GRANDMA HELMSLEY: There won’t be time for that, dear; now put those down. How do you turn this thing off? No, it’s that one there—the one on the right—no? Try that one then—that’s it.
T A P E E N D
Archer sat quietly, staring at the machine. He heard something familiar in his grandfather’s voice. But perhaps that only made sense. He was a Helmsley after all, like Archer’s father and Archer himself. And whatever it was about that voice, it sounded wonderful. Both did.
Archer leaned back in the chair.
If they could survive a plane crash in the desert, he thought, would an iceberg be so bad? Maybe the Eye Patch was right.
As Archer ejected the tape and stood up to leave, he spotted a wooden box beneath the table. He ran his fingers through the dust and discovered the initials R.B.H. Those were his father’s initials. It can’t be the same box. But sure enough, he lifted the lid and found that it was filled with books. He sat down again, wiped the spines clean, and opened a book titled The Wind in the Willows. It was very good. It reminded him of his house.
Archer carried the box upstairs to his room where he moved on to Gulliver’s Travels, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Treasure Island, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
It took Archer only a few days to read all of these books, and his mother left him alone as he did, glad to see he was doing something sensible. Of course, she might have thought otherwise had she bothered looking at the titles.
When he finished Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Archer set it down and slid off his bed. A door at one end of his room gave way to a balcony and he stepped outside.
♦ ARCHER’S DECISION ♦
There was a secret world behind the houses on Willow Street. Trees sprouted from the ground, and each house had a walled-in garden and a balcony on the top floor overlooking it. From here, Archer often spied on the neighbors. He leaned against the railing and looked down into the gardens.
A wonderland, he was thinking. I need to find a rabbit’s hole.
But the only holes in the city were sewer holes, and he couldn’t imagine there was much of a wonderland down there.
Still, as he stood there, quietly staring across the gardens, Archer made a decision. He decided he wasn’t going to sit around anymore. He was going to figure out a way to escape that tall, skinny house on Willow Street and find an adventure of his own. He had to. After all, Archer was a Helmsley, and being a Helmsley meant something. Archer knew what it meant. It meant he had to do something great—something worthy of the Helmsley Golden Age—something that could even restore the Helmsley Golden Age. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he couldn’t let the Helmsleys be reduced to stamp lickers. What would his grandparents say if they knew that? No, he was going to find an adventure that would make them proud. And because his grandparents couldn’t help him, he would find someone who could.
Little did he know that the very boy he would ask lived just next door. That boy’s name was Oliver J. Glub, and at that very moment, Oliver was sitting on his balcony trying to see how many blueberries he could stuff into his mouth. Archer watched closely, guessing Oliver could fit at least twenty, but after number thirteen, he was beginning to have his doubts.
“You’re going to explode,” called Archer.
Oliver swallowed hard. “That’s impossible,” he replied.
Despite being neighbors and attending the same school, these were the first words they had ever exchanged.
♦ JUST A GLUB ♦
Archer and Oliver attended the Willow Academy, a school four blocks away, across from Rosewood Park. A long time ago, the Willow Academy had been a Button Factory (and the students still called it that). But after a number of renovations and a fresh coat of paint, it now looked something like a school. Still, great smoke towers loomed high above the roof and Archer sometimes stumbled upon a button, which he added to his collection. It was here, at the Button Factory, that Archer had his second encounter with Oliver.
Oliver was a quiet boy and kept mostly to himself. But if you’re a quiet boy and keep mostly to yourself, others will often speak for you.
“He’s got a few too many, you know, cracks in his nut,” said Charlie H. Brimble.
“He is a nut,” said Molly S. Mellings. “And I hope a squirrel takes him away.”
“That would never happen,” said Alice P. Suggins. “He’s one nut no squirrel would want.”
It was widely whispered that Oliver was some love child of disaster and tragedy. Perhaps that was true. But Oliver was also unique. And Archer realized this the moment they collided.
