BELLYACHE

by Crystal Marcos

  Peter wondered if Willie was a boy like him—maybe even perhaps in the same grade. He read some of the other names, fascinated so many were all once there before him. Eventually, Peter tired of looking through the book. He began to close it but stopped abruptly when he recognized a name. He was in disbelief as he read the name aloud. “Sasha Plunket.” Nana? Could it possibly be? Sasha was Nana’s first name, and Plunket was her last name before she married Papa. Peter knew this because he had seen an old newspaper clipping with a picture of a high-school-aged Nana on the swim team. They had a conversation about how she had won six swimming competitions in a row one year. Could she have been in Maple Town?

  Peter whispered, “Nana, were you here?”

  He wanted to rush to the Bakers’ bedroom door that very instant to wake them up and ask if they knew who she was, if they remembered having met Sasha Plunket. He had both his feet off the bed when he decided it could wait until morning. He did not want to be rude and disturb them. Nana had been there—he knew it. He felt it in his gut. He would have to talk to Nana as soon as he got back home. He climbed back on the bed and lay down this time. He continued to look through the guest book to see if he recognized any other names; it took him quite some time since he read every name in the book, one by one. There must have been hundreds of them.

  Peter awoke joyously in the morning to find himself still in Maple Town. He had fallen asleep with the light on and saw that the guest book was now down by his feet. He sat up, grabbed and examined the book to make sure he had not damaged it. It looked okay. He turned quickly to see if Nana’s name was still there. It was. He stretched out of bed and placed the book safely back on the side table.

  Peter washed up in the sink. He brushed his teeth with his finger. He had no clothes to change into, so he had to wear the clothes he had on. That did not bother him, though; he preferred it that way. If you fell asleep with your clothes on and woke up to start the day in them, it saved a lot of time. He knew his mother would never let him get away with it, though.

  Downstairs, he found Mrs. Baker in the kitchen, cleaning up some of those odd-shaped dishes.

  “Good morning, Peter!” Mrs. Baker sang.

  “Good morning!” Peter replied, sliding onto a wide stool in front of the counter. It was definitely a good morning. He was still in Maple Town and eager for the day to go on—and eager to ask, “Do you remember a Sasha Plunket? She is my grandmother, and I saw her name written in the guest book. She was here, I just know it!”

  “Sasha Plunket?” She paused to think. “I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t recall anyone by that name. That book is quite old, and she may have been here long ago. If you have a gut feeling that she was here, you are probably right. How neat would that be?” She leaned forward over the counter and tapped the tip of his nose with her finger.

  “That would be pretty neat!” he confessed.

  “Now, how about some leftover ham slices and eggs for breakfast?” she asked.

  His stomach growled, “Yes, please.”

  They enjoyed breakfast together and talked about all sorts of things. He learned that Mrs. Baker volunteered some of her time at the local school and read to the children every other day. Today was one of her days off. He told her that he would like it if she read for his class. Unfortunately, he also found out Candonites rarely left Maple Town or the only other neighboring town, Honeyville.

  “Our world is incredibly small compared to yours, Peter. Humans have been dropping in from time to time, but a Candonite has hardly left either town. It is just as well; I don’t think a Candonite would fare well in your world.”

  He had a picture in his mind of his favorite restaurant, which carried so many delicious desserts, and what Mrs. Baker might do if she went there and saw people stuffing their faces with them. He shook off the thought. “You might not like some things there.”

  They finished breakfast, and Peter helped with clean-up.

  “I have a few things to do this morning. You are welcome to watch some television or go enjoy the nice weather if you would like,” Mrs. Baker said.

  “Okay,” Peter answered.

  “It will be a few hours before Gus picks us up for lunch,” Mrs. Baker told him.

  “Who’s Gus?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, pardon me. That is Mr. Baker’s first name. Mine is Sandy,” she smiled.

  “Gus and Sandy Baker.” Peter thought that sounded pleasant.

  The Tin

  Peter had watched about an hour of television when he heard the computerized voice say, “Attention: one guest at the door, one guest at the door.”

