The Chief looked down at Paulie, not knowing what to say.
“I like dinosaurs,” said a girl named Kristen.
“Me too,” said Braydon.
“I like race cars,” added a boy named Kwame.
“Me too,” said Braydon.
“Puppies!”
“Sharks!”
“Corn!”
Miss Missy clap-clapped. “Boys and girls, where are your manners?”
Gloria looked around. “They must have ranned away.”
Still, the kids quieted down.
Fire Chief Sid passed out hats. “One for you,” he said. “And one for you. And one for…” He did a double take when he got to Ben. “Aren’t you a little old for toy hats?”
Ben bristled. “I may look old, but I assure you I am young at heart.”
The chief looked Ben up and down, taking in his fur hat and silk breeches. He turned to me. “Is he pulling my leg?”
“Good sir, I have most assuredly not touched your leg,” replied Ben.
“The oat man can have my hat,” said Paulie.
“Give one to the oat man,” said Gloria.
Suddenly, the whole group began chanting, “Oat man! Oat man!”
“Corn!” shrieked Clarence.
Looking a little panicked, Chief Sid handed a hat to Ben. “Well…I guess if you’re with the kids.”
Right away, Ben whipped off his fur cap and put on the plastic one. “Tell me, Nolan, do I look like a fireman of the twenty-first century?”
No, I thought. But I didn’t say it out loud. He acted so proud I didn’t have the heart to tell him how dorky he looked.
The group drifted inside following the chief, and Ben and Olive drifted right along with them. I followed. We stopped beside the big red fire truck.
“Here are some of the tools we use to fight fires,” the chief said in a teacherly voice. He pointed to a long spearlike object. “Does anyone know what that tool is called?”
“Is it a laser sword?” a girl labeled “Abby” asked hopefully.
“It is a pike pole,” said Ben. He turned to me. “Some tools haven’t changed in centuries.”
Fire Chief Sid flashed Ben an annoyed look before continuing. “And who knows what we use this tool for? Any guesses?”
“To defeat the evil empire,” said Abby.
“To pick corn,” said Clarence.
“We use it to reach, hold, and pull during fires,” said Ben. He blushed modestly. “I confess I am highly trained in the art of the pole. My fire company meets and trains monthly at the Royal Standard Tavern.”
The kids looked from the chief to Ben and back to the chief.
Chief Sid rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache. He turned and pointed.
“Hoses!” cried Ben before the chief could even ask his question.
“Ax!” he shouted a few moments later.
“Maybe the oat man should be the chief,” said Paulie.
“Maybe you should stop answering all the questions,” I whispered to Ben.
Ben shook his head. “Knowledge should never be extinguished.”
Ignoring both Paulie and Ben, the chief opened the door on the driver’s side of the fire truck. “Who wants to sit inside?”
The kids’ faces brightened. But before they could even raise their hands—
“Oooh, me, me!” exclaimed Ben. He pushed his way to the front of the group.
Fire Chief Sid put out his hand to stop him. “Just the children,” he said sternly.
“Well…yes…um…of course,” said Ben. He stepped back.
We watched for a few minutes as kid after kid was boosted up into the driver’s seat. The chief let them honk the horn and turn on the red and blue emergency lights. Gloria even got to try out the siren, but its sudden, piercing howl was startling.
“Turn it off!” screamed Paulie, plugging his ears.
“Turn it off!” screamed Braydon.
“Stop copying me!” shrieked Paulie.
“Corn!” shrieked Clarence.
It was like some sort of four-year-old battle cry or something, because instantly the kids started screeching, bumping, crawling, shoving.
Kristen pretended to be a T. rex. “Grrrrr!”
Abby pulled out an imaginary laser sword. “Schrmmmm!”
Kevin stuck his finger up his nose. “I’m picking a winner.”
Olive, Ben, and I ducked for cover behind the still-open door of the fire truck.
