Teeny Weenies: Freestyle Frenzy Page 4

  “Going fishing?” he called.

  Dad put his finger to his lips, trying to signal to Mr. Humblebacker that shouting wasn’t a good idea when nearly everyone was still asleep. Then he walked across the street.

  I stayed where I was, but listened to their conversation. Dad’s voice was quiet. Mr. Humblebacker’s voice, though no longer a shout, was still pretty loud.

  “Taking the little girl fishing?” he asked.

  Little? I’m nine. That’s pretty grown up.

  “Yeah,” Dad said. “We’re headed up to Foley’s Creek.”

  “Lucky you. I was going to go fishing today.” Mr. Humblebacker raised the rods, as if he needed to prove what he said. “I’m quite the avid angler, if I do say so myself. But my car wouldn’t start.”

  Avid angler? More like a fishing Weenie, I thought.

  “That’s too bad,” Dad said

  Mr. Humblebacker let out a sigh “I guess I could take a bus to the town park over in Chambersburg, and try my luck at the little pond out there. But that place will be mobbed. Wish I could go to Foley’s Creek.”

  No, Dad! I thought. Don’t fall for it! Don’t weaken!

  “Gosh,” Dad said. “That would be a long bus ride.”

  “A very long ride,” Mr. Humblebacker said. “Maybe I’ll just wait until next year. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to miss opening day just this once. I’ve never missed one. But it looks like I don’t have much choice. What a shame…”

  Dad glanced back at the car.

  Nooooooooooo! That’s what I wanted to scream.

  “Well, I guess you could ride up there with us,” Dad said.

  “Excellent! You won’t regret it,” Mr. Humblebacker said. “I’m an experienced angler, and can teach the little lady all sorts of useful woods lore. This will be one opening day she’ll never forget.”

  I know we’re supposed to help other people, and share things, but this was a special day. I didn’t want to share it.

  When Dad got back to the car, he gave me a look that said, I’m sorry, but what could I do?

  I responded with a look that said, You could have thought of something.

  As I headed for the front seat, Mr. Humblebacker put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Do you mind if I ride up there? I get carsick in the back.”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t fine, but I knew there was no point making a fuss.

  I napped a lot on the ride to Foley State Park. It wasn’t easy. From the time we got in the car until the time we reached the small gravel parking lot by the trail that led to our favorite stretch of Foley’s Creek, Mr. Humblebacker talked.

  The air still had that morning crispness when I got out of the car. The sun was up now. The stars were gone, though I could still see the tiniest hint of one bright one just above the tree line. It almost seemed as if it were following us, but I knew that was an illusion.

  I loved the walk to the creek. One time, we came across a deer. Another time, we saw beavers in a small pond off to the side of the path. This year, I think Mr. Humblebacker scared all the wildlife away. Not only was he still yacking, but his stuff clanked a lot when he walked. It was like taking a stroll with a sack full of empty cans and marbles.

  “We should move apart,” I said when we reached the creek.

  “Oh, what fun would that be?” Mr. Humblebacker said. “Fishing is all about companionship. And I’d hate for you to miss seeing all my great catches.”

  He dropped his tackle box at his feet with another rattling clank, leaned over, popped it open, and took out a huge lure. It looked like something you’d use in the ocean to fish for marlin or tuna. And it had treble hooks, which make it really hard to unhook the fish. Dad and I keep and eat what we catch, but we still wouldn’t use that kind of hook.

  “What in the world is that enormous thing?” Dad asked.

  “You got to go big to catch big,” Mr. Humblebacker said as he tied the lure to his line. “Tiny lures catch tiny trout.”

  Dad and I inched away from him and got our own lines ready. I didn’t want to be anywhere near Mr. Humblebacker when he cast that monster.

  I decided to use a spinner. I liked the way it flashed as I reeled it through the water. Just for fun, I picked the tiniest one I had. It was less than an inch long.

  Even so, it was way bigger than what Dad was going to use. He loved to fly fish. That’s kind of hard. You use tiny lures made of bits of feather and fur. They’re tied together with thread so they look like the sort of insects trout enjoy slurping up. You had to whip the line back and forth, and set the fly down just right in the water so that it looked natural.

  I checked my watch. Finally, it was eight o’clock. Time to fish. Opening day had started! I smiled at Dad. He smiled back. Maybe everything would be okay.

  Just as I was about to make my first cast, a huge splash startled me. Mr. Humblebacker’s lure had hit the water like a boulder dropped from an airplane.

  “That’s going to scare off all the fish,” Dad said.

  “He’s not catching anything,” I said. “And neither are we, probably. Not with all that noise.”

  “Got one!” Mr. Humblebacker screamed. “Wahooo!”

  I couldn’t believe it. He had a fish. From the splashing and the thrashing in the water, it had to be huge.

  “No way…” I said to Dad. The wild trout in Foley’s Creek didn’t grow very big. There wasn’t a fish in the whole creek that would have gone for that lure, or put up that hard a fight.

  “Yeah. No way,” Dad said, shaking his head.

  Then, I saw why there was so much splashing.

  “Snagged,” Dad said as Mr. Humblebacker landed his catch.

