Double the Danger and Zero Zucchini

by Betsy Uhrig

  We looked. The box was full of—surprise!—books. Fat paperbacks, to be exact.

  “So?” said Javier.

  “So Rob is, I’m guessing, the late Mr. Weintraub,” said Marta. “And these were his books.”

  “The late Mr. Weintraub had a lot of books,” Javier observed.

  “A lot of a specific type of book,” said Marta. “Science fiction and fantasy. And you know what science fiction and fantasy books are full of, right?”

  I shrugged. Reluctant reader, remember?

  Javier just filmed patiently, waiting for whatever this was to be over so we could leave.

  “Time vortexes,” said Marta. “And warlocks. Our ghostwriter is the late Mr. Weintraub, the fantasy fan.”

  26

  “I THINK IT’S ‘VORTICES,’ ” SAID JAVIER after a moment’s consideration.

  “What?” asked Marta in a tone that would have stopped me cold.

  “The plural of ‘vortex,’ ” Javier said.

  Marta treated him to the full glare of her headlight. He blinked. “None of us,” she said slowly, “are ever, ever using that word for more than one vortex. Understood?”

  Javier and I then had to wait for Marta to “run some tests” on the rest of the basement. She spent a long time with her antenna poked inside the dryer, insisting she was “getting some readings” in there.

  “Does that thing detect lint?” Javier asked.

  “Lint is full of static,” said Marta. “That might explain it. Either that or some ectoplasm has adhered to the lint through some type of electromagnetic…”

  It went on from there, but I’ll spare you.

  By the time we got upstairs, Marta was convinced that Mr. Weintraub’s ghost was haunting the place, and that he had somehow managed to pick up a pen and write those notes on Caroline’s pages. Because why not? What else did he have going on?

  Javier was quiet as Marta went on with some further theories about how a ghost would manage a pen, not to mention a cup of coffee. “Maybe he makes coffee out of habit, from when he was alive,” she theorized. “He probably doesn’t need the caffeine anymore.”

  I kept expecting Javier the Debunker to break in with a good reason why none of this was possible and how it was a cleaning person for sure. But he didn’t. Which was freaking me out. If Javier was starting to buy Marta’s ghost theory, what was to prevent me from buying it too? I was way more gullible than he was.

  Finally, I interrupted Marta’s monologue and said to Javier, “What do you think? Cleaning person, right? Or some kind of vagrant, maybe?” That last one I just chucked in there in case Javier wanted a theory that seemed edgier, to compete with Marta’s ghost.

  “The thing is,” Javier said, “the person who wrote those notes really does have to know about fantasy books.” He looked at me helplessly, as if he knew a plastic hat with a flashlight was in his future but he could do nothing about it.

  “Cleaning people read,” I pointed out. “And vagrants. They must have some time to read.”

  “That’s true,” said Javier. “But right now, we can’t rule anything out, can we?”

  27

  WE COULDN’T RULE OUT A GHOST. Which for Marta was as good as having met and chatted with one about time vortexes over a nice cup of coffee. She was practically hopping up and down as she took off her hat and stuffed it into her backpack with the antenna.

  “I knew the ghost detector would work,” she said. She was fluffing her curls as if she knew instinctively how bad the hat hair was.

  “It did not work,” Javier pointed out. “You found some boxes of books. With your eyes.”

  “Whatever, dud,” said Marta. “I can hardly wait to see what ideas the ghost of Mr. Weintraub comes up with next.”

  * * *

  We coasted through school the next day, waiting for the moment when we would walk into the Old Weintraub Place and find the answer we needed, neatly written on the last page of Caroline’s book.

  We were feeling more at home in the house when we went back that afternoon—we weren’t nearly as jumpy as we’d been the other times. Maybe this was because we now believed that whoever was lurking there was a reader of fantasy, so maybe a nerd but not evil.

  The book pages looked untouched when we found the stack on the table, exactly where we’d left it. No notes. Not even a coffee ring.

