How to Curse in Hieroglyphics

by Lesley Livingston

  With a flick of her wrist, she sent the ball cap sailing up to the cockpit. Pilot caught it and settled it on his head, and the little gold wings glinted in the light. Then he vanished into the plane, only to reappear at the cargo door and jump down to join Artie and the twins.

  As the four of them stood there, getting their various stories straight as to how they’d “really” spent the last couple of hours, Cheryl paused and held up a finger. A faint whistling noise had reached her ears. She looked up, and the others did too, in time to see a small, pale sphere falling through the night sky. It hit the ground and rolled to a stop against the toe of Artie’s shredded sneaker. He bent down to pick up the softball and, turning it over in his hands, he saw that, on the side opposite to where it said “Bob Ruth,” there was a line of squiggly pictures that looked like:

  “What is it?” Pilot asked.

  “Uh … I think it’s us.” Artie peered at it through his glasses, pointing at the symbols. “This first figure is the Princess, I think. And she’s waving goodbye or good luck or something. The lion? See, I’ll bet that’s Cheryl—‘cause you roar like one and have crazy yellow hair. And the eye is Tweed.”

  Tweed shot him a questioning look.

  Artie shrugged. “I tried to explain the whole goth thing to Zee,” he said, “and ‘eyeliner’ seemed to be the only thing she really picked up. She’s been wearing that stuff since she was nine years old.”

  If only, Tweed thought, sighing wistfully.

  “Is that me?” Pilot tapped the picture of a falcon.

  “The bird?” Artie rolled his eyes. “Duh, yeah …”

  “Okay,” Cheryl said, “what’s the last one?”

  “It’s, um, nothing.” Artie tried to hide the softball in the bib of his overalls.

  But Cheryl grabbed it. “Let me see.” She squinted at the last symbol. “Weird … it looks like a birthday cake … and a cricket?”

  Pilot looked closer. “I think that’s a … Ha! It’s a shrimp!”

  Cheryl and Tweed laughed. “Shrimpcake!” they said in unison, and Cheryl handed the softball back to Artie.

  “That’s Head Minion Shrimpcake to you all,” he said proudly, tossing the ball in the air as he turned to head off home. Where he could hopefully use his new Head Minion language skills to talk himself out of trouble with his mom and into a reheated supper, hot bath and warm bed.

  14

  THE END! OR IS IT…?

  The next evening, as the sun was sinking low in the sky, the carnival caravan was packed up and bugging out of town. Interestingly enough, the girls noticed from their perch high atop the Starlight Paradise marquee sign that the big banner on the side of the lead truck had been hastily repainted. It now read:

  And there was no mention anywhere of an Egyptian mummy princess.

  The plane was back in its hangar and the Moviemobile was back in the barn, awaiting repairs and a fresh coat of Turtle Wax, respectively, for jobs well done. And, in the best C+T Supersitter tradition, all Miss Parks’s shnookumses had been properly fed ’n’ watered, earscratched, tummy-rubbed, sand-boxed and given the run of the barn, with extra treats for the fulfillment of heroic duties (and a double-extra treat helping going to Mr. Sniffers for bravery above and beyond!).

  Pops had called the twins down to the kitchen that morning after he’d already been up for a few hours bustling about. He served them bowls of breakfast cereal and inquired as to whether they had enjoyed the carnival. The girls assured him that they most definitely had, and tried to make hasty exits—mouths full of Count Chocula and Frankenberry—before he could ask for too much detail.

  “Boy howdy, that cannon sure seemed to make an awful ruckus …” Pops mused, staring out the window.

  “Oh, yeah … the cannon,” Cheryl said, exchanging a glance with Tweed. “Probably all sortsa Wiggins county bylaws against that sorta thing …”

  The girls edged toward the door.

  “Well, all that noise sure gave me some crazy weird dreams, I can tell you! Worse than a late-night double dog with mustard and saurkraut!”

  “Weird … heh, heh,” Cheryl mumbled.

  “Sauerkraut …” murmured Tweed.

  “Fireworks and whizzbangs.” Pops shook his head, chuckling, as he cleared the table. “Flashy nonsense. Well, I’m glad you kids had a nice time, anyway.”