“I’m really sorry about that,” said Oliver, helping Archer up off the grass. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Archer. “Do you always run with your eyes closed?”
“Only when I’m late,” said Oliver. “When I close my eyes, it feels like I’m running faster.”
Archer smiled. He’d never thought about that before.
Although Archer knew very little about Oliver, Oliver knew a great deal about him. Oliver wasn’t the only one. Many of the Button Factory students knew a great deal about Archer and his peculiar family.
“They’re all crazy,” said Alice P. Suggins. “His grandparents are frozen to the side of an iceberg.”
“I thought they were eaten by penguins,” said Molly S. Mellings. “I know he has penguins inside his house.”
“Not just penguins,” said Charlie H. Brimble. “There are many strange creatures in Helmsley House—even an Archer.”
Archer and Oliver stood in the Button Factory courtyard, next to the crumbling fountain, staring at each other as they had done from their balconies many times. Oliver was a hair taller than Archer (but only because his hair didn’t sit flat). He apologized once more and was about to leave, but Archer stuck out his hand.
“My name is Archer Helmsley,” he said.
Oliver shook it. “I’m just a Glub,” he replied. “My name is Oliver.”
“Do you know what a sidekick is?” Archer asked.
Oliver flinched. “Please don’t,” he said.
After class, Oliver sat on a well-worn couch in the student room listening to Archer recount the story of his grandparents. Oliver pretended this was all news to him, but Oliver knew the story better than most. And while he had no interest in having an adventure or anything of the sort, he was interested in having a friend, so he agreed to help Archer find his adventure if he could.
Besides, he reasoned. Archer isn’t allowed to leave his house. What could possibly happen?
CHAPTER
THREE
♦ ARCHER THE SUBMERSIBLE ♦
It was the last day of school, but you wouldn’t know that from the weather. The rain tapped against the Button Factory windows all afternoon. In a few classrooms, water even dripped from the ceiling and into buckets.
MEMBER OF THE ROSEWOOD PUBLIC LIBRARY
WILLOW ACADEMY LIBRARY
• BOOK REQUEST CARD •
REQUEST NO. 37953
Miss Whitewood,
Can you please find a few books on the deep sea? I’ve already read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.
Archer Helmsley
When the final bell rang, the students scurried to the exits like mice from a sinking ship. Archer scurried in the opposite direction, up a few flights of stairs, down a number of corridors, in one of which he stopped to pick up a button, and continued to the library.
The Button Factory library was immense. Rows of shelves stretched up to the ceiling with ladders attached so you could reach the top. A separate room was filled with old couches and chairs where students could sit and look out at the inner courtyard. That’s where Oliver was waiting, lounging in a big armchair, when Archer stepped inside.
“I’ve got something good,” Archer said.
Oliver looked suspicious and not without reason. According to his math, over the past few weeks Archer had failed to find an adventure more times t
han he tried. But Oliver wasn’t good at math, and it’s not possible to fail more times than you try. Still, he was right about one thing. Archer’s track record was dismal. Oliver was fine with that.
Archer opened his bag and handed Oliver a mobile made of fish.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Oliver asked.
“Use the headband,” said Archer. “Strap it to your head.”
Oliver considered this and then, like any good sidekick, strapped the fish to his head. “Why am I strapping fish to my head?” he asked.
“To set the mood,” said Archer.
Miss Whitewood, the school’s librarian, rolled by with her pushcart. Of all the teachers at the Button Factory, Archer liked Miss Whitewood the most. She had dark wavy hair and smelled of books.
“Hello, Archer,” she said. “I have the books you’ve requested, but I’m afraid you’ll—” She stopped when she saw Oliver.
♦ TWO WEEKS PRIOR ♦
“Do you have the birdseed?” Archer asked.
Oliver tapped his pockets. Both were filled. “But this is a bad idea. If giant eagles exist, which I’m certain they don’t, I’d prefer to stay away from them.”