  “Well, this is disappointing,” said Marta.

  “Maybe the ghost needs more time to think,” said Javier. “Maybe we’re being impatient. It’s a big plot turning point we’re asking about, not just what color Gerald’s socks should be.”

  I hadn’t even considered the color of Gerald’s socks. That was an important sensory detail. I made a mental note to come up with something that would suit Gerald. Then I realized that Gerald hadn’t been described at all since he’d stopped being a frog. I made a bunch of other mental notes and stuffed them in my messy mental filing cabinet.

  “I guess we can give it a few more days,” I said.

  But it was disappointing.

  I sent an e-mail to Caroline when I got home, telling her I was working on the problem but needed some more time.

  She got back to me almost immediately. “That’s ok,” she said.

  I’ve decided to write some backstory while I wait for inspiration to strike. I’m sure you can help me with this—you have such a lively imagination! I need flashbacks showing Gerald with Grampa. Having a conversation or doing something together. So we can see what their relationship is like, and how much Grampa means to Gerald. That way, Gerald’s quest to rescue him will gain importance. Any ideas on what they might say to each other would be much appreciated!

  This wasn’t good. Now Caroline was convinced I had a “lively imagination.” Which I didn’t. At all. What I had was a willingness to put myself in situations and be filmed in them and take notes on what they were like. That was the opposite of imagination.

  The problem with this new task was obvious. I didn’t have a grandfather or even an older uncle I could have a conversation with.

  28

  HERE’S THE THING ABOUT GRANDFATHERS. MOST kids my age had two. Some lucky ones had even more. I’d seen kids with their grandfathers—at parties and soccer games and school events. The grandfathers pretended to steal the grandkids’ noses and slipped them cash when their parents weren’t looking. They came to games and cheered from the sidelines in folding chairs that they carried around in their trunks for that very purpose. They thought everything their grandkids did was awesome, and if they didn’t think something was awesome, they pretended not to notice it.

  My father’s father died before my parents even got married. My mother’s father, Alan, was called Big Al. My mom, Alison, was Little Al. And when I was born, I was Tiny Al. By the time Alvin was born, Big Al had died. That meant Alvin was just Alvin, not Micro Al or whatever he would have been.

  So I had a grampa for a few years, but I didn’t remember him. There was a framed photo on my dresser of Big Al holding me when I was a baby. And the way he was looking at me, it was obvious that he would have been a great nose stealer. There was barely a nose visible on my face in the picture—I looked like a baby earthworm. Now I had the type of nose a grampa could really get ahold of. And no grampa.

  I needed to have a conversation with a grampa, which meant I was going to have to borrow one.

  Grampas aren’t library books, Javier texted back when I asked to borrow one of his. You can’t take one out for a while and then return him.

  Why not? I asked.

  There was a long pause while Javier struggled with my ironclad reasoning. Doesn’t matter anyway, he wrote back eventually. One of mine is on an oil rig, the other two are on a cruise to Alaska.

  Those were the most outlandish excuses I’d ever heard. It was like he hadn’t even tried for believable.

  Why don’t you just claim they’re on a shuttle to the space station? I typed.

  That is actually where they are currently, Javier w
rote back. And even though it was a text, I could hear his huffy voice. Whenever Javier used the word “currently,” he was being huffy.

  I let him stew for a while, which he hated. Finally he broke. I have an idea, he wrote.

  I didn’t respond. Two could play the huffy game.

  Great-Aunt Rosa is always going to the senior center to hang out, Javier continued. There are probably old guys there you could talk to. Some of them must be grampas.

  Great idea! I wrote. When can we go?

  29

  MARTA HAD NO INTEREST IN GOING to the senior center with us. “That kind of thing doesn’t call for my particular skill set,” she said.

  “If you mean waving antique TV parts around, you’re probably right,” said Javier.

  “It worked” was her only response.

  The senior center was a few blocks from Javier’s house. Great-Aunt Rosa took the senior shuttle there, according to Javier, but your age had to be in the upper double digits to ride on it, not the extreme lower ones. So we took our bikes.