  Peter heard Mrs. Baker call out, “Coming, dear!”

  Peter couldn’t see the front door, so he listened intently over the television sounds. He was a bit nervous it might be Carol Winston coming over to fuss and scowl at him some more. He wouldn’t mind if he never saw her again.

  “How lovely to see your smiling face this morning! Come on in. Peter is in the living room,” Mrs. Baker’s pleasant voice rang.

  He knew as soon as he heard “smiling face” that it could not possibly be Carol Winston. She had no smile lines on her face; Peter did not think she ever smiled. She only had frown lines.

  Poke emerged into the living room, and Peter was happy to see him.

  “Hey, I came over to see if you wanted to hang outside for a while until we go to Bella’s House of Food.”

  “Sure, but won’t your aunt mind?” Peter asked worriedly.

  “Don’t worry about her, Peter; she looks much meaner than she really is. She is not fond of humans because my great-grandfather told her a story about when he was a boy and was bitten by a human who practically tore his finger off,” Poke told Peter as if he had heard it a thousand times. “My mom and dad say great-grandfather was notorious for stretching the truth. But my Aunt Carol seems to believe him. She tells me not to talk to humans, but she isn’t the boss of me. So if I did talk to them and lost a finger, don’t come crying to her.”

  Peter replied, “I will keep my teeth to myself, I promise.”

  Outside, it was the perfect temperature, not too hot and not too cold. The sun was shining as it had been the day before, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Peter was thoroughly enjoying himself when an image caught the corner of his eye. A piercing glare came from the unmistakable Carol Winston from between her curtains. They locked eyes, and he felt his hair stand up on his arms. She shook her head in disapproval and shut the curtains, quick and stern. Peter shook off a shiver and turned away from the window to face Poke.

  “Is Poke your real name or a nickname?”

  “It’s my real name. Poke is short for slow poke. My parents named me that because I was born late. My mom said I must have gotten comfortable in her tummy because I didn’t want to come out; I was in there for weeks after I was supposed to be born.”

  Peter was amused by his story. “It’s a really interesting name, that’s for sure!”

  “I rather like it now, but when I was younger, some older kids used to call me Hokey Pokey; I hated that. I would walk down the sidewalk, minding my own business, when I would hear them chanting, ‘Okie dokie artichokie. Here he comes, it’s Hokey Pokey!’ I remember wishing I was bigger so I could whoop ’em good and they would never sing that dreadful song again. I guess they grew tired of making fun of me, because one day I walked by the same group and waited for that horrible chant to start. I could almost hear it before it started. But it never did start and hasn’t since.” Poke shrugged and added, “Maybe it was because I grew five and a half inches that year and I was as tall as the tallest of ’em.”

  “I know what you mean. When I was younger, I had the same problem with this girl named Henrietta. She used to drive me nuts! Whenever I ran into her, she would holler, ‘Peter Fischer, come here and give me a great big kisser!’”

  Poke burst out laughing! Peter was initially offended by his outburst because, after all, he did not laugh at Poke’s story.

  By now, Pok
e’s round body was doubled over with laughter, and he was apologizing for his rudeness in between giant gasps for air. “I’m sorry…it's just that…that Henrietta…was saying that because…she had a crush on you…and she had a very inventive way of letting you know it!”

  Peter joined in with Poke’s laughter. It may not have been funny at the time when Henrietta’s red curls bounced up and down as she pointed her finger at him, but it did seem funny now.

  “I’ve got something I’d like to show ya. Follow me,” Poke said, tugging on Peter’s shirt sleeve.

  They walked behind creepy Carol Winston’s house. They ventured a few yards, turned left, and disappeared behind a huge blue green bush. Peter could no longer see the houses and suspected no one in the houses could see them, either. The bush stood about four inches taller than Peter and about six feet wide. Poke sat down and stuck his arm into the massive bush, feeling around for something. His arm reappeared with a small white tin with “Candonites” printed all over it.

  “Sit down.” He gestured toward the long blades of blue-green grass.

