Ben Franklin's in My Bathroom!

by Candace Fleming

  She was right. Straightening my shoulders, I jumped out of the car and strode toward the house. Boldly at first. Then slower and slower, until I came to a complete stop. I turned and looked back.

  Ben took Olive’s hand.

  Olive took a deep breath.

  Then, side by side, we began the long, nervous walk to the front door.

  Officer Nittles rang the bell.

  We waited.

  “Are you sure your mother is home?” Officer Nittles asked.

  I nodded glumly. “She’s home. She’s just working.”

  “She’s blank,” added Olive.

  “What…?” began Officer Nittles. Then she shook her head. “Forget it.” She rang the doorbell again.

  After what seemed like a year, Mom answered the door.

  She looked from Olive to me to Officer Nittles to Ben. And the expression on her face went from surprise to worry to outright confusion. Then she held open the door, and we all stepped into the entry hall.

  “What’s this all about?” Mom asked. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Your children and their…um…friend here were picked up this afternoon,” said Officer Nittles.

  “Picked up?” Mom repeated.

  “They were involved in a traffic incident,” said Officer Nittles. Flipping open her notebook, she started telling our mother about our “stupid stunt.”

  The look on Mom’s face turned downright scary. Her eyes became slits, and her cheeks were sucked almost completely into her head. I’d never seen her so furious.

  Jail was starting to look really good.

  I tried blurting out the truth. “Mom, I can explain. It all started this morning when Ben Franklin—”

  “Popped up!” Olive broke in.

  “Popped up,” said Mom. “Ben Franklin.”

  Officer Nittles nodded. “Mr….ahem…‘Franklin’s’ fascination with fire trucks is what precipitated the incident,” she stated.

  “For which I am abjectly sorry,” said Ben. He leaned toward my mother. “I am, you know, the founder of the first fire company in the American colonies.”

  Mom blinked.

  “He made the first library, too,” Olive piped up.

  “And discovered electricity,” I added.

  Officer Nittles consulted her notebook. “Mr. Franklin gave a performance at the public library earlier today,” she stated.

  Mom looked into each of our faces, one by one. The muscles in her face started to relax. “I see,” she finally said. Then she did the weirdest thing. She smiled. And it wasn’t one of those tight-lipped, I’m-so-going-to-kill-my-kid-when-this-person-is-gone smiles, either. It was a genuine, friendly smile.

  And honestly? It made me queasier than if she had gone ballistic. I mean, I’d expected her to start yelling and lecturing me about acting responsibly. I’d braced myself for being grounded forever, or at least until I was thirty and too old to enjoy life. But she didn’t even stare at me like she was trying to figure out where she had gone wrong with my upbringing. She just kept smiling through the rest of the policewoman’s account. A couple times she even giggled.

  It was weird.

  At last, Officer Nittles snapped her notebook shut. “Obviously, we won’t be pressing charges on this occasion. We’d rather not take it any further if it can be dealt with at home.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Mom with a chuckle. She lowered her voice and added, “You make a very convincing policewoman.”

  “Pardon?” said Officer Nittles.

  Mom winked. “You had me there for a minute. But I get it now. I know what’s going on.”

  “I’m glad you grasp the situation,” said Officer Nittles.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mom, “I certainly do.”

  “Then I expect you’ll keep a close eye on these three.”

  “Absolutely,” said Mom.

  The policewoman left.

  And Mom whirled. “You never quit, do you, Nolan? Oh, you sweet, sweet boy,” she cried. Opening her arms wide, she wrapped all of us—even Ben—into a big family hug. “You are the best children in the world. What did I do to deserve you? What? What? What?” She punctuated the whats with kisses—one for each of us.

  Ben liked this a lot, I could tell, because when she finally let go, his eyes were twinkling and his lips were puckered up like he was expecting another smooch.

  “Énchanté, madame,” he said, his eyebrows waggling. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia.”

  “Of course you are.” Mom giggled. “And I’m Betsy Ross.”

