Mr. Chickee's Messy Mission (2 page)

He washed and dried his hands and headed back to the bedroom.

Steven rummaged under his bed for his mittens and hat, then pulled on his boots. Sighing heavily, he grabbed the shovel and headed outside.

“Man,” he thought as he stood on his porch and looked at the twenty-four inches of snow in his yard, “it just isn't fair. Why is it that for the eighth time this month there's hardly any snow across the street or down the block? The weather forecaster said there were only going to be light flurries, but these three yards have been buried! It just isn't fair.”

Steven paused to figure which of his neighbors he should do first. There were problems with starting on either one.

The neighbors on the left, the Millers, were the nicest people in the world, but if they heard Steven shoveling, they'd come out and force him back in their house to eat cookies and drink hot chocolate. Not that he had anything against cookies and hot chocolate, but the price he had to pay for these treats just wasn't worth it; he'd have to listen to their long, make-you-want-to-snooze old-timers' stories.

Those dull Tuskegee Airmen tales, and stories about struggling through the Depression, were enough to make him want to voluntarily take one of Dad's punishments.

The neighbor on the right, Dr. Taylor, was worse. She was a retired professor from the University of Michigan—Flint and was about a hundred years old and 101% mean! Mom and Dad said she was “spry.” Steven figured that must mean “evil and crabby.” He was shocked
when Great-great-grampa Carter's dictionary told him it meant “full of life, active, nimble, especially an elderly person.”

Mom also called her a “feisty, independent spirit.” No matter what the dictionary said, Steven knew that was nothing but a polite way of saying she was a hardheaded grouch.

She hated, hated,
hated
when Steven shoveled her walk! She told him she wasn't so old that she couldn't take care of it herself, and Steven agreed and thought that was great. But if Mom and Dad saw her shoveling her own snow, they'd lose their minds.

If Dr. Taylor caught Steven working on her snow, she'd rush out and start shoveling too, trying to prove she was faster, stronger and in better shape than he was. It was bad enough to be beaten by someone so doggone old, but it was even worse because Dr. T. liked to talk a lot of smack while they raced.

“Hmmm,” he said, using his mittened hand to stroke his chin, “if I do Dr. T.'s yard first, I'll be fresh as a daisy and will probably be able to finally beat—”

A loud, long, piercing whistle interrupted his train of thought.

Dr. T. was on to him. She had set her alarm for 4:30, just in case another one of these crazy snowstorms hit.

She'd looked out of her window and seen Steven standing on his porch stroking his chin.

She'd quickly thrown on a light jacket and cap and scarf
and done fifteen warm-up squats and twenty limbering lunges, then grabbed her shovel.

Dr. T. whistled again, then hollered, “Look at what just crawled out of his crib and decided to show himself! I hear the Kearsley Dam is flowing very nicely now, maybe you'd like to take another jump, flyboy.”

Steven was very sensitive about remarks involving dams, since he and his dog, Zoopy, had fallen over a 250-foot one last summer.

Steven pouted. “Man! Isn't anyone going to ever let me forget that?”

Dr. Taylor said, “Oh, is snookums going to cry, or are you going to come off that porch? Because if you do, I need to warn you, I'm passing out booty whippings and mouthwash … and I'm clean out of mouthwash!”

Steven felt himself get very warm.

Who did she think she was?

He whipped off his heavy coat. It would only slow him down, and he was going to show Dr. T. that just because she was a university professor and close to a thousand years old didn't mean she could keep insulting him. No way was she anywhere near as strong as he was.

She stood at one end of the driveway, next to her garage, and Steven stood at the end nearest the street. The driveway was nearly a hundred feet long and the halfway point was a post where Dr. Taylor had put a sign, PARKING RESERVED FOR 1953 SKYLARKS ONLY! Which was the old car she drove.

Their eyes blazed across the snow, sizing each other up like a couple of gunslingers from the Old West.

Dr. Taylor finally gave a big fake yawn, twirled her shovel so fast it made a sound like a propeller, and said, “Anytime, whippersnapper, go for what you know.”

Steven dug in, flipped a load of snow over his shoulder, then screamed, “Go!”

Dr. T said, “Ha! You'll have to come up with a better way than
that
to cheat me, you juvenile delinquent!”

Snow began flying.

Steven had been so close to beating Dr. Taylor the last time they raced. It was only last week she'd beaten him out by pretending she was having some kind of attack. When he dropped his shovel and ran over to see what was wrong, she jumped up, finished shoveling and beat him by a second.

She was such a poor sport, she'd even taken the last shovelful of snow and thrown it in his face.

But today he wasn't falling for any sort of okeydoke.

Today he was going to stay focused.

Today he was going to keep the eye of the tiger!

Today the two-thousand-year-old professor was going down!

And Steven didn't care how spry or feisty she was!

He fell into a rhythm: bend, dig, lift, toss, bend, dig, lift, toss. The snow seemed to jump off his shovel.

It was important to concentrate, to try not to think about anything but the moving of snow. He especially knew
that he couldn't think about the meeting of the Flint Future Detectives that was going to happen tomorrow morning, that that was the main thing he shouldn't be thinking about.

“Think about moving snow,” he told himself.

Bend, dig, lift, toss, bend, dig, lift, toss.

“Keep the snow moving!

“Because,” he thought, “if I start to worry about tomorrow's meeting, where I know that doggone Richelle Cyrus-Herndon is going to try to take over being president of
my
club, I'll lose my rhythm. If I try to figure out a way to stop Richelle, I might not keep moving snow as fast as I need to.

