The Super Miraculous Journey of Freddie Yates

by Jenny Pearson

  Charlie cleared his throat. “Mom says I’m to say sorry, Mr. Yates. About your . . .” He paused. “What was Freddie’s Grams to you? She was Freddie’s mom’s mom, right? So that makes her your dead girlfriend’s mom?”

  Dad blinked twice at Charlie then looked at me. I shrugged—what could I say?

  Charlie tried again. “Mr. Yates. I am very sorry to hear that your dead girlfriend’s mom is also dead too.” He looked at the chocolate cookie that Dad was holding below his open mouth. “You going to eat that?”

  Dad handed the cookie over and said, very slowly, “Thank you for your heartfelt condolences, Charlie.”

  “You are very welcome, Mr. Yates.”

  “How’s your leg, Mr. Yates?” Ben asked.

  “Getting better, thanks. Few more weeks in the cast though.”

  “Mom says you’d have to be pretty special to run yourself over with your own car.” Charlie’s lips spread into a huge grin until Ben nudged him in the ribs.

  “What?” Charlie glared at Ben. “I was paying him a compliment.”

  Dad sighed. “How’s your mom, Ben? She okay after everything?”

  “She’s living in Spain. Wants to be as far away from Dad and Becky as possible. She doesn’t understand why Dad waited until she left him to get rich. Thinks he did it to spite her.”

  “Right.” Dad ran his hands through his hair and it stuck up like a mad professor’s. “Can you win five hundred grand on a scratch card out of spite?”

  “Mom seems to think so.”

  “Shall we go up to my room?” I wanted to get on with making our plan—not stand around all day talking to Dad.

  Charlie sat on my desk chair and put his big feet on my bed. “So you’ve got two dads?”

  “Yup—my proper dad and my biological dad who lives in Wales.”

  “Where even is Wales? Is it one of them islands between here and France?”

  Mrs. Walker had been right about Charlie needing to pay more attention in class.

  Ben set him straight. “No, you muppet. It’s that bit stuck to us that looks like a pig’s head.”

  “There? How are we going to get there?”

  “On the train.” I brought up the train schedule on my computer. “But it isn’t cheap. How much money have you guys got?”

  Charlie turned out the pockets of his cargo pants. “I’ve got four pounds and sixteen pence.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  I had my life savings stored in my Kermit money jar. I pulled out the stopper and a shower of silver and brown coins fell onto the carpet. It looked like loads.

  I noticed Ben was smirking. I scowled at him. “What?”

  “Dude, you’ve been saving your money in a Kermit money jar.”

  “So?”

  “Kermit? And now you find out your biological dad’s name is Froggley. It’s a little funny, that’s all.”

  I didn’t think it was funny—and even though I didn’t believe in them at the time, I thought it was a sign. A sign, mind you, not a miracle.

  It started to feel like less of a sign when I counted out the coins and they totaled £8.53. “That makes twelve pounds something. That’s not going to get us to Wales.”

  I didn’t want to appear presumptuous, but I looked straight at Ben. I may have been banking on his monetary input all along, but I was trying to be subtle about it. I was hoping to lead him to make the offer of financial aid himself.

  Charlie, on the other hand, was not subtle about it. He prodded Ben with his foot and said, “Come on, moneybags, hand over the cash.”

  Ben looked uncomfortable. Ever since his dad got rich, he has this thing about people using him for his money. He does get more allowance than me and Charlie combined though.

  “He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. I was doing what they call a double bluff. Or maybe it’s a single bluff. I’m not sure.

  “Go on, Ben, cough up. His Grams died, and I’ve always wanted to go to Wales.”

  “You didn’t know where Wales was two minutes ago.”

  There was this awkward moment when nobody spoke, and I thought Ben might not pay up, but then he said, “Fine. Sorry—yes. Course I’ll put in some money.”

  “I’ll pay you back, I promise.” Note that I did not commit myself to a timeline.