  “That’s not legal,” I said. “And it’s really not fair.”

  Mr. Humblebacker hadn’t caught the fish. He’d snagged its side with one of the treble hooks when he was cranking in the lure from the water.

  “I’m going to tell him that’s wrong.” I decided it was my turn to shout. I started to stomp over there, but Dad stopped me.

  “Let it go, Rachel,” he said.

  “But it’s wrong,” I said.

  “I know.” Dad put both hands on my shoulders and looked me right in the eye. “We can talk to him about it later. Nothing we say to him here will change things. He’s too excited to listen to us. Right now, let’s just try to enjoy our trip. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I sighed and looked up at the sky. The star was still there. It reminded me of the beautiful, perfect start to our trip, with a star-filled sky. People make a wish on the first star they see. Maybe I could make a wish on the last one. It was worth a try. Fix things, last star, I wished. Please.

  And then, because I didn’t have a lot of faith in wishes, and because Dad had asked, I did try to enjoy myself. I caught two trout with my itsy-bitsy spinner. Dad caught one with a fly. He didn’t mind at all that I caught more. He loved fishing, and being out in nature with me. There was no need to keep score.

  Though Mr. Humblebacker needed to. He counted out loud as he snagged five more fish, putting his total at six.

  “One more and he’s done,” Dad whispered to me.

  “If he follows the rules,” I said. You were only allowed to catch seven fish each day.

  That’s when a really big fish came splashing downstream. It was so huge, its dorsal fin stuck out of the water, even in the deepest pools.

  I stared. Dad stared. Mr. Humblebacker went right into action.

  “Mine!” he shouted, casting his monster lure at the monster fish.

  The instant the lure hit the water, the fish swallowed the whole thing. Then, it took off, zigzagging upstream. It pulled the line from Mr. Humblebacker’s reel so fast, I was surprised the spool didn’t catch fire.

  Mr. Humblebacker managed to get the fish closer and closer as he battled against each run. Finally, he had it within reach. He let go of his rod with one hand and grabbed his landing net from his belt.

  “What kind of fish is that?” I asked Dad.

/>   “No idea,” he said.

  It didn’t look like any trout I’d ever seen, or any other fish, though I knew there were some really bizarre creatures roaming the waters.

  The top was shaped right. But I didn’t see any scales. The eyes seemed to be painted on. And there was no bottom half. It looked like someone had taken a fish and sawn off anything that went beneath the waterline.

  “Don’t touch it!” I screamed as I realized what it reminded me of.

  Mr. Humblebacker flashed me a puzzled look, then reached out to scoop up the fish. As he did, it opened its mouth wider than I’d ever imagined was possible, swallowed the net, and kept going until Mr. Humblebacker’s whole arm was engulfed. It no longer looked like a fish. It was now a glowing tube that shimmered and pulsed like it was made of energy.

  I stared, too astonished to move. Dad dropped his rod and ran to help. But it was too late. The fish, and its catch, rose in the air like they were being reeled into the sky. I could see flickering bits of light above them, as if there were an almost invisible line tied to the lure, or some sort of energy beam.

  “Help!” Mr. Humblebacker screamed as he was reeled away.

  Dad made one heroic leap, and almost managed to grab a foot. But he missed. And Mr. Humblebacker was pulled up toward a glowing light that was much closer and a lot brighter now. It was shaped more like a saucer than a star. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Venus.

  “He’s gone,” Dad said.

  “Maybe he’ll come back,” I said. “Don’t aliens just study people, erase their memories of the abduction, and then drop them off in the middle of a cornfield, or on a lonely country road?”

  “You’ve been watching too many movies,” Dad said. “We have no idea what they’ll do.”

  “They won’t eat him, will they?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” Dad said. “If they’re sophisticated enough to travel from another galaxy, I suspect that they have better sources of food.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Want to go home?” Dad asked.

  I looked at the calm water, flowing past us as if nothing unusual had happened, and the sun rising well above the trees. “No. I want to fish,” I said. And I wanted to enjoy daddy-daughter day the way it was meant to be—with just the two of us. We’d be getting a late start, but that was okay.

  It was a good day, after all. Dad and I ended it together. We even stopped for milk shakes on the drive back home. And, as Mr. Humblebacker had promised, it was a day I’d never forget.

  On the other hand, I think there were parts of the day he’d never remember. He showed up two days later, with no idea how he’d ended up stranded on top of the town’s water tower, wearing nothing but his underwear and a hat.

  He’s still pretty loud and obnoxious, but every once in a while, he’ll stop talking right in the middle of a sentence, stare at the sky, and shudder. And he’s never asked us to take him fishing again.

  DANGER GOOSE

  I was sitting on the front steps of my apartment building, completely bored. I must have been bored to start singing. I must have been really bored to start singing “Three Blind Mice.” I caught myself after just a couple of lines. But I still felt like a total Weenie. And it was too late to keep from getting teased.

  Mary and Chad, who were hanging out next door, started laughing and making fun of me. It was bad enough that I was singing, but it was worse that I was singing a kiddie song.

  “How cute,” Mary said. “Getting ready for the kindergarten talent show?”

