To Catch a Mermaid (10 page)
“She’s busy.” Boom blocked the door so Daisy couldn’t shove her way in. Winger peered over Boom’s shoulder.
“This is an invitation,” Daisy announced, waving the envelope. “An invitation for Mertyle to join my Faraway Girl Doll Club.” The delivery guy was still unloading boxes at the end of the walkway.
Boom tugged the envelope free of Daisy’s viselike grip. “Okay, I’ll give it to her. Now move it, Daisy.” For someone so small she could sure get in the way.
But she didn’t budge. Her doll hung upside down from the crook of her arm, exposing its purple underpants. “Only girls who own Faraway Girl Dolls can be members of my club.” Oh no, not another conversation about those stupid dolls.
Daisy had never been nice to Mertyle. She and her friends often stood on the street calling out, “Mertyle, Mertyle, hides like a turtle.” Daisy had never once invited -Mertyle to a party. Boom knew that the invitation had -nothing to do with friendship. It was part of some devious Daisy plan.
“Our next meeting is tomorrow. Tell her we’re going to have it over here. At one o’clock.” Boom could see right past Daisy’s fake smile, right down past her cotton-candy pink cheeks, into the core of evil that burned inside each Mump. Daisy wanted the mermaid doll — a doll that, in actuality, could bite off every one of Daisy’s plump little fingers. But that was not going to happen. The Mumps were not going to get the merbaby.
“No way,” Boom said. “You can’t have a party over here.”
“Yeah, no way,” Winger echoed.
“Why not?” Daisy asked, trying to peer around Boom’s elbow.
The delivery van started to pull away. “Hey,” Boom yelled. Boom and Winger pushed past Daisy and ran across the big dirt circle and down the walkway. “Hey!” But the driver didn’t hear them and continued up Prosperity Street. No sooner had the van disappeared around the corner than Mr. Mump backed his truck to right in front of the Brooms’ house.
“Well, look at this,” Mr. Mump said. “This is our lucky day.” He and Hurley began to lift the boxes into the back of the truck, next to the corn.
“That’s our fish,” Boom cried out.
Mr. Mump put his hands on his gargantuan middle. “I don’t see your name on the boxes. Do you have a receipt or something to show me?”
Of course Boom didn’t have a receipt. He didn’t have one for the corn, either, but both had been meant for
his
family, he just knew it.
“Finders keepers,” Hurley chanted. “Finders keepers.”
“Hey,” Winger whispered, pulling on Boom’s sleeve. “We’ve got a bigger problem. Daisy and her stupid doll just went into your house.” With feet barely touching the ground, they raced back up the walkway.
“Why does your house smell like mud?” Daisy asked, as Boom and Winger escorted her back outside.
“Go home, Daisy,” Boom told her. He shoved the invitation into Daisy’s coat pocket. “And no party!” He quickly shut the door.
“Remember to tell Mertyle that we’ll be arriving at one o’clock, tomorrow,” Daisy yelled through the keyhole.
“I hate those Mumps,” Boom said, sitting on the bottom step in the entryway. Winger sat down next to him.
“I hate them too.” He twirled the fish scale between his fingers. It sparkled like a Christmas ornament. “I still can’t believe you actually found a merbaby. You’re not going to make me pay back the seven dollars now that you’re going to be rich, are you?”
But Boom had something else on his mind. “Mertyle said that she wanted hot, buttery corn, and the corn grew in the field when there hadn’t been any corn the day before. Mertyle said she wanted raw cod fillets, and that delivery van came with boxes of cod fillets. She got what she wished for.” He scrambled to his feet. “Come on. I’m going to try something.”
Back upstairs they stood over the doll cradle as Mertyle snored from under her covers. She didn’t usually sleep during the day. She was acting stranger than ever.