“Phew,” exclaimed Olive. “It’s crazy out there.”
“Such pandemonium reminds me of my days in Congress,” agreed Ben. “Indeed, that little nose picker is the spitting image of John Adams.” Behind his bifocals, his eyes took on a faraway look, like he was about to launch into a story.
Miss Missy’s chirping broke into his thoughts.
She raised two fingers in the air. “The quiet sign is up!”
The kids paid no attention. They kept squealing and running and growling and picking. All over the fire station garage.
Miss Missy frantically clap-clap-clap-clapped her hands. “One…two…three. Eyes on me!”
The kids bumped and banged and pinballed off one another.
“I’ll take care of this,” said Chief Sid. He put his hands on his hips and bellowed sternly, “Children, refrain from this horseplay…at once!”
They flung their plastic hats at him.
Chief Sid shouted a word I can’t repeat.
But the kids did. Like a chorus of naughty parrots, they said the word over and over at the top of their voices.
“Now you’ve done it!” cried Miss Missy. Then she clap-clapped her hands again. “Language! Language! Take a deep belly breath, children. Find your good words.”
The kids liked the bad one better.
By this time, Chief Sid had really had it. He stormed over to a side door that led into the station’s yard and flung it open. “Everybody OUT!” he thundered.
Paulie, who was still standing with his ears plugged, jumped about a foot. Then he started crying. Loud.
Miss Missy picked him up. She whirled on the chief. “What kind of person goes around screaming at children?”
Chief Sid just pointed.
“Corn!” shrieked Clarence. He tumbled out the door.
The kids swarmed out after him.
“Boys and girls, where’s your buddy?” Miss Missy frantically called to them as she stumbled over the threshold. “Find your buddy!”
“Buddies are dumb,” whimpered Paulie.
Then Chief Sid slammed the door behind them. Leaning against it, he rubbed his face, obviously forgetting all about us. “Headache,” he muttered. “Aspirin.” He staggered away.
We were alone with the fire truck.
Olive looked at Ben.
Ben looked at Olive.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said.
But Olive was already scrambling up into the truck’s cab.
Panting, Ben clambered up behind her. He settled himself in the driver’s seat. “Just look at all these marvelous folderols!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t touch anything,” I cautioned.
“Oh, but I would not dream of it, my boy,” said Ben. He adjusted his plastic hat so it tilted over one eye and placed his hands on either side of the steering wheel. “Vroom! Vroom!”
Ben looked so happy, I had to grin.
“Come in with us, Nolan,” begged Olive. “It’s so cool.”
“It is most decidedly, shall we say, cool,” said Ben.
“Come on, Nolan,” urged Olive. “Just for a second.”
What could it hurt? Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, I climbed into the cab.
“Hooray!” cried Olive.
Ben wiggled over to make room.
I pulled the heavy door shut behind me. Ben was right. There were lots of folderols. And it was cool.
I gripped the big steering wheel, just managing to see over it. Outside on the sidewalk, a kid in a camoufla
ge jumpsuit stopped in front of the station. Straddling a blue bike, he stared at the fire truck. Then he saw us in the cab, and his eyebrows rose all the way to his bushy hairline.
“Hey, there’s Tommy Tuttle,” said Olive. She leaned forward to peer through the big windshield. “And there’s our crystal radio!”
Tucked into the front basket of Tommy’s bike lay a familiar wooden box. Its gold initials, “H.H.,” glittered in the sunlight.
Over the truck’s wide hood, Tommy and I locked eyes. Then he leaped back onto his bike and pedaled away.
“No,” I said, slamming my fist on the steering wheel. “No, no, no!”
The last slam hit the gear stick.
There was a clicking sound.
And a grinding noise.
And a thump-thump-whump.
Then the fire truck inched out the big double door. Slowly.
“Whoa! Whoa!” I cried, grabbing at the gear stick. I tried to yank it back into place, but it refused to budge.