  The girls breathed a dual sigh of relief.

  “I do wonder, though …” Pops said, “what made that Dudley fella pack up and hit the road so soon.” He shot a glance sideways at where the twins were both fidgeting and trying not to make eye contact. “You girls wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? Or … say … why there’s a big ol’ patch of melted Astroturf on my mini-golf’s ninth hole?”

  “Nope,” Cheryl murmured.

  “Not a thing,” mumbled Tweed.

  “That’s what I thought.” Pops nodded.

  The girls made a hasty break for it and spent the rest of the day hiding out in C+T Headquarters, scheduling a bit of casual monster-mashing—if recent events were any indication, they would need to keep their skills razor-sharp—but making sure there were still openings available, just in case any sitter gigs came their way. They had a feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Bottoms might just be stocking the freezer with an extra Fudgsicle or two in the near future.

  As twilight fell, there was just one more thing to take care of. The twins struck out for the mini-golf range, where Artie and Pilot were waiting for them. As the twins approached the Giza Squeeza, Cheryl looked at Tweed. Tweed looked at Cheryl. Together they said, “Cameras rolling …”

  “Aaaand …”

  “… ACTION!!”

  EXT. TEMPLE GROUNDS, ANCIENT EGYPTIAN

  PYRAMIDS -- DAY

  SFX: TRIUMPHANT ORCHESTRAL MUSIC.

  CAMERA FOLLOWS three WARRIORS, clad in

  CEREMONIAL UNIFORMS, as they walk the long

  ramp, lined with neat rows of cheering

  citizens, sweeping up toward a raised

  terrace.

  CUT TO:

  On the STEPS of the terrace, our THREE HEROES

  kneel before a … um … MAJESTIC FIGURE.

  SFX: The crowd ROARS!

  CAMERA CLOSE-UP on the mighty PHARAOH

  SEMERKHET GLAACK. He stands upon the terrace.

  In his hands he holds THREE MEDALLIONS OF

  HONOUR.

  PHARAOH GLAACK

  (majestic, slightly lispy)

  Our rulers are born to greatness, but

  rare it is, indeed, that commoners

  display such bravery as these

  uncommon three. They have returned

  our long-lost sister to us. Their

  compassion and ingenuity is greatness

  in itself and will serve to inspire

  others. The gods themselves bestow

  upon you eternal gratitude.

  GLAACK places the medallions around the necks

  of the heroes. The TRIO exchange glances.

  WARRIOR FALCON-WINGS

  (humble, yet charming)

  It was nothing, Your Highness. The

  only way to be happy in life is to

  help folks who are in need. Nothing

  feels better.

  WARRIOR HORUS-EYE

  (fiercely cool)

  It’s like we waited our whole lives

  to be prepared for that moment.

  WARRIOR LION-MANE

  (quipping like a hero)

  While-O-Wait.

  CAMERA CLOSE-UP on: over WARRIOR FALCON-

  WINGS’S shoulder, WARRIOR HORUS-EYE and

  WARRIOR LION-MANE exchange their C+T Secret

  Signal (patent pending).

  CUT TO:

  WARRIOR FALCON-WINGS rolls his eyes,

  hesitates … and gives the signal, too.

  For the VERY FIRST TIME.

  SFX: ORCHESTRAL MUSIC BUILDS to a TREMENDOUS

  CRESCENDO!!

  PHARAOH GLAACK


  Let us now feast on dates and tasty

  papyrus shoots. Or … perhaps pie of

  some description! I gotta keep up my

  minion strength, y’know --

  “What?!” Artie quacked as Cheryl called a halt to the scene. “What did I do wrong now?”

  Pilot chuckled and shook his head. Cheryl and Tweed exchanged a glance.

  “I don’t think you did anything wrong, Art-Bart,” Pilot said.

  “I didn’t?” Artie blinked.

  “Nope.” Cheryl shook her head, pigtails swinging. “You did pretty much everything right.”

