Hold the Pickles

Hold the Pickles

Vicki Grant

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2012 Vicki Grant

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Grant, Vicki
Hold the pickles [electronic resource] / Vicki Grant.
(Orca currents)

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-55469-922-3 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-55469-923-0 (
EPUB
)

I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS
8613.
R
367
H
65 2012       
JC
813'.6        
C
2011-907542-3

First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011942579

Summary:
Fifteen-year-old Dan Hogg gets a job as a hotdog mascot at a food fair and finds himself caught up in another action-packed mystery.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this
book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
^®
.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by Christopher Peterson / Getty Images
Author photo by Gus Richardson

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated
to Brennan Sarty, who kindly made
room in his costume for me.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

A hotdog.

No, it was worse than that. A
healthy
hotdog.

A six-foot, all-natural, high-fiber, low-fat, live-in wiener. I couldn't believe it.

When Uncle Hammy called to ask if I'd like to work for him at the Food Fantasia Fun Fair, I was actually kind of excited. I mean, who wouldn't be? The job offered the two things fifteen-year-old boys care most about in life: food and money.

All I had to do was hand out samples from his hotdog stand for an afternoon. I could eat as much as I wanted from the other food stalls
plus
he'd pay me ten bucks an hour.

Ten bucks an hour!

I couldn't believe my luck. Happy little money birds twittered around in my head. Up to that point, my luck had only come in one variety: rotten. Now it looked like something good was actually going to happen for me.

The offer came at exactly the right moment. Just before Hammy called, I'd been having a little “discussion” with my mother. I really, really needed a personal trainer, but she refused to pay for one. She wouldn't even talk about it.

“Dan,” she said and laughed into her cup of coffee. “What do you need a personal trainer for?”

I'm sure the answer was obvious to everyone but her.

Girls. That's the other thing most fifteen-year-old boys care about. With the way I looked, though, I knew I didn't stand a chance with them. I couldn't do much about my glasses or my braces or my all-around nerdy vibe. But I figured I might be able to do something about my scrawny physique—or at least a paid professional could.

I did the math and took the job on the spot. If I worked the whole afternoon, I figured I could afford a couple of hours of training—maybe more. After all, Hammy had mentioned the possibility of tips.

What he apparently forgot to mention—at least until I showed up at the Metro Center a week later, all ready to go—was that I had to wear a costume.

“I didn't tell you about that?” Hammy tried to sound innocent. “Funny. You wouldn't think I could forget something…
like this
!”

He whipped a giant pink-and-yellow foam hotdog out from behind his stall. Its rubbery arms flailed at me like a little kid in a fistfight.

My dork instinct immediately kicked in. I raised my hands up in front of my face for protection.

“It's not going to bite you,” Hammy said. “It's a hotdog, Dan. If anything,
you
bite
it
.” He had a good chuckle over that, but I didn't join in.

“You must be kidding. Wear
that
?” I brought my arms down and folded them across my so-called chest. “Forget it. Not a chance.”

Hammy leaned against the hotdog and draped his hand over its sesame-seed shoulder as if they were long-lost brothers. The truth was, they did bear a remarkable resemblance to each other. They both had goofy grins, wiry red hair and mustard dribbling down their fronts. The only obvious difference was that the hotdog also came with relish.

Hammy picked up the hotdog's three-fingered hand and wagged it at me. “C'mon, Dan! Where's your sense of humor?”

Where's
my
sense of humor? This was the guy who decided to call himself “Hammy” because he thought it would be funny with the last name Hogg. Trust me, the name Hogg doesn't need any help getting laughs. I know that from personal experience.

“It's my dignity I'm worried about!” I said. “What would my friends say if they caught me parading around dressed like an enormous frankfurter?”

Hammy's face went serious. “I thought about that, actually. You know what I think they'll say?” He paused while he came up with an answer. “They'll say you look taller.”

I glared at him. He knows I'm sensitive about my height.

“And stronger too!” Hammy held out one of the hotdog's arms. “Look. Built-in biceps!”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Right. Like anyone is going to mistake those tennis balls for muscles.”

“The kid's got no imagination either.” Hammy seemed to be talking to the hotdog now. It gave him the same blank-eyed stare I did. “Oh well. Doesn't matter,” he said and patted me on the back. I relaxed.

“Phew,” I said. Hammy always was a joker. “For a second there, I actually thought you were going to make me wear that stupid thing!”

That got the biggest laugh yet. “Course I am! I mean it doesn't matter what other people think. No one's going to see you. You'll be completely hidden. All they'll see is a big delicious Hogg's Dogg. Now let's get this show on the road! And by the way, you'd better strip down. It's hotter than a barbecue grill inside this thing.”

Chapter Two

I wish I could say I turned and walked away, but I didn't. I did what I was told.

I stripped down to my tighty-whities, and Hammy slammed the hotdog over my head. I felt like a bumblebee trapped in a glass jar—except, of course, a bumblebee would at least have had a view. I could barely see a thing. I was supposed to look out through the black screens covering the hotdog's eyes, but as Hammy kindly pointed out, I wasn't tall enough. I had to stretch my neck even to peer out through the mouth.

Hammy helped me get my hands into the big white Mickey Mouse gloves and my feet into the giant green slippers that he claimed looked exactly like pickles. Then he ran me through my lines.

“Okay, Dan, try this. ‘Hey, folks! You want fiber in your frankfurter? Then ask for me!'” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “‘I'm Frank Lee Better. The Healthy Hottie! From Hawwwwwwwwwg's Doggs!'”

He sounded like he was calling down the next contestant on a
TV
game show.

The costume, the name, the stupid slogan—everything about this job was humiliating. I didn't need a personal trainer that bad.

So why was I doing it then?

I waddled from Hammy's food stall on Level D all the way down to the main exhibition floor. The metal braces that were supposed to keep my giant wiener head from wobbling dug into my shoulders. The tail end of my hotdog dragged on the cement floor. The rough edge of the foam cut into my armpits. The worst thing, though, was the bright blue
Frank Lee Better: Superhero
cape. Some superhero. I felt like I had a sign pinned to my back that said,
Make fun
of me. I deserve it
.

At this point, a normal person would have packed up his self-respect and gone home. But I didn't. I hated everything about the job, but I couldn't let Hammy down. I knew his business was going through a rough patch. That's why he was trying out this new high-fiber hotdog. That's why he spent a thousand dollars for this dumb costume. He was desperate.

And it wasn't just because of business problems. The truth was, Hammy's whole
life
was going through a rough patch. First the divorce, then losing his house, then that weird thing that happened to his forehead after the hair-implant surgery. The guy seriously needed a break.

I figured we schmucks had to stick together. Who knows? Maybe a giant hotdog handing out samples for an afternoon would be enough to get people flocking to Hogg's Doggs. I could at least do that much for him.

And Hammy had been right about one thing. Unless someone recognized my scrawny ankles, no one would know who was inside the costume. At least I didn't have to worry about that.

I struggled to keep my pickle feet from slipping down the stairs and tried to be positive. I was sweating. I was straining. I was breathing hard. This had to be good exercise at least. Some people got their workout in a gym. Some people got their workout in a pool. I just happened to get mine inside a giant hotdog.

That didn't sound as positive as I'd hoped.

Chapter Three

By the time I made it from Level D to the exhibition floor, half my samples had slid off my tray, and I was seriously hot. Sweat dripped down my back, and my glasses had steamed up like a shower door.