“Wait a minute!” Steven thought. “That's it!
Moving
! Maybe I can think of a way to trick Richelle and her parents into
moving
out of Flint! Or maybe if I come up with a
moving
sob story, she'll feel sorry for me and won't try to be president. Or maybe …”

Dr. Taylor started her trash-talking. She was shoveling a million miles an hour and talking at the same time.

He couldn't help himself, he looked up to see how far along she was.

It was unbelievable!

He'd taken a teeny head start, had stayed focused and worked so hard that sweat was pouring down his face, but she had shoveled just as much snow as he had!

“So, snookums,” she yelled, “have you ever heard the song ‘John Henry’?”

Steven told himself, “Ignore her, keep shoveling! Keep shoveling!”

“It's an old song about a strong, good-looking brother from back in the day who could lay down more railroad track than six other men at the same time.”

Steven knew the song.

Dr. T. said, “So one day the boss brought in this steam drilling machine that could lay down as much track as
eight
men!”

Steven remembered that the machine and John Henry had raced to see who could lay a mile of track the fastest.

“John Henry smoked that machine just like I'm about to smoke you!”

“But,” Steven thought, “didn't he
die
right afterward?”

“That's right, snookums, I'm 'bout to go John Henry on you!”

She began singing “John Henry” but changed the words of the song:

“Doc-tor Taylor …” Huwah!

“Told her neighbors …” Huwah!

“That their son ain't really all that bright …” Huwah!

“And when she is …” Huwah!

“Done whip-ping him …” Huwah!

“He will si-it …” Huwah!

“Crying in the night!”

“Oh, man, was that ever weak!” Steven thought. “If she thinks she can get at me with that sorry mess from the Stone Age, she's wrong, I'm gonna lay down some twenty-first-century, modern-day music on her, I'm gonna beat her down with some hot rap licks!”

Steven thought for a second and came back at Dr. Taylor:

They were pacing themselves with the music. It was easy to keep a good strong rhythm when you had a beat like this.

Dr. Taylor sang:

“Like John Henry …” Huwah!

“Whipped that steam drill …” Huwah!

“Is exactly what I am going to do …” Huwah!

“ 'Cause a steam drill …” Huwah!

“And Steven C. …”

“Have exactly …”

“The-uh same IQ!”

The snow was flying, the music was flying and the insults were flying!

Steven couldn't help himself, he looked up again to see how close he was to the finish line. Another thirty-five shovelfuls to get to the pole, the same distance as Dr. Taylor!

He went into shoveling and rapping overdrive!

He could see he was going to do it!

Dr. Taylor was going to go down!

She had about nine more shovels to go and he had six!

“Yahoo!” Steven screamed to himself. “The kid has done it again! Another one bites the dust!”

He pushed himself harder and tossed another rap at the professor.

He knew he shouldn't do it, but he couldn't help himself, he just had to check one more time.

His heart soared! He guessed she had four more shovels to go. He had the one that he was throwing over his shoulder and one other, then he'd be the victor!

But something strange happened, and if you know anything about strangeness, you know it's a lot like bad news, it always happens in threes.

First Steven looked up and saw that Dr. T had disappeared!

“Okay,” he told himself, “some kind of trick, some kind of trick! Don't stop working!”

He dug into the last shovelful of snow and the second strange thing happened.

He heard a very loud DONG! and thought, “Hmmm, I knew there'd be a lot of celebrating when I finally beat her, but I can't believe someone's actually ringing a great big bell.”

The third strange thing happened:

The ground rushed up at Steven and his face crashed into a pile of the snow he'd just shoveled. The next thing he knew, he was napping soundly on Dr. T.'s driveway.

He started having the strangest dream.

The confused Canada goose landed and was nudging him with its beak! It looked like the goose was getting ready to burp, but instead it opened its mouth and a gusher of snow hit Steven in the face!

The goose waddled away, but when it did, it made a whirring mechanical sound.

“Hmmm,” Steven thought, “a little too weird to try to understand right now.”

He propped himself up on one elbow and tried to remember why on earth he'd taken a nap that early in the morning. The sun wasn't even up.

He looked down and noticed that his jacket had been put over him like a blanket.

“What? I don't remember doing that.”

The snow under his head had been shaped like a pillow.

“Huh? I don't get it. Looks like I tried to make myself comfortable.”

Then he remembered. The race with Dr. T!

He stood up. Her driveway, porch and sidewalk had all been cleared. He looked over at his own yard and saw that all the snow was shoveled there too. Right to the edges! The same with the Millers' yard.

“Now, this
is
strange! I must've shoveled the Millers' yard, but I don't feel like I've been stuffed full of cookies, hot chocolate and old stories.”

He scratched at his head and felt a big lump that he'd never had before.

“
Very
strange. I guess I did all that shoveling before I started snoozing. Ha-ha! You the man, Steven Carter!”

Then he saw the note pinned to his jacket.

He took it off and read:

Steven rubbed his chin and said, “Hmmm, this looks like a case for the Flint Future Detectives! Maybe I'll do some investigating, look around, collect some evidence and figure out what happened here.”

He noticed the sun hadn't risen yet and said, “Naah, I'll do it late …”

Oops!

“ ‘Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam!’ ”

He screamed out, “Yee-haw!” slapped the ground two times and hollered, “Braz-ohs!”

Rubbing the mysterious knot on the back of his head, Steven said, “The only thing I'm going to investigate now is how long it takes me to get back in bed and fall asleep!”

The Flying Spy Cam