FIRST CHAPTERS
Nightmare on Sugar Street
Chapter one
Coming
soon!
Coming
soon!
“WHOA, CHECK THIS OUT!” Luke was standing in front of a huge pink flamingo on a stick. “Whadaya think?” he said, running his hand over the metallic surface, searching out the contours of the garden ornament under his fingers. “I could get this for Mom. It’s her birthday soon.”
There’s no denying it. Luke is my weirdest friend. Like me, he’s twelve. But instead of the kinds of things other twelve-year-olds are into, like gaming or skateboarding, he’s into learning useless facts that he can recite at the drop of a hat. Oh, and collecting old stuff. The kookier the better.
Luke can’t go past a thrift store without going in for a snoop. His long, lanky legs won’t let him. And that’s why one minute we were walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood after a few rounds at a mini-golf park and the next we were poking around a musty old “preloved” store with its name scrawled in peeling letters across the front window: The Rubicon.
“Yep.” I took a step back to get a good look at the flamingo. There were chips of paint missing here and there, but it was mostly in good condition. “I can see your mom liking that.”
Then something else caught my eye. On a dusty shelf just above eye level was a blue-green cylinder. A dog-eared square of cardboard with the words, Vintage 1960s ice-cream maker $5 was stuck to its side with tape.
“Hey,” I said. “This could be fun to try out.”
“Hmmm.” Luke eyed the ice-cream maker. “I guess it all depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On whether the motor still works.” He reached up and pulled it off the shelf.
“You’re dead right, Champs!” a voice from behind us boomed.
We both jumped and spun around. A man with a mop of gray, ringleted hair—as if a poodle was sitting on his head—had come up silently behind us.
He shot us a coffee-stained grin. “It does all depend on whether the motor works, Sonny Jim,” he agreed. “And I can guarantee you it does. I should know. I own this joint. Here, I’ll show you.”
He took the ice-cream maker from Luke’s hands and walked off toward the counter. His old sandals squeaked on the linoleum floor, and I couldn’t help but notice a couple of gnarly, yellow toenails curling out beyond the front of the soles. The man plugged in the ancient appliance, and it instantly began to whir. Well, whir is an understatement.
“Wow! That’s LOUD!” I yelled over the deafening racket blasting from the machine. My head was beginning to vibrate.
“YOU’RE DEAD RIGHT, CHAMPS!” the man hollered back. We could hardly hear him over the din. “It’s a noisy beast. That’s how they made things back in the day. But, as you can see, IT MOST DEFINITELY WORKS!”
To our relief, he pulled the plug from the electrical outlet. The store seemed eerily quiet, and none of us said a word for a few seconds, just enjoying the silence.
“I’ll let you boys have a think, then,” the man finally said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He disappeared into the rear of the store, whistling as he went. By the time he returned, we’d made our decisions: Luke was buying the flamingo, and I was all up for getting the ice-cream maker, despite the distinct possibility the noise of it might shatter all the windows in my house.
Just like Luke couldn’t resist old things, you see, I couldn’t resist interesting kitchen gadgets. I’m a wannabe three-star Michelin chef, and that means I’m always whipping up new things to eat for the family—or any other victims I can find. What can I say? I guess it goes both ways. I’m Luke’s weirdest friend.
Luke handed over the money for the flamingo. As the store owner wrapped it in paper and fumbled around under the counter looking for a bag to put it in, Luke decided to try out one of his useless facts.
“Did you know flamingos aren’t actually born pink?” he began.
The storekeeper’s poodle hair flopped around as he foraged for a bag, and he grunted in a way that suggested he wasn’t in the least bit interested.
Luke forged on regardless. “No, sir!” he said importantly. “They’re not! They’re actually born gray. It’s the food they eat—all that shrimp and stuff—that makes their feathers turn pink. Isn’t that interesting?” He looked at the storekeeper for some kind of appreciation of his A-grade, top-of-the-class knowledge.
The man finally found the bag he was looking for and stuffed the flamingo into it. Handing it to Luke, he produced a watery smile. “You’re dead right, Champ,” he said limply. “Fascinating.” He seemed about as fascinated as a house painter waiting for an undercoat to dry.
“Now for yours.” The man fixed me with a smile. “This one’s going to need a stronger bag. Give me a couple of seconds. I’ve got just the thing out back.”
“Sure,” I said. “We’re not in a hurry.”
