try any on.
The sales guy walked the customers to the cash register. His tie was crooked and his hair was a mess, but he was all smiles.
In no time flat, the crowd had cleared.
Mrs. Roosevelt tossed the shoehorn into the air with a little twirl, and handed it back to the still-grinning sales guy.
“How did you do that?” he asked breathlessly.
“Pish posh,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “One merely needs to remain calm and focused. By doing so, any job can be accomplished…be it selling shoes or negotiating an international treaty.”
“Still, it was a real feet.” Olive giggled.
“You had to put your heart into it, body and sole,” I added.
The sales guy groaned. “Shoe puns are painful. But give me some time and I’ll heel.”
Olive and I laughed.
“Won’t you let me pay you for your time?” asked the sales guy.
“The satisfaction received from helping my fellow man is payment enough,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt.
No kidding, she actually said that.
And it was pretty obvious she believed it too!
The sales guy pointed at the Princess Aquamarina Shimmer and Sparkle sneakers still flashing on Olive’s feet. “At least let me give you the shoes.”
Olive made one of her dolphin squeals. “Best birthday present ever!”
I blinked. Had her party really been just this morning? It felt like forever ago.
Mrs. Roosevelt was shaking her head. “That is very kind, but we cannot accept—”
“Dog!” shrieked Olive. She pointed out the window.
Fala was trotting down the sidewalk, sniffing the air, heading toward the Speedy Mart.
“Quick! Catch him!” I shouted.
“Thanks for the shoes, mister!” Olive shouted.
“I am so pleased to have been of assistance,” Mrs. Roosevelt said.
We were already out the door when the sales guy hollered after Mrs. Roosevelt, “But I never caught your name. Who are you? You look so familiar!”
We didn’t answer. Instead, we pounded down the sidewalk, Olive’s new sneakers flashing bright enough to land planes in a fog.
I GOT TO THE Speedy Mart first.
No Fala.
Panting, I put my hands on my hips. Geez, that dog was slippery. If somebody gave him one of those spit tests, I bet they’d find eel in his DNA.
“Hey, Nolan!” It was my buddy Alex Yee. He was coming out of the store carrying a Mega-Beast Big Swig Slushee…watermelon-lime, our favorite flavor. He grinned and was about to say something when Olive and Mrs. Roosevelt caught up.
Flash! Blink! Twinkle!
Three blinding bursts of light—purple, blue, green—blazed from Olive’s feet.
Alex raised his arms to shield his face and stumbled backward. It was exactly what the vampire in this graphic novel Stepson of Dracula did when it saw the sun. Alex even said the same thing as the creature—“My eyes!”—as a twirling splat of watermelon-lime splashed red all over the front of his White Sox T-shirt. In the graphic novel, it would have been blood.
“Ouch! That’s gonna stain,” said Olive.
Alex blinked a bunch of times and his face turned watermelon-red. “You could have blinded me!” he hollered at my sister.
She put her hand in front of his face, concerned. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“And just look at my shirt!”
“Red looks good on you!”
Alex huffed and turned to me.
What could I say? I shrugged. “Sisters.”
“Tell me about it.” Alex rolled his eyes. He’s got three of them at home. “Later, Nolan,” he said in a disgusted voice. He squelched away.
I whirled on Olive.
“Those things are dangerous. You’re a walking, talking, blinking accident waiting to happen. Can’t you turn them off?”
She nodded. “Sure I can. But why would I want to? Watch!”
She started stomping and twirling.
Flash-shimmer-flash-sparkle-flash!
No kidding, it was like Tinker Bell threw up on Olive’s feet.
Protecting her eyes with one gloved hand, Mrs. Roosevelt laid the other firmly on Olive’s shoulder. “Nolan is right. Those shoes are a hazard. I must ask you to turn them off immediately.”
Olive started to argue, but Mrs. Roosevelt snapped her fingers.
If you’re smart, you never argue with a grown-up after she’s finger-snapped, especially if that grown-up is the First Lady of the United States.
Olive bent and pressed the rhinestone button on the back of each heel. The sneakers went dark…just like the crystal radio.
The radio! It felt like a hundred years since we’d left it sitting there, dark and lifeless, on the kitchen counter. We had to get back to it. Had to figure out what it wanted. Had to send Mrs. Roosevelt home. But first, we had to find Fala.
It didn’t take long to search the Speedy Mart. Once we’d checked the area around the roller grill, peeked under the soft-serve machines, and strolled through the candy section, we’d pretty much seen it all.
Mrs. Roosevelt opened the dairy case and plucked out a squeezable tube. “This is food?”
Olive made a face. “No, yuck, that’s yogurt.” She picked up a bag of Freaky Fried Mac n’ Cheesy Bacon Curds. “Now, this is food.” She looked at me. “Buy me these, okay, Nolan?”
I ignored her. “This is a waste of time. Let’s go.”
