Here Comes Mr. Trouble tfc-1

by Brett Battles

  Call 678768253

  This is a Free Call. In fact, you won’t pay a cent for anything. EVER.

  TFS

  TROUBLE FAMILY SERVICES

  THE TROUBLESHOOTING EXPERTS

  Eric stared at the page. It was like the ad had been written especially for him. Yes, he’d been forgetting things. Yes, some of his stuff had gone missing. Yes, there were plenty of people around him acting strange. Yes, even if his father said his mom was on a business trip, it felt to Eric like she was missing. And, yes, yes, yes, he felt like his life had suddenly spun out of his control.

  How could it know?

  Maybe this was the final proof that his mind was slipping. He’d obviously been hearing things no one else heard. Couldn’t he just as easily be seeing things?

  Slowly, he extended his index finger and lowered it toward the book. He’d all but convinced himself it wasn’t really there and that his finger wouldn’t stop until it hit the carpet.

  But he touched paper, not carpet. Thin, phone-book-type paper.

  It’s real, he thought.

  Curious now, he flipped back several pages and stopped. He was still in the Ts. In fact, he was still on the same Trailers-to-Trucking pages he’d been on, complete with the same glowing ad. He looked through some more. Same. Same. Same. The whole thick directory just a repeat of the Trailers-to-Trucking page. And the ad.

  As his hand rested on the open book, he felt the page beneath his palm start to rip. He was alarmed for a moment until he realized the page was meant to be removed.

  Carefully, he tore the rest of it out.

  Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Gurgly.

  The book started vibrating, then the carpet sucked it into the floor like it was being flushed down a high-powered toilet. And like that, it was gone.

  Eric was left kneeling in the otherwise empty aisle, staring at an empty spot on the carpet, the torn page in his hand.

  “There you are.”

  He looked over his shoulder. Maggie was standing at the far end of the aisle, but she wasn’t alone. Peter Garr was lurking right behind her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Had she seen the book disappear?

  He was about to ask her when she said, “Did the earthquake knock you down?”

  “Uh…no. I was looking at…at the bottom shelf. So you felt it?”

  She shrugged. “Kind of. At first I thought it was just a big car driving by.”

  “Just a car?” he said. It most definitely didn’t feel like a car to him.

  “Why are you even back here?” she asked.

  “Just…uh…checking some books,” he said.

  Her gaze dropped down to the paper in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “What? This?” He held up the paper. She’d seen it. She’d actually seen it. It wasn’t something that only he could see. “I…” He paused. What was he going to say? That he ripped it out of a book that then disappeared? “It’s, um, trash. Someone left it back here. Thought I’d throw it away.”

  “Well, whatever you’re trying to find, hurry up. We still have a lot of work to do.” She turned and walked away.

  Peter, on the other hand, took a few steps toward Eric, tilted his head, and began sniffing the air.

  Eric stood up, keeping his eyes on the bigger boy.

  Sniff. Sniff.

  Peter continued down the aisle, his head swiveling back and forth, his nostrils flaring with each breath.

  Sniff. Sniff.

  As he neared, Eric moved back until he bumped into the bookcase and could retreat no more.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Sniff. Sniff.

  Peter stopped a few feet away and sampled the air again. Sniff. He leaned forward, his nose hovering next to Eric’s shoulder. Sniff. Then the other shoulder. Sniff. Then down his arm. Sniff. Sniff. And then, when he reached the hand that was still holding the page out of the phone book, his nose went into overdrive. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

  “Hey, uh, that’s kind of weird,” Eric said.

  The bully looked up at Eric, his eyes wide. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. He reached out to grab the page from Eric’s hand, but Eric yanked it back just in time. He then twisted out from between Peter and the bookcase.

  Eric took a big step backward. “I’ve got to…get back to my friend,” he said, then turned and ran the rest of the way down the aisle.

  When he reached the end, he looked back. Peter had dropped to his hands and knees and was sniffing the area where the book had been before it vanished.

  Not sure if he was more creeped out or confused, Eric made his way back to the study table. His plan was to grab his books and get out of there. He thought if he left now, he could probably get most of the way home before Peter even realized he was gone.

  “Oh, no,” Maggie said as he started shoving his notebook in his backpack. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I gotta get home.”

  She pushed her glasses all the way up her nose. “Eric Morrison, you’re going to sit down and help me work on this report. You promised me.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. Maybe…maybe we can get together tonight and finish it after dinner.”

  “We’re already going to do that, remember? We need to work on it now and tonight.”

  Eric sensed something move behind him. As he looked over his shoulder, he realized he’d lost his chance. Peter was back.

  “Eric?” Maggie said.

  He took a breath then put his backpack down. “Fine.”

  “I thought you were going to throw that away,” she said.

  “What?”

  She pointed at the piece of paper — the page from the phonebook — he’d set on the table when he started packing up.

  “Oh, right,” he said.