“Trust me,” said Archer. “I’ll meet you in the library after class and then we’ll go to the roof.”
Archer sat quietly in the library reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Mrs. Whitewood was atop a ladder shelving books. All at once, the doors flew open and Oliver came barreling down the aisle like a cat on fire.
“Run!” he shouted. “Run!”
Behind him, in hot pursuit, was a flock of chickens, and directly in front of him, Miss Whitewood’s ladder. Archer spotted Alice, Charlie, and Molly holding an empty cage and peering proudly through the doorway.
“Open your eyes!” cried Miss Whitewood. “Open your eyes!”
Oliver did, but only in time to see the warning label on the side of the ladder: WARNING: LOCK WHEELS BEFORE MOUNTING, which Miss Whitewood had failed to do.
Oliver smacked the ladder and plopped to the ground. The chickens pounced. Miss Whitewood let out a shriek. The ladder blew clear past the end of the shelf and launched her atop a young girl named Isabella.
One week later, Isabella returned to school. Oliver served his time and repaid his debt to society and Miss Whitewood’s limp was now barely noticeable.
“Why does he have fish strapped to his—no—never mind. I’m minding my own business.” Miss Whitewood turned back to Archer. “As I was saying, I have some books that might help you. But you’ll have to leave them here, I’m afraid. Can’t keep books over the summer.”
Archer thanked her. Oliver remained silent till Miss Whitewood rolled away.
“Just out of curiosity,” he said. “What mood am I setting with these fish strapped to my head?”
Archer was too busy looking through his notebook to hear the question. His fingers were twitching and his eyes were flashing, and though he stood just a few feet from Oliver, Archer was a million miles away.
Oliver waited patiently.
Archer lowered his notebook. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?”
♦ WORLD’S GREATEST DEEP-SEA EXPLORER ♦
After much deliberation and assessment, Archer had decided he would become the world’s greatest deep-sea explorer. He would voyage the vast sweeping seas and penetrate their deepest depths. He would publish journals of his expeditions, cataloging the mutinies and pirate attacks while lost at sea. Man-eating octopi would shudder at the mention of his name—a name that would ring synonymous with the sea. Where Ahab failed, Archer would succeed, capturing as many white whales as historical remembrance required.
Oliver listened closely, and when Archer finished outlining his next great adventure, he smiled and said, “That sounded really good.” And he meant it because it did. “Except for that part where I was swept overboard. I don’t see why that was necessary.”
Archer reviewed his notes. “I can change that part if you want,” he said. “But try not to get caught up in these little details right now.”
It was too late for that. Despite his best efforts to indulge Archer’s fantasies, Oliver was always caught up in the details. He flipped open a magazine and spoke without looking up.
“What about a ship,” he said. “How can you do this without a ship?”
“I’m still working it out,” said Archer. But the first step would be to meet in Rosewood Park at midnight and from there, continue on to Rosewood Port. There would probably be a security guard or two at the gate. But if they could slip by unnoticed, the rest would be easy. “We’ll just have to pirate a ship and take her to sea.”
“Who’s going to do that?” Oliver asked, again without looking up.
“We are,” said Archer.
“You can operate a boat?”
Archer couldn’t operate a boat—an obvious detail he failed to consider. Then came the submarine. He couldn’t operate a submarine, either. In fact, Oliver managed to point out there wasn’t a single thing on Archer’s list that Archer could do, beginning with step one: Leave House.
“Can I take these fish off now?” Oliver asked.
Archer nodded and tore the page from his notebook. He was disappointed, but that was nothing new.
If someone tells you they love turkey smothered with cranberry sauce, that they love it more than anything else in the world, you might spend the day roasting that someone a turkey and smothering it with cranberry sauce. If that same someone then takes one little bite and says, “That’ll be all, thank you,” you’ll likely go red in the face and hurl both these turkeys out the nearest window because clearly, this person never loved turkey smothered with cranberry sauce in the first place.
