BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES
After the men left our house and we were all getting ready to go back to bed, Dad turned to me. “You have to think about what you really want to do with your invention.”
“And we’ll support whatever decision you make,” Mom said.
“But think fast,” Poppy said. “Because I have a feeling Morgan McCracken is about to be very popular, very soon.”
At that very moment, everything got very chaotic. The phone rang. There was a knock at the front door, a thump on the side door, and banging on the backdoor. All of us, including Kitten Kaboodle, started running in different directions through the house.
“I’ll get the phone!” I called out.
“I’ll get the backdoor!” Mom said.
“I’ve got the side door!” Dad said.
“I’ll cover the front!” Poppy said.
“I’ll be doing my nails,” Chloe said.
I grabbed the phone. “Hello,” I said.
“I wish to speak to Mr. McCracken,” a woman’s thin voice said.
“Actually, there are three Mr. McCrackens here—my grandfather, my father, and me.”
“I’m looking for the McCracken who can grow hair.”
“That’s me. I’m like a hair farmer.”
“Excellent! Your invention is one of the world’s most desired commodities. I’m Asuka Kasumi with Yamamoto International, calling from Tokyo, Japan.”
Just then, Mom shouted, “Morgan! There’s someone at the backdoor who wants to talk to you! Right now!”
“Miss Kasumi,” I said into the phone. “Could you please hold for a second?”
“As you wish, sir,” she said. “But don’t be long. My five million dollar offer won’t wait forever.”
I ran to the backdoor with the words “five million dollar offer” reverberating inside my head. Standing there in the dark was a heavyset man smoking a fat cigar and wearing a white three-piece suit and a white ten-gallon cowboy hat. (I don’t know why they call it a ten-gallon hat. It only holds six pints.)
“Hi,” I said.
“Howdy, partner. And I do mean partner. I sure hope you don’t get seasick.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m taking you and your family on my private yacht to Fiji,” the man with the southern drawl and red, white, and blue suspenders said. He fished a silver key out of his suit pocket and dangled it in front of my eyes. “And did I mention that the yacht is yours to keep?”
“That’s very nice, but—” I said.
“But, you’re right—first I’d like to shake the hand of a real mastermind,” the man said, grabbing my hand and pumping it too many times. “I’m Colonel Clovis Coleman, the oil tycoon from Houston.” (The first word spoken on the moon was “Houston.”) “And I’d like to make you a Texas-size proposal for your hair-growth formula!”
“If you can wait just a minute, I’ve got somebody holding on the phone,” I said.
“I’m sure you’re getting other bids, but I want you to know that I’ll buy your formula for twice what anybody else is willing to pay.” He whipped out a blank check. “Just tell me the dollar figure to write on this check. And it’s done. No negotiating. No waiting. No fine print.”
Just then, Dad yelled, “Morgan! There’s someone at the side door that wants to talk to you! Right now!”
“Take your time, son. Because I ain’t leaving here without a deal and nobody can beat my offer,” the ten-gallon Texan said.
I ran to the side door, yelling to my mom, “Tell the lady on the phone that I’ll be right there.”
At the side door was a short woman with nervous eyes who wore way too much makeup. Before extending her hand, she licked her fingertip and smoothed down her eyebrows.
“Hello,” I said, shaking her limp hand.
“Bonjour. I’m Madame Belle La Fleur, president of Hair Care Laboratories, with offices all over the globe.” She dampened her eyebrows again and handed me a velvet business card.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said.
“It’s a true honor to meet you. I cannot wait to be in the Morgan McCracken business. I’m quite certain you and I will enjoy an extremely profitable future together.”
“That’s very flattering, but—”
“The brilliant part of your idea is that men have to use it each and every day. If they want to keep their new hair, they have to keep buying the product. And women—they’re always looking to thicken their hair. Hair Today is a gold mine. Tell me, how did it all come about?”
“One storm. One tortoise. One girl,” I said.
“We call that ‘One-derful.’ And, just think—we’ll create Morgan’s Hair Products and Accessories, as well. Combs, brushes, scissors, curling irons, shampoos, conditioners, gels—”
“Sounds great.”
“—hair dryers, dyes, clippers, trimmers—”
“Wow. It just keeps coming.”
“—and hair salons. We’ll open a chain of them all over the world!”
“McCracken’s,” I suggested. “Just like McDonald’s, but without the fries.”
“Do you have any idea what sort of financial empire we’ll have?”
Just then, Poppy called out, “Sparky! There’s someone at the front door that wants to talk to you! Right now!”
“Miss Madame, can you give me a minute?”
“I’ve waited for this moment all my life, monsieur. I think I can wait one more minute.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh. One more thing. I’m prepared to transfer one billion dollars into your bank account right now.”
I almost swallowed my tongue.
She sucked her fingertip and flattened her eyebrows again. (On average, people touch their faces nineteen times per hour.)
I ran to the front door, yelling to Mom again, “Tell the lady on the phone that I’ll be right there.”
I rushed to the front door. “It’s your partner, or pal, the fuzz finder,” Poppy said, stepping away.