  The grass was comfortable and cool on Peter’s legs. Intrigued, Peter watched as Poke carefully opened his tin.

  Poke’s cheerful face became extremely serious. Almost whispering, he advised, “Now, these are my most prized possessions. I will show you, but ya have to promise to be careful with them.”

  Peter gulped and whispered back, “I will.”

  Poke turned the box toward Peter. Peter gazed inside the tin, and his eyes locked in on every object: a splendid golden coin with a distinguished-looking Candonite carved into it, a plastic baggie with little green shriveled balls inside, a newspaper clipping, a torn white piece of paper, and a slender wooden cylinder.

  “I take these with me when I’m going to be away from home. Bless my aunt, but she is one of the nosiest people ever born. I hide it out here so she doesn’t go snooping around in it.”

  Peter remarked, “This is a great hiding place.”

  Poke took the shriveled green things out of the tin and opened the plastic bag. “These are dried green peas, my favorite.”

  “Dried green peas are your favorite? Are you kidding?” As Peter said this, he remembered Sandy Baker’s dessert the night before, Brussels sprout pie, and realized he wasn’t kidding.

  “Nope, they are my favorite,” Poke confirmed.

  “Sorry about that,” Peter explained. “Where I come from, I doubt anyone would say peas are their favorite food.”

  “No problem. I know.”

  Moving on, Poke turned their attention back to the tin. “This,” he said, taking out the golden coin, “is a gift from my dad.” He handed the coin to Peter so he could get a closer look.

  “Wow, is this what Candonites use to buy things with? Is this money?”

  “Naw, that is not money, although it is very precious to me. That Candonite you see carved in the coin is my dad. He had it made at the town fair two years ago.”

  “I like it. It’s a cool gift; your dad looks very smart. Is he?” Peter asked.

  “He sure was. The smartest!” Poke remarked with pride.

  “Was?”

  “Yeah, my old man died last year,” Poke spoke softly, taking the coin back to admire it.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said sympathetically. Until then, Peter never even associated a Candonite with being able to die. They seemed so magical, so eternal.

  “Ah, don’t feel sorry for me; I don’t. He was the best dad in all of Honeyville and Maple Town put together! We had some really great times. My dad was such a fun guy to be around. He loved playing practical jokes on people. He would let me get in on some of the jokes sometimes. One time, we even played a practical joke on Aunt Carol.”

  “Really? That’s brave!” Peter exclaimed. “I bet she didn’t like that at all.”

  “How’d you guess? I can tell you one thing, we never played one on her again.”

  “Tell me about it,” Peter begged.

  Poke sat up straight and leaned in toward Peter. “Well, one afternoon three summers ago while we were here visiting Aunt Carol, Dad conjured up this grand idea. He had this glint in his eyes, the same glint he’d get every time he had a super joke to tell or a crazy prank to play on an unsuspecting victim. This time, his victim was my cranky aunt. I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea, but he would hear nothing of it.

  “We waited until mom went for her afternoon jog and Aunt Carol stepped outside to fetch the mail. Dad had me watch at the front window to make sure we had enough time to set up.” By now, Peter was so enthralled by Poke’s marvelous story he did not even notice a milk chocolate bunny go hopping by. “Dad ran to the kitchen, got out a white paper bag, and with the speed of lightning, cut out two circles for eyes with a pair of scissors. He grabbed two markers, one blood red and one black, and swiftly created his masterpiece…”

  “What was he creating?” Peter interrupted.

  “An evil clown.”

  “A clown!”

  “Aunt Carol despises clowns. She thinks they are annoying creatures who are useless to society. She wouldn’t even come to my fifth birthday party when my parents hired a clown for entertainment. We didn’t miss her much anyway, to tell you the truth. She would have just complained about Mr. Happiness being there—that was the clown’s name. Anyway, back to my story. Dad grabbed a flashlight from the drawer and called out to me to ask how much time we had. ‘Not much,’ I told him. ‘She is headed this way.’ Dad ran for the closet, and before putting his masterpiece inside, he showed me. I tell you, Peter, it was the scariest clown I’ve ever seen, even if it was made out of a paper bag.