Soon he was back, clutching an enormous canvas bag. It seemed like it already had something in the bottom, but the man didn’t say a word. Instead, he stuffed a wad of crumpled-up paper into the bag and lowered the ancient ice-cream maker in after it.
“Just a minute,” he said as Luke and I prepared to leave the store. “There’s a bit of paperwork to do. What’s your name, Sonny Jim?”
“Ollie Miller,” I replied.
He scribbled some words and numbers onto a notebook, ripped off the page, and shoved it into the bag with the ice-cream maker. “Your receipt.” He flashed a row of brown teeth. “It’s all yours now, Sonny Ji—er, Ollie Miller. Good luck!”
​
Good luck? Little did I know just how much I was going to need it.
To Find This Book in Your Country...
Coming
soon!
The Mummy
in the Attic
Chapter one
“HEY, FLAME BRAIN!” Stinky Mel loomed up behind me.
Trying to get away from Stinky Mel was impossible. At school, on the street, on the bus—it didn’t matter. Wherever Stinky Mel was, there was pain. And it seemed like he was everywhere. Worse, he hated me, even though I don’t remember doing anything to annoy him.
“Hey! Pumpkin Head!” he yelled. As if I hadn’t heard that one before. My tangerine hair is the first thing anyone notices about me. It’s so obvious, I bet the astronauts up in space can spot me.
“What?” I said, turning to face him.
“Nothing,” he sneered as he shoved past, making me step into the gutter. I only just missed a dog turd. “Just get out of my way.”
I thought about yelling something back at him, but it would’ve been more trouble than it was worth. No one wins against Stinky Mel. He’s like a shark on legs. I waited till he disappeared around the corner before I started walking again.
Five minutes later, I was heading up the path by the side of my house.
Then disaster struck again. You know how sometimes it seems like nothing goes right? This was one of those times. I lifted the rock in the little patch of garden by the back doorstep, where we keep the house key. There was nothing there except a couple of beetles running for cover.
My backpack landed with a thud as I dropped it. Locked out. Again. And I couldn’t even blame anyone else because it was my fault. Mom had reminded me twice before she left for work to put the key under the rock, but I’d been in such a hurry I totally forgot.
I’d closed the door without a thought. And that key was, right now, still inside on the kitchen counter.
After sitting on the step for a few minutes, I decided there was no point waiting for hours till Mom came home. It was time to go hang out with Wendy.
Wendy lives just a few doors down from us. The kids in our neighborhood call her the crazy cat lady and it’s true—she’s got at least twenty cats, and she always wears baggy old overalls and beat-up sneakers, with her hair sticking out all over the place.
But once you get to know her, you realize she’s not crazy at all. She just likes cats more than nice clothes or posh houses or, well, people, I guess. Although she’s always been nice to me.
Having said that, her place really does stink. Plastic bowls crusted with pet food are dotted all around her back deck, and inside, the cat stink hits you the moment you walk through the door.
Just about every time I visit, there’s a new feline. It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a rotten eye, a broken tail or a missing leg—if you’re a stray cat in our street, chances are you’ll end up at Wendy’s. It’s like there’s a sign outside her house saying Free Motel for Cats. All Kitties Welcome.
“Tom!” Wendy said with a smile, yanking the door open moments after I knocked. “How nice to see you. Come in! You want something to eat?”
I plopped down on a kitchen chair. A skinny white cat stretched lazily on the seat next to me, claws flashing. Then it went back to snoozing. Under the table, two black kittens were curled up in a knot.
I knew if I went nosing around Wendy’s house, there would be at least three cats in every room. She had tabby ones and tortoiseshell ones, gray ones and speckled ones. Some were fluffy, some were sleek and shiny. One was so old it was half bald.
I scratched the white cat between its ears, and it started to purr. Wendy placed a small plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of me, along with a glass of lemonade.
Ever since Dad disappeared, she’d been extra nice to me. Not in a way that made me feel weird. Just letting me know she cared, I guess.
“Any news of your dad, Tom?” she asked, moving a stack of books and other junk so she could sit down opposite me with her own mug.
Her place is the complete opposite of our house. My mom’s such a neat freak, you can’t even leave a pen on the table without her putting it away.
“Nope,” I replied. “The cops came yesterday to ask some more questions, like if anything was missing of his that we might not have noticed at first. That kind of thing.”
“And was there?”