“Before we do,” said Mrs. Roosevelt, “perhaps we might pause and once again ask ‘Where would a dog go?’ ”
“The park!” whooped Olive. She tossed the bag of curds back into the case.
Exasperated, I remarked, “That’s where I said to look in the first place.”
“Monkey bars, here I come!” whooped Olive.
“We’re not playing,” I reminded her. “We have to find Fala so we can go home and…” I lowered my voice. “You know.”
Olive turned suddenly serious. “Maybe we’re supposed to swing on the monkey bars. Did you ever think of that, Nolan?” She was whispering now too. “Maybe Fala was supposed to run away. And I was supposed to get these awesome shoes and sizzle Alex’s eyeballs. Maybe we’re even supposed to buy that yummy bag of cheesy curds.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The radio,” she said. “Remember all that stuff with Ben? How if we had just stayed at home and stared at the radio, we would never have learned what we needed to learn to send him back?”
I thought about that a moment. “You’re right,” I said.
“Again,” she chirped, back to her usual annoying self.
The three of us headed for the door. But as we came around the donut case, I stopped in my tracks.
What was he doing here?
And why was he always wearing that stupid trench coat?
The bats in my belly started going nuts. There could be only one reason for the snoopiest, sneakiest kid in town to be lurking in the magazine aisle.
“Are you still spying on us, Tommy?”
He put down the copy of Chess and Checkers Weekly he’d been pretending to read. He was all fake surprise and even faker smiles. “Oh, gee, it’s Olive and Nolan Stanberry. Imagine bumping into you here!” He looked at the First Lady. “And what did you say your name was again?”
“She didn’t,” I said. Struggling to keep cool, I tightened my fists. “I mean it, Tommy. Stop following us.”
Olive and I watched him through narrowed eyes as he pushed some money at the bored teenager behind the counter. Then he shoved the meat strips into both trench coat pockets and gave me a little wave. “See you, Nolan.”
“Not if I see you first,” I replied. It wasn’t a great line, I know. But I was nervous. I didn’t like the sly look on Tommy’s face.
“The best spies are never seen,” he replied. “We’re phantoms.” And turning on his heel, he abruptly walked away.
“Big snoop head!” Olive hollered after him. She clasped her hands and turned to Mrs. Roosevelt. “Let me turn my shoes on him, pleeease!”
“It is tempting,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Fala,” I reminded them.
We headed to the park.
OUR TOWN PARK IS smack-dab in the middle of Rolling Hills. Its official name is Casimir Pewey Park. Seriously. It’s named for the town’s founder. There’s even a life-sized statue of the bushy-bearded Mr. Pewey next to the band shell. It looks like he has a bronze skunk on his face.
As we walked through the gate, Olive started singing that Rolling Hills first-grade classic: “Casimir Pewey eats chop suey for his Sunday meal. Eats too much and gets all spewy in the bookmobile.”
Oh, brother!
“This is the park?” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“It…it used to be,” stammered Olive. She turned in a slow circle, pointing. “There was a playground over there. And benches under those trees. And the baseball diamond had bases.” She shook her head. “Nolan, what happened?”
Yellow construction tape had been wound around the band shell to keep people out. The trellis in the rose garden had been removed. And the statue of Casmir Pewey had been swaddled in a cocoon of bubble wrap. It looked like an oversized knickknack on moving day. It even had a big yellow sticker slapped across its back end that read “Handle With Care.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Usually there were a gazillion people in the park—families having picnics and kids flying kites. But now it was empty except for a lone pigeon perched on Mr. Pewey’s plastic-wrapped head, and two guys perched on their bulldozers in right field.
Olive’s eyes started welling up. “Our park is gone.”
“I suggest we find out why,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. She strode briskly toward the bulldozers.
When the drivers saw her coming, they climbed down. They were wearing orange coveralls with their names sewn on the pockets—Chuck and Buzz.
Mrs. Roosevelt stuck out one of her gloved hands.
Chuck shook it.
Buzz bared his teeth.
“May I ask what you gentlemen are doing here?” she asked.
Chuck answered, “We’re going to bulldoze this place.”
“Smash. Crash. Destroy,” added Buzz gleefully. He showed his teeth again.
The guy was starting to scare me.
“But whyyy?” wailed Olive.
“To make room for a brand-spanking-new parking lot,” said Chuck. “Seven hundred multiuse, state-of-the-art parking spaces.”
I frowned. It didn’t make sense. Were there even seven hundred cars in town?
“That’s not right,” I said. “Somebody should complain to the mayor, or whoever’s in charge.”
“That is an excellent idea, Nolan,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Save your breath,” said Chuck. “The papers are signed. The ink’s dry. It’s a done deal. Tomorrow morning we—”
“Smash. Crash. Destroy,” said Buzz.
Definitely scary.
Mrs. Roosevelt put her hands on her hips. “Then I must order you, as First Lady, to cease and desist at once.”
Chuck laughed nastily. “First Lady of what? The loony bin?”
