Pennybaker School Is Revolting, стр. 20
Normally, I was pretty much on Grandma Jo’s side when Mom was trying to baby her. I hated to be babied, too. But now I was certain Grandma Jo was the one opening my window at night.
She thought she could fool me. But she wasn’t the only one who could be sneaky.
I wasn’t sure I could solve the mystery of the missing Mr. Faboo. But I was pretty sure I could solve this one, if I just kept trying.
Grandpa Rudy had a black cloth that he called his floating cloth. He used it whenever he wanted to hide something from the audience. Sometimes that would be something small, like a ball or Bill the rabbit. Sometimes it would be something big, like his assistant, Irene. Irene was great at getting lost. So great that one time Grandpa Rudy made her disappear in a show and she never came back, just like Bill the rabbit. But Grandma Jo said that had a lot more to do with Irene’s “poor work ethic” than Grandpa Rudy’s magic skills. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. But once when I was at the grocery store with Grandma Jo we ran into Irene, so I knew she wasn’t floating out in a parallel universe or something.
Grandpa Rudy’s cloth smelled like his aftershave. Probably because he used to like to wipe the sweat off the back of his neck with it. Every so often, when I was feeling lonely, I would get out Grandpa Rudy’s floating cloth and smell it, remembering sitting on Grandpa Rudy’s lap while he practiced card tricks.
Tonight, though, my trick wasn’t so much magical as it was sneaky. After dinner—a very cold, uncomfortable dinner, where Mom stared at Grandma Jo’s llama and Dad stared at Mom, and I opened my mouth a hundred times to tell them about my detention and never could make it come out—I tiptoed into the garage and pulled an armload of empty cans out of the recycling bin. Quietly, I took them upstairs and lined them up along my window ledge. Then I hung the black cloth over the cans and secured it to the top of the window.
My work done, I turned off the light and stepped back. It looked like a dark night outside, not a cloth hiding a booby trap. It was perfect. I could hardly wait to get to bed so I could catch Grandma Jo in the act.
I could see my breath when I woke. I sat up, and five cans, which had been lined up along the edge of my blanket, clattered against one another as they fell to the floor.
What I didn’t see anywhere was the black cloth.
Or Grandma Jo.
TRICK #13
THE PARTY PINCH
Dad was fidgeting with the thermostat when I got out of the bathroom. I’d made my morning shower hot and steamy to try to thaw out my nose.
“I don’t think this thing is working,” he said, tapping the numbers on the front. “Does it feel chilly in here to you, pal?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
He pulled off the cover, peered at the mechanical guts, and then blew into them. Dad’s method of fixing everything from a smashed finger to a broken dishwasher started with blowing on it. Basically, Dad wasn’t very good at fixing things at all. His method went like this:
Blow on it and murmur something about dust.
Scratch head, wondering aloud, “What could have possibly happened? It was just working yesterday.”
Search in the garage for a tool, get sidetracked, and end up washing the driveway instead.
Get really red and shiny when Mom yells about the thing never being fixed.
Blow on it again.
Tap it a few times with a tool—any tool will do.
Say, “Must have been the kids,” and then pretend to hurt finger/toe/elbow/shoulder/ankle in the repair effort.
Call someone professional to come fix it.
Sometimes Mom would mess up his system by pushing him out of the way. Mom’s method of fixing things:
Say, “I have to do everything myself.”
Push Dad out of the way.
Stare at the broken thing.
Call someone professional to come fix it.
Mom’s method was a little more streamlined than Dad’s.
“Are we sure there’s not a window left open somewhere?” Dad yelled, closing one eye and leaning in really close to stare at the thermostat.
“I checked all the windows!” Mom hollered back. Good thing I closed mine before getting in the shower.
“Well, I guess I’d better go find a tool,” Dad said, putting the cover back on.
“Dad,” I said. “I need to tell you something.” I didn’t want to come clean about my detention, but I sort of had to.
“Can it wait, pal? You know your mother hates it when I get sidetracked from fixing something.”
“No … I mean, yes. Sure.” I sighed as I watched Dad walk to the garage. I was such a chicken.
I headed to the kitchen. Saturday was the only day of the week that Mom didn’t make breakfast—which meant we could eat toaster waffles with loads of syrup and whipped cream and butter and sprinkles and chocolate chips, and she wouldn’t do anything about it.
That was exactly what Grandma Jo was eating when I got to the kitchen.
“Good morning,” she said around a mouthful of waffle.
“Hey,” I said, eyeing her carefully. “Are you cold?” I asked casually.
She pointed at her waffle with her fork. “Warm and toasty,” she said. “You should get yourself a nice, hot waffle, too.” She patted her belly. “Warms you from the inside out.”
I found a waffle in the freezer—the last one in the box—and dropped it into the toaster. “So … what did you do last night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said. I kept my back to her. “Don’t know if you watched a good show or played a game of solitaire or, you know, got another new tattoo.”
When I turned around, she was grinning at me, a dollop of whipped cream on her chin like a tiny beard. “I’m afraid my tattoo days are a thing of the past,” she