“Maybe a pair of shoes he used to go running in,” I said. “But they were old and Mom’s not sure if maybe he’d already thrown them out …” I trailed off.
“So strange,” said Wendy, cradling her mug of coffee in her hands. “I’ve known your mom and dad for a long time, and it’s not like Robin to just disappear like that. What’s it been, six months now?”
A familiar and unwelcome lump rose in my throat. I’d had that feeling a lot—every time I thought about Dad and wondered, where was he? Why had he suddenly disappeared without a trace? Had something bad happened to him? Was he stuck somewhere? Was he thinking about me, like I was thinking about him? Or was he …? I took a sip of lemonade.
Wendy could tell I didn’t want to talk about it. “What about a game of cards?” she asked. She’d taught me all sorts of old-fashioned card games over the years: poker, rummy, blackjack, you name it.
“Rummy,” I said, trying to work up a smile. “I bet I can beat you this time.”
“Just you try.” Wendy rummaged around in a drawer for her old deck of playing cards, held together with a rubber band.
Two hours and half a packet of cookies later, I was getting a thorough beating when a clattering sound came from the back door. The front end of a big ginger cat appeared through the pet door, closely followed by the back end.
“Here’s trouble!” said Wendy. The white cat next to me jumped up, the fur on its back all spiky, and let out a hair-raiser of a hiss. The kittens by my feet were doing the same, although their hisses were too puny to be frightening.
The ginger cat looked unbothered and sat down in the middle of the kitchen, its big yellow eyes staring at Wendy, then at me, then at the three other cats all standing to attention. With a yowl, the white cat suddenly leaped off its chair and skidded out of the room, followed by the kittens.
“What’s the matter with them?” I asked.
“It’s Big Ginge, here,” said Wendy. “It’s the strangest thing, but all the other cats hate him. They all run away the minute he comes into a room. I’m going to have to do something about him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, looking over at Big Ginge, who was now licking a paw and rubbing it over his ear.
She let out a sigh. “He seems perfectly well behaved to me, but all the other cats would be happier without him around. Imagine if they all ran away? I don’t enjoy doing it, but I’m going to have to send this one to the animal shelter.”
“And then what will happen to him?” I’d been eyeing up the last cookie but suddenly forgot all about it.
“Hopefully they’ll find him another home,” said Wendy. “He’s a big, beautiful kitty. I’m sure someone will want him.”
With that, the ginger cat stood up, took a few steps, and jumped into my lap, purring loudly.
“Hello, boy.” I ran my hands along his strong back. “He is a boy, isn’t he?”
Wendy smiled. “Sure is. He’s a fabulous ginger tom. Just like you.”
I laughed. I guess I am ginger, and my name is Tom. I scratched under his chin, which the cat seemed to like.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan.”
“Where’d he come from?” I asked.
“He just turned up a while back. I do feel bad, Tom, but I think I’m going to have to send him away tomorrow.”
I yelped.
Wendy grimaced. “Oh, I know, it’s a bad situation. But what can I do?”
“It’s not that,” I croaked, lifting the cat from my lap and placing him back down on the floor. “He just dug his claws in.”
“Naughty boy!” Wendy pretend-growled, bending down to pet him. “Cats do that sometimes.
Believe it or not, it’s a sign he feels comfortable with you.”
Big Ginge narrowed his eyes at her, then turned around and looked at me expectantly.
“I know,” I said. “He can come home with me. I’ve always wanted a cat.”
“Shouldn’t you ask your mom?”
“She’ll love him,” I lied. And then, just to make sure I sounded convincing, I threw in another whopper. “She said just the other day I could go to the shelter and choose a kitten. This way, we’re saving a car trip.”
What Mom had actually said, when I’d begged her for the zillionth time for a pet, was, “I’ll think about it,” which I knew really meant, “I will forget about it as quickly as possible.”
“In that case, it’s a great idea.” Wendy bustled around, eventually producing a half-full bag of kitty food from the back of an over-stuffed cupboard.
“Here you go. That will get you started.” She handed it to me. “He seems to be house trained. I wouldn’t be surprised if some family somewhere is missing him like crazy, but he’s yours now.”
“Thanks!” I felt a little jiggle in my stomach. I knew I’d have some explaining to do. Mom was in the habit of shooing away stray cats—not welcoming them into our house. “Come on, cat,” I said, picking up Big Ginge and holding him close to my chest. “You and me, we’re going home.”