“Of the United States, you meanie!” cried Olive.
I hid my face behind my hands and groaned.
Buzz laughed too, and his eyes swept over Mrs. Roosevelt, taking in her white tennis shoes and goofy hairnet. “First Lady? You? Hardly.”
Mrs. Roosevelt huffed. “I will have you know that my name has been at the top of the Best-Dressed List for three years running.”
The drivers cracked up at that. Chuck laughed so hard he fell over in the dirt. When he got ahold of himself, he said, “You know, you do look familiar.” He nudged Buzz. “Don’t she look familiar?”
Buzz squinted. “Maybe we’ve seen her at Miss Bea’s Teas?”
“Time to go!” I cried, taking Mrs. Roosevelt’s arm.
She wouldn’t budge. “I have yet to finish my conversation with these gentlemen.”
“Fala,” I reminded her.
“Fala?” asked Chuck. “What’s a Fala?”
“Our lost dog,” blurted Olive.
“Awwww,” said Buzz , his face turning all soft and rubbery. “I lost my Scruffy when I was ten, and—”
“Haven’t seen no dogs,” Chuck butted in. “But the animal control office is in the town hall. And that’s conveniently not located in this park, if you catch my drift.”
I looked at Olive, and she looked at Mrs. Roosevelt, and we all said at the same time, “The town hall!”
We were halfway to the gate when Buzz yelled after us. “Hope you find your pooch!”
FALA WAS SITTING ON the marble steps of the town hall. I’m not kidding. It was like he was waiting for us or something. When he saw us coming around the corner, he trotted right over and gave us a look that said, “Here I am. What took you so long?”
Olive couldn’t stop hugging and kissing him. “Oh, Fala baby, Fala baby,” she squealed. “We found you. You’re here. You’re safe. Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”
It was pretty embarrassing.
Mrs. Roosevelt was happy to see Fala too. Even though she just ruffled his ears and said, “You naughty rascal,” I heard the crack in her voice. Then she bent low over his head to hide her face and swiped a tear from the corner of her eye. I guess she’d been more worried than she let on.
I don’t mean to sound sappy or anything, but my heart did a little dance when Fala finally escaped from Olive’s kisses long enough to put his front paws on my knees. I wanted to yell at him for running away and not listening and making us all worry. But when the little guy wiggled and smiled his funny dog smile by curling back his lip to show his teeth, I just sort of melted. “Come on, buddy,” I said to him. “Let’s go home.”
“Not until we’ve spoken with the mayor,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head so hard I thought it might come off. “No, no, that is not a good idea. We cannot get involved. Someone might recognize you.”
Olive rolled her eyes. “Noooo one ever recognizes her.”
I tried a different argument. “Didn’t you hear Chuck and Buzz? The mayor’s already made up her mind. We can’t fight city hall. It’s done.”
“It is only done if you do nothing,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“So true,” said Olive. “Tell him, Ellie.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” Mrs. Roosevelt corrected her. She turned back to me.
“It is not just the right of Americans to speak up. It is our duty.”
“Hey, that makes me want to sing!” Olive exclaimed. She clapped her hand over her heart and began belting out “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “Ooooh-kay, can you seeeee? By the red parts we washed…”
Obviously, she was still learning the words.
“Democracy is not about words. It is about action.”
“And the monkey’s red hair. The plums b
ursting in air…”
“This is no ordinary time, Nolan. We must do what is best for this town. This community. This country.”
“And the hooome of the paraaaade!”
“All right, already. I give up.”
“Play ball!” she cried.
We pushed open the town hall’s big double doors and stepped into its cool darkness. The mayor’s office was two doors down on the right.
“Uh-oh,” said Olive.
For a second we just stood there, letting it sink in.
Then Olive made a face. “This stinks!”
“It certainly does,” agreed Mrs. Roosevelt. “Monday will be too late.”
I felt a pinch of sadness. The park shouldn’t be plowed over. But what more could we do?
“I guess that’s that,” I said.
Mrs. Roosevelt shook her head. “We cannot give up so easily. There must be some solution. We have only to think of it.”
“Yeah, well, let’s think about it back at home, okay?” I said.
We crossed Main Street, Fala trotting obediently beside us like a well-trained show dog. We turned the corner. Rolling Hills Middle School came into view.
Olive shaded her eyes. “Hey, isn’t that your team out there on the field, Nolan?”
“Pavlov’s Pest Control?”
The soccer league uses the school’s field.
Coach Filbert’s voice drifted across the field. “Pass it! Pass it!” Obviously, my team was getting in a little practice before tomorrow afternoon’s game against Fred and Ethel’s Cleaning Service.
I ducked behind Mrs. Roosevelt. “Uh…er…no,” I stammered.
“Sure it is,” insisted Olive. “I can see the little cockroach on the backs of their uniforms. Hey, how come you’re not out there with them?”
Eleanor Roosevelt's in My Garage! Page 4