  “Mother Goose has come for a visit,” Chad said. “Honk! Honk!” He laughed so hard at his own joke that he almost fell off the steps.

  “Okay, give me a break,” I said.

  “Well, you made fun of me when I got this,” Mary said. She held up the hand on which she’d put the ring she’d found in the box of cereal she was munching. She’d made a big deal out of it being a magic ring.

  “Of course I did,” I said. “There aren’t any magic rings.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mary said. “Well, I’ll show you.” She waved her hand at me and started spouting magic words like abracadabra, hocus-pocus, and alakazam.

  Before I could tell her to stop being silly, something dashed down the street past us.

  “Wow, those are mice,” Chad said. He got up from the stoop and walked toward me.

  “Three of them,” Mary said as she joined us.

  “Three blind mice,” I said as I saw them stop at the curb, feel it with their paws, and sniff the air before crossing the street.

  Chad pointed down the block. “I think they’re chasing someone.”

  Sure enough, a woman was running ahead of the mice. She had a white scarf on her head, and an apron tied around her waist, like the people who worked in the fields in old paintings. “She’s a farmer’s wife,” I said.

  I thought about what I had sung:

  Three blind mice,

  Three blind mice,

  See how they run,

  See how they run,

  They all ran after the farmer’s wife.

  I’d stopped singing before the part where she cuts off their tails with a carving knife. I guess that was a good thing for the mice.

  After the mice and the farmer’s wife ran out of sight, I looked at my friends. They looked at me. “Could it be…?” I asked.

  “Told you so,” Mary said. “It’s magic.”

  “I’ll try another song,” Chad said. He began to sing, “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?”

  I thought that was a silly choice. All it meant was “Are you sleeping, brother John.” But I didn’t say anything.

  Mary was less polite. “Come on,” she yelled. “That’s a stupid one to pick. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  That was followed by a much louder shout.

  “HEY, YOU KIDS! KEEP THE NOISE DOWN! I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!”

  We looked up at a window in an apartment on the second floor of Chad’s building. “Who’s that?” Mary asked.

  “You know Phil, the new kid who moved here last month?” Chad said.

  “Sure,” I said. “He’s in band class with me.”

  “That’s his older brother, John,” Chad said. “He works nights. Guess we woke him.”

  We all looked at each other again. “So that song came to life, too,” I said. “We have to find the right song to sing, next. We could make something amazing happen.”

  Mary started to sing, “London Bridge is—”

  “Stop!” I shouted. I pointed down the street to the bridge that crossed over the river. “You want it to fall down?”

  “It’s not London Bridge,” Mary said.

  “But it’s still a bridge. We shouldn’t take any chances,” I said. “No more singing until we discuss this. First, does it only work with nursery rhymes?”

  “Who knows?” Chad said.

  “Let’s try something else,” Mary said.

  “I’ve got an idea.” I ran inside and grabbed two bananas from the kitchen counter.

  “What’s that for?” Chad asked.

  “I remembered an old song,” I said. “It’s the perfect test.” I put the bananas down and started singing a song my grandfather used to sing to me: “Yes! We Have No Bananas.” It seemed like the perfect way to test the magic.

  We all watched the bananas. They didn’t vanish.

  “We still have bananas,” Mary said. She twisted the ring on her finger.

  “And now I have that stupid song stuck in my head,” Chad said.

  “Must just be nursery rhymes.” I took the bananas back to the kitchen, then joined my friends out front. We tried to think of a good song to sing. Most of the titles we came up with didn’t seem like they would do anything good. We didn’t want to produce a farmer in a dell or see a cow jump over the moon. I’m pretty sure that would be bad for the cow. And Mary was very clear that she did not want a little lamb—especially not one that would follow her to school.

&nb
sp; “There has to be a great one we aren’t thinking of,” Chad said.

  “Let’s make a list of nursery rhymes,” I said.

  “Nursery rhymes!” someone said.

  I turned around, and saw my friend Bobby. “Help us think up nursery rhymes,” I said.

  “Sure.” He smiled, and then, instead of listing them, he started to sing one. It seemed harmless, so I didn’t stop him.

  “Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies…”

  As he sang those words, I felt something fill up my pocket. I didn’t have to look. I knew what it was. Bobby kept singing: “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!”

  Too late, I remembered about that line. And, yeah, as ashes filled the air and tickled our noses, we sneezed so violently we all fell down. Bobby smacked his shoulder pretty hard. Chad lost a tooth. It was loose, anyhow, so it wasn’t a big deal. I broke my nose. I’ve done that twice before, thanks to my skateboard. So I guess that wasn’t a big deal, either. But Mary broke the magic ring, which I guess was a big deal. But I also guess it wasn’t a bad thing. There were probably plenty of other dangerous songs out there. Who knew kiddie songs could be so painful?

  A NEW WRINKLE

  I was playing over at my friend Dan’s house when I spotted the plastic squeeze bottle in the trash.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Mom uses it,” Dan said. “I guess she threw it out because it expired or something.” His mom is a dermatologist. She helps people with skin problems.

  I read the label: WrinkleOut. Then I tried to pronounce the name of the main ingredient: “OnabotulismtoxinA. What’s that do?”