  He picked it up, intending to take it to the trash, but glanced at the ad again. Should I? Really, it was kind of ridiculous. A company that helped people in trouble? He’d never heard of anything like that before. It was probably just a joke.

  But…what if it wasn’t? It wouldn’t hurt to call, would it?

  There was a pay phone in the back of the library near the restrooms. He reached into his pocket to see how much change he had, then realized he’d spent the last of his money on his lunch. He leaned toward Maggie and whispered so Peter couldn’t hear, “Do you have some change?”

  “What do you need change for?” she asked, suspicious.

  “I need to make a call.”

  Her face scrunched up. “Why do you need money to make a call?”

  “Pay phones aren’t free.”

  “Ugh! When are your parents going to buy you a cell phone?”

  Despite the fact all his friends had one, Eric’s parents thought he was still too young. “Do you have change or not?”

  She frowned at him, then reached into her backpack and pulled out some coins.

  As she handed them over, he said, “I’ll pay you back.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I will.”

  “Just go make your call,” she said. Then, as if she’d forgotten she should be mad at him, she added, “And hurry up. We’ve still got a lot to do.”

  There was no one near the phone when he got there, so he pulled out the ad, stuck a couple coins in the slot, and started dialing. It wasn’t until he’d finished punching in the last of the digits that he realized it was too short for calling long distance and too long for local. The number on the ad was obviously a misprint.

  Disappointed, he was starting to hang up when two odd things happened: 1) his coins fell into the change cup, and 2) the number he’d dialed began to ring.

  Before he could decide what to do, someone answered.

  “Hi. This is Trouble Family Services. The troubleshooting experts! You gotta problem, we gotta help.”

  Eric suddenly found himself unable to speak.

  “Hello?” the girl who’d answered said.

  He tried to push a
word — any word — out of his mouth, but his throat was clinched tight.

  “Hello?”

  He had the sudden desire to just hang up and forget he’d even found the ad.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  He drew in a deep breath.

  “Ah, someone is there. Good,” the girl said. “Don’t worry. You’re not our first nervous client. But you can talk to me. I’m a friend.”

  “Who…who is this?” Eric croaked.

  “Excellent! You do know how to talk. I was getting worried that we might have gotten a really young one this time.” She paused. “Of course, I guess a young one wouldn’t have known how to dial…but you never know.” Again, she fell silent, this time like she was waiting for him to say something. “Oh, right. Who am I? Sorry. My name is Fiona and I am your point of contact representative.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re my what?”

  “Your point of contact representative.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  She said nothing for a moment, then, “Hold on, please.”

  The line clicked, then music even his parents wouldn’t have listened to started to play. This went on for several seconds before it finally cut out mid-tune. Eric could hear papers moving around and then Fiona said, “I apologize for the delay.” More movement. “Ah, here it is.” Then, as if she were reading, “Your point of contact representative is here to help you.” A pause. “How’s that?” Before he could respond, she started speaking again. “Now, I have several questions I need to ask you.”

  “Wait,” he said, looking at the ad in his hand. “Tell me how you did this.”

  “I, uh, haven’t done anything yet.”

  “The book! How did you make it pop out of the air?”

  “Book…pop out of the air,” she repeated, obviously not following him.

  “It made this really weird sound, but I was the only one who could hear it.”

  After several seconds, Fiona let out a long, “Ooooooh.” Then, like a machine gun in an old war movie, said, “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, I’m all right. I’m just looking for the right question…ah…here it is. Number thirty-seven. Method of contact. I hate skipping ahead like this so if you don’t mind, we’ll get to that in a few minutes, okay?”

  “No. Not o—”

  “Question one. First name?”

  “Uh…Eric.”

  “Eric. I like that. Mine’s Fiona, or did I already tell you that? It’s Irish. My mom’s idea. She’s actually from Ireland.” Eric could hear a voice in the background. “I’m just bonding, Keira,” Fiona said, her voice muffled by something held over the receiver. Her next words came back clear and strong. “Question two. How many bikes do you own?”

  “Excuse me? Don’t you want to know my last name?”

  “That is question seven. Right now, I want to know how many bikes you own.”

  “Me personally or my family?”

  “You personally.”

  “One. Why would I need more than that?” he asked.

  “Question three. Age?”

  “Thirteen. Fourteen in a month and a half.”

  “No rushing ahead. Four. Birthday?”

  “November 21st.”

  “Five,” she said. “If you had the choice of pepperoni pizza or Hawaiian pizza, which would it be?”

  “Hawaiian?”

  “Is that definite or are you just guessing?”

  “Is this really important?”

  “I assure you our questionnaire has been put together and refined over many, many years. Everything I ask you is potentially important. So Hawaiian then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Six. Shoe size?”

  The questions went on and on. Besides telling her his last name, where he lived, where he went to school, the color of his eyes, and how he had gotten their phone number, Eric also answered questions on such things as favorite TV show, what grade he got on his last math test, and how many cavities he had. It was all very confusing.