The baby opened its violet eyes and raised the corner of its upper lip in a sneer. A gurgling growl arose in its throat. “Hello, little merbaby,” Boom cooed, trying to pretend that what he was looking at was a cute, soft newborn rather than a slimy mutant. The baby flicked its tail like an irritated cat.
“What are you doing?” Winger whispered, adjusting his glasses.
“I’m going to make a wish, just like Mertyle did.” Boom closed his eyes. Was he going crazy just like everyone else, or was it possible that magic actually existed? “I really, -really wish I had a new pair of Galactic Kickers.”
Boom and Winger rushed to the window to look for a delivery van, but nothing came. Boom checked his closet and under his bed. No shoes.
“Ask it for something to eat,” Winger suggested. “Corn and cod are things to eat.”
“Oh, good idea.” Boom leaned over the baby again. It turned its green face toward him. Mertyle had put a few barrettes in its hair, and they looked ridiculous. “I really, really wish I had some cream-filled cupcakes.”
Again they ran to the window, but no delivery van showed up. Hurley and Mr. Mump were still loading the cod. Boom felt really disappointed. Why had Mertyle’s wishes been granted? The baby closed its eyes again and went back to sleep. “It was probably just a coincidence,” Boom whispered. “There’s no such thing as magic.”
“Yeah, no such thing.”
But their words lacked conviction because only one day ago, each had believed that there was no such thing as a merbaby.
The Cedar Chip Sea
B
oom and Winger parted ways at the Winginghams’, and Boom hurried up Prosperity Street to Mr. Jorgenson’s cottage, painted minty melon. A matching minty garage stood at the end of the paved driveway, and a long canvas tent engulfed the side yard.
Mr. Jorgenson’s garage smelled like cedar shavings, and rightly so, for cedar shavings covered the cement floor. Thin curlicues of golden wood lay everywhere. As Boom entered, he kicked his way through the knee-deep litter and stubbed his toe on something hard.
“Kicking is what got you into trouble in the first place,” Mr. Jorgenson pointed out. He reached into the shavings where Boom’s foot throbbed and pulled up a Viking helmet, just like the one Halvor wore. The retired police chief put the helmet on a counter, then looked at Boom as if he were looking at some sort of troublemaker. Boom wasn’t a troublemaker in the same way a cookie-maker made cookies, or a candlestick-maker made candles. He never actually tried to make trouble.
Boom put his hands into his jean pockets. “You want me to sweep?” he asked. He figured he could sweep all the shavings in under an hour and get right back to the merbaby situation.
“Sweeping’s too easy,” Mr. Jorgenson declared. He pulled a wagon from the corner, the red kind that kids ride in. It was rusty and filled with nails, screws, and bolts. He placed four empty buckets beside the wagon. The shavings reached to their rims. “You will fill each bucket with a different-sized screw. In this first bucket you will put half-inch screws. In the second bucket you will put three-quarters-inch screws. In the third bucket you will put five-eighths-inch screws, and in the last bucket you will put one-inch screws. Any questions?”
What the heck was he talking about? Boom didn’t know how to tell what size a screw was. He picked one out of a huge pile. It looked like all the others. “What about nails?” he asked.
Mr. Jorgenson folded his arms. “What do you mean, ‘what about nails?’ Did I say anything about nails? No. I only said screws. Half-inch screws, three-quarters-inch screws, five-eighths-inch screws and one-inch screws. In my day, boys didn’t ask questions. In my day, boys respected authority. Now get to work and I’ll come back and check on you.”
It was the biggest pile of screws, nails, and bolts that Boom had ever seen. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I’m going to have some money in a few days. I’m really sorry about breaking your window, but I was wondering if I might just pay you for it?”
“Money?” Mr. Jorgenson scowled. “You steal something? A thief as well as a vandal?”
“No. Of course not. The window was an accident.”
“Work is what teaches a boy a lesson. You’re lucky they don’t have labor camps anymore. In my day there was a labor camp on every block.”