  After we sorted out the money, we discussed our cover story. I suggested we could say we’d won a prize trip, but that got too complicated. Charlie thought we could leave a ransom note and pretend we’d all been kidnapped, but we thought our parents might get too overexcited about that. In the end we opted for Ben’s idea: I’d say I was staying at Ben’s. Ben would say he was staying at Charlie’s, and Charlie would say he was staying at mine. Ben said it was genius in its simplicity.

  As it turned out, our parents were quite relaxed about it all to begin with. I thought Dad would see straight through me because I have a very honest face. But when I said, “Dad, I’m going to sleep over at Ben’s. I’ll be back Sunday,” he said:

  “Where’s the remote?”

  Now, after everything that happened, he makes me leave him a full itinerary of what I’m up to whenever I go out. He even looked into getting me electronically chipped like Lady Gaga—the dog, not the singer (I’ve no idea if she’s tagged).

  Ben, Charlie, and I agreed to meet at the bus stop at eight the following morning. We decided to pack light—a spare pair of underwear and a few snacks to keep us going. At that point I guess I assumed that my new dad, Alan, would put us up, and we’d only be away for a night. When people ask me if I would do anything differently in my journey if I were to do it all again, I tell them I would take more underpants. More clothes in general really.

  6

  I guess this is the beginning of our super miraculous journey

  Because of all the excitement churning in my belly, I woke up really early. I tried staying in bed but there was no way I was getting back to sleep. I packed my best boxer shorts into my bag. I remember thinking that the next time I put them on I would have met Alan Froggley. Interestingly, the first men’s underwear worn 7,000 years ago (!) took the form of the leather loincloth. We don’t wear leather underwear anymore because the immense sweat buildup wasn’t fun for anybody’s nether regions.

  I tiptoed past the living room, which Dad had claimed as his bedroom ever since his accident. He was on the couch, snoring, his face illuminated by the blue glow from the TV. I knew I should have breakfast even though I was feeling excited-sick. I picked up a box of Pop-Tarts but put them back when I remembered Grams’s letter and opted for Shredded Wheat instead.

  Just after seven o’clock I reckoned it would be okay to head over to the bus stop near Ben’s. I didn’t know whether to wake Dad or not. I stood over him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He looked so peaceful. I wanted to wrap my arms around him like I used to when I was little. It was quite a nice moment until he suddenly bolted upright and swung at me with one of his crutches. I was so surprised I peed a little in my boxers.

  I screamed. He screamed. We both screamed.

  “Fred! What the hell are you doing? I thought you were an intruder!”

  “I was watching you sleep!”

  “Holy smoke, why were you doing that, son? You could have given me a heart attack.”

  “You’re the one wielding your crutch!”

  “Fred, watching someone sleep is just plain creepy. Don’t do it again.”

  He had a point.

  “I came to say goodbye. I’m off to Ben’s.”

  He rubbed his stubble. Every day he was looking more and more crusty. “What time is it?”

  “Just after seven.”

  “For the love of all things bright and beautiful, Fred. What’re you doing up so early?”

  “It’s not that early.”

  “It is for me.”

  He was right about that. He hadn’t been up much before eleven most mornings since he was laid off from work. “When’r
e you back?”

  “Tomorrow evening.”

  He stretched out his arms and did a huge yawn that sounded like an angry dinosaur. Dad always does these really noisy yawns. “Be a good boy, make me a cup of tea before you go.”

  I gave Dad his tea and he told me Mom would be proud. I didn’t need to write that in my book though, because I already had it down. Dad drinks a lot of tea. In fact, I only ever see him drink one of two liquids—tea or soda.

  “I’ll see you later then, Dad.”

  “Have fun. Behave yourself.”

  I paused in the doorway. The moment didn’t feel quite big enough somehow. “I love you. And I promise I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry, okay?”

  Dad’s forehead went all crinkly. “Everything alright, Fred?”