“Zoons, but this is most exciting!” exclaimed Ben. “My first trip in a modern conveyance. Oh, but the speed is dizzying.”
“Whee!” whooped Olive.
At the top of the driveway, at the top of the hill, the truck seemed to pause. Then it…
Dipped…
Lurched…
Picked up speed as it rolled down the street.
Ahead of us we could see Tommy, pumping furiously.
“Oh, my, my,” said Ben.
“Whoopee!” cried Olive.
“Get out of the way!” I hollered. I laid on the horn.
“WAAAAAAAAAAH!” it bellowed.
Tommy looked over his shoulder and his mouth dropped open. Did he think we were chasing him? Facing forward again, he lowered his head into the wind and began pumping away like an Olympic bicyclist.
Ahead of us loomed a busy four-way stop.
Tommy took a sharp right.
It was all I could do to grip the steering wheel and keep the truck on the road.
“Might I suggest you slow down?” asked Ben.
“Brakes! Brakes!” cried Olive.
But my foot didn’t reach the pedal.
“Watch out!” Ben and Olive shrieked in unison. They grabbed each other as the truck barreled through the intersection.
Brakes squealed.
Horns blared.
The sudden wail of a police car grew louder and louder.
Hopping a curb, the truck bumped up onto the sidewalk and across a grassy stretch of the city park straight toward—
“Watch out!” yelled a lady walking a poodle.
I closed my eyes.
But the crash never came. Instead, the big truck lurched, bounced, and slowed. With a final jerk, it came to a stop just inches from the town statue of Abraham Lincoln with its chiseled quote: WITH MALICE TOWARD NONE; WITH CHARITY FOR ALL.
I clung to the steering wheel, dazed, my heart pounding. “Is everybody okay?” I croaked.
Ben mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “Yes.” He managed a weak nod.
“Let’s do it again!” squealed Olive.
“There will be no more stunts,” said a stern voice.
Slowly, I turned to look out the driver’s window.
There stood Officer Nittles, her hands on her hips.
I gulped and stared at her shiny badge. Her utility belt. The big gun holstered at her hip. I rolled down the window. “Um…hi?” I said.
Officer Nittles comes to my school every year to hand out sticker badges and coloring sheets and teach the Friendly Police Program.
She was not looking too friendly now.
She opened the cab door. “Step out of the vehicle, gentlemen,” she said to Ben and me.
“Me too?” asked Olive.
“You too,” said Officer Nittles.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for a crowd to gather. Neighbors. Passersby. Even the Long John Shivers ice cream guy. Within minutes, his truck—blaring “Yo ho ho!” from the speaker atop its roof—pulled over to the curb. I guess gapers buy ice cream. Fire Chief Sid was there, too, looking like he was about to have a complete meltdown. So were some of the other firefighters from the station.
The three of us stood stiffly in one spot as the chief, his men, and Officer Nittles walked around and around the truck, inspecting it for damage. From behind us came the static and chatter of the police car’s radio.
The radio! It felt like a hundred years ago that the mysterious package had arrived…followed by Ben…followed by that big snoop Tommy…followed by this.
“H.H.,” I muttered under my breath. Who was he? Why had he sent me that radio? His gift, if that’s what it was supposed to be, had brought nothing but trouble. Big trouble.
Finally, Officer Nittles returned to us. She pulled out her notebook. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“They crashed my truck!” barked Chief Sid.
“I’d like to hear what they have to say,” said Officer Nittles.
My stomach churned. I was dizzy. All day long—no, all summer long, since Dad left—I’d been trying to hold things together. But it was all unraveling now. A lump grew in my throat.
“There’s nothing to say,” I said at last.
Officer Nittles looked at Ben and Olive. “What about you two?”
“We didn’t mean to do it,” explained Olive.
“I merely wanted to sit in that marvelous conveyance for a moment,” added Ben.
“We accidentally bumped a stick and it just started moving,” Olive went on.
“I am, I confess, woefully unfamiliar with the workings of your modern vehicles,” said Ben.
Olive nodded. “He’s really old.” She paused a second, then added, “And I’m only seven.”
Officer Nittles raised her eyebrows. “Anything else?”
“Umm…I like your shoes?” said Olive.
I swear Officer Nittles almost smiled. But it didn’t change anything. She gestured for Chief Sid to join her by her squad car. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I figured it wasn’t good. Their expressions were serious, and their heads were bent close together. Chief Sid was doing most of the talking. Officer Nittles took lots of notes.
I broke into a cold sweat. How many years did a person get for stealing a fire truck, anyway?
I’d grow thin on bread and water.
I’d have to wear an orange jumpsuit, even though orange is not a good color for me. It makes me look like a squash.
Mom’s next book would be titled The Bumble Bunnies Break Their Mother’s Heart.
I was trembling by the time Officer Nittles returned to us. “Time to go for a little ride, you three,” she said.
I could feel my eyes getting wet. Beside me, Olive started sniffling. Ben patted her arm.
“Um…okay…but could you do us a favor? Please?” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my T-shirt. “Could you wait until we’re in the car to handcuff us? It would be humiliating to be handcuffed in front of all these people.”
Officer Nittles’s face grew puzzled. “Handcuffs are for people who are under arrest.”
I winced. “I know.”
“You aren’t being arrested,” she said. “Not that what you did wasn’t serious. But no one was hurt, and no damage was done. Chief Sid has agreed not to press charges.”
I couldn’t believe it. I looked over at Chief Sid.
He nodded.
“You’re not taking us to jail?” exclaimed Olive.
“I’m taking you home,” said Officer Nittles. “I want to talk with your parents about your stupid stunt.”
“Parent,” I said. “Just our mom.”
And she was going to be so disappointed in me.
Officer Nittles opened the back door of the squad car. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Time to go.”
The three of us slid into the backseat and slumped down.
Just then, Miss Missy and the little day camp kids rounded the corner. I guess it had taken her that long to get them
back into two-by-two order.
“Hey,” cried Kevin. He took his finger out of his nose and pointed. “The oat man is going to jail.”
“That’s dumb,” said Paulie, frowning at Officer Nittles. Then he raised a little fist in the air and, smiling at Ben, shouted, “Free the oat man!”
The others raised their little fists, too.
As we pulled away, our ears filled with the chant, “Free the oat man! Free the oat man! Free the oat man!”
“Corn!” cried Clarence.
IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING, the backseat of a police car stinks. It’s a disgusting blend of pine air freshener and sweat from hundreds of bad guys. I felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the car’s smell. Fear makes me queasy. And just thinking about Mom’s response when she saw the police at the door made me want to puke. I put my hand over my mouth. My mother is not a reasonable person about stuff like this. Like someday, we will never, ever look back on this and laugh.
Beside me, Olive said weakly, “It’s all over. Seven years of being the perfect child down the toilet.” She pretended to flush. “Foosh!”
For once, Ben was quiet. His head was bowed, his toy fire hat lying in his lap. Somewhere, he’d lost his fur cap. The fire station, maybe? Now that he was hatless, I could see the big pink bald spot on top of his head.
He must have felt me staring, because he turned and said, “I am sorry about this, Nolan—truly.” He touched my sleeve. “My enthusiasms do run away with me at times.”
I couldn’t answer because my hand still covered my mouth. Instead, I looked out the window. The squad car turned onto my street.
Officer Nittles pulled up in front of our house, then turned to look at us through the wire mesh that separated the front and back seats. “Is this it?”
I nodded gloomily.
She got out of the car and opened the backseat door.
“We’re dead,” I groaned.
“Before I ever got to Disney World,” muttered Olive.
I sat there.
“The sooner we do this, the sooner it’s done,” said Officer Nittles.
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