  I’d never been to a senior center before. I’d been expecting some dusty old place, but it looked like a newer, nicer version of our school. Plus, it smelled way better.

  There was no one at the front desk, so we walked right by it, toward the sound of voices down the hall.

  We passed a room where people were doing aerobics that looked way more strenuous than anything I, for one, could keep up with—and I’m in good shape from all the running. Then we walked by a room where people were playing cards. It might have been poker—it looked fairly intense. Then yoga—ditto. Finally, we came to a bigger room full of tables and chairs, where people were chatting and drinking coffee.

  “Where’s Great-Aunt Rosa?” said Javier, scanning the room. “She’s got to be where the coffee is.”

  But she wasn’t there.

  “Maybe she’s doing yoga, and she was upside down so we didn’t recognize her,” I said. But neither of us could picture Great-Aunt Rosa upside down.

  “Well, now I just feel weird,” said Javier. “I was thinking she could introduce us to some likely grampas.”

  So there we were, standing around awkwardly, obviously way under the age limit for the senior center. We were bound to attract attention eventually. And sure enough, we did.

  30

  “EXCUSE ME,” SAID A LADY SITTING at the table nearest to us. “Are you lost?”

  Were we lost? Would it help if we were? Then the seniors might feel sorry for us and gently send us on our way without asking any awkward questions. Maybe with a couple of those big chocolate-chip cookies from the platters on the sideboard there, if we were extra good.

  I was about to say yes, we were lost, when Javier said, “Oh no, we’re not lost. Thanks for asking, though.” Which was way more mature and honest and polite. But it did leave us kind of dangling.

  “Then, can we help you out with something?” the woman asked. She seemed perfectly kind and genuinely willing to help, but that attitude can turn ugly fast if you don’t have the right response. I knew that from experience, but that’s another story.

  Which might explain why I didn’t just tell her we were looking for Great-Aunt Rosa. That would have been the logical thing to do, right? But I was so concerned about saying the wrong thing and angering the nice lady that my mind went blank and I punted.

  Here’s what I said: “I’m, um, I’m here to visit my great-uncle. His name is…” What was a normal old-man name? All the guys I knew were named things like Fletcher and Cooper, and those names weren’t going to fly here. “Frank!” I said, happy with my choice. No one under sixty was named Frank. “My great-uncle Frank was going to meet us here this afternoon.”

  Javier was looking at me like he wished he had his camera because he knew I was only going to dig myself further into whatever hole this was, and he wanted it captured for eternity.

  “Oh, sure,” said the tall, skinny man sitting next to the helpful lady. “I know Frank. He’s a great guy. We can find him for you.”

  Crud. The old-man name I’d picked was already taken.

  “Oh, ah, no, that’s okay,” I said. “My uncle isn’t the Frank who’s a great guy. I mean, I think he’s a great guy. Because he’s my uncle and everything. But—”

  Javier stepped away from me at this point, like he didn’t want what I was suffering from to spread to him.

  “Ah,” said the man. “ ’Nuff said.” He winked at me. “A different Frank. I get it.”

  Jackpot! I was thinking now. “ ’Nuff said” was an awesome grampa expression. Completely authentic. And the knowing wink? Bonus! This kind of detail was exactly what I was looking for. This guy was a gold mine. I needed to keep him talking.

  “So, come here often?” I asked him.

  31

  JAVIER SNORTED. IT WAS THE SAME snort that was frequently heard in the audio of his films involving me. I ignored it, as I always do.

  “I come here a few times a week,” said the skinny guy. “Mainly for the chocolate-chip cookies, you want to know the truth. Right, Ellen?” He poked the woman’s arm and she laughed. “The name’s Nate,” he said to me. Which was a way better old-man name than Frank. Why hadn’t I thought of Nate? “And you are?” he asked.

  “I’m Alex,” I said. “And this is my friend Javier.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alfred and Javier,” he said.

  “Uh, it’s Alex.”