  Maybe I’d said too much. I was only supposed to be going to Ben’s. I thought I might have given the game away, but then he said, “Sorry, of course it’s not alright. I know how much you miss your Grams. And it’s not going to be much of a summer for you with me laid up like this.”

  I had to squeeze my lips together to stop myself from blurting out that I was sneaking off to Wales in search of Alan Froggley. I usually told Dad everything. But I couldn’t tell him that I was off to secure myself a backup father. He might not let me go.

  And also, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him like that.

  When I got to the bus stop I was surprised to see that Ben was already there. The bus wasn’t due for another half hour.

  “Becky wanted me to join in with some family mindful meditation yoga thing. I had to get out of there,” he explained. “She made Dad wear this Lycra outfit.”

  I pulled a face. Trust me, you don’t want to see Ben’s dad in stretchy material.

  “I know, right? It was practically a leotard. When he dropped into this low squat pose, I left.”

  It was a good move on Ben’s part. No one should have to witness that.

  “They bought it then—that you’re staying at Charlie’s?”

  “Oh yeah. Don’t think Dad was listening, to be honest.” Ben looked behind me. “Speaking of Charlie . . .”

  Charlie rocked up with a Mars Bar in each hand and his hypoallergenic pillow under one arm.

  “Hungry?” Ben asked.

  “Storing up before the Anderson clan depart for Camp Stomach Cramp.” By the time the bus arrived, Charlie was two chocolate bars down and we were surrounded by a gaggle of geriatrics from Grams’s book club. I was worried they might be suspicious and ask where we were going, but they were too pumped up about their morning Zumba class to notice us. Then one of them called Doreen recognized me. After that they spent the rest of the journey sighing and looking at me with their sad wrinkly eyes. They all said that Grams was a wonderful person. Doreen was particularly gushing about her and gave us each twenty pence and told us not to spend it all at once. I remembered Grams talking about a Doreen. They’d had an argument in the supermarket over a discounted ham. Grams wasn’t as generous in her comments. I think she’d said something like, “She’d drink tea with the devil, that one.”

  When we got to the train station I began to get The Nerves big-time. Dad was at home with only one working leg and no one to fetch him a cup of tea. I didn’t feel like a very responsible son. In fact, I felt like a traitor.

  Ben was a bit dismissive when I mentioned this. He said, “Your dad can manage for one night without a cup of tea.” Then he told us to wait by the garbage bins and not wander off while he bought the tickets. He was quite forceful about it. I think he was enjoying being in charge for once. I would have said something, but I sensed it would be a bad idea to upset the money.

  Getting onto the correct train passed without incident—apart from Charlie getting stuck in the station gates. He dropped his ticket and got squashed between the automatic barriers. The guard said, “I’ve never seen anyone do that in thirteen years.” Charlie looked a little proud about that.

  When the doors to the train closed and we began to chug out of the station, The Nerves came back with renewed force. “Maybe we should get off at the next stop and turn around and go back.”

  Ben did not like this idea. He used a very stern voice. “We’re going to Cardiff, Freddie. It’s not all about you.”

  I was confused by that, because I’d thought it was. But it turned out that Ben wanted to get away from his family as much as I wanted to find mine.

  7

  We manage to find Cardiff Analytics—you didn’t think we would, did you?

  When we arrived at the Cardiff station we went to Burger King because Charlie needed cheering up. He’d left his hypoallergenic pillow on the train. He reckoned this was down to his blood sugar having dipped to dangerously low levels. He’s not at his best when he’s hungry, so we decided we needed to get some food into him fast. He ordered his Whopper meal in a strong Welsh accent, which was a surprise to me and Ben.

  The girl with the stenciled-on eyebrows didn’t look impressed. She said, “Are you disrespecting me?”

  Ben said, “Sorry, he’s a bit overexcited.”

  After we had sat down at the plastic table, we asked Charlie why he had done it.

  He said, “I have a very suggestable ear for accents.”

  “We’ve been here less than five minutes.”