  When she finally finished, she said, “And how can we help you today?”

  “Help me? I…I don’t know.”

  “You are in trouble, right? I mean, that’s why you called. So what seems to be the problem?”

  Everything! he thought.

  “It’s like my whole life is suddenly the opposite of what it usually is.”

  “Suddenly…the…opposite,” she said.

  He could picture her writing the words down on her questionnaire. Perhaps there was a space for that, too.

  “I’m forgetting homework,” he said. “I’m getting into fights with people who never bothered me before. I’m losing things like my house key. That got me grounded for two days.”

  “Please. No details unless I ask for them. So how long has this been going on?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  He could hear her write something down. “Okay. So, here’s what will—”

  “There’s more,” he said.

  “What more?”

  “My mother.”

  “What about your mother?”

  Eric hesitated for a moment, then said, “My dad says she went on a trip. But I don’t believe him.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She’s missing.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  “She could be, I guess. I just don’t know.”

  More writing.

  “Am I going crazy?” he asked.

  “Well, as a professional, I can guarantee you that you’re not going crazy.”

  “Then how do I make everything normal again?”

  “The first thing I want you to do is calm down and stop worrying. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be there to help.”

  “Wait, you’re coming here?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He didn’t know who these people were.

  “How are we supposed to help you if we’re not there?”

  “I don’t have any money. I can’t afford to pay you.”

  “Who said anything about money?” Fiona asked. “Did I mention it? I’m sure I didn’t. That ad you got, somewhere on there it must say our services are free.”

  He glanced at the ad. It was right near the bottom

  In fact, you won’t pay a cent for anything.

  EVER.

  “Oh,” he said. “Right. I forgot.”

  “All right, then. Just hang tight and we’ll get this straightened out in no time.”

  “You…really can fix things?”

  “I promise,” the girl said.

  CONTACT REPORT

  Case #3114

  Client: Eric Morrison, Case #3114

  Point of Contact Representative: Fiona

  Report Written by: Keira (with considerable help from Fiona). [Note from Keira: Despite what my sister thinks, she provided very little help with this.] [Note from Fiona: SO not true.]

  A. Per standard procedure, the client — Eric — was questioned using the New Client Profile worksheet.

  B. Personal information

  Age—13 (turns 14 on November 21st)

  Hair — Brown, client describes style as a bit wavy, not long

  Height — Last measurement one month earlier, client says he thinks he was 5 feet 4 inches at the time

  Weight—110 pounds

  Eyes — blue/gray (says they change depending on what he is wearing; need independent confirmation), no glasses

  Home: Tobin, Colorado; lives with parents; only child

  C. Client was also questioned about the initial contact moment. Detailed description has been added to the file. [Fiona: Written by me, of course. And very well, I might add.] [Keira: Whatever.]

  D. Initial contact is categorized as a PC 17C.

  From TFS Point of Contact Catalog:

  PC 17C—A PC 17C is the sudden appearance of a phone book. As of the last catalog update, a PC 17C has been t
he instrument of contact 21 times, most recently in cases 3098, 3105, and 3111. [Fiona: We ALL remember 3111!] For full list of cases using this method, please refer to index at end of catalog.

  The appearance of the phone book has occurred by various methods. Clients have describe some of the following:

  • falling from the ceiling

  • squeezing out of a faucet (bathtub and sink)

  • appearing with a flash in a microwave.

  E. As in the previous cases, as soon as client removed the phone number from the book, the book disappeared. In this case, removal was achieved by tearing out the page. [Note from Ronan: If he still has it, we need to make sure we get that page before we leave.]

  F. Phase 2 of contact — calling us — occurred approximately five minutes later via pay phone at the Tobin City Library on Wednesday, September 28.

  G. Detailed description of the call is attached to this report. [Fiona: Again, written by me.] [Keira: Like anyone cares.]

  H. END OF REPORT

  copies to: file, Ronan, Mom

  Excerpt from the TPS Encyclopedia

  POINT of CONTACT

  Term describing how clients receive information allowing them to contact TFS for help.

  There has been much speculation, and more than a few wild guesses, concerning the Point of Contact. Here are the facts:

  The Point of Contact event started with the very first TFS client (long before it was actually called TFS), and has continued on every case for two hundred and fifty years.

  Some of the events are more spectacular than others, ranging from near hurricanes to the information quietly appearing at the client’s bedside. Extensive research has been done to try and correlate the intensity of the contact with the results of the case that followed, but no trends have been detected.

  TFS has never controlled the Point of Contact event. In that, we are as in the dark as to when a new client will contact us as they are to our existence prior to the event.

  The source of the Point of Contact event remains unknown, but it is not a stretch to say that it must be connected with whatever it was that picked our family for this job.

  3

  Eric Morrison didn’t sleep very well that night. Over and over he dreamt about the air expanding in front of him and spitting out an object. Sometimes it was the book. Sometimes it was his missing house key. Sometimes it was his mom, who was still gone when he came home from the library.