  “Right. Albert.”

  I hadn’t realized he was hard of hearing. I tried again, louder. “A-lex,” I enunciated.

  He laughed. Then he stuck his hand out toward me. I ducked away from him, certain he was going to steal my nose.

  “Whoa, there,” he said. “I’m trying to shake your hand, not slap you silly.”

  Slap you silly. Make a note of that, I told myself. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I kind of figured you were stealing my nose. You know—that ‘Got your nose’ trick people do?”

  Nate nodded. “I’m familiar with it,” he said. “But isn’t that for much younger kids than yourself and your friend here?”

  “My friend here” was working hard not to laugh. Trying not to laugh was taking up almost all of his concentration and energy. I didn’t have to be looking at him to know this.

  “I guess it is,” I said. I’d had no idea there was an upper age limit on nose stealing. What else didn’t I know about grampas?

  Nate moved his hand toward to me once more, slowly and carefully this time. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Albert,” he said as we shook. Then he shook Javier’s hand without incident. “Would you boys like to have a seat, maybe try the senior center’s famous chocolate-chip cookies?” he asked.

  We sat. We ate. The cookies were superb—warm and chewy, with just the right touch of salt, the way chocolate-chip cookies are supposed to be. We left about an hour later, without realizing that no one had mentioned “Uncle Frank” again.

  32

  JAVIER LAUGHED ALMOST THE WHOLE WAY back to his house. He could barely keep his bike upright. I sort of hoped it would go over, but he was an excellent multitasker.

  “Sorry,” he kept saying, not sorry at all, between spasms of laughter, “but I had to hold it in for so long, it just built up.”

  “Something built up, all right,” I muttered. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but it felt good to mutter it.

  So we parted annoyed with each other, but I was in a hurry to get back to Caroline with my latest research.

  Conveniently, she was in our driveway when I got home, wedging a large box into her small hatchback and fending off Marcello with one foot.

  “Is this thing a dog or a rat?” she asked.

  “That’s kind of an ongoing discussion. Mom and Alvin say dog. Dad and I say rat-dog mix. Heavy on the rat.”

  Caroline studied Marcello while he yapped intensely at one of her back tires. “Mark me down for team rat-dog,” she said. “Seeing this, I’m almost tempted to put a rat-dog hybrid into my book, but
… yuck.”

  “I know,” I said as Marcello ran off to torment an innocent pedestrian on the sidewalk. “Who’d want to see something like that in a book?”

  “I’m borrowing Alvin’s old stroller for the baby,” Caroline told me, giving the box a final shove with her shoulder and slamming the hatchback closed. I hoped the baby liked animal crackers, because I had personally seen young Alvin drop more in that stroller than he’d ever managed to put in his mouth. Although knowing Caroline and Lulu, they’d power-clean every nook and cranny down to the molecular level before allowing their child within ten feet of it

  “I was at the senior center today,” I told her. “I did some research on talking to old men. For Gerald’s conversations with Grampa.”

  “Oh, honey, you didn’t have to do that!” she said. “I know what kind of imagination you have. You could have just given me some ideas about how you think it might go.”

  “I—uh—I could have,” I said. “But I don’t have any grampas, and I wasn’t sure…”

  Caroline came over and took both my hands in hers. Yes, it was awkward. Then it got worse.

  “I’m so sorry, Alex,” she said. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me. You’ve never really known a grampa, have you?” Her eyes got shiny and she blinked a couple times.

  “No,” I said, gently wiggling my hands out of her grasp, “but I did learn some stuff. First, they don’t pretend to steal your nose at my age, so you shouldn’t put that in.”

  “Um. Right. I won’t. Thanks.”

  “And second, they can be hard of hearing. I told this guy my name was Alex, like, three times, and he kept calling me Albert.”

  Caroline laughed, which was better than the near-crying but more confusing.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said. “He was teasing you. Dad—Big Al—used to do that all the time to kids. My friends included. He called them all Oscar, even the girls.”