  “What can I say? It’s a talent.”

  I worked out that Cardiff Analytics was within walking distance of the station. We followed the little blue dot on Google Maps and twenty minutes and one pee stop later we were outside the revolving doors of Alan Froggley’s office. I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. I was beginning to think a career as a private investigator might be for me.

  “You ready?” Ben asked.

  “Yes,” I said, even though I suddenly wasn’t sure if I was. My whole body was nervous.

  Ben must have noticed because he said, “You want us to come in with you?”

  I did but I said, “No, it’s alright,” because I thought it was probably something I should do on my own. And I couldn’t trust Charlie not to use his bad Welsh accent again.

  Ben said, “Good luck, Fred,” with such a serious expression it made me feel even more nervous.

  Charlie pulled me in for a hug. He smelled faintly of pickles and ketchup. “You’ll be grand, so you will.” Charlie’s sensitive ear for accents wasn’t so sensitive that he could tell the difference between Welsh and Irish.

  I stepped into the revolving door and shuffled around very slowly. Ben and Charlie waved the entire time—even when it had become awkward to keep waving. They only stopped when I completed a full revolution and stepped back outside again.

  “What are you doing?” Ben folded his arms.

  “He’s chickened out, so he has,” Charlie said.

  Charlie was right. The doubt was creeping up through my body. What if he didn’t want anything to do with me? What then? I didn’t think I could take another emotional blow.

  Ben pointed at the door. “Get back in there. Those train tickets cost me fifty-four quid.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked Ben’s newfound bossy side, but he looked like he meant business, so I stepped back into the revolving door. Before I started the slow shuffle around, Ben shouted, “Don’t worry, dude, he’s going to love you.”

  I really hoped he was right.

  As I walked into the large entrance foyer, a security guard with quite a substantial mustache looked me up and down and said, “This isn’t a playground.” Which I thought was a strange thing to say as we were obviously in an office.

  I hurried past him to the reception desk where a lady with a big face and an even bigger mouth was clicking her long sparkly nails on a computer keyboard. Her lips stretched into a smile when she spotted me, but her voice was clipped. “Hello, how can I help you?” is what she said, but her eyes said, Why are you here bothering me, kid?

  I puffed up my chest and tried to sound confident. “I’m here to see Alan Froggley.”

  “And how are you spelling th
at?”

  “A L A—”

  “I meant the Froggley part. Two gs or one?”

  “Two. F R O G G L E Y.”

  Her sparkly nails clicked her keyboard some more. The way she was hammering the keys made me think I might have annoyed her with the A L A N thing.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley at Cardiff Analytics. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  All the puff seeped out of my chest.

  “Are you absolutely sure? Did you spell Alan right?”

  She stared at me for a whole minute without blinking and then said, in a surprisingly cheerful voice, “There is no Alan—spelled A L A N—Froggley at Cardiff Analytics.”

  “He’s on your website.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley.”

  “He enjoys walking and swimming.”

  She smiled again. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “But it says he works here—on the internet. I saw him!” I accidently shouted that bit, but Big Face didn’t flinch.

  Her smile became a little thinner, but she said the exact same thing again: “I’m sorry, we don’t have an Alan Froggley at Cardiff Analytics. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “But I’ve come all the way from Andover.”

  And this is when Big-Face-Sparkly-Nails snapped. She leaned toward me and hissed, “Now listen here, you little twerp. I said we don’t have an Alan Froggley working here. Now stop pestering me and go away.”

  I was a little shocked, so I didn’t move. This was not how things were supposed to go.

  “Scoot.” She looked over at the guard. “Nigel, see him out.”

  The mustachioed security guard took a step toward me. I knew that if I didn’t leave I’d be in trouble, but I wasn’t sure if Big Face was telling the truth. I’d made it all the way to Cardiff—I’d even made it through the revolving doors. The thought of leaving and knowing nothing about Alan was suddenly too much to bear. I had to do something.