  “Surely you jest, madam,” replied Ben seriously. “I know Betsy Ross. And you are most certainly not she.” He turned to Olive and me. “Mistress Ross is a stout woman, and her hair—”

  Mom giggled again.

  The three of us looked at one another. What was happening?

  “Nolan, you’re too much,” Mom gushed. “First that bunny costume and now…this.” Waving toward Ben, she giggled a third time. “What an inspired idea—The Bumble Bunnies Meet Benjamin Franklin. Why didn’t I think of it myself? All this time I’ve only thought about the bunnies in the modern world. But why not set them in history?” She snapped her fingers. “Wait…Wait…I have it! A new series! In each book they’ll meet a famous American—Amelia Earhart, Dolley Madison, Abraham Lincoln.”

  “That fellow again,” said Ben with a sniff.

  “It’s good, huh?” squealed Mom.

  “Um…uh…good,” I said. I was feeling very confused.

  She looked longingly toward her studio, then back at us. “First I’ll make you some supper, and then it’s back to work. Thanks to you, it seems I’ve suddenly got a book to write.”

  “We can handle supper,” I said.

  “But I should…,” she began.

  “Madam,” said Ben. “One today is worth two tomorrows.”

  Olive nodded. “What he said.”

  “We got this one,” I added.

  Ben made a sick face. “Do promise me, Nolan, that you shall not serve those Sticks ’n’ Stones again.”

  “Sprouts ’n’ Stuff,” I corrected him. “And I promise.”

  Mom hurried up the stairs. But at her studio doorway she stopped. “Will you be staying long?” she asked Ben.

  “I hope to be departing for 1784 shortly,” he replied.

  Mom giggled again, and disappeared into her studio.

  “By the collision of luck and opportunity, sparks are struck and light is obtained,” said Ben. He smiled. “You have made your mother very happy, Nolan.”

  It was like some kind of miracle or something.

  “SO NOW WHAT?” ASKED Olive. She was staring at the spot on the kitchen table where the crystal radio used to be.

  I flopped into a chair. “We have to get it back. That’s what.”

  But how? No way was Tommy going to just hand it over. “We need a plan,” I said.

  We stared at each other.

  “I know!” Olive shouted about a minute later. “We can be ninjas and sneak up on him and—” She karate-chopped the air. “Hiya!”

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” I said.

  We stared at each other some more.

  “Disguises!” Olive shouted. “We’ll disguise ourselves and steal back the radio. That’s a good plan, huh? We can wear our costumes from last Halloween.”

  “Oh sure,” I said with a snort. “A mummy, a mermaid princess, and a Founding Father strolling down the sidewalk. Nobody’s going to notice that.”

  She stuck out her tongue at me.

  We went back to staring.

  But a minute later—

  “Hypnotize him! Attack him with water pistols! Catch him in a giant butterfly net! Drop an iron cage over him! Jump on him with jet-propelled pogo sticks!”

  Oh, brother.

  Ben smiled. “Those are all most ingenious plans, Olive,” he said. “But there are times when brains are preferable to brawn.”

  “Huh?” s
aid Olive.

  “I think Ben means he has a plan,” I said.

  Ben’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed I do, young Nolan.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Olive, hopping up and down.

  “He who can have patience can have what he will,” said Ben. “In the meantime, this is what I need from you and Nolan.”

  And he sent us scurrying all over the house for bits and parts and pieces. After a few trips we had collected a big pile of stuff on the kitchen floor. There were scraps of wire, a roll of tinfoil, and a silk scarf. There were two bent curtain rods, a broken waffle iron, a set of metal salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like the Empire State Building, two knitting needles, five brass thimbles, an assortment of glass jars, and a hand-crank ice cream maker. There was also a saw and a hammer, nuts and bolts, a screwdriver, a bent silver fork, and a bamboo fishing pole.

  Ben snapped the fishing pole in half and wrapped one end with tinfoil. “A makeshift cane…of sorts,” he said with a grin. Then he set to work connecting and fastening the other items.