  “My dad went into the hallway closet. ‘Hurry,’ I whispered, ‘she is almost here.’ It was so close I cringed. He balanced the flashlight facing up on the shelf and placed the paper bag clown over it. The eyes beamed with glorious devilish light. Dad emerged empty-handed just as Aunt Carol opened the door. Aunt Carol and I stood face-to-face. I impulsively said to her, ‘I was just coming to ask you where the broom is so I can sweep some crumbs off the floor.’

  “‘You were, were you? It is about time you did something helpful around here,’ she croaked.

  “She pointed to where my father had been just moments before. He had since made his way to the couch. ‘It is in that closet.’

  “My father responded slyly, ‘I didn’t see it in there.’

  “‘Oh honestly, do I have to do everything around here?’ she said. She trotted over to the closet as my father and I stared.

  “She swung the closet open and screamed a scream of a hundred banshees! The mail she was holding flew in all directions. One piece even landed in my dad’s lap. I was too afraid to laugh so I only laughed inside.

  “My dad, however, laughed so hard he cried! I thought that was enough for both of us. My aunt was so upset, she was bent over gasping for air. I thought she might pass out.

  “No such luck. As my dad used to tell the story: like a wild, ravenous boar, she rose up, and with the force of a thousand roaring lions, she screamed, ‘Oh, you think this is funny, do you? You won’t think it’s so funny when I am through with the two of you!’”

  “What did she do to you?” Peter asked, wide-eyed.

  “She made us sweep the whole house from top to bottom, including the garage, twice! When my aunt tells you to do something, you usually do it or you’ll have to hear about it over and over and over again. She made sure to inspect our work. It really wasn’t too bad, though; my mom made us a snack and something to drink. We ate it over the garbage can to make sure we didn’t spill any crumbs. To tell you the truth, Peter, it was worth it just to be a part of one of my dad’s famous pranks. It was really something.”

  Peter could tell Poke truly admired his dad. “Your dad sounds like he was a load of fun.”

  “And then some,” Poke added.

  “I have to admit, I would have liked to have seen that.”

  Both boys chuckled.

  Taking
the newspaper clipping out of the box, almost respectfully, Poke said with excitement, “Read this, Peter.”

  Peter took the paper from Poke and read it out loud:

  REAL-LIFE SUPERHERO, RIGHT HERE IN HONEYVILLE!

  By Craig Scott

  Walter Hammerstein is responsible for courageously and dynamically saving a distressed little Suzanne Anderson from certain death. The six-year-old was crossing the street after looking both ways just as her parents, Hamilton and Suzette Anderson, have always taught her to do, when suddenly a limousine’s hover mechanism malfunctioned and headed ferociously towards helpless little Suzanne at barreling speeds. Onlooker Walter Hammerstein risked life and limb to sweep little Suzanne out of danger’s way, and he did not forget the endangered driver behind the wheel of the limousine. Walter managed to grab hold of one of the passing limousine’s door handles and window and swung himself into it. He pushed the driver, Theodore Douglas, out of the car onto a bed of grass and jumped out himself just before the limousine crashed into an enormous tree.

  Witnesses say it was like watching a real-life superhero fly in to save the day. The mayor of Honeyville will be presenting Walter Hammerstein with a Good Samaritan Award. Little Suzanne Anderson was quoted as saying, “Walter is my very best hero.”

  “That goes for me, too,” stated an extremely grateful Theodore Douglas.

  “Wow that is some story,” Peter commented, noticing Poke’s gigantic smile.

  “That is a story about my dad,” Poke said, beaming with pride.

  “That’s awesome!” Peter said admiringly. He took a moment and imagined himself in Mr. Hammerstein’s shoes, saving Suzanne and Theodore. He wondered if it was something he could have done; probably not. He wasn’t as brave as Poke’s dad.

  “My old man made this for me,” Poke said, taking out the wooden object and the piece of paper.

  “What is it?” Peter asked, admiring the sleek, smooth look of the well-crafted piece.