  She reached up to remove the medal of honour—made out of a little 8-millimetre film reel held on with twine—that “Pharaoh Glaack” had placed around her neck and, stepping forward, she placed it around Artie’s neck instead. Tweed did the same, and so did Pilot.

  “You’re not a minion,” Tweed said, a sparkle in her grey eyes. “And you’re not a monster. You’re the one who deserves the medal. You’re a hero, Artie Bartleby. And we’d be proud to be on your team.”

  Well, that was pretty much the end of Artie’s selfcontrol. He blushed scarlet and started sniffling and muttering—something about hay fever and ragweed—as he shuffled his feet and wandered a few steps away so the others wouldn’t see that he’d actually gotten a little weepy-eyed. Weepy-eyed wasn’t hero stuff.

  But when he looked off into the distance, he suddenly stopped and pointed at the horizon … where a long line of car headlights was travelling like a glittering snake down the highway, headed in their direction.

  “Look!” Artie exclaimed.

  Tweed and Cheryl stepped up beside him.

  “Hmmph,” Cheryl grumped, and crossed her arms. “They’re gonna be disappointed when they see that the carnival has packed up and moved … uh … moved …”

  Before she could finish, first one … then another … and another of the cars flipped on a turn signal. A right turn signal. They were turning into the Starlight Paradise! All of them! To see Cheryl and Tweed’s triple bill!

  “Gah!” Tweed exclaimed suddenly. “Popcorn!”

  Cheryl’s eyes went huge. They hadn’t even thought to turn on the machine.

  “That’s half the town!” Pilot said, staring at the cars that kept on coming.

  In the distance, the twins could hear Pops calling their names.

  They turned to see him bustling out across the yard toward them, hair tufts waving where they stuck out below his baseball cap. “See?” He pointed at the steady stream of automobiles. “I knew your triple bill would trump any kind of hubbub that fly-by-night carnival might have drummed up. You girls are a smash-up derby hit!”

  The girls beamed proudly.

  “Well, you’d best get to popping up some corn.” Pops turned and headed toward the projection hut. “Those Wiggins folk can be monstrous hungry!”

  “Don’t worry, little ladies,” Artie said, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “We’ll help you out. We’re a team of heroes. Right, Armbruster?”

  “Right you are, Art-Bart.” Pilot’s grin was ear to ear. “Right you are.”

  “Okay then.” Tweed nodded decisively and deadpanned the old drive-in movie jingle line: “Let’s all go to the snack bar!”

  Cheryl just took off at run, yelling at the top of her lungs …

  “ACTION!!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We are thrilled to have the opportunity to thank all of the wonderful, talented, hard-working people who have made it possible for us to tell tales of the Wiggins Weird! First and foremost, of course, is our fantabulous storyboard illustrator, Steven Burley, who managed to take our words right off the page and turn them into the spitting images of the characters who live in our heads! We still don’t know quite how he did it, but we’re a little afraid of his gnarly powers …

  Huge buckets o’ thanks to our extraordinary agent, Jessica Regel, for championing Cheryl and Tweed and Pilot and Artie. Extra fudg-ickle for you!

  And another round of those huge buckets o’ thanks to Penguin Canada and the fantastic folks at Puffin, especially Lynne Missen, our amazing editor; Sandra Tooze, our production editor; and Catherine Marjoribanks, our copyeditor. Thanks also to Vimala Jeevanandam, publicist extraordinaire. It’s a big ol’ dang delight working with you guys!

  Thank you, as always, to Jean Naggar and the staff of JVNLA. Big Love from up here in Canadaland!

  Thanks to our families, especially our moms. Our moms rule!

  Thanks to all our friends, in particular Mark and Mary Askwith, Simon Evans, Rob Salem and Nadine Bell, who cheered these characters on from the very early days.

  And, most important, thanks to YOU for reading this book and, by doing so, bringing the folks of Wiggins Cross to weird and wacky life! We hope you enjoy their adventures!

  PUFFIN

  an imprint of Penguin Canada Books Inc.

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Canada Books Inc.,

  90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published 2013

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © Lesley Livingston and Jonathan Llyr, 2013

  Illustrations copyright © Steven Burley, 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request to the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-14-318424-9

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