Little bites are never enough when you love something. When you love something, you want it all. That’s how it works. And that’s how it was for Archer. Archer didn’t want a little taste of adventure with a side of leftover discoveries. Archer wanted the whole turkey and he wanted it stuffed with enough salts and spices to turn his taste buds into sparklers. Needless to say, it was a tall order for a boy who wore a size small blazer.
Archer wrinkled the page into a ball and tossed it into the trash. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out,” he said. “I have to.”
While Archer was talking, Oliver had come across an ad in the magazine for a shop in Rosewood called Strait of Magellan. The shop sold many things, but the ad was for survival kits. Oliver tore it out and tucked it into his pocket.
“I’m not worried,” he said, glancing at the clock. “But we’d better go. You’ll be in trouble if you’re not home soon.”
♦ ALL GLUBS ON DECK ♦
The sky was still drizzling as they made their way down the sidewalk. The clouds made it feel much later than it was. Archer was watching the streetlamps reflected in puddles. Oliver was staring at the clouds.
“I’d like to be one,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Archer.
“A cloud,” said Oliver. “I said I’d like to be a cloud.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you think it’d be nice to be a fluffy white mass looking down on the earth while floating high above it from a safe distance? I think that would be very pleasant.”
But these clouds were neither fluffy nor white.
“What about a storm cloud?” asked Archer.
Oliver didn’t want to be one of those.
The boys walked up the steps to Oliver’s house. Archer wanted his binoculars. Oliver had borrowed them to spy on a new neighbor who’d just moved in across the gardens.
“What’s she like?” Archer asked.
“Horrible,” said Oliver. “She was shouting at the moon last night, and I think she ate a beetle.”
“A beetle?”
“Maybe it was just a raisin,” Oliver admitted.
They stepped inside the tall green door of house number 377. Oliver dashed up the stairs. Archer sat down on a bench a
nd glanced around the foyer. The Glubs’ house always looked as if a giant had picked it up and given it a good shake. And it was styled like a sweater your grandmother knits for you—having too much in the sleeve and too much about the waist but providing more warmth than any other you own. Archer liked it. He didn’t have a grandma sweater.
A crash of pots sounded in the kitchen. The door flew open and a mouse scurried across the rug with a look of terror blazing in its beady little eyes. The mouse was followed shortly by Claire, Oliver’s younger sister, who chased the creature with a piece of toast hanging from her mouth.
“Afer-noon, Ar-chur!” she cried, and was gone before Archer could reply.
Mrs. Glub poked her frazzled-looking head through the kitchen door. “Get that creature out of the house!” she shouted. “If you don’t get that—oh, Archer dear—didn’t know you were here.”
Mrs. Glub took a moment to compose herself, but a composed Mrs. Glub didn’t look any different.
“You look wet. Are you hungry? You look hungry. Tea with milk, or toast with jam perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” said Archer. “I can’t stay.”
Mrs. Glub nodded. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” she said. “You mustn’t be afraid to speak up.”
“Did someone say Archer?” called a voice from upstairs.
It was Mr. Glub.
“Yes, someone said Archer,” Mrs. Glub replied. “But please—the mousetraps!”
Mrs. Glub gave Archer a smile and stepped back into the kitchen. Mr. Glub descended the stairs with the air of a conquering hero. He was a portly fellow who wore weathered suits and had bright blue eyes that were always glad to see Archer.
“Hello, Mr. Glub. How are you?”
Mr. Glub lifted his hands. “You know what they say, Archer. Just bouncing along—bouncing merrily along. Or something along those lines, I suppose.”
He popped Archer on the head with a closed fist, a ritual Archer had grown to enjoy.
“You don’t look half as excited as Oliver does now that summer’s arrived. Two and half months’ parole, isn’t it?”
The Doldrums Page 3