The shavings had worked their way inside Boom’s socks and were tickling his ankles. He reached down to scratch as Mr. Jorgenson walked out onto the driveway and disappeared around the side of the garage.
Boom squatted next to the wagon. What a nightmare. Was five-eighths bigger or smaller than one-half? If Winger were here, he’d know the answer. Boom began to pick out the screws one by one and, to the best of his judgment, drop them into the appropriate buckets.
Plink, plink.
The cedar shavings really itched. What was he doing this for anyway? Monotonous labor in exchange for a broken window. If he just sold that merbaby to a billionaire, then he could give Mr. Jorgenson enough money to buy a hundred new windows. Mr. Jorgenson could live in a house made of nothing but stupid windows.
On an ordinary weekend, sorting screws might have seemed like a necessary task, one that kept a garage tidy and a life predictable. But this was no ordinary weekend. The universe had once again proven that it wanted nothing to do with tidiness or predictability. In the same unexpected manner that had conjured up a mother-eating twister, the universe had deposited a goldfish-eating creature from a storybook into Boom’s life. But maybe, just maybe, something good would come of it. Maybe the universe had had a change of heart.
Plink, plunk. Plink, plunk.
The sound of falling screws grew louder.
PLUNK, PLINK.
The sound took on a familiar tone, like a ball hitting a wall. Boom stared into one of the buckets, allowing his gaze to blur until the silver screws became a pool of silver water. The pool shuddered and the cedar shavings vibrated against Boom’s legs as a roar filled the garage. It was the sound of cheering. He looked up from the bucket. The sea of shavings rolled like waves as the cheering grew louder. Boom stood and watched the garage walls expand, pressing outward to form a vast arena. Tiers of seats lined the edges, reaching so high that Boom could not see the last row.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” someone said over a loudspeaker. Bright lights shone from above, and the cedar shavings blew away, revealing a spotless, gleaming floor. White stripes marked the edges of the playing field. “Welcome to the Boom Broom Kick the Ball Against the Wall Arena.” The cheering intensified, rattling Boom’s molars. “Tonight the final round begins between Brazil and Fairweather Island for the title of Kick the Ball Against the Wall Champion of the Earth. Representing Fairweather, Mr. Boom Broom.” A spotlight fell on Boom’s face, almost blinding him. He covered his eyes as the cheering shook the entire building.
“Boom, Boom,” the fans cried. Boom took a bow and flowers fell at his feet. Never had he felt such joy. Never had he . . .
“What’s the matter with you?” Mr. Jorgenson’s voice startled Boom, causing him to stumble and fall into the shavings. “Daydreaming, I see. In my day, if boys daydreamed, they got thumped on the head with a ruler.” Mr. Jorgenson dumped a bucket of shavings into the garage. Boom scrambled to his feet.
Just a daydream? His face still felt hot from the spotlight, and the roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears.
“Sorry,” Boom said. The shavings had reached up into his shirt and down into his underwear. He scratched his bottom, then started sorting again.
Plink, plunk.
This could take a month to finish. Soon he’d need to come up with an excuse and reschedule the work so he could get back to Mertyle and the baby.
Mr. Jorgenson returned two more times with two more buckets of shavings. Where were they coming from? Boom shuffled across the garage and looked out the window just as Mr. Jorgenson pulled back the edge of the huge white tent. Boom caught sight of what appeared to be a ship’s bow. Halvor had said that the newest member of the Sons of the Vikings had made himself a Viking ship. That would explain the shavings and the Viking helmet.
“Boom, you have a phone call.” Mrs. Jorgenson entered the garage. She was about Boom’s size and her hands were covered in fish slime. “Sorry,” she said when he took the slime-covered receiver. “I’ve been pickling salmon all day. I don’t know why these Viking descendants have to eat so much fish.”
“I know what you mean,” Boom said, holding the receiver a few inches from his head. “Hello?”
“Boom!” Mertyle cried. “I can’t find the baby!”
Mermaid Magic