Robin was standing there in the dark, dressed for school, wearing her backpack. And there I was, wearing my pajamas again.
“I’m going to school,” she said. “Will you walk with me?”
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
“We need to talk,” she said, indicating with her eyes that it was urgent.
I turned to Poppy. “Can you handle everything?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll say we’ll get back to all of them,” Poppy replied.
I ran downstairs to change out of my pj’s and to get my homework. Something inside told me that leaving the house with Robin before dawn wasn’t a good idea. But Poppy always said, “Bad decisions make good stories.”
DIFFERENT, LIKE BETTER
Robin and I walked together. It was still dark outside. She didn’t speak for the longest time. Then, she turned to me and said, “I just needed to talk to you. Alone. In private.”
“We’re not going to school?”
“After I’ve said what I have to say, we can go back home, back to sleep.”
“Okay. So what’s on your mind?”
“Those Englishmen came to my house after they left yours.”
“Did they offer you money?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots of it. They figured if they got me to sign, then you would, too.”
“Did you sign?”
“First of all, I don’t deserve anything for your invention.”
“But you were the one who—”
“More importantly, I would never do anything I didn’t believe in.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same stretch limousine from earlier that night. It was behind us, driving along the curb very slowly with its headlights off.
“Don’t you believe in Hair Today?” I asked.
“I believe Hair Today could corrupt the world.”
“What? How does growing hair on bald men mean the end of civilization?”
“I don’t think a man should
be judged by how much hair he has.”
“Huh?”
Robin held up an imaginary bottle of Hair Today. “Attention all bald people. Here’s a lotion that will change your life,” she said, acting like the host of an infomercial. “Rub it on your head and you will have hair and therefore you’ll be better looking and therefore people will like you. Hair Today, happiness tomorrow.” She stopped walking. “We’re born the way we are, Morgan. We should just accept that. We shouldn’t care whether someone has hair or doesn’t have hair. Some people have red hair and freckles. Doesn’t mean they aren’t attractive or they should be ashamed of it or change it.” She placed her hand on my arm. “I like you, Morgan, not because of your looks.”
“You don’t like my looks?”
“Of course, I do. But I also like you because you’re clever and nice and funny and we’re a good team.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing those words from Robin. Or that her hand was still on my arm.
“I thought you were different from everyone else. Different in a good way. Different, like better,” she said.
I thought about those words, “different, like better.” She sounded like Poppy. She started walking again, looking away, probably so I wouldn’t see the mist filling her eyes. I sneaked a peek at the dark limousine, which was still cruising slowly behind us. I couldn’t see through its tinted windows. I was getting worried.
“Ah, Robin—”
She continued to talk. “You’re going to make plenty of money from your inventions.”
The limo began to speed up.
“Hey, Robin—”
“But I hope you don’t sell your soul along the way.”
The limo turned on its headlights, the beams lit us up.
“Yo, Robin—”
“Some things are more meaningful than money, Morgan. Like principles!”
“And living!” I yelled.
The limo was headed right for us. I grabbed her hand. “We’ve got to run!” I said, pointing out the limousine, which was barreling down on us.
“Who are they?” Robin screamed.
“Who cares?” I screamed.
“Why are they after us?”
“Can we talk about that later?”
We fled across the street. I admired her speed. We ran through Poinsettia Park, cutting across the soccer field. The limousine left the street, jumped over the curb and chased after us, its tires chewing up the grass. We ran around the picnic tables, the drinking fountain, and the swings in the playground. But we couldn’t get away from that black limo. Birds scattered. Squirrels scampered up trees. Gophers dove into their holes. Fortunately, it was so early in the morning that no people were around to be injured. Or killed.
“This isn’t good!” Robin cried out.
“We can hide in the new hotel!” I shouted. “No reservations needed.”
“This really isn’t good!” Robin cried out louder.
A hotel was under construction just ahead. No workers were there at that hour to help us. But there would be plenty of places to hide. And we’d only need to stay hidden until the construction crew arrived. We hustled across the street. The limo was close behind us, fishtailing, honking its horn and flashing its headlights. (At that life-and-death moment, all I could think was that most American car horns honk in the key of F.)
We wiggled through an opening in the fence that surrounded the construction site and charged into the structure. We could hear the limo screech to a stop and a car door slam. (“Screech” is one of the longest one-syllable words in the English language.) I decided to tell Robin that fact later, if we were still living. We hid behind a tall stack of lumber, holding our breath. The sun was beginning to rise.
We heard footsteps. Then a man’s intimidating voice, “C’mon, kids. I just wanna talk. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.”
“What do we do?” Robin asked quietly.
“We just have to stay still,” I answered. “He’ll never see us.”
The man spoke again, sounding nearer than he was a moment earlier. “The longer it takes for me to find you, the crankier I’m going to get.”
“He’s getting closer,” Robin whispered.
“You might as well give up,” the man said. “There’s no place to go. And, trust me, you don’t want to see my cranky side.”
“I’ll think of something,” I whispered to Robin.