  “Screwdriver, if you please, Nolan,” he said, holding out his hand like a surgeon in an operating room. “Olive, will you be so kind as to place your finger here so I may tie this knot?”

  Together we yanked and jimmied and pulled away the waffle iron’s metal plates and fit them inside the ice cream maker. As we worked, an unexpected feeling—part happy, part sad—came over me. I remembered the time Dad and I had put together my first bicycle.

  After a few more minutes, Ben waved at his invention. “I give you the electrostatic machine.”

  “What’s it do?” asked Olive.

  “Allow me to demonstrate.” Ben cranked the ice cream maker’s handle. A low humming came from the whirling waffle iron plates inside. The two glass jars we’d mounted on top began to vibrate. Then—

  Sizzle!

  Snap!

  Blue sparks appeared. They bounced and crackled inside the jar.

  “Pretty!” gushed Olive.

  “It’s like little lightning,” I said.

  “It is lightning, although man-made. Indeed, lad, it really is nothing more than a parlor trick. Would you like to try?” He handed me one of the knitting needles.

  “How?”

  “Merely hold it near,” he said, gesturing.

  I held the needle out slowly. When it got within an inch of the machine, a tiny blue-white bolt of electricity leaped from the glass jars to the tip of my needle. Instantly, I felt a tingling in my hand. I jumped back, dropping the needle.

  “Did it hurt?” asked Olive.

  I shook my head. “Not really. It was just a surprise.”

  “I call it a ‘kiss,’ ” said Ben. “An ‘electric kiss.’ ”

  “I want to try,” said Olive. She grabbed a knitting needle. A second later, little lightning bolts were flashing toward her.

  “Ooooh, tingly,” she said.

  She held the needle in place.

  “Kiss me again!”

  Snap! Sizzle! Zap!

  “Enough now, Olive,” said Ben. “We still have work to do.” He turned to me. “Might you have a gripsack or satchel about?”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “Oooh, wait, I know,” cried Olive. She raced up to her bedroom and returned with her Princess Aquamarina Shimmer and Sparkle Backpack. The mermaid’s tail twinkled and flashed with every step she took. She held it up so Ben could see. “You mean something like this?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “May I?”

  Olive handed it to him.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  Ben gestured for us to come close. He whispered his plan.

  “That idea is almost as good as a giant butterfly net!” Olive exclaimed when he was done.

  I wasn’t so sure. “This won’t be like that turkey experiment you told us about earlier, will it? You know, when you electrocuted yourself?”

  “Fear not, dear boy,” Ben reassured me. “I am highly experienced in the delivery of electrical kisses. I have often used a similar strategy to scatter the gawkers gathered in front of my house.” He paused a moment before adding, “I electrified my wrought-iron fence.”

  “BZZZZZZT!” shrieked Olive. She stiffened and shook as if a shock of electricity were running through her body.

  “Hardly as severe as that,” replied Ben, making some adjustments to the backpack. “No, sweet Olive, my kisses are always harmless. People often squeal or jump, but they are never hurt.”

  “Never?” cried Olive. “But I want to zap Tommy. Zing him a good one! Zonk him and…” She smacked her fist into her palm. “Zowie!” She paused to catch her breath. “Let’s shock him unconscious and grab the radio.”

  I rolled my eyes. So much for “sweet Olive.”

  She stomped her foot. “So why’d we build all this stuff if we’re not going to sizzle the snoop?”

  “The element of surprise,” replied Ben.

  “I don’t get it,” said Olive.

  Ben explained. “Master Tuttle will not be expecting a kiss. It will surprise him. Startle him. And in that moment we shall gain the upper hand.”

  “And with our upper hands we grab the radio, right?” added Olive.

  “Correct,” said Ben.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time we pulled Olive’s wagon down Laurel Street. In the back, the electrostatic machine bumped and rattled. Beside it, the backpack twinkled and flashed. Ignoring the stares from passersby, we turned onto Euclid Lane. Tommy’s house sat on the corner. From our spot on the sidewalk we could see into his backyard.