“Good. Think. That’s what you do best.”
The footsteps grew louder, as the man drew nearer.
“I’ve got an idea!” I said.
THE MAN WITH THE BLOODY HATCHET TATTOO
Robin crouched next to me, behind the stack of lumber, our knees touching.
The man kept coming. Kept threatening. “If I find you before you give yourselves up, things will turn very ugly very fast. Now, COME OUT!”
“Anytime, Morgan!” Robin said. “What’s your brilliant idea?”
“Well, as you know, I’m an expert in being chased.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I’ve decided that . . .”
“Yes?”
“We should run!” (The word “run” has more definitions—179, to be exact—than any other word in our language.)
I took Robin’s hand and pulled her from behind the lumber pile. We rushed toward the lobby area, aiming toward a central staircase. We leaped up the unfinished staircase two steps at a time. We could hear the man chasing after us, huffing and puffing. We kept going up and up the stairs. It was nice having Robin’s hand in mine.
We reached the fifth floor. The man was nowhere to be seen behind us. We ran down the hall, trying to pick a room to hide in. But none of the doors had been installed—you could see right in. So we darted to the fire exit at the far end of the hall, burst through the door and dashed up a stairwell until we came to a door marked ROOF. We opened it and found ourselves seven stories above the ground. There was no place else to go. We ducked behind a large air conditioning unit.
“We’re safe now, right?” Robin said.
“Very,” I said.
Just then, the man emerged through the rooftop door.
“I meant ‘not very,’” I said.
The man strode to the far side of the roof looking for us. He was huge, like three hundred pounds. He had a tattoo of a bloody hatchet on his neck. I had to think fast. I grabbed the vial around my neck and squeezed drops of my formula onto the steel guardrail that ran along the perimeter of the roof.
“What are you doing?” Robin asked quietly.
“Hair grew the fastest and the longest on steel,” I said. “The metal in this railing has a much higher alloy ratio than the bumper on Dad’s Jeep, due to the molecular crystallization of—”
“What’s the plan, Morgan?”
“We’re jumping overboard.”
“What?”
“It’s Rapunzel time,” I said. “Time for a hairy ride.”
Hair shot from the steel railing. When the beefy man’s back was turned, I said to Robin, “We have to lighten our load.” We took off our backpacks and stowed them inside the air conditioning equipment. I grabbed a tuft of newly grown red railing hair and said, “I’ll go first, in case—”
“In case of what?”
“In case you don’t want to go first.”
“Will it hold us?”
“You’ve got to trust hair. It’s one of the most durable fibers on the planet. In fact, an entire head of hair can hold twelve tons of weight. And . . . if we don’t take the leap now, we’ll be hatchet-ed.”
“That’s not even a word.”
I had to prove to her that this would work. I grabbed a thick lock of the hair, apprehensively stepped over the rail, and slowly lowered myself toward the alley far below. I felt like Tarzan swinging from a vine. Now it was Jane’s turn.
“Come on!” I said. “It’s easy.”
Robin peered over the wall. Her face paled. “You’re asking me to jump off a cliff!”
“Hold some hair and hop over! And hurry!”
As the massive man began walking toward Robin, she got up the nerve to clutch a handful of new hair and ease herself over the wall. Luckily, the hair was as sturdy as a rope. The rail served as a solid anchor, feeding out new strands every second. As the hair grew, it lowered Robin slowly down the side of the building.
Soon we were hanging next to each other, descending at the same rate of speed. It was clear by the panic-stricken look on Robin’s face that she didn’t like being suspended eighty feet above the ground, and, at that moment, she didn’t like me. As we were slowly dropping, I tried to calm her.
“Did you know that hummingbirds can’t walk?” I asked.
“What!” she cried.
“Tiniest bird in the world.”
“I don’t care!”
“Weighs less than a penny.”
“Morgan!”
“I’m just trying to relax you. If you focus on facts, then you won’t think about—”
“The fact that I can’t hold on much longer?”
“Their little wings flap seventy times a second.”
“Stop!” she yelled.
And stop, we did. In midair. The hair stopped growing and we stopped descending. We were dangling twenty feet above the ground, holding on for dear life.
“What happened?” Robin called out.
“We stopped,” I said.
“Thanks. Why?”
“I guess we got all the hair those drops were good for.”
“Happy landings!” the tattooed man screamed from on top of the roof. His giant head was visible over the ledge above. He had a hunting knife in his hand and was sawing Robin’s railing hair.
“Oh, great! A haircut. Now what?” she asked.
“Now we pray,” I said.
I looked down and saw a dumpster in the alley directly below us, full of trash and garbage. Someone had thrown an old mattress on top of all the rubbish. “Wow. Way to pray,” I said to Robin. “Now, jump! It’ll be a soft landing.”
“Never!”
“We have no other choice.”
“If I die, I’m going to kill you!” she screamed.
It was clear that Robin was terrified. “Used mattresses,” I said, “have an estimated ten million dust mites in them.”
The McVentures of Me, Morgan McFactoid Page 10