  “So cute!” squealed Olive, pointing to a wooden playhouse. It had a shingled roof, shutters at each of its four miniature windows, and a little deck porch. A blue bicycle leaned against the railing.

  “He’s in there,” I said.

  Olive karate-chopped the air. “Then let’s get him. Hiya!”

  I shook my head. “You two stay here. It’s my turn to do a little surveillance.”

  Keeping low, I scurried across the yard to the playhouse and crouched beneath one of its little windows. Maybe I kept on breathing. I must have. But that’s about all I dared to do at first. Then through the thin pane of glass I heard someone humming. Slowly, carefully, I raised myself up and peeked over the sill.

  The inside of Tommy’s playhouse looked like something out of a police show. There was a poster of the FBI’s Most Wanted tacked to one wall, along with a framed picture of Sherlock Holmes. There was a microscope, and the periscope, and a pair of high-powered binoculars. There was a fingerprint kit, along with a roll of crime-scene tape, plastic evidence bags, specimen swabs, and a shelf full of books with titles like DIY Private Eye and Spying for Dummies.

  Tommy stood in the middle of the room. He’d swapped out his camo jumpsuit for a lab coat. Obviously, he hadn’t been able to get one in his size—that is, short and skinny. The coat hung down all the way to the floor. More than once he tripped over its hem as he moved around a low table, a magnifying glass pressed to his eye, to examine my crystal radio. Every few seconds, he jotted a note in his crime-solving journal.

  “Do you see anything?”

  Startled, I dropped back beneath the window and whirled around.

  There was Olive. Behind her was Ben, pulling the wagon.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stay back?” I hissed at her.

  “But I was curious,” she said.

  “As was I,” added Ben.

  I gestured for them to get down.

  Ben crouched, his knees creaking like an unoiled door.

  “Shhhh,” I whispered, before adding, “The radio…it’s in there.”

  “Did he make it work?” asked Olive. “Is George Washington or Abraham Lincoln or somebody like that in there with him?”

  “That Lincoln fellow,” sniffed Ben. “Zoons, but I’d like to have a few words with him.”

  “Tommy’s alone,” I said.

  “Lucky for Mr. Lincoln,” grumbled Ben.

  Just
in case, I crept to the corner of the playhouse and cautiously peered around. “It’s all clear,” I whispered back to Olive and Ben. “I’m going in.”

  “Me too,” said Olive.

  “And I,” said Ben. Using the makeshift bamboo cane, he creakily stood. “Let us retrieve the contraption immediately. Lost time is never found again, you know.”

  My nerves felt like Mexican jumping beans as I dragged the wagon onto the deck. Ben and Olive followed.

  “Let’s bash in the door,” she said. She did a karate kick. “Hiya!”

  Instead, I grabbed the doorknob and gave it a turn. The door swung open. The three of us burst into the playhouse.

  Tommy whirled. His eyes widened for an instant, then turned squinty. “You!” he exclaimed. “I thought you three would be in jail by now.”

  Olive put her hands on her hips. “Well, nyah, nyah, we’re not, so there.”

  “But you should be,” I added. “You stole our radio.”

  “Stole?” said Tommy. “I didn’t steal anything. I collected evidence—evidence proving that he is the real Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Give it back!” demanded Olive. She karate-chopped at him. “Give it back, or else.”

  Tommy snorted. “Or else what?”

  “I’ll kiss you,” she replied.

  “I’m soooo scared,” drawled Tommy.

  “Young man,” said Ben, “we are giving you the opportunity to right your wrong with no repercussions.”

  “Get lost, Franklin,” said Tommy.

  Ben shook his head sadly. “It appears you leave us no other course of action.” He turned to my sister. “Olive, if you please.”

  With a nod, Olive pulled the wagon through the doorway. Then she began cranking the handle of the electrostatic machine. It whirred and hummed. Pinpricks of electricity lit up the glass jars. Then a spark suddenly danced across Ben’s cane